Never Die in January (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Scholefield

  She got off the sofa and began to tidy up. She did it as a kind of knee-jerk reaction in Macrae’s house; putting bottles and empty cigar packets into wastepaper baskets, folding bits of clothing…He watched her with increasing irritation.

  She went to the windows and looked out.

  Hum…hum…hum…She swayed her bottom at him…

  It was mid-afternoon but in the fog the light had gone and it was almost dark.

  “Your street’s looking up, George. You got some posh cars here now.”

  She closed the curtains, put on the lights and went on with her tidying. She retrieved a piece of paper that had fallen down beside the telephone table.

  “You want this, George?”

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t make out the — Who’s Gladys?”

  “Let me have a look at it.”

  It said, in an untidy scribble, “Gladys. See housing man.”

  He suddenly remembered Gladys’ distressed call.

  “I’ve got to go out,” he said.

  “What?”

  “See someone.”

  “George, you said you had the whole day.”

  “This won’t take long. Just to Lambeth and back.”

  She stood in front of him, arms akimbo. Tell me! Who’re you going to see? Who is this Gladys?”

  Macrae exploded. “What bloody business is it of yours who I go to see?”

  “You never told me about a Gladys?”

  “Because there’s nothing to tell!”

  “Like you never told me about that Linda! You been seeing her!”

  “So what if I have. She was my first wife. We’ve got things in common, a daughter for instance. Things to talk about.”

  “It’s rotten! Horrible! You say you love me and you’re round there putting a leg over. It’s not right!”

  She began to cry.

  “Oh, Jesus. Listen, stop your greetin’!”

  “You said we were going out to dinner!” It was a wail.

  “And we are. This won’t take long.”

  “George, don’t go.” She hung on to his jacket.

  “You have a bath,” he said, loosening her fingers. “Work out your stars.”

  He put on his coat and hat and went out into the fog.

  Stoker, sitting in the Mercedes forty yards up the road, watched the big man come through the oblong of light as he opened and closed his front door. He started the engine. He waited for Macrae to come slightly nearer. He gunned the engine.

  Two or three seconds and it would be over.

  A lorry came slowly down the road, got between him and Macrae, and by the time it passed Macrae was inside his own car and was easing it out into the traffic. All Stoker could do was follow.

  It was the dog, you see. Would he mind? She was frightened of him.

  Simba? But he wouldn’t hurt her. Wouldn’t hurt anyone unless he told him to.

  It was silly, she knew, but she wouldn’t feel comfortable. He could tie Simba to the railings just outside her door. He’d be quite safe there. Or leave him in the car. It wouldn’t be for long. It was only a leaky tap.

  He didn’t like it. That was plain enough. But he made the dog lie down outside the door.

  Stay.

  The dog stayed.

  She let him in, pressed the door to behind her. Heard the lock click.

  They were alone.

  She’d bought these apples, she said. From the Cape of Good Hope. Really very good. Wouldn’t he like one?

  No, he didn’t think so. He was looking at her oddly.

  She was having one. A Granny Smith. Crisp. Full of juice.

  He was sure they were lovely.

  Here…she could cut him a piece.

  No, really. Anyway he didn’t like apples all that much.

  She couldn’t imagine that. Hadn’t come across anyone who didn’t like apples.

  And she shouldn’t be using that kind of knife, he said.

  Why was that?

  Carbon steel. It flavoured the fruit, and the acid in the apple would stain the blade. You wanted stainless steel for apples.

  But stainless steel couldn’t take an edge like carbon steel. That’s what she’d been told anyway.

  She was cutting fruit, he said, not flesh. What did she need carbon steel for?

  How clever he was.

  Tea? Coffee? A drink?

  Nothing.

  Nothing? Why was that?

  Just didn’t, that’s all. Where was the leaking tap?

  In the bathroom. Didn’t he have tea or coffee or anything when Grace was here?

  What did she mean?

  Simple question.

  What if he did? What if he didn’t? What was it to her?

  Life was full of questions. She had lots more. Especially about Grace.

  Look — he had things to do — he didn’t have much time —

  Had he enjoyed himself?

  Doing what?

  Beating Grace up.

  What was that supp — ?

  Like he’d beaten up the married woman.

  He thought she’d better close her mouth.

  Was that how he’d spoken to Grace? Is that how he spoke to women? His mother wouldn’t have liked that. She’d have slapped his face for him.

  Bitch!

  Harold had called her that.

  Had she been talking to him?

  Of course she had. She’d been talking to him about Gerald. About his mind in particular. Was he crazy? Was he paranoid?

  She was asking for it now.

  Did he know Grace had written an entire account of their relationship? How he used to beat her up then cry and cry and be a little boy and want to suck her breasts? That was what he was all about wasn’t it? A little boy looking for a mother to fuck. Someone to humiliate like he’d been humiliated.

  If she wasn’t careful he’d —

  What? Beat her up too? He liked beating up women, didn’t he? That’s what turned him on wasn’t it? And his dog, that was a sign too, wasn’t it? And the Porsche? Was he angry? Was he bewildered? Didn’t he realize yet that Grace was her daughter and that she had wanted to redeem him and that was what this was all about? Redemption. Did he know what redemption meant? She’d looked it up. It could mean salvation. It could also mean atonement.

  Oh, and by the way, was he really an albino?

  CHAPTER XII

  “Detective Superintendent Macrae,” said Macrae, and he held out his warrant card. “You’re the housing manager, aren’t you? Mr Geach?”

  “It’s a fair cop, Inspector!” Geach was jovial.

  Macrae saw a balding man in his thirties with what looked like a bad case of psoriasis of the scalp.

  “Superintendent,” Macrae said.

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s Detective Superintendent, not Inspector.”

  “I stand corrected. What can I do you for, Superintendent? My old ladies been rioting again?”

  Macrae sighed pensively. “You a golfer, Mr Geach?”

  The clubs stood against the wall in their brand-new bag. He picked out a seven-iron and tested it in his big hands. “Expensive,” he said. “What d’you play off?”

  “Twenty-three.” A look of contempt crossed Macrae’s face. “But my handicap’s coming down. It was twenty-eight.”

  Macrae slipped the club back into the bag.

  “You the housing manager of the whole estate, are you?”

  “That’s right. Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Macrae took off his hat and slumped in one of the chairs. “Depends what you mean by wrong.”

  “Well, you know we’ve got all sorts here. I mean there’s drugs, sure, but it’s no worse than a lot of estates. And some joy riding. But that’s much better now that we’ve changed the pattern of the roads and put down “sleeping policemen”. Kids mainly. They got nothing to do, no jobs. It’s boredom really.”

  “I haven’t come about the kids, well, not in a direct sense. I’ve come ab
out administration costs.”

  A sudden wary look came into Geach’s eyes.

  “What’re those, Inspector?”

  Nothing irritated Macrae more than people calling him Inspector.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you about, Mr Geach.”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you there.”

  “Oh. That’s a pity. I thought you could. Administration costs and stamp duty.”

  “Stamp duty? That’s when you buy a house, isn’t it? I mean we haven’t sold the flats on this estate. No call for stamp duty.”

  “That’s what I thought. But…well, I have a problem, Mr Geach. There’s someone on the estate, let’s just call her an old friend. A widow. Used to be married to my driver in the police. And she’s been worried by these yobs who haven’t work to go to and who get bored. Just like you say. And they keep her awake at night with their music and noise. You with me so far?”

  “I’m with you, Inspector.”

  “Just call me Mr Macrae if your memory’s faulty.”

  “What? Oh…sorry.”

  “That’s all right, laddie. I’m used to it. But to get back to what I was saying. These young louts keep my friend awake at night. And then she telephones me. Keeps me awake. You follow?”

  “I follow. But what’s all this got to do with me? I can’t control them. Not even the police can’t do that.”

  “Well, now, she says she asked you for a transfer and — ”

  “Oh, yes. I remember her. Triffield, wasn’t it? Mrs Triffield.”

  “Twyford.”

  “Of course. Twyford. Rosemary.” He made a thing of sorting through papers on his desk. “Her application’s here somewhere.”

  “Don’t fuss yourself. I believe you.”

  “If you’ve come about trying to get her moved up the list then I’m sorry to say that everyone must take their proper turn unless it’s socially desirable that they move or their health is at risk if they stay.”

  “You didn’t let me finish my wee story,” Macrae said patiently. “You see this widow has a friend in high places.”

  “Oh?” The eyes looked surprised. “Who would that be?”

  “Me. As far as you’re concerned, Mr Geach, I’m the top of the mountain. The Himalayas. From where I stand you’re just a wee pimple. You follow me?”

  Geach did not reply.

  “So we come to the administration costs and the stamp duty.”

  “But I said — ”

  “Never mind a moment what you said. Just you listen to what I’m saying. Gladys — that’s her name by the way — tells me you want five hundred quid for what you call administration costs and another fifty for stamp duty.”

  Geach leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. I remember her all right. Nutty as a fruit cake. Bats. Lost her marbles. She’s been in twice or three times.” He leaned forward confidentially. “I could have got her into serious trouble, Mr Macrae.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Trying to bribe a council official.”

  “Who would that be, Mr Geach?”

  “Me. Tried to offer me money to move her to Briar.”

  “Well now…How much did she offer you?”

  “Four hundred, five hundred, something like that. I can’t really remember. Happens all the time. People want to move. Pastures new. But there are lists, Mr Macrae. Hundreds and hundreds of families on the lists. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? I mean we don’t do business like that in England, do we?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not English.”

  “Well, you have my word that we don’t.”

  “And she got all this about administration costs and stamp duty…she got all that wrong?”

  “She certainly did. You see what I mean. Dotty.”

  Macrae rose. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr Geach.”

  “Not at all.” Geach rose with him. “Glad to be of help.”

  Macrae put on his hat and made for the door. Then stopped and turned. “There’s one thing that bothers me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You say she’s senile.”

  “Yeah…probably. A lot of them get like that here.”

  “Aye. I’ve seen the place. It’s no wonder. If you weren’t mad before you came here you soon would be.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “The point I’m trying to make, Mr Geach, is that I saw her only a few weeks ago and she wasn’t senile then. I didn’t realize it came on so fast.”

  “Well, maybe not senile. But you know…not all there. Anyway she tried to bribe me. No two ways aboout that.”

  “All right then, I’ll drop in and see her. Tell her I’ve discussed things with you and — ”

  “That’s the best thing to do.”

  “And then I’ll go to one or two of the other houses — Briar, is it? — and I’ll knock on some doors and have a wee talk to some of the older folk about how they got there and administration costs and stamp duty and then I’ll come back here and ask for your records — and just clear the whole thing up to my satisfaction. You wouldn’t mind that would you?”

  Mr Geach had gone the colour of milk.

  “Should I do that, Mr Geach?”

  “Mr Macrae…Sir…I…”

  “Sit down, Mr Geach, and let’s talk about it man to man.”

  Less than three hundred yards from Geach’s office Gladys lay in her bed, terrified. First there had been ringing, then the banging. Was it on her door? Or the next flat’s? Were they smashing down the barricades to get at her?

  “Oh God,” she said to bulldog. “What am I to do?”

  The banging stopped.

  “If I call the police and they come and there’s no one here they won’t come again. Cry wolf, they’ll say.”

  She lay stiffly on her back, all her old senses alert, but the banging did not start again.

  Linda Macrae had had a frustrating time in more ways than one. As she sat in the taxi crossing the Thames on its way to Clapham she reviewed the past forty-eight hours without enthusiasm.

  She tried to think of all the plusses. She now knew much more about the architecture and interior design of two of the world’s busiest airports, Heathrow and Gatwick, than she had before. That was a plus.

  And she had become familiar, or at least as familiar as one could in dense fog, with the M25 motorway.

  Was that a plus?

  She had shuttled backwards and forwards between the two airports as the fog lifted at one and closed down at the other.

  She had been able to make certain judgements. Gat wick’s coffee was better than Heathrow’s; vice versa for the tea.

  Interesting as these pieces of life’s jigsaw were, they didn’t come anywhere near being ravished. And being ravished — or something akin to it — was what she had set out to be, had planned to be, had looked forward to being.

  Not only had she not been ravished, she had not even been chastely kissed by her would-be lover.

  She hadn’t even clapped eyes on him.

  Memo to CEO British Airways. Subject: The sexual drive of divorced ladies in dense fog.

  Neither she nor David had missed the irony. She had phoned him from Heathrow. By that time she had already got as far north as Manchester, only to be turned back to London.

  “David, it is not meant to be,” she had said.

  “It’s completely clear here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Loch Inver.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Near the top of Scotland on the left-hand side.”

  “Is there an international airport there?”

  “Let me look out of the hotel window…No…Not that I can see. There’s a football pitch. Glider?”

  “I’m going home.”

  Which is what she’d done.

  She paid off the cab and slung her flight bag over her shoulder and was walking up the path from the gate when she heard the dog. In the foggy darkness close at hand came a lo
ng-drawn-out howl. It was a sound from the taiga and it froze her blood.

  She stopped. She could hear whining, then the howl came again. It was coming from the bottom of the basement steps that led down to Irene’s flat.

  “Good dog,” she said.

  There was an ominous, grating growl.

  She had no torch so she unlocked the front door and switched on the porch light. Now she could see the basement steps and Irene’s front door. A huge brown dog stood on the doormat. It gave another chilling howl and then began to scratch wildly at the door. Chips and splinters of wood had already been scraped away and parts of the architrave had been bitten.

  There was something familiar about the dog.

  “Simba. Good Simba.”

  The dog howled.

  If Gerald was there why wasn’t he responding? He and the dog were inseparable. She stepped across a small lawn and saw that there was light in Irene’s sitting-room windows. But the curtains were closed.

  Perhaps Gerald had come round for some reason. Perhaps he had taken Irene for a drink.

  She went back into the street and looked at the cars. She walked about thirty yards before she saw the Porsche. She didn’t understand what was going on but decided she must get indoors. She could phone the police or the fire brigade or whoever it was who looked after intransigent animals.

  She began to walk back to her house and as she did so she heard a footstep, just the scraping of a leather shoe on concrete. She paused but the sound was not repeated.

  She hurried forward. The heavy air smelled of exhaust fumes and she could not see more than twenty yards.

  She heard the footsteps once more.

  For God’s sake, she told herself, it was early evening; people were coming home from work. It would have been surprising if she hadn’t heard footsteps.

  She walked up her path. He was waiting for her in the front garden. A dark shape in the dark mist. She turned and began to run. He was on top of her in a flash.

  “Linda!”

  “Oh God, Leo! You scared me to death!”

  “Sorry about that. I was looking for my guv’nor.”

  “George? Well, he’s not here. Why would you think that?”

  “His…the girl…I was told at his house he might be here or at Gladys Twyford’s place. I’ve been there. But he’s not.”