Days Without Number

by Robert Goddard

  He dialled 999 on the telephone in the drawing room, asked for the police and told them what he had found. They said they would be with him shortly. Then he put the telephone down and listened to the silence that death left in its wake. He could not stay in the flat. He certainly could not start the search for clues he had meant to carry out. That was too much to attempt. By the extremity of his act Tom had somehow forbidden him to continue with the pursuit. Besides, Nick felt strangely certain that there would be no clues to uncover. The only evidence of Tom’s involvement with Elspeth Hartley was the photograph lying on the coffee-table. Nick picked it up, slid it into his coat pocket and walked out.

  Una Strawn seemed at first unable to believe what Nick had to tell her. “He’s too young,’ she said in dismay.‘He wouldn’t do such a thing.’ By the time they heard the police car draw up outside, however, she had realized that incomprehension could not alter reality.‘This will be dreadful for his mother,’ she mused. And so it would be, Nick acknowledged to himself; more dreadful than Una could possibly imagine.

  ‘I’d better go down,’ he said, starting for the door.

  ‘Nick—’

  ‘Yes?’ He stopped and looked back.

  ‘Do you know why he did it?’

  Nick hesitated for an instant before answering in a murmur.‘Sort of.’

  The front doorbell rang.‘Will you tell them?’

  He hesitated once more, but in the end said nothing, merely shaking his head before turning to go.

  The police were efficient and perfunctorily sympathetic. They did not challenge Nick’s edited version of events. Why should they? An unemployed ex-student with a drugs habit under emotional stress was hardly a rarity in their suicide statistics. They nodded in weary familiarity as Nick explained how Tom’s mother had become worried about him following his father’s death. They made notes. They called for the pathologist and photographer. They did what had to be done.

  Nick agreed to visit the police station next morning and make a formal statement. No more was required of him that night. He went back up to Una’s flat and gratefully accepted her offer of whisky. Then he somewhat less gratefully accepted her offer of the use of her telephone. She left him alone to make the call no-one could make for him.

  He remembered little afterwards of his conversation with Terry, apart from the relief he felt that he did not have to break the news to Kate directly. He said nothing about the syringe or the photograph and Terry asked no leading questions. There was an unspoken sub-text to their exchanges.

  Both knew there was more to be said. Both also knew now was not the time to say it.

  An hour or so later, Terry phoned back. (The police and the morticians were still going about their business downstairs, quietly and methodically; Tom’s body had not yet been removed.) Kate could not bear to stay at home any longer, Terry explained. They would be setting off as soon as possible. The motorway would be at its emptiest and they should reach Edinburgh by dawn. They had booked a room at the Balmoral and would contact Nick when they arrived.

  Another hour passed. The photographer left, then the pathologist. The men in gloves and overalls loaded Tom into an unmarked van and carried him away to the mortuary. One of the policemen who had been first on the scene told Nick they were done. The last car drove off into the night. 8 Circus Gardens lapsed into nocturnal stillness.

  Nick had no wish to go back to the pitiless sterility of his hotel room and Una was not about to throw him out. Sleep was not an option for either of them. They drank a little more whisky and spoke of Tom.

  ‘This isn’t what one would have predicted for a boy like him, is it, Nick? He used to have a certain glow about him. An aura. I bet you did too, at his age.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You said you “sort of” knew why he’d done it. I wondered if you were drawing on experience.’

  ‘My experience doesn’t stretch to what’s been going on in Tom’s life.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what that means?’

  ‘I don’t think I can. Too many other people are involved.’

  ‘But it has to do with the girl in the photograph you showed me—Harriet?’

  ‘It has everything to do with her.’

  ‘Sasha was right, then. She was no good for him.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  ‘Someone will have to tell Sasha what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘And what will you do about Harriet?’

  Nick stared into his whisky for several silent moments, contemplating the question. With Tom dead, Elspeth Hartley’s tracks were covered more effectively than ever. She would not know that, of course. Not yet, at any rate.‘I’ll find her,’ he mumbled in eventual answer.‘Sooner or later.’

  When Nick finally left, he stopped in the communal hall and stared at the strip of blue and white police tape sealing the entrance to Tom’s flat. It sealed also the mystery of his relationship with Elspeth Hartley. If Tom had been trying to protect her, he could not have done a better job.‘I will find you,’ Nick murmured under his breath. But he was well aware that it was easier to say than to do.

  He reached his room at the Thistle and lay down on the bed with little expectation of sleep. But sleep he must have done, because the next thing he knew was the ringing of the telephone. It was 7.38 by his watch and there was a grey hint of daylight seeping round the curtains. He grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Mr Paleologus?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I have a Mr Mawson on the line for you.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Terry. Where are you?’

  ‘At the Balmoral.’

  ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll walk over to the Thistle and meet you in the lobby.’

  ‘I’ll walk over.’

  Nick noted the singular. Terry wanted a word, man to man, before Nick met Kate. Sure enough, he was waiting alone when Nick stepped out of the lift.

  He looked like the husk of his normal self, a hunched and crumpled figure with bloodshot eyes and a heavy five o’clock shadow. He clapped a weary arm round Nick’s shoulders and piloted him away to some chairs and a table on the far side of the lobby.

  ‘This is the worst day of my life, Nick,’ he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper.‘Kate’s that broke up I ’ He gave a despairing shrug.‘I don’t know what to say or do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Terry. It’s beyond words.’

  ‘Tell me what happened. Tell me what led up to it.’

  So Nick told him everything that had occurred since his arrival in Edinburgh—Tom’s attempt to cast suspicion on Terry; Farnsworth’s sinister comings and goings; the photograph of Tom with Elspeth, aka Harriet; the gruesome scene at 8 Circus Gardens. There was no point holding anything back.

  ‘You’ve got both photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nick laid them on the table.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Terry stared down at them.‘What a bloody awful business. Why did he do it? I mean, it was bad, OK. But it didn’t have to be this bad.’

  ‘I only wish it wasn’t.’

  ‘Me too.’ Terry staunched some tears.‘Sorry. It’s just when I think ’ He shook his head.‘What’s Farnsworth up to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ve got to find out.’

  ‘That won’t be easy.’

  ‘Maybe this mate of his—Drysdale—could point us in the right direction.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Nick leaned across the table.‘Look, Terry, there’s a more immediate problem. What do you want me to say to Kate? She doesn’t know about any of this, does she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think she’s going to have to?’

  ‘Yeah, but ’ Terry sighed heavily.‘I’ll tell her. Now’s too soon, though. She’s still in shock. In a couple of days she’ll be better able to cope with it.’

  ‘And until th
en?’

  ‘Can’t you just stonewall her, Nick? Say you met Tom, noticed how depressed he was, got worried, contacted his girlfriend and found him? Can’t you just leave out the rest? I’ll explain I asked you to when I tell her the whole story. I’ll make sure you’re in the clear.’

  In the clear? Nick doubted he would ever be that. He also doubted Terry was thinking only of Kate in proposing this delay. There was the small matter of putting the best possible gloss on his own role in events to be taken into account. But there was an advantage for Nick as well. He would not have to explain to Kate why and how he had contributed to the pressure Tom had buckled under. Terry would do it for him, at a time of his choosing.‘All right,’ he said at last.‘It’s your call.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick.’ Terry looked mightily relieved.‘This is the best way, believe me.’ He glanced at his watch.‘Kate was really stressed out after the journey. I persuaded her to take a couple of sleeping pills. She looked good for a few hours when I left.’ He massaged the back of his neck.‘God, I’m tired.’

  ‘Maybe you should try and get some sleep yourself.’

  ‘Why did he do it? I keep coming back to that. Why? Whatever he’d done, whatever he’d got himself into, we could have worked it out.’

  ‘That depends, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it depends on what it was he’d got himself into. We don’t know, Terry. We still don’t know.’

  ‘No. But Farnsworth does.’

  ‘I think he may, yes.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a word with Drysdale. Catch him cold. See what rattles out of his pockets if we give him a shake.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  But Terry was already on his feet, the decision taken. And Nick was sure it was a very bad idea to let him go alone. He had no choice but to follow.

  The Ferrari drew many a glance as it roared and sputtered south through the Edinburgh rush hour. Nick soon abandoned his attempt to talk Terry out of the visit. Terry wanted answers. And he was not a man accustomed to being denied what he wanted.

  Professor Vernon Drysdale, on the other hand, was not a man used to being interrogated. He was having breakfast when they arrived and clearly did not welcome the intrusion. There was no sign of Mrs Logan. Perhaps she did not show up until later. There was no sign of Farnsworth either.

  ‘I explained to Paleologus yesterday that Julian’s gone away. I don’t know where and I don’t know for how long.’ Drysdale glared at Terry.‘Who did you say you are?’

  ‘He’s my nephew’s stepfather,’ put in Nick.‘There’s something you ought to know, Professor.’

  ‘About your nephew?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He killed himself over the weekend. I found him last night.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Drysdale looked genuinely affected.‘That’s dreadful news.’

  ‘I’ll lay it on the line for you, Prof.’ Terry grabbed the arms of Drysdale’s chair and leaned forward until their faces were no more than a few inches apart.‘Farnsworth’s one of those who drove Tom to take his own life. The longer I have to wait to speak to him, the worse temper I’ll be in when I do. And you’re seeing me now on my best behaviour. So, stuff the academic freemasonry. Where is he?’

  “I don’t know, Mr ’

  ‘Mawson. Terry Mawson.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Pull the other one.!’

  ‘It happens to be true. After Paleologus here came to see me yesterday, I telephoned Julian on his Oxford number and got only his answering machine. He could be there, I suppose. Equally, he could be anywhere.’

  ‘He’s your friend, I hear. Maybe more than a friend. Had a few gay old times over the years, have you?’

  ‘This is absurd.’ Terry’s attempts to intimidate Drysdale seemed to Nick to be making no impression whatsoever.‘I’m no more his keeper than you were your stepson’s.’

  ‘What the bloody hell do you mean by that?’

  “I sympathize in your loss, Mr Mawson. If Julian is in any way responsible for it, then he should answer for what he’s done. I’m not shielding him, I do assure you.’

  ‘You’d better not be.’

  ‘I think the time has come for you to leave, I really do. Paleologus?’

  ‘Come on.’ Nick laid a cautious hand on Terry’s shoulder.‘We’re getting nowhere.’

  ‘All right.’ Terry pushed himself upright.‘All right.’ He sounded suddenly calmer. Nick wondered if his show of aggression had been just that: a show. If so, it had failed to impress its audience.‘When you hear from your friend, tell him he’ll be meeting me whether he wants to or not.’

  Drysdale nodded.‘I’ll be sure to.’

  ‘I suppose you think that achieved nothing,’ said Terry as they started back for Edinburgh.

  ‘I’m just not—’

  ‘You’re wrong, Nick. It made me feel better. And it sent a message. I want them to know I’m on their case. I want them to know Tom’s death isn’t going to go unavenged.’

  ‘It was suicide. Are you sure there’s anyone to blame but Tom himself?’

  To which Terry’s answer was more revealing, it seemed to Nick, than he probably intended. There’s got to be.’

  Nick asked Terry to drop him at the main police station so he could make his statement. Terry came in with him to find out if the post-mortem result was available yet. He was referred to the Procurator Fiscal’s office for all information and left Nick to it with a whispered parting in the reception area, the gist of which was a plea for Nick to say as little as possible. It was a plea easily complied with. The police had clearly pigeonholed Tom’s death as a drugs-related suicide. The postmortem was a formality. So, in that sense, was Nick’s statement. The version of events he signed his name to was the same as the one Terry wanted him to present to Kate. And it was accurate. As far as it went.

  When he left the police station, he realized to his surprise that he was very close to Rankeillor Street. He had assured Una he would break the news to Sasha without thinking through the how and the when of it. Now the opportunity had presented itself to him he could hardly pass it up. She might well have left for classes at the University, though. He walked along to number 56 with no great confidence that he would find her in.

  But the front door opened as he approached and Sasha smiled out wanly at him in greeting. Her eyes were moist and full, her jaw clenched. She knew.

  ‘I saw you coming from the window. I must have been sitting up there for an hour or more staring out, just thinking about Tom.’ She shook her head.‘The stupid bastard.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘I phoned Una. I was worried about him.’

  ‘Did you sense something?’

  ‘No. It’s simpler than that. And worse. If only I had sensed something. You’d better come up.’

  Sasha’s flat was standard-issue student digs, complete with broken-backed furniture, Blu-tacked posters, unwashed crockery and an atmosphere scented with joss sticks and cannabis.

  ‘I got this in the post this morning.’ Sasha passed Nick a letter written in a jagged hand.‘It’s from Tom.’

  ‘He wrote to you?’

  ‘Yeah. The first letter he’s ever sent me. He even went to the bother of finding a box with a Sunday collection. Didn’t want me to hear at second-hand, I suppose. But he didn’t want me to hear soon enough to make a difference either.’

  ‘It’s a suicide note?’

  ‘More or less. See for yourself. There’s a message for you in it.’

  Nick sat down in the nearest armchair and looked at the letter. It was a solid jumble of words, with a lot of crossings out. But the writing was legible enough.

  Hi Sash. You won’t understand why I’m doing this. You’ll think it’s a waste. As if. Truth is, there’s no other way out. Everything’s fucked. I didn’t know it would go down like this. I promise you that. Maybe Harriet did. May
be she planned the whole thing this way. Total wipeout. Could be. I’ve seen that side of her. But it’s too late. For me, anyway. I can’t deal with what I’ve done. It’s too much. They’ll be coming for me. But there’ll be no-one at home. If you see my uncle Nick, tell him to let it go. I’ve sent him something. He should take it as a warning. There have been too many victims. But there won’t be any victors. This is a no-win scenario. I’m getting out the only way I can. I’m sorry for hurting you. But this will be the last time. That’s one promise I’ll keep. I love you. Sash. If you want to do me a favour, get over me fast. Remember the laughs we had. No-one can take those away. Have fun. You’re better at it than me. I’ve got to go now. This is it. All my love, Tom.

  Nick’s fingers were trembling when he handed the letter back to Sasha. He tried to speak, but had to clear his throat first.‘I didn’t realize he was so unhappy. If I had I’d have gone easier on him.’

  ‘What did Harriet drag him into, Nick?’

  ‘Old family secrets. So secret I don’t know what they are.’

  ‘Dangerous secrets?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Will you let it go?’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen what he’s sent you yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Nick stood up.‘I’d better get back to the hotel. It could be waiting for me there. Whatever it is.’

  ‘A warning, he said.’

  ‘Yeah. Somehow, though I doubt I’ll heed it.’

  ‘This arrived for you earlier, sir,’ said the receptionist at the Thistle half an hour later. She handed Nick a letter along with his key and he recognized Tom’s writing at once.

  He waited until he was upstairs, in the privacy of his room, before opening the envelope. There was no note inside, just a blown-up photocopy of a newspaper article. Maybe a photocopy of a photocopy, to judge by the degradation.

  Nick sat down on the bed and looked at the pageful of print. In the top left corner was the title of the newspaper and a date:

  Birmingham Post, Thursday October 5, 2000.