Death of a Dormouse

by Reginald Hill

  Workman sighed and said, ‘You’ve changed, Mrs Adamson. Or perhaps you haven’t. Your husband was also a lover of George Orwell, wasn’t he? But that didn’t stop him from being a nasty, ruthless crook making money out of drugs and degradation, did it?’

  Trudi regarded him steadily but she was not really seeing him. She was examining herself for hurt, or resentment, or guilt, or shame.

  She found herself quite pleased with the result of the examination.

  She said briskly, ‘You’re absolutely right, Inspector. But being absolutely right doesn’t make you absolutely guiltless, does it? Any responsibility I personally have for these things I will expiate personally. I do not need your help any more, I suggest, than you really need mine. Perhaps if either of you wish to talk with me again, you will give me sufficient notice so that I can have a legal adviser present.’

  ‘Like Mr Ashburton?’ said Workman maliciously.

  ‘Mr Ashburton was, I recall, remarkably complacent about his relations with the local police,’ said Trudi sweetly. ‘Good day.’

  She closed her eyes and kept them closed till she heard them leave the room.

  When she opened them, she found James Dacre had taken Jünger’s place.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for them to go,’ he said. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t look happy.’

  Trudi laughed and said, ‘Then everything’s OK.’

  He smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Trudi,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about us?’

  She said, ‘Shall I tell you something, James? When I was lying there in Well Cottage, trussed up like a chicken on the bed, waiting for someone to come and pull my neck, I was half convinced that it was Trent who was going to come into the room. The half that wasn’t convinced it was Trent knew for certain it would be you.’

  ‘Me?’ he said reflectively.

  ‘Yes. I’d got it all worked out. There’d been a break-in at the Lewis Agency the weekend before you registered. Mrs Fielding said that some small items had been stolen, but that the records were completely safe. Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? Or perhaps she thought she was telling the truth, but a real professional could probably unlock a filing cabinet and leave no trace, wouldn’t you say!’

  ‘To what end?’ said James Dacre.

  ‘To look into some silly woman’s file, see what she was shopping for, and come up with the required goods, perfectly packaged, a couple of days later. An introduction so random it could not possibly be suspect.’

  ‘But why should anyone …’

  ‘… want to meet me? Good question, if not very gallant! All kinds of people have been keen to meet me recently for all kinds of reasons. Why not one more?’

  ‘Trudi, you’re not being serious about this, are you? Even if you were once upset enough to have such a crazy idea, surely we’ve got close enough for you to know how I feel …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Trudi. ‘I think I do know how you feel, James. And I know how I feel too.’

  He reached forward and took her unresisting body in his arms.

  ‘That’s all that matters, surely? Whatever happens, I love you, I need you, I want you to be with me, always. Forget these crazy ideas. Trudi, I love you …’

  He kissed her. She responded with equal passion for a while then pushed him away.

  ‘Not in a National Health bed,’ she said. ‘And no, don’t press me, James, not in any sense. From now on, I’ll be making all my decisions vertically. But one thing’s certain. I’ve had my fill of surprises, about other people and about myself. My New Year resolution, backdated, is that I won’t make a move without knowing all the available facts. Now why don’t you run along? I’m beginning to feel quite well after that little interlude. I think I might try a turn round the room and I’d prefer not to have witnesses if I fall on my face!’

  He didn’t argue but went to the door. Here he paused, his expression closed, unreadable.

  ‘I envy you, Trudi,’ he said unexpectedly.

  ‘Me?’ she said in genuine astonishment. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Because you’re finding you’re strong enough to face up to things. That’s a rare and enviable talent. Only …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t run before you can walk.’

  He left. Trudi lay in bed, puzzled and uneasy. She had never been paid the compliment of envy before and was taken aback to feel it like a threat.

  ‘Will you marry him?’ asked Janet.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Trudi into the phone.

  ‘That doesn’t sound very positive.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only been on my feet for a few days,’ said Trudi enigmatically. ‘How’s domestic life with you?’

  Janet had returned to Frank in an effort to repair relations between them.

  ‘All right,’ said Janet doubtfully. ‘He keeps looking at me askance, there’s no other word for it. It was quite fun being treated like the Great Whore of Babylon at first, but it begins to pall after a while.’

  ‘Well, you can’t blame him. That picture! It wouldn’t have been so bad in the missionary position with your eyes closed!’ said Trudi laughing.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Trudi, are you all right?’ said Janet finally.

  ‘Apart from being very hard up and close to eviction, I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘You just sound … I don’t know …’

  ‘Because I can laugh about that photo? What do you want me to do, girl? Don’t think I’ve stopped thinking what you did was really shitty. And if you ever did anything like it again, I’d claw your eyes out, believe me. You’re on probation! That understood, I can laugh. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Janet. ‘OK. Listen, how hard up are you? I’ve got a bit put by. If I loan you some money, then you’ll have to like me, won’t you?’

  ‘I like you, I like you,’ said Trudi. ‘And I’ll bear it in mind. But it’s not necessary just yet. I’m selling up the last of Trent. I got diverted last time by finding those bankers’ cards, but this time I’m clearing out the lot.’

  ‘Including Orwell?’

  ‘Including Orwell. And when I’ve spent all that, then I’ll probably come running.’

  She had almost changed her mind about selling the books by the time the dealer came to the house. She had done better than she expected with the watches. Rolex, like Rolls-Royce, evidently held up well in the second-hand market. But there seemed no harm in getting a valuation at least.

  Mr Murtagh, the dealer, was short, stout, pebble-glassed and yellow-waistcoated, easy to imagine in the shady mustiness of an old bookshop. His advertisement had promised expertise in the fields of antiquarianism, topography, and rare editions.

  ‘If I could inspect the volumes,’ he said, after accepting the offer of a cup of tea.

  Trudi unlocked the cabinet.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

  When she came back he was well into his task of inspection and notemaking.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Oh, here, this will be yours?’

  The book he had just picked up, which was Nineteen Eighty-Four, had opened at a point where a folded sheet of paper had been inserted.

  Trudi took it, opened it and felt her head swimming.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said with amazing calmness. ‘Do have some tea when you’re ready.’

  She went out into the dining room and sat down at the table.

  The paper was half covered in writing. There was no heading, no date, but it began Dear Trudi and the hand was Trent’s.

  She took a deep breath and began to read.

  Dear Trudi,

  If it works, I’ll be dead in theory, alive in Brazil, and you’ll never read this.

  If you do, then it hasn’t worked and I’m really dead. By daylight there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work, but at four in the morning, it all seems mad fantasy. Not just the plan either. Midday, I fe
el quite chuffed with myself and reckon I’ve come a long way for a Barnardo’s boy from the East End. Midnight, I don’t seem to have moved at all, and all I want to do sometimes is what I wanted to do then which was curl up small and warm under the scratchy blankets and go to sleep and never have to come out into the cold unloving world again.

  I’ve envied you all these years, Trudi. Nothing ever seemed to bother you. You never got anxious or inquisitive over anything. I often wondered if you didn’t know exactly what I was up to and just didn’t care! So I’ve not got many qualms about my plan as far as you’re concerned. It’ll be a shock, but not much of one. I’m no great loss, there’ll be plenty around to point that out. And with a bit of luck, you’ll be with Jan when you get the news, so that’ll help you over the first shock.

  As for the people who’ll come sniffing around after I’ve gone, they’ll have lots to tell you about me, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t bust a gut trying to work out what’s true. Just remember one thing, whatever they say about me, they’re as bad, most of ’em! Don’t trust anyone, especially if they say they’re my friend. I’ve got no friends. And don’t be taken in by so-called professional qualifications. Lawyers, doctors, cops, they’re all after one thing. Money. Well, it’s what I was always after too. Onward and upward, per ardua ad astra, local lad makes good!

  I sometimes wish I’d never seen an aeroplane. I sometimes wish I’d never stirred east of Ilford or west of Bethnal Green.

  Now, money.

  There it stopped.

  There, thought Trudi, he heard me coming down the stairs, and stopped writing and slipped the sheet into the book.

  He knew it was safe there. He knew that if his plan worked, he’d have the Orwells with him. That’s why he said he was thinking of showing them to a dealer in Manchester when he took me over to see Jan.

  That was when he planned to do it. When he was supposed to be coming to collect me. Somewhere high up on the Snake Pass. Knowing I’d be safe with Jan.

  She began to cry. Tears flowing unstoppably, she examined why she was crying. And discovered it was relief. Up to this point, unspoken but ineradicable, there had been the conviction that Trent’s plan had involved killing her too, leaving her body in the car with Jünger’s as additional verification.

  But she had been wrong. In many, many ways.

  ‘Mrs Adamson!’

  She rose, wiped her eyes, studied her face in the mirror over the fireplace, thought, what-the-hell! and went through to rejoin Mr Murtagh.

  ‘I’m finished,’ he said. ‘It’s an interesting little collection, less likely to be purchased as a whole than as individual items, so that’s how I’ve priced it. Here’s what I could offer, and I’ve rounded up the total as you can see, in case you wish to sell the lot.’

  She took the sheet of paper he offered her. On it in an ornate, not very legible hand were written the book titles with notes of publisher and condition alongside and a very clearly printed price.

  She ran her eyes down the list, paused at Nineteen Eighty-Four. The letter had been in Nineteen Eighty-Four, hadn’t it? And on that doodle of Trent’s she had found in the bureau in Vienna, there had been a reference to Nineteen Eighty-Four. Was he trying to tell her something? No. That was absurd. The paper in the bureau had been there for ages from the look of it. There could be no connection.

  She said, ‘You haven’t made a note of the ISBNS. Isn’t that important?’

  ‘It would be if these volumes had them,’ he said drily. ‘It would mean they were worth next to nothing. Standard Book Numbering didn’t start till 1967, so first editions of a man who died in 1950 would certainly not have them.’

  ‘Later editions, though?’

  ‘Oh yes. Reprints after 1967, certainly after 1970 when it became International SBN, would have them.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Trudi.

  She went upstairs, leaving Mr Murtagh rolling his eyes behind his pebble glasses in wonderment at the mysterious ways of womanhood.

  It took her a few moments to find the piece of paper.

  Downstairs she showed it to Murtagh.

  ‘The edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four referred to here, was a copy of it in my husband’s collection?’

  ‘There was only the first edition,’ he said, looking at the writing dubiously. ‘ISBN 55 683421067 BE. That doesn’t sound like any ISBN I’ve ever come across, I’m afraid. Might be a translation, of course. Some foreign edition, but it doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Translation?’ said Trudi.

  ‘Yes.’ Murtagh returned the paper and said, ‘About the collection …’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll let you know.’

  The book dealer looked rather disgruntled as he left, but Trudi didn’t notice. She was back in the lounge before he had opened his car door, looking at the two sheets of paper she now possessed in Trent’s hand.

  ‘Translation,’ she murmured.

  ‘I was trying all kinds of daft things,’ she told Janet over the phone. ‘Like trying to prove Bacon wrote Shakespeare by working out a code!’

  ‘I didn’t know that!’

  ‘Shut up! I knew Trent did crosswords and things and that led me to be too complicated. Then it struck me. 1984. He’d used that as his cash card personal number, but reversed. Suppose that’s what he’d been doodling. His personal number. And if 1984 really means 4891, then ISBN 55 683421067 BE might mean EB 760124386 55 NBSI!’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Janet with heavy sarcasm. ‘You’ve really cracked it! I mean, it’s so obvious! How did I miss it? I mean, what the hell are you on about, girl?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Trudi impatiently. ‘EB. That’s Eric Blair. Then a number. Ashburton reckoned the money would be in a numbered account somewhere and that’s what this sounds like.’

  ‘And NSBI?’

  ‘That’s the easiest of all when I see it that way round. When we lived in Zürich, I used to see those initials every time I wrote a cheque. Don’t you remember when you went through Trent’s papers? All those banks, and the Zürich one was die Neue Bank Schmidt-Immermann: NBSI!’

  ‘But we checked all those accounts,’ objected Janet. ‘They’d all been closed as you and Trent moved onward and upward, or downward as it now appears.’

  ‘Of course they had. They were all ordinary day-to-day current accounts in Trent’s real name. This was different. Trent would want somewhere to put away all the unofficial earnings he was making, wouldn’t he? What better place to use than a discreet Swiss bank that he knew and trusted? Not in his own name, of course. He didn’t trust them that much! That was probably when Eric Blair appeared. And it would amuse Trent a lot when he realized that he could reverse the bank’s initials to ISBN and give himself a safe aide-mémoire. So when he started robbing Schiller a couple of years ago, he had the set-up there already. He didn’t have to risk leaving traces by starting something new. And the use of Blair’s name and the 1984 code in Sheffield just naturally followed on!’

  ‘Well, it’s a very pretty theory,’ said Janet, her voice full of doubt.

  ‘Theory nothing, I’ve rung the Neue Bank Schmidt-Immermann. I’ve told them who I am, that my husband alias Eric Blair is dead, and that I would like to get my hands on the money. They have invited me to attend in person with proof of identity, evidence of Trent’s death, and details of the alleged account.’

  ‘Alleged? Huh!’

  ‘They’re not going to admit it’s there till they’re sure I’m entitled,’ said Trudi.

  ‘And will you go?’

  ‘I’m all booked, aren’t I?’

  ‘By yourself? I mean, what about James? Have you told him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Trudi. ‘Not yet.’

  2

  It was a piebald day, with a blustery wind scattering patches of sun and shade all over the countryside.

  Trudi sat in the departure lounge of Manchester Airport and waited for her flight to be called.

  ‘Trudi! Hi!’

  It was Janet
, slightly breathless, but with not a hair out of place in her elegant coiffure and wearing what looked like a brand new model suit in a rich dark green that clung to her figure like moss to a young birch tree.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ said Trudi.

  ‘We like to please. No James, then?’

  ‘You sound certain. He could be in the loo.’

  ‘I checked at the flight desk,’ grinned Janet. ‘You don’t think I’d play gooseberry, do you?’

  ‘Gooseberry. You mean …’

  ‘I’m coming with you!’ she cried, producing a ticket. ‘You don’t think I’m letting you loose after all that money by yourself, do you?’

  If she had expected delight from Trudi, she was disappointed.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Trudi. Then she added, ‘Look, Jan, if you’ve got some notion of looking after me …’

  ‘No bloody fear!’ retorted Janet. ‘I’ve seen what that leads to. You’re on your own. Except …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This time I thought I’d like to be right on the spot when a bit of money swims into your reach.’

  ‘All right,’ said Trudi. ‘You can come.’

  ‘Well, thank you kindly.’

  ‘What did Frank say?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Janet. ‘I left him a note.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘Saying I wasn’t cut out for the rôle of golf widow and perpetual penitent, so I was taking off till the Pope’s three-wood started sprouting twigs.’

  ‘Oh dear. Listen. That’s our flight, I think.’

  They gathered their things together and made for the departure gate.

  ‘And what did James say?’ asked Janet.

  ‘Don’t know. I left him a note too,’ said Trudi.

  ‘Oh. What did you say?’

  ‘Not much. I told him where I was going, and why, and when I expected to be back.’

  Janet said no more till they were seated, belted, and extinguished, and taxi-ing along the runway.

  ‘You’re living dangerously, you realize that, I hope. He won’t wait around for ever. How long will you keep him waiting?’