Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  She hung her head. ‘That’s what Richard said,’ she mumbled. And maybe, she thought, Richard had been right. About everything.

  Abbott glanced towards the kitchen, where Tim had taken Adrian for questioning. ‘What else did Mr Hendricks have to say about Mr Brevitt?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Tess would have stamped her foot if she had been wearing shoes instead of slippers. ‘And I don’t care. I just want my son back, safe and sound.’ Tears of fear and frustration again overflowed, but she paid no attention to them – her entire concentration was on Abbott, willing him to make Max re-appear.

  John Soame put his arm around her, reassuringly. ‘The search is going on right now, believe me. The police are doing everything they can in that direction, leaving us free to look in other directions. There have been these threats and the break-ins, Max has been upset and having nightmares – there may be some connection there that will give us a lead. He may know something without realizing it, and so might you. Chief Inspector Abbott is only trying to find it.’

  ‘Well, he’s looking in the wrong direction if he thinks Adrian is behind it,’ Tess said, standing up and shrugging Soame’s arm away from her shoulders. She had no time for sympathy now – she didn’t deserve it. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to Max? Why hadn’t she seen the danger?

  Abbott was looking out of the bay window at the front. At the kerb stood two police cars, the men inside acting as co-ordinators for the various search parties. Neighbours, at first limiting themselves to peering around the edges of curtains, were now standing around openly staring, talking to one another, pointing, nodding or shaking their heads. The streetlights had come on, adding a false yellow glow to the scene. Condensation dripped from the trees in the gardens on the opposite side of the road, and the fog seemed even thicker than before, blurring the houses, obliterating the ends of the crescent.

  ‘There’s been some question concerning Mr Brevitt’s circle of friends,’ Abbott said, slowly, turning back to face Tess. ‘He attends parties where cocaine is available—’

  Tess sighed. ‘So do half the people in London, it seems to me,’ she said. ‘Coke is the latest in-sin for the soft-headed. People who can afford interior decorators can also afford cocaine. Naturally they come in contact, but that doesn’t mean that Adrian—’

  ‘See here, am I under arrest?’ came Adrian’s voice. He stood in the archway, hands on hips, glaring at Abbott. Nightingale stood behind him, looking frustrated. ‘If so, I demand to see my solicitor immediately. If not, I refuse to sit in that kitchen any longer to be glowered at by your sergeant here and that gorgon in the chintz apron. Tess, my dear, my poor dear—’ He swept across the room and took her hands. ‘Have they found our wandering boy, yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Adrian,’ Tess said, thinly.

  John looked at him in some exasperation. ‘By the way, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  Adrian took a deep, dramatic breath. ‘I have not been everywhere. I have been somewhere, which is quite a different thing. And Max is somewhere, too.’ He whirled on Nightingale. ‘Get out of here, young man. Climb on to your white steed and comb the byways for that innocent child. Whatever interest you have in me can wait. I shall wait, as a matter of fact, until Max is found and restored to his mother’s arms.’

  Adrian went over to the rocking chair and sat himself elegantly down, crossing one knife-creased trouser leg over the other and placing both hands on the top of his silver-headed cane. After a moment he raised one hand in a fluttering, scattering motion. ‘Get on with it, get on with it,’ he directed grandly.

  ‘Adrian—’ John began.

  Adrian fixed his ex-brother-in-law with a sceptical eye. ‘I should have thought you had sufficient experience in dealing with students to keep track of one rather small one, John.’

  ‘He was at Scotland Yard,’ Tess said.

  ‘Oh?’ Adrian looked at John with interest. ‘And what were you doing there?’

  ‘I was looking into the activities of an imported crook called Kobalski,’ Soame told him.

  ‘Also known as Archie McMurdo,’ Nightingale volunteered.

  Adrian glanced from one to the other. He looked suddenly crestfallen, and much, much older. ‘Oh,’ he said, in a small voice. ‘So you know about him.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tess had retreated to the kitchen to drink coffee, away from the questioning, and, more importantly, away from the temptation of the stairs that led upward to her bed and oblivion. She had only been there a few minutes, it seemed, when the door crashed back and Richard Hendricks strode in.

  Tess flew into his arms, and clung to him, all ambitions to be independent lost in the terror of what might be happening to her child. ‘Oh, Richard, Max is gone . . .’

  He held her close. ‘It will be all right, Tess. I promise, it will be all right. I’ll make sure they find Max, I’ll look after you both from now on . . . don’t fret, love. Don’t fret.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ snorted Mrs Grimble. She began banging pots and pans about, but she kept glancing over her shoulder at him. She didn’t seem able to decide whether to smile or sneer.

  Tess stood quietly while he whispered reassuring phrases into her hair and patted her over and over again. She was grateful to be encircled with care and love, if only for a minute or two. She was still there, her face blank and her eyes closed, when the kitchen door swung back again, and John Soame came in. He glanced at the pair of them, but his face remained as blank as Tess’s.

  ‘Hendricks, the police would like to talk to you,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Richard relinquished his hold on Tess. ‘Running errands for them, now, are you? If they knew what I know about you, they might not be so trusting.’

  ‘They know all they need to know about me,’ Soame said.

  ‘Oh, really? I wonder.’ Richard’s tone was threatening. Soame’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing, just stood holding the door open, waiting.

  Richard turned to Tess. ‘I won’t be far away, my love. Don’t be afraid. I’m certain we’ll find him soon.’ He gave John a malignant glance, and then walked out.

  ‘Going out looking himself, is he?’ Mrs Grimble asked the cooker. ‘Get his expensive shoes dirty? Not likely.’ Soame cleared his throat and spoke to Tess, who was standing where Richard had left her, as if she had no more will of her own, not even enough to sit down again at the kitchen table and finish her half-drunk mug of coffee.

  ‘Why don’t you take just ten minutes, Tess?’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Even ten minutes’ rest will do you some good.’

  ‘He’s right, for once,’ Mrs Grimble agreed, grudgingly. While she was desperately worried about Max, she was also a practical woman and accepted that others could search better than she. Her concern here and now was Tess. ‘I’ll come up and get you the minute we hear anything, I promise you that. Anything at all. You can trust me.’ She put a hand on Tess’s arm. ‘Go on, lovey. Do as he says.’

  When Tess spoke it was in a dead, empty voice. ‘What is Adrian saying now?’ she asked, tonelessly, her eyes looking between them at the blue and white porcelain jelly moulds arranged on the wall beside the door.

  ‘Still nothing. He just sits there, glaring at them. He says he’s waiting for his godson and his solicitor, in that order.’ ‘Oh.’ She reached up and rubbed her temples with vague irritation, as if something within annoyed her. ‘Why won’t he speak?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ John said, helplessly. ‘I’ve never seen him like this before.’

  ‘It is an unusual situation,’ Tess said, in an oddly formal tone, like a newsreader giving the latest headlines, or a teacher instructing recalcitrant students. ‘None of us have been like this before.’ She walked past him, down the hall, and up the stairs. She did not even glance into the sitting-room, where Abbott was talking to Richard and
Nightingale was looming over Adrian, apparently trying to intimidate him by telepathy.

  Soame and Mrs Grimble watched Tess ascending the stairs, as stiff and erect as a model in a fashion show, her face blank, her throat taut above the turned-in collar of the old chenille robe. When she had disappeared, they looked at one another. ‘She’s going to crack soon,’ Mrs Grimble said.

  ‘I know,’ Soame said. ‘I know.’

  ‘Why haven’t you put Soame in a cell?’ Richard Hendricks demanded.

  ‘Because we have no evidence of his committing any crime,’ Abbott said. ‘No reason to bring a charge.’

  ‘I can give you evidence,’ Richard snapped, reaching into his inside coat pocket and producing a thick envelope. ‘He’s a psycho. It’s all in here.’ He handed it to Abbott, who gave a quick glance at the name in the corner, and put it into his pocket.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Richard asked, annoyed that his offering was being ignored.

  ‘At the moment, my main concern is for the boy,’ Abbott said. ‘Have you any idea where he might be?’

  Richard flushed. ‘Why should I? Despite my best efforts, I don’t know him well. I don’t know his friends or his habits or—’

  ‘I thought you were planning to be his stepfather,’ Abbott interrupted.

  ‘I have asked Tess to marry me, yes,’ Richard said.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven, what a prospect,’ Adrian muttered.

  Hendricks glared at him. ‘It has damn all to do with you, you old poof.’

  Adrian took this calmly. ‘He is my godson,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know a man who calls himself Archie McMurdo?’ Nightingale asked Hendricks. ‘Or Kobalski?’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ Hendricks said, over his shoulder, still concentrating on Adrian Brevitt. ‘If he is your godson, and I do marry Tess, I shall have you exorcised, or whatever it is they do to sever an unsuitable godparent.’

  Adrian managed a smile. ‘The bishop will hear of this, do you mean? I am terrified, absolutely beside myself.’

  ‘Mr Hendricks,’ Abbott said, loudly, before further fighting broke out. ‘I want to know more about Roger Leland.’

  Hendricks turned back, slowly. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Why was he upset just before he died?’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘Philadelphia Mutual did. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten the fight you put up for your half-million pound payout? A payout, I might add, that Mrs Leland apparently knew nothing about and did not benefit from in any way.’

  Hendricks went white, then bright pink, then white again. ‘That was a straightforward business arrangement, it had only to do with the partnership. I did nothing wrong, it was all—’

  ‘Half a million?’ Adrian Brevitt said, standing up so suddenly that Nightingale nearly fell over. ‘Do you mean to say you were paid half a million pounds in insurance when Roger died? And you let Tess suffer, let the boy suffer . . . ’

  Hendricks turned on him. ‘It had nothing to do with them,’ he said, biting off the words. ‘It was a perfectly standard business arrangement. As to letting them “suffer” – I have repeatedly offered to marry Tess. I’ve also begged her to let me look after her and the boy, but she has always refused my help and my money, by the way, which was also offered freely and frequently. For some reason, she was determined to survive on her own – she’s a very stubborn girl. And she was encouraged to do it, no matter what the consequences.’ He glared at Adrian, and Soame, then turned back to Abbott. ‘I’m not ashamed of taking that insurance settlement. I paid heavily enough in premiums over the years, and so did Roger. If I had died in a car crash instead of him, he would have done with the money exactly what I did – used it for business purposes.’

  ‘And you’re a very good businessman,’ Abbott said. Hendricks drew himself up. ‘Yes, I am, damn it. I don’t see why I should be pilloried for it. Tess had insurance—’

  ‘A pathetic five thousand pounds,’ Soame said, abruptly. ‘And bills to pay out of it.’

  Richard’s glance went to him, and his lip curled. ‘Well, you know all about having bills to pay, don’t you? You know all about being in debt, don’t you, Professor Soame?’

  ‘I am not a full professor,’ Soame said, evenly. ‘I do not claim to be.’

  ‘And you never will be, with your history—’

  ‘This is not relevant,’ Abbott said, loudly.

  But Hendricks was in full, self-defensive flow. Allowed back into the situation by Tess’s apparent capitulation and gratitude, he spoke with authority. ‘As for Tess suffering, I could hardly call living in this house suf—’ He stopped and seemed to glance around for the first time. ‘What on earth has happened here?’ he demanded, in some dismay. ‘Is Tess redecorating?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Hendricks?’ Adrian said. ‘Not to your taste?’

  Tess sat down on the bed, but she did not lie down. Instead she folded her hands in her lap and gazed at them. They looked old, like her mother’s hands. When she flexed her fingers the skin on the back of them became marked with hundreds of tiny lines – a phenomenon she hadn’t noticed before. After a moment her glance travelled down to her slippered feet. She saw that a thread had begun to come loose around the appliquéed flower that adorned each scuffed toe. There was a star-shaped asterisk just above her ankle bone where a capillary had burst during her pregnancy. Her feet and ankles looked white, like those of a person in hospital. She felt white all over, drained and parched and almost weightless. Moving her body – in the interest of purely scientific enquiry – she found her joints were slippy and moved unpredictably. It was disconcerting. She felt she was held together by taut and tangled wires, she would not have been surprised to have her head drop into her lap and turn to grin up at her, or to see her kneecaps slide slowly down her legs and roll like empty teacups onto the floor.

  She waited quite patiently for everything in her to unsnap, unbuckle, fly apart into every corner of the room like an overwound watch flinging itself into spare parts.

  When nothing of the sort happened, she stood up and got dressed.

  THIRTY

  The street stretched before her, long and diminishing to invisibility between the grey curtains of the fog. On her right, in the vast and silent expanse of the park, the sentinel trees loomed dark and motionless, their outlines blurred by the twisting skeins of the fog. The fog, the fog – damp against her face, betrayer of light and sound, clammy fingers sliding down her throat, encircling her legs and hands, muffling the scream she could not, would not utter.

  She had waited at the top of the stairs, listening to them all talking, arguing, wrangling downstairs. They all sounded so angry. Doors crashed open and slammed shut, voices rose and fell – and what good was it doing? What point did it have? All that mattered was Max.

  When the moment had come, it had come quickly, without warning, and she had lost a precious second or two in realizing that Mrs Grimble had gone into the sitting-room with coffee, and had thoughtfully closed the sliding doors behind her. Down the stairs, through the hall and kitchen, out the back door and through the garden gate: the way Max had gone.

  Just to be away, to be moving, to be doing something was better than lying on her bed, wide-eyed, pretending to rest when there was no rest to be had, pretending to be passive and good when she was filled with rage. No. Her head throbbed with each step, but she just dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat and went on.

  Such a long street. How strangely empty it seemed. And then the next street, and the next. Empty? Or were there footsteps following? She turned once, twice, three times – but there was never anyone there. Perhaps it was her own footsteps she heard, held high in the fog and then dropped, gritty, furtive, faster and faster, like scuttling rats gathering behind her.

  But no shadows moved there, high or low.


  Only one car, at the far end of the street, a moment of motion, a glitter, a hum, and then only the blank, dank, unembroidered hanging of the fog. She shivered and went on.

  All around there seemed to be a low thrumming, the sounds of the city wound together into one steady purr, a perfectly level harmonic pierced now and again by the stab of a car horn, the rumble of a Tube train emerging momentarily into the open, the snap of a twig, or the disconsolate chirp of some stranded bird clinging to a branch or chimney, caught high over invisible ground.

  She turned corners, moving instinctively, imagining herself a ten-year-old boy and going – where? Now the street was a narrower one, the next narrower still. Away from the park the buildings diminished, becoming more and more mean, frowning closer and closer to the pavement, crowding in on her.

  How dead the houses seemed. As if no-one lived within, had ever lived or moved in those rooms, looked out of those windows, tended those small squares of garden. The fog hung them all with cobwebs, like Miss Havisham’s room, caught and suspended in time. This strange little street was as silent as the rest she had passed along – as if everyone in London was elsewhere, attending some celebration or party to which she hadn’t been invited.

  Now she realized where she was heading. At the far end of this street there was a cul-de-sac containing a line of derelict buildings that had always fascinated Max. She’d mentioned them to the police and they’d added them to their list of special haunts. Perhaps the police had already been there, found nothing, and gone on. Perhaps it was pointless to hope, but she was determined to find out for herself. Max had been told never to go into the houses, but he’d been so odd lately, so moody and strange. Maybe he’d just been sick of being cooped up. Maybe it was just defiance. Maybe she would find him exploring the empty rooms, full of his own mischief.

  She prayed for a naughty child.

  A living, laughing, naughty child.

  She looked at her watch. Nearly five o’clock, and the day was darkening. It would probably be pitch-dark in those houses. The street-lamps were only creating useless pools of sickly light, deepening the shadows in between, so that her progress was stroboscopic. She visualized herself flickering on, off, on, off. She slowed, hearing again that odd echo of footsteps, and whirled around. Nobody, nothing. Just the empty street hung with misty curtains and, far away, the hum of the growing rush hour.