Death on Site

by Janet Neel

  ‘He’s got a name you know,’ Robert Vernon observed drily. ‘Why does everyone call him Francesca’s boyfriend?’

  ‘I suppose because he’s the strong and silent type.’ Sally was unabashed. ‘I can’t even find out what he does for a living. Alan doesn’t know either.’

  They summoned Bill and sat at lunch, watching Fraser go easily up the cliff.

  ‘We’ve got wine today,’ Bill who was unpacking the hamper observed.

  ‘Yes.’ Robert Vernon waited until all four glasses were filled and, after checking that Sally and Nigel were still looking up at Fraser on the cliff, raised his glass to his son, wordlessly. Bill smiled in return, his face relaxed with pleasure.

  Alan Fraser hauled himself over the top of the cliff, and Sally and Nigel turned away to take their glasses. Robert Vernon, warmed by his son’s smile, raised his glass generally to the party and they all toasted each other as the fitful sun shone warmly.

  6

  The last afternoon John McLeish spent in bed with Francesca. They got up in a leisurely way, and packed and had supper, McLeish firmly taking over the task of getting clothes into suitcases, having noticed with some pleasure that his admirable Francesca was an impatient packer. Someone else must actually have packed the school trunks he observed, laughing at her as she sat, pink and cross, in the middle of their clothes.

  ‘All the schools insisted on trunks in which, if necessary, you could have put the boy as well as all his kit. One just dropped the stuff in. I don’t want to go back to the grindstone. I’m afraid I’ll never see you, it’ll be like it was before we came up.’

  McLeish winced, remembering the ten days before his holiday had started when he had worked virtually without a break and had seen Francesca for precisely eight hours, for six of which he had been asleep. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said carefully, not looking at her. ‘We could get married. We’d see more of each other that way.’

  Francesca, sitting amid piles of clothes, climbing boots and towels, did not look at him either. ‘I do love you, John,’ she said to a pile of socks. ‘I just don’t want to get married again yet.’ She sneaked a look at him and finding him still contemplating the inside of a suitcase, watched him helplessly, knowing that she was wounding him. He looked over at her, unsmiling, very large in the small room.

  ‘Darling John, I’m getting there. Bear with me.’ Seeing him still looking tired and angry, she dumped the socks and went over to him, pulling him to her.

  ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ he said, unyielding, ‘I might go off with someone else, you know.’

  ‘I do know.’ It was her turn to feel angry and rejected, but she knew this was unreasonable and bit her lip.

  ‘Come on, I’ll finish this and we’ll go across to the hotel, get that over.’

  Francesca, feeling herself too much in the wrong to object to this anti-social approach, meekly handed him clothes and kit and they finished the packing in an uncompanionable silence. Both of them felt better as McLeish closed the big suitcases and slung them into the car, leaving only the overnight case that would go with them on the Inverness/London train the next night. She slid a hand into his as they headed for the hotel, and was relieved to feel a small answering pressure. She looked sideways at his determined heavy jaw and checked her stride. ‘John. Bit of a cuddle?’

  He stopped and looked down at her sternly, but yielded as she had known he would. Not a man to bear a grudge, she thought thankfully; a good man and a kind one.

  ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’

  He abandoned her with her drink in the hotel bar, looking for Alan Fraser. Well, the holiday had brought him that; the pleasure of an old skill revived and a superb teacher. Whatever Alan’s motives – gratitude, a general hospitality to tourists, or indeed simple liking – he had given John a marvellous time and taken a lot of trouble with him. Francesca watched with affection as, failing to find Alan, he stopped to talk to Sally Vernon. She herself greeted Sally’s father who was standing with Mickey Hamilton. ‘Seen young Fraser?’ he asked. ‘I’m supposed to be buying him a drink.’

  Alan arrived at that moment, lifting a hand to John McLeish, but making his way towards Robert Vernon. Heads turned as he walked down the bar, nodding to friends and acquaintances, apologizing gracefully but without any expectation that he would not be forgiven. The worst of his bruises and scratches had faded and the remainder were gone; and the red-gold hair above the sunburnt face showed very bright against the light as he accepted a drink. He had obviously been drinking for some time before joining the party; he was a little flushed and stumbling very slightly on his words. Mickey Hamilton observed, just audibly, that he was putting it away fast enough, and Fraser swung on him, eyes slightly narrowed. ‘So would you be. I just heard some bad news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The New Zealanders have called off their Everest expedition – not enough sponsorship – and have offered to transfer the cash they do have in return for three places on K6 for Bryant, Woolley and Connor. Michaelson’s going to take them; he says he’s sorry but he’s still short of cash. He may still be able to fit one of us in, but he isn’t promising even that.’

  He was looking steadily at Mickey and it occurred to at least two of the observers that it would have been better if he had given the bad news privately rather than telling the whole bar. McLeish found himself again reluctantly reminded of Perry Wilson who, privileged and fêted for his gifts from early childhood, always tended to take the easy way out of a difficult situation. Mickey had turned white, the dark brown eyes looking larger and more deep-set than ever.

  ‘Can somebody buy his way in like that?’ Robert Vernon asked, bluntly, taking the view that the subject, once introduced, was open to general discussion.

  ‘Oh yes, they can,’ said Fraser, ‘but it’ll take more than either of us can earn by September, even if my fucking agent gets off his backside and gets me a decent advance on the next book. And my ribs are giving me gyp.’ He glared across at Mickey, who stared back, and then swung on Francesca. ‘Now if I’d had the Highers, it might have been different, mightn’t it?’

  McLeish moved automatically to protect her, but she was in no need of assistance.

  ‘No, you cuckoo, it’s hard cash or sponsorship, not education they want. They’ll take you both if they can, surely? I mean, I’ve seen pictures of those New Zealanders, sweet Charlie Bryant, well over forty with a face like a road map, and the other two look like ferrets. The sponsors will need something nice-looking to beam at the general public out of a tent, or round a mouthful of pemmican, or whatever.’

  The brisk common sense of this approach, combined with the unkind dismissal of the New Zealand group, stopped Fraser in his tracks. ‘Which of us are they going to take then, Francesca?’ he asked, maliciously, but she gave the question careful consideration.

  ‘Which of you is the better climber in K6 conditions?’

  That was the sort of question, McLeish thought, mentally cowering under the bar, that would only be asked by someone out of a family like the Wilsons, where they all knew, beyond possibility of argument, which of them was the better musician in what circumstances.

  ‘I am better on rock. Mickey has more snow and ice experience.’

  Alan Fraser, just like a Wilson, had no problem being dispassionate about his considerable qualities.

  ‘You, on the other hand, are more photogenic,’ Francesca offered in exactly the same spirit, and Alan Fraser, reluctantly smiling, nodded to her in acknowledgement.

  McLeish glanced down at Sally Vernon, who was watching Francesca with something between horror and admiration. Fraser came over to join them and he and McLeish fell easily into conversation. ‘Will you be all right to work on a site?’ McLeish asked.

  ‘The ribs are still a bit sore, but I think I can handle steel. I won’t work if I’m having difficulty – scaffolding’s not a job to cut corners on, any more than climbing.’

  The pride in his own capacity was v
ery clear and McLeish was interested. This was not just something he did to earn money.

  ‘It’s a skilled trade. A good scaffold makes the rest of the work go faster. A bad one – not properly tied in, a sloppy job – slows up the site as well as being bloody dangerous. I’ve seen blokes killed because they were worn out by working on a bad piece of scaffolding.’ He looked slightly embarrassed at his own intensity, and changed the subject by drawing McLeish’s attention to where Francesca and Robert Vernon had withdrawn to a small table and were locked in serious conversation.

  ‘Old Vernon trying to seduce Francesca, is he?’

  ‘No.’ John McLeish spoke with complete certainty. ‘That’s what she looks like when she’s fixing something.’

  Francesca had realized that Robert Vernon was trying to ask a question which he either could not or would not formulate, and she set out to encourage him to go on speaking without contributing herself.

  ‘I sometimes wonder you know how the government thinks it can run the country, just with a lot of civil servants,’ he was saying, the carefully reorganized vowels very conspicuous. ‘Without offence to yourself, Francesca, none of you can have any business experience.’

  ‘That is quite true.’

  ‘I suppose they consult some leading businessmen. I mean, through the CBI or some organization like that.’

  This suggestion caused Francesca to abandon her vow of silence immediately. ‘No point at all asking the CBI anything. No two of their members agree on any economic measure, so all the wretched chairman is able to say is that lower taxes or lower interest rates would be a “good thing”. Which hardly ranks as an authoritative contribution to Government thinking.’

  ‘Well, who does advise them? Who do they ask? I could tell them a few things. I built up this business from nothing, I put up my first three houses with money borrowed from my Ma’s brother. All we had in the world, that was.’

  ‘Robert, are you telling me you’d be prepared to take one of the government advisory jobs? When can you start?’

  ‘I did have someone from Housing suggest I might like to advise on Ancient Monuments,’ he said, pleased but doubtful.

  ‘Please do not waste yourself on that useless lot at Environment – excuse me, my good colleagues in other less favoured departments. My own department needs about six people now for real jobs. For instance, the Industrial Development Advisory Board is two short: you could do that. Or if you fancied Chairman of British Engineering, which is three days a week, you could join a very short list indeed.’

  ‘Do any of these jobs pay?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice, no. You don’t need the cash, do you?’

  Robert Vernon disclaimed matter-of-factly any pressing financial need and she sat tight, with an effort, while she watched him move cautiously to the next point. ‘You might have to put up with getting a gong,’ she offered, picking her moment. ‘It starts at MBE and works up. Chairman of one of the big things gets lumbered with a knighthood or near offer.’

  ‘What are the big things?’

  Gotcha, she thought, joyfully. ‘They’re mostly full-time. But people who serve part-time in several things get Ks – sorry, knighthoods – as well. There’s a crude points system. Chairman of a Quango, if difficult enough, rates a K.’

  They both looked up, disconcerted, as a barman asked them whether they wanted another drink as it was close to time.

  ‘Something else? No? Francesca, we’ll have lunch in London with some of your friends. Invite who you like.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’ll get invited for disgusting sherry with some very senior chaps. Can I say you might be available for part-time things?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you can.’ He patted her hand and beamed at McLeish who was hovering hopefully.

  ‘Sorry to keep her to myself, young man, but we’d things to discuss. Is your department like hers?’

  McLeish replied placidly that it was in fact very different, and he wondered if it were not time to go?

  ‘I heard you making a date,’ he said, as they walked up the path to their cottage, companionably intertwined under the pale grey sky.

  ‘It’s business,’ she assured him. ‘I may have found a new useful man who wants to do things for government.’

  ‘Just you keep it to that,’ he said, warningly, for form’s sake, wholly unworried.

  Thirty-six hours later they were standing side by side in the corridor of the train gazing out at the suburbs of North London, which looked grey and small and cramped after the brilliant clear light and wide horizons of the Highlands.

  ‘That was the best holiday I’ve ever had,’ McLeish said, sadly.

  ‘Because Alan took you climbing,’ Francesca said, laughing at him. ‘You’ll have to tell him you’re a copper.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Oh God, I don’t want to go back to the office.’

  ‘We’ve got the weekend,’ Francesca pointed out.

  ‘Your family vultures are gathering. I wouldn’t put it past Perry to meet the train.’

  Francesca looked at him reproachfully but could not prevent herself peering anxiously down the platform as they arrived at Euston. He burst out laughing, delighted to have been able to rattle her so easily. She pulled her head in suddenly, looking smug.

  ‘It is not my family but yours on the platform.’

  ‘What?’ McLeish, whose parents lived in Leicester and came to London only reluctantly for a day’s shopping, was incredulous. He pulled her unceremoniously out of the way as the train stopped with one final jerk. Standing at the head of the train was Detective Sergeant Bruce Davidson, one of his key staff at CI, looking haggard and a good deal older than his twenty-nine years. He was leaning against a police car, complete with siren and insignia, parked square across the platform, its uniformed driver asleep at the wheel.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ McLeish said with foreboding. Francesca dropped on to the platform and to Davidson’s obvious surprise and pleasure greeted him with a kiss. McLeish, descending behind her, understood immediately why Davidson had been so honoured: the windows of the train were lined with passengers, craning to see the daring criminal for whom the police presence had been assembled.

  ‘Chief Inspector!’ Davidson, who had also woken up to the public interest in his presence, greeted him resoundingly. ‘Did you have a good holiday? You’re looking well, the both of you.’ He cast a sideways glance at disappointed passengers filing past them, and lowered his voice to normal conversational tones. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you, but Commander Pryce wants you, now. I mean, he’d have liked to have you the day before yesterday but we persuaded him, nae bother, that it would take twenty-four hours to contact you and get you back and it wouldna be worth it. So I’m to take you back with me to the Yard, in what you stand up in, and we’ll send the driver on to your flat for some clothes.’ He spread his hands deprecatingly, an extremely good-looking black-haired Scot from Ayr, running slightly to fat at the middle.

  ‘I’m not doing that,’ McLeish stated, furious that his holiday should be cut short in this way. ‘I’m not due in till Monday.’

  Davidson looked uneasy, and pointed out that there was a conference in an hour’s time on the particular case for which he was wanted. McLeish, grittily refusing to have his timetable dictated, found himself being undermined by Francesca who was saying anxiously that he must go, of course. McLeish, exasperated, told her to shut up but the damage was done.

  ‘I’ll leave the driver with Francesca then, John,’ Davidson offered. ‘He can drive her home, then make his way back to the Yard.’

  This offer had the expected effect on Francesca, a fellow civil servant, who scouted promptly any suggestion that public resources should be squandered in this way. McLeish, furious with both of them, was opening his mouth to utter some contrary direction when he observed that Francesca was near tears.

  ‘I’ll be with you, in a minute,’ he said quellingly to Davidson, handing him his rucksack, and gathered her to him,
unconcerned with his audience. ‘I’ll come back with you. They can bloody wait.’

  ‘No, that’s silly, and they’ve taken a lot of trouble to find you. Do go, darling, I’m going to cry and I don’t have a handkerchief.’

  ‘You never have a handkerchief,’ he said tenderly. ‘Here.’ He dug one out from a pocket.

  ‘Do go, John.’

  ‘I’m going. Look after yourself. I’ll ring you.’ He let go of her reluctantly and headed for the police car to which Davidson had tactfully retreated, halting abruptly as he saw Alan Fraser and Mickey Hamilton, rucksacks at their feet.

  ‘What’s this then, John?’ Alan Fraser was looking particularly wide awake, red-headed and amused. ‘Will we look after Francesca while you are away for the next twenty years?’

  ‘I was going to find you this morning and tell you where I worked. I haven’t got a card but I’m at New Scotland Yard in CI. And would you look after Francesca, right now? Buy her a coffee and see she gets the car off all right? Sorry, I must go.’

  He turned and waved to Francesca, indicating Alan and Mickey, and she waved back, head slightly tipped back in order, as he realized, not to cry. For a moment he was utterly outraged at having to leave her there, but the long habit of responsibility took over and swept him into the car beside the driver who had woken refreshed from sleep and whisked them through the thick London traffic going as fast as he could without using the siren.

  * * *

  Alan and Mickey arrived at Francesca’s side and took her and her overnight bag away for coffee, observing that it had been very fly of the pair of them to have concealed the fact that she had a copper for a boyfriend.

  ‘It’s like being a doctor on holiday,’ she said apologetically, blowing her nose. ‘If you admit to it, you’ll get to be consulted on everything.’

  ‘He must be pretty senior for them to send a man and a driver like that,’ Mickey Hamilton said. ‘What is he?’

  ‘A Detective Chief Inspector, and he works in CI which deals with murder. Not all murders, since most are dealt with where they happen. But CI gets the murders which are difficult for one reason or another – either they involve important people or they may be linked to another murder. They have a full-time man with a computer who does nothing but consider all murders wherever committed, in order to decide whether CI ought to call in a particular case.’ The coffee and talking about McLeish were combining to keep tears at bay. ‘But they are short-handed, and he’s very good.’