by Granger, Ann
‘I didn’t steal it, Gaz, honest. I found it.’
Gaz drew in a deep breath. ‘Do me a favour and cut out the jokes. The car’s hot. It has to be. How would you come by a decent motor? You couldn’t afford a pair of roller-skates.’
‘I found it, Gaz. It was abandoned. In the street, back of the bus station. I saw it there in the morning, real early, about six. That’s funny, I said to meself …’
‘Spare me the long story as well.’ Gaz’s voice was curt.
‘Well, I watched out all day and that evening, it was still there. So I went back early this morning, and it hadn’t been moved. So then I went and had a good look and I couldn’t believe my eyes – the keys were hanging in the ignition.’
Gaz had been studying the view of the car framed in the open door of the workshop. Now his head snapped round. ‘Keys?’ he said sharply.
‘That’s right!’ the visitor sounded triumphant. ‘I told you I didn’t steal it. I didn’t hotwire it. No one had. It was abandoned. Like I said, I found it.’
‘You really ain’t very bright, Alfie,’ Gaz told him in a conversational tone. But for all its casualness there was a hint of something dangerous behind it.
The visitor’s self-assurance, which had been slipping as they spoke, now slid off his whole person like a discarded garment. He looked frightened.
‘You ain’t very bright,’ repeated Gaz, ‘because …’ He lifted his hand and the visitor flinched and stepped back hastily. However, the hand had not been raised to strike a blow but so that Gaz could number off the points of his argument, working along the fingers with the forefinger of the other hand.
‘One, I don’t believe that yarn you spun me about it being left in a street back of the bus station. Any motor left there like you told it would’ve been either clamped or removed or someone else would’ve nicked it before you said you did. Two, in any case, no one abandons a decent motor with the keys in the ignition. Three, if you didn’t steal it in the first place, you’ve stolen it now, ain’tcha? Four, you drive it here, to me, in broad daylight and you leave it out there, like I said, advertising it.’ He paused. In the silence something at floor level, a small dark body with clawed feet, ran past them and scuttled into the darkness. ‘Bring it inside.’
Alfie Darrow let out the breath he’d been holding in an audible hiss. He scuttled away much like the little clawed creature. A few moments later and the Clio rolled into the dark interior of the workshop. Gaz walked round it and peered through the windows. He didn’t touch it.
‘Anything in the boot?’
‘Old rug and a road atlas. Nothing else.’
‘You mean, you took out anything else there that was worth anything, before you brought it here. You still got whatever it was? And don’t get clever and think you can say you haven’t when you have, right? Because I’ll know.’
Alfie opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. A camera.’
‘I’ll send someone round to collect it. Where are you dossing now?’
‘I’m back home, Weston St Ambrose, where I was before – with me mum,’ Alfie whined, adding, ‘she don’t know nothing about it. She’s not seen the car, or the camera. I don’t tell her what I do.’
‘I bet she wonders what she did to deserve a loser like you for a son, all the same. I’ll send someone there for the camera later today. You hand it over like a good boy, right? You can leave the motor here.’
‘We’ve got a deal?’ Hope returned to Alfie’s voice.
‘We might. Don’t speak to anyone about it. Come back in a week.’
Alfie shuffled his feet. ‘I’m skint, Gaz.’
‘I’m not giving you any cash now. You’ll go flashing it around and someone will notice. Same as that camera, if I let you keep it. You’d try to sell it.’
‘A few quid on account?’ asked Alfie without much hope in his voice.
‘No. You do exactly as I say. You go home, get the camera and wait for the person I send. Then you wait a week. You don’t talk to no one. You don’t get chatty in a pub or anywhere else. Not here in town. Not in that village, Weston St Whatever, where your family lives. Don’t bother me meantime.’
‘Awlright,’ muttered Alfie dejectedly.
Gaz watched his visitor depart. ‘Thick as two planks,’ he murmured. He returned to his office where he picked up the phone. When a voice answered he said, ‘Gaz here. I might have what you’re looking for.’ He replaced the receiver and then, in a sudden movement grabbed a grimy copy of Yellow Pages and hurled it into a far corner. ‘Got to do something about them rats,’ he told himself.
Gervase Crown walked slowly towards the easel and the waiting Petra, his hands thrust into his jeans’ pockets. Seeking a way to control her agitation, she began deliberately making a mental note of details of his appearance, as she would have assessed the subject of an animal portrait. She even had a sense of being in the presence of some underlying animal restlessness. Does he affect everyone like this? she wondered. Or am I the only one to feel it? Slung round his neck, over his navy sweater, was a narrow scarf. That would go in the portrait she was already creating in her mind’s eye. He’d grown his hair longer so that it was an untidy mop. It was still dark, although the sun had given it a bronze patina and there were streaks of early grey in it. She must include those. Sun and sea breezes had burned his skin to an olive hue. The blue of his eyes seemed a mistake as if, she thought, another artist, less careful that she was, had picked up the wrong brush.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hello to you, too,’ returned Petra.
‘Want me to go away?’
She should, of course, say ‘yes’, and say it immediately. Naturally, what she said was, ‘No, sit down. There’s a chair there.’
He sat down on the paint-splashed wooden chair that awaited visitors, and stretched out his legs. She could suggest they went over to the cottage, as she’d done with Kit, but here was better. Here was a neutral place. If you invite people into your home, you invite them into your life, she thought. But isn’t Gervase part of my life already? Don’t I sit here dependent on these wheels because of him? Perhaps Kit’s right. Perhaps he does lack normal human sensitivity. But he did look a bit embarrassed, sitting there. Or was he just physically uncomfortable? The wooden chair was small and, because the barn floor wasn’t absolutely flat, wobbled under unwary guests.
He didn’t begin the conversation so she, perforce, had to. ‘Sorry to hear about Key House,’ she said. ‘A lot of damage, I understand.’
He hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s gutted, absolute wreck. I’ve just been to have a look at it. Whoever put a match to it did a good job. I suppose the fire’s been a big talking point locally.’
‘It still is, although news only reached me this morning. I’m a bit out of touch here. But Kit drove over earlier and she told me about the fire … and that you were expected back.’
He gave a rueful grin. ‘Ah, Kit. Does she still have such strong opinions? She pushed me into a drainage ditch once, when we were kids, because I annoyed her. I climbed out soaking wet and stinking of goodness knows what. Do you remember? Were you there? I had to sneak into the house through the kitchen where, luckily, I found the au pair we had at the time. She was a Dutch girl. Perhaps she was used to people falling into canals or dykes. I don’t know. But she whisked me upstairs to change and stuffed my dirty clothes into the washer, before my mother saw me. How is Kit – and your parents?’
‘Dad died two years ago. Kit and my mother are both fine. No, I wasn’t there on the occasion you fell or Kit pushed you, as you claim, into a ditch. I’d remember it.’
‘Sorry to hear about your dad. I’m the one who’s out of touch, I’m afraid. Glad Kit and your mother are well. Did Kit come to tell you I was coming back – or to warn you?’
He’d looked the picture of nonchalance there, rocking back and forth on the chair, but Gervase was shrewd. He always had been and she should remember it.
‘I don’t know w
hat’s in their minds,’ she said.
‘Don’t you? I do. They hate my guts.’ Petra didn’t reply to that so he went on, fixing her with a sudden direct stare, ‘Do you? Do you want me to leave? Just say so and I’ll go.’
‘You don’t have to leave. I don’t hate your guts. Kit and Mother aren’t keen on you, I admit, but I wouldn’t say they hate your guts either.’
‘Wouldn’t you? I bet Kit would.’ Soberly he added, ‘I’m sorry, Petra …’ He gestured briefly at the wheelchair. ‘Sorry about everything. It’s a pretty weak thing to say, but I don’t know what else I can say.’
‘There isn’t anything else. You’ve said it now and there’s no need to keep on about it. We were young and daft.’
‘I was young and drunk.’
The last thing she wanted was to rehash the accident. ‘Why didn’t you sell the house if you didn’t want to live in it?’
‘I did intend to live in it at first after I inherited it. But, somehow, I couldn’t.’ He paused and looked away from her towards the far wall. ‘I hated my childhood. Whenever I went into the house, I relieved every miserable moment of it. Every stone in the walls, every stick of furniture, the views from each of the windows … Everything conspired to wipe away the years and took me back, more effectively than a family album of snapshots would have done. Only we never had an album of family snaps. We were never a family, other than in the biological sense.’
He turned his gaze back to her. ‘And I couldn’t change a damn thing about it because it’s a listed property, you know. Only Grade Two listed, but that’s enough. I did make enquiries. I was told I couldn’t touch the exterior, of course, but was also given a list as long as my arm of “special features” inside the place that couldn’t be altered or removed. About the only things I could have done, if I’d wanted to, was change my mother’s stripped pine kitchen, because that was modern, likewise the two existing bathrooms, tinker with the downstairs cloaks and replace the clanking iron radiators of the old central heating system. After that, I’d have been sleeping either in my old or in my parents’ bedroom, eating in our family dining room and watching TV in my father’s old study. No thanks.’
‘So why didn’t you sell it?’ she asked again.
‘It sounds weird …’ Gervase paused and went on slowly, ‘I think I resented the power it had to dictate my feelings. If I sold it, it would be because I couldn’t get over my hang-ups about the place. It’d be a sort of admission of weakness on my part. It would be like owning a wild animal I couldn’t tame. So I haven’t sold. I kept saying, one day I’ll go back and I’ll put some furniture in it and live there for a while. I’ll force out the old memories and make it accept my new ones. Then I’ll sell it, because I choose to, and not because it’s driven me away. Now the wretched place has burned down and that means it sort of had the last word. I’ll never live in it now because it has stopped me, not because I’ve done anything about it. That makes me sound a nutcase, doesn’t it?’ He looked up and smiled.
Petra felt her heart lurch and was furious at the treacherous organ. ‘No, I understand. Old houses do have personalities.’
‘Ah, you’re an artist and have a sensitive soul!’ Gervase indicated Black Beauty rearing up on the canvas. ‘That’s great. I own a horse now, you know, in Portugal.’
‘Didn’t know you were keen on horses.’
‘Only fast cars, eh? A chap I was talking to on the beach one day – I surf quite bit – this guy wanted sell the horse. So I bought it. I keep it in stables nearby and pay them to look after it. I did think I would take up showjumping. I entered myself in a few events around Portugal with singular lack of success. I still ride every week, just hacking round. I shall probably sell the horse on when I get back. It’s a needless responsibility and all it does is eat and get fat.’ Another pause and he added, ‘I’m not good at taking responsibility, as you know.’
Petra asked quietly, ‘Then why are you here? Isn’t it because you feel responsible for this wheelchair I sit in? Don’t be. I told you, we were young, stupid and it was just one of those things that happen.’
Gervase leaned forward in a sudden jerk that nearly sent his wooden seat toppling and him with it. ‘No, it didn’t just happen! Do you know what one of the police officers at the time told me? He said, “There are no accidents. Someone is always responsible.” That someone was me.’
‘I don’t care, shut up about it, will you?’ Petra heard herself shout at him.
He sank his head and gripped his tousled hair with both sunburned hands. ‘I shouldn’t have come. It was a thoroughly bad idea. I just wanted to know you were—’
Petra interrupted him. ‘I’m OK. I like painting. I like living here. I’ve got Kit and Mother and other friends who call by and my life is just fine. I’m sorry I yelled at you like that. But I did tell you not to keep on about it. I hope you come to a decision about Key House soon because I think that’s preying on your mind, too. But I suppose, as it’s a murder scene, you won’t be able to do anything soon.’
Gervase recovered his self-control and sat back. ‘Yes, it is a murder scene. The cops are sure now. First of all, so Reggie Foscott tells me, they thought it might be me in the ashes. Then they thought the body was that of a tramp or squatter. Now they’re keeping their options open, but they are sure someone killed the guy and then set the place afire. Wonder who the poor sod was … The cops are keen to talk to me. Much I can tell them.’
‘Why do they need to talk to you?’ Petra blurted.
His reply came just as quickly. ‘I don’t think they suspect I did it. But I own the place, so they’ll have questions. They will want to know why I left it empty for so long. They’ll ask me why I don’t live there or haven’t sold it. I really don’t think I’ll be able to explain to them about the house having a personality and my tangled emotions regarding it. Cops don’t do that sort of explanation. But it’s like my owning a horse and hardly ever riding it, I suppose. Can’t make up my mind, that’s what I’ll have to tell ’em. Always put off until tomorrow what you should do today, that’s my motto.’
He grinned and Petra laughed. But the laughter was an outer cloak; inside there was no merriment.
‘When are you going to see the police?’ she asked.
‘I’ll do it this afternoon. Reggie thinks I ought to go at once – before they start to think I’m avoiding them. Reggie didn’t actually say the last bit, but he meant it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Part friends?’
She took the outstretched palm. ‘We part friends. Good luck, Gervase.’
‘God bless,’ he said in that sober voice that seemed to come from another, hidden, Gervase; and stooped to kiss her forehead.
Chapter 8
‘Gervase Crown is downstairs, ma’am,’ said Phil Morton. ‘Do you want to interview him or shall I go down and do it?’
‘I’d better go,’ Jess said. ‘Oh, and tell Mr Carter about it, will you, Phil? I think he probably wants to have a look at our beach boy. Have you seen him?’
‘I’ve seen him,’ said Morton.
‘What’s he like?’
‘Like someone who’s permanently on holiday,’ said Morton sourly. ‘Arrogant blighter, too. I told him I was sorry his house had burned down, thought I’d better be polite. He just shrugged and said yes, it was a bloody nuisance and were the police going to be crawling all over what was left of it? I told him that any clues there might have been have gone up in smoke so no, we weren’t. He just muttered. So I stuck him an interview room to stew while I came up here to tell you.’
‘Can’t wait to see him,’ Jess murmured. ‘Where are those photos of Pietrangelo? Let’s see if one of them jogs Mr Crown’s memory.’
‘You’ll be interested when you see him,’ Morton called after as she started on her way.
Jess didn’t stop to ask him what he meant. She thought she heard him chuckle but perhaps that was imagination.
Gervase Crown had clearly been pacing up and down restlessly in the
interview room. When Jess opened the door, he’d almost reached the far corner and had his back to her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Crown,’ said Jess, entering, ‘I’m Inspector Campbell.’
He stopped in mid-stride, spun round and subjected her to close scrutiny.
Jess was taken aback, but not because of his imperious stare. Now she understood what Morton had thought would surprise her. It did. They had never met, but this man didn’t appear a stranger. I’ve seen you, she thought in amazement. I’ve seen you before …
She knew where. In the photos, in the photos Sarah Gresham had given them of her partner. He looked like the missing web designer!
The likeness was remarkable, even if on closer study the differences would become apparent. Jess had brought the photographs with her in her pocket to see if they meant anything to Crown. Now an entirely new train of thought had started up in her mind. Hadn’t Poppy Trenton thought she’d seen Crown recently? It now seemed more likely she’d seen Pietrangelo. Had the murderer made the same mistake? Had this man turning restlessly round the interview room been the intended target? If so, why?
Crown spoke impatiently, perhaps wondering why she stood there just gazing at him. ‘You’re in charge of this, I take it? Not that graceless oik who shoved me in here?’
Jess rallied. ‘That’s right. You met Sergeant Morton. I’m sorry if you found him unfriendly. He’s a very efficient officer. Do sit down, Mr Crown.’
Gervase subsided unwillingly on to a chair and glanced round the room. ‘This, I suppose, is where you haul in suspects for grilling?’
‘It’s one of our interview rooms. I dare say it looks a bit Spartan. It’s not meant to be a coffee lounge!’ Jess heard herself snap. And it’s not the first time you’ve been in an interview room, is it? she also thought. Aloud, she managed ask more civilly, ‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’
‘No, thanks.’ His voice was curt. He hadn’t liked the implied criticism. ‘Who burned down my house?’