The Chemistry of Death dh-1

by Simon Beckett

  The Land Rover rolled forward smoothly. I was still wedged between the seats, and through the windscreen I saw Henry hear its approach. He looked back, his mouth opening in surprise. Even as the car gathered speed on the slope there seemed ample time for him to get out of its way. But perhaps he'd already used up all his reserves, or his wasted legs simply couldn't respond quickly enough. For a moment our eyes met, and then the Land Rover struck him.

  There was a thud and Henry disappeared. I felt a sickening bump, then another. Off balance, I groped for the handbrake as the house suddenly loomed up in the windscreen, but I was too slow. With a loud bang the car jolted to a halt. I was pitched forward and lay stunned across one of the seats. The engine continued to rumble. I reached up and turned off the ignition. Then, taking out the key, I managed to fumble open the door.

  Cold, fresh air flooded in. I gulped it greedily as I tumbled onto the drive. I lay panting on the sharp gravel for a moment while I gathered my strength. Then, rolling over onto all fours, I used the Land Rover to pull myself up. Supporting myself on it in much the same way Henry had done, I made my way around to the back.

  He lay a few yards away, a dark shape lying unmoving next to the broken wheelchair. But there was no time to think about him. I managed to get the key into the lock and open the door, then climbed into the back to Jenny.

  She hadn't moved. My hands were uncoordinated as I tore the blanket from her. Please, please, be alive. Her skin was pale and cold, but she was still breathing, the tell-tale acetone odour treacherously sweet. Thank God. I wanted to hug her, give her some of my warmth, but she was in urgent need of far more than that.

  I slid out of the car and stood up. It was easier this time, the adrenalin and desperation helping counter the waning effect of the drug. The front door to the house was still open, a rectangle of light spilling from it. I lurched into the hallway. Bracing myself against the wall, I staggered towards the telephone table that Henry had supported himself on earlier. I almost fell over the chair next to it, but managed to stay upright. Knowing if I sat down I might never get up again, I remained standing as I pawed for the phone. I couldn't remember Mackenzie's number, and my fingers were thick and uncooperative as I dialled 999.

  A sudden spasm of dizziness shook me as the operator answered. I closed my eyes against it as I began to speak. I made an effort to concentrate as I gave the details, aware that Jenny's life depended on my making sense. I took care over enunciating the words 'emergency' and 'diabetic coma', but then I could hear myself starting to ramble. When the operator started asking more questions I let the phone drop back into the cradle. I'd intended to go to the fridge for the insulin, but as I clung to the sideboard, struggling to stay upright as my vision came and went, I knew I wouldn't be able to make it. And even if I did, I daren't attempt injecting her in the state I was in.

  Rolling like a drunk, I went back outside. A sudden tiredness threatened to overwhelm me as I lumbered over to the Land Rover. Jenny was lying on her side where I'd left her, her face terribly still and white. Even from where I stood I could hear that her breathing had grown worse. It was wheezing and uneven and far, far too fast.

  'David.'

  Henry's voice was a mere whisper. I turned to look at him. He hadn't moved, but now his head was turned towards me. His clothes glistened, dark and wet with blood. The pale gravel around him was stained with it. In the half-light I could see that his eyes were open.

  'Said you were… dark horse…'

  I started to turn back to Jenny.

  'Please…'

  I didn't want to look back. I hated him, not just for what he'd done, or even what he'd turned out to be, but for what I now knew he wasn't. Still, I hesitated. Even now, looking back, I'm not sure what I might have done.

  But at that moment Jenny stopped breathing.

  The sound of it simply cut off. For a moment I just stared at her, unable to move as I waited for the next breath to follow. None did. I scrambled into the back of the car.

  'Jenny? Jenny!'

  Her head fell back as I turned her over. Her eyes were partly open, half-moons of white lined with achingly beautiful lashes. I felt frantically for a pulse. There was nothing.

  'No!'

  This couldn't be happening, not now. Panic almost paralysed me. Think. Think! Adrenalin helped clear my head as I rolled Jenny onto her back, then snatched up the blanket and wadded it up under her neck. I'd practised CPR during training, but never used it. Come on! Cursing my awkwardness, I tilted her head back, clamped her nose and jammed clumsy fingers into her mouth to clear her tongue. My own head swam as I lowered it to her lips, breathed my own air into her – once, twice – then put my hands on her breastbone and began to rhythmically press and count.

  Come on, come on! I begged, silently. I breathed into her mouth again, went back to pumping her lungs. Repeated it. She lay limp and unresponsive. I was weeping now, my vision blurring as I continued to work on her, trying to will her heart back to life. Her body remained slack and lifeless.

  Useless.

  I forced the knowledge from my head, breathed into her mouth once more, then counted as I pressed rapidly down on her chest. I did it again. And again.

  She's gone.

  No! I raged, denying it. Blinded by tears, I continued to work on her. The world was reduced to thoughtless repetition. Breathe, press, count. Breathe, press, count.

  I lost track of time. I wasn't even aware of the approach of sirens or the headlights that splashed through the car. Nothing else existed except for Jenny's still and cold body, and my desperate rhythm. Even when I felt hands on me I refused to give it up.

  'No! Get off me!'

  I tried to fight them, but I was pulled back, out of the Land Rover and away from Jenny. The driveway outside the house was a confusion of flashing lights and vehicles. As the paramedics ushered me towards an ambulance, the last of my strength crumbled. I collapsed onto the gravel. Mackenzie's face appeared in front of me. I could see him mouthing questions, but paid him no attention. There was a flurry of activity around the Land Rover.

  Then, out of the confusion, I heard the words that almost stopped my own heart.

  'It's no good. We're too late.'

  Epilogue

  The grass cracked underfoot like broken glass. The early-morning frost bleached the colour from the landscape, turning it into a monochrome wilderness. A lone crow wheeled across the white sky, its wings motionless as it skated across the cold air. It beat them once, twice, then disappeared among the skeletal limbs of a tree; one more black shape among the tangle of bare branches.

  I pushed my gloved hands further into my pockets, stamping my feet as the cold seeped through the soles of my boots. In the far distance, reduced to little more than a speck of colour, a car was heading away on a winding, hair-thin ribbon of road. I watched it go, envying the driver's journey towards the warmth of life and houses.

  My hand went to rub the white line on my forehead. The cold was making it ache. Its sensitivity was a lingering reminder of the night I'd gashed it on the doorframe of the Land Rover. In the months since then the wound had healed to leave only a thin scar. It was the less visible scars that made then-presence more keenly felt. But I knew that even those would eventually scab over and heal.

  Given time.

  Even now it was difficult to look back on what had happened in Manham with any degree of objectivity. Flashbacks to that night of the storm, of descending into the cellar, driving Jenny through the rain, and of what followed, came with less frequency now. But they still left me winded by their impact when they did.

  Mason had still been alive when the police found him. He survived for three more days, regaining consciousness only long enough to smile at the policewoman guarding his hospital bed. For a while I'd been concerned that there might be charges, English law being what it is. But the obviating circumstances of self-defence, coupled with the grim evidence of the cellar itself, had been enough to brush aside the greyer areas o
f legality.

  If any more evidence was needed, it was supplied by the journal the police found at the back of a locked drawer in Henry's desk. It contained a detailed account of his patronage of Manham's gardener, an unofficial case study that amounted to a posthumous confession. His fascination with his subject was all too apparent, from Mason's early sadism – as an adolescent he had been responsible for the cat mutilations Mackenzie had told me about – to their final twisted partnership.

  I hadn't read it myself, and didn't want to, but I'd spoken to one of the police psychologists who had. He'd failed to hide his excitement over what was, after all, a unique glimpse into not one but two damaged psyches. It was, he told me, the stuff professional reputations were made from.

  As a frustrated psychologist himself, I thought Henry would appreciate the irony.

  About my partner himself, my feelings were still unresolved. There was anger, certainly, but also sadness. Not so much for his death as the waste of his life, and all the other lives he'd also caused to be wasted. It was still difficult to reconcile the man I'd regarded as my friend with the bitter creature who'd revealed himself at the end. Or to know which of them was the true Henry.

  The fact was my friend had tried to kill me, yet at times I wondered if the truth was more complex. The post-mortem had revealed he'd died not from his injuries, although they would probably have proved fatal by themselves. He'd been killed by a massive overdose of diamorphine. The syringe he'd had in his pocket had been empty, the needle embedded in his flesh. It could have been accidental, a fluke caused when the Land Rover had run him down. Or, as he lay in agony afterwards, he might have injected himself deliberately.

  But that still didn't explain why he hadn't given me a lethal dose in the first place. It would have been a far easier way of staging my suicide, and certainly far more effective.

  It was only at the inquest that I found out something that made me question how committed he had really been. When the police examined the Land Rover, one end of the rubber pipe was still jutting through the window. But instead of being connected to the exhaust, the other was simply trailing on the floor.

  It might have come off when the car started moving. It might have snagged loose on Henry's body as the wheels went over him. But I couldn't help but wonder if it had ever been fixed to the exhaust in the first place.

  It was asking too much to believe Henry had planned it to happen as it did, but I liked to think he might have had second thoughts. If he'd truly wanted to kill me he'd had ample opportunity. And I kept coming back to how he made no attempt to move out of the way of the Land Rover. Exhaustion, perhaps; his weakened legs unable to react in time. Or perhaps as he saw the car bear down on him he simply made a decision. By his own admission he lacked the courage to take his own life. Perhaps at the end he simply chose the easiest route, and let me do it for him.

  But that might be reading too much into it, bestowing on him a benefit of the doubt he doesn't deserve. Unlike Henry, I don't claim any insights into human psychology. That remains a far murkier field than mine, and no matter how much I want to believe some redeeming spark existed in him, there's no way of knowing for sure.

  As with so many other things.

  I'd had quite a few visitors after I'd been discharged from hospital, some calling out of duty, some curiosity, a few out of genuine concern. Ben Anders was one of the first, bringing with him a fine old malt whisky.

  'I know grapes are traditional, but I thought grain would do you a damn sight more good,' he'd said as he opened it.

  He'd poured us both a glass, and as I'd raised mine slightly in answer to his silent toast, I almost asked him if the older woman he'd had an affair with all those years ago had been a doctor's wife. But I didn't. It was none of my business. And when it came down to it I didn't really want to know.

  A more surprising visitor was the Reverend Scarsdale. It had been an awkward visit. The old differences still remained, and neither of us had much to say to the other. But I was touched he'd made the effort, even so. As he rose to leave he'd looked at me gravely. I thought he was about to say something, vocalize some sentiment that would bypass the antagonism that always seemed to exist between us. In the end, though, he'd simply nodded, wished me well, and gone on his way.

  My only regular caller was Janice. Without Henry to care for, she'd tearfully transferred her attentions to me. If I'd eaten all the meals she'd brought I would have put on half a stone in the first two weeks, but I'd no appetite. I would thank her, pick at the solid English cooking, and when she was gone throw it away.

  It was some time before I found the courage to ask her about Diana Maitland's affairs. She'd never made any secret of her disapproval of Henry's late wife, and that hadn't changed now he was dead. Diana's unfaithfulness had been an open secret, but Janice was indignant when I asked if it had made her husband a laughing stock, as he'd believed.

  'Everyone knew, but we turned a blind eye to it,' she said, reprovingly. 'For Henry's sake, not hers. He was too well respected for anything else.'

  If it hadn't been so tragic, it would have been funny.

  I didn't go back to work at the surgery again. Even after the police had departed from Bank House it would have been too painful to return. I arranged for a locum to be brought in until either a permanent replacement was found, or people registered with other practices in the area. Either way, I knew my days as Manham's doctor were over. And there was a noticeable reserve now among my former patients. In many of their minds I was still the newcomer who had, for a time, been a suspect. Even now my involvement with events meant I was still regarded with something like suspicion. Henry had been right, I realized. I didn't belong there.

  I never would.

  One morning I woke and knew it was time to move on. I put my house on the market and began setting my things in order. On the evening before the removal van was due to take my things away, there was a knock on the door. When I opened it I was surprised to find Mackenzie outside.

  'Can I come in?'

  I'd stepped back, led him into the kitchen and begun trying to find a pair of mugs. As the kettle boiled he asked how I was.

  'OK, thanks.'

  'No ill effects from the drug?'

  'Don't seem to be.'

  'Sleeping all right?'

  I smiled. 'Sometimes.'

  I poured the tea, handed him a mug. He blew on it, avoiding looking at me.

  'Look, I know you didn't want to get involved in this in the first place.' He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. 'I suppose I feel a bit bad about dragging you into it.'

  'No need. I was involved anyway. I just didn't realize it.'

  'Even so, given how it turned out… well. You know.'

  'That wasn't your fault.'

  He nodded, not convinced he couldn't have done more. But then he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

  'So what are you going to do now?' he asked.

  I shrugged. 'Look for somewhere to live in London. Other than that I'm not sure yet.'

  'Do you think you'll do any more forensic work?'

  I almost laughed. Almost. 'I doubt it.'

  Mackenzie scratched at his neck. 'Don't suppose I can blame you.' He fixed me with a look. 'I know you probably don't want to hear this from me. But don't decide anything yet. There are other people who could use you.'

  I looked away. 'They'll have to find someone else.'

  'Just think about it,' he said, getting up to leave. We shook hands. As he turned to go I nodded at the mole on his neck.

  'I'd still get that looked at if I were you.'

  Next day I left Manham for good.

  But not before I'd made another kind of farewell. The night before I'd had the dream for what I knew would be the final time. Everything about the house was as familiar and peaceful as it had always been. Yet now there was one crucial difference.

  Kara and Alice had gone.

  I'd wandered through the untenanted rooms, knowing this was the last ti
me I would visit them. And knowing that was as it should be. Linda Yates had told me you have dreams for a reason, although 'dream' still seems too inadequate a description for what I experienced. But whatever the reason for mine, it no longer held. When I woke up my cheeks were wet, but there was nothing wrong with that.

  Nothing at all.

  The ringing of my phone brought me back to the present. Breath clouding in the cold air, I reached into my pocket for it. I smiled when I saw who was calling.

  'Hi,' I said. 'You OK?'

  'Fine. Am I disturbing you?'

  I felt the familiar warmth spread through me at the sound of Jenny's voice. 'No, of course not.'

  'I got your message that you'd arrived. How was the journey?'

  'OK. Warm. It was getting out of the car that was the problem.'

  I heard her laugh. 'So how long will you be away?' she asked.

  'I don't know yet. But no longer than I have to.'

  'Good. The flat seems empty already.'

  I grinned. Even now there were times I couldn't believe we'd been given a second chance. But mostly I was simply grateful that we had.

  Jenny had almost died. Had died, in fact, though the pronouncement that had so scared me had been about Henry, not her. But another few minutes and it would have been too late for Jenny as well. It was sheer chance that, in the confusion after the abortive raid on the windmill, no-one had thought to stand down the ambulances and paramedics. When I'd made the phone call from Henry's they had only just set off for the city, and been swiftly turned back. If not for that, the stuttering life I'd unknowingly pumped back into Jenny's heart would have snuffed out before help arrived. As it was, her heart had stopped again just after she arrived at the hospital, and again an hour after that. But each time it had been started again. After three days, she'd regained consciousness. After a week she'd been transferred out of intensive care.

  The fears of brain and organ damage, of blindness, that I'd known were a possibility and that her doctors thought likely, never materialized. But while her body had begun to mend itself, for a time I'd worried about what deeper, less physical trauma might remain. Gradually, though, I realized there was no need. Jenny had retreated to Manham because she'd been afraid. Now the fear was gone. She'd been face to face with her nightmare and survived it. And, in a different way, so had I.