Justin went all over the house looking for his mother, but she was not in her bedroom, nor her studio, nor the kitchen, nor her bathroom. He called her name in vain. She must have gone outside. He looked for her coat, the long loose black one with the hood which she often wore, and he could not see it. Was that what she’d had on today, going out to tea? He supposed so. Her bag was in the drawing-room. He opened it to look for money and found some coins and a five-pound note in her purse; she never had a lot as she spent anything she could spare on drink. He took two pound coins; she wouldn’t miss them. Where could she be? He’d go and see if Cat knew.
He didn’t notice the broken glass by the French window, where Alan, after entering, had pulled the curtain across to close out the night. Alan and Steve had both left by the front door. Justin walked towards Richard’s workshop.
‘Cat – where’s Mum?’ he called, and had to repeat his question several times before his stepfather took any notice.
‘I don’t know,’ was all he said, when at last he bothered to respond.
Justin went off, fuming. How dare he stay in there, locked in, all smug and toffee-nosed when Mum was miserable? Anyone could see that she was sad, the way she drank and flew into her tempers. She wouldn’t do it if she was happy. He blamed Cat for everything.
He went back to the house and checked again that his mother was not there. Then he fetched an empty bottle from the box by the back door; there were always plenty of them around – his mother’s gin and vodka bottles. He took it to the garage. There was petrol there. Cat kept a can in the boot of his car; he’d had one on the day he rescued Mum, though a flat tyre was the problem then.
He poured some petrol into the bottle and found a piece of rag which he stuffed in the top. He had to go back into the house to get some matches, but then he set off down the garden once again. With Cat gone, they’d be happy, him and Mum and Terry.
Justin’s homemade bomb backfired on him, flaring as he lit it, catching petrol droplets which had fallen on his clothes, exploding into flames as he tried to throw it through the window of the workshop.
24
Richard put the flames out, beating at Justin with his bare hands and rolling the boy on the ground. Justin’s anorak was still damp despite its sojourn in Ivy’s warm house, and its smouldering was soon extinguished, but his jeans, where petrol had dripped on to the denim, had scorched, and he was very badly burned. His screams had turned to whimpers when Richard, not daring to move him, covered him with his own jacket and hurried to the house to telephone for help.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, Justin,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to call an ambulance.’
Terry, his music turned up loud, had not heard the noise of the exploding bottle. Now he was vaguely aware of a door banging and disturbance in the house but he took no notice until Richard burst into the room.
‘Turn that noise off and go and fetch your mother,’ Richard, who had already telephoned, shouted at him, reaching out to Terry’s music system, only to have Terry turn into a fiend, snatching at his hand. ‘There’s been an accident. Justin’s badly burned. Find your mother, and when the ambulance comes, send them to the workshop. I’m going back to Justin. Come on, Terry,’ he ordered. ‘Get going. This is serious.’ He rushed out of the room again, leaving Terry staring after him, horrified.
Richard, back beside the injured boy, did not know how to help him. He knelt beside him, stroking his damp hair and talking to him, assuring him that the ambulance would soon arrive. Justin was crying with shock as much as pain. To both of them, it seemed hours before they heard the siren and saw lights approaching over the garden.
As the paramedics bent over Justin, Richard rose.
‘I don’t know where his mother is. I’ll go and find her,’ he said. Had Terry even looked for her?
Walking back towards the house, he saw the boy, illuminated by the outside lights, standing in the garden. He looked small and shrunken, but Richard had no time for sympathy.
‘Haven’t you found your mother?’ he called out. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s not in the house,’ said Terry. He was coatless, arms clutched across him, teeth chattering in the cold. ‘Is Justin dead?’
‘No, of course not. He’ll be all right,’ said Richard. ‘He must have been messing about with some petrol. It’s very dangerous stuff. I’ll find Verity. You get inside and keep warm.’
He went indoors and ran all over the house, into every room, calling Verity by name but, as Terry had said, she was not there. After she’d battered at the workshop door, she must have gone storming off into the night. Had she crossed the fence and gone over the fields, where the river was in flood? He knew that the boys had made themselves a crossing point and that she used it too. Stumbling over the flooded fields in darkness was foolhardy, but at the moment she must take her chance; he would have to go with Justin to the hospital.
He went back to the team working with Terry in the garden. They had him on a stretcher now and were ready to take him to the ambulance.
‘We can’t tell how bad he is until we get him into casualty,’ said one of the crew. ‘He’s very shocked. How did it happen?’
‘I’m not sure what he was doing but I think he’d got some petrol in a bottle.’ Richard had scrunched his knee on broken glass when crouching by the boy. ‘There was a bang – a flash – almost an explosion. I was in my workshop and came out at once.’ He nodded at the shed.
‘Lucky you were near,’ was the comment. ‘We’ll get on, then.’
‘I can’t find his mother,’ Richard said. ‘She’s out somewhere. I’ll leave her a message and come with you.’
‘Follow us in your car,’ he was advised. ‘There’s the other boy to think of, isn’t there? And you’ll need to get back, later. I guess we’ll be keeping Justin.’ They had asked the boy’s name and used it, talking to him reassuringly. ‘Maybe you could get a neighbour in,’ the paramedic added.
‘All right.’ Richard saw the sense of this. ‘Tell Justin I’m on my way and that his mother will be coming.’ If he could find her quickly, he could take her. Whatever she was up to, would she be fit to drive herself if she came later? She could take a taxi. He’d suggest it in his note.
When Justin had been taken away, he went into the house to write it. Terry was in the drawing-room.
‘We’ve been robbed,’ he said. ‘Look – the window’s broken and the video’s gone.’
Richard almost didn’t comprehend what Terry said: then he saw the broken window pane and the gap where the video recorder had slotted in on a shelf under the television set.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Well, it will have to wait. I can’t deal with that now.’
‘Perhaps the burglar set Justin on fire,’ said Terry.
‘I don’t think so,’ Richard said. ‘Where do you think your mother is? I’ll have to go to the hospital.’
‘Don’t leave me here on my own,’ said Terry, sniffing. ‘The burglar might come back and get me.’
‘He won’t,’ said Richard. ‘He’ll be busy hiding what he’s taken, or selling it to someone.’ There was no time to look around to see what else was missing. ‘All right. Get a coat. I’m writing a note for your mother.’
Composing it, and writing down the number of the taxi firm, he grew calmer. Delay here would make no difference to Justin, who was in good hands. He stuck the Post-It note to the fridge door, where, in the days when communications had been easier, messages were left. Sooner or later, everyone went to the fridge. Then he remembered the ambulance attendant’s suggestion about a neighbour. Miss Darwin might try ringing Verity at intervals, or might even come to the house and be there when she came home.
He dialled her number but got no reply. He glanced at his watch: it was nearly eight o’clock. So late! Verity must have been roaming round for more than two hours. Miss Darwin had said nothing, that afternoon, about going out later, but then, why should she? For all he knew, she had made a lot of friends and h
ad a busy social life. He could try ringing her again from the hospital.
Before leaving, he decided to telephone the police. They must be told about the burglary, following so soon after The Willows had been robbed. The thief had not attacked Justin, however; Richard had a shrewd idea of what had really happened and the hatred it revealed horrified him.
It took a little time to get the information through, because Haverscot police station had closed for the night, but eventually a voice told Richard that an officer would find him at the hospital. He mentioned that his wife, the boy’s mother, could not be found and agreed it was too soon to consider her a missing person.
Then he left the house, not locking up because Verity might not have a key and anyway, with a broken window, why bother? Despite his comforting words to Terry, Richard thought it possible for the thief to be lurking in the bushes, waiting to get in a second time and take what he had left behind earlier.
At the moment, Richard did not care. He stopped the car in the drive, however, and went back to lock up his workshop, with its array of tools, some of which could be used as lethal weapons.
Terry, strapped into the front passenger seat, leaned slightly towards his stepfather as they drove to Radbury Hospital. Every now and then he sniffed, and Richard managed not to tell him to blow his nose. When they reached the hospital and had found a parking slot, he reached into the car for a box of tissues and gave Terry a handful.
‘Stick them in your pocket,’ he said.
Terry did so, sniffing on.
Richard tried the telephone again, half an hour later. There was no reply from Merrifields, but this time The Willows’ line was engaged. Richard now became seriously concerned about Verity. Wouldn’t she have rung the hospital before driving over, if she ignored his advice about taking a taxi? Perhaps she had crashed her car. Various scenarios, all equally alarming, ran through his mind as he returned to Terry and decided that both of them needed food. After they’d tracked some down within the hospital, there might be firm news about Justin’s condition and perhaps they would be allowed to see him. However, before that could happen, the police came. Richard described the sudden flash when he was in his workshop, and how he went outside to find Justin screaming on the ground. He explained about the burglary, which he and Terry had discovered only later.
It seemed that other officers had already gone to Merrifields; arson was a serious crime and there had been several incidents in the area, notably the recent burning of a barn where youths were suspected of having set it alight. Specialists would want to discover exactly what had happened outside Richard’s workshop, and what Justin had planned to do.
They would succeed, too, Richard thought, but that was of academic importance at the moment.
The police officer said he would get on to his colleagues at Haverscot to see if Verity had returned. While he was talking to them in a quiet corner of the hospital, a nurse said that Richard and Terry could see Justin. His burns were serious, especially those on his legs and his hands, but he would survive.
Richard propelled Terry ahead of him into the cubicle where Justin, not yet allocated to a ward, lay. His face was scorched, and tufts of his hair were singed. He did not look at Richard.
‘You’ll feel better soon,’ Richard said, encouragingly.
‘It’s all your fault.’ Justin, sedated, spoke in a feeble growl.
Richard knew then that his suspicions were correct: Justin’s fiery bomb had been meant for him, with serious intent, if not to kill. He felt a shaft like ice pierce him.
‘Did the burglar do it?’ Terry asked. ‘Did you see him?’
Justin did not understand what he was saying. All he knew was that his body had become a mass of scorching pain and Richard, as always, was to blame.
‘I want Mum,’ he croaked.
‘She’ll be here soon,’ said Richard.
At this point, a nurse told them they must go.
‘Your dad can come and see you again soon, and he’ll bring your mum,’ she said.
‘He’s not my dad,’ Richard heard Justin say in a sudden loud, clear voice, as he turned away. He did not look back, taking Terry with him, holding him by the sleeve of his jacket.
Outside, the police officer had no news of Verity, but there was evidence about what had caused Justin’s injuries and Richard was needed back at Merrifields. There was no point in him and Terry staying any longer at the hospital; they had supplied all the necessary information, and could be telephoned if there was any change in Justin’s condition. They drove home, with Terry very silent.
When they arrived, there was still no sign of Verity. Richard sent Terry off to have a bath and get ready for bed. Then he prepared to hear what the officers on the spot had to say.
They had found fragments of a bottle which had contained petrol, and a box of matches. There were wisps of burnt rag. It was thought that there would be prints on some of the glass and on the matchbox.
‘The lad lit it himself, I’m afraid,’ said the investigating Detective Inspector. At least the officers were not those who had come round after Terry’s escapade, thought Richard wearily. Now that he knew Justin was out of danger, it was Verity about whom he was concerned. Where could she be?
He expressed his anxiety and mentioned the burglary.
‘Ah yes – well, we’ve got some news for you about that,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve caught your thief. While we were on our way here, we met a young lad with two pillow slips full of stuff whose possession he couldn’t satisfactorily explain. He’d a video and some jewellery and silver. We picked him out in the headlights.’ He smiled. ‘It was quite pleasing,’ he declared. ‘He’s a juvenile, so my colleagues are contacting his parents.’
‘If they’re ours, the postcode’s on the video, in that invisible ink you recommend,’ said Richard. ‘And we’ve got photographs of most of the jewellery and silver.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the inspector. ‘That’ll make identification of the property much easier.’
‘But what about my wife?’ pressed Richard. ‘She was in a state. We’d had a row.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m thinking of the river. It’s in flood. She might have fallen in and been swept away.’ He paused, then continued, ‘She came banging on my workshop door and I took no notice. I’m afraid I’d had it up to here,’ he added, gesturing.
‘We can’t do much till daylight,’ said the inspector. ‘We’ll use lights and dogs along the riverside, just in case. But she’s probably gone round to a friend’s, just to give you a fright, if you’d had words.’ Poor guy, he thought; a row with the wife and a wild kid trying to torch his workshop.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Richard said. Then he remembered Terry. ‘Oh – I suppose I can’t leave my other stepson on his own.’ What could he do? Would Miss Darwin come round?
‘We’ll get a woman officer over to keep an eye on him,’ said the inspector. ‘You probably know the fields beside the river quite well – your local knowledge will be helpful to us.’
It looked like being quite a night.
25
Alan was sitting in his old room at The Willows.
Before him was an open book: Coot Club, with his mother’s inscription on the flyleaf.
It was his property. So was everything that had been in this room. Even if his father – Tom – had left him nothing in his will, surely all that had been in here, the books and furniture and his posters, rightfully belonged to him? They should have been restored, now that he was free.
Unseeingly, he turned the pages of the book. He had enjoyed the series when he was a boy, and his parents, anxious to occupy an only child, had sent him on a sailing course at a centre geared to youngsters, but he hadn’t liked the cold and wet when his boat capsized. He’d never liked discomfort and he’d had more than enough of it in recent years. This house, compared with his rented flat, was luxurious: now that the old girl was dead, why shouldn’t he move in until Mick got out?
He could
n’t, without other clothes. He couldn’t stay in these dirty blood-stained things. When he’d buried her, he’d have to get back to the flat and change. Sitting there on the floor, he was still consumed with rage: the woman who had bought this place had bundled up his stuff, got rid of everything, expunged his past, and he resented it. If he hadn’t already killed her, he’d have certainly set up a plan to do it now.
From somewhere in the house, he heard the telephone start ringing. On and on it went, the sound shrilling in his ears. When at last it stopped, he crossed the landing to the main bedroom where there was an extension and, snatching at the handset, took it off the hook and let it dangle. Now, anyone ringing up the old woman would just think that she was chattering away. He didn’t want people to come looking for her, but when he and Mick had robbed their bank and left the country, anyone could call.
He looked around the bedroom which had been his mother’s: Tom’s too, of course, but that didn’t count. Though it contained different furniture and the curtains were now blue, printed with yellow flowers, instead of his mother’s mushroom-pink, patterned with daisies, there was a similarity to it, and he was unable to make himself do what he really wanted: tear the place apart, smash the mirrors, foul the bed linen.
Mick might enjoy a few nights here – it would impress him if Alan laid it on; there’d be respect. He could sort things out in the morning – bury the body in daylight when he could see what he was doing, then go back to the flat and get some clothes.
But he ought to make the trip to Reading in darkness, so that no one could see the state that he was in.
Undecided, he went downstairs for some more whisky, filling the tumbler, splashing in only a little water. He took it back upstairs to the room where he had played music, made his models, sulked throughout his youth. He finished the sandwiches, eyes still on the book which Mark had recently enjoyed. He did not hear the front door open, quietly.
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