by Joe McNally
8
Mister Sherrick seemed healthier than he’d sounded the night before. He lived in sheltered housing near the centre of Lambourn in a neat, warm, ground-floor flat. We shook hands and he gave me the keys to Jimmy’s house.
‘You’re looking dapper,’ I said. ‘Feeling better?’ He wore shirt, tie, mustard cardigan and a jacket. The sharp straight creases in his trousers ended on the soft shine of brown shoes. ‘Much better, thanks. Some bug going around the complex. There’s been a few down with it. Can I get you some tea?’
‘No thanks,’ I said, and then thought how little company he probably got and quickly said, ‘Yes, I will. Thanks. If it’s not holding you back. You look like you’re heading out somewhere.’ I sat on a stool at the small breakfast bar.
He smiled as he filled the kettle. ‘Just up to the Sacred Heart hall. They do breakfast for us every Friday.’
‘Well, leave it. I’ll have some tea later when I bring the keys back.’
‘You sure?’
I got up. ‘Yes. I’ll drop you off.’
‘That’s kind of you but I’ll walk, I think. It’s a nice morning. They’ve cleared all the pavements. It’ll give me an appetite for the black pudding.’
‘It’s years since I tasted black pudding.’
‘I’d smuggle a slice out for you but there’s some greedy old bastards always grabbing the platter and saying "Anybody mind if I have this last little bit?" in a voice that’d put Oliver Twist to shame.’
I laughed. ‘Gannets,’ he said, and buttoned his jacket.
Jimmy’s place was in Upper Lambourn, a few minutes’ drive from his father’s flat. It had been a semi-ruin with half a roof when Jimmy bought it. A static caravan in the garden served as his home for more than a year while he’d made the house habitable.
The bad weather had left the windows dirty. Footprints on the old snow covering the path looked sealed and permanent, like fossils.
I pushed through a drift of mail on the mat then locked the door and stood in the cold silence.
Empty.
Finished.
Had I not known beforehand that the owner of this place had left for good, I would know now.
A story a prison warder once told me came to mind: "Sometimes a man will die in his sleep. When you close the door on him, the sound it makes is different. It’s like shutting the door of an empty cell. The soul has gone."
I walked through the kitchen to the larder Jimmy had converted into an office. A pine table with two drawers took up most of the space. A small revolving chair stood in front of it. An A4 tray held a stack of blank printer paper. A handful of pens and three highlighters lay in an old cigar box.
A dark grey Toshiba laptop sat slightly askew, its cable and power adapter lay on the floor. I sat on the chair and raised the lid of the PC, hesitated, then pressed the power button. Nothing. I tried again. Dead. I reached for the cable to plug it in then decided I’d ask Mister Sherrick if I could take it home and have a look through it. What tale I’d tell him to justify it I hadn’t yet thought up.
The drawers were empty. I turned slowly in the chair to face an alcove with five shelves. A few copies of the Racing Post lay on the bottom shelf. I picked up the newspapers, three in all. The dates were weeks apart; from early October to mid-December. Jimmy would have had the Racing Post delivered daily. It was the only trade paper. Why keep just three?
I opened the first one. On page 7 was a picture of Jimmy at Cheltenham on Watt’s star horse Fruitless Spin. Jimmy was smiling and waving. December 14th.
Within two weeks he’d gone from waving happily to swinging lifeless in the cellar.
In the November 9th issue he was pictured again on another of Watt’s winners, Stifles in Spur. It looked as though Jimmy was gathering stuff for a scrapbook. The October 12th newspaper had him smiling again on Watt’s horse, Bantry Bay and I got to thinking how much prize money Watt had already won this season. He was ahead of some established trainers and his strike rate for an eight-horse yard must have been at record levels.
I folded the papers and put them back, then opened the drawers again in that stupid way you sometimes do when you are looking for something and even though you’ve already checked a certain place you do it another six times.
No letters. Where had they been? Where had he stashed them that allowed his dad to find them easily?
I wandered around, knowing I was delaying the moment. Finally, I opened the cellar door, clicked the wall switch and went slowly down the stone steps, my breath visible in the dim light.
My eye was only ever going to be drawn to one spot…the hanging point. The underside of the beam was lit by the bare bulb. The chair stood like a prop on a theatre stage. The chain was not there.
I went down the last four steps and across to the beam. A vertical line of small rips where the links had chewed the wood showed where the chain had been.
I was sure the chain had been there after they freed Jimmy. I remembered staring at it, while I waited for the sergeant to finish his notes. They must have lifted Jimmy and eased it over his head rather than untangle it from the beam.
It had been rusty. I remembered the gritty flakes in my hair as I’d tried to hold him up.
Squatting, I looked for rust flakes. None. Clean. Very clean. I wet a finger and put it to the floor; one or two specks of dirt, but much less than I’d have expected. I moved along below the beam, wetting, pressing, coming up clean. The next beam was six feet away. I hunkered below it, licked my finger and immediately felt the grit. My finger came up black, the spit turning the edges of the dust to micro-mud.
Someone had cleaned a long, straight meticulous path under the beam that had held the chain that had now gone.
If the careful cleaner had not been Jimmy’s father, then it had been someone with keys to the house.
9
In the car park of the Sacred Heart Church I waited for Jimmy’s father to finish breakfast and leave behind his black-pudding-eating friends. I was going to drive him home and ask questions and tell no lies. And I knew that when I left him, I would be in this for keeps.
Racing would start again soon. I’d curse myself for complicating my life once more with other people’s problems, but I knew that walking away would leave me sadder in the long run. Guilt gnaws. Curiosity compels. Injustice incites. I’d learned I could never escape from who I was.
Mister Sherrick came out the side door, waving to someone. I have a dislike of horns sounded in quiet places so I got out. ‘Mister Sherrick! Jim!’
We small-talked the few minutes back to Mister Sherrick’s flat. I accepted his invitation for tea and when we sat down, I gave him the keys to Jimmy’s house. ‘Oh, thanks. Did you find your tool-thing?’
I’d forgotten about the lie. ‘It was in my car. It had slipped under the seat. I didn’t think to look until after I’d had a good root around at Jimmy’s place.’
‘Oh well, at least you found it.’ He sipped tea. There was a vacant air about him, a hollowness, as though someone had cored his life and plugged each end of the husk. He seemed to be acting out his days, determined not to burden anyone with his sadness.
‘Jim, can I asks you a few questions about Jimmy?’
He looked at me and nodded slowly.
‘I’ve been wondering what it was he wanted to see me about, the night I found him. There was nothing in his letter, and that set me thinking. Can I ask you where those letters were, where you found them?’
‘I didn’t find them. His solicitor had them. He called me.’
‘Oh. I’d got the impression when you rang me from his house that you’d just come across them.’
‘No. I picked them up that afternoon.’
‘Can I ask who else he left letters for?’
‘Well, me, Jennifer, his sister, I don’t think you’ve met her, she lives in York?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘She wasn’t at the funeral. She has cerebral palsy.’
‘I’
m sorry.’ And this man whose wife and son were dead, whose daughter was afflicted, just raised his eyebrows and half-nodded and drank again. He seemed to have forgotten about the other letters. ‘Was there anyone else?’ I asked.
He looked confused. ‘Jimmy’s letters.’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. A couple of other jockeys, Bill Kittinger and Riley Duggan, and his valet, Fred Tibbetts. One for Bayley Watt and one for Gillian, my daughter-in-law.’
‘Do you still see her, then?’
‘Mmm, he swallowed tea. ‘She’s family. They were married a long time. She visits most Sundays.’
‘Did Jimmy still see her, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’ He stared at the unlit fire.
‘Nobody else?’
‘Those were all I got. I hired a car for a couple of days and took them round myself. Don’t really need a car full time, if you know what I mean. Not these days.’
‘No, of course.’
‘Limited parking here too. Doesn’t help.’
Was he trying to steer me off the subject or was his mind wandering? I said, ‘Did you see Jimmy much?’
He stared at the fire again for a long time then said quietly, ‘No. No I didn’t.’ He held his breath for a few seconds. And he was perfectly still, a faraway look in his blue eyes. ‘Jimmy felt he had let me down and that his mother would have been disappointed in him. Marriage was for life in our family, or maybe our generation is a better way to put it. Till death do us part was a big thing with Ann, his mother. When Jimmy and Gillian broke up it sort of broke something in Jimmy too. He’d ask my forgiveness.’
He turned to look at me. ‘Daft, eh? What could I forgive? Jimmy asked if I thought his mother would forgive him, her spirit, at least, and I said sure, sure she would and what was there to forgive? Sometimes things don’t work out. It’s not always someone’s fault. Not his alone, anyway. It’s life, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘He was a man for the guilt was Jimmy. An old Catholic failing some say and maybe they’re right. Even as a boy, he could never tell a lie. His mother would confront him, "Did you steal those sweets?", "Yes Ma, I did. I’m sorry." Didn’t stop him stealing them in the first place though!’ He smiled at that.
‘I don’t think Jimmy killed himself.’ I said.
‘Oh, he did.’ Oddly, he was smiling, as though trying to reassure me that there was no need to protect his feelings or offer him hope. ‘He left a suicide note recording. The police checked it against a TV interview and an expert told them it was Jimmy’s voice. I thought I’d told you, sorry.’
‘You did tell me. I’ve heard the recording. I went to the police because I knew Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to make a recording himself. He could hardly use a mobile phone.’
He gazed at me now, concentrating for the first time. ‘Wasn’t it Jimmy’s voice? On the recording?’
‘I think it was. But I don’t believe he made the recording, or if he did he did it by accident. Or somebody recorded his mobile calls and patched that tape together.’
‘A tape?’
‘Well, no, it was a recording on a memory stick which they said was also on his PC. By the way, I picked up Jimmy’s laptop from his desk when I was there. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I took a look at what was on it.’
‘Not at all, but you’ll have to get it repaired first.’
‘It might just need charging.’
‘The screen’s broken,’ he said.
‘How do you know it’s the screen? It didn’t come on at all, didn’t power up when I pressed the button, but the cable was on the floor. It’s probably been lying for a while in the police station.’
‘The screen’s smashed. I dropped it in Jimmy’s office when I was trying to pick it up by the lid to move it.’
‘Hold on. I’ve got it in the car.’ He followed me to the door. I took the laptop from the back seat and slowly opened it. The screen was intact. I turned it toward Mister Sherrick and moved it on its hinges like some big signal mirror so he could see it at all angles. He shook his head and frowned.
I went back inside and we looked again at the laptop. He said, ‘The glass smashed. I had to sweep it up. Either somebody came in and fixed it or that’s not Jimmy’s computer.’
‘Where did you leave it?’
‘On his desk.’
‘With the lid open or closed?’
‘Closed. I deliberately closed it in case any dust got into the works through the broken glass.’
‘When was this?’
‘The day I went to clear up. The day I called you.’
‘Were you there on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you go down to the cellar?’
‘No. I wouldn’t have done that.’
‘You haven’t paid for a cleaner to go in or anything like that?’
‘No. It was too…personal.’
‘Could anyone else have had keys?’
He shrugged, ‘I don’t know. Somebody might have.’
‘What about the police? Did they mention anything about a return visit?’
‘Not to me.’
‘How would you feel about talking to them again?’
‘When?’
‘Today. Someone’s been in the house between your visit and mine. They cleaned a strip in the cellar very thoroughly and it looks like they picked up Jimmy’s laptop and left another in its place.’
‘Why?’
‘Good question. Very good question.’
10
The sergeant rang me as dusk fell and said he’d come over. Mister Sherrick heated soup and warmed brown rolls and we ate and we drank tea and I learned more about his life.
Jimmy had left him the house in his will but Mister Sherrick had no inclination to sell it. ‘Maybe come springtime I’ll consider it,’ he said.
‘Was there anything in his will which surprised you?’ I asked.
‘That surprised me. The house. I thought he’d have left it to Gillian. I’ll give her half the money when I do sell it.’
‘Maybe he thought Gillian was still young enough to make her own way in the world? He’d have been worried about you, getting a bit older, maybe.’
He nodded. ‘But what do I need? This place will see me out. Seven eighths of my life is gone. Maybe more. Gillian still has half hers left.’
‘Was she bitter about the break up?’
‘No. She’s not the bitter type. I think she felt sorry for Jimmy. She always said it was a mid-life crisis thing. She’d resigned herself to losing him for a year, maybe a bit more.’
‘It didn’t even last that long, did it?’
He shook his head. ‘The girl was a new lease of life for him. He was like a teenager again. I remember him telling me, describing her "beauty" to me as though it was some kind of excuse, some acceptable explanation for leaving his wife. I can still see the intensity in his eyes. He was sitting where you are now.’
‘How long had he been married?’
‘Nineteen years.’ He looked at me and pursed his lips in that way which says "What can you do?"
He said. ‘I knew that would cripple Jimmy, that decision. If he was anything, he was loyal. That’s what his character was and I don’t believe he realized that. You can’t change your character. You can’t. And if you go against it, as Jimmy did, it eats away at you like rust.’
His eyes went to the fire again and he was quiet for a while then said, ‘Are you cold, Eddie? It’s gone chilly in here.’
‘I’m fine.’
He moved forward in the chair, ready to get up. ‘Mind if I light the fire?’
‘No, of course not. Here, let me do it. You stay there.’
I had to hit the ignition button three times. The gas caught with a tiny boom that longed, one day, to cause havoc.
Mister Sherrick hunched forward, holding his hands out as though at a brazier in the street. ‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘What happened
with the girl in the end?’ I asked. ‘I don’t even know her name.’
‘Amanda. It just fizzled out for her, I think. She was twelve years younger than him. He came home one night and she’d gone. Left a note saying it was good while it lasted or some other throwaway line. He brought the note here, like a child, as though he was hoping it would read different to me than it did to him.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Sad. Sad and sorry that he wasn’t a kid again in short trousers so I could take the poor bugger in my arms and hug him. He told me that even though he knew it had been wrong to leave Gillian, that once he’d met Amanda, he said, "You might as well have asked me not to breathe again as not to see her again." That’s how bad he had it and that wasn’t for poetic effect or anything. It was just Jimmy’s way of trying to explain.’
‘And was that why you kind of accepted, if that’s the right word, his suicide?’
His eyes went again toward the fire but his look was tunnelling down through the years. He nodded very slowly, ‘I suppose it was…I suppose it was.’
‘Did Gillian hope he’d come back to her after Amanda left?’
He made a face and tilted his head as though weighing up his thoughts. ‘She hoped he would, but she knew the same as me that the damage was done.’
‘Too proud to admit he was wrong?’
‘No. No, I don’t think it was that at all. It was the loyalty thing again. It’s like the old saying, you can’t be a little bit pregnant. With Jimmy, you couldn’t be a little bit loyal. He’d blown a hole in his own character and he knew he couldn’t board it up or fill it in or whatever way you want to look at it, by going back to Gillian. And she wouldn’t have scarified him. Wouldn’t have cast it up…No, it wasn’t pride, it was making your bed and lying in it, another old saying of his mother’s. He was a lot like her. A lot.’
I watched him. He watched the fire. The burbling hum of the blue flames the only noise.
‘More tea?’ I asked quietly, reaching for his mug on the floor. He turned, smiling. ‘Please.’
Sergeant Middleton arrived as the kettle boiled and Mister Sherrick welcomed him and took his jacket and pulled another chair to the fireside where we sat in a semi-circle.