Blood From Stone

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘Storage is magic,’ he said. ‘You can’t do anyone harm, you see. You give them their own space, a unit however big or small they want, and they keep their own key on their own peg. You keep it clean and tidy and cool, give them peace of mind. I just look after it. They can come and visit stuff whenever they want, and we never interfere. If they stop paying and don’t make contact, we have to threaten to use the duplicate key in the safe and send the stuff to auction. It doesn’t usually happen, unless someone gets ill or . . . dies and I can afford to give them a bit of time to sort things. The only people we have to let in are the police, with a warrant. Bit awkward when folk get divorced and we don’t know who should have the damn key, and oh, the stories. That’s what I like, quarrels over stuff nobody needs, because that’s what it mainly is, like the stuff in the back. Rubbish, eh?’

  Peter smiled agreement and held on to his seat. If he ever again got a motor, it would be a medium-sized white van. They ruled the road. Everyone else got out of the way of the white van.

  ‘What if someone comes in and asks for the key to someone else’s storage unit?’

  ‘If they haven’t got the number, and we don’t recognise them, they’re out of there. No way. Legal letters proving ownership, maybe. That’s why we keep the keys.’

  ‘Security?’

  ‘Video, outside and inside in every corner of the place, except the interiors of the units. Most people bring stuff in themselves, self-storage, see? But it can be done by removers and we can send it on. You can see everything from the office where we keep the keys. John or me’s on duty every day from eight until eight, except Saturdays. We lock up and leave it for the night. Not much of a robbery risk, really. Place is like a warren of a fortress, and why rob a place unless you know what’s in it? It’s nice that you’re interested, Peter. Can’t usually get anyone interested in a business like this. Hen was the only one who ever was, she worked here. Said we had to have a special unit for clothes, so we do. Do you have intentions towards my daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Only honourable ones.’

  Mr Joyce gave a bark of laughter.

  ‘Well, that’s honest, at least. If you mess her about, I’ll not make the same mistakes as I did with Angel, I’ll just come along and punch your lights out. Wish I’d done it to him. I would, now.’

  They had driven two miles into countryside Peter failed to notice, past roundabouts and out-of-town supermarkets, down a hill into the vicinity of Mr Joyce’s empire. A sprawled building of dull ugliness, two storeys high in parts, the dimensions difficult to detect, an anonymous blot on the landscape, a red-bricked and metal-windowed eyesore, looking like the disused military hospital it once was, the sight of it depressing him and cheering Mr Joyce mightily. It was his, after all. There were large metal containers, each the size of a small bathroom and each with its own, padlocked door, lined up in rows next to where he parked the van in front of the building. These containers looked like portable lavatory cabins, arranged into a set of miniature streets.

  ‘Chinese containers,’ Mr Joyce said, proudly. ‘They export so much stuff in these, and we never send anything back. Very solid and cheap to buy. Would one of them do?’

  ‘No. Somewhere inside.’

  Despite the front office, with heater and counter and seats and clipboards and video screens, a place where Mr Joyce was obviously at home, Peter bristled in the atmosphere of the place. There were notices, NO GUNS, AMMUNITION, WEAPONS, FOODSTUFFS, ACCEPTED FOR STORAGE. His criminally orientated mind thought only of what other contraband could be stored here, such as laundered money, drugs and burglary proceeds, things hidden to be kept from recognition by anyone else. A man came into the office, sheepishly requesting his key so that he could search among his stored possessions for a missing passport he had left in a drawer, and innocence prevailed again. Now, where shall we put this? On to a trolley for passage from here to there, number, ready for Peter to push easily but clumsily to a new home. Row D, but they don’t go in order, we’ve expanded since we started; that was once F, and the one leading off is Z, it’s all on the cork board. Pins in different colours, all with numbers, bit of a puzzle, unless you know where you are. Used to be an isolation unit, I think, lots and lots of separate rooms and do you think this needs a de luxe suite? Cost per square foot.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone else can know the inside of this place like you do?’

  ‘I do, John does, Hen, too, I suppose, she used to play here. Is this big enough? Nothing will perish in there.’

  It was cold, cold, cold, walls of painted brick and concrete floors. Dozens of metal cells of various sizes, reached by neon-lit, glaringly white corridors punctuated by heavy swing doors, reminiscent of the old institution it was and full of the spectres of human luggage on stretchers. Peter had the urge to uncoil a piece of string after himself, so that he could feel his way back. It reminded him of a vast and empty school after everyone had gone home shrieking with the glee of the newly escaped, with distinct overtones of a prison, a place of a thousand locks and keys. They passed a separate room housing an archive, a room for spare parts of washing machines, smaller rooms for personal items, all guaranteed free of damp, mice and other vermin; if such destructive creatures, or anything live lurked inside the metal sheds, they would be able to escape. The further they penetrated into the bowels of the building, the colder it grew, or perhaps that was his imagination and the depressing realisation that he would have to come back here one day soon and find it all over again. With Hen.

  The selected space was at the furthest end of the complex, reached long after he was lost following Mr Joyce who strode ahead, talking over his shoulder and mistaking Peter’s silent curiosity for genuine interest in something more than the way out. That one’s full of books; that one’s stock for a little mail order business; that one, I don’t know. Gets full, after Christmas. They reached a metal container in a room big enough to house five trunks let alone the one. The trunk was unloaded, convenient handles on either side. There were hooks for the garment bags left hanging against the walls forlornly. Even the trunk looked lonely, as if pressed into service after a long time and then abandoned again. The metal door was closed, the padlock secured and the key pocketed. Peter felt he was walking away from the depositing of a coffin containing a body that was only preserved for a post-mortem. It was chilly enough for a mortuary.

  Abandoned goods, packed with care, looking forlorn and undignified as if saying we were intended for better things and finer settings than this: we require a room with a view. Shutting the door on them seeming like cruelty. Like everything in this place, it might be mainly rubbish, but it was rubbish with attitude and meaning.

  Mr Joyce drove Peter back to the station where they shook hands, firmly, even warmly. The seat on the train seemed sumptuously warm, with the peculiar privacy of public transport. He was full of sad anger, looked at the number on the key he had insisted on keeping and felt his wallet lighter by a hundred pounds. Who was he to tell that he might have deposited the cream of Marianne Shearer’s wardrobe into anonymity, where it could stay safe and undisturbed, as long as he paid? The stuff in the trunk must have been hers. The trunk was the vintage of trunk she might have borrowed and carried with her from New Zealand when she came here to study and make her fortune. It looked old enough, with the old labels bearing her name still affixed over even older labels, and all so blurred it came from another lifetime. Why had she ordered these things to be delivered to the Misses Joyce? When had the Lover followed her instructions? Who to tell, who to tell?

  To whom could he tell his own, monstrous theory of a shameless woman who died of shame?

  Come back, he said and tell me. Tell me what you thought. No answer.

  Transcript, transcript. She talked about the transcript in the note she left for the Lover. She must mean the transcript of the Rick Boyd trial, and in all Peter’s own reading of his own copy, rationing it, never wanting to dwell on it, there was something he missed. Someth
ing in a copy. Tell who? Tell Henrietta Joyce about her bequest, and Thomas Noble about the possible existence of documents at the bottom of that trunk? No, not until he knew why. A good lawyer only served one master at once, conflicts of interest to be avoided at all costs. Unfashionable notion though it was, Peter knew the first master was conscience and the second the client who paid you. He wanted to see Hen, but he would see Thomas Noble first.

  Leaving the mobile definitely off, he went straight to Thomas Noble’s office, maybe to begin with a request for advice. It was four forty-five when he came out of the train station at Charing Cross into the winter dark. He pushed through the crowds heading home for the weekend, surprising himself by noticing which day it was, and walked slowly, like an old man with a head full of new secrets which were heavy to carry. The bitch, the elegant bitch, leaving everything in code. Marianne Shearer, pupil mistress, cunning, unhappy vixen and the best-dressed tart in London. He was also remembering that the Lover had sent him something by second-class post.

  There was a reception committee at Noble’s office. The lamplight fell on the empty benches in Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the snow had fallen and melted. The whole room was in turmoil again and the fire was out.

  ‘I told you he would come along eventually,’ Thomas said to the other two present. ‘He’s famous for turning up in the end, however long it takes, although it doesn’t always follow that he’s there when needed, or indeed that he follows instructions to the letter.’

  He waved towards the police officers, one man, one woman, plain-clothed and standing still. The man was older, the woman younger, both interested. Thomas vibrated with fury. His posture announced that enough was more than enough.

  ‘Think I’ve persuaded them out of arresting you,’ he said. ‘But only just, dear. I told them you were sent to interview the old boy, and maybe put a little pressure on him, but not to kill the poor sod in such a conspicuous manner. Marianne said you could be trusted to be docile, whatever your method of cross-examination. You’d have let him keep his trousers. He tried, poor dear, he really tried to preserve his reputation. Alas, I knew you had no such tendencies, either to the arcane or brutal, however strapped you are for cash, but these police officers might think otherwise. Oh, of course, you’re not up to speed, are you? You leave your mobile off. I’ve been robbed and the Lover’s dead, and him in his Sunday best, too.’

  Peter was blinking in the light, shaking his head slowly like a dumb animal. He felt unsteady. He felt he should proffer his wrists for the handcuffs. The woman came towards him.

  ‘So this is NOT PETER. My, my. Could you face me, please?’

  He turned towards her, not caring who the hell she was. There were tears behind his eyes and he could not stop them.

  She touched his chin and tilted his head, inspecting him in an almost motherly fashion. He was entirely obedient, overwhelmed with sadness.

  ‘So this is Peter. Don’t worry, Peter. The person who throttled his ex-Honour and shoved a glass into his arse had the grace to headbutt him first. Or the other way round. Left enough blood and traces. There’s no corresponding wound on you. We’ll need a sample, but you’re not under arrest. You don’t strike me as a likely rent boy, anyway. Just sit down and tell us about it.’

  ‘I should never have put them together,’ Thomas said. ‘They were made for one another.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, Marianne Shearer’s paramour and this young idiot, of course. I’m lousy at making introductions,’ Thomas said, regretting his flippancy as soon as he spoke. So unbecoming in the circumstances. The woman officer looked at him with no attempt to disguise her dislike.

  ‘Such a sense of humour you have, sir. Quite refreshing, really. I expect we’re supposed to be grateful. You’re actually quite good at making introductions. After all, you call us here this morning because your office has been burgled by someone who stole confidential information, and you give us a link straight away to the body of a distinguished old bloke found halfway down his own stairs not half a mile away. Then you introduce us to your colleague who might have been one of the last to see the poor sod alive. You’re doing quite well, so far.’

  Thomas whimpered. In terms of client confidentiality, he was failing miserably and had already said too much. He must remember his duty to his client and remind himself that he could still take pride in that. It always came first; it was his own religion. His grasshopper mind had diverted itself to the complications of Frank Shearer’s inheritance. Insurance policies, etc, the inadvisability of a verdict of suicide: the omnipresence of Marianne Shearer. Anything in this nightmare that could be turned to some advantage and redeem him. He did not care about the death of an old, rude man.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘this new homicide raises other questions than the identity of the culprit. Such as the obvious connection to Marianne Shearer’s death. If the Lover was murdered, doesn’t it follow that she might have been too? At least it casts a doubt on her suicide. Some jealous type, out for them both? A relative of the Lover, perhaps, outraged by his double life? Does for the mistress first?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about Ms Shearer’s suicide,’ Peter said.

  ‘Oh, Peter, do shut up. You’ve done enough damage.’

  ‘It certainly opens up other possibilities,’ the woman officer agreed, reluctantly, watching a whole new tranche of impossible work coming in her direction. She had been cross-examined by Marianne Shearer once and loathed her. No tears were shed in the police service when MS jumped. Looking at these two, she knew she was right to hate all lawyers. Snivelling wretches, never anything else but trouble. She was going to get out of this as soon as she could. She had no place in this story.

  ‘I think she committed suicide,’ Peter repeated, refusing to be sidetracked, but not adding that he might also know why. The sadness dogged him. It was going to get worse. He shook himself and faced the woman.

  ‘I left Mr Stanton at about nine in the evening. He was alone and . . . dancing.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I bet he was rueing the day he ever met that bitch Marianne Shearer,’ Thomas said. ‘I know I do.’

  ‘Do you?’ Peter said. ‘I don’t. Nor did he.’

  I was her thing of beauty and she was mine.

  He turned to the woman.

  ‘I’ll make a statement whenever you want. Samples, now, if you like. I can only tell you that I met Mr Stanton for the first time yesterday evening. I see Mr Noble has already told you why I went to see him, but I’d rather not include that in the statement. It’s not relevant, is it? Do you have any idea who killed him?’

  ‘Whoever it was didn’t quite kill him, Mr Friel. He bloodied him and stuck a glass in him. Looks like he dressed himself and died on the stairs.’

  ‘Poor man.’

  A moment’s respectful silence, but only a moment.

  ‘There’s a connection,’ Thomas said heavily, directing his remark to Peter. ‘There’s got to be. First Miss Joyce, meaninglessly mugged out there . . .’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘. . . while you’re at the Lover’s. Then my office gets burgled, someone takes away his address and my notes and makes a mess of my desk. Looks like a person or persons is on a bit a spree, so to speak . . .’

  He sensed that no one was listening. He leant against the window, looked outside into the Fields, and sighed.

  ‘And it used to be so peaceful here,’ he complained. ‘The only arguments we ever got were people queueing for the museum or disentangling dogs.’

  Peter decided his first duty was not to Thomas Noble or his client. He turned back to the woman.

  ‘If I could come to you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It can wait until then. We know where you are.’

  Two deaths, no . . . three. It could all wait.

  She actually smiled. Peter could suddenly see Rick Boyd, smiling from the dock. That vacant, friendly face, rising
up behind the image of Marianne Shearer, falling from the balcony.

  Rick Boyd, who never quite got what he wanted.

  Continuation of cross-examination of Angel Joyce by Marianne Shearer, QC

  MS. That’s right, Angel. Have a glass of water. I asked you to speak up, not to shout.

  AJ. You don’t believe me.

  MS. It’s up to the jury to decide if they believe you or your sister, Angel. Just tell the truth.

  AJ. I am telling the truth.

  MS. Of course you are, as you know it. Subjective and objective are two different things.

  Interruption.

  MS. We’ll go back to the indictment, shall we? How often did you say you were raped, Angel?

  AJ. Every time I begged him to stop.

  MS. Do you mean every time you begged him to start? How did he get you to agree to anything?

  AJ. He smiled at me. And he asked me to smile.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He was not smiling. He was fingering pieces of paper and definitely not smiling until he was ready.

  No seduction upon which he had ever embarked had succeeded so quickly, or so badly. He should have done his homework, should never have assumed Frank would resemble his own sister. Frank Shearer had required so little. All it had taken was promises and then the threat of promises denied. Nurturing Frank had involved a matter of hours, pandering to Frank’s worst fears, requiring the minimum of pretence and reinvention on his own part. It always depended on the raw material. He could never have known what Frank was like. Frank could have been as cold and persuadable as his clever bitch of a sister, with vanities and ambitions of the same intensity. He could have been as cunning and ruthless. Instead he was a powder keg of the most stupid, volatile, senseless violence and a fucking liability.