‘Fine,’ said Harry.
‘Great,’ said Chipchase.
There was a pause. Miss Sinclair looked at them expectantly. ‘So, do you have any other questions?’
A few minutes later, they were walking away from the practice’s imposing Georgian front door.
‘That thing we assured Smiley Kylie we wouldn’t do,’ said Chipchase. ‘You remember? Interfering in the case, sticking our noses in where they aren’t wanted.’
‘I remember,’ said Harry.
‘We start doing it in half an hour. Helen Morrison’s agreed to speak to us.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
HELEN MORRISON WAS a pear-shaped, middle-aged woman with frizzed hair and a moon face, the skin around her eyes red and puffy from recent shedding of tears. The dark suit she was wearing looked to have been bought when she was at least one dress size smaller. This, together with the nervous tremor in her hands, made Harry want to comfort her with a hug. But bland words were all that he felt able to offer.
‘It’s good of you to see us, Mrs Morrison,’ he said, as he and Chipchase settled in their chairs round the corner table where they had found her waiting for them in the bar of the Caledonian Hotel. ‘Jabber – your father – was a good friend to us back in our National Service days. His death’s a real tragedy.’
‘But we didn’t have anything to do with it,’ said Chipchase, his bluntness causing Harry to suppress a wince. ‘The police have got it all wrong.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Morrison.
‘You do?’ Harry could hardly disguise his surprise.
‘That’s why I’m, well, glad you phoned. I haven’t told Mum, by the way. Arranging for Dad’s body to be flown back to Cardiff is as much as she can cope with at the moment. As for this … murder business … well, she can’t really get her head round it.’
‘The police are trying to connect the deaths with a company I used to run,’ said Chipchase, in a tone that implied it could have been ICI.
‘So they said. But that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Delighted you realize that, Mrs Morrison.’
‘What makes you so sure it doesn’t?’ asked Harry, catching but ignoring a glare from Chipchase.
‘Well, for a start Dad never invested in … whatever it was called.’
‘No. But—’
‘And then there was the chat I had with him over the phone Saturday evening. Real worried, he was, after what had happened to Peter Askew; Crooked, as he called him. He wanted me to check the room Crooked had slept in Thursday night. See if he’d left anything there. Well, he hadn’t, unless you count the contents of the wastepaper basket. I’d emptied it by then, of course, but Dad wanted me to fish through the rubbish to see what there was. I told him not to be so daft, but he sounded that worried I promised to do it. I went through it with a fine-tooth comb. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. I phoned Dad later and told him so.’
‘How did he take the news?’
‘He seemed … disappointed. I asked him what he’d been hoping for. And he said: “Something linking this with the other deaths.” Those were his exact words. “Something linking this with the other deaths.”’
‘You repeated that to Chief Inspector Ferguson?’
‘Oh yes. And the other thing Dad said. The last thing, before he rang off. The last thing he ever said to me, apart from “’Bye, love”. “Ossie doesn’t see it. But I do.”’
‘“Ossie doesn’t see it,”’ Harry echoed under this breath. ‘“But I do.”’
‘You’re Ossie, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what convinced me you couldn’t have … well, killed anyone.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have convinced Ferguson,’ said Chipchase.
‘No, well, he never stopped going on about that company of yours. Fraudulent, he called it.’
‘He would.’
‘When I told him what Dad had said about “other deaths”, he said to his sergeant, “We’ll have to trawl through all the investors.” I took him to mean he thought some more of them might have … been killed.’
‘Bloody hell. Doesn’t he ever give up?’
‘But I don’t think those could have been the deaths Dad meant. I don’t think that’s what he had in mind at all.’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t think so either.’
Helen Morrison asked two favours of them as they were leaving. ‘Please don’t come to the funeral. My brothers are hot-headed and don’t think straight at the best of times. I’ll have to tell them what the police have said about you two in case they get to hear about it some other way and think I’m holding out on them. There might be trouble. And Mum couldn’t take that. But if you find out what really happened – why Dad was killed – you will call me, won’t you? I want to know. Whatever it is. Good or bad. I want to know.’
They retreated to the Prince of Wales to talk over what they had learned. To Harry’s surprise, Chipchase did not dispute which deaths Lloyd must have been referring to, especially after he had heard more about the Welshman’s behaviour during the reception on the castle roof.
‘It’s got to be the Clean Sheeters who have died over the years, hasn’t it?’
Harry nodded. ‘Reckon so.’
‘Have you still got Danger’s round-up of who’s done what and where?’
‘Right here.’ Harry pulled out his by now seriously crumpled copy of Dangerfield’s letter and smoothed it flat as best he could. ‘Four dead ‘uns and one as good as.’ He ran his finger down the names. ‘Babcock: stroke; Maynard: AIDS; Nixon: drowned; Smith: heart attack; Yardley: motorbike crash.’ The recital of the names stirred a recent memory. ‘Askew talked abut Nixon’s death on the train. I’ve just remembered. He asked me if I thought Nixon might have been murdered.’
‘And Lloyd heard him ask?’
‘He’d have been bound to.’
‘Did Askew mention the others?’
‘No. There was some … joke running. Yardley came into it. I … can’t quite recall.’
‘Pie-eyed by that stage, were you?’
‘We all were. Except Askew. He’d drunk a good bit, but he seemed … horribly sober, now I look back. I didn’t take what he said seriously. Well, why would I? But now …’
‘Victims of AIDS, a stroke and a heart attack we can forget about. I actually spoke to Maynard’s old boyfriend when I called round to try and solicit an investment in Chipchase Sheltered Holdings. He gave me a graphic account of how the poor bugger had died. Not a diddy doubt about the nature of his demise, I think we can safely say.’
‘Nor Smith’s, I imagine.’
‘Right. A motorbike crash and a drowning, on the other hand, could be iffy.’
‘But they’re both so long ago. Forty years in Yardley’s case. Twenty in Nixon’s.’
‘Maybe the murderer’s operating on a long cycle. You know, like a comet.’
‘A comet?’
‘There was this book on astronomy I read while I was in …’ Chipchase studied Harry’s bemused expression. ‘Forget it. You’re right. They are a long time ago. Too long for us to go ferreting after the facts.’
‘Not necessarily. Danger doesn’t spell out how he got all his information. But for Nixon – and for Smith, I see – he gives a widow’s address, in case we might want to send them our condolences.’
Chipchase sighed. ‘One of the best, Danger. Always … doing the right thing.’
‘So he was.’ Harry examined the note about Nixon with heightened concentration. ‘This phrase he used to describe Nixon’s drowning. “Circumstances unknown.” That’s odd, isn’t it, if he’d spoken to the widow? Surely she must know how her husband came to drown.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Yeah? Well, perhaps it’s time she was persuaded to. You know what they say. It’s good to talk.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
SHONA ASSURED HARRY that he would be welcome to stay w
ith her as long as he needed to. But if, on the other hand, he and Chipchase felt safer quitting town …
‘You lads had better do what you think is best. The polis don’t always see past the ends of their noses. That Ferguson fellow struck me as all fast-track management training and no real experience. Somebody murdered Mr Dangerfield and they’ll get away with it if it’s left to the likes of him.’
‘So, tell me,’ said Chipchase, after Shona had taken herself off to bed, leaving the lads, as they were charmed to be described, to their late-night whisky. ‘When do we leave?’
‘I’m not sure. I want to speak to Erica if I can before we go. But she still hasn’t phoned back. I’ve no address for her. Or any phone number other than her mobile. It’s odd she hasn’t called. I don’t understand it.’
‘Simple enough, Harry old cock. We’ve had our collars felt. We’re unclean.’
‘She wouldn’t shun us.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘Well, I do believe it. And there it is.’
‘Tried the phone book?’
‘Ex-directory.’
‘Aren’t they always?’
‘Hold on, though.’ Harry jumped up and hurried out into the hall, where a battered copy of the Aberdeen phone book was stored on a shelf under the telephone. He grabbed it and returned to the sitting room.
‘I thought you just said she isn’t listed.’
‘She isn’t. But I’m hoping … Yes. Here he is. Starkie, Dr D. At least we can pay him a visit.’
‘Starkie? You’ll get nothing out of that old Dryasdust.’
‘We’ll see, won’t we? At the very least, he can hardly deny knowing where Erica’s to be found.’
‘Yeah? Well, I suppose so. But just remember: the answer could be nowhere.’
True to Chipchase’s prediction, a night on Shona’s sofa-bed was an experience not to be recommended, other than to someone with a keen interest in medieval torture instruments. To add interruption to likely injury, one of Harry’s few spells of sleep was ended by the flinging open of the door. The hall light was on, initially blinding him. For a few seconds, he believed he was about to be set upon by the person or persons who had done for Dangerfield. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a tall, spectacularly thin, grungily dressed young man, with long hair sprouting from beneath a condom-tight beanie hat, swaying in the doorway. Benjy he had to be.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ came the slurred question.
‘Harry. A … friend of Barry’s.’
‘Harry and Barry. A regular fucking … rhyming couplet.’
‘Didn’t your mother mention me?’
‘Who knows, man? Who cares? She can screw who she likes – and ask his mates round. It’s … fuck all to me.’ Benjy turned and stumbled off up the stairs, mumbling inaudibly as he went and conspicuously failing to turn off the light.
Harry struggled out of the pitiless embrace of the sofa bed, staggered into the hall and flicked the light switch off, then staggered back into the sitting room, slamming the door shut behind him and savouring the thought that Benjy might meet with an accident on the suddenly darkened stairs. But, though accident there was imminently to be, Benjy was not the victim.
‘Why are you limping, Harry old cock?’ Chipchase enquired as they left Shona’s house next morning and headed for her car, which she had generously said they could borrow. ‘All this running around getting to you, is it? Can’t say I’m surprised. If they had MOTs for humans, you’d need a lot of work in the body shop even to scrape a pass.’
‘Since you ask, I bashed my knee on the TV stand when I got up in the night.’
‘Ah. The old bladder can’t manage eight hours’ kip without a toddle to the lav, hey? It’s a bugger, isn’t it, living past your prime?’
‘You’re chirpy, I must say.’ Harry could not help wondering if Chipchase’s cheery mood had anything to do with Shona, Benjy having succeeded in planting a suspicion in his mind that their relationship might be closer than he had supposed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Chipchase with eerie ambiguity as he flung the passenger door open for Harry. ‘It won’t last.’
They started away, heading for the bridge over the Dee. Harry was on the point of describing his nocturnal encounter with Benjy, minus a few conversational details, when Chipchase asked, ‘Why didn’t you phone Starkie before we left to make sure he’d be in?’
‘To be honest, I thought he might make some excuse not to see us.’
‘Give us the cold shoulder, like Erica?’
‘I just didn’t want to give him the chance.’
‘But we could find he’s simply not at home.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as the type to stray far.’
‘Are you saying we might have to lie in wait for him?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Great. That should make for a really exciting day.’
Starkie’s address was a ground-floor flat in a converted Georgian house in Old Aberdeen, close to the University, where cobbled quadrangles and ancient college buildings preserved an Oxbridgian atmosphere of studious separateness.
There was no response to several rings on Starkie’s bell and a squint through his window revealed many signs of him – a disorderly desk, books and magazines piled here and there, a glass on a side-table with what looked like whisky still in it – but not so much as a glimpse of the man himself.
Chipchase was in the midst of a semi-serious suggestion that they try the post office, in case it was the good doc’s pension day, when the front door was flung open by a plump, pinch-faced woman of indeterminate age, trussed up in a raincoat and headscarf (though it was neither raining nor blowing a gale), who gave them a thin, cautious smile as she emerged, carefully closing the door behind her.
‘Is it Dr Starkie you’re after?’
‘It is,’ said Harry, smiling ingratiatingly.
‘He’s no in.’
‘Apparently not. We, er, met him at the weekend and, er …’
‘At the Kilveen do?’
‘Oh, he mentioned it, did he?’
‘Aye. He did.’
‘So, where do you, er, think he might …’
‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. He had to go away.’
‘Away?’
‘His sister died. Down south, somewhere. Manchester, I believe. It was awful sudden.’
Harry cast a wide-eyed look of sickened astonishment at Chipchase, who responded in kind.
‘Did you know the lady?’
‘No. Er … We didn’t.’
‘Only you look upset.’
‘You could say we are.’
‘Och, well, I’m sorry, but there it is. I must be about my business.’
‘Sure.’ As she moved past them a thought struck Harry – half hopeful, half despairing. ‘Oh, by the way …’
‘Aye?’ She turned back and looked at him.
‘I wonder if you know a former pupil of Dr Starkie’s. She’s probably visited him here. Erica Rawson.’
‘No. I canna say I do.’
‘She teaches at the University.’
‘Rawson, you say?’
‘Yes. In the Psychology Department.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s no one of that name on the academic staff.’
This could not be, Harry told himself. This was not possible. ‘How can you be … so sure?’
‘I work part-time in the University office. There’s definitely no Rawson on the payroll. I can tell you that for a fact.’
‘But …’
‘You’re sure you’re thinking of Aberdeen University? People get confused since they upgraded the old Institute of Technology. Though I doubt that has a psychology department.’
‘I’m positive. Aberdeen.’
‘Some misunderstanding, then.’
‘Some sort. Yes.’
‘Sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
‘T
hat’s all right. Actually, you’ve been very helpful. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Goodbye now.’
‘’Bye.’
They watched her walk away along the street. A few moments of reflective silence passed. Then Chipchase cleared his throat. ‘Ever been had, Harry old cock?’ he enquired lugubriously.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE NORTH SEA was grey and turbid, heaving to a slow, queasy rhythm. Harry stared out through the windscreen of Shona’s car at its chill, blurry expanse from a parking bay on Aberdeen’s esplanade, with Chipchase alternating heavy sighs and muttered curses beside him.
‘Got a fag?’ Chipchase asked suddenly.
‘I gave up years ago.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Haven’t you got your cigars with you?’
‘I never smoke cigars before lunch. Lunchtime, anyway. A man buffeted by the cruel winds of fate as I’ve been can’t be sure of—’
‘Put a sock in it, for God’s sake.’
‘No need to be so tetchy.’
‘Really? I’d have said there was every need.’
‘The dead sister in Manchester was a low punch, it’s true. I’d never have thought old Starkie had a sense of humour, albeit a sadistic one. Just shows how wrong you can be.’
‘What are they up to, Barry?’
‘Him and the now-you-see-her-now-you-don’t Miss Rawson? Christ knows. Something deep and dark would be my guess. Bloody deep. And bloody dark.’
‘Danger must have known all along Erica wasn’t what she claimed to be.’
‘So he takes a header from his own landing. And she disappears. Along with Starkie. Q. E. bloody D. We’re Conference against Premiership here, Harry. Way out of our league.’
‘We’ve got to do something.’
‘You could try her mobile again.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Or we could just … head for the hills.’
‘Which hills, exactly?’
‘I don’t know. We could make it to Ireland without passports. Lose ourselves out west. Hope they don’t come looking for us.’
‘But they would.’
‘Not such a bright idea, then. Besides, I hear all the bars there are non-smoking now. Bloody savages.’
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