Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘As if I wouldn’t,’ sniffed Mrs Grimble, reaching for a potato. ‘I’ll be right here if you need me,’ she said, meaningfully, and waved the knife in a vaguely menacing manner.

  Tess went down the long dark hall and opened the front door, expecting the worst. For a moment she thought she had got it.

  On the top step stood an angular man in a wrinkled tweed suit. He had a mac over one arm and a bulging briefcase in his free hand. Someone seemed to have been holding a party in his jacket pockets, and from their shape there was still a lot of clearing up to do in there. His features were somewhat obscured by heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Soame,’ he announced. When she didn’t reply, he seemed to shrink slightly. ‘You were expecting me, weren’t you? I’m almost certain we settled on Tuesday . . . ’ His voice was hesitant and, despite his height, he seemed ready to bolt if Tess showed the least sign of disapproval.

  ‘Of course we did.’

  He rewarded her, or himself, with a sudden half-moon smile. For a moment Tess was reminded of the young Alec Guinness, and involuntarily smiled back. ‘Come in,’ she told him, and stepped back. He followed her down the dark hall and into the sitting-room. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ She indicated the battered old sofa that sat like an elderly camel in the bay window. He perched on the edge of it rather warily, putting his brief-case down on the floor beside him and then – after jabbing it first towards the side table and then the coffee-table and then the lamp – he put his rather forlorn tweed hat on the cushion beside him. He seemed so ill at ease that Tess began to feel nervous, too.

  ‘Would you like a drink or something?’

  ‘I don’t drink much,’ he said apologetically. ‘Wine with meals, occasionally, but nothing . . . ’ He stopped himself and took a breath. ‘Coffee would be very nice, though, if you had planned to make some for yourself, that is. There’s rather a chilly wind outside and I walked from the tube station, not realizing it was quite so far . . . ’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Of course, it won’t take a minute.’

  Tess fled to the kitchen, where Mrs Grimble was glowering behind the door, knife in hand. She’d obviously been playing Peeping Tom through the crack. ‘I’m not leaving, don’t you worry,’ the older woman muttered, ominously. ‘He’s big.’

  ‘He’s also scared stiff, if you ask me,’ Tess said, plugging in the kettle.

  ‘Hmmmph,’ Mrs Grimble said. ‘That’s just you being soft, as usual. And what’s he been doing with that hat I want to know? Looks like someone sat on it.’

  ‘He probably did,’ Tess said. ‘Poor lamb.’

  Mrs Grimble snorted. ‘You just remember what can be inside sheep’s clothing, young lady. Don’t be fooled by all that pardon my toe in your eye and pass the marmalade. I think he looks loony.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Tess said, pouring boiling water onto the instant coffee powder she’d spooned into mugs – three mugs, not forgetting Mrs Grimble, who had an insatiable thirst.

  ‘Don’t tell me nonsense, because I read the papers. It’s the meek ones that go berserk and chop people up,’ Mrs Grimble said briskly, coming across to pick up her coffee, but not relinquishing the paring knife, which she dropped into her apron pocket. ‘I’ll be right here. Listening to his every cunning word.’

  Tess returned to the sitting room with the coffee, much entertained by Mrs Grimble’s suspicions. She found John Soame still perched on the sofa, absent-mindedly rubbing one knee over and over again as he looked around the room in a bemused fashion. Tess followed his glance, and understood his puzzlement. The rather nice wallpaper was loose in two corners near the ceiling, due to damp, and in several places above the wainscoting it still bore faint traces of Max’s infant experiments with crayons. The curtains in the bay window were newish, but clashed terribly with the faded carpet – she’d been shopping for its replacement on the very day Roger had been killed. She hadn’t had the heart – or the money – to complete her mission since.

  The furniture was a mixture of solid old pieces she’d picked up at various auctions and sales. She’d stripped and renovated them as they came along, always in a hurry, always with a new colour scheme in mind, and always intending to redo everything to match – one day. The entire effect was more that of a room created by a near-sighted colour-blind junk dealer than a highly trained artist and experienced interior decorator.

  ‘You know the tale of the cobbler’s children, don’t you?’ she said. ‘The same thing applies here. This is the place I have always meant to make wonderful, but I never seem to find the time to do it.’

  Soame shook his head. ‘Actually, if I were rich, I would commission you to create one just like it for me.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I am. You see, when Adrian said you were an interior decorator, I thought it would be so perfect that I’d be afraid to sit down.’ He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘I tend to spill things.’

  ‘So I see,’ Tess smiled, as a few drops of coffee escaped his mug and disappeared into the carpet.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, jerking it back so quickly that even more spattered out, this time hitting both his knee and the sofa. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he muttered, brushing ineffectually at the spots.

  If I don’t do something to distract him, he’s going to fall apart at the seams, she thought. Leaning down, she picked up the black and white quilt she was working on and began to stitch.

  ‘That’s very attractive,’ Mr Soame said.

  ‘It’s called a Widow’s Quilt,’ Tess said. ‘It’s a traditional American pattern: always black and white, and always made to fit a single bed. I believe the theory is that by the time you’ve finished it, the worst of your grief is over.’

  ‘And will it be?’

  The needle slipped. ‘Damn.’

  She saw that he looked stricken. ‘The worst of it is over already,’ she assured him. ‘I just jabbed my thumb, that’s all. I do it frequently. Whatever I sew always has my blood on it, one way or another. I find patchwork very soothing, hand-quilting even more so. But this particular pattern is a bit boring, I must say. I don’t know what made me start it.’

  But she did know. It was a penance for all the wicked thoughts she’d had towards Roger since his death. Not being Catholic, and confession not being available to her, she had found her own punishment – the sewing of this damned quilt.

  There were many examples of her handiwork around the house, covering all the beds, hanging on the walls, even curtaining the downstairs cloakroom. But those patchwork pieces were bright and vibrant, done to her own designs. Working this traditional quilt was monotonous, and dull, and she was determined to finish it, even if it killed her.

  ‘Are the black arrows supposed to represent something?’ Soame asked. ‘Or are they your own creation?’

  ‘Oh, they’re traditional, too. They’re called the Darts of Death.’ And they are many, she thought. They cause the wounds that come after: longing, loneliness, frustration, remorse, reproach, resentment, rage, the constant wish to live the time over and repair the wrongs of the past, the bitter knowledge that such a wish will not be granted. A widow’s mite. A widow’s pillory.

  ‘I see,’ he said, quietly. And, remembering belatedly that he was himself a widower, she thought perhaps he did. He watched her for a minute, then looked around the room again.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked, deciding she could stand it no longer. He was making her nervous, too. Working the quilt wasn’t helping, and neither was the coffee.

  He gazed at her through the heavy-rimmed lenses and spoke with utter sincerity. ‘I have faced many things, Mrs Leland, but none of them compare with the prospect of pleasing a small boy and his mother with my somewhat limited teaching credentials.’

  ‘I’d hardly call them limited,’ Tess protested. ‘Of course, Adrian told me about your research and why
you need to be in London for the next twelve months. Did he also explain my situation to you?’

  He nodded vigorously, causing his glasses to slide down his nose. He peered at her over them. ‘Oh, yes. Adrian said you need a combination tutor and baby-sitter.’ He flushed slightly, and rushed on. ‘As for me, all I require is peace and quiet, a place to sleep, and a large table on which to lay out my reference books. At present I am in a bed and breakfast hotel which is on a very busy street. I’m not very happy there. Most of the other inhabitants seem to be foreigners on holiday. All very jolly, of course, but they are constantly asking for directions which I cannot give, or translations which I cannot make. The very few permanent residents all seem to be subject to fits. There is usually someone shouting, or crying, or falling down the stairs.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Tess said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve only been there a week, mind. It could have been an unusual seven days for them, I suppose.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘In the place I stayed before that, someone deliberately set fire to the dining-room.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Yes.’ He reflected. ‘I think it was out of pique, really, the bacon was always burnt, so why not everything else?’

  ‘Why not, indeed?’ Tess said, faintly.

  He warmed to his refrain. ‘On another memorable occasion there was a fistfight between two very large and angry women at three in the morning. I got a black eye trying to separate them – they both turned on me, you see. People will do that.’ He sighed. ‘It is all so exhausting, and hardly conducive to serious study. In addition, London is proving to be very expensive and I’m not exactly wealthy at the moment, what with . . . one thing and another.’

  He paused, swallowed, and took off his glasses to polish them, oblivious to Tess’s efforts to keep a straight face. His eyes, thus revealed, proved to be dark blue and oddly unfocused, like an infant’s. She thought she recognized him at last – a fellow sufferer at the hands of wilful fate, one to whom things happened without warning, and without explanation.

  She’d heard there were natural victims, but until Roger’s death she had never considered herself in that category. Yet, for the past few months she had definitely been got at. She’d been burgled, for a start. And then there were the little things, like silent phone calls, people staring at her and then turning away, letters that looked like they’d been opened by someone else first, deliveries of things she hadn’t ordered, lost deliveries of things she had ordered. All petty, all ridiculous – probably just the vagaries of life in a big city – but unsettling.

  From the expression on Soame’s face, he too felt gnawed by the rats of misfortune.

  He sighed, replaced his glasses, and went on. ‘But all that’s neither here nor there.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you and I can come to some satisfactory mutual arrangement, it would be a great relief to me. Of course, I’d have to meet your son first.’

  Tess stiffened, defensively. ‘He’s a perfectly nice little boy,’ she said.

  Soame nodded. ‘I was thinking more of whether he would approve of me, actually.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She felt embarrassed at having misunderstood, and decided theirs was probably doomed to be a relationship of continuous mutual misapprehensions. She was already resigned to it. ‘Well, if you can spare the time, we can go up together the day after tomorrow to see him. I’ll pay for your ticket, of course. It’s not far out of London. I’m staying over, but there are plenty of trains back.’

  ‘Very kind,’ he said, quickly. ‘Very kind.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘How old is Max, by the way? Adrian probably told me but I can’t remember . . .’

  ‘He’s nine.’ She felt a stab of concern. ‘Won’t it be boring for you to teach a youngster after teaching university students?’

  He leaned sideways to put his empty mug down on the end table and gazed earnestly at her. ‘Mrs Leland, it would be sheer delight,’ he said. ‘That is, I assume he’s the usual kind of nine-year-old boy? No long hair, no beard, not given to beer-drinking contests, pot-smoking, arguing theories of genetics, demonstrating rugger tactics at four in the morning, making anarchistic plans for revolution, playing the guitar badly, or bringing aggressive feminist girlfriends to tutorials?’

  ‘Not so far,’ Tess grinned. ‘He collects stamps.’

  John Soame sighed deeply, leaned back, and produced again that engaging half-moon smile. ‘A proper boy,’ he said, in gratified tones. ‘I’ll take the job.’ Then he leaned forward, apparently startled by his own enthusiasm. ‘That is, if you’ll have me?’

  SEVEN

  Tim Nightingale leaned back in his chair and opened the notebook. Slowly and carefully, with déjà vu born of what felt like a thousand previous examinations of the same facts in the same file, he read over the information that had been accumulated by Ivor Peters.

  It didn’t take long.

  ‘Are we going out to lunch or staying in?’ It was Tom Murray, standing by his desk, looking harassed. ‘Because if we’re going out, we’d better get a move on or we’ll never get a table, and if we aren’t we’d better get a move on or all the decent food in the canteen will have been snapped up.’

  ‘That wouldn’t take long,’ Nightingale said, leaning down to put the notebook carefully into the bottom drawer of his desk, which he then locked. Murray raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You still crooning over that?’ he asked, in surprise.

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘It bothers me.’

  ‘Lately they all bother you,’ his friend said.

  ‘Only the ones that don’t make sense,’ Nightingale said, with a wry smile.

  They walked out of the office they shared with two other detectives and started down the hall. ‘But it was days ago,’ Tom protested, shrugging into his coat. ‘I thought Abbott told you to shelve it.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s still open,’ Nightingale said. ‘Still very much alive.’

  ‘Which is more than the old man is.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nightingale pushed the lift button and the indicator lit up, showing it was high above them. The light did not change. They glanced at one another and then turned and started for the stairs. As they clattered down, Nightingale spoke over his shoulder. ‘By the way, you didn’t see me looking at that file. It wasn’t there, all right?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The no – oh, right. Thanks.’

  ‘But I reserve the right to think you’re nuts.’

  They emerged from the stairwell and made for the street. A slight drizzle was misting down, and the prospect of the busy, grimy, soggy thoroughfare did not please.

  ‘God, I hate the city,’ Nightingale said, turning up the collar of his mac. ‘The only green thing I’ve seen lately is the mould on my last piece of bread when I got it out of the wrapper this morning.’

  ‘Country boy.’

  ‘So?’ Nightingale glanced at him. ‘I’m not ashamed of it. I grew up in beautiful surroundings, and I miss it. We weren’t rich, God knows, but we could look up and see hills and trees and sky. If an old man dropped dead there, people would be upset, people would want the thing explained, settled, tied up. Here, we do nothing but make a report, and then we have to shove it to the back of the shelf, because another one comes along. And another. They’re all human beings, they all deserve more than that. A little anger, at least.’

  ‘Which you seem to be supplying.’

  ‘Which I’m tired of supplying,’ Nightingale grumbled. They went out into the drizzle and made for the Italian restaurant they both favoured. The traffic moved slowly past them, tyres peeling stickily from the wet tarmac, windscreen wipers thunking in many rhythms. Windows were steamed because the drivers were complaining and cursing one another, their lips moving silently behind the misted glass. The gritty shuffle of pedestrians was the o
nly sound from the pavement. An occasional umbrella forced them to dodge or duck to one side, otherwise their progress was steady. Nobody wanted to linger outside any longer than they had to today.

  They reached the restaurant, went in, and were instantly enveloped in exotic aromas of pesto, tomato, garlic, cheese, and sharp red wine. Relayed softly through speakers placed with merciful discretion were Neapolitan love songs. There was one table left – the smallest one, of course, in the corner, where their elbows would knock the wall and waiters would constantly pass and mutter, but it would have to do.

  ‘What are you on at the moment?’ Nightingale asked, when they’d settled themselves as well as they could. ‘Still that camera shop break-in?’

  ‘Yes. Personally, I think it was the owner himself, looking for the insurance pay off, but I can’t make it out enough to hold up in court.’

  ‘Law’s old sweet song,’ Nightingale smiled. It was not a happy smile.

  ‘For the next hour let us forget our work,’ Tom suggested. ‘Let us wine and dine and talk of cabbages and kings.’

  Nightingale eyed him. ‘It’s beginning to get to you, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Everything. The city, the frustration, everything.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Maybe. But if you’re going to start in again about transferring to one of the Regions, forget it. I am not interested. I will never be interested. I am a city boy. Down today, up tomorrow – swings and roundabouts, that’s the way it goes. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘You could get used to hills and trees.’

  ‘And having to drive twenty miles to the nearest town to get a meal like we’re about to have? In fact, having to drive twenty miles to the nearest town to get everything? Forget it.’

  ‘I can’t forget it. I can’t forget anything.’

  Tom leaned forward and put on a German accent. ‘Dat is your trrrouble, Herr Nightingale, you cannot vorget anyting. Lie down on ze couch und tell me about zis compulllsion you have to valk in se hills vot are rrround like breasts, and see the trrees vot are tall and straight like—’