Death Knocks Twice

by Robert Thorogood

  Matthew led them up the stairs to his bedroom, and Richard decided that there was something about Matthew’s calm self-assurance that didn’t quite ring true. After all, he’d just found out that his biological father had cared about the letters he’d written to him, and now here he was – only minutes later – happy to explain the family history as though he were a guide in a stately home. Where was Matthew’s angst? Or his teenage confusion and doubt? It had to be inside him somewhere. And, as Richard continued to mull Matthew’s character, he started wondering if his easeful manner was in any way fake. Something Matthew put on in the same way that he might put on a suit. Or a school uniform, Richard thought wryly to himself. After all, Matthew was still just a teenager, really, and Richard couldn’t help feeling that there had to be a mess of teenage emotions somewhere under the surface. But how to access them?

  When they entered Matthew’s bedroom, Richard was surprised to see how simply decorated it was. In fact, as he scanned the room, he saw no posters on the wall, no photos of friends anywhere – it seemed entirely devoid of personality. Even more surprisingly, considering Matthew’s age, there weren’t even any of the touches of non-conformist conformity that Richard remembered so well from his teenage years, where all of his friends could be relied upon to have the same Che Guevara posters on their bedroom walls and ‘Keep Music Live’ stickers on their cellos.

  Richard went over to a bookshelf and pulled down a ‘How To’ guide to applying to university. Seeing the array of Post-it notes sticking out of various pages, Richard remembered something he’d read in Matthew’s last letter to Freddie, and he decided that it was time to test Matthew’s composure.

  ‘Tell me, how did you get on in your A-levels?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Only, I imagine you’ve got your A-level results by now.’

  ‘That’s right. I have.’

  Richard could see that Matthew had dodged the question.

  ‘Tell me, what did you get as your results?’

  ‘I got a B and two Cs,’ Matthew said, trying not to look brittle, and failing.

  ‘Oh. I see,’ Richard said, and put the guidebook to universities back on the bookshelf.

  ‘Precisely,’ Matthew said, understanding the point that Richard was making perfectly well.

  ‘So what are your plans?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a bit of travelling. Then I don’t know what.’

  ‘But no university for you?’

  ‘Maybe. Although I’m not sure who’ll have me with those sorts of grades.’

  ‘Yes, I see your problem,’ Richard said. ‘After all, they’re a fair set of results for a normal person, but not for someone who’s had hundreds of thousands of pounds lavished on their education. No wonder you told Freddie in your last letter that you didn’t feel bright enough for Eton.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Or rich enough. You said that to him as well.’

  ‘Okay. So there were plenty of rich kids at my school.’

  ‘And well-connected kids, that’s what you also said.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘You thought you were just an also-ran, didn’t you? Or “average”, that’s what you called yourself.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Matthew said. ‘Does it all have to be about my bloody school? I went to Eton, okay? And while I was there, I admit it, I didn’t feel like I fitted in. I wasn’t clever enough. Or interesting enough. I was just normal. Is that what you want me to say? That I felt inadequate every second I was there? Okay, then I will. But I also made some good friends, and had some good times as well. It was just a boarding school. It’s not who I am, and I’m out of it now. Happy now?’

  Richard smiled to himself. Good. This was the Matthew who’d written to Freddie each year. Someone who wasn’t sure of his place in the world. Someone who didn’t even have a relationship with his biological father.

  ‘Anyway,’ Matthew said sulkily, ‘we didn’t come up here to talk about my career prospects. Did we?’

  ‘Of course not. So if you’ve got Freddie’s letters to hand…?’

  Matthew opened the drawer to his bedside table and pulled out a bundle of cheap-looking envelopes.

  ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘He only wrote three times.’

  Matthew handed the letters to Richard and went over to the window to wait.

  Looking at the date stamps on the envelopes, Richard could see that the three letters had been sent over the last five years. The oldest was easy to identify. It was the most dirty around the seams. Richard pulled the letter out.

  It was a single sheet of A4 paper, and there was just the briefest of messages scrawled onto it in a cheap biro. It said:

  Don’t contact me again.

  Richard turned the page over, but there was no writing on the other side. That was it. Just four words. And no signature.

  Richard opened the second letter. This one was written in the same hand, but was barely any longer. It said:

  I don’t care that you’re not happy. Don’t write to me.

  As for the third letter, Richard could see that the date stamp on the envelope said that it had been sent on the 17th of June, just two days after Matthew had last written to him.

  ‘He replied quickly enough this year,’ Richard said.

  Matthew didn’t say anything. Richard could see that he was still feeling bruised.

  Richard took the letter from the envelope. It said:

  Stop writing to me.

  I’ve got cancer. So this time next year I won’t even be alive. But seeing as you’ve always wanted my advice, I’ll give you some now. Don’t screw up your life like I screwed up mine. You can have that for free.

  Freddie.

  Richard looked up from the letter.

  ‘He told you he had cancer?’

  Matthew shrugged. He still wasn’t that interested in cooperating.

  ‘And you knew this two months ago?’

  ‘So?’

  Richard held up the piece of paper. ‘Who else knew?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Who, apart from you, knew that Matthew had cancer?’

  ‘No-one.’

  Richard could see that Matthew was still sulking.

  ‘I don’t believe you. Someone as honourable as you wouldn’t have been able to keep this information to himself. I’m sure you must have told someone. So who did you tell?’

  Matthew exhaled before replying.

  ‘Alright. I told Father.’

  ‘You told Hugh?’

  ‘You’re right. I felt I had to tell him. After all, he’s Freddie’s brother. And the head of the family.’

  ‘I’m sure you did the right thing,’ Camille said. ‘But what did Hugh say to you when you told him?’

  ‘Well, he was pretty angry if I’m honest. Mainly because I’d been writing to Freddie for all of these years behind his back. And also because I told him we should get Freddie out to the Caribbean. So he’d have a chance of a reconciliation before he died. But Father wasn’t having any of it. He said that the letter was a fraud, I wasn’t to make any further contact with Freddie.’

  ‘How did he think it was a fraud?’

  ‘He said it was a typical Freddie trick. The letter was the bait to make us get back in touch with him. And then he’d try and get more money out of us. Or try to manipulate us somehow.’

  ‘Hugh didn’t believe that Freddie was dying?’

  ‘He didn’t. Even though that’s what Freddie said in his letter.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I have to defer to Father on this. He knew Freddie. And Father was insistent. I had to stop being so naïve. He made me promise that I wouldn’t contact Freddie again, and he told me he didn’t want me even mentioning his name again. I’ve rarely seen him so angry, if I’m honest.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I did as I was told. I just dro
pped it. I mean, Freddie had told me not to get in touch in his letter anyway. Now father was saying the same thing.’

  ‘You didn’t contact Freddie again?’

  ‘Not since that last letter I wrote him.’

  Before Richard could ask another question, they all heard a loud sneeze from the other side of Matthew’s door. Richard barely had time to look over at Camille before she’d covered the distance to the door and flung it open to see the quickly-retreating back of Lucy as she headed towards the main staircase.

  ‘Lucy, wait!’ Camille called out – and now Richard saw Lucy stop at the top of the stairs and turn back to face the Police.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Matthew,’ Camille shot over her shoulder as she headed out into the corridor, Richard following in his partner’s wake.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lucy said.

  ‘That very much depends,’ Richard said, ‘on whether you tell us why you were eavesdropping on our conversation with your brother.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Then how come we heard you sneeze by the door, and yet when we opened it, you were very distinctly scurrying away?’

  ‘I wasn’t scurrying,’ Lucy said as she nervously tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear.

  ‘So what were you doing?’

  ‘I was heading to my car. Alright?’

  Richard could see the guilt in Lucy’s face. She was lying.

  ‘Or to be more precise,’ Lucy continued, trying to hide her nerves with words, ‘I was leaving my bedroom and heading to my car when I heard voices coming from Matthew’s bedroom. So I stopped to find out who it was. That’s hardly a crime, is it? But as soon as I realised he was talking to the Police, I knew I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. So that’s when I left. But I sneezed as I went. That’s all. And that’s when you opened the door. It was just bad timing. But I was already leaving.’

  ‘So you were outside the door for only a matter of seconds,’ Richard asked. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘Then can you tell us where you’re going to in your car?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Where are you going in your car?’

  Lucy’s smile tightened, and Richard could see that she was failing to think of an answer fast enough.

  ‘Oh you know… into town.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Oh. Well. Around. Do I have to tell you everything?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Camille said kindly. ‘But do you mind if we walk with you to your car?

  Richard didn’t know what Camille was up to, but he knew his partner well enough to know that she was up to something.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘We’ve got a few questions, so how about we accompany you to your car?’

  On the way through the house, Richard tried to ask Lucy if she’d got any further with her plans for the plantation since she’d inherited it, but she just gave vague answers about making sure that she didn’t rush into any decisions too hastily. So, as it was fresh in his mind, Richard asked her about “Mad Jack”, and Lucy shut down that conversation even more quickly. In fact, having heard from the family that both “Mad Jack” and Freddie were unhinged, Richard found himself wondering if maybe Lucy had inherited elements of the trait as well. She was being erratic, evasive, and she was clearly up to something – not that he could work out how to get her to tell them what it was.

  ‘Just before you go,’ Camille said as they reached an open-backed truck parked to the side of the house. ‘Can I give you something?’

  ‘That depends on what it is,’ Lucy said, and Richard got the impression that Lucy was feeling a lot of pressure. But – again – why?

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lucy said. ‘Just fine,’ she said again, to make it clear just how fine she was. ‘What is it you wanted to give me?’

  ‘Hold on,’ Camille said as she started searching for something in her handbag. But whatever she was looking for wasn’t immediately to hand, so she put her handbag up on the metal side of the back of the truck. She fumbled around again and then she turned back to Lucy holding a business card.

  ‘Sorry that took so long,’ Camille said with a smile, ‘but this is my card. If you think of anything that might be of relevance to the case, no matter how small you think it is, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lucy said, taking the card and clearly wondering why Camille had chosen this exact moment to give it to her. ‘I will.’

  Lucy got into the cab of the truck, turned the engine on and drove off.

  ‘She’s lying to us,’ Richard said. ‘She’s going somewhere she doesn’t want to tell us about.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘If only we could tail her. Find out where she’s going.’

  ‘But we can.’

  ‘Not down those hairpin roads. She’ll see us in her rear view mirror if we try to follow her in the Police jeep.’

  ‘But she’ll only see us if we try to catch up with her.’

  ‘Of course, Camille. But how will we know where she’s going if we don’t catch up with her?’

  ‘Well it’s funny you should say that, sir, but I think that when I had my handbag on the side of her truck, my mobile phone fell out and got lost in the old sacks in the back.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think I dropped my phone into the back of Lucy’s truck by mistake.’

  ‘But why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘No reason, sir. It was just a mistake. Like I’ve been saying. But now I’m thinking about it, it would only be natural that I would now borrow your phone and go to a website where I can enter my details and track the GPS signal of my phone.’

  ‘You can do that?’ Richard asked, surprised.

  ‘I can. And this website should be able to show me exactly where my phone is on a map in real time. And if that means that we’ll also know where Lucy’s truck is, well, that’s just an unexpected bonus.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Richard said, finally understanding what Camille was saying. ‘Is this even remotely legal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you’ve described.’

  ‘Of course it’s legal.’

  ‘But you can’t just bug a suspect’s car without a warrant.’

  ‘I’ve not bugged her vehicle.’

  ‘But you’re tracking it.’

  ‘I’m not! I’m tracking my phone that just happens to be in the back of a suspect’s truck.’

  ‘I can’t let you do this.’

  ‘But this is just a commonsense way of getting my phone back.’

  Richard was in a quandary. He desperately wanted to follow Lucy’s truck to find out where she was going, but there was no way he could break the rules and bug a suspect without first securing a warrant.

  Seeing her boss’s indecision, Camille sighed.

  ‘Look, I’ll tell any disciplinary tribunal that I didn’t tell you what I was doing before I did it. And that you were reluctant to pursue.’

  ‘You would?’ Richard asked, impressed that his partner would go out on a limb for him like this.

  ‘I would,’ Camille said, bitterly disappointed – though not in any way surprised – that her partner wouldn’t go out on any kind of a limb for her.

  ‘Then, seeing as it’ll be entirely your fault,’ Richard said with a broad smile, ‘let’s go and retrieve your phone.’

  Camille got up a webpage on Richard’s phone, logged into her own phone’s account, and used the ‘Find My Phone’ feature to show its position on a map. Richard could see a flashing blue dot wending its way down the hairpin turns of the mountain.

  ‘This is amazing,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I suggest I drive. You keep an eye on that blue dot, and let’s find out where Lucy wouldn’t tell us she was going.’

  ‘You mean, let’s go and get your phone.’
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  ‘Of course sir. That’s what I meant to say. Let’s go and get my phone.’

  Half an hour later, Richard and Camille were driving through the outskirts of Gosier, the capital city of Saint-Marie. And whereas the rest of the island was picturesquely rundown – almost genteelly so – Gosier had a definite edge of modern-day urban decay about it. So, although the narrow streets were built on a grid system, the town’s houses, shops, and few public squares were now many decades into a steep decline. Roofs were missing tiles, balconies hung skew-whiff from walls, and hardy buddleias grew directly out of cracks in the walls. Everywhere you went in Gosier, you were faced with rusting satellite dishes, a mess of cables strung in haphazard fashion between the buildings, and a very pungent smell of decay.

  Gosier was also where Government House was, but it was situated to the western end of the town where there were street cafés, wider, palm tree-lined boulevards to stroll along, and a crumbling old castle that overlooked the sea. It was this section of the town that the tourists flocked to. It was also where the Commissioner had his office, at the top of the main Saint-Marie Police Building.

  However, Richard could see that the blue dot of Camille’s phone wasn’t heading into the western part of the town. Instead, it was moving inexorably towards the far-rougher area of the old harbour – which was basically the most rundown part of the town. Richard had been wondering for quite some time what Lucy was doing in an area so semi-criminal, when he realised that the blue dot had stopped moving.

  ‘Okay, her truck has stopped in the old car park to the side of the fish market.’

  ‘It has?’ Camille asked, just as surprised as Richard. ‘Then let’s go and see if we can find her.’

  Camille drove up to the old harbour and parked by a rusty derrick that rather improbably had a bush growing out of its main hinge. At this time of day – after the fish market had closed – the area was unsettlingly deserted, Richard saw. There were just a couple of fishermen further along the wharf using a hose to clean out a pile of empty plastic crates. They looked over as Richard and Camille got out of the Police jeep. It wasn’t a friendly stare.