by Anne Baker
Two sharp raps on his door made him stop. The next moment his office was invaded by Mr Bristow, looking more a figure of authority than he ever had before. He asked Lydia Tomlin to leave, and then two men crowded in and were flashing warrant cards. It took Leo another moment to realise they were police officers in plain clothes. He felt himself break out in a cold sweat. Things had developed further than he’d supposed. He could hardly take in what they were saying to him; his mind was in chaos.
He pulled himself to his feet. He must not give in to this. He had to stay calm. He had his escape route; all was not lost yet, he could still get away with it.
Bristow, with a face like thunder, was taking files from the cabinet and pushing Leo away to take the cheque stubs from his desk drawer together with the cash books and journals he made his entries in. It horrified Leo to find they believed they had cut-and-dried evidence against him, and that they wanted to take him to the police station.
‘What are you accusing me of?’ he asked, trying to sound as though he had no idea.
‘At this stage it’s just to help us with our inquiries,’ he was told. But he couldn’t help but notice that Bristow was picking up from his desk the six files he’d made for the ghost companies.
Leo knew then that his situation was dire, that they had all the evidence they’d need. It had a sobering effect on him. His mind grew coldly clear, and he knew that everything now depended on him keeping his wits about him.
He protested his innocence, appeared willing to answer their questions, raised no objection to being taken to the police station. His attitude must be one of helpfulness, of let’s get this misunderstanding cleared up.
His confidence had taken a knock by the time they were entering the police station. He hated these places, hated these men who were pushing him about. The first questions were about his bank account. He thought he had little to fear here. He’d made Francis Clitheroe’s account look as normal as he could, withdrawing enough money for it to look as though he was living on the salary that was paid in.
‘Who is Alistair Jackson?’ the inspector asked. Leo felt gutted and badly shaken when they began asking him about that bank account, but he stayed icy calm, told them he knew nobody by that name, though he understood now something of the evidence they had to convict him.
He could see them checking the entries he’d written in the cash book against the chequebook stubs, and realised that the whole edifice he’d built up to hide his activities was patently clear to them. He’d stayed too long in the employ of Walter Bristow and was afraid he was going to lose most if not all of the sum he’d built up. He was fighting now for the last and much greater benefit, his own freedom.
The hours dragged on, but he continued to deny any wrongdoing. Eventually he was charged with fraudulently removing money from his employer’s bank account. He was told he must appear in court tomorrow morning but that he’d be tried at a later date. He was fingerprinted and photographed and they checked where he was living before they let him go home.
Leo felt reduced to a nervous wreck. He should never have allowed himself to be taken to the police station like that. Despite all his worries, he’d been overconfident. He should have left Bristow’s before this happened. Now that he’d been fingerprinted and photographed, they had evidence that could tie him to his true identity. It had been a big mistake to hang on so long.
But he’d admitted nothing to the police and he’d confirmed none of the facts they’d put before him. He was certain they believed him to be Francis Clitheroe, accountant. They’d given no indication that they even thought he might be somebody else. He could still escape their clutches by ditching that identity.
He was very late returning home, and his fellow lodgers had already eaten their tea and gone. ‘Where’ve you been till now?’ his landlady demanded.
He was depressed and exhausted, but he knew he mustn’t give up yet.
‘I had a phone call at the office,’ he lied. ‘My mother’s been taken seriously ill, a heart attack.’ He’d previously told her he’d come over from the Isle of Man to work in Liverpool. ‘I have to go home. I’ve booked myself on to tomorrow morning’s boat.’
She was sympathetic and had kept his meal hot for him. It was dried up, but he was glad to sit and eat it; he was ravenous. The police had given him a cup of tea but nothing to eat in all that time.
When the evening cocoa and biscuits was put out, Leo had his share and told the same story to his fellow lodgers. Then he went up to his room, pulled his two suitcases from under the bed and systematically packed everything that belonged to him. He was not planning to appear in court in the morning and knew he must leave nothing behind here lest it give some clue to the police. They’d certainly come here looking for him.
That done, he collapsed on his bed and tried to think of what he must do to stay one step ahead. But his brain felt full of wool. He was too tired; he would have to sleep here tonight. Anyway, the buses stopped running quite early out in the suburbs and he couldn’t walk far with his suitcases.
When his alarm went in the morning, he lay back listening to the rush of footsteps and the water flushing in the bathroom upstairs. He felt better; he’d had a good sleep and his head was working again. He was worried about the money he’d worked so hard to get. Since the police had questioned him about the bank account he’d opened in the name of Alistair Jackson, he could only assume that they’d frozen it and he’d never be able to get at the six thousand pounds or so he’d saved up.
He pulled Francis Clitheroe’s dressing gown from his suitcase, put on his heavy-rimmed glasses and went down to eat breakfast with the other men. He said goodbye to everybody and found that the landlady wanted him to settle his bill before leaving. Though he knew he could never return here, he wrote her a cheque on Francis Clitheroe’s account. Clitheroe wouldn’t be the sort to leave without settling his bill, and he still had to play that part. It reminded him that this account might also be closed by the police, once they knew he had not attended court.
When the other men had gone off to work, he picked up his suitcases and went out to the bus stop. The buses were crowded in the rush hour and he felt his cases made him conspicuous. He got off at Lime Street station and found his way to the left luggage department, where he deposited them.
Once he was free of the cases, he caught a bus to Bootle. To reach Lloyds Bank, where Clitheroe had his account, he had to pass the Bristow’s building. The sight of it made him shiver, and he was glad he didn’t have to go inside and pretend to work; that had really turned sour on him. He almost emptied Clitheroe’s account, leaving only shillings in it. Not enough to meet the cheque he’d given his ex-landlady. But he had cash in plenty now, over seven thousand pounds. In addition he’d bled money into the Arthur Worboys account in the Halifax building society. He wanted to kick himself. If he’d left a day earlier, he could have drained the Alistair Jackson account too.
Back at Lime Street, he picked up his suitcases, broke Clitheroe’s spectacles and dropped them in a waste bin, then had a cup of coffee in a café nearby. He didn’t want to meet the students living in his bedsit building as they rushed out to their classes. By the time he got there, the building was silent and deserted.
He felt safer as soon as he closed the door of his familiar room. He unpacked his cases, made his sofa into a bed and got into it. He reckoned the police would be unable to find him now.
Leo felt much better after two relaxing days in his bedsit. He was enjoying his unaccustomed leisure. Though his get-rich scheme had turned into a fiasco, he had managed to retrieve some of the money. It had been his own fault and it had scared him, but he had nobody to blame but himself. Next time he’d be more careful.
He spent a lot of time adding up the money he still controlled and making sure it was safe. By drawing large sums out in cash and paying them into an account in a different name at another bank, he’d made it impossible for it to be traced through the banking system.
; He’d been thinking a lot about his future over recent months. He’d made plans in his head and now was the time to start putting them into action. In order to be Francis Clitheroe, he’d practised an upper-class accent and acquired all the clothes to look the part. He’d found he quite enjoyed being higher up the social scale; people treated him with more respect.
At his lodgings, the landlady had regularly taken the Liverpool Post and left it lying around for others when she’d finished with it. Leo had been perusing the properties for sale columns for weeks. He wanted to get away from Liverpool and had decided he wanted beautiful scenery and to be near the sea. He’d narrowed his search to north Wales, Anglesey perhaps. Then he’d seen advertised just the house he’d love to own. It was in the Colwyn Bay area, but he’d got no further than asking the agent to send him particulars. Now that he’d lost the Alistair Jackson account, that house would be more than he could afford, so he was glad he hadn’t got round to looking it over and starting to buy.
But he still had enough for a pleasant cottage, and he was looking forward to finding just that. It would be a good thing, as it would be another bolt-hole a long way away from here should he need it. He’d try and book a holiday in Anglesey towards the end of the month and have a good scout round.
In the meantime he was happy to be back in his bedsit. Today he’d eaten a good lunch in the Irish pub round the corner, had a game of darts with his landlord and won. Conor had been very affable, patting his shoulder and saying, ‘My friend, you play a very good game. When will I ever beat you?’
As it was Leo’s usual drinking hole, he’d met several old acquaintances there and had several more jars of Guinness. It had developed into a jolly social occasion and he’d thoroughly enjoyed it.
Outside, old Billy was selling newspapers as usual on the pavement. ‘Early Echo,’ he cried. Leo tossed his coppers into the cap and took one home. He threw himself down on his unmade bed to read it, but jerked up in horror when he saw his own face staring out at him and the story of how he’d swindled his boss printed alongside.
He could hardly get his breath as he read the piece through carefully. The photograph was the one taken in the police station and made him look like a criminal. The name given was that of Francis Clitheroe, accountant, and he was wearing his heavy-rimmed spectacles, but he would be easily recognisable to his acquaintances in the pub and the students who lived in this house. Perhaps even to the newspaper vendor and the people who’d known him at the Exchange Hotel.
He panicked again; he couldn’t think straight. He wouldn’t feel safe here now that his face was in the papers. He had to get out of Liverpool straight away, to somewhere he wasn’t known and couldn’t be recognised. He started to throw some clothes into a suitcase and almost ran with it to the station. Where would he go? Llandudno, he decided on the spur of the moment; he’d never been there before.
Leo always had carefully made plans so that he knew what to expect. He found it scary to be in a train flying along the Welsh coast to a place he could only imagine. He had no idea where he’d sleep that night, and that was adding to his insecurity. When the train pulled into Llandudno station, he found it a busy place. He walked out on to the street. It was all lit up and there were throngs of holidaymakers everywhere.
He walked on, his suitcase bumping his leg; he must look for somewhere to spend the night. He found himself on the promenade, with waves lapping gently on the beach. There were courting couples with their arms round each other, and lights were strung out in a line round the bay. It looked beautiful. Hotel after hotel faced the sea, but they were all too grand for him.
He went down a side street and into a pub. He ordered a beer and asked the barman where he’d be likely to find a room for the night, one that was not too expensive.
He was directed to the outskirts of town. It was a small and unobtrusive private hotel with no licence for alcohol. More a guest house than a hotel, but just what Leo wanted in his present circumstances. He booked into a room and felt a little better. Nobody would think of looking for Francis Clitheroe here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
REX KNEW HELEN WAS losing her strength. The days when he could take her out for a meal and then have her spend the night with him had gone. She was clinging to him in a way she never used to. He felt she was looking to him for support and he didn’t know how to provide it.
This afternoon, before starting work in her garden, he’d sat with her in the summerhouse for a time. She’d said she felt tired and he’d left her to have a little sleep while he did some weeding. It was half past three when he went to see how she was. She was just opening her eyes. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.
‘That would be nice.’
‘I’ll go and make it.’
In the kitchen, Peggy was making fish pie for the evening meal. Marigold had pushed the pram down to the local shops for a walk, as Lucy had flushed her toothbrush down the toilet and needed another. Rex made a pot of tea and poured a cup for Peggy. She said, ‘There’s Victoria sandwich cake if you’d like some.’
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think Helen will.’
He took the tray over to the summerhouse, and for a moment he thought Helen had drifted off to sleep again. She was lying back on a substantial wooden lounger. Joan had found a mattress to cover the slats and fit under the cushions to make it more comfortable for her.
‘I’d better sit up,’ she said. Rex helped her, raising the back rest and shaking up her pillows. He put a cup of tea in her hands, pulled up a chair and sat down to drink his own.
He was talking about what he would do next in the garden, but Helen sat there staring straight ahead and gripping her tea cup with both hands.
Suddenly she turned towards him. ‘Rex, I want you to do something for me.’ Her dull eyes stared into his.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What is it you want?’
Slowly she put her cup down on the table. ‘I want you to help me to die.’
Rex’s hand jerked with shock, spilling some of his tea on his trousers. ‘What? I can’t do that!’ He was aghast. ‘I don’t want you to die.’
‘It’s hopeless. I’m not going to get better. I don’t want to go on.’
‘It’s not hopeless. I thought you were improving last month. You were much brighter. When we took you to see that specialist last week, he did some tests and seemed to think so too.’
‘No, Rex.’
‘Dr Harris thinks you’re getting better.’
‘No he doesn’t. He’s been to see me this morning. The tests they did . . . Well, they think the cancer’s spreading. They want me to have another course of chemotherapy.’ There was utter despair on her face.
Rex sat on the side of her lounger and put his arms round her. He felt terrible. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’
She was clinging, her fingers gripping his shirt. ‘I don’t want to go through that again, the sickness and the pain.’
He tried his best to sound hopeful. ‘This second course could cure you.’
‘I think it’ll just prolong my . . . I feel so helpless and useless. I’m making so much work for Chloe and Marigold. Please help me!’
‘It’s against the law for me to do that.’
‘I know, I know. I’m asking an awful lot of you. I’m sorry, but there’s no one else I can ask, is there?’
‘No, but I don’t want you to die. What would Chloe say? She doesn’t want that either.’
‘I’m going to get worse, and heaven knows how long this will drag on. I’ll never be without this awful pain . . .’
‘Dr Harris gives you something for that, doesn’t he?’
‘But it always comes back.’ It was a cry from the heart. ‘I’d like to go to sleep one night and never wake up.’
‘Helen love . . .’ Rex knew she was crying, and he couldn’t hold his own tears back.
‘I know it’s too much to ask of anyone, but please, please … Help me, Rex.’
Before h
e left, Chloe poured Rex a beer and they sat in the sitting room with Marigold and talked about Helen’s recommended second course of chemotherapy. He could see they were both in despair.
‘Just when her hair is beginning to grow back,’ Chloe mourned. ‘She won’t let me see it yet, but Aunt Goldie . . .’
‘She has to wash, and she can’t manage that without help.’ Marigold was stoical. ‘The other day she wanted me to measure it. It’s about half an inch long now. She said that when it reaches an inch and a half, she’ll throw away her wig.’
Rex could see that Marigold was fighting tears too. ‘She’s been so brave. Always trying to look on the bright side. But now . . .’
Zac let out a scream of rage and started to cry. He and Lucy had been playing together on the carpet.
‘What’s the matter, love?’ Marigold was on her feet in an instant.
‘My teddy.’ He was angry. ‘Take my teddy.’
Lucy was scrambling away with his toy. ‘He won’t play with me. Won’t let me near his things.’
‘Give it back to him.’ Marigold was stern. ‘This minute. You have a teddy of your own.’
Rex pulled himself to his feet and wished them good night. At home alone, he felt in turmoil. He wanted to do his best for Helen, but what was the best? He knew how much she’d suffered during her first course of chemotherapy, and to ask her to go through it again was heartbreaking for them all.
He understood how Helen must be feeling, but to help her take her life? The very thought of that terrified him. If he did, he might be charged with murder, but that wasn’t the most frightening thing about it. To take another’s life was the biggest decision anyone could make.
She was only forty-eight. That was very young to die. But in her place and her position? Rex asked himself what he’d want to do. There was only one logical answer: he’d want to die too.
The next time he was alone with Helen in the summerhouse, she felt for his hand. ‘Have you thought any more about what I asked of you?’