Farewell Gesture

by Roger Ormerod

  “I’m not that important to them, but you might be.”

  “Garn. They got nothin’ on me.”

  By this time I was going round and round a huge island, looking for the correct turn-off. “Suppose you look at that map. I hope you know where we are.”

  “Sure do. Did a job here once.”

  There was silence as he searched the map. I continued to circulate. He hadn’t said he’d had a job, but he’d “done” a job. There had been mention of Philomena’s dubious friends. He was certainly dubious, but seemed quite contented with it.

  He looked up from the map, gave the traffic signs a quick glance, and said, “Two more, and we turn off. Not that one, the next. That’s it. How long since you drove a car?”

  “Four years, you could say.”

  “Thought so. Want me to take over?”

  I guessed what that would mean: unadulterated terror until we reached Killingham. “No thank you. It’s all coming back.”

  “Yes. Well, watch that old dear on the crossing.”

  “I see her.” He was talking as though I was senile.

  Five minutes later we were out on the open road, and I put up the speed a little, fighting a tendency to wander on to the wrong side of the road. The last vehicle I’d driven had been in America. You could have fitted this Fiesta in the back of that big Cherokee.

  “How did you know my name?” I asked.

  “It gets around. I’ve got contacts.”

  “Good ones, too, to know where I was going.”

  He had a ready answer to that. “Oh, sure. An’ if you wanta know, I picked it up in the police station.”

  I might have guessed. “From what I heard, Art, you can’t be their favourite person. You buy a young lady a present and it’s found knotted round her neck.”

  “Don’t you start. I’ve had a skinful. All night they’ve bin at me, and I’m fed up to here.”

  “They had you in for interrogation, I heard.”

  “Couldn’t hold me. I know my rights. They’d got nothing. I was outa there late last night.”

  I glanced sideways to catch a pout, a gesture of immature self-pity. “And how did you come to hear about me?”

  “They was out there in the corridor, with the door open. Talkin’ quiet, but I’ve got big ears. Just that Paul Manson was going to Killingham, and I knew it’d be by bus, ’cause the trains…Anyway, I reckoned you’d be after a car.”

  “And you just fancied the trip?”

  “My folk’re in Killingham.”

  “There’ll be a warrant out for you if you don’t go back.”

  “Goin’ back, ain’t I! Just tell me where and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Well…thanks,” I said. “Much obliged.”

  “It’s all right.”

  We drove another thirty miles in reasonable silence, then I saw a Little Chef ahead and pulled in.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Why not! It’s on me, though.”

  I agreed, without reluctance. We sat in a corner, cradling our coffees. I could now face him squarely and watch that open and mobile face chasing through all the emotions, and was able to understand why the police couldn’t get anywhere with him, all that bland innocence beaming at them, and with that eagerness of his to co-operate. Throw a question at him and a willing answer came bouncing back.

  “You’ve told it over and over to the police,” I said, making it a statement.

  “Fifty times.”

  “Care to make it fifty-one?”

  “Why not! Anything for a mate.” He looked round. “Here, I ordered egg and chips. It’s taking a hell of a time.” He half rose to his feet. “Miss!”

  He was the sort who gets the best attention at restaurants. From waitresses, anyway. Egg and chips appeared like magic. He waded in, elbows flying, talking as he ate and waving his eating irons.

  “You never met Philomena, did you?”

  I’d seen her once. “I didn’t know her,” I said.

  “Had no breakfast,” he explained. “Now…there was some little raver for y’. Into anythin’ for a bit of a giggle. Lor’, but we had some great times. One big laugh after the other. She was my girl. Everybody knew that, or I hadda teach ’em.” He waved his knife under my nose. For one brief second I was facing a tough little layabout. Then it was gone, and he was grinning over all the good times they’d had together, which always seemed to start with nicking a car before they went on to carve up the town. Great fun, bring the kiddies. It hadn’t been like that in my day. I was getting the impression I’d missed out on an important element in my development.

  “From time to time we did a warehouse or somethin’,” he went on with undiminished enthusiasm. “When there’s a load o’ spirits just come in, that’s the time. You know.”

  I didn’t, but I nodded agreement. “You mean…you and Philomena?” I had visions of Bonnie and Clyde. He was completely and happily amoral. The them and us jungle, it was, “them” being the ones who’d got it and “us” the ones who wanted it.

  “You ain’t listenin’. Me an’ a few of the fellers. But Phillie”—so that was what he’d called her—“used to stick her nose in. Wanted to keep cavey for us. Things like that.”

  He’d chomped his last chip and we got up and left. He was silent as I got the car moving again so I had to prompt him.

  “This was at night, you say?”

  He knew what I was thinking. His mind bobbled about like a globe of quicksilver. “She used to sneak outa the house. They didn’t know. We didn’t want her, but you could reckon she’d be there, parked in her little Mini with the lights off. Stupid little bitch,” he said fondly. “We coulda made it great if we’d put it together.”

  So she’d had her own car, but they’d had to steal one for a night on the town. But of course, stupid old-fashioned me, it wasn’t so much of a giggle unless you nicked a car.

  “She sounds a real ball of fire,” I said admiringly.

  “She sure was. It’s left at the next roundabout.” He seemed to be able to read a map and talk at the same time. “But that one job, it all went haywire. The cops got a tip-off or somethin’, ’cause up they popped and took us all in. Me, I was the getaway driver. No good, they cut me off, and they raked in Phillie at the same time.”

  “That must have raised a stink,” I observed.

  “Have you seen him? That Aubrey. There’s a poncey name for y’. But he’d got pull, ’cause she was out the next morning, and no charge. Wish I’d got friends like that.” But he said it with pride, and with no sign of rancour.

  “He wouldn’t consider you a friend,” I suggested.

  “You are so right,” he said in a prim Aubrey voice. “Me, I got a year inside.”

  “Not Gartree?”

  “Nah. That’s for the nobs. Winson Green f’ me. No class to it. And while I was inside the family up-and-offed. Couldn’t stand the scandal or somethin’, or keeping her well away from me.”

  “That’d be it.” I took a bend on the wrong side of the road and had to pull myself together. “And when you came out?”

  “D’you always drive like that? When I came out, I hadda trace her—didn’t I! And there she was, livin’ at Sumbury, so I went down and saw her.”

  “Heh! Hold on a sec’. When was this? They’ve been there two years, and it didn’t take you a year—”

  “It was back in January. Took a month, is all. But she’d changed.”

  “They do.”

  “All snooty and la-di-da. Couldn’t get anywhere with her. So I went back to Killingham, and dropped her a line now and then. Got nothin’ back, though.”

  “Perhaps she couldn’t read your writing. Did you get as far as joining your letters up?”

  “You’re cute, you know that! So anyway…d’you want to hear this or not?”

  “Go on, I’m interested.” I felt I was going to hear it anyway. He was in desperate need of a friend, and who better to sympathise with him than a fellow suspect? His flip tongu
e was all camouflage, and beneath it there was insecurity. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d met the best liar in the country. It was a great loss to politics.

  “Then watch the road,” he said tersely. “I was going to say—I heard she was as good as engaged to some Aussie clown.”

  “You heard it in a pub, I understand.”

  “And why not? Gotta keep in touch, ain’t you! So I reckoned I’d better go an’ see her, give her one last chance. Who’d want an Aussie when they could shack up with me?”

  He seemed genuinely puzzled by this. He did not lack self-esteem. The fact that this particular Aussie had loads of money and a huge ranch did not in any way qualify him to challenge Art’s charm. The fact that her family would prefer her to be even further away from Art, and would thus apply persuasion, did not disturb him.

  “It does sound unbelievable,” I agreed.

  “Yeah. So I hadda go along and sort it out. I hitched down to Sumbury and got her on the phone, and in the end she said she’d meet me.”

  “At the bus shelter, the town end of the road to Port Sumbury,” I said, just to make it clear that I knew the background, and he’d be wasting his time loading me with too many lies.

  “Right. It was her birthday, see, and I reckoned she’d be expectin’ a pressie. Nearly cleaned me out, that did. A silk scarf…got it at a cute little shop in town. They wrapped it up, nice as you like. She’d said she’d be there at seven. No later. Said there was a party she’d gotta get back to, and she’d need time to change. Why’re they always changin’? Suggest anythin’ and it’s, oh, I’ll just have to nip upstairs an’ change into something. Can’t understand women.”

  “It’s not necessary to understand them, just learn to make the right moves. Carry on. She didn’t turn up, so you—”

  “If y’ know it all, why trouble!” He’d gone all prickly.

  “I was waiting for a bit of common sense to crop up. What I heard sounded so damned stupid!”

  “What was stupid about it?” he demanded, offended.

  Deliberately, I provoked him. “If you wanted to strangle her, why did you use the scarf? It was a dead giveaway.”

  He puffed his lips in contempt. “I didn’t use it. You ain’t heard it right. Admit it. I stood waiting there like a prune, for nearly half a flamin’ hour. Quarter past seven, and she still hadn’t come…” His voice faded away dismally.

  “She’d stood you up. Anybody else would’ve realised that, but not you, I suppose. Always come running do they, Art?”

  “If you don’t wanta hear…”

  “What I heard was that you ran back towards the town to the nearest phone box.”

  “Sure I did. I’d come a long way. Nobody was gonna stand me up and not hear from me.” Then he sounded uncertain. “And I’d gotta know, hadn’t I!”

  “Of course you had. You went to the phone—”

  “Her mother…you ever met that ice-pick of a bitch? Who is that? Speak up young man. Who? Took me ages to stick a word in she could understand. Then she said Phillie had gone out ages before. Well, I ask you! What’m I gonna think then? Ran back to the bus shelter. No Phillie. Boy, was I worried! Somethin’ musta happened to her—”

  “Hold on. You’re forgetting something.”

  We were only three miles from Killingham, and I was reducing speed gradually. I didn’t want to miss the end of this. “The present,” I prompted.

  No response. I glanced sideways. He was rubbing a hand over his face, not meeting my eyes. Art Torrance was embarrassed. He, who was God’s gift to womankind, and who was well aware of it, was temporarily silenced by the memory of an emotion for which he felt shame—concern for somebody else.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “I panicked, didn’t I! Belted outa that phone booth and back to the bus shelter, and left the scarf behind. Didn’t give it another thought. Stood there. Gave it a few seconds—”

  “For a quiet smoke?”

  “Walkin’ up an’ down, and I don’t smoke. Then I ran for the house. And after that it was coppers and takin’ me in and askin’ me this an’ that. Till last night.”

  “But they believed you?”

  He recovered his self-confidence. “Well…got ’em baffled, ain’t it! I’d left the scarf in the phone booth an’ they say she was dead before then—”

  “And there it was, knotted round her neck when they found her.

  I pulled into a lay-by and stopped the engine. He was staring straight ahead, chin up, lower lip quivering. Art Torrance was close to tears. I decided to give him time, and spoke to the windscreen.

  “But of course, they’d think you wouldn’t strangle her with your own present and leave the wrapping behind, then come up with such a stupid story.” I said it quietly, waiting for a reaction, prodding at his pride. “You’re a bright lad. Always had your wits about you. Nobody as bright as you would make up such a load of rubbish. So you’d be recognised as too clever to have done it yourself, and then come out with that story.”

  I was being sarcastic. The police had certainly not based any of their reasoning on Art’s brainpower. They had been constrained only by the awareness that they had to link a charge with logical continuity, and they hadn’t got it. But if my remarks pleased Art, they might also lure him into indiscreet confidences.

  He turned to me. His eyes were still moist, but he was grinning that triumphant smile of his. “Well…that’s it!” he claimed. “You’ve got it in a nutshell.”

  I matched his grin, changed it to a scowl, and shook my head. “But the snag is, Art, that the police’ll see through that. In the end. Then what d’you think they’ll come round to? Go on, give it a guess.”

  I watched him steadily as we called each other’s bluffs. He was street-wise and had always lived on his wits. He wasn’t big enough to have survived otherwise. And survival had boosted him into a smug complacency. On his own turf he might be considered a genius, but he was getting too old for the street-boy act and he had nothing solid to replace it.

  “Can’t you guess?” I taunted him, when he still hesitated.

  I watched for his eyes to flicker, and at last they did. “I ain’t makin’ any guesses,” he muttered.

  “So I’ll tell you. Art, you bought that scarf and you had it gift-wrapped. There’d have been no intention of killing Phillie at that time, so that fits. You went to the bus shelter at seven, as arranged. But you didn’t wait there. No, don’t interrupt. You were ten minutes early, because you were eager and anxious, and for the same reason you couldn’t wait there. She meant a lot to you. So you walked to meet her half-way, and you did meet her, where that patch of woodland is, beside the road.”

  He gave a too-expressive shrug. “Of course, you’re talkin’ crap.”

  “Perhaps not. You met her, I’d say, and she told you she was going to marry the Aussie, Grant Felton. She was going where you wouldn’t be able to reach her again. It wasn’t what you wanted to hear—”

  “Don’t wanna hear it now.”

  “You can get out of the car and walk into town, if you want to.”

  He made a move towards the door latch, then hesitated. The police were going to shove this under his nose, so he’d better have time to sniff round it a little. He turned back.

  “Get on with it then.” His voice was tight.

  “It wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but all the same you gave her the present. And I reckon she opened it up, looked at it, and said who’d want this, ’cause she’d got hundreds of them. So you made sure she kept it by tying it round her neck.”

  “No!”

  “It was tied, I suppose?”

  “For Chrissake, drop it!”

  I was forcing him into facing it. “A single knot or a double?”

  “Lay off!” he shouted.

  “Double, was it?” I tilted my head. “You’d know, because the police would’ve told you. In full detail, I bet.”

  He thumped a clenched fist on his knee. “It was double-knotted. Tha
t make y’ happy, does it?”

  “Not particularly. I suppose a single knot would’ve slipped. Being silk. At the front, was it? The knot, I mean. Was she attacked from the front, Art?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” he choked.

  “The knot at her throat?” I persisted. I had him shaken, and was wondering how far I could push him. But I had to have the facts, and needed my own assessment of his guilt or innocence.

  Apparently I’d pushed him beyond a personal psychological barrier. His jaw was set and his eyes were dark and angry. “It was under her jaw to the right. You can bet they gave it me, item by item, the stinkin’ rotten bastards.”

  “Right, so that’d make it difficult to untie. But you can see what those same rotten bastards are going to get to. They’ll say you stood there, over her, and realised you’d buggered it up. It was your scarf, and you found you couldn’t untie it, so you couldn’t take it away with you. You’d realise it then, standing over Phillie’s body.”

  “Don’t keep sayin’ that!”

  “I’m pretending to be a police officer, throwing it at you. Devil’s advocate, they call it.”

  “I needed to know that.” He was, bouncing back, recovering fast.

  “But whereas you can get out of this car and walk away, they’ll have you where you can’t go anywhere. And that’s what they’ll say, that you stood over her and realised you’d dropped yourself right in it. You deliberately left the wrapping, with your name on it. You dragged her into cover. Not far—you wanted her to be found pretty soon, because of the timing. You ran back to the phone box to make your call. It was around seven-twenty by then. Then you ran all the way to the house to get things rolling, and waited around while you polished your story about leaving the package in the phone booth. Because that would really stop ’em in their tracks. As it has done.” I grinned at him. “There, how’s that for a bit of logic?”

  I had embarked on this theory with no confidence that I could carry it through, but in an attempt to undermine his self-esteem. But I hadn’t, apparently, dented it. He was staring at me with contempt, waiting, it seemed, for an apology. When I did nothing, he jutted his lip and turned away.

  “Why don’t y’ gerron with yer driving?” he said in disgust, his vernacular thicker than ever.