See No Evil

by Michael Ridpath

  A policeman ushered him along a marked path to his front door and another asked for his permission to pick over all his possessions inside and out. He wanted to get away from all the people. He also needed a drink. The decanter was empty, but he found a bottle of whisky in a cupboard; twelve-year-old Laphroaig his father had given him for his last birthday. A fine single malt meant to be sipped, not gulped. Tough. He met the sympathetic smile of the policeman guarding the crime scene with a curt nod and headed out into the marshes in front of the house, clutching the bottle in his right hand.

  He walked fast. Although it was May, and the sun had been shining, there had been a breeze blowing from the east all day that had kept the air cool. Calder strode rapidly along the path towards the sea, ignoring the stares of other walkers. He headed for a quiet hollow in the sand near a creek, out of sight of the footpaths. He sat down, opened the bottle and took a long pull. The liquid burned the back of his throat and a moment later the lining of his empty stomach. The pain felt good. He took another swig.

  He stared out over the creek and the sea and heaved a couple of deep breaths. He had to empty his mind, get a grip, control the screams inside his head. He focused on a solitary sailing boat half a mile away that had just rounded a headland and was aiming for the main creek to Hanham Staithe. The breeze had dropped and the boat, a ketch with a tan sail, was making slow progress. The sand in front of Calder was alive with small birds scurrying this way and that among the shells. All around was urgent twittering and chattering, and also the occasional clear cry of a curlew which he could hear but not see. A few feet from the water’s edge was a band of clear white scum. As he stared harder he realized that it was in fact a pile of tiny white baby crabs, thousands of them, maybe millions, all dead. No wonder the birds were having such a great time.

  Anne with no legs. No. Another pull of whisky. Look at the headland, actually an island of sand and grass cut off from the mainland at high tide. The boat was now making better progress, but would have to tack once more to make the creek. He felt air on his cheeks, the breeze had got up again. He could see the sailing boat accelerate.

  Anne with no legs. Anne’s face, scarred and bloody and in pain. William’s face, full of hostility, more than that, hate.

  More whisky.

  Would Anne hate him too? Would she ever forgive him? Could William cope with two boisterous children and an invalid wife? He would have to give up his job. Had they enough money to get by? Would their marriage stand it?

  Phoebe crying. Robbie being brave. More whisky.

  William blaming him. Rationally, Calder knew his brother-in-law was talking crap. It was pure bad luck that Anne had got into the Maserati, rather than him. But that wasn’t really William’s point. William’s point was that Calder took stupid risks. That even when he hurt himself he hurt his family as well. But this time he had hurt his sister directly, and to William that was unforgivable. Calder had taken risks all his life: be it rock climbing when he was a boy, diving head first into trouble on the rugby field, flying Tornados in the RAF, staking millions in the City, or … or what? Asking the van Zyls difficult questions.

  Could Calder forgive himself? He didn’t know. More whisky.

  A few days ago everything had been fine. Of course the accident in the Yak had been a harrowing experience, but it was one that he could cope with. Todd’s injury was bad, but he had been able to reassure himself that it wasn’t his fault. He was good in tough situations.

  But now, now it was all too much. Suddenly, he knew it was all too much.

  He couldn’t justify what he had done with Kim. There might be explanations, but no justification. It made him angry that he had been so weak. That he had turned himself into the kind of sex-crazed, selfish, callous bastard who would sleep with another man’s wife when the man was in a coma. Really, what kind of person would do that? And it couldn’t be changed: he couldn’t undo it, he couldn’t apologize, he couldn’t make it better or make it go away. Todd would almost certainly never find out, but Calder would know. He’d know for the rest of his life.

  More whisky. A big gulp that hurt his raw throat. That pain was good.

  It was that act, sleeping with Kim, that had undermined his defences, made him less able to cope with what had happened to Anne.

  He wished he had someone to talk to about it. Sandy. Kim. Anne. None of those would do. He had grown away from his old friends in the City and although he had made some new friends in Norfolk, none was close enough for him to fall apart on. He missed his mother. She would be, what, sixty-four by now, if she had survived. She would be there for him, for Annie and him.

  He struck the sand with his fist. But of course his mother had died, hadn’t she? Died because he had missed the bus from school and she had driven too fast along country lanes to pick him up, and met a farm worker driving too fast the other way. He had picked over his role in that tragedy so many times in the past, surely he didn’t need to do it again. Not now.

  But that was the point. He had this image of himself as a tough guy, someone who could take difficult decisions quickly, who could take risks and win, who was in control of his own destiny. But that wasn’t him at all; he was a reckless idiot who ruined the lives of the people around him.

  His father would be coming tomorrow. Of all the people he could conceivably speak to to try to straighten himself out, his father was bottom of the list. Since his mother had died the relationship between father and son had frozen over. The doctor never missed an opportunity to criticize his son’s choices, be it on what to study at which university, his activities in the City, or even his choice of girlfriends. Calder’s discovery that the old man was a compulsive gambler had hardly helped things. His father’s criticisms always stung, but tomorrow … tomorrow he wasn’t sure whether he could face them. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether he could face tomorrow at all.

  More whisky. The pain was dulled now. The crabs were blurred. It took him several seconds to locate the sailing boat, now entering the creek.

  At least the police would get Cornelius.

  The key to the whole thing was Martha van Zyl’s death in 1988. Todd had been asking difficult questions about it and he had nearly been killed. Then Kim and Calder had started asking difficult questions and there had been an attempt to kill them. It was obvious who was behind these deaths: Cornelius, perhaps with some help from his weasel son Edwin. Calder knew very little about South Africa or South Africans, but he did know that it was a brutal country and that Afrikaners like Cornelius had been responsible for much of that brutality.

  He smiled. He’d enjoy attending Cornelius’s trial.

  Then a thought struck him. Would the police be able to bring a case against Cornelius? He was a wealthy, powerful, intelligent man, well capable of paying people to do his dirty work for him, professionals who would keep their distance from him and from their own handiwork. It would be tough for the police to gather the necessary proof to connect him to the two crimes. They would have to link the explosions to an unknown assassin, and the assassin to Cornelius or Edwin. The assassin could be anyone: an American, a South African, a London criminal. DI Banks looked clever, but she wasn’t that clever. The police would question Cornelius who would hire an excellent lawyer to advise him to say very little. Calder’s smile disappeared as he realized the man would walk free.

  The anger welled up inside him. Here he was beating himself up for the injuries that had been done to Todd and Anne, when actually he knew who was responsible for them, and that man was going to get away with it. OK, he could hardly blame Cornelius for what he had done with Kim, that was something he was just going to have to live with, but everything else … that was down to Cornelius. And he, Alex Calder, was going to take the shit for it for the rest of his life. And not just him: Anne and William and Phoebe and Robbie and Todd and Kim.

  More whisky.

  The sun was drifting down towards the horizon. Tomorrow beckoned. A horrible day, the first of many vile, unimagina
bly ghastly days stretching into the future, days in which Calder could do nothing, days in which Cornelius plotted his takeovers and counted his millions. Calder couldn’t face tomorrow. He couldn’t face the inaction.

  He hauled himself to his feet. Marsh and sea spun about him. He took an unsteady step forward and focused on the ridge above his house, willing it to stay in one place. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Alfie, the local one-man taxi firm, telling him to meet him at his cottage and take him to King’s Lynn station.

  *

  Calder bought two litres of bottled water in an attempt to sober himself up on the train. He also tried to keep himself awake, but it didn’t work. He remembered the train pulling out of Cambridge station and the next thing he knew it was jolting to a stop at King’s Cross.

  He ignored the disapproving stares of his fellow passengers and staggered off the train on to the platform. It was dark now. He could feel a headache developing, and worse, his resolve weakening. He still had a small amount of whisky left in the Laphroaig bottle, which was wrapped in a plastic bag, but he lurched into a shop at the station and bought another half-bottle of White Horse. He found a quiet corner and took a swig. The whisky had its effect, warming him up to further action.

  He made his way to the taxi rank and slowly and deliberately read out Cornelius’s address to the driver. It wasn’t far to Regent’s Park, and the driver let him out in front of a terrace of fine cream-stuccoed houses with imposing columns beside the doors. He squinted at the numbers, found the right house, and walked carefully up to the door. He blinked as a security light switched itself on, and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened, and Cornelius stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘All right.’ Cornelius stepped back and led Calder through the hall to a sitting room. ‘Is something wrong? Is it Todd? Or Kim?’

  ‘No,’ said Calder.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  ‘No,’ said Calder again.

  Cornelius looked at him suspiciously. ‘I can tell you’ve been drinking,’ he said.

  ‘My sister was blown up today.’

  ‘My God,’ said Cornelius. ‘I’m sorry. Was she …?’

  ‘She’s alive,’ Calder said. ‘But she’s lost her leg. Maybe both her legs.’

  ‘Christ, man. How awful. Sit down.’ Cornelius indicated a chair. Calder ignored him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask how it happened?’ Calder said.

  ‘Yes … yes. What on earth happened?’

  ‘Someone put a bomb in my car. They meant to blow me up. To stop me asking questions. About your wife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just like they put a bomb in the Yak I was flying with Todd. To stop him asking questions about her.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Am I sure?’ Calder laughed and rocked on his feet. ‘Of course I’m sure. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Please, sit down,’ Cornelius said.

  ‘Because, you see, I know you got someone to plant the bomb in the Yak. And in the Maserati.’ Calder could feel himself grinning.

  ‘What! You think I tried to kill my own son?’

  ‘And I’ve told the police all about it,’ Calder went on.

  Cornelius pulled himself together, straightened himself up. ‘That’s probably a good idea, Alex. I’m sure they’ll be here to talk to me in the morning. Now I’m very sorry about your sister, but you’d better go.’

  Calder noticed him flapping a signal with his left hand. He turned to see a woman in her nightgown standing in the doorway looking scared. Jessica Montgomery, the third Mrs van Zyl: Calder recognized her from newspaper photographs of her with her husband. She seemed to be in her fifties, tall, narrow, blonde, just on the emaciated side of attractive.

  ‘Don’t worry, honey,’ Cornelius said. ‘I’ll handle this.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll handle it all right,’ Calder said. ‘The police will come and ask you polite questions and you’ll answer them and if the questions get difficult you’ll get a lawyer and the police will never arrest you because you’re too fucking clever and they won’t be able to pin anything on you.’

  ‘I can assure you I’ll cooperate fully with the police. I want to find who injured your sister as much as you do.’

  ‘Huh,’ Calder snorted. He knew what he wanted to do next, but he knew he was almost too drunk to do it. Cornelius, although in his seventies, was still big and strong and alert. If Calder took a drunken swing, Cornelius would block it and Calder’s whole journey would have been in vain. He focused on Cornelius’s chin, fixing it still. His feet were well balanced. He would have to be quick.

  ‘Alex …’ Cornelius took half a step forward and raised his right hand towards Calder’s shoulder. Calder was fast and accurate. He hit Cornelius directly on the chin. Cornelius staggered two steps backward. Calder hit him again and again. Cornelius slumped to the ground, and Calder kicked the old man in the ribs once, twice. He heard screaming and someone pulling at his arm. He flung the woman off. Cornelius groaned. Calder kicked again. Then something large and hard hit his head. He staggered and half turned. He saw Jessica Montgomery swing a table lamp towards his head for a second time. He lifted an arm and the table lamp hit his shoulder and struck the top of his skull. He fell to the ground, fighting to retain consciousness.

  Cornelius pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his chin. ‘Don’t do that, honey,’ he said to his wife, who had picked up the telephone.

  She ignored him.

  Cornelius hauled Calder to his feet. The room was spinning. Until it stopped Calder couldn’t hit Cornelius again.

  ‘Listen, Alex,’ Cornelius said, grabbing him by the shoulders. ‘The police will be here in a minute. Now go out of that door and run. Doesn’t matter where. Just run.’

  ‘You can’t let him go!’ Jessica shouted.

  Cornelius picked up the plastic bag Calder had been carrying, pushed it into his hand, turned him towards the door, shoved him out into the hallway and out of the front door. ‘Run!’

  Calder looked back at the house, then at the gate on to the street, and ran.

  He heard sirens. He ran faster, round a corner, round another. It felt good to run, to feel his legs pumping up and down, the blood rushing through his system, his heart rattling in his chest. But his stomach suddenly churned and he had to stop to throw up. He wiped his mouth and trotted on, soon finding himself in the warren of back streets behind Euston station. He slowed to a walk, or a stagger. No sirens. No police.

  What had he done? Hit Cornelius. That was good. That was very good. But he hadn’t solved anything. Tomorrow was still there, lying in wait for him.

  He stopped, polished off the last of the Laphroaig and threw the bottle away. Had a swig of the White Horse.

  He walked. It was still Saturday. It had been a very, very long Saturday. The streets were full of people, many of them drunk like him. He didn’t care where he went.

  Sandy. Sandy was staying somewhere in London, he knew it. The Howard Hotel, that was it. The Howard Hotel. Down by the river near the Strand. He’d see Sandy.

  He staggered on. He didn’t know how long it took him, or even how he navigated the once familiar streets of London, but eventually he found himself at the steps of the Howard Hotel, which for some reason had acquired a Swiss white cross above its door since he had last been there. It was late. The doorman tried not to let him in. Calder said he had to see a guest, and the doorman reluctantly took him to the reception desk. With a great effort he put on a pretence of sobriety sufficient to persuade the receptionist to check his computer.

  ‘Miss Waterhouse checked out two days ago,’ the man said.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Calder said, lurching forward.

  Strong hands grabbed him by the collar. Strong arms pushed him out of the door.

  Calder looked around him. Cars flashed by on the Embankment in front of him. Beyond that was the river.r />
  He swayed up to the road. Waited. The cars didn’t stop. Waited. A light somewhere went red and there was a gap in the traffic. He lurched across the road. A car hooted. He stumbled along the pavement beside the river. There were lights everywhere – God this city was bright – everywhere but down below where the river pulled and tugged at the light, pulling it down, down into the darkness. Calder watched it, the darkness. He felt himself drawn towards it.

  Tomorrow. God, who wanted tomorrow?

  He pulled out the bottle for a swig.

  ‘Hey, mate!’ He looked down at his feet. A scrawny man with a three-day stubble and wearing a torn denim jacket and jeans was slumped against the wall. Calder hadn’t even noticed him. ‘Hey, mate. Can I have some of that?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Calder, sinking down beside him. ‘Here. Take it. Take it all.’

  18

  The sunlight woke him up, burning red through his closed eyelids. He was slumped on his side on the pavement, dried vomit inches from his nose. He sat up and looked at his watch. Five past five. The sky was the light grey of a summer dawn, there was no one to be seen on the Embankment, although single cars were speeding past even at this time of the morning. His head pounded. He ran his tongue over his teeth: the inside of his mouth felt as if someone had poured vinegar and lighter fluid on to a large ball of cotton wool and then ignited it. The pounding increased in intensity and chemicals in his stomach began to gurgle and churn.

  He pulled himself to his feet. There was no sign of his companion of the night before, nor of his bottle of whisky. He felt his trouser pocket for his wallet: still there. He began staggering unsteadily northwards towards King’s Cross. There was still enough alcohol in his bloodstream to disrupt his balance, but the walk and the early-morning sunshine did him some good, stirring his feeble circulation.