‘It’s Mark I wanted to have a word with.’
He came to his feet easily, with all the smooth efficiency of a twenty-year-old. Now I could see he was about five feet six, and slim with it, a handsome youth with a thin face but wide, generous mouth that I could detect through the grime. His eyes, protected by the goggles, were set in white circles, in which their dark blue seemed to glow. There was no mistaking his interest. He tossed fair hair away from his face.
‘Mark’s in the next shed. It’s the wrong time of the year for buying, and anyway this is a repair yard.’
‘I know.’
‘What d’you want to see him for?’
None of your business, young man, I nearly said, but his interest seemed genuine and there was no challenge in his voice.
‘Just a word,’ I told him. ‘This and that. You one of the sons?’
‘Not me. Larry Carter. Short for Laurence. I just work here. As I say, he’s next door.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for your help.’
He hesitated. ‘Any time.’ It was, I thought, not simply a casual acknowledgement, more like an offer.
I walked out into the daylight, where Amelia had been waiting. ‘He’s next door.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I heard.’
The whine of the sander working up to full revs came from behind us. We walked on to the next shed.
This one was much larger, its huge doors closed, but with a wicket door in one of them. I pushed it open. Inside this one there was plenty of light. In the middle of the floor, spots were centred on a thirty-foot yacht on a cradle. It was stripped of all rigging, and sat there, its full complement of lines exposed. As I’ve said, I know nothing of these things, but I can appreciate the flow and swell of curves, the beautiful proportions, the perfection of shape. I wondered for a moment how they’d got it in there, but then decided the crane I’d seen was probably mobile.
The man working on it, in contrast to Larry Carter’s efforts, was doing nothing that involves noise. There was only the quiet, tuneless whistle with which he accompanied himself. A man contented in his work. Who could ask for more? From behind he seemed stocky, his hair black and thick in his neck. He, too, was in shirt and overalls. There was no heat in the sheds; they bred them tough in Norfolk. There was an impression of strength in his shoulders, his arms were well-muscled, and his hands were huge. He was working with what looked like a trowel, and, like a bricklayer, had a hod in the other hand, loaded with a white, smooth paste.
Amelia was just behind my left shoulder. I moved in close to him, interested. In that thrusting, slim prow there was an uneven hole, backed by a sheet of something from inside the hull. Into this hole he was spreading his paste. At his side was a tall table, and on its surface were cut sheets of fibre-glass reinforcement. He was working smoothly, but fast. Paste carefully layered, sheet of fibreglass, paste, and so on. I knew what he was doing. I’d used the same method on an old car I’d once owned.
Patiently, I waited, but suddenly he realized my presence. He jerked his head round.
‘Who’re you?’
‘Are you Mark Ruston?’
‘Bugger off!’ he said. His eyes, shadowed by heavy eyebrows, were more angry than the situation warranted.
‘I can wait.’
‘Gerrout of here. This bloody stuff sets. I can’t talk to you.’
‘I’ll wait,’ I assured him.
For a second his gaze held mine, then he returned to his work. ‘Please yourself.’
I stepped back a yard to indicate willing co-operation, but I noticed that I’d upset his rhythm. No longer were his movements smooth and precise. He fumbled, and his trowel went awry. He wasn’t whistling now.
At last he finished. He turned, and plunged the trowel into a pungent can of liquid. ‘Y’see! If I’ve ruined the job, you’ll answer for it. That’s epoxy resin. It don’t let you waste time.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I should think so, too.’ But he had calmed, and was looking better for it. There was a blunt, heavy sort of handsomeness to his face, a strength that some women might admire. His nose wasn’t much, a kind of afterthought with the last bit of clay tossed on, but his chin was square and his mouth, relaxed now, was a pleasant shape. From behind he’d seemed older, but I now saw that he was about the same age as Larry Carter, twenty or twenty-one.
‘What d’you want then?’ he asked.
‘I was given your name —’
I got no further. The anger again flared. His arm jerked out, a finger pointing in the general direction of the wicket door.
‘You gerrout of here.’ He seemed to be fond of this phrase. ‘I’ve had enough of you lot, pesterin’ and creepin’ round. It’s been six months, damn it!’ He seemed to notice Amelia at last. ‘And who’re you?’
‘My wife,’ I explained. I turned to her. ‘This is Mark Ruston, my dear,’ because he hadn’t denied it.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ She nodded, having no more idea than I had where we were heading.
I tested out the water with a tentative toe. ‘You seem to think I’m from the press...’
‘No. Let’s see your warrant card.’ He held out his huge hand.
‘I’m not from the police, either.’
‘Then who the hell are you? Not that it matters, as long as you sod off. I’m not sayin’ another word.’
‘Not even about your sister?’
This was a guess. He didn’t correct me and say she’d been his wife, so it was the right one.
‘Ya see!’ he shouted. ‘Told you! Why can’t you let it drop?’
‘As I said, I’m not from the police, and I don’t represent a newspaper.’ I was interested that he’d asked for my warrant card. So Inspector Poole, or her officers, had pursued the question of Nancy’s death with some degree of thoroughness. She hadn’t implied that.
‘What, then?’ he demanded. But there’d been no need for him to carry it on. He might reasonably have lost interest. Yet interest, or suspicion, was certainly still there.
‘I have something I thought you might be prepared to buy.’
‘Buy? You’ll be lucky.’ But his eyes had been bright, and now slid sideways. ‘We don’t buy vessels, we repair ‘em. You’d better see my father.’
That was really rather quick thinking, when his first reaction had pointed in only one direction.
‘I was given your name. Yours personally.’
‘I’m not in the market, whatever it is.’ He was waiting for my lead.
‘A figure of a thousand pounds was mentioned.’
He stared, then he threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter, which bounced hollowly from the roof. There was no trace of humour in it. He returned his gaze to me. I was surprised to see that he was genuinely puzzled. Or I was slipping. He seemed actually to be seeking guidance. He knew very well what I was talking about, and yet he was baffled.
‘Let’s just say I’ve taken over the transaction.’
‘What transaction?’ he demanded. ‘What bloody transaction?’ he suddenly shouted, his temper breaking a very short rein. ‘A thousand! You trying to be funny? Or what? Where’d I get a thousand? You’re just plain crazy. You know that! Goddamn crazy. Gerrout of here!’
That phrase again. But this time it wasn’t merely a suggestion, it was a definite command.
‘All right,’ I said placatingly.
‘There’s nobody got anything I want,’ he continued at full blast. ‘And as for a thousand! Ha-bloody-ha.’
‘Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘Don’t just stand there. Get out. Out!’ Then his voice shook the roof, bouncing around up there. ‘Get away from me.’
Nothing was right. I couldn’t continue with it because I was confused. His fury was too real to be an accompaniment to innocence. Half of it was acting. But his whole reaction did not fit with what I knew. Or understood, I corrected myself. Where had I gone wrong? What had I misunderstood — or misinterpreted?
There was no point in trying to continue with it. With a shrug, I turned away, just in time to see the outside doorway shadowed by another man.
‘What the devil’s going on here?’ he demanded.
This was a voice that didn’t need to be raised in anger. It was deep and sonorous, a voice of command. He had the bulk to back it up, as tall as me, with wider shoulders but slimmer at the waist. In his forties, I guessed, so ten years younger. As he advanced into the pool of light surrounding the yacht, it was obvious this was Mark’s father. The same heavy brows, the nose, the strongly-boned face, but blunted by an extra twenty years of wear and tear, creased by responsibility and worry. A bear of a man, but with no aggression. He carried his bulk and strength with confidence. He was a man who was not often opposed.
‘Who are these people, Mark?’
Then he stopped and stared, advancing slowly. His voice changed. It became tentative and warm. ‘It can’t be...’ Then he was certain it was. ‘It’s Mellie!’ His voice rose to a great shout of pleasure.
‘Mellie — after all these years! My dear...’
He held his arms wide, his hands extended. I’d heard that nickname before; it carried a tang of Oxford. Amelia moved forward towards the invitation. It was there in her voice, too. Excitement and pleasure.
‘Malcolm! Isn’t this...’
She said no more. His hands had taken her by the waist and he’d lifted her up without any apparent effort and kissed her on the lips.
I can do that too, the lifting, but she says she doesn’t like it. It hurts. She didn’t say that to him. What she did say was sheer genius, considering she’d had only seconds to assess the situation. But I didn’t realize that at the time. My mind was disorganized. Coincidences like this just did not happen. As it turned out, I would have been better occupied in working out why it need not have been a coincidence. But I was already discomposed by Mark’s reaction, and was slow in deciding how to handle his father’s.
What Amelia said was: ‘We were in the district, Mal, and heard about the terrible thing...’ And left it there. It was enough. An excuse and a lead-in, all in one breath.
‘Oh God, yes,’ he said, instantly sobering. ‘We haven’t got over it yet. But you must come along to the house. Meet the wife. She’ll be so pleased. I’ve often spoken about you.’
He was clearly a man of little imagination. I glanced at Mark, wondering how he was taking this. He hadn’t taken it at all. Nothing made any sense to him, either. His eyes were dull, and he’d retreated into a secret self.
‘And this is your husband? I might have guessed. She always liked her men big. And handsome.’ He lifted his head. ‘Haw!’ he laughed. It could have been construed as an insult, but not intended to be, I was sure.
He took my hand and shook it, nearly tearing my arm out. I couldn’t see why they’d need a crane with him around.
‘Richard Patton,’ I said.
‘I’ll call you Dick.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t. I only come running to Richard.’
He eyed me. We now knew where we stood. Then he dismissed me, turning to his son.
‘You finished that job, Mark? Wash up, then come on up to the house.’ It was said kindly, but was nevertheless a command.
Then he led the way outside. Or rather, he led me, ushering Amelia with an arm around her waist, which I was sure she didn’t need, and I certainly didn’t.
‘Is that your car?’ he asked. ‘You came in the wrong entrance.’
‘We didn’t know, did we Richard?’
‘We didn’t know,’ I agreed.
‘Well...leave it there for now.’
‘Right. I’ll do that.’
I only then realized that I’d not heard the sander for some time, when only two metal walls stood between us. It rasped into action as I thought it, and as I realized that only one metal sheet need have been between an interested ear and the scene around the yacht.
As Malcolm led the way, I could see that the boatyard spread further than I’d thought. Beyond the crane there was a properly constructed staithe, as they called it around there, where vessels with a deep draught could lie alongside. At the further end, too, was lying all their winter work, a multitude of small boats, a few motor launches, an adapted canal longboat, all with scrapes and holes, and heaven knew what damage to their innards.
‘They come here,’ he boomed, casting his voice back to include me, ‘from the cities. Never on water in their lives before, and they take control. Learn all the rules, and forget ‘em in a day. Putter along gently the first couple of days, then they think they know it all. Clever city types, who’re used to standing on their brakes. Only boats don’t have any brakes. It’s a great big laugh. We watch ‘em from the house. Bumpety-bump. All work for us in the winter. Insurance work, too, so you’re sure of your money.’
But only a few months of work a year, I thought, and that necessitating no more than one paid employee. I said nothing, strolling along in the rear with pipe smoke trailing behind me.
‘They come through here,’ he went on, ‘to get to Salhouse Broad. What you see over there is called Hall Fen. It’s all marsh, till you get to Hoveton Broad. There’s no way out from Salhouse, so they have to come back again, and if they didn’t bump somebody going in they can have another go coming back.’
He laughed his haw sound again. I felt he was trying to encourage himself.
The house was behind a row of trees and on slightly higher ground. We had to climb a flight of stone steps through the trees.
It had the appearance of once having been a farmhouse. The building was uninspiring, being four-square and with no relief to the block effect, built of red brick with plain sash windows. The only decorative effect was a handsome pantile roof. What outbuildings I could see might have been farm sheds, but were now, no doubt, either garages or store sheds. A firmly-surfaced drive headed off to the right through the trees.
‘You’d have done better to have come in from Horning,’ he told us.
‘We didn’t have much to work on,’ I said. ‘Ruston and Sons, Salhouse.’
‘I’m one of the sons. My brother died, so I’m Ruston now. Should change it to Ruston and Son, I suppose. I was hoping it’d be Ruston and Company. But Nancy died.’ There was a shadow in his voice, then it cleared. ‘Angie’ll be in the kitchen. Come along.’
He used the side door, which opened into what had clearly been a farm kitchen, with space to work, and maybe to feed a whole bunch of farmworkers. They hadn’t done much to modernize it. The black iron Aga cooker had been retired, but was still there in its recess. It had been superseded by a black gas cooker, at which Mrs Ruston was working, and, before she spotted us, cursing softly to herself.
‘This is my wife, Angie,’ he said, the pride in his voice a little forced. ‘Angie, this is a college friend of mine, Amelia...’ He hesitated. ‘...Patton, and her husband.’ He grinned at me. ‘Richard.’
She made no move, her hand continuing to stir something that smelt like stew. She just inclined her head. ‘Pleased, I’m sure.’ Yet she appeared doubtful.
He clearly felt the atmosphere was a little too stiff. His voice became jocular. ‘I must have mentioned Amelia to you. We used to call her Mellie then...’
‘Oh yes. Of course. That Amelia.’ She managed a smile. ‘Malcolm’s a fool. He makes his college days sound like one round of jolly japes.’ I was sure the old-fashioned wording was used deliberately. ‘Never any work done. You’d think he went there to enjoy himself.’
‘One needed to relax,’ Amelia said evenly, refusing to be provoked.
‘It’s no wonder he didn’t get his degree.’
‘Now Angie...’
‘All I ever hear is Amelia and...who was it, Malcolm? Oh yes...Philip and Olivia something.’
Perhaps Malcolm had not been so important to Amelia as she had to him. Certainly, the name had not struck an immediate chord in her memory.
He turned to us. ‘You can stay to dinner I hope?�
��
It was not a perfectly timed remark. We smiled. I smiled, anyway. I didn’t dare to glance at Amelia. We were not committing ourselves. But his wife shook herself free from whatever had been upsetting her, and put in: ‘But of course, they must stay. It’s only beef stew, I’m afraid, but there’s plenty to go round. And steamed jam pudding to follow. Do stay.’
‘Thank you,’ said Amelia. ‘We’ll be pleased to.’
I went to look out of the window, while Amelia and Angie launched into conversation designed to make themselves acquainted. There was talk of how bleak it must get here, in the middle of winter, and Amelia was lectured on the wildlife that made existence pleasurable.
Now that she was more relaxed, Angela Ruston was a very personable woman. She had the slim figure of a younger person, though she must have been about the same age as her husband. Her hair was showing no sign of grey, and was pure, glistening black, and apparently free from any sort of treatment other than with brush and comb. She had an almost gypsy beauty, with dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. But behind those eyes, even behind the shadow of her earlier mood, there was a suppressed passion that Malcolm had not perhaps fully exploited, and the lines around her mouth, even on the upper lip, indicated a long period of discontent, even suffering.
She was a woman with a short rein to her temper, I thought. Those eyes would snap with fury at the touch of any tender spot in her emotions. And so much of her was raw, and would not heal.
‘You can see from here,’ said Malcolm, at my shoulder, ‘that the water’s not very wide. It’s fen the other side. Full of wild fowl.’
He had interrupted my fanciful thoughts, and jolted them into another channel, though no less fanciful. I had a sudden yearning for the seclusion and peace of these surroundings, all the unspoilt beauty hidden away in this corner of England. I’m a townee. I feel lost without streets. So why was I so caught by this solitude?
‘Nancy loved it,’ he said softly. ‘She knew the waterways from end to end. When it came to it, they took her life.’
Did they? I wondered. Were they not, perhaps, assisted in this?
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Death of an Innocent (Richard and Amelia Patton) Page 8