Deadly Petard

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I’ll start by accepting a strong gin and tonic. Hell, I’ve been travelling for days and I’m so thirsty I could drink water without being ill.’

  ‘You’ve been days?’

  He crossed to the fireplace and stood there with his back to it. ‘You must have read about the bastards in air traffic who are going slow?’

  She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen a paper in days.’

  ‘Hasn’t the news been on the local goggle-box?’

  ‘I don’t have television.’

  ‘Christ, you really have buried yourself out in the sticks!’ He brought a slim gold cigarette case from his coat pocket. ‘Have you taken up smoking yet?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘A pity. Indulging in at least one vice would do you the world of good.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Yeah. I turned up yesterday morning at the airport only to find the flight was cancelled. No apologies, even though I was first class, just a printed notice and a girl behind the desk who couldn’t have been less interested. I made ‘em get me on the first available flight, though,’ he said with satisfaction, remembering how rude he’d been. ‘So here I am, throat like a dried-out piece of sandpaper and only kept alive by the vision of a very large, very iced gin and tonic.’

  She remained where she was for several seconds, then left and went through to the small, well equipped kitchen. He’d never have come to the house unless he wanted something, she thought as she opened the cupboard in which she kept the drinks. But what could she possibly offer him now? An alibi? She’d provided that. Money? He’d inherited a fortune from Barbara. Love? What kind of a bloody fool question was that? But she knew a sudden, brief yearning.

  She carried two glasses back to the sitting-room and handed him one. He raised his. ‘Here’s to life, Gertie: may it always deal us trumps.’ He crossed to the nearest chair and sat, his legs stretched out. He had no hesitation in making himself completely at home, even to the extent of ignoring a nearby ash-tray and flicking ash into the fireplace. ‘If you haven’t been seeing the papers, I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with the events at home?’ He didn’t speak quite as casually as he’d intended.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘You know, you surprise me, cutting yourself right off like this. But then you’ve made quite a habit of surprising me. Like the day you sold up at home and came out here without a word to anyone.’

  ‘There was no one to tell.’

  ‘There was me. I was hurt that you never said goodbye.’

  ‘You—hurt?’

  ‘I’m really quite sentimental at heart . . . Tell me, what made you leave so suddenly?’

  ‘I wanted to get away.’

  ‘Obviously. But the question is, why?’

  ‘What’s it matter now?’

  He drew on the cigarette. ‘You didn’t begin to get doubts, did you, Gertie? That wasn’t why you quit? I swear I told you the truth.’

  It was strange, she reflected, how he’d always yearned to be believed, even when it didn’t matter. His one major weakness?

  He threw the cigarette on to the logs and drained his glass. If you were to offer me a refill, I just couldn’t refuse.’

  She had not sat down and she now went over, collected his glass, and continued through to the kitchen.

  When she returned, he reached up and gripped her right hand. ‘You’re quite the sweetest person I know, Gertie.’

  She felt herself flushing. She tried to free her hand.

  ‘Suppose I were to ask you to do me one last favour?’ His voice was low and warm, his expression earnest. Then he cocked one eyebrow, in ironic interrogation, as Clark Gable had once done in a thousand high street cinemas when the circle seats cost two and six.

  She finally managed to free her hand and she went over to a second chair and sat. ‘What is it you want now?’ she asked wearily.

  He revolved the glass between thumb and forefinger. ‘The police at home are proving to be even bigger fools than I’d imagined. D’you know, they’re still convinced I murdered Babs! The bloody fools just cannot understand that I loved her and wouldn’t have hurt her for anything in the world.’ He was silent for a while, his eyes unfocused. Then he continued. ‘I didn’t see sight or sound of them for weeks and thought they’d finally come to their tiny senses. Then the other day two of ‘em turned up at Middle Manor and tried to make trouble. Seems they finally managed to crack those bits in code in Babs’s diary . . . Funny to think Babs could keep ‘em guessing for so long when she was no master mind and they’re meant to be so smart, isn’t it?’

  She wondered if he had the slightest inkling of how callous he sounded, talking about his dead wife in such terms?

  ‘According to them, every single entry referred to me being out with Sandra.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘And most of the time I was just at the club having a pint . . .’ He stopped, suddenly realizing the import of what she’d just said. ‘How d’you hear, when you don’t get any news?’ he asked roughly.

  ‘A Spanish detective was here earlier today. He asked if I could identify Sandra or knew anything about her.’

  His expression was now one of angry, panicky concern: he gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Those bloody air traffic controllers: but for them, I’d have been here yesterday. What did you tell this bloke?’

  ‘That I didn’t know anyone by that name.’

  He slowly relaxed: he let go of the chair. ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘I think so. In any case, he didn’t ask any more questions.’

  He drank heavily.

  Alvarez telephoned Palma and spoke to Superior Chief Salas. ‘Regarding that request from England, señor, I have spoken to señorita Dean.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She says she has never known anyone by the name of Sandra and therefore cannot begin to identify her.’

  ‘Was she telling the truth?’

  ‘I am not certain.’

  ‘Then she was lying?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t be certain of that, either, señor.’

  ‘Typical!’ snapped Salas. ‘Is your report in the post?’

  ‘I regret, not yet. After all, I have only recently returned from interviewing her . . .’

  ‘I am referring to your latest monthly crime report.’

  ‘Oh! . . . señor, due to having to drive to Caraitx to question the señorita my time’s been very occupied . . .’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you still haven’t done it? Goddamn it, what do you do all day long—sleep?’ Salas slammed down the receiver.

  Alvarez sighed. There was no pleasing some people.

  CHAPTER 3

  A carriage clock struck eight. West looked at his gold Braguet wristwatch. ‘I’d better be moving.’ The fire had been lit and the reflected light from the flames danced across his face, occasionally highlighting the scars on his cheek. ‘I don’t know what time they serve dinner, but I’ve been told it’s always late in Spain so I should still be all right by the time I get there.’ He stood. ‘I’ve booked in at the Parelona. They say it’s not too bad a pub?’ His voice rose, turning the last sentence into a question.

  She didn’t answer. He knew just as well as she that the Parelona was renowned as a hotel in the highest luxury class. He’d always had to boast.

  ‘You’ll come along one day and have lunch or dinner with me, won’t you, Gertie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s months since I last had the fun of seeing you.’

  ‘It’s still no.’

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe you’ll change your mind later on, since I could be around for a bit. Originally I was only coming for a couple of days.’ He paused, then continued. ‘But when I flew out of Heathrow it was sleeting and the wind was icy enough to wreck a pawnbroker’s sign. What’s the point in rushing back to Siberia? Ever been in Middle Manor in winter? I’ll swear it’s colder inside than out. So I’m beginning to think this island might
be a good place to winter on.’

  ‘It gets cold and wet here as well,’ she said hurriedly.

  His right eyebrow cocked upwards. ‘What’s the panic? Scared I’ll settle down out here for good?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you do.’

  ‘I’m glad about that. Because if I did happen to see somewhere to rent that wasn’t too grubby . . . I could very easily be tempted after seeing how lovely everything was this afternoon.’

  Had he been captivated by the beauty of the island? Or did he want to remain close to her to make certain she did not go back on her denial that she had ever heard of Sandra?

  ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. Lovely to see you again. And you must change your mind and come and spend at least part of a day with me at the hotel. The brochure said the grub was good and the setting’s supposed to be magnificent.’

  He never had understood that some people simply didn’t like ostentatious luxury. Even as a boy, he’d always wanted the biggest and the best so that people would see he had the biggest and the best.

  When he kissed her goodbye, he made certain it was his scarred right cheek which touched her left one and he smiled when he felt her flinch. Then he said good-night and crossed the very narrow pavement to a parked green Seat 132.

  She watched him start the engine, turn, and drive down the sloping road: just before he reached the corner, he put his left hand out of the window and waved.

  Knowing a bitter, empty sadness, she stared out to the south, through a gap between two houses on the opposite side of the road, not really seeing the lights of villages or the distant coastline, just visible in the moonlight if one knew where to look. Did other people have to discover that happiness was always rationed and, no matter how much unhappiness one had known in the past, that ration was never sufficient?

  She returned into the house, shut and locked the front door, crossed to the fireplace. The logs had almost burned away, leaving a dying, intermittent flame and glowing ashes. Soon, without more logs, there would be very little heat given off, so why not go to bed? But it was still very early. And she’d never get to sleep while her mind was such a maelstrom of memories.

  She bent down and picked out a couple of logs from a cane basket and threw them on to the fire, prodded them deeper into the ashes with the toe of her shoe. She went through to the kitchen and poured herself another drink: normally abstemious, there were times when she sought, and found, a measure of comfort in alcohol.

  She returned to the sitting-room and sat. She watched small, dancing flames spread along the sides of the two logs. If only the past could be burned into ashes . . .

  Memory was a strange, elusive thing, sometimes strong, sometimes weak.

  With only a little more talent and strength of character, her father might well have been a success in life: as it was, he had been a failure. While his wife had been alive, he had listened to her advice and had been guided by it, but after her death he had seemed to lose all sense of proportion and self-judgement.

  Life had become movement. No sooner settled in one school then moved to another where she was a stranger and therefore an object of scornful interest: no sooner a friendship formed than it was forcibly sundered. They had lived in so many houses and moved so often that none of them had ever become home. They’d had few possessions and the more valuable of these—valuable?—had had to be sold from time to time to try and raise a little capital to finance more movement: the eternal quest to reach the foot of the rainbow.

  And then something had happened, and she had never learned what, which had provided them with some capital and brought an end to her father’s restless wanderings. They’d rented a back-to-back in Wealdsham and lived there, month after month. No. 10, Brick Lane. A mean, ugly house in a poor street, as far as most people were concerned: a wonderful home to her.

  Keir West had spoken to her only days after they’d moved in. She’d been slowly eating a Mars Bar, slowly because it was a rare treat and the pleasure had to be drawn out. He’d been so friendly that in a gesture which came straight from the heart, she’d offered him some of what remained of the Mars Bar. He’d broken off about two-thirds for himself.

  His motto in life had always been a simple one: what’s yours, we share; what’s mine, stays mine. Once, she’d complained about his selfishness. He’d jeered at her and then she hadn’t seen him for days and the loneliness taught her not to complain again.

  He’d always had a precocious curiosity: a desire which was almost a need to poke his nose into everything in case he might find something of advantage to himself. So when she’d told him that her father was carrying out experiments in a room always kept locked, and that if these experiments were successful he’d make a fortune, Keir had demanded to see the room . . .

  Her father had been out. She could remember getting the key from the kitchen drawer: leading the way along the dark, narrow corridor which smelled of mildew: putting the key in the lock, turning it, and opening the door: Keir pushing past her . . . But then there was a blank and no matter how much she tried to break through the mental fog she could remember nothing more until he was screaming and shrieking that she’d killed him by spilling the acid over him.

  Her father, shocked that by disobeying him she’d been responsible for causing such injuries, had forced her to go to the hospital. Keir, lying in the end bed in the children’s ward, had told her that the pain was so terrible he kept fainting. He didn’t faint while she was there. That night she had lain in bed and prayed that she could be hurt as terribly as he’d been hurt by her, so that by her suffering his could be relieved. She had failed to experience any blinding outburst of pain.

  Time had blunted her sense of guilt and increasing age had enabled her to realize that logically one could not realistically be held responsible for an accident which had happened when one was young: but her need to make amends, in so far as this was possible, had grown no less. When he wanted her to do something, she did it. Her father, casual enough over most things, had taught her a set of old-fashioned values: to steal was totally wrong. Yet when Keir had needed her as an accomplice, she had helped him steal . . . And, seemingly perversely, she had refused to make friends with others of her own age. Perhaps, subconsciously, she’d realized that had she done so, she’d have gained a far more balanced outlook and then wouldn’t have been nearly so ready to follow him . . .

  Her first job had been as a trainee shop assistant. Her first wage packet had been shared with him. (One could hardly have expected him not to take advantage of the circumstances.)

  Her father had died suddenly and very soon afterwards Keir had left the neighbourhood, with no one knowing or caring where he’d gone. She’d experienced a crushing loneliness, but by now she found it almost impossible to make friends. Personal relationships of any depth seemed to be beyond her.

  Not quite by accident, yet neither by design, she’d discovered that she had a considerable talent for painting. Her father had often told her that his grandfather had been a famous painter and she’d discounted such a story because he was a great romanticist, but she’d suddenly begun to wonder whether he had, after all, been telling the truth. She’d had a few lessons from a man in Wealdsham who’d possessed some technique but little talent, but who had possessed the ability, and generosity of artistic spirit, to recognize talent in others. He’d encouraged her when her self-doubts had threatened to prevent her fulfilling her early promise and it was he who’d persuaded her to apply for a grant to go to an art school—something she would never have done if left to herself.

  Three months after leaving art school, she’d sold her first painting: four years after that she’d been making a reasonable living: and one year later Keir had re-entered her life.

  He’d developed a slick assurance: a barrow-boy made good. He’d learned to flatter, yet sound sincere, to make a solitary, neryous, unapproachable spinster feel like a princess.

  She’d known him as an inveterate liar, yet she’d listened w
hen he had told her she’d become beautiful. (After all, wasn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder, not the mirror?) She could judge he was broke, yet did not draw the obvious conclusion that that was why he had reappeared. He’d moved into her flat and immediately made himself completely at home, listing all his likes and dislikes.

  She hadn’t cared how outrageous his demands were. Love was a word that meant different things to different people: to her, it meant being wanted . . .

  He’d disengaged skilfully, yet not quite able to hide his apprehension that she might become hysterical and make life difficult for him. Which only showed that he’d never even bothered to understand what kind of a woman she was. He’d told her he was only going away because he couldn’t bear to live off her any longer and when he’d made his fortune he’d be back and nothing would ever again keep them apart. And she had let herself believe him.

  She’d become commercially very successful. She’d sold the flat and, fulfilling an ambition, had bought a cottage in the country: Queenswood Farm, three hundred years old, with oak beams, inglenook fireplaces, and a couple of inside walls still with original plaster. Eighteen months after moving into Queenswood Farm, she’d first heard that Keir was engaged to be married. The news had shocked her even if, had she been able to admit this, it should not have surprised her. Then she’d learned that his fiancee was Barbara Hardy, a very wealthy woman, from a county family, at least ten years older than himself. Whereas others had found it degrading that he should so obviously be marrying for money, not love, she had found it comforting . . .

  They’d met a few times after the marriage. To her own surprise, she’d found those meetings far less emotionally charged than she’d expected: experience had hardened and taught her. Yet even so, there were times during these meetings, when he smiled at her, when he held her hand a little longer than necessary, or when he chuckled as he told one of his risque jokes, when she experienced a moment of bitter loss.

  Then, one late October morning when some trees had begun to shed their leaves and the air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay . . .