by Jean Chapman
The evening was hard work and it was impossible to ignore what had happened, though an attempt was made as Liz and Cannon joined the party and all became properly acquainted, even with Toby and Karen’s dog, a friendly white terrier called Munch. Karen explained that when he was a puppy he was a scream so they called him after the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch, whose famous painting, ‘The Scream’, was owned by the Oslo Museum. The dog was a welcome distraction. They had, however, only just been shown to their places at table when the telephone rang.
‘I better answer it,’ Toby said. ‘You serve, Karen, I’ll keep it as short as I can.’ He came back to the table looking if anything grimmer than ever but insisting that all was well and nothing else untoward had happened.
‘Thank goodness for Catherine,’ was Liz’s reaction when they again reached the privacy of their hotel bedroom. ‘She was the only one not watching and worrying about her father all the time. Know what, I’m whacked, feel as if I’ve been here a week, not flown in this morning.’
At that moment Cannon’s mobile burbled.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Liz complained, ‘now what?’
‘It’ll be Toby, he said he would ring me.’
Cannon sat in one of the armchairs and Liz, with the air of one determined to see the day through to its bitter end, sat down in the other.
Cannon put the phone on speakerphone so Liz could hear. ‘Thought you should know at once that it was the curator who rang me earlier tonight. He has informed the police but in the circumstances they have come to an agreement to keep the matter under wraps for the time being. They do have a local mischief maker who might just be responsible; they’ll look into that first. They have also had information about our –’ Toby hesitated to find the right words ‘– family troubles, from the British police.’
‘You’ve told your father?’ Cannon asked.
‘I have, but this latest thing has hit him hard. I’m not sure how much more he can take. He talks about the net closing in on us.’
‘I do believe we have to take extreme care,’ Cannon said. ‘Are you happy with your night-time security?’
‘They’re experienced men my father trusts.’
Reassured on this score, Cannon went on, ‘I always take an early-morning run when I’m at home. I intend to do that tomorrow, all around the area, keep my eyes open and get my bearings.’
‘You could finish here, shower and breakfast with us,’ Toby said. ‘I could collect Liz and a change of clothes for you later. I understand Liz and my sister have arranged to have a viewing session of each other’s works.’
Cannon looked at Liz, who nodded at him.
‘Yes, OK, that’ll be fine.’
Chapter 14
Cannon picked up a brochure for the city from reception on his way out the next morning, then headed for the harbour just at the end of the street.
He ran unhindered along the edge of the docks, between mooring posts and in front of the offices and warehouses belonging to various shipping lines. The city and its affairs, the sea and all its busyness, were very much part of each other.
He finally paused under a castle rampart to check where he was. ‘Akershus Fortress and Castle,’ he read, learning there was also a Resistance Museum and an Armed Forces Museum within its precincts. Then he decided he must drop the tourist role and head back to the residential area where Toby lived.
But all was novelty, the expanse of this enormous fjord, the docks, the liners, then his way lay more inland past the imposing City Hall and into Rosenkrantz Gate. Leaving the National Gallery on his left, he was soon near Toby’s home.
He reached the quiet street with individually styled detached houses either side, a much older residential development to that they had seen on the way from the airport. Newer was, as everywhere, more standardized, more uniform – the key to keeping prices down.
He walked the last hundred yards, checked his watch – just after eight – but when he came in sight of the house, he frowned, then hurried forward more urgently. Three schoolboys, about twelve or thirteen, satchels over their shoulders, stood looking with extreme interest at the entrance gates to Toby’s home. There seemed to be some game of dare going on, two egging the other on.
He drew nearer and could see something quite large was pinned, or rather pinioned with a knife, to the gates. Even as the boy reached a hand up to take the hilt of the knife, Cannon shouted, ‘Don’t touch it!’ They had been so engrossed they had not seen him coming. Startled, now they ran.
Now it was Cannon’s turn to stop and stare, shocked by not just what was on the gate but the implication of it being there. He stood before the oval of the father cut from the museum drawing. It was held to the gates by conventional pins, but a knife had been driven into the back. Cannon found himself thinking that if not deflected by the ribs the blade was accurate enough to have penetrated the heart.
If they were to keep things quiet, this needed screening quickly. He did what he could, opened the gate and pushed it right back so that unless a passer-by stepped into the driveway the drawing would not be so easily seen – but if this was on the route to a school more must be done. He went to the house and rang the front doorbell. Toby came quickly. ‘Thought it might be you. Had a good—’
Cannon beckoned him urgently outside and to the gate.
As soon as Toby saw the drawing he gasped in horror and disbelief, his hand too going up towards the knife.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Cannon warned. ‘The police …’
‘Yes … of course, I …’
‘It’s already been seen, three schoolboys were eyeballing it when I arrived,’ Cannon went on, ‘but if we could put something in front of it now, that would help.’
Toby hesitated then said, ‘I’ve got some long canes and fine netting in the garden shed.’
‘Better than nothing. Fetch them while I stay here. Where are your night security men?’
Toby looked around, consulted his watch. ‘They would have had to pass this so they can’t have gone.’
At that moment two men came from the back of the house. Toby and Cannon waited for them to reach the gate and take in the drawing skewered to it. Toby explained where the drawing had come from.
‘I heard nothing in the night,’ the taller of the two said, ‘and I was at the front.’
‘It’s just what Mr Higham dreaded. The family’s been followed ’ere,’ the other said in awed tones. ‘This I don’t like.’
‘Did you work for Mr Higham in Lincolnshire?’ Cannon asked, and they both nodded.
‘This’ll about do the old boy in,’ the taller judged.
‘We’re going to cover it as best we can. Perhaps you could help,’ Cannon said as two teenage girls walked along the far side of the street looking curiously over at the group of men.
Cannon took up a kind of casual patrol near the gate while Toby went further into the garden to phone the police. The two men did a fair job of erecting a free-standing screen and offered to stay on until the police arrived to make sure nothing was touched.
It was all accomplished smoothly until Alexander Higham wondered what the activity was in front of the house and came out to see. He walked from the front door, firing questions at them. Toby tried to forestall him but he pushed aside one end of the cane and mesh screen and soon saw for himself. He staggered backwards, turned, walked two or three strides and was violently sick in the shrubbery.
Higham’s wife Trude, who had stood watching from the doorway, now came running to her husband. There was a confusion of questioning and explanations. Cannon and Toby ushered the couple back into the house, leaving the security men to re-erect the screen. Trude took charge of her husband much as if the big man was another of her children. ‘Sit down, Alex, I’ll get a damp towel so you can wipe your hands and face. You’ll feel better.’
‘We’ve made a big mistake coming here. We’ve brought trouble here with us. We must move on,’ Higham said and looked at Cannon as if re
questing his support.
‘Let’s deal with this first,’ Cannon said.
‘The police are here, sir,’ the tall security man popped his head in to say.
‘Toby and I will see them outside first,’ Cannon said, ‘you sit still for a time.’
‘I want to talk to them,’ Higham said, ‘they must know everything.’
‘From what DI Betterson told me, they already do,’ Toby said. ‘You stay here, Father, please.’
Higham was far from happy but Trude arrived back with the towel. He took it perfunctorily, wiped his hands and face, pushed it back into his wife’s hands and told her to go to Catherine. ‘I don’t want her upsetting.’
The two policemen had obviously been briefed about the situation and one stayed outside while the other came in to see Higham.
‘So your local trouble-maker,’ Toby asked, gesturing him to sit down, ‘you are sure it is nothing to do with him?’
‘Our local offender has one of the best alibis we have ever known.’ The officer answered Toby with the merest suspicion of a grin. ‘He’s in hospital having his appendix out.’
‘Well, that’s certainly ruled him out,’ Cannon said with a brief laugh.
‘I see no reason for amusement,’ Higham said and, positively glaring at his son, added, ‘I see no reason even for the question. This … person … has obviously followed us from England and is intent on destroying my family.’
The emphasis always on his daughter, or his family, made Cannon reflect that it had been Niall Riley, a father, who had been brutally beaten to death. It seemed the only definite link. He gazed thoughtfully at Higham – fathers of disabled children – devoted, over-protective fathers – not unlike Liz’s memory of two boys, the disabled being cosseted but much to the detriment of the other. His eyes switched to Toby, so like his father in looks – did he feel disadvantaged? Did he bear a real grudge against his father?
After a short interview with Higham and much radio contact with his headquarters, the officer told them he and his partner were detailed to stay at the house until a senior officer was available.
After a phone call to the hotel, Liz arrived by taxi. Cannon went with her and Catherine into the conservatory, where he told both of them exactly what had happened.
‘So this is … aimed at my father?’ Catherine said.
‘I think so,’ Cannon confirmed quietly.
‘Well …’ she answered, ‘it is … why you are here.’
He nodded.
‘And … let’s be practical … you came for breakfast, I believe …’
Catherine and her mother made sure all had breakfast. Afterwards, while any thoughts of outings of any kind were curtailed, Liz and Catherine went to sit in the conservatory and made an effort to compare scrapbooks and ideas. Cannon took the opportunity to talk to Toby, who was alone in the kitchen.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you or your wife had any kind of trouble since you’ve been in Oslo?’
‘No, never!’ Toby exclaimed. ‘Quite the opposite.’
‘And you must forgive me for asking this but I think it could be relevant.’ Cannon pushed the door closed and sat down. ‘Have you ever resented your father’s overwhelming devotion to your sister?’
‘I …’ Toby frowned then sat next to Cannon. ‘This sounds dreadful but I did at one time because I honestly couldn’t see it was necessary. Cathy was Cathy, I love her, have always loved her, as she is.’
‘So when exactly was this, this one time?’
‘It was, stupidly enough, when I was at university. It was just that when I went home the situation hit me afresh each time. I felt my father was suffocating Cathy. She’s so bright, has always wanted to be independent, make her own life. I was hoping this stay with us would enable her to do just that, but this is the worst start there could ever be.’
‘So when you were at university did you talk about the situation to anyone?’
Toby pursed his lips then gave a short humph of laughter. ‘Yes, I remember coming home and being so fed up with my father’s attitude I really messed up work I had to do for one particular tutor. He asked me what was wrong and I told him in no uncertain terms, I’m afraid.’
‘What was this man’s name?’ Cannon asked.
‘Unusual name. Professor Heaven.’
Cannon felt as if he had been hit in the chest. ‘Heaven,’ he repeated. ‘Do you have any contact with this professor now?’
‘No, no, not since I graduated. I came to Norway soon afterwards,’ Toby said, ‘never seen him since. Why?’
‘It’s just that we have an ex-professor who comes in The Trap at home. His name is Bliss.’
‘Heaven and Bliss. I suppose that’s about as risible as our local suspect having his appendix out,’ Toby said.
‘Yes,’ Cannon agreed, remembering the university porter’s laugh when he had inquired after a Professor Bliss.
Chapter 15
Cannon found the opportunity to have a concentrated session on his iPhone in the afternoon when Toby and his parents were having a ‘heated discussion’ in the parlour. Liz and Cathy were sketching a still life, an orange vase next to a rustic basket of pinecones. Not Liz’s forte, he thought, but Cathy had set up the exercise in the conservatory and both were totally engrossed.
He walked to the far end of the garden where there was a small copse of silver birch and conifers, brought up the information he wanted, and was soon through once more to the porter’s lodge of Toby’s old university but not to the same man. This man had a much deeper, gruffer voice, and when he enquired after Professor Heaven the response was totally different: the tone was sympathetic, the manner almost reverential.
‘He left the university some years ago, sir,’ the porter said, ‘very sudden and very tragic it was too.’
‘If you are able to tell me any more …’ Cannon ventured carefully.
‘It was common knowledge, sir, so I see no harm in repeating it. The professor went home mid-term because his younger brother died very suddenly. He attended the funeral then had a terrible car crash on the way back.’ His voice fell. ‘He never came back to us.’
‘So Michael Heaven never taught again?’ Cannon now ventured the Christian name. The habit of people who changed their surnames, at the same time keeping the same first name, was well known to the police.
‘No, sir, that’s right. Terrible head injuries he suffered. In the end the college had to clear his rooms. As I say, he never came back, though as far as I know he did make a recovery of sorts.’
Probably resurrected under a new name, Cannon thought, as he thanked the man and rang off. Then he consulted the contact list he had on his phone and checked the time. It would be roughly an hour earlier at home, so if he rang Bliss Antiques it should be within normal opening times.
He paused before making the call to decide his tactics depending on who answered. He knew he would be relieved if it was the professor, relieved to kick his growing suspicions into touch. He’d always got on well with Bliss, an interesting man to talk to, knowledgeable, an invaluable member of the defunct quiz team.
He pressed the green button and waited. It was quite a few seconds before the sound of the phone ringing out came, and quite a few more before the phone crackled into life and Mavis’s announced: ‘Bliss Antiques.’
‘Hi, Mavis, John Cannon.’
‘I thought you were in Norway,’ she said.
‘I am, but I need to speak to the prof if he’s around.’
‘Well, he’s around, but somewhere in East Anglia is the nearest I can tell you,’ Mavis said. ‘I’ve had deliveries from sales in Boston and Lynn.’
‘Could you give me his mobile number?’ he asked.
‘Sure, hold on.’ She gave him the nine-figure number, he thanked her, hoped she was coping and said he would pop in to see her in a fortnight when they got back.
‘I hear Alamat and his lady friend are coping very well,’ she told him. ‘They say the place is like a new pin.�
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‘Oh, right, thanks,’ he said and decided he wouldn’t tell Liz the second part of that message; she could be very sensitive on such matters.
No time like the present, he thought, and immediately tapped in the new number. It took about the same length of time to begin ringing out but rather longer for the same voice to answer.
‘Mavis?’ he enquired.
‘Yes,’ she said, rather wearily, he thought. ‘His mobile’s here at the back of his desk drawer. Wonder I even heard it. ‘
‘So he’s not actually spoken to you since he left?’ he asked.
‘No, he usually does, but as I said, I’ve had some of his purchases delivered, and before he said he might go directly to London. If he “achieved his goal” was the way he put it.’
‘What did he mean by that, do you know?’
‘I took it to mean if he managed to buy the right things he could sell at a good profit in the City; it’s one of the things he does quite regularly.’
He thanked her again, rang off, and found himself thinking that a man like the prof would be too canny to make a call that could be traced if he was about some mischief – or murder.
He was putting away his phone and walking back to the house when Toby erupted from the back door and came towards him, his face furious. Behind him he could see Liz and Cathy in the conservatory, looking up, distracted by this sudden violent action in front of their windows.
‘It’s my father,’ Toby said without preamble, ‘you’ll never guess what he now wants to do. What he thinks is a brilliant idea?’
‘No.’ Cannon turned back with the younger man towards the trees. He had always found out in the open was a good place for people to talk. ‘So what is this idea?’
‘He wants to take my mother and Cathy back home at once. He says he will feel safer in an environment he knows, can deal with matters better there. Cathy will be devastated and my mother is for once refusing totally either to tell Cathy, or to go. She says that if trouble is going to follow them it’s best to stay put and deal with it here where they have us to support them, the security arranged and the police all alerted. I don’t know what we’re going to do, and in addition to all that we can’t find the dog.’ He gave an ironic laugh. ‘As they say, it never rains but it pours.’