Only the Dead

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “I can see you need space. I’ll go now but I’ll come back in the morning. I’ll take the Audi if that’s OK.” Phillip’s sympathetic hand ran through Peter’s hair. “Don’t stay out too long it’s getting cold. Be brave and try to do what we’ve discussed, it’s the only way; it’s our light out of this darkness. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He bent and kissed his head. At that moment as if by magic the garden lights came on. Phillip went into the house and headed for the door. Jean was sitting patiently on a chair next to the small table. Phillip collected his bag and opened it before handing Jean a small parcel wrapped in oiled paper. Neither spoke, their eyes met only briefly but with full understanding. Jean in return handed Phillip the Audi keys.

  Peter heard the car start and the slight creak of the electric gate. He listened as the car travelled down the road. He watched its lights illuminate the trees as it progressed towards the coast until he could no longer hear it. His eyes turned back to the pool. He collected another lump of sugar and tossed it into the void. He neither saw it land nor heard the splash.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lawrence’s mood matched that of the canary. Now in the light, it sang with great contentment. Lawrence simply smiled as he cleaned the lenses of his spectacles; he had completed one major element of his master plan, against all the odds, it had to be said. He had chastised the one person who had really caused him the strongest personal grief, the person who had frightened his dear mother and caused her physical pain. To him the retribution was a sweet reward. He could rest a little now, take stock of the situation and regroup. There were still others victims who had to feel his hand of judgement for their cruelty and failure to fulfil their role within the caring profession; suspension or sacking were not severe enough punishments for him. He was determined to see his list completed as soon as humanly possible.

  Carrying out the chastisement of Paula Jones, right under the noses of the police, was for Lawrence, not dissimilar to the exploits of Dr. Noel Chavasse, his childhood hero. Night after night, the Doctor had stolen the injured, confused and dying Tommies from beneath the noses of the Germans, only yards from their trenches.

  And when the list was complete? There would be a truce, an armistice and he could get on with his life and his work. Besides, the sulphur mustard would run out possibly before the last on the list could be targeted.

  To date, he was reassured that there had been no deaths, only serious injuries that had left permanent damage and scars, both physical and more importantly psychological. His plan, to make the victims suffer, require intensive care and long term support, was his raison d’être. His chosen form of chastisement had worked but then, as a scientist, he had known that it would.

  He stared at the fluorescent tube whose constant protest seemed now to be part of his life, a kind of superstitious charm, an audible amulet, a little like the small Gloucester Crested that made him smile with its shrill song and which showed him that he was safe. The canary stopped singing and hopped to the tray to eat some fresh seed. He whistled the tune to ‘Ten Green Bottles’ and the canary started to sing again. Maybe he should follow suit and get some food, he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten properly.

  ***

  Elizabeth Graydon stared at the white boards. She found the day after the latest attack unsettling. She was prepared for the finger pointing towards her group’s incompetence but she feared the thought of the litigation that would follow. She would carry the can, she knew that. It wouldn’t take too long for the legal team to build its justifiable case, after all, some poor innocent lay blinded and in the local HDU. She made an effort to focus, but she felt like a boxer who had been on the canvas too long. Nausea kept welling in the pit of her stomach. The Boss had handled the press as the news spread quickly; television and national reporters hovered outside the Police Headquarters, as well as the scene of the incident, waiting for any scraps that might be tossed in their direction.

  To her right was a list of all the patients who had been or were still in attendance at Willow Gate Nursing Home. It was not an extensive list and the names were already being checked. Some follow up information on the specific equipment needed for the safe handling of chemicals had proved interesting, but without any real lead. A military surplus store in Leeds had supplied a large order to an individual male who had paid in cash. Although the warehouse did have CCTV, the sale had taken place months before and the discs had been wiped. However, some details of the person were remembered and a description of the man had been given. The details had been loaded to the necessary computers.

  Liz now also had a list of those in the NHS and of Registered Carers who were either suspended or had been sacked owing to misconduct. These names had been referenced to a large map of the North East and North West. She wanted to concentrate all resources on these areas, believing her man would not stray far, particularly after his Salford experience. It was a gamble but one she had to take.

  There had been no luck with the Renault, only confirmation that the number plate had been cloned. The original owner had never travelled further north than Banbury and at eighty-eight years of age, he had done well to drive that far. The ANPR had recorded the vehicle to be in the North East, however, there had been no trace of it north or south for well over two months. Trevor failed to be of any use having been sectioned. He could offer no details of the man who bought the car; it was as if his hard drive had been wiped clean along with the rest of his body. He looked to all intents and purposes like a man in Heaven. For the first real time in his life he was clean, well fed and warm. He wanted nothing else but to forget the past.

  It wasn’t all doom and gloom. She had traced details of Penelope Deere. She was known to the police for minor law infringement, mainly alcohol and light drug use. She had lived out of the country for a number of years. Traced relatives had been interviewed and supported the fact that she had done a Shirley Valentine. She had been seduced by sun and youthful sex. She had moved to Turkey to live with her young Turkish lover, a man half her age whom she had met the previous summer. Like many, however, enjoying a fling and living together proved very different. The holiday romance soon turned into a nightmare and very soon she had found herself alone, upset as well as financially and emotionally embarrassed. However, she had found her place in life within the popular tourist coastal resorts. With their sun and easy way of life, it was a healing poultice on her past and she had now settled successfully. She had lived there for five years. No relative seemed to be in contact with her and so specific details were very scarce.

  Liz had contacted the Turkish Police with passport details and a description but had received no immediate response. For now her job was pure police work, door to door, checking the names on the list and asking the correct questions, as well as sending out warnings to those highlighted as potential targets.

  ***

  The dawned day was disappointingly grey. The usual blue of the sea and the sky had changed into the colour of melting, roadside snow. Waves beat the coastal fringe, breaking amidst sand and pebbles and the promenade flags stood almost horizontally. Few fitness freaks were seen along the promenade; only the occasional dog walker braved the weather, more out of necessity than choice. The only consolation Cyril could find was that the wind was warm and it wasn’t raining.

  He sat admiring the metamorphic effect brought by the weather front and vaped, his feet resting on the balcony rail. The menthol tickled his throat as his nicotine craving was assuaged. He noted his shoes needing buffing.

  Cyril went downstairs and walked into the breakfast room. Owen was already eating, two boiled eggs and a plate brimming with different cheeses, hams and breads. He waved and pushed a chair out with his foot when he saw Cyril enter the room, a kind of primitive, Yorkshire invitation to share his table.

  “Hungry I see this morning!” Cyril commented, then smiled before leaning on the proffered chair back.

  “Starving. Could eat most things b
ut I draw the line at olives at this time of day, any time of day if I were to be honest. Eggs are good.” Owen spoke with a little too much enthusiasm for the quantity of food he had pushed into his mouth and flecks of egg erupted towards Cyril, who could only watch them fly and land. “Sorry Sir,” he spluttered. “My mother wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “No, I dare say not.” Cyril brushed the specks of yellow yolk from his sleeve with a napkin before turning to the buffet. “Short of anything, Owen?”

  Failing to see the sarcasm in Cyril’s tone as usual Owen replied, “Another egg would go down a treat, Sir.”

  His innocence was amazing, Cyril thought, and just shook his head as he walked away. He returned with coffee, some bread and Owen’s egg.

  “Any sign of Penny Deere?” He couldn’t help but smile. He thought immediately of Blackadder when he used to speak irreverently to Officer Darling.

  “Face is looking better, Sir. The old smile is coming back. No...”

  As he spoke, the lady in question entered the room, waving when she noticed that Owen was looking at her. She then added a smile to the equation for good measure. Owen responded with a small wave. “She’s here now.”

  Cyril turned, stood and went over to her. “Good morning, Ms Deere. Please, unless you’re meeting someone, come and join us.”

  She looked at Cyril and smiled. She was again fascinated by the slight disfigurement the eye brought to what was a handsome face.

  “That’s kind, thank you, I’d love to eat with two handsome men, it’s every lonely woman’s dream.”

  After a brief chat about the weather, they shared their limited knowledge of the South of France. In the end, they were no wiser as to each other’s true agenda for the day; she had planned a day’s shopping in Nice owing to the disappointing weather and Cyril and Owen reassured her that they were continuing with their investigation and that is how it was left.

  ***

  Janet woke with a start. She heard the wind in the trees and a strange banging she couldn’t immediately identify. She knew the day was fit for nothing but housework and shopping. Her head felt muzzy. She needed to sort breakfast and then plan the provisions Peter might need. Although he hadn’t mentioned a date for one of his extravagant parties, she felt as though today, of all days, he might decide to shake off the despondency that had hung over him cloud-like and suddenly desire to become centre stage as usual.

  The house was quiet, only the metronomic banging of a shutter against one of the walls disturbed the equilibrium. It was unusual that Jean had not secured it. She threw on her dressing gown and wandered into the lounge. Looking through the wall-length windows, she could see the trees being blown from side to side as the coastal gusts swept the hillside. The black pool shimmered grey, reflecting the sky; small whitecaps danced along its surface before tumbling into the overflow that surrounded the upper edge.

  It was then that she noticed the tray. Uncharacteristically, it had been forgotten, left on the table by the side of the pool where Phillip had placed it the evening before. The cups and pots were still out and a line of ants had found the sugar and were busily organising their army to collect it. Jean had missed that too. She slid open the door and went to collect the tray but a sudden, heavy cloud burst caused her to retreat. The rain fell in large, loud drops bombarding the patio with huge, dark-grey circles. Building a mosaic of one uniform colour, they camouflaged the, small unseen, circle of blood as more and more dark marks peppered the surface. Quickly they combined to disturb and dilute the thick, deep-red evidence that had congealed on one of the tiles behind the chair where Peter was sitting. The rain began to fill the sugar bowl and the cubes began to crumble.

  Janet closed the door, picked up the phone and rang Jean’s cottage; there was no answer. She tapped on Peter’s door before going in. The upper sheet was ruffled but nobody had slept in the bed. She called out his name over and over again but there was no reply. Another sudden flash of lightning, followed immediately by the overhead thunder, made her jump.

  She dressed quickly, grabbed an umbrella, caring little for the lightning and dashed across the path to the caretaker’s cottage. She burst through the door to find the shutters still drawn. Only the occasional lightning flash illuminated the room in silvery, ethereal light but it was enough. She could see nothing. Everything was in place apart from the occupants. The house was becoming the land-locked Marie Celeste and it unnerved her.

  The blinds slowly opened as her trembling hand found the switch. The dull light washed the room only to confirm that there was nobody. She was alone.

  The lightning flashed again illuminating the wet path, a bright, snail silver trail as she dashed to the main house. She made a quick search of every room and then progressed to the front door. The Audi was gone. Had he gone to stay with Phillip? She returned to the kitchen and filled the kettle, things would be clearer after caffeine; the muzzy head might clear and take the confusion with it. What was her concern? Jean was probably at the airport with Madhul. She knew their India trip was imminent and that’s where Peter had gone, he had driven them to Nice. She felt foolish.

  ***

  Cyril and Owen dashed to the waiting car, trying to avoid the rain. The police driver smiled and wished them a warm “good day” in French. Cyril immediately broke into conversation as Owen rubbed his hand across the steamed up, rear window, and looking optimistically along the promenade. He was disappointed. It reminded him of so many holidays in Scarborough, grey, wet and windy. Within fifteen minutes they were parked outside Phillip’s apartment. Owen rang the bell, there was no reply. He tried again, letting his finger depress the buzzer for what seemed like an age.

  “Oui?”

  “Mr. Jarvis, my name is Detective Sergeant David Owen. You may remember we’ve spoken on the phone regarding Mary Nixon. Sorry to disturb you so early.” He looked at Cyril and pulled a face. “We need to talk with you.....now, Sir, if that’s possible, either here or at the Nice Police Headquarters, whichever is the more convenient for you at this time.” Cyril nodded approval at Owen’s tone.

  “I’ll be one minute. I was in the shower. Please come up.”

  The door clicked and they entered. The apartment was modern and attractive, the block comprised only three floors. Once in the lift, they noticed that there looked to be underground parking. On arrival at the third floor, they noticed that the door to number 8 was ajar. The French radio station news could be heard. Owen knocked. Phillip appeared. He had managed to dress but his hair was a damp mess.

  “I’m sorry, Gentlemen, please come in. May I offer you coffee? I am having some.” He looked at them both in turn, but both refused. “May I?”

  He walked into the kitchen area, picked up his mobile phone, removed the sim card and popped it into his mouth before bending at the sink to drink from the tap. He swallowed the card. He then put the phone in the drawer before returning to his guests with a cup of coffee. “Now, gentlemen, how may I assist?”

  “When was the last time you saw Mary Nixon, Mr. Jarvis?”

  “After college, only the once. I think I mentioned it to you when we talked on the phone, Sergeant. We met by accident when I was on business in Switzerland, at the station in Geneva. We had coffee and chewed the fat. She said she was now known as Mary Stuart, new name new start, I think were the words used.”

  “And when was this?” Cyril fixed him with his eye. “1994, 95 or was it 1996?”

  “Goodness!” Phillip put his hand to his mouth and looked lost in thought. “I really don’t think I know exactly.”

  “You can recall Mary’s words but you cannot remember the year. Have a guess!” Cyril’s mood was changing. “Let’s try again. You’ve met Mary the once, by chance you say. Exactly where and when did this meeting occur? Don’t rush your answer, I want you to be sure of the date and place.”

  Phillip looked at both men and drank coffee. His complexion reddened.

  “Let’s say ’95, Geneva.” Phillip almost mumbled the answer
and he knew Owen had exchanged glances with his superior.

  “Wrong! Want to try again?”

  Phillip pulled a face. “1995, Geneva, definitely, I was bloody well there. I told you all of this on the phone!” His voiced was raised as his defences began to strengthen, in contrast with his inner calm, which had begun to crumble.

  “So when did you meet her in Basle?”

  “Never mentioned Basle.” His voice was a little less composed.

  Owen started the small Dictaphone recorder and the telephone conversation was repeated. Phillip’s head sank.

  “What do you do in Sierra Leone, Mr. Jarvis? Or are you Mr. Malraux when you’re in Africa? Strange, both men whom we’re investigating have two names. That’s convenient don’t you think? Two passports, two lives and maybe we have a Jekyll and a Hyde character in each case. I’m not very happy; you seem to be a stranger to the truth about the place and the details, Mr. Jarvis, so what else are you concealing? To play these games is certainly not advisable. Owen, stay with Mr. Jarvis, I just need to make a call.” He turned to Jarvis. “We’ll continue this conversation at the station and I don’t mean Basle or Geneva! Caution Mr. Jarvis, Owen, and use your Dictaphone just in case his memory fails him again!” Cyril’s tone left Phillip in little doubt as to the seriousness of his silly mistake. What had Peter said about its taking just a small error to bring everything crashing down around their ears?