Prepared to Die

by Peter Dudgeon

  As she passed him the glass he asked, “Do you think Alison would forgive us?”

  “Do we have to talk about that now?”

  “Sort of important, don’t you think?”

  Her smile faded, “I think she’d want us to be happy.” She kissed him then, and his mouth was willing. Not as eager as it had been an hour earlier, but still … willing.

  “You don’t regret it, do you Daniel?”

  “No. Not at all. Things will be tough though, with Marcus, if you want this to be more than just a one off.”

  “For someone so bright you really can miss the obvious. I’ve wanted you since that night in The Crown, probably longer. Alison’s presence kept in check a feeling right here.” She took his palm and placed it between her breasts, reigniting his desire. “That’s me just being one hundred per cent honest with you. I think we’ve known each other long enough to be completely honest. Don’t you?”

  He nodded but kept quiet for a moment which lingered between them, “This happened quite suddenly for me. I’ve always found you attractive, but our lives are just so complex at the moment-”

  “It will be simpler if we’re together.”

  “In some ways, I guess. Give me a day or two to think about it?” She moved his hand away from her breasts to his chest.

  “Okay Daniel. But you’ve already made a really good move. Don’t ruin a new start for us.”

  With the dog’s hind legs pulling free of the branches, all notions about the right thing to do evaporated and Aitken ran. Her arms pumped like a sprinter’s, her thighs likewise. Snarling and growling chased her, getting no further away. She scanned both sides of the road for a wall or fence she might find sanctuary behind, but there was nothing. She dared to look behind her, praying to see it slowing. To her amazement, the dog was only moving on three legs. A fourth hind leg looked broken and limp. How the hell was it moving so quickly on just three legs? Whatever the reason, it was, and any slowing would bring those snapping, snarling jaws down on her. For a fraction of a second the notion of death swam around her. Surely not, with all the life she still had to live, surely she couldn’t go like this, killed by a three-legged mongrel. The thought was so bizarre that a hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat as endorphins surged through her.

  A wave of optimism; she was nearing Daniel’s, the lane’s darkness less than a hundred yards away. A left turn, then a further two hundred yards and she’d be at his front door.

  But, shit, what about the time it would take to unlock the door?

  She’d have to build a greater distance. Her legs found a measure of untapped strength, the warm, thick air drawing heavily into her lungs. Over her shoes’ pounding, she heard a woman shouting after ‘Alfie.’ Perhaps she’d imagined the sound. If she hadn’t … what a cute name for an abortion of a dog.

  Daniel’s lane was dark and uneven. With fifty yards to go, she was more confident; the gap between herself and the dog had grown. She dared to glance back, relieved to see it just turning the corner, moving with more of a lollop than a sprint. Aitken should have kept her eyes ahead; her ankle turned on the corner of a dip in the lane. She fell, skidding along the road, on her side. Something crunched beneath her thick sweater and a searing pain circled her chest. A twinkling blackness took her for a moment.

  She was brought round by that persistent growl nearing. She rolled onto her back. The dog had regained its earlier speed and would be on her in a moment. The size of the thing was the worst. Its chest was as broad as Daniel’s with a neck that wasn’t much narrower. She imagined its teeth sinking into her throat and making short work of shredding it.

  I’m only going to get one chance at this.

  She bent her leg to her chest and, as the dog leaped onto her, drove her heel into the base of its throat. Pain erupted in her knee. The dog whimpered and rasped, falling on its side. Its fur clung to a huge ribcage which rose then fell with depth and rapidity.

  Aitken got up, holding her side. Surely the right thing to do would be to kick it, if her pain would allow. But compassion overrode her survival instinct and she hurriedly hobbled to Daniel’s door.

  She fumbled the key. Not learning her earlier lesson, she glanced behind as the key eventually found its slot. The dog, at the end of Daniel’s drive, was back on its feet in a semi-recovered state. It came at her, running diagonally across the drive.

  Damn stupid, mutt. The door opened and she shut it, just as the dog’s teeth slammed into the leftmost glazed panel. Its muzzle painted saliva down the glass. Aitken staggered through to the living room, determined to call Daniel from the sofa the second she landed there. She didn't make it, falling face first on the carpet and blacking out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Daniel’s key wouldn't fully insert into his front door’s lock. Aitken’s key must be in the other side. He rang the doorbell. Nothing. He rang again. Nothing. He walked a few yards to his left, along a path which ran the perimeter of his house. He peered through the living room window, through narrow strips between slatted blinds. Aitken lay prone on the floor.

  He muttered, “Christ!” and hammered on the window, its glass bowing against his fist. He paused a moment, looking for signs of movement, then hammered again shouting “Aitken! … Anna!” He was about to call an ambulance - figuring he’d have to break in somehow whilst it was on route - when she pushed her face off the floor, as though getting up from an elongated push-up. The carpet pile had left an impression on her cheek. She sat up and opened her eyes, reaching towards her side. Her cream jumper had dirty great streaks down one side, and the knitting was frayed in a palm-sized patch. Dried blood peppered her left temple and cheek. Even through the glass’s distorting reflection he could see the split lump just above her eyebrow.

  He heard a cry of, “I’m okay.” Knowing came back to her face and she shouted, “Hold on, I’ll let you in.”

  A minute later, he spied her through the frosted glass and the front door opened. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d locked it, let alone left the key in the door.”

  “Never mind that, what happened to you, are you okay?”

  “I think so.” She stepped aside to let him in. She lifted a hand to the lump above her brow and scrunched her eyes. “Must have drifted.”

  “What happened?”

  “My mouth’s dry. I could do with some water and paracetamol. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

  Daniel fetched them as Aitken shuffled her way back into the living room. It took him a while to find the paracetamol, all the while thinking, ‘if Alison were here she’d know exactly where they were.’ Eventually finding them, he joined Aitken on the sofa. She took the tablets.

  She relayed her bizarrely eventful short trip from Charlotte’s. At one point she said, “That dog looked crazed, like it wanted to kill me.” Daniel thought she was being dramatic, but didn’t judge her for it. She had every right to be.

  “Well, we need to get you to the hospital. You could have concussion. Do you have any idea how long you were out for?”

  She rubbed her forehead with her palm, declared that she really didn’t, then asked, “How long were you at Charlotte’s for, after dinner?”

  In a fifth of one second, stills of their fireside love making played like a slideshow in his mind. “Perhaps an hour and a half, maybe two.”

  “Then I guess that’s how long it was … how did your after dinner chat go?”

  “Stop changing the subject. It’s the hospital for you.”

  “Who’s driving? You’re in no fit state, and I’m certainly not. Doubt we’ll get a taxi at this hour in this backwater. I’ll rest tonight and if I feel like I need it, I’ll go in the morning. Anyway, did you see any sign of that bastard dog when you were out there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I tell you what, when I find out who owns that damn thing, they’re going to wish they’d never clapped eyes on that animal.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The morning after the stra
y mongrel's attack, Daniel stood outside Aitken's bedroom door, a mug of tea in hand. He knuckled a finger and rapped the door lightly. “Aitken, are you up? I have a cuppa for you.” He heard some groaning and random, dream-hazed mumblings. “I’ll just leave it outside the door. I’m having breakfast in the conservatory if you want some.”

  She joined him ten minutes later in those same teddy pyjamas, just as he was polishing off scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. He crossed his knife and fork and pushed the plate aside.

  “How are you?”

  “Okay, I think.” She reached up, touching the lump above her eye. “It’s going down I reckon. Oh hell, I’ve just remembered, I’ve not told Steve.”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “Do you know what? No. He’ll only worry and there’s nothing he can do. And I could do without a lecture about me coming home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I tell you what I’m going to do, though, first thing this morning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to report that dog to the police section, see if they can find it. I don’t want anyone else ending up like this.”

  “Can I cook you some breakfast?”

  “Tea’s fine. Have they emailed you that data?” Daniel picked up his phone from the table and checked. “Just through. Looks like it’s come through as an Excel file.”

  “Any more from Robinson?”

  “Nothing - I don’t think he’s going to be working on this much longer. And I want to prepare you … Edwards might pull you off too. If we can’t prove a third party’s involvement in either of these murders pretty soon, he might ask me to wrap up the investigation. I know he said three weeks, but he’s apt to change his mind and we both know he’s just easing me in gently with this case. He’ll want me on something bigger.”

  “What about the photo of Martin Dalgliesh being tortured?”

  “Not good enough. Unless Dalgliesh wants to press charges, I can’t see the CPS supporting it. Do you think he might?”

  “There's a chance … it's somewhere between slim and none though.”

  “Well, let’s focus on what we have, what we can work with. I’d like to spend some time on this data, and we’ve not interviewed Barbara Jackson or Jean Nixon yet.”

  “Do you want me to handle those?” asked Aitken.

  “Perhaps Mrs Nixon - she’s always made the case for a third party being responsible, so you might find her easier to deal with. I think it might take the two of us to interview Mrs Jackson; it’ll be pretty raw for her still. I’ll start plotting this data, why don’t you go and have a chat with Mrs Nixon, see if we can get more of a measure of the type of person Anthony Nixon was.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “Charlotte does, I’ll drop her a text. Plus tonight is Yoga night at the church hall, and they both go. If she’s out, you might be able to catch her there.”

  “Yoga in a church hall. Isn’t that for old people?”

  “Everyone’s old compared to you my dear. Enjoy it while it lasts, it goes quickly.”

  “When I interview Mrs Nixon, should I mention the picture we found of her husband and the Dalgliesh boy?”

  “I’d keep it close to your chest. Only play that card if you suspect she’s hiding something and you think the picture might shake it out of her.”

  Charlotte promptly came through with Mrs Nixon’s address and, as Daniel was using a red biro to grid a map of the UK he’d torn out of an old AA roadmap, Aitken was outside Mrs Nixon’s cottage on the Northern outskirts of the village. The Tudor cottage had a huge sloping thatched roof like a thick blanket of grey snow. White washed walls were segmented into squares by painted lines of black brick. The concrete drive forked, one branch for cars, the other lead up to an elevated, immaculately pruned rose garden. Leaning over a white picket fence was a for sale sign.

  Aitken had done her best to cover the lump over her eye with foundation. It had changed colour; yellow crept across her eyelid. She felt smart, though, and official as she rapped the heavy, circular black door knocker.

  The woman who answered was slender. Her black hair (probably dyed), sharp fringe, red lipstick and white tailored shirt reminded Aitken of Uma Thurman’s character in Pulp Fiction. She had the tight charcoal jeans too, overly glamorous for a day in the house alone.

  Aitken introduced herself, holding up her ID, and asked if it was convenient for her to come in for a few minutes. Mrs Nixon’s response: “Finally come to the conclusion that I was right about my husband eh? Pity it took two more people to die for you lot to stop questioning my sanity. Well … I guess you better come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was shown through to an octagonal conservatory which overlooked the rose garden. On route, in the living room, half a dozen family photos sat on the mantelpiece above a brick fireplace. The only child appearing in them was a boy shown at various ages. He had jet black hair like his mother’s, and the type of dark hazel eyes that have a tendency to look a little lost.

  In the conservatory, a ceiling fan slowly whirred round, breezing a set of tubular chimes.

  “Do take a seat.”

  It was a struggle to remain authoritative and well-postured in the deeply padded wicker furniture and Aitken found herself perching on the seat’s edge. Mrs Nixon mirrored her posture beyond a low, circular, glass-topped table.

  “So … was I right, is that what brought you here?”

  “We’re investigating the possibility, however remote, that there’s a connection between your husband’s death and the deaths of Malory Hewitt and Leon Jackson.”

  “I see. And how can I help you?”

  “To be honest, I’m not quite sure yet. To the best of your knowledge, did your husband know Sebastian Fallon?”

  “I’m pretty sure that he did not.”

  “But you’re not certain?”

  “My husband was a private man, an introvert is what he called himself. He’d frequently take himself off to be alone, to do accounts, or to listen to classical music and, whilst we usually walked Jerry together …” Mrs Nixon motioned towards a golden retriever curled up in a basket, which had been so quiet Aitken hadn’t even noticed it. “… sometimes he walked without me, sometimes with Jerry, sometimes alone. He said it helped him think. So I guess the question is, did I know everything about him, was he an open book? I’d say the answer is no.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not that uncommon you know. Most accountants are introverted, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So it’s possible your husband did accounting work for Mr Fallon.”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely. I’ve been through his files - a few clients plucked up the courage to come round and ask for their papers - and there wasn’t a file under the name of Fallon.”

  “What about Mallory Hewitt and Leon Jackson, did he do work for either of them?”

  “He used to handle Mr Hewitt’s tax affairs, but they had a disagreement a couple of years ago and Anthony stopped servicing his accounts.”

  “What was the disagreement about, may I ask?”

  “Fees I think. Something petty. Anthony didn’t seem too concerned; he had plenty of other clients.”

  “Did he have any other hobbies? Anything that would take him out of the house and might cause him to have built a relationship with Sebastian Fallon?”

  “Golf, perhaps. My husband was a keen golfer. He was always at that range where Mallory Hewitt died. I don’t know if Fallon played golf, but I heard he was pretty poor and a recluse. Golf’s a social sport and a rich man’s game … doesn’t quite fit does it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “What about through your son’s activities. Did he take him swimming or to football?”

  Mrs Nixon’s eyes narrowed and she paused before responding. “Swimming … once a week on a Wednesday. Nothing else. My son doesn’t care for sports.”

  “I see. Any other way they could ha
ve met?”

  “Not unless Sebastian Fallon was a church-goer. Anthony was a Catholic, occasionally a practicing one. Now and again I’d join him at St Hughs on Sundays. I never saw Sebastian Fallon there though.”

  “Did you ever see Mallory Hewitt or Leon Jackson there?”

  “Leon was a regular. Hewitt wasn’t there. I doubt if he was in the Methodist church on a Sunday either. He had a reputation for working twenty four seven. Didn't strike me as a religious man.”

  “This might sound like a stupid question Mrs Nixon and I do apologise for asking it, but what do you think happened that night?”

  “The night my husband and Sebastian Fallon died?” Aitken nodded. “I think someone else killed Sebastian Fallon. I think my husband was abducted, drugged, had his throat slit, and was placed at the scene to make it look like he did it. Did they find drugs in my husband’s system?”

  “We’re checking on that now.”

  “Yes … that’s where I’d start. My husband was no murderer. When we went camping once we came across a rabbit caught in a trap. It was crying out in pain. He couldn’t bring himself to put it out of its misery. So I had to do it. You see, he was a vegetarian pacifist. Do you think a man like that could kill someone?”

  “Sometimes people can do extreme things in extreme circumstances. Presuming it wasn’t down to your husband and he was … as you described, drugged. Do you have any views on who could have done that?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, there’s Paul Evans for a start.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He has a few jobs, he’s a caretaker mainly. You must have heard of him, keeps manikins on his lawn, moving them into odd poses, now and again. He’s got a reputation for garden hopping too?”

  “Garden hopping?”

  “Jumping over back yard fences in the dark. I know of at least three people who reckon they’ve seen him lurking in their bushes. Of course, he’s gone by the time they’ve gone out there to check, and your lot won’t take it seriously, but you tell me, are those the actions of a rational man? You ask me who’s unstable enough to do what I’m suggesting? Paul Evans is the only name that springs to mind.”