An Air That Kills

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘How long has your mother been a cleaner?’ Kirby asked.

  Hair prickled on the back of Charlie’s neck. ‘As long as I can remember.’

  ‘Your dad walked out on you when you were a kid, didn’t he? Maybe that’s when she started.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Kirby quickened his step and came alongside Charlie. ‘Worked for Mrs Halleran once, didn’t she? A few years back, during the war.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I like to get the full picture. Surprising what you pick up sometimes. She used to work for Mr Masterman, too?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Come on, Charlie. You know Masterman. Chap who’s got a jeweller’s on Lyd Street. Got turned over the other night. Someone hit him over the head.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That Masterman.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence,’ Kirby went on. ‘I wonder who else your mother has worked for. Must ask her some time.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The idea of it worried Charlie enormously. His mother would go to pieces if they started to question her, especially in her present condition. The bastards wouldn’t wait: they wouldn’t give a damn that she was ill. The first name they’d dig up would be Mrs Wemyss-Brown’s, and that would lead to the business with the silver box.

  Thornhill came out into Minching Lane and stopped. ‘Seen your friend Carn lately?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend Jimmy Carn,’ Thornhill said. ‘Or maybe you called him Genghis.’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘You don’t know him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I know a lot of people. I said he wasn’t a friend of mine.’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘I might have bumped into him.’

  ‘You might indeed,’ Thornhill agreed. ‘After all, you shared a flat in Pimlico with him for three months.’

  Charlie shrugged, acknowledged partial defeat. ‘I didn’t see much of him. It was a business arrangement.’

  ‘It certainly was. Carn sublet that flat to at least nine different people. Simultaneously. And he took a nonreturnable deposit from each of them.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, was it?’

  ‘Maybe not. Carn’s out of prison now.’ Thornhill stared up at Charlie. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘News gets around. Carn’s a nasty man to cross. But I dare say you know that, too.’

  Thornhill started walking again in the direction of the Meagues’ house and the King’s Head. He no longer seemed so meek and mild.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Charlie asked.

  Sergeant Kirby fell into step beside him. ‘Thought we’d pay a call on your old mum. See if she can remember who she’s worked for over the years.’

  ‘You’re out of luck.’

  ‘Why’s that, Charlie?’

  ‘She’s in hospital, that’s why. Pneumonia.’

  ‘We still might have to see her. Which ward’s she in? Who’s her GP? How long’s she been ill for?’

  Charlie reluctantly told him.

  ‘I don’t think we need keep you any longer,’ said Thornhill. He added, with that unnerving politeness of his, ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Meague.’

  Charlie, breathing heavily as though he had been running, watched the two policemen strolling down Minching Lane. They glanced at the Meagues’ house as they passed. A moment later, they turned off in the direction of the town centre.

  It could have been worse. They obviously suspected he might have done the burglaries; they even suspected why; but they couldn’t prove a thing, even if they talked to his mother, unless they found a trace of him at Masterman’s or the King’s Head, or unless they found the stolen goods and were able to connect them with him. So far they had found neither, otherwise they would have arrested him.

  He was safe, so long as he kept his head and did nothing stupid. The big relief was that Harcutt hadn’t talked: he hadn’t told the police of Charlie’s conversation with him the previous evening. But why hadn’t Harcutt talked?

  He came to a decision. The police had given him a few minutes’ grace, so he might as well make good use of them. A moment later he was in the hallway of the King’s Head.

  On either side were doors to the bars; in front of him was the telephone. He could hear Ma Halleran’s voice raised in argument – probably with her son Mike who was weak in the upper storey, a circumstance his mother found infuriating. Charlie found a couple of pennies and fumbled through the telephone directory until he found the number of the RAF Hospital.

  ‘Major Harcutt?’ said a refined and adenoidal voice at the hospital switchboard. ‘One moment – yes, he’s in Ward Eleven. I can put you through to the ward, if you’d like.’

  A door opened; Ma Halleran came into the hall and stood there, arms akimbo, staring at Charlie.

  ‘Hello?’ said the switchboard operator. ‘Hello, caller? Hello?’

  Charlie put down the phone.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Halleran asked. ‘I thought you had a job to go to.’

  He smiled at her. ‘How many cases of Scotch did you say you lost the other night? Three was it? Is that what you told the police?’

  Smiling to himself, he slipped out of the pub and walked back to the Rose in Hand. He was feeling more cheerful. Harcutt was alive. And he hadn’t told the police about meeting him. So maybe there was still hope.

  At the warehouse, the men were still having their dinner. But he knew at once by the silence that something had happened, or was about to happen. He saw Evans standing just inside the doorway. Beside him was the burly figure of Cyril George.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ George said to Charlie. ‘Outside.’

  Charlie backed into the yard. George, hands in pockets, came after him, followed by Evans.

  ‘You’re sacked,’ George said. ‘Come and get your cards and your money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t like troublemakers.’

  George set off across the yard without a backward glance.

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ Evans said, smiling and rubbing his big, capable hands together. ‘Don’t want to keep the man waiting, do we?’

  Chapter Four

  Sometimes Antonia Harcutt had lunch in the dining hall, but more usually she brought sandwiches and ate them at her desk. Her desk was in the outer office – more of a glorified corridor, really – which guarded the approach to the warden’s study. Miss Plimfield always had lunch with the staff and the girls. The advantage of eating in the office was that it allowed Antonia to do crossword puzzles while she ate; and, of course, her reference books were at hand if she happened to need them.

  The phone rang while Antonia was eating her second Spam sandwich and wondering whether there were five or six Great Lakes in Canada. The ringing startled her, for it was unusual to have a telephone call at this time. As she seized the handset, a piece of meat slipped from the sandwich and fell on her lap.

  ‘Good morning, that is, good afternoon,’ she mumbled. ‘The Dampier Hall School for Handicapped Girls.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The voice was female and accustomed to command. ‘Could I speak to Antonia Harcutt?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s me.’ Antonia realised that she should have said ‘I’, not ‘me’, but then she would have sounded pretentiously pedantic, so really one couldn’t win.

  ‘Good. This is Charlotte Wemyss-Brown.’

  The name was familiar, but Antonia couldn’t place it. The failure brought her to the edge of panic. ‘I’m afraid I . . .’

  ‘You remember. We were at school together.’ There was, Antonia thought, a hint of impatience in the voice. ‘You were a few years younger than me. I was Charlotte Wemyss then, of course.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ To her great relief, Antonia’s memory began to work again. ‘You were head girl, weren’t you?’

  There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘For my
sins.’

  All the prefects had worn purple badges on their navy-blue tunics, but only the head girl had a canary yellow sash as well. Charlotte Wemyss had inspired more fear in Antonia than most of the teachers. Charlotte had been a buxom girl with an implacable sense of what was due to her authority. Hadn’t she won an exhibition to Oxford just before the war? And her father had owned the Gazette.

  ‘You lived at Troy House, didn’t you?’

  ‘Still do. Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Your father’s had an accident.’

  Antonia stared with round, fascinated eyes at the moist pink triangle of meat which lay on the tweed of her skirt. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, thankfully. Bruising, sprained ankle, that sort of thing.’

  She swallowed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was nearly knocked down by a lorry last night. Just managed to jump clear in time. But I’m afraid Milly wasn’t so lucky.’

  ‘The dog’s dead?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, dear. I understand she was yours.’

  ‘Milly wasn’t mine.’

  ‘Oh.’ After the briefest of hesitations. Charlotte made a sound like a muted whinny and plunged on: ‘He’s in the RAF Hospital for a night or two. But he hopes to get out tomorrow. So when can you come?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s desperate to get home, poor man, and really he’s in no state to manage by himself yet. I gather that – ah – professional help is out of the question. Besides, I think he’s feeling very fragile. You’re the only person he can call on.’

  ‘Are you sure he wants me? Did he say—’

  ‘Of course he wants you. He needs you.’

  ‘But we’re far too busy here. It’s the middle of term.’ Antonia hesitated, aware that her voice was sounding breathless. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get the time off.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that would be a problem,’ Charlotte said, as implacable now as she had been as a girl. ‘It’s a family emergency, after all. And it’s not as if you’re a businessman running a company or something.’ A laugh set the telephone’s earpiece vibrating. ‘Don’t worry, Antonia, let me have a word with the warden. I’m sure Miss Plimfield will understand.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I’ve met her once or twice at Red Cross meetings. Is she there?’

  ‘No, she’s having lunch.’ Antonia picked up the piece of Spam and laid it on her plate. ‘But anyway, it’s quite out of the question.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘In Lydmouth,’ Williamson said, waving his fork for emphasis, ‘there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Or rather, it’s all coincidence. Everyone knows everyone else. Pass the sauce.’

  Thornhill pushed the bottle across the table. ‘But the fact that Mrs Meague once worked for them is still a common factor between Mrs Halleran and Mr Masterman.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s significant.’ Williamson picked up the sauce and added, to Thornhill’s surprise, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Also, we know that Meague may need money, if there’s any truth in this Carn business. And finally, Charlie Meague’s up to something, I’m sure. He was relieved when we went.’

  Williamson upended the bottle of brown sauce over his mixed grill and hammered the palm of his hand on to the base. ‘As if he was expecting you to ask him about something else?’

  ‘Yes. Or as if he wasn’t sure what we knew or what we could prove. And by the end he seemed almost pleasantly surprised.’

  With a soft, squelching noise, a dollop of sauce shot out of the bottle and landed on Williamson’s lamb chop. ‘Could be something or nothing. He’s the type who’d act guilty anyway, who probably is guilty of something or other.’

  For a moment they ate in silence with the clatter of the police canteen around them. So far, the meal had been an unexpectedly amicable affair. Williamson, mellowed by the food, ate quickly and efficiently as though against the clock. He finished in first place by at least a dozen mouthfuls. He sat back, wiped his mouth surreptitiously on the back of his hand and started to assemble his smoking equipment.

  ‘Do a damn good mixed grill here,’ he said. ‘About the only thing they can do. You know that woman?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one at the briefing, of course. Little Miss What’s-her-name.’

  ‘Jill Francis. She’s staying with the Wemyss-Browns – I met her the evening before last.’

  ‘Good-looker. Wemyss-Brown told me she is a journalist from London. Might be the start of national interest in that Rushwick business.’ The superintendent’s eyes gleamed. ‘Could need careful handling. Leave her to me, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t think she was working.’

  ‘Journalists are always working. If you hear anything about her, I’d like to know. Try and sound out Wemyss-Brown if you see him.’ Williamson scowled, his memory drifting back to the press briefing. ‘That bastard Fuggle.’

  ‘Is he always like that?’ Thornhill said, with real sympathy.

  ‘Sometimes he’s worse. That reminds me. Young Porter had a word with Harcutt about the accident this morning. On the surface it seems quite straightforward. But I had a look at the report from the local constable at Edge Hill. There was a witness. A Mrs Veale, some sort of neighbour. No love lost between her and Harcutt. The interesting thing is, she says she saw someone talking to him just before he was knocked down.’

  ‘Who?’

  Williamson shrugged. ‘How do I know? Lorry driver didn’t see anyone. Harcutt didn’t mention it to Porter either. But Mrs Veale reckons they were having some sort of quarrel. She says the dog was barking its head off. Then the man rode off on a bike and the dog chased across the road after him.’

  ‘So that’s what caused the accident?’

  ‘If Mrs Veale can be believed.’

  ‘Where was the man going? Towards Edge Hill church?’

  ‘There’s a lane goes off by the church. You can get back to town that way. So what’s Harcutt up to?’

  Thornhill pushed his plate away and frowned. He watched Williamson who was fiddling with the poppy in his buttonhole. The poppy reminded Thornhill of his interview with Harcutt and reminded him how the old man had knocked the tray of poppies to the floor. That in turn reminded him of another niggle. Thornhill had registered it in passing during his visit to Chandos Lodge the previous day – an unexplained piece of knowledge, tiny and perhaps not mysterious at all. It certainly wasn’t substantial enough to share, least of all with a man like Williamson.

  ‘There’s no obvious sense to it,’ Thornhill murmured. ‘Unless Porter didn’t give him the opportunity to mention the man on the bike.’

  ‘He says he specifically asked Harcutt whether he’d seen anyone just before the accident. Apparently there may be some question about insurance – the lorry skidded into a wall.’

  ‘I suppose he could just be covering up a quarrel or something – it’s not necessarily suspicious. Maybe Harcutt found the whole thing embarrassing. Maybe he simply forgot.’

  ‘Then why don’t you jog his memory?’ Williamson said.

  Chapter Six

  Miss Plimfield and Charlotte Wemyss-Brown arranged it between them; Antonia had nothing to do with it. Antonia thought that the two older women enjoyed showing how kind and helpful they were. The fact that their kindness and their help were a form of bullying escaped them entirely.

  ‘You must stay as long as he needs you,’ Miss Plimfield announced after she had talked to Charlotte. ‘After all, who better than a daughter to look after a father?’

  ‘But the work – who’ll do it?’ Antonia asked, wondering whether Miss Plimfield were trying to get rid of her.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll cope. No one’s indispensable.’ Miss Plimfield gave a trill of laughter and added without conviction, ‘Even me.’

  Antonia knew from experience that no one else would do the work in her absence. When she had been forced to take ten
days off with flu the previous year, she had returned to find her filing system reduced to chaos, her appointments diary missing and herself held directly to blame for Miss Plimfield’s inability to organise herself and the school.

  ‘Mrs Wemyss-Brown will collect you at three thirty, Antonia. You’ve plenty of time to pack a suitcase. Off you go.’

  With the exception of Miss Plimfield, the staff slept on the top floor in what had been the servants’ bedrooms when Dampier Hall was a private house. Antonia had a small, north-facing room with a sloping ceiling and a dormer window overlooking the kitchen garden. She lifted her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and packed, swiftly and efficiently.

  The rooms of her colleagues were full of personal touches – pictures, photographs, ornaments, books, bedspreads and rugs – but Antonia kept hers as bare as she could. Sometimes she would sit on her bed and look slowly round the room, relishing its secure impersonality; a stranger could have learned nothing about her from her surroundings. The room was like a layer of insulation guarding her privacy. At one time she had been attracted to the idea of becoming a nun. But in the end she had decided that her inability to believe in God would present an insuperable obstacle.

  She was ready before three o’clock, which gave her time to set her desk in order and leave a note for Miss Plimfield. By a quarter past three Antonia had settled down to wait among the clutter of wheelchairs in the hall. Charlotte might be early. It would never do to keep her waiting.

  Just before three thirty, she heard an engine outside. She picked up her case and opened the heavy front door. A navy-blue car rolled to a halt. A slim, elegant woman got out. Puzzled, Antonia stared at her, trying to fit what she saw with her memory of Charlotte Wemyss.

  ‘Hello, are you Antonia Harcutt?’

  Antonia nodded; she put down her case on the step as though preparing herself for battle.

  ‘My name’s Jill Francis. I’m a friend of Charlotte’s. She asked me to collect you.’