Spend Game

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Big deal,’ I told the little disc in disgust.

  I’d just finished tidying the shed as Moll bowled in. You can imagine the scene we had, Moll doing her nut at the state I was in and me saying oh leave off for gawd’s sake. She unloaded a ton of stuff and made us breakfast. I’m always amazed at how little grub women eat. Beats me how they keep going. Anyhow, we became more or less friends. By the time she’d washed up and I’d put the things away we’d stopped jumping a mile whenever the other spoke. I told her about the accident and kept very few details back.

  ‘Was Nodge trying to . . .?’ She had two attempts at it. ‘We’ll never know,’ I said gravely. I couldn’t forget she was a peeler’s wife.

  ‘You poor man.’ Her eyes filled. ‘And he was your friend.’

  ‘Well, er, yes.’ I was uncomfortable. She kept on about this for some time, saying things like the tragic ironies with which life abounds and all that, and drawing unrealistic parallels from her own family’s humdrum experiences. I said, isn’t life astounding.

  About elevenish, Miss Haverill phoned in. I was due at Chase’s surgery for the first exercise pattern in the health scheme at noon. I told her I would toe the line.

  Moll was aghast. ‘You can’t possibly do exercises –’

  But I was already locking up, and told her it was where the next clues were coming from. She nodded determinedly then, and helped me with my jacket. In the interests of morale I didn’t dare admit what a useless trail I’d found so far.

  ‘Six Elm Green,’ I said. ‘Then Scratton. Where the tunnel is.’

  As Moll drove us over to Six Elm Green, I couldn’t help glancing at her. It wasn’t just the knees going up and down in that alluring way as she managed the pedals. She definitely had something, an extra erg of attraction. Of course, all women have it, but in some it can’t be avoided. They glow with a chemotactic radiation. You can’t keep your eyes off. I suppose being admired must get on their wick much of the time. She caught my one-eyed awareness and decided to fix me good and proper.

  ‘Who is Mrs Markham, Lovejoy?’

  That was Janie. ‘Er, a . . . a sort of cousin.’

  ‘And Lydia?’

  ‘Oh. She’s, er, another cousin.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Used to visit me now and again.’

  ‘Lisa?’ Her tone was very critical. ‘Another cousin, I suppose?’

  ‘Er . . . yes.’ I said brightly. She bit her lip. Her face was starting to colour up.

  You can go off people. She must have found their names in my file. Trust women to be bitter about other women, even when a relationship’s innocent. Well, almost innocent. The peelers should be catching tearaways, instead of keeping tabs on innocent law-abiding members of the public like me. She pulled us into a lay-by. An overtaking lorry honked joyously, predicting a snogging session. If only they knew.

  ‘Listen to me, Lovejoy.’ She had one of those chiffon scarves. It only needed a Georgian cameo brooch to be dazzling. ‘I’ve read your file from cover to cover. Your record is one of utter degradation. Your behaviour is loose, completely improper.’

  I wasn’t having that. ‘The police never check properly –’

  ‘Let me finish.’ She was furious at me, but why? I hadn’t done anything. ‘These episodes of . . . of carnal practices, and these terrible so-called accidents which keep happening. And always you’re involved.’

  ‘It’s antiques,’ I explained.

  ‘It’s you! One woman after another. And the deaths –’

  I took her hand gently and let her rhyme on for a bit before I interrupted.

  ‘Moll, love. It’s antiques. It’s not me, not ever.’ She clearly didn’t believe me so I tried to explain. ‘All we ever want on earth, any of us, is love. There’s nothing else worth breathing for. Antiques are love, but in a material form. They’re just inert matter carved or shaped with love. That’s why they’re valuable to everyone. We see the love in them. Wanting them so badly is only natural. Get it?’

  ‘But Nodge’s death. It follows the pattern you create –’

  I wasn’t having that either. ‘Nodge only lusted after Chase’s precious item, same as the rest of us.’ I shrugged. ‘He wasn’t careful enough, that’s all.’

  She wouldn’t be mollified. ‘What I started to say,’ she announced primly, ‘is that you’re not to presume on our . . . relationship, such as it is. Our partnership is entirely . . . entirely . . .’

  ‘Judicial?’

  ‘Judicial.’ She caught at the word with relief. ‘A judicial working arrangement.’

  ‘Agreed.’ We shook hands soberly. She got us out on to the road again. We carried on, chatting of the possible meaning of the tin disc and the Bramah lock. We both stared studiously ahead, me not seeing Moll’s knees out of the corner of my eye and her not seeing me not looking.

  The trouble is you see more when you’re deliberately not looking. Ever noticed that?

  Dr Chase’s surgery stands among neat houses and bungalows. The village is a scattered affair with an ancient church and three pubs. It’s not as big as ours, maybe a thousand people served by two small grocery shops. The surgery’s just a converted house, with, no place to park. All I ever see in Six Elm Green is little lawns.

  The house lies back from the pavement. Beyond the line of dwellings is a row of gardens. Then the dreadful countryside starts, rolling fields, woods, streams, trees. Really horrible, not an antique shop anywhere. I hate the bloody stuff.

  And there was Miss Haverill, keen as mustard for us all to run round it. She was still chained to her clip-board. If only she’d wear a ton more make-up, I couldn’t help thinking. Five assorted blokes stood about in their idea of athletic garb, all red faces and white hairy knees. They looked a sight.

  ‘Lovejoy! What a terrible mess!’ Elspeth came rushing at me as soon as I stepped out of Moll’s car.

  I glanced sardonically at her track team. ‘I’m the best you’ve got, love.’

  ‘But you can’t run in your condition!’ she squeaked, horrified. I thought bitterly, I can hardly bloody walk.

  ‘I had to come,’ I said nobly. ‘You stressed how important it is.’

  ‘How very . . . fine of you, Lovejoy.’ She went all misty. I limped a bit more, obviously biting on the bullet.

  ‘Oh. You’ve met Mrs Maslow? Miss Haverill.’

  Elspeth said hello, but Moll looked puzzled. Oh, hell. I’d forgotten Sue’s little game. I’d have to think up some tale for later. I pressed matters on hastily.

  ‘I’ve some stitches and dressings needing attention, if Nurse Patmore’s free.’

  ‘Very well.’ Elspeth looked harassed. ‘An accident, I suppose? Do go through, please. I’ll start my group off and be with you in a moment.’

  I saw a familiar face and grinned. ‘How do, Bernard.’ I gave him a wink. Bern’s a machinist in a local factory. He glowered threateningly, a terrifying figure of bulbous middle age in his thin podgy vest and flappy running shorts. Like two tents tied together wrong.

  ‘You supposed to be in our group, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Yes, lads.’ I beamed encouragingly. ‘Good luck. Can’t make it today, I’m afraid.’

  One or two made cracks back at me, grinning. Bernard looked miserable as sin. I had to laugh. He was probably having to waste his day off doing this maniac stunt. His idea of fun’s sitting on the railway bridge across the valley photographing signals and talking with the level-crossing gatekeeper.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Elspeth cried, horn-rims poised in her hand. ‘Now remember. No undue exertion. Are we all agreed?’ She got a few dejected mumbles.

  ‘Only due exertion, Bern,’ I reminded him cheerfully. Then I had a sudden thought and stepped across. They were lined up doing nervous practice flexings. ‘Here, Bern. Know anybody who collects passenger passes?’

  ‘For railways? Me. Got one?’

  ‘Mount St Mary.’ I didn’t need to explain there’s no such railway.

  He shook his head doubtfully. ‘None st
ruck that I know of. It never opened, not after the disaster.’ I didn’t like the sound of that. I thought I knew Mount St Mary well. There just isn’t a railway. ‘Got it with you? I’d like to see it.’

  Elspeth was glaring and tutting. They had to be off.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ I told him. ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘They’ll be back in thirty minutes,’ said Elspeth, all keen still. She naturally would be. She didn’t have to go.

  ‘We’ll be back next Thursday.’ Bern grinned, and trotted off with the rest. Elspeth clicked a watch and made notes.

  ‘Need England Tremble,’ I quoted loudly after them, receiving a chorus of abuse.

  The next hour I had Nurse Patmore all to myself. And vice versa. She ripped the dressings off my stitches and put new ones on. She tore the bandages off my head and covered me in yellow fluid. My two eyes had a bad time working out distances for some time.

  I was bullied and thoroughly chastised. She went on and on about careless driving, though I tried telling her it wasn’t my fault. She had me on one of those gruesome steel tables with tubes and tins everywhere. Makes you think of Frankenstein. ‘You’re supposed to be full of sympathy,’ I moaned.

  ‘No, I’m not, Lovejoy,’ she slammed back, doing things with hideous instruments. ‘I’m here to patch you up so you can go and do it again, stupid man.’

  ‘I’ll complain about your manner to Dr Lancaster,’ I said sternly. ‘That’ll sort you out.’

  ‘Do,’ she said sweetly. ‘Shall I dial for you? He’ll be so interested to hear you’ve had a crash. Keep still.’

  I glared at her. If only my eyes would agree on where she was. ‘Er, not just yet.’ Doc’s berserk on accident prevention. And I’d messed up his physique pantomime by making his first group one short.

  ‘He’ll see your clinical card this afternoon, Lovejoy,’ she persisted triumphantly. Women love rubbing it in. ‘He’ll go mental. I’d keep keep out of his way if I were you.’

  Until then I’d had visions of dropping in on him for a light chat about Doc Chase’s hobby. I decided she was right.

  On the other hand, Nurse Patmore must have known almost as much as the old chap. It was worth the risk. ‘How did Doc Chase die, Pat?’ I tried a casual air.

  ‘Nurse Patmore while on duty, if you please.’ She clashed tins together. I always want to look what they’re doing to me but I’m too scared. ‘A stroke, poor man. He didn’t linger.’

  ‘Elspeth said he was interested in history.’

  ‘Miss Haverill has no business disclosing Doctor’s private affairs.’

  I ducked these arrows. ‘Didn’t he write a book?’

  ‘Yes.’ She started reminiscing. ‘He was a lovely old man. Very keen on exercise. Every single day off he’d cycle to Scratton, then back to Mount St Mary for an hour’s fishing by the river. Always the same spot. We miss him.’

  She prattled on a bit more, then let me go. I was bulky round my middle from dressings. Moll was outside on a garden seat watching her heroes totter back across the fields. They looked knackered. Elspeth was with her, jubilant.

  ‘Aren’t they perfectly splendid, Lovejoy?’ she cried.

  ‘Great,’ I said as they straggled in. I’ve seen better retreats.

  Bern was in no fit state to discuss Victorian passes and tokens. In fact I doubted if he’d last the day. They sprawled on the grass, huge bellies heaving with every gasp.

  ‘I’ll call round, Bern,’ I called. ‘I’m off.’

  He managed to raise an arm but couldn’t speak.

  ‘Scratton, Moll.’ I got in the car and reached for her maps in the glove compartment. ‘Then Mount St Mary.’

  She sat beside me a moment, then glanced back at Elspeth. ‘What was all that, Lovejoy?’ Her fingers were drumming on the steering wheel. ‘I thought I’d already met Miss Haverill at your cottage. It was a different woman altogether.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. I’d forgotten to think up a story. ‘Ah, well, you see, it’s like this. By a strange coincidence there are these two health visitors with identical names . . .’

  By the time we were in Scratton village I could tell Moll hadn’t believed a word. I was in the dog house again. That’s the trouble with women. They always think you’re lying when you’re actually trying hard to tell them only what’s good for them, put things in the best light. It must be terrible to be like that, suspicious as hell all day long. I’m glad I’m not that way. Innocence makes you a better person.

  Chapter 11

  THIS TUNNEL.

  Ever seriously thought what a crime a tunnel must be? It’s not just a horizontal hole. To the mountain it must be a deadly insult, vicious as a knife thrust. And let’s face it – the motive’s greed. Gain. Money. You gang up and dig a hole for good old gelt, not for art or adventure or somewhere to live, not any more. Modern Man digs for shekels and nothing else. That’s how far civilization’s got. Cavemen knew better.

  And even before Leckie blew those charges that day, doing my job, I’d felt this way. If you were a hill you wouldn’t want anybody strolling about your insides. It’s not natural. That’s why I stared from the deep railway culvert from among the dog daisies, and didn’t go in.

  ‘Maybe there’s a train coming,’ I told Moll airily. ‘Best to be careful.’

  ‘It looks disused.’ Moll pointed at the train lines. ‘There are weeds everywhere.’

  ‘It isn’t. I gave a light laugh, casual and offhand. ‘I, er, telephoned from the surgery. The railway people said it’s still used.’

  Moll glanced at me. ‘Are you all right, Lovejoy?’

  That’s all stupid women ever say to me. ‘Right as rain,’ I snapped.

  We were peering from the side of the cutting. I slid down to the granite chippings from bravado and stood on a sleeper. My heart was thumping. I felt my hands go cold and thrust them in my pockets. My shoulders went damp.

  I knew the Scratton tunnel wasn’t used these five years. It looked it, too, with elderberry and hawthorns already encroaching on the tunnel’s mouth. I shuddered. Moll saw me and linked her arm through mine. It’s an evil thought. No sooner does Man abandon anything than seeds blow along and settle in cracks and the greenery snakes in to strangle every sign that Man’s enterprise ever existed. You could see a dark smudge against the tunnel’s parapet. Steam trains had run through it for well over a century, each adding slightly to the grime, year after year. Now derelict.

  ‘Do we walk through?’ Moll asked. ‘Isn’t that what we came for?’

  I shrugged, abandoning all pretence that an express was due any second among the undergrowth. ‘No need, really.’ But I was desperate to see if there was any sign of Chase’s activities in there. ‘Well, er, maybe.’

  ‘Look, Lovejoy,’ Moll said suddenly, far too brightly. ‘I wonder if you’d do something? Could you drive the car round to the other side? First left, I think. I’ll go through and have a quick search.’

  ‘You’ve no torch,’ I said feebly.

  ‘I always carry a pencil light.’ She rummaged in her handbag. ‘For finding keyholes when it’s dark.’

  ‘That’s not fair, though.’ Feebler.

  ‘I don’t want you falling down in there.’ Moll showed me her little torch was working. ‘Nurse would come after me.’

  ‘Well, if you insist . . .’

  Sometimes I think I’m pathetic. I watched her trek along the lines and vanish down a tunnel. I climbed slowly to the top of the embankment. The car seemed friendly, safe. Funny how you get these anthropomorphisms.

  I was waiting for her when she came out at the far side. She was slightly breathless and indignant.

  ‘There are creatures in there, Lovejoy!’

  ‘What kind?’ My voice must have sounded strangled.

  ‘Oh. Only scuttly ones, little things. Bats, I suppose. The squeaky sort.’

  Her natural sciences were on a par with mine.

  ‘No sign of any digging? No bricks loose?’

 
‘I didn’t see any. Nothing recent, anyhow.’

  That was Scratton tunnel. A disused old railway structure with no signs of tampering. So why did Doc Chase come all this way so often to look at a tunnel, and do nothing?

  Moll did her face with lipstick and all that. I drove the car the three miles or so to Mount St Mary. The motor seemed to stop outside the Three Tiles of its own accord. Even now I don’t know if it was a mistake, but I told Moll about Leckie and the time he blew the bridge. She kept her gaze on me as I drove.

  ‘Why didn’t you say you were frightened?’ she asked as we got out in the pub’s coachyard. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  That irked me. ‘Who said I’m frightened?’ I demanded. ‘What’s there to be scared of in a rotten old tunnel?’

  ‘Sorry, Lovejoy.’ She caught the keys I threw her.

  ‘I’m just careful,’ I said, in a huff. ‘Careful’s not frightened.’

  ‘Sorry, dear.’ We went into the pub, marching frostily side by side. ‘I didn’t actually mean frightened,’ she said, ‘I really meant careful.’

  The usual midday rural mob was in, a score of workers tanking up for the afternoon’s assault on the land. I ordered for us and started my patter instantly with an agile geriatric in hobnails.

  ‘Bet it doesn’t seem the same round here without old Doc Chase fishing, eh?’ I said, grimacing ruefully. I jerked my head towards the road. The curve follows the bend of the river. Sane friends and spouses watch their loved ones from beside the bar’s fire during fishing contests in winter.

  ‘Who?’ He looked blank. A couple of others pricked up their ears.

  ‘Doc Chase. My old pal,’ I lied easily. ‘Always seemed to be fishing when I drove through.’

  ‘He means the Champ,’ an old geezer cackled. They fell about at that, even the barman laughing.

  ‘We called him that, God rest him,’ I was told.

  ‘Was he that great?’

  That was the signal for convulsive hilarity. The old gaffer practically had apoplexy and spilled his pint. Moll had to bang his back to get him breathing again. He wiped his eyes.