Not Safe After Dark

by Peter Robinson

  * * *

  Two days later, and still no developments reported in the McVie investigation, Laura phoned.

  “Mr. Mitchell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry about my behavior the other day. I was upset, as you can imagine.”

  “I can understand that,” Mitch said. “I don’t blame you. I don’t even know why I told you.”

  “I’m glad you did. I’ve had time to think about it since then, and I’m beginning to realize how terrible you must feel. I want you to understand that I don’t blame you. It’s not the gun that commits the crime, after all, is it? It’s the person who pulls the trigger. I’m sure if the burglar hadn’t got that one, he’d have got one somewhere else. Look, this is very awkward over the telephone, do you think you could come to the house?”

  “When?”

  “How about this evening. For dinner?”

  “Fine,” said Mitch. “I’m really glad you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Eight it is.”

  When he put down the phone, Mitch jumped to his feet, punched the air, shouted, “Yes!”

  * * *

  “Dinner” was catered by a local Italian restaurant, Laura McVie not being, in her own words, “much of a cook.” Two waiters delivered the food, served it discreetly, and took away the dirty dishes.

  Mostly, Mitch and Laura made small talk in the candlelight over the pasta and wine, and it wasn’t until the waiters had left and they were alone, relaxing on the sofa, each cradling a snifter of Courvoisier XO cognac, with mellow jazz playing in the background, that the conversation became more intimate.

  Laura was still funereally clad, but tonight her dress, made of semitransparent layers of black chiffon—more than enough for decency—fell well below knee height. There was still no disguising the curves, and the rustling sounds as she crossed her legs made Mitch more than a little hot under the collar.

  Laura puckered her lips to light a cigarette. When she had blown the smoke out, she asked, “Are you married?”

  Mitch shook his head.

  “Ever been?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just didn’t meet the right girl, is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re not gay, are you?”

  He laughed. “What on earth made you think that?”

  She rested her free hand on his and smiled. “Don’t worry. Nothing made me think it. Nothing in particular. Just checking, that’s all.”

  “No,” Mitch said. “I’m not gay.”

  “More cognac?”

  “Sure.” Mitch was already feeling a little tipsy, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood.

  She fetched the bottle and poured them each a generous measure. “I didn’t really love Charles, you know,” she said when she had settled down and smoothed her dress again. “I mean, I respected him, I even liked him, I just didn’t love him.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  Laura shrugged. “I don’t know really. He asked me. He was rich and seemed to live an exciting life. Travel. Parties. I got to meet all kinds of celebrities. We’d only been married two years, you know. And we’d only known one another a few weeks before we got married. We hadn’t even . . . you know. Anyway, I’m sorry he’s dead . . . in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Laura leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette. Then she brushed back a long blond tress and took another sip of cognac before answering. “Well,” she said, “now that he’s dead, it’s all mine, isn’t it? I’d be a hypocrite and a fool if I said that didn’t appeal to me. All this wealth and no strings attached. No responsibilities.”

  “What responsibilities were there before?”

  The left corner of her lips twitched in a smile. “Oh, you know. The usual wifely kind. Charles was never, well . . . let’s say he wasn’t a very passionate lover. He wanted me more as a showpiece than anything else. A trophy. Something to hang on his arm that looked good. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay. And then we were forever having to entertain the most boring people. Business acquaintances. You know the sort of thing. Well, now that Charles is gone, I won’t have to do that anymore, will I? I’ll be able to do what I want. Exactly what I want.”

  Almost without Mitch knowing it, Laura had edged nearer toward him as she was speaking, and now she was so close he could smell the warm, acrid smoke and the cognac on her breath. He found it curiously intoxicating. Soon she was close enough to kiss.

  She took hold of his hand and rested it on her breast. “It’s been a week since the funeral,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s time I took off my widow’s weeds?”

  * * *

  When Mitch left Laura McVie’s house the following morning, he was beginning to think he might be onto a good thing. Why stop at being estate executor? he asked himself. He already knew that, under the terms of the will, Laura got everything—McVie had no children or other living relatives—and everything was somewhere in the region of five million dollars.

  Even if he didn’t love her—and how could you tell if you loved someone after just one night?—he certainly felt passionately drawn to her. They got on well together, thought alike, and she was a wonderful lover. Mitch was no slouch either. He could certainly make up for her late husband in that department.

  He mustn’t rush it, though. Take things easy, see what develops . . . Maybe they could go away together for a while. Somewhere warm. And then . . . well . . . five million dollars.

  Such were his thoughts as he turned the corner, just before the heavy hand settled on his shoulder and a deep voice whispered in his ear, “Detective Greg Hollins, Mr. Mitchell. Homicide. I think it’s about time you and I had a long talk.”

  * * *

  Relieved to be let off with little more than a warning in exchange for cooperating with the police, Mitch turned up at Laura’s the next evening as arranged. This time they skipped the dinner and drinks preliminaries and headed straight for her bedroom.

  Afterward she lay with her head resting on his shoulder, smoking a cigarette.

  “My God,” she said. “I missed this when I was married to Charles.”

  “Didn’t you have any lovers?” Mitch asked.

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “Oh, come on. I won’t be jealous. I promise. Tell me.”

  She jerked away, stubbed out the cigarette on the bedside ashtray, and said, “You’re just like the police. Do you know that? You’ve got a filthy mind.”

  “Hey,” said Mitch. “It’s me. Mitch. OK?”

  “Still . . . They think I did it, you know.”

  “Did what?”

  “Killed Charles.”

  “I thought you had an alibi.”

  “I do, idiot. They think the burglary was just a cover. They think I hired someone to kill him.”

  “Did you?”

  “See what I mean? Just like the cops, with your filthy, suspicious mind.”

  “What makes you think they suspect you?”

  “The way they talked, the way they questioned me. I think they’re watching me.”

  “You’re just being paranoid, Laura. You’re upset. They always suspect someone in the family at first. It’s routine. Most killings are family affairs. You’ll see, pretty soon they’ll drop it.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Sure I do. Just you wait and see.”

  And moments later they were making love again.

  * * *

  Laura seemed a little distracted when she let him in the next night. At first he thought she had something on the stove, but then he remembered she didn’t cook.

  She was on the telephone, as it turned out. And she hung up the receiver just as he walked into the living room.

  “Who was that?” he asked. “Not reporters, I hope?”

  “No,” she said, arms crossed, facing him, an unreadable expression on her fac
e.

  “Who, then?”

  Laura just stood there. “They’ve found the gun,” she said finally.

  “They’ve what? Where?”

  “In your garage, under an old tarpaulin.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you talking about? When?”

  She looked at her watch. “About now.”

  “How?”

  Laura shrugged. “Anonymous tip. You’d better sit down, Mitch.”

  Mitch collapsed on the sofa.

  “Drink?”

  “A large one.”

  Laura brought him a large tumbler of Scotch and sat in the armchair opposite him.

  “What’s all this about?” he asked, after the whiskey had warmed his insides. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. How could they find the gun in my garage? I told you what happened to it.”

  “I know you did,” said Laura. “And I’m telling you where it ended up. You’re really not very bright, are you, Mitch? How do you think it got there?”

  “Someone must have put it there.”

  “Right.”

  “One of the muggers? But . . . ?”

  “What does it matter? What matters is that it will probably have your fingerprints on it. Or the wrapping will. All those greasy smudges. And even if it doesn’t, how are you going to explain its presence in your garage?”

  “But why would the cops think I killed Charles?”

  “We had a relationship. We were lovers. Like I told you, I’m certain they’ve been watching me, and they can’t fail to have noticed that you’ve stayed overnight on more than one occasion.”

  “But that’s absurd. I hadn’t even met you before your husband’s death.”

  “Hadn’t you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you remember, honey, all those times we met in secret, made love cramped in the back of your car because we didn’t even dare be seen signing in under false names in the Have-a-Nap Motel or wherever? We had to keep our relationship very, very secret. Don’t you remember?”

  “You’d tell them that?”

  “The way they’ll see it is that the relationship was more important to you than to me. You became obsessed by jealousy because I was married to someone else. You couldn’t stand it anymore. And you thought by killing my husband you could get both me and my money. After all, you did prepare his will, didn’t you? You knew all about his finances.”

  Mitch shook his head.

  “I would like to thank you, though,” Laura went on. “Without you, we had a good plan—a very good one—but with you we’ve got a perfect one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you were right when you suggested I had a lover. I do. Oh, not you, not the one I’m handing over to the police, the one who became so obsessed with me that it unhinged him and he murdered my husband. No. I’ve been very careful with Jake. I met him on the Yucatán peninsula when Charles and I were on holiday there six months ago and Charles went down with Montezuma’s revenge. I know it sounds like a romantic cliché, but it was love at first sight. We hatched the plan very quickly and we knew we had to keep our relationship a total secret. Nobody must suspect a thing. So we never met after that vacation. There were no letters or postcards. The only contact we had was through public telephones.”

  “And what happens now?”

  “After a decent interval—after you’ve been tried and convicted of my husband’s murder—Jake and I will meet and eventually get married. We’ll sell up here, of course, and live abroad. Live in luxury. Oh, please don’t look so crestfallen, Mitch. Believe me, I am sorry. I didn’t know you were going to walk into my life with that irresistible little confession, now, did I? I figured I’d just ride it out, the cops’ suspicions and all. I mean they might suspect me, but they couldn’t prove anything. I was in Windsor staying with friends. They’ve checked. And now they’ve got you into the bargain . . .” She shrugged. “Why would they bother with little old me? I just couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You’ll make a wonderful fall guy. But because I like you, Mitch, I’m at least giving you a little advance warning, aren’t I? The police will be looking for you, but you’ve still got time to make a break, leave town.”

  “What if I go to them, tell them everything you’ve told me?”

  “They’ll think you’re crazy. Which you are. Obsession does that to people. Makes them crazy.”

  Mitch licked his lips. “Look, I’d have to leave everything behind. I don’t even have any cash on me. Laura, you don’t think you could—”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, honey. No can do. Nothing personal.”

  Mitch slumped back in the chair. “At least tell me one more thing. The gun. I still don’t understand how it came to be the one that killed your husband.”

  She laughed, showing the sharp, white teeth. “Pure coincidence. It was beautiful. Jake happens to be . . .

  * * *

  . . . a burglar by profession, and a very good one. He has worked all over the States and Canada, and he’s never been caught. We thought that if I told him about the security system at the house, he could get around it cleverly and . . . Of course, he couldn’t bring his own gun here from Mexico, not by air, so he had to get one. He said that’s not too difficult when you move in the circles he does. The kind of bars where you can buy guns and other stolen goods are much the same anywhere, in much the same sort of neighborhoods. And he’s done jobs up here before.

  “As luck would have it, he bought an old Luger off two inexperienced muggers. For a hundred bucks. I just couldn’t believe it when you came around with your story. There couldn’t be two old Lugers kicking around the neighborhood at the same time, could there? I had to turn away from you and hold my sides, I was laughing so much. It made my eyes water. What unbelievable luck!”

  “I’m so glad you think so,” said Mitch.

  “Anyway, when I told Jake, he agreed it was too good an opportunity to miss, so he came back up here, dug the gun up from where he had buried it, safe in its wrapping, and planted it in your garage. He hadn’t handled it without gloves on, and he thought the two young punks he bought it from had been too scared to touch it, so the odds were, after you told me your story, that your fingerprints would still be on it. As I said, even if they aren’t . . . It’s still perfect.”

  Only tape hiss followed, and Detective Greg Hollins switched off the machine. “That it?” he asked.

  Mitch nodded. “I left. I thought I’d got enough.”

  “You did a good job. Jesus, you got more than enough. I was hoping she’d let something slip, but I didn’t expect a full confession and her accomplice’s name in the bargain.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t have a lot of choice, did I?”

  The last two times Mitch had been to see Laura, he had been wearing a tiny but powerful voice-activated tape recorder sewn into the lining of his suit jacket. It had lain on the chair beside the bed when they made love, and he had tried to get her to admit she had a boyfriend, as Hollins had suspected. He had also been wearing it the night she told him the police were about to find the Luger in his garage.

  The recorder was part of the deal. Why he got off with only a warning for not reporting the theft of an unregistered firearm.

  “What’ll happen to her now?” he asked Hollins.

  “With any luck, both she and her boyfriend will do life,” said Hollins. “But what do you care? After the way she treated you. She’s a user. She chewed you up and spat you out.”

  Mitch sighed. “Yeah, I know . . .” he said. “But it could have been worse, couldn’t it?”

  “How?”

  “I could’ve ended up married to her.”

  Hollins stared at him for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “I’m glad you’ve got a sense of humor, Mitchell. You’ll need it, what’s coming your way next.”

  Mitch shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hey, just a minute! We made a deal. You assured me there’d be no charges over the gun.”

  Hollins nodded. “Tha
t’s right. We did make a deal. And I never go back on my word.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Then I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  “Well, there’s this lady from the Law Society waiting outside, Mitchell. And she’d really like to talk to you.”

  The Two Ladies of Rose Cottage

  In our village, they were always known as the “Two Ladies of Rose Cottage”: Miss Eunice with the white hair, and Miss Teresa with the gray. Nobody really knew where they came from, or exactly how old they were, but the consensus held that they had met in India, America, or South Africa and decided to return to the homeland to live out their days together. And in 1939, they were generally believed to be in or approaching their nineties.

  Imagine our surprise, then, one fine day in September, when the police car pulled up outside Rose Cottage, and when, in a matter of hours, rumors began to spread throughout the village: rumors of human bones dug up in a distant garden; rumors of mutilation and dismemberment; rumors of murder.

  * * *

  Lyndgarth is the name of our village. It is situated in one of the most remote Yorkshire Dales, about twenty miles from Eastvale, the nearest large town. The village is no more than a group of limestone houses with slate roofs clustered around a bumpy, slanted green that always reminded me of a handkerchief flapping in the breeze. We have the usual amenities—grocer’s shop, butcher’s, newsagent’s, post office, school, a church, a chapel, three public houses—and proximity to some of the most beautiful countryside in the world.

  I was fifteen in 1939, and Miss Eunice and Miss Teresa had been living in the village for twenty years, yet still they remained strangers to us. It is often said that you have to “winter out” at least two years before being accepted into village life, and in the case of a remote place like Lyndgarth, in those days, it was more like ten.

  As far as the locals were concerned, then, the two ladies had served their apprenticeship and were more than fit to be accepted as fully paid-up members of the community, yet there was about them a certain detached quality that kept them ever at arm’s length.

  They did all their shopping in the village and were always polite to people they met in the street; they regularly attended church services at St. Oswald’s and helped with charity events; and they never set foot in any of the public houses. But still there was that sense of distance, of not quite being—or not wanting to be—a part of things.