Better now, warmer, but still shivering. Coming awake in the chair so close to her bed, he could touch her, and did. She ruffled his hair with one hand, touched his cheek. He tried to control his face, to stop the emotions which twisted it into grimaces where he meant blankness, and he did not see the other disembodied hand which brought him the woollen thing, tucked it round him, spoke from a distance in a voice without shape.
‘Peter Jaskowski, I think; we’ve met before. Hallo, young man.’
The pale face crumpled with a splintering pain, a look of horror unsoothed by the gentle voice.
‘Where is he, Peter? Where’s Ed?’
‘Don’t know … please … don’t know …’
‘Where is he, Peter?’
‘Geoffrey, don’t … He’s not Jaskowski, just a boy. What’s the matter with you? Leave him be. The child’s sick, leave him.’
An edge to his voice which frightened her, a calm, toneless, insistent edge which made her imagine the voice going on for question after question, hour after hour, unhurried, unthreatening, chill in its determination. She was confused. Jaskowski? The name was like a curse, and the child’s fate would wait until he had supplied what was required of him. Geoffrey was rationing compassion in the interests of information, and for a moment, she hated him for it.
‘Leave him, Geoffrey, please.’
‘Tell us, Peter, anything Ed’s told you.’ Bailey settled in for long questioning. Regrettable, but the weaker they were, the harder it often was, and Peter began to cry.
He knew when he first turned into the street that something was wrong, knew before he went there. He had been uneasy, but not so much he had failed to hope he would be able to con Aunt Mary into believing Pete was with his mother, and not to worry. He’d be back in a day or two. But the daft cow had already done it, told them, lost her silly head: it was obvious as soon as he went round the back directed by worry, and saw the copper in the road behind, walking up and down the way they did when pretending to be invisible. He went back and checked the front from the corner: another car outside, not one he knew, waiting. Bloody Aunt Mary had reported them missing, an optimistic view, and he refrained from entering the house, preferring not to face the questions: turned tail for Eileen’s, but when he reached it, couldn’t bring himself to go in there either.
Why had he told Pete? Surely he wouldn’t repeat it, he had been so sure of that: Pete would be too frightened. Ed’s anger was fading, giving way to anxiety, stupid little bastard. Instead he was angry with himself for never imagining Pete would follow him, if that is what he had done, and since the day before, when all efforts had failed to find him, began to wonder if he was so lucky after all. Ed only wanted to tell him he was not angry any more, you daft little sod, and please don’t run away from me: I can’t stand you running away from me like that. I only want to talk to you, and I don’t want you scared of me.
He forced himself into Eileen’s after a delaying turn of the street. Collect gear, remove traces of presence: find another, safer place, one of the two empty houses he knew, but everywhere felt bad without Pete. Soon after dark Ed sat in a pub, killing time, surrounded by empty seats, as if he smelt, scowling at customers. I don’t smell, you bastards. I’m clean at least. I’m always clean.
Told himself not to panic, walk slowly as ever, go on looking as he had been looking for almost two days. Supposing he was dead for lack of food, little sod always needed plenty of that. Ed kept walking, convincing himself it was not he who was pursued, half convinced it was only Peter, unable to remain still any more than he had been able to sleep, body as hot and restless as his thoughts.
Suddenly afflicted with the picture of that garden, the garden behind the woman’s house. ‘Looking at girls,’ Pete had told him. Was that where he had been, was now? But she was old: she wasn’t a girl. He should have guessed Pete was lying: he’d never thought of girls once, never mentioned them. The football playground? Could he be hiding in that? Dangerous instinct: madness to go so close. But he believed the instinct and had tried everywhere else. Peter would starve if he did not find him and would be so hungry he would spill the beans to the first stranger he found. He might die even, unless he was found.
Exhaustion was winning, her own second to Peter’s. Geoffrey had been as skilful as a surgeon. Peter had talked, fast, disjointed and furious: Bailey had listened, reacted, busied himself with the telephone, and now watched with Helen as the boy dozed feverishly.
‘Please don’t take him away, he can hardly walk.’
‘But Helen, his relatives have to be told. They’re not monsters. And he can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Two of you, walking wounded? Listen, his brother may have been offered large sums of money by Mrs Cartwright, perhaps for harming you: he tried, he’s at large, he’s dangerous. Peter’s twelve, possibly in danger, needs medical attention. Ryan will come in to stay with you, and someone will take Peter to hospital. I wouldn’t be surprised if the boy has food poisoning.’
‘Why did you make him talk so much then? It’s cruel.’
‘Priorities, Helen.’
‘I don’t understand. Perhaps I shall. Poor Peter; if Ed is the devil, we’re the deep blue sea. What will you do?’
‘Look for Master Edward.’
‘Please Geoffrey, no.’
He was waking Peter gently.
‘Hush, Helen, go to sleep if you can. Peter my lad, say goodbye for now. I’ll bring you back soon, I promise.’
The face was so pale it was luminous, sweating in one last pleading. ‘Can’t I stay? I’ll look after everything. No? Lady, can I come back then?’
‘Soon Peter, I promise.’
The last picture of the boy, white calm, co-operating in his own betrayal, half mirroring herself. Helen had lost all sense of time. There was no time, simply a midnight darkness of anxiety for them both, smothered in her own helplessness.
For all the force of the instinct, it was still a vivid shock for him to see them. First, a man going into the house, the way he had entered himself with the clever key when he had gone to kill her. Another waiting outside making it unsafe to go closer. Then suddenly, that tall one, the one who had been twice to their house, coming out with Peter, the bastard. His arm round Peter, walking him towards a car, taking him prisoner. Peter, staggering a bit, pale as death in the street light: what had they done to him? The tall one, who finished it for Dad and for all of them, coming out of the house of that bitch with teeth. What had they done to Peter between them? What did they want with him now, Ed’s kid brother, his own?
Bile rose to his throat, in choking fury and screaming rage. ‘Run, Pete! Get away Pete: these buggers … they’ll do for you, whether you tell or not, you daft fool, run …’
He shouted it out, couldn’t stop, screamed at them: Leave him alone you cunts! Leave him to me … and Pete heard it as unmistakably as Ed had heard him scream the other time. Heard him clearly, twisted away and aimed himself for the voice like an arrow. Ed panicked then, ran down the road to get away from them. Bloody fool to have shouted like that, drawing them on him by shouting, not wanting or thinking for Pete to follow, not knowing why it was he shouted, angry beyond his own belief; knowing as he did it how senseless it was, senseless and useless. They didn’t need the both of us, nor did he need this white-hot, liquid anger, so he ran. Down to the corner, looked back, and saw Pete following him, running after, screaming, ‘Ed, Ed, don’t go, don’t go, wait for me.’ Funny, jelly-legged run he had: the tall man yelling him to stop, while he ran, wobbling and shouting for the brother, and for a moment Ed stopped and waved him back.
Then he heard the tyres, looked closer, turned forwards again, about to run on from the opposite side of the road and leave him to it, no sense otherwise, looked again, couldn’t move. Pete was still running, straight for the car. Why so fast, that car on a narrowing road, drunk, maybe: it made no difference now. Straight towards it. Ed wanted not to watch, but did watch, frozen as
a frightened rabbit.
He saw the tall man fly into the road after Pete, leap at him, like a kick with his hands, pushing him beyond the bonnet. Pete thwacked into a car parked on the far side, crashed into the door. The tall man was on the bonnet of the car, then rolling off it; he jumped on it as he leapt for Pete, pushed Pete beyond, then rolled off further down the road as the car stopped. All so swift, and so slow. The tall man ended by the kerb, rolled in a ball, but moving, the other man, the one waiting in the police car, ran for him. Ed could see Pete, crouched by the door of the car very still, minutely small, an island in the road.
He wasn’t hit, Ed knew he wasn’t hit. He’d had a big bump was all, but he was so still, such a feeble little sod. Ed stopped running and didn’t start again. Pete wasn’t dead, they hadn’t beaten him; the tall man wouldn’t have done that and then almost kill himself to save him, it wouldn’t make sense. Pete would have mended, but Ed went back: he ran back, could have kicked himself as he moved, drawn back without a will. Pete would have been all right, daft bastard, he would have been all right, why had they both run like that, Pete to himself, and himself away? But if that tall bloke was ready to lose his legs to save him, Ed couldn’t leave him, it was that simple. The little fucker was his own brother; couldn’t be left, not just like that. He went back, ready to kill Pete for it, but he went back, streaming back to the hunched shape in the road, careless who saw.
He was sitting in the middle of the road, eyes open but dizzy. ‘You daft bastard,’ Ed muttered, ‘get up out of the road, or you’ll really get killed this time.’ Peter’s eyes were alive with fear and relief: and it was the fear which so arrested Ed. From behind him, he hauled Pete to his feet, half dragged him to the pavement and sat him on it. Pete flopped. Ed crouched beside him. ‘Daft bastard,’ he repeated, ‘silly sod.’ He pushed Pete into a sitting position and the boy raised his head. There was a livid bruise on his forehead, instant colour on white skin, still swelling. Squatting at his side, Ed was mesmerised by it. The boy grabbed at his arm, leaning towards him helplessly, and Ed heard from beyond his back the dim sound of shouting, footsteps running towards them both. Too late, he should have gone on running: he should not have gone back, never go back. Pete’s eyes were full of tears, his eyes designed for them: the mouth working its familiar difficulty with words, his hand tight on Ed’s arm. Ed let it rest, did not turn, did not move. ‘Too late, Pete, ain’t it? I hope you know what you’ve fucking done: you’ve bloody done for me, Pete, you’ve screwed it all.’
He knew the anger of sheer relief, ready to hit Pete for being alive. Instead he stayed as he was, cursing softly, until the foreign hand fell on his own shoulder. Gently, then, he moved Pete’s restraining fingers. ‘Don’t worry you daft git: don’t look so worried Pete. What did you tell them, Pete? The lot? Didn’t think you’d do that, Pete, really I didn’t. Never mind. S’all right, Pete, don’t cry, you know I can’t stand it, don’t cry … you all right Pete?’ Then turning away, rising stiffly, not looking at the face behind his own, hands in his pockets looking down. ‘Leave off, Mr Bailey. I ain’t going anywhere. Get off me, will you? Just look after my fucking brother, will you? I’ll wait.’
‘We’ll look after him.’
‘See you bloody do.’
‘You are paid to look after me, Mr Quinn, not to postpone the task.’
‘Madam, so I am; paid to look after you. I have asked the judge to adjourn the case, yet again, until lunchtime today only, all he would grant. My learned friend for the prosecution agreed, so that I can make my best endeavours to look after you. We were ready, madam, this morning, to do our best: I regret to say there have been some developments which complicate matters. Facts I learned very late last night. We have been labouring on your behalf, Miss Malton and I, burning the midnight oil.’
Not quite a rebuke for her rude response to the news of delay, this pompous address from Quinn who was by habit more informal than most: a speech redolent of reminders that all respect should be mutual, that he was not simply the hired help, however high his fee. Some of the pomposity was an infection from far too long a conversation with Carey. You have no choice, madam, he was informing her, no choice but to listen to me.
She subsided. Alarm trickled into her strong fingers while her face remained immobile. Aware of Sissy Malton as blank as an effigy behind Quinn, the gaoler beyond the door, both impassive in their dislike, she composed herself. Somewhere at the opposite end of the corridor in a cell as secure as this, was Jaskowski, smouldering with hatred, primed to tell all he knew. Eileen felt lonely. She needed the touch of reassurance, any human touch at all.
‘Have you read a newspaper this morning, Mrs Cartwright?’
‘No. No opportunity.’
She attempted a smile to indicate co-operation, hoping for an answering mellowing of Quinn’s handsome features. There was none. Sissy offered her a cigarette which she took with thanks.
‘Well, madam, had you had that opportunity, you might have found a small entry, concerning the arrest of Stanislaus Jaskowski’s son.’
‘He has more than one son, I believe.’
‘Only one was arrested. The eldest. Edward.’
Even the knowledge of their combined, shrewd scrutiny did not control the tiny shudder of large limbs.
‘Fancy. What a family.’ She attempted to laugh. Sissy turned her head away. ‘Does the father know?’
‘Yes. Detective Superintendent Bailey told him this morning. I believe he is incensed, more willing than ever to give evidence. He says he blames it on you, madam. Mr Bernard is also aware … he is no longer willing to give evidence.’
Hope stirred, visibly. Eileen’s long sojourn between four walls had decayed the finer edge of self-control.
‘But that, madam, makes little difference to the outcome. Now, if I may, I shall present you with the facts as I understand them, and then I’d be obliged for your comments. On Friday evening, Miss West, the solicitor for the Crown, was attacked in her own home by Edward Jaskowski. She was severely injured, presently recovering from those injuries although it will take some time. For reasons I need not explain, even if I could, the attack was witnessed by Edward’s younger brother, a disturbed child, I believe, who had come to haunt Miss West’s premises. On Sunday night, last night, that is, Edward was arrested.’
Quinn paused, wiped from his voice the element of weariness and all suggestion of pity.
‘It is doubtful the small boy will give evidence of what he saw on Friday. The prosecution are not inclined to force that issue, and it is equally doubtful if Miss West could make a positive identification of her masked assailant, but the boy has told the police what he knows. Edward Jaskowski says nothing. They could have difficulty proving a case, although there is other evidence. Of course.’
‘What other evidence? And what has any of this to do with me?’
‘The other evidence? Oh, a mere matter of teeth marks. A bite madam, administered by Miss West, I believe, in the course of the attack on her, imprints thereof on Master Jaskowski’s left forearm. Mr Bailey tells me they are hopeful of forensic evidence, but fair as he is, does not rely on it. Bloodstains, I believe he mentioned. Possibility of shards of glass from a broken clock found in the soles of shoes. Persuasive, I think. Obviously, something of a struggle.’
Involuntarily, Eileen smiled. Sissy could not repress a shake of the head watching it, a smile like the twist of the mad, reminiscent of a cruel caricature which hung in her chambers. Watching the dark face, she remembered Eileen’s other interview: how when told of the struggles of poor, silly, dead Sylvia Bernard, she had smiled. Such a humorous lady.
‘Fascinating, Mr Quinn. Never liked Miss West on our brief meetings, but I didn’t even know her. Or Edward Jaskowski. I repeat, what has it to do with me?’
‘This, madam,’ Quinn’s hand held the letter, crumpled lined paper, examined by a number of eyes, handled in his elegant fingers with studied distaste. Prison paper, her contents.
‘
According to this, and according to Edward’s words to his brother, in consideration of his injuring an unnamed woman, you arranged to pay the junior Jaskowski the sum of five thousand pounds.’
‘For the benefit of the family: as stated in the letter. Who gave you the letter? You have no business …’
‘Madam, I do, with respect, as long as it is my business to defend you. It is regrettable Mr Lawrence did not see fit … but that is a matter for yourselves. Why, madam, why?’
‘For the reasons I state in that letter.’
‘Again with respect to you, Mrs Cartwright, and with respect to my experience, if you will, and bearing in mind the perceptions of the jury, however limited you may consider these, I shall have difficulty convincing them of that.’
The voice was peculiarly flat. Eileen fished in her handbag for the absent cigarette. Sissy wondered if her hands trembled in fury or fear before her sudden explosion of words.
‘Edward will say nothing, nothing. He’s a good boy, Edward …’
Silence fell like a boulder into a deep pool. Punctuated by Sissy’s sharp intake of breath. Automatically, she produced her packet of cigarettes which Eileen snatched from her hand.
‘So you do know him, Mrs Cartwright? Know well, I take it?’
Recovery was as swift as collapse. ‘I know of him, of course … His father mentioned him.’
‘I see.’
Silence again. Eileen’s an obdurate silence, watching nothing but the smoke curling upwards in the stuffy room. Quinn hated cigarette smoke, forbade it in his own home. It was an accepted hazard of his profession to be obliged to tolerate it often at close quarters, but breathing it did nothing for his legendary patience. He sensed Sissy, inches away, the pleasanter smell of her, practical mind already moving on, another case lost, small relief in Lawrence’s disgrace and the end of his whinging on the phone. Never mind, there was always another brief. The resignation of her hung in the air with the smoke, infecting all three with the scent of defeat, even as Eileen rallied from the dead.
A Question of Guilt Page 24