Hung in the Balance (Simpson & Lowe Detective series Book 1)

by Ormerod, Roger

  ‘You do go at things, Phil,’ he grumbled. ‘How the hell d’you expect me to remember that? I’ll look into it tomorrow.’

  ‘And if there’s not?’

  ‘One step at a time.’

  I turned away from him. Had I expected him to go running? Yes. And what did I get? Nothing.

  He caught my arm. ‘It could be valid,’ he admitted. ‘I can see your point. The rope would’ve had to be cut. No doubt about that. There’d be no untying the knot with that load on it. And it’d be too bulky to carry around, so it would’ve been discarded. Therefore…we get a squad hunting for it. Is that your idea?’

  ‘Yes. I’d thought that.’

  ‘But don’t you see! Surely you’ve got some idea of police procedure. I’d have to take the idea to my Super, and he’d make the decision. And I’m on leave. At the moment, this is my time. And what a bloody rotten way to be spending my leave, standing here in the blasted wet… Phil, listen. If the Super went for it, then I’d be back on duty in a flash. Then how could I help you and watch over you? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Help me? Help? Watch over? I keep tripping over you. All right, if you’re not interested, I’ll do it. Hunt for a length of blue nylon rope, cut and still with a knot in it, and all on my own. Tomorrow. All day, if necessary. It’ll have been tossed over a hedge. You’ll see. And I’ll bring you that — and a right idiot you’ll look.’

  ‘A right idiot I feel, standing here. Now you just go and back your car down while I’m turning mine, and we’ll…’

  ‘I can find my own way back to the hotel,’ I told him. ‘You get going, and I’ll follow.’

  He laughed shortly, dismissively. ‘No. I’ll follow. I shan’t feel at all happy till I see you back at the hotel.’

  I said nothing, simply turned and plodded back to my car. No need to hurry. He’d got to turn his round and pull it over to the side. But if I did hurry, perhaps I could dash round for my briefcase. But no. No chance of that. It would take too long.

  Cursing him, cursing myself, I started the engine and backed down. He was waiting there, his engine ticking over, standing beside the car in order to watch me back up and turn. And annoyingly, as men don’t seem to be able to prevent themselves from doing, he had to jump about and shout instructions. ‘Left hand down. Easy on. A foot…you’ve got a clear foot. No — right hand down.’ And so on. Ignoring this, I got the car round, and he waved me away. Ever the policeman. I’ll swear he looked round to check the traffic flow.

  I drove slowly back to The Carlton, thinking things out. The clock on the dash indicated 9.55. I hadn’t checked its accuracy. If I got back there and shook him off, and they were still happy in the bar…

  Gradually I increased the speed, not wishing Oliver to notice and get to thinking. Sedately, I swung into the hotel car park, cut the engine, got out, locked up, and tossed the keys in my hand to indicate a certain finality.

  ‘Coming in for a drink?’ I asked, tempting fate.

  ‘I want to get out of these wet things. If you don’t mind, Phil.’

  ‘Not at all. A hot shower for me.’

  ‘Here. Tell you what.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only ten. I’ll make it quick and get back here. They don’t close the bar until eleven. We’ll have a quick drink — and there’ll be time for a chat.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be lovely!’ I said to the air above him.

  ‘Right. I’ll do that. And get into the shower as quick as you can. You hear me?’

  ‘I hear, Oliver. I hear.’

  Then the idiot ran to his car, pulled out with a squeal of tyres and a tail wiggle, just to show off, and disappeared into the orange misty night.

  Leaving me cursing him up hill and down dale. I hoped one of his wheels would fall off. I, too, wanted to get out of my wet things, but I was pressed for time now.

  I nipped into the lobby by the back way, and managed to attract Nel’s attention, Heaven knows how he does it, but his eyes must have been alert for me while he cavorted around with one trouser leg rolled up — for some obscure reason — doing his impression of Dr Gillespie removing an appendix when stewed to the gills. He was then, apparently, seized by a call of nature, because he burst from the group of Treadgolds and Tonkins, who were in screaming beer-induced laughter around him, and came bounding out to me.

  He was at once sober. Stone, cold sober. I’ve known him like that before. He gets to that pitch, holds it a little while, then keels over and becomes comatose.

  ‘Success, kiddo?’ he asked.

  ‘Partly. But I’ve got to get back, Nel. Can you hold ’em a bit longer?’

  ‘The way it’s goin’, they’ll be stuck here all night. The Treadgolds are registered here, anyway. Don’t worry. Anna will finish up in one o’ their rooms. You betcha.’

  I nodded. He bounded back into the fray. The bartender raised his eyes to the ceiling, and I dashed up to my room.

  It had occurred to me that I didn’t need the same outfit, and a quick change, down to the skin, made me feel better. Slacks and the muddy anorak — now looking much better — and that’d do. The jogging shoes I put back on, the torch in my anorak pocket.

  Then I ran down to the car and got going, before my resolution packed in.

  10

  The fact was that I was now trapped in this. I couldn’t not retrieve the briefcase. I didn’t know exactly where it’d landed, and it could very well turn out to become highly visible in daylight, from the kitchen window, say. Which would lead to Anna’s finding it, and then where would I be? It even had my name inside the flap. The very fact that I’d got inside the house, as the broken window immediately above the briefcase would indicate, would mean that the contents were valuable. And then what sort of a deal would she make with Rupert Maguire?

  No, I had to go, even though I was driving directly into a trap, the springing of which was much more imminent than it had been before. Whatever Nel might say, however confident he might have been feeling, he could well have one of his keeling-over attacks at any moment, which would end the session. After all, he couldn’t get his usual bourbon, and might not appreciate the efficacy of our native Scotch.

  So I drove fast, making my plans as I went. This time I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror in case Oliver might be playing it crafty, but there was no sign of a follower.

  Entering the lane up to the cottage I really pushed it, holding the speed right on the edge of breakaway, sliding and weaving and mumbling to myself. And that blasted hare was there again, at the same spot. Perhaps he’d enjoyed the game, and had come back for another go at it. But I discovered he could lollop faster than I could drive, and in fact, when I got stuck and had to back out of a muddy bank, he was there waiting when I got going again. He disappeared at exactly the same place as before. I was beginning to feel an affection for him. We had something going between us, and heavens, didn’t I need a friend just at that time!

  But I was quite alone when I reached the cottage. I drove past, as I had before, but this time a little further. If I was trapped by anybody arriving, I could sit in the car and wait it out. Or so I told myself.

  When I got out of the car I stood listening for a moment. For anything. When you do that, concentrate on it, all the night sounds assert themselves, the rustlings, the drippings, the mewlings which could have been the flow of a stream — or my hare calling for another go. All I needed for this trip was the torch. I snapped it on, and off again quickly, having foolishly directed it into my face. For a few seconds I was blinded, stars dancing in the backs of my eyes. I had to stand and blink, and there was nothing really solid that I could stare at to assure myself I hadn’t lost my sight. The nearest hedgerows were no more than a blurred grey against the slightly lighter grey of the trees further back, which had no positive presence at all, and existed for me as a passive motion that I seemed to hear rather than see.

  In that still and mist-bound night, I found I could no longer separate my senses, sight being allied to sound,
sound to smell, and if I opened my mouth and breathed in I could taste the cottage, could actually turn and face where I believed it to be, and confirm it by its tang, which was humanity. Or perhaps it was smell. Or maybe that carriage clock had chimed the hour, and I’d felt it on the air.

  The hour? I glanced at my luminous watch, but it wouldn’t bring itself into focus. In an abrupt panic — what the devil was I doing, standing uselessly here? — I stumbled down the lane, at last having the sense to direct the torch away from me. Which didn’t really help me much. It was necessary to cast the beam far enough ahead to see what was to come, which meant that I was walking on to a black void, aiming for what had just been a bright round hole in the night.

  Stop, I said to myself. I did. Take a deep breath. I did this, too. This is familiar territory, Phil. You know this place. There is nothing ahead that is alien to you. You’re becoming fanciful. Everything you’re approaching is fixed and normal, no more than the cottage in its scruffy and tattered gardens. I nodded. Of course. Don’t be a fool, Phil. Get that damned briefcase and get away from here.

  And yet… I took a few more paces. The light fell on the familiar gate. And yet…was everything fixed and normal? Was it not possible that somebody could be waiting there — for me? Oliver could have returned, guessing I’d left something behind. Even, perhaps, someone else. That shadow there? Hadn’t it moved!

  Stop! Stop! I forced myself to a halt again. Three deep breaths this time. What’s the matter with you? You’re not some fluttery imaginative teenager. Act your age, Phil. Don’t be ridiculous.

  I raised my head, walked to the gate, opened it wide, and walked through. Now I was home. Easy enough, you see. Stupid Philipa. You’re coming home to Graham. The lights are off because he’s in the back room, his studio, painting. You’re a shout away. But no…not the bell-push, silly creature. Don’t get carried away. You’re home, but you’ve got to go round to the side. Remember? You dropped something out of the window. Here’s your paved path along to the corner. Heavens, it was never that overgrown in my time. The slabs needed relaying. Better ask Graham to see to that, some time. And here, the corner with the old water tank, which was supposed to be for soft water. Stupid, that, really. The tap water was from a well — so wasn’t that soft? That blasted water tank on the corner, it was always overflowing…

  It had done so now. I found myself paddling in water. Plus ça change, and all that. I very nearly giggled. Not quite. I was very much aware that every step took me that much further from the car. Round the corner now.

  Here, I found, I was in difficulties. The growth had been untended for years. Impossible, now, to hug the wall, running my free hand along it. It was necessary to move out into uncharted undergrowth, and, worst of all, now I must also cast the torchlight upwards, because I had to find that one particular clump of greenery beneath that one particular window. Which meant I had no light for my feet, and at once I was stumbling and falling as my legs got themselves tangled up, fighting my way clear of heaven knew what shrub, which might, the next one, be one of the wild roses, even wilder now and absolutely smothered in thorns.

  Worst of all, when I cast the torch around, searching for some possible clear way, I got the reflection of eyes. Little pairs of eyes, some tiny and red, some larger and further apart. The night creatures, who’d come to see what lumbering creature could be disturbing their rest. Perhaps one pair belonged to my hare. Perhaps he’d brought his mates along to see this new friend with the two huge and glaring eyes. I sobbed at that. A laugh, an expression of fear, a rejection?

  Then I saw my window. No mistaking it, partly open now, a dead giveaway. And beneath it, a bush. Regardless now of possible thorns, I thrust my way through in a direct line for the bush. Here. The briefcase was here.

  But it wasn’t. Not visibly, at any rate. I could understand what had happened. I had not simply dropped the briefcase vertically downwards, but had thrust it. The place where it had fallen into the bush could have been anywhere within a few feet in all directions.

  I had to search for it, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. I had only one hand free, the other clutching the torch. I dared not drop the torch, and have it break the bulb or something. I had to search with one hand, crouched over the hedge, bent forward into it, eventually burrowing frantically into it, and realizing that the batteries were fading and soon I’d be in the dark, in that awesome, ghostly, dripping garden.

  And it was black, that briefcase. Black in a dark night in a thick dank bush, and I sobbed at it to please reveal itself. Yet…not all black. The fastening catch was chrome. I caught a reflection, fastened my eyes on it, concentrated on it, and slowly, gently reached down through the bush until my fingers touched a smooth surface. Then…edge fingers underneath, get a grip — ah, the handle. Dear Lord, the handle! I grasped it and yanked.

  It came free so suddenly that I almost toppled on to my back, and it struck my other wrist. The torch flew free, behind me, and whatever it hit it seemed to have suffered injury. Just as my scrabbling hand reached it there was a flicker, then blackness. I cursed it and shook it. It came on for a moment, then off again. Not completely useless, perhaps, but I mourned its passing. Nevertheless, I kept hold of it for a few seconds, then thrust it into my anorak pocket. I needed one free hand more than I needed an uncertain light.

  Grasping the briefcase, I got to my feet. Surely my eyes ought to be adapting. Surely the sky should be lighter than that treacherous garden. But there was no guide, no pole star I could line up with. If only I could see the wall, I thought, and as though a prayer had been answered, I realized I could. For two seconds I saw the cottage wall. Then it was gone.

  With my heart pounding, I realized what it was. There was a bend in the lane further back, and a few yards with no constricting trees. A car was driving up to the cottage. Its lights had brushed across the side wall. It had nowhere else to come but here.

  Then it happened again. Two cars!

  In an abrupt panic I began to fight my way round to the front. I ran into shrubbery, into the wall, reversed and ran again, this time into a tree. A tree! The closest trees were at the rear. Yes? Which meant I was going the wrong way. I whirled on my heel, mouth wide, gulping in air, aching to yell out for some relief but afraid to. Ran into something hard that clanged. Oh dear heaven, the water tank. I clung to it. I was at a corner. It shouldn’t be difficult from there. It wasn’t. The cars — the leading one — was close enough now for its lights to soften the solid pall of blackness.

  The front garden hedge became visible against a lighter background. I stumbled towards it. The gate appeared as a silhouette. No — don’t use the gate! Not the gate, I cried to myself, though it lured me. To the right, to the far corner of the garden. As far as possible from the crowding lights.

  Frantically, I thrust myself forward now in a direct diagonal line. There could be no consideration for torn trousers on the briars, for ankles twisted over roots, for branches lashing my face. I had to reach the cover of the thorn hedge.

  Then I heard it. Not just the noise of the over-revved engine, but above it and behind it, another sound. A car full of drunks. A car full of roistering drunks who were at the pitch where a split second could change them into violent predators.

  I was beneath the hedge, now, crouched. The lights silvered the lane the other side of it, an inviting escape route that was just beyond my reach. I was at the furthest point of the garden. It was the closest I could get to my car. At my right side was the original farmer’s high hedge, so thick that I had no chance of breaking through it. If I lay still they need never see me. Yet there was a gap low down in the thorn hedge. A quick wriggle, and I could be through there. But the light was becoming brighter. I had to make a split second choice. There was light enough to lead my feet up the lane. In five seconds there would be enough to reveal me to them.

  I panicked. I made a wrong decision. Thrusting the briefcase ahead of me I wriggled through, stood, and found myself abruptly caught in
the full glare of the headlights.

  I turned and began to run. Doors were flung open and slammed. There were shouts. ‘It’s that bloody bitch Lowe. Stop her. Don’t let her get away.’ Then the other car was there, slewing to a halt and completely blocking any retreat down the lane. They began to run towards me.

  Now there was no singing. The mood had become swamped in the alcoholic fumes of hatred. The words they shouted no longer meant anything, but the tone did. Behind it there were the screaming splinters of female hysteria. They wanted me, jackals hunting down their prey. I would lose more than the briefcase if they caught me.

  I ran. Lord, how I ran, slipping and swerving and staggering, but thrusting ahead with my breath panting into the sodden night and my heart pounding until I thought it would choke me. And the shouts, the screams, grew closer, louder, as I realized I’d left my car too far away, too far. Then ahead of me, leading and encouraging, beckoning, bounced my hare. Blessed hare, he gave me hope. I reached for him; he paced me. I struggled after him, and there at last was the shape that was my car.

  Precious seconds evaporated as I fumbled with handles still unfamiliar. I’d left the key in the ignition. I fell into the seat, switching on as I slammed the door and as fingers scrabbled at the car, then I reached over and snapped the locking catches on the doors even as a face appeared beside me, the frenzied and distorted face of Dennis. A shape appeared in front of me, bending to thrust back against the bonnet, other hands behind me, fumbling for a grip.

  ‘Don’t let her get away!’ ‘Turn her over.’ ‘Bash the bleedin’ windows in!’

  I crashed into first gear and banged down the throttle. With the rear swinging, I fought with it, and detected movement. The one at the front dived sideways. I physically shook the car, jigging the steering wheel to wriggle from their feral fingers. The whirling rear wheels gripped and I lurched forward. Hands fell away, the car steadied, and suddenly I was moving faster, though by no means in a straight line. But away from them.