A Death to Remember

by Ormerod, Roger

‘Yes. Yes, I’ve no doubt he did.’

  ‘Then why rake it up?’

  ‘I thought… there was a chance I’d got a new slant on it.’ He had to fumble with his spoon. It was his first lie.

  ‘And you want me to do the background work?’ I waited for his nod. ‘Then what?’

  ‘There’s a sort of idea I’ve got.’

  Throw him out? Certainly. ‘What’s your interest in it?’

  ‘Well—I’m kind of a writer.’

  ‘What have you written?’

  ‘Actually… well… this’ll be the first.’

  Give him time to finish his tea? Yes. No hurry.

  ‘Ah, I see. One of those brilliant re-thinks of old cases. You’ll throw doubts, I suppose, on various integrities, and finish up annoying a lot of people who’ll sue the pants off you.’

  I’d let him have it straight, get the air cleared. He blinked a bit and put on his glasses.

  ‘I’d do my own research, but there’re snags.’

  So now we were coming to it. I went to look in the cupboard, and asked him if he’d like a biscuit.

  ‘Lots of snags, son. To start with, you’re treading on toes. The Gaines widow, for instance, wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Oh, Myra’s quite happy about it.’

  Damn the lad, why’d he keep surprising me? ‘Myra?’ Myra Gaines would be getting on for twice his age, surely.

  ‘I went to ask if she minded if I researched it.’ His eyes moved. He took a biscuit. Another lie had crept in. He said warily: ‘She was quite pleased… really.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘There’s a daughter.’

  So there we were. He’d barged in there, all brash and naïve, claiming he wanted to re-think the case. Nothing personal, you understand. Only there’d been a daughter. Then things had abruptly gone wrong. Suddenly it became very personal indeed, and he’d realized it might not be such a good idea after all.

  ‘Aged?’ As though I didn’t know.

  ‘Oh—twenty-one.’ He looked away. ‘Her name’s Karen. She’s five-four or so, blonde, you know, kind of willowy, with those sort of far-off eyes that go all smoky when she laughs.’

  ‘I get the picture.’ I went and looked out of the window. A traffic warden was prowling. ‘You’d expected to sit for hours with the family, digging out the little personal details that mean so much?’

  ‘I suppose it would’ve been something like that.’

  ‘But now you want somebody else to pop the questions?’

  He lied again, more glibly because there was only my back to do it to. ‘It would be better.’

  I turned on him slowly. ‘What did you mean—you’d got a new slant on it?’

  He put on his glasses, took them off. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You know damn well you did. Earlier on you said you thought there was a chance you’d got a new slant on it. Have you got something, or is this just a matter of hoping?’

  He should have left them on, then maybe the fear wouldn’t have got through the smoked glass. ‘Well naturally, one tries not to bring preconceived notions—’

  I cut him off. ‘Nobody dives unprepared into a thing like this. Nobody picks out an old and fusty murder case and plunges into it blindfolded, hoping to bring in a new slant. Not even an experienced author. Not you, son. Certainly not you.’

  There was half a biscuit pathetically in his left hand. He moved it towards his mouth, seeing it was open, then stopped. He waved it. ‘One has to start somewhere.’

  It wasn’t me scaring him. He wasn’t trembling and confused. Just persistent.

  ‘It’d be eight quid a day,’ I told him flatly. ‘And expenses. Could run out at quite a figure.’

  ‘Then you’ll do it?’

  ‘No,’ I shouted. ‘Not until you tell me the lot.’

  ‘I’ve told you all there is.’

  ‘There’s the bit about what’s got you scared. You went into this like an innocent baby, for some reason you’re keeping to yourself. Then you came up against a snag, so you decided to toss somebody else in, in case things got rough.’

  He got to his feet. From somewhere he scavenged a little dignity. ‘Then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

  Stubborn, he was, I hated to see a frightened lad walk out of my door.

  ‘I can’t work unless the client levels with me.’

  ‘I’m sorry you think I’m not.’

  ‘Why pick on me, anyway?’

  ‘Your name was mentioned.’

  Fame, by heaven. I watched him reach the door. I knew I should not let him walk through and out of my life. He reminded me of that solitary magpie, alone in a cold expanse of snow.

  ‘Who’d mention my name?’

  ‘She married again, Myra Gaines. Her husband, it was, who told me. His name’s Carter Finn.’

  I prised the door handle out of his fist, locked my hand on his shoulder, and got him back to his chair.

  ‘Have another biscuit. They won’t be on expenses.’

  He smiled. The fear went from the hard line of his mouth. Tiny wrinkles flickered at the corner of his eyes.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Mr Mallin.’ He chose another biscuit. ‘Is there any more tea?’

  I looked. And there was.

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