The Malcontenta bak-2

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Well, you survived this time, David.’ Beamish-Newell came back in and looked him over. ‘I think we can get down to things in earnest next Monday.’

  Brock waited while the needles were withdrawn, then got unsteadily to his feet and headed for the door.

  It seemed everyone wanted to use the pay phone that lunch-time, and it was almost two o’clock when Brock eventually got through to Kathy.

  ‘How’s the tyre-slasher?’ he asked.

  ‘Another eight cars last night. How’s the human pincushion?’

  ‘Thoroughly punctured, thank you. The closest I can get to the computer password is that the receptionist’s name is Jay, and she typed in three letters that might have been J, A, Y, or something close to those.’

  ‘Upper or lower case?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her touch the shift key, but she might have.’

  ‘Right, I’ll tell Belle.’

  ‘And you can tell her that she’s not allowed to start any sexual gymnastics until she’s found out what we want. Not while I’m stuck like a monk in this place and paying for her room.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

  ‘I had another word with Rose. She’s being very reluctant. I believe she’s worried for someone else, protecting them.’ ‘Her boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s the obvious choice, I suppose. I suggested she might be more comfortable speaking directly to you on the phone at home. She said she’d think about it.’

  The corridors had cleared by the time he rang off, the patients all tucked away in the various corners of the house for the rest hour. Brock went up to the first floor and worked his way back along the corridor to what he estimated to be the area above the dumb waiter in the corner of the dining room below. Two doors were possible and he tried their handles, but both were locked.

  He was beginning to head back to his room when he heard one of the doors open. He turned and found Norman de Loynes staring round the jamb at him.

  ‘Oh, hello, Norman,’ he said.

  ‘Looking for someone, old man?’

  Brock strolled towards him and he stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door almost closed behind him. He was dressed, Brock saw, in a flamboyant, brocade smoking jacket, black silk pyjama trousers and gold slippers, like some character from the circle of Oscar Wilde.

  ‘I was hoping to catch a bit of the racing from Newmarket on the box actually, Norman. They’re watching some woman’s programme downstairs, and someone mentioned they thought there was another sitting room up here with a telly. I was trying to find it.’

  ‘Nothing on this floor, David.’

  ‘Ah, too bad.’ Brock smiled and didn’t move.

  De Loynes paused as if in doubt, then shrugged. ‘See you later, David.’ He slipped back through the door and clicked it firmly shut.

  Brock rang Kathy at home immediately after breakfast next morning, impatient.

  ‘I haven’t heard from her yet,’ she said. ‘They’re probably having a lie-in.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’ve earned it,’ he said testily.

  The clinic seemed to be in limbo, the normal routine suspended for the weekend as some patients departed and others arranged outings for the day. Brock waited an hour and tried again.

  ‘No luck, Brock. I’m sorry. She couldn’t do it. Apparently the clinic is in some kind of electronic bulletin-board network, and she was able to get into that all right, but not into their private files.’

  ‘I thought even schoolkids could break into anybody’s computer these days.’

  ‘She was very apologetic, but they did have a nice evening, anyway. She says thank you for that. It seems you saved their marriage!’

  Brock grunted ungraciously. ‘Well, that only leaves the old-fashioned manual method, I suppose.’

  ‘Brock, I’ve been thinking. I reckon you’ve done about as much as you can down there. I think you should let it be. Come home.’ She sounded worried.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The last thing we need is a Detective Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard caught red-handed breaking into their files. Anyway, if we’re right, there’s a high probability that a particularly nasty murderer is still wandering around down there. I think you’ve done about as much to stir him up as you should.’

  ‘Or her.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Him or her.’

  ‘Oh yes, well … but they had to be strong enough to carry Petrou’s body out to the temple and string it up.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, your point is taken. All the same, whoever specified the internal locks in this place wasn’t too bothered about security.’

  ‘Oh God. Please, Brock. I’m getting a bad feeling about this. And I feel responsible.’

  ‘It was entirely my idea to come here, Kathy, and I’d like to have something to show for my pains. But I won’t rush into anything, don’t worry.’

  Brock spent the morning working in his room. Towards lunch-time he made his way down to the library to see if he could find a dictionary. As he stepped out into the corridor to leave, he almost bumped into Grace Carrington. She didn’t seem pleased to see him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes. Thank you for the book, but I don’t want it.’ She fumbled in her shoulder bag, pulled it out and thrust it at him. She sounded furious.

  ‘What’s the matter? Was it a bad choice?’

  She glared at him.

  ‘Look, come into the library for a moment,’ he said. ‘There’s no one here. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.’

  Reluctantly she followed him in and he closed the door.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose it was quite an appropriate choice, in a way. I thought it was a touching thing to do, actually. Then I spoke to Rose this morning.’ She looked at him, challenging him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘She was very upset. She said you had been putting pressure on her to tell you about what went on in the clinic when Alex Petrou died. She said she was frightened of you, of your questions. And I thought of all the questions that you’ve been asking me.’ She paused, controlling her anger. ‘She thinks you’re a policeman. Is it true?’

  ‘Ah.’ Brock turned away, avoiding her accusing stare.

  ‘It’s hard when you start off by lying to people,’ she said, her voice tight and low, ‘hard to stop, and hard for anyone to accept anything from you at face value.’

  ‘I don’t believe I lied to you, Grace.’

  ‘Maybe not in so many words. Anyway, I don’t want your gift.’

  She made for the door.

  ‘I’m not on duty here, Grace. But what happened to Alex Petrou was never resolved, was it? And I think it’s important that it should be. Don’t you think that?’

  ‘What I think is that you should leave Rose alone. I think you should leave me alone. And above all I think you should leave Stephen Beamish-Newell alone. Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You just can’t stop yourselves trying to get at him, at people like him. You hate the fact that he cares, when all you can do is punish:

  He let her go. Out of the window the rain had dissolved almost all the snow, and the knoll brooded dark and threatening over a sodden landscape. Brock left the copy of The Wind in the Willows lying on the table and made for the door, feeling sick.

  He stayed in his room through lunch-time, then went down to the games room and sat by the window, pretending to read a paper. The window looked west towards the stables and the gravel road leading round to the staff cottages. At about two-thirty he saw Rose and another woman come down the road and head for the door into the basement. He got to his feet, went out into the hall and took the stairs. He met them at the foot.

  ‘Ah, Rose. Could I have a quick word?’ He saw her look of antagonism, and saw that her companion had noticed it too. ‘Only for a second.’

  She looked annoyed, then said reluctantly, ‘Go on, Trudy. I’ll catch you up.’

&nb
sp; Trudy stared at Brock, then moved on.

  ‘I just wanted to apologize for pestering you, Rose. Grace Carrington had a word with me and said I’d upset you. I’m sorry. I won’t mention the matter again.’

  She looked doubtfully at him. ‘Oh … well. That’s fine, then.’

  He nodded and she seemed to accept that he was genuine. ‘I probably overreacted. I’ve been a bit tense lately. You only wanted to help, I suppose.’

  She turned to follow her friend.

  ‘That’s right,’ Brock said. ‘I did think I might have a word with Geoffrey Parsons. You wouldn’t know where I could find him, would you?’

  She spun back to face him. ‘No! I don’t want you to do that! I — ’

  She stared at him, at a loss for words, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth.

  ‘Please,’ she said finally, her voice tense and urgent, ‘don’t do that. Don’t speak to Geoffrey. Will you promise me that?’

  He looked quizzically at her and scratched his beard.

  She put out her hand and touched his sleeve. ‘I need … I need time to think. Just give me a little time. Will you? Please?’

  ‘Of course, Rose. Whatever you say.’

  He was suddenly conscious of a movement in a doorway nearby and they both turned their heads at the same time to see Laura Beamish-Newell standing staring at them. Her eyes were focused on Rose’s hand on Brock’s sleeve. Rose turned abruptly and ran down the corridor after her friend.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, Mr Brock?’ The Director’s wife fixed him with a cold look. ‘In my office?’

  He followed her to the small room and sat on the metal chair as he had on his first day while she closed the door and came round behind her desk. She sat down, put her elbows on the desk and examined him without speaking.

  The interrogator’s initiative, Brock thought to himself. I couldn’t stare at you like this unless we both knew you were guilty as sin.

  He placidly examined his fingernails, not attempting to meet her eyes.

  ‘I am very protective of my staff, Mr Brock,’ she said finally. ‘The work that they do inevitably brings them into close physical contact with patients. This intimacy is necessary for them to do their work properly, for the health and well-being of their patients. Unfortunately, a patient may occasionally — very occasionally, I’m pleased to say — try to take advantage of this.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Brock looked up at her in surprise. ‘Are you suggesting that my behaviour has been in some way improper?’

  ‘I am suggesting that you have been putting pressure on Rose for some reason of your own.’ Her voice was deadly calm. Brock wondered if it was significant that she used the same phrase as Grace. ‘I am suggesting that you have been upsetting her. Do you deny that?’

  ‘Mrs Beamish-Newell,’ Brock replied, rising slowly to his feet, ‘I can assure you that I have absolutely no wish to take advantage of Rose in any way whatsoever. I think if you speak to her she will confirm that.’

  He waited to give her the opportunity to say that she had already spoken to Rose, but instead she said, ‘I understand that you were extremely belligerent with another member of our staff, too.’

  Brock stared at her, puzzled. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Parsons. Outside in the grounds, when you were walking with Mrs Carrington.’

  Brock was stunned. ‘Belligerent?’

  ‘He told me that you ran after him. He thought you might be going to attack him. I understand very well how new patients sometimes have difficulty at first in adjusting to a different way of life here, Mr Brock. I would simply ask you to remember that the harmonious atmosphere of Stanhope is something we all have to work at, staff and visitors alike.’

  As Brock returned to his room he thought how odd it was that Parsons had reported his encounter with Brock and Grace to Laura Beamish-Newell. It was clear that there was little chance of privacy at the clinic. He was also struck by the protective way that she had spoken of the other staff, and in particular of the Estates Manager.

  A video, Ruthless People, was shown in the drawing room after dinner that evening. The audience generally seemed to warm to the idea that Bette Midler became a pleasanter human being the more she lost weight, while Brock was more taken by the thought of Ben Bromley as a Lancastrian Danny de Vito. It finished around nine-thirty, and the patients drifted slowly away to their rooms for the night. Brock went to the games room, where a few card-players remained, but they too broke up after a short while, and by ten the public rooms were deserted. He went up to his room and lay on his bed in the dark, watching the strip of light beneath his door. It went off at ten-forty. He waited half an hour and got to his feet.

  That afternoon he had collected the jack handle from his car, and he now wrapped it, together with a flat-bladed dinner knife borrowed from the dining room that evening, in a towel. In his pocket he had a small notebook and a ballpoint pen.

  The corridor and stairs were lit by dim green emergency lights, and, looking like some ghostly eccentric hunting for the showers, he made his way silently down to the entrance hall. The door to the reception area and office was fitted with a cheap, modern, aluminium knob set, with the lock housed in the knob. Brock slid the blade of the knife into the crack of the jamb and held it against the corner of the panelled door to protect it from being damaged as he forced the sharp end of the jack handle in behind the blade. He gave a jerk and the lock burst open with a bang. He slipped inside and pressed the button down on the inside knob to relock the door. He repeated the process on the inner door into the office area which held Jay’s computer.

  There were no windows here, and he could see nothing in the pitch darkness. Eventually, moving very cautiously towards the centre of the room, he felt Jay’s desk and found the lamp. He pressed the switch and settled into her chair.

  The musical ping of the computer as it came to life sounded remarkably loud in the silence of the night. He waited for the demand for the password, then typed in the letters JAY and watched the screen clear. He soon found what he was looking for in a folder labelled ‘Mailing Lists’. Inside were separate files: ‘Patients’, ‘Staff, ‘Executive’, ‘Newsletter’ and, finally, ‘Friends’. He opened ‘Friends’ and began scrolling through a list of names and addresses.

  Not wanting to contend with the printer, Brock began copying the list by hand into his notebook. Two names were as expected — de Loynes and Long — and others seemed familiar though not immediately placeable. When he had finished he closed the file, then the ‘Mailing Lists’ folder, and began a second search. Inside a folder marked ‘Admin General’ he uncovered a large number of files devoted to correspondence of various kinds, and among them a series of spreadsheets marked ‘Bookings’, each covering a specific year. He opened the one for the previous year and scrolled through to October. De Loynes was booked from 21 October to 3 November, the two weeks straddling Petrou’s death on 27 October. In the listing for the second of the two weeks his name was misspelt ‘de Loyns’, and, without thinking, Brock corrected it.

  He now began to cross-check the list of Friends with the list of patients booked in at the Clinic on 27 October. After a few minutes he found one: Simon Mortimer, booked from 21 to 28 October. He was writing the details in his book when a sound made him freeze.

  It was a metallic click and, though muffled, was uncomfortably distinct. It was hard to place where it had come from. He held his breath, waiting, but nothing more disturbed the stillness. Hurriedly now, he continued scanning the names on the screen and comparing them with those in his notebook.

  There was another click.

  This time Brock rose slowly to his feet. As he did so, his line of sight cleared the back edge of Jay’s desk and took in the pale line of light from the bottom of the connecting door to Ben Bromley’s office. At the same moment he heard the murmur of a voice beginning to speak in the next room. It was Bromley’s voice, and it was answered by another that he recognized, a woman’s, Laura Beami
sh-Newell.

  It occurred to him that if he could see their light under the door, it was possible they could see his. Very carefully he the jack handle and knife back into the towel and reached for his notebook and pen. At that moment the computer in front of him gave a loud ping and the message ‘Save Now?’ flashed up on the screen. Immobilized by the sudden noise, he hesitated long enough to realize his stupidity in correcting the spelling mistake, and so provoking the computer’s question. He was conscious of the abrupt silence from the next room as the murmur of voices stopped.

  Then Bromley spoke, his tone quiet, incredulous.

  Brock grabbed at his things, switched off the desk lamp and flew for the door. He banged his shin against something as he reached it and wrestled the knob open. As he swung it closed, a shaft of light from behind him flashed against the jamb. He could hear their voices as he reached the outer door, and then he was through and dodging between the armchairs in the entrance hall. He made the corridor and sprinted to the far end of the west wing without pausing to hear if he was pursued. On to the fire stairs, then up to his floor; he peeked through the fire door to make sure the corridor was empty, then made the last dash to his room. His chest was heaving with the sudden exertion. From the direction of the main stairs he could hear a faint voice, and the glow of the stair light coming on suddenly reflected along the corridor wall. He felt in his pocket for his bedroom key and immediately knew, with complete certainty, that it was still lying on his bedside cabinet on the other side of the door. Leaving his room in the dark, he had forgotten to pick it up.

  The voices in the stairwell were growing. He reached for the knife and jack handle and fumbled to get them into the door jamb. The handle slipped out of his grip and landed on the floor with a thump. As he groped for it in the gloom, the main lights in the corridor blazed alive. He grabbed the jack handle again, slammed it into the gap and wrenched. With a splintering crack the door flew open and he stumbled into the dark room. Recovering, he swung the door closed again and clicked the lock. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the paint and took a deep breath, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.