Quick off the Mark

by Moody, Susan

  ‘You’d have been perjuring yourself. I had a stopover there once, on the way to Perth, that’s all. Didn’t even leave the airport.’ Too much information, I thought. As soon as they start weaselling round with unnecessary detail, you know they’re lying. ‘In any case …’ He squared up to me, ‘… who the hell are you?’

  ‘Oh sorry … I should have introduced myself. Quick, Alex Quick. Like I said, I knew Tristan too.’

  He drew in an exasperated breath. ‘I already told you, I didn’t know the man. Not here, not in Hong Kong, not anywhere. Anyway, what right do you have to come poking around here, asking questions which are none of your business?’

  None at all, obviously. I inched round so I could see into the interior of the building. The place had been cleaned up since my last visit. There was no sign of the bloodstained gurney, which I assumed the police must have removed as evidence. Nor of the pallets loaded with counterfeit goods. Had they been shipped on, or simply taken away to another location? Or even seized by the police? ‘Shall you keep this place on? I mean, after what happened?’

  ‘Of course!’ he snapped. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Painful memories and so on …’

  ‘Look, I feel sorry for the guy who was killed, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it.’

  I was inclined to believe him. I half-turned away, as though about to leave, then turned back. ‘Funny about you never meeting Tristan Huber. My informant seemed quite definite on the point.’

  ‘Sorry, but he – or she – was wrong. Thinking of someone else entirely.’

  ‘Well, thank you anyway.’ From the corner of my eye I could just see the Major, lurking in a thicket of elder bushes.

  Harkness waited at the door of the building as I left, thick arms folded across his chest. Poor Lilian, I thought, having to submit to the man’s embraces when she had no wish to do so. How soul-destroying, to be desired only for procreational purposes. Love-making reduced to nothing more than some loutish man forcing his way inside your body without tenderness or feeling, in order to plant his seed in your unreceptive womb. It didn’t bear thinking about, as the Major so often said.

  When I was back in my flat, I checked Harkness out on the Internet again, in greater detail. It was something I should have done earlier. It didn’t take long to find a website for W. J. Harkness & Sons, established 1894, currently conducting business from an industrial estate outside Bedford. Their main business seemed to consist of manufacturing bicycles of various kinds and their complicated components. Bottom brackets, derailleur hangers, shifters, headsets, freewheels, chains, dozens and dozens of elaborate items of equipment. Widgets, in other words, as the Major had said. Not to mention gadgets.

  It seemed that the company had been handed down from father to son for over a hundred years. No wonder Harkness was so desperate for an heir. I wondered if he had found a new woman who would give him the son he wanted so much. Or, indeed, had already done so.

  Glancing out of the window as I got up to pour a glass of a new Shiraz I’d bought from Edward Vine’s shop, I saw a racing green Jaguar parked along the seafront. It had been there a couple of days ago, too. Nice car, if a bit showy. I sighed. I didn’t suppose I would ever aspire to a car costing anything like that – or looking anything like that.

  Maybe I should start charging Dimsie Drayton for the time I was spending on looking into her brother’s murder.

  SIXTEEN

  Just occasionally, providence plays into your hands. Without me having to go out and find her, or track her down by phone, Dimsie showed up at my front door two days later, and rang the bell, keeping her finger pressed down until I opened up. Grim-faced and emitting stale wafts of yesterday’s scent (most un-Dimsie-like), she marched in and plonked herself down on the sofa.

  ‘She’s here,’ she announced. She picked my glass dolphin up from the coffee table and tried to balance it on its tail. Couldn’t be done. I’d tried many times.

  ‘Is she?’ I said, itching to take the dolphin away. If it tipped over, it would break in two.

  ‘Right here in town.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘Are you going to speak to her?’ demanded Dimsie. Mercifully she put down the dolphin and lifted the triangular leather box banded with copper wire, which one of Meghan’s handsome Italian craftsmen had made especially for me (‘la tua bella sorella’). She couldn’t break that.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Tristan’s murder, of course. The police don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’

  ‘I possibly would, if—’

  ‘Not that I expect she has anything useful to tell you. But you might just pick something up from her. A clue or something.’

  ‘Dimsie, who the hell are we talking about here?’

  She stared at me as though I had started speaking in tongues. ‘Christie, of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘Who did you think?’

  Christie. Tristan’s former wife. Here in Longbury? ‘Why do you think she’s come?’

  ‘I imagine she heard about Tristan, wanted to establish a presence. Maybe hoping for something in his will.’

  Oooh, bitchy. ‘Or maybe to offer condolences to your mother, or you? Or something?’

  Dimsie snorted. ‘She’d be on a hiding to nothing if she tried that with my mother. Dorcas is unlikely to accept commiserations from the woman who dared to reject her son.’

  ‘What about you? If she dropped round to see you, would you be nice?’

  Dimsie considered. ‘I’d be polite,’ she said. ‘Icy, but polite. But then she hasn’t contacted me, so the matter doesn’t actually arise, does it?’

  ‘Why can’t you talk to her? If she’s got anything useful to say, she’d be more likely to open up to you than to a total stranger.’

  ‘Only problem there is that she hates my guts – probably with good reason. I wasn’t very nice to her. She’d just clam up if she saw me.’

  ‘Or make an excuse and leave.’

  ‘That too. Oh Alex, you aren’t going to let me down, are you?’

  I sighed. Loudly. Heavily. Just so Dimsie would realize what a time-wasting hassle this was. ‘Any idea where I’d find this woman?’

  ‘I was told that she was staying at the Admiral.’

  The Admiral is the best hotel in the area, situated on the seafront on the other side of town, many of its rooms possessing extensive sea views, with balconies from which to enjoy them, plus a chef constantly hailed as one of the best in southern England. ‘I’ll mosey on down there, see if I can catch her,’ I said. A thought struck me. ‘Have you informed the police that she’s here? They might want to ask her some questions.’

  ‘I haven’t yet. Besides, like I said, I don’t suppose she knows anything at all that would be helpful. I only told you because you asked about her.’

  ‘What’s her story these days?’

  ‘I haven’t particularly kept up. I’ve got better ways to spend my time than keeping tabs on my brother’s ex-wife.’

  ‘So have I, Dim.’

  ‘Oh Alex … I’m sorry.’

  Suck it up, Alex … ‘When’s the best time to catch her?’

  ‘Five thirty onwards, in the bar, I should think,’ Dimsie said promptly, her pretty mouth forming itself into a semi-sneer. ‘She likes a drink or two, does our Christie. Or even three.’

  ‘That’s got to be her,’ Sam said. I’d roped him in to coming with me to the saloon bar of the Admiral Hotel. The woman he had indicated was at a table, talking to a couple of the retired nautical, navy-blue blazered, yachting-capped types who lived in the town, still dreaming of their days before the mast and happy to tell you all about them. At great length. She was unmistakably Christie. I’d seen her before, but only in photos. She’d put on quite a bit of weight since then.

  At first glance she seemed immediately likable, très sympathique. She was a large lady, with masses of golden hair arranged in the kind of complicated chignon that she couldn’t possibly have done herself. So eith
er she travelled with a lady’s maid or, much more likely, had paid an afternoon visit to the beauty parlour. She wore white linen trousers, a loose tunic of dark green linen, heavy statement necklaces of jade and beaten silver round her neck, the ensemble completed by expensive high-heeled boots which must have cost a bomb. Draped over the back of her chair was a flowered jacket which I’d seen featured on an emaciated model in the most recent issue of Vogue at a price which had made my hair bleed just thinking about it. At her feet was a gorgeous green leather bag.

  She laughed at something one of the old tars had said, an attractive, full-bodied laugh, loud and slightly coarse, and spread her hands, which were covered in large emerald and diamond rings, so big I almost doubted if they could be real. But she didn’t look like the sort of woman who wore fake jewellery. So she was either loaded, or else shacked up with someone pretty affluent.

  Seated at another table, I trained my demonic powers on her, willing her to look my way. Which she finally did. I waved encouragingly and indicated the empty third chair between me and Sam. She looked puzzled, but after a while, she made gracious signs of withdrawal, went to the bar and ordered drinks for the two guys, twinkled her fingers at them and came over to join us.

  Sam stood up and pulled the spare chair out for her. ‘I’m Quick. Alexandra Quick,’ I said.

  ‘I recognize the name.’ She gave us both a big smile.

  ‘I’m a friend of Dimsie Drayton’s.’ Too late I realized this was hardly a recommendation, given the hostility between the two of them.

  ‘Dimsie …’ Her forehead wrinkled. ‘Didn’t I see that poor woman on eBay not long ago, trying to pick up a second-hand brain cell?’

  You didn’t have to be seated within half a mile of her to pick up the vibes. ‘Um …’ I said, wondering what the best way to deal with her sudden change in attitude was.

  ‘So if you’re a friend of dear Dim’s, you must also have been a friend of my former husband’s.’ She raised her chin confrontationally. All signs of amiability had vanished. ‘In fact, thinking back, I know you were.’

  ‘This is true.’

  ‘And what exactly is your role in this, Ms Quick? I assume you’re not with the police.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘It’s just that Dimsie asked me to look into Tristan’s death—’

  ‘Tristan’s murder, Ms Quick. Tell it like it is.’

  ‘— independently of the police, since she thought they might not keep her in the groove.’

  ‘No reason why they should.’ Christie stared at us both for a moment, then rummaged in her beautiful bag and pulled out a paper tissue. ‘Please don’t think that I wasn’t desperately sorry to learn of Tristan’s death,’ she said. ‘It was a particularly unpleasant way to go, to put it mildly. But our divorce was pretty damned nasty, not to say antagonistic.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, the whole break-up was cleverly manipulated by his mother and his sister, neither of whom thought I was anywhere good enough for him. Poor old Tris just didn’t know which way was up when those two bitches had finished with him. By which time, I was pretty much eager to get away before blood was drawn.’

  ‘Do you have the slightest idea why he was killed, or who might have been responsible?’ Sam asked.

  ‘None at all. Mind you, he moved in some fairly strange circles. Both here and in Hong Kong.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized that Tristan was married when he was out there,’ I said.

  ‘He wasn’t. He and I first met in the MO Bar. I was working for one of the multi-nationals at the time. The job meant I had to take visiting clients and prospective customers out and about, show them a good time – and indicate where they could get an even better one, if they wanted to.’

  ‘You said strange circles,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’d often run across him in different bars, huddled over a table at the back of the room, in deep conversation with various dodgy-looking characters. I just assumed that drug deals were going down, as they so often did out there.’

  ‘A bit public for that sort of thing, wasn’t it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I brought it up a couple of times, after we were married, but Tris maintained it was just normal legitimate business meetings, that people out there like to conduct business over refreshment or entertainment of some kind. I had no reason not to believe him. Why would I? First flush of love and all that.’ There was sadness in her eyes.

  ‘But that changed?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I’ll say. I quickly learned never to enquire too closely into his business affairs. But I’m not a total moron. I knew perfectly well that he was involved in some pretty dodgy deals. Worse than dodgy.’ She frowned. ‘Think of some of the very worst rackets you can, and Tristan was part of them, if not instigating them. I fell madly in love with him the first moment I clapped eyes on him, but I gradually realized that he was utterly ruthless, quite merciless, didn’t give a toss what filthy business he dirtied his hands with, as long as there was money in it. Big money. He would do anything for money, and absolutely nothing and nobody was allowed to stand in his way.’

  ‘And may I ask why you’ve returned to Longbury now?’

  She looked away, twirled the stem of her glass, then lifted it and drained the contents in a single swallow. ‘Wouldn’t you, if it was your husband, divorced or not, who’d just been murdered?’

  Would I? If my in-laws were hostile, and my divorce had been a nasty one? And the husband himself had been a right bastard? I tried to imagine Jack Martin the Love Rat found dead in ugly circumstances, and what I would do. ‘Do you have connections here?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. There are people I know here, from when we were still together, but none of them very well.’

  ‘Will you be staying long?’ Sam asked.

  Again she shrugged. Looked down at the table top. Twisted round in her seat and gestured to the guy behind the bar for refills. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

  She was stalling. I glanced at Sam and could tell he was thinking the same. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask her. Nor was I clear in my own mind as to whether meeting up with her had achieved anything but a muddying of already murky waters.

  The bartender brought our fresh drinks over. I liked a drink, but I couldn’t get them down at the rate that Christie was managing. I decorously lifted mine and put it down without tasting it. ‘I have no official role here,’ I said, ‘but there’s one last question: do you know some people called Landis?’

  She was good, but she couldn’t disguise an involuntary jerk of surprise, though she tried, fussing with the tissue which had been tucked just inside her sleeve, dabbing at her nose as though she’d suppressed an abortive sneeze.

  She shook her head. Made a face by throwing her lips forwards. ‘Landis? Never heard of them.’

  Is that so?

  But why would she lie?

  She leaned towards me. ‘If you’re looking for a motive for Tris’s death, I’ll tell you this for nothing. As I’m sure you’re aware, he was a hard man. Very much a tooth-for-a-toother was our Tris. You do him wrong, he’d do you a worse wrong right back. Maybe someone resented it. Maybe he overdid the score-settling.’ She spread her hands. ‘I know nothing … have no suspicions. It’s just a possibility, is all I’m saying.’

  ‘Someone bore him a grudge?’ Sam said.

  ‘It’s more than likely.’

  Why would she bring this up so soon after I mentioned the name Landis? Was she trying to tell us something?

  I checked out the clock on the wall above the bar. It was time to leave. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of your time here,’ I said. ‘I assume you’ll drop in at the cop-shop at some point. They’ll be interested in what you can tell them.’

  As we left the room, I glanced back. Christie had already reached across the table and was swallowing my untouched drink.

  Sam was having dinner with some friends, so I had a long bath, washed my hair and wrapped myself in my dressing-gown. Made cheese on toast and quartered an apple. Sat d
own in the corner of the sofa and switched on the TV. As usual the fare on offer made me want to cut my own head off with a blunt nail file, or else pull all my teeth out with an eyebrow tweezer. I went into rant mode. Dumbing down. Mindless pap. Pandering to the lowest common denominator. If I didn’t enjoy watching Wimbledon Fortnight in the summer, and rugby during the winter, I wouldn’t have a set at all.

  I knew I ought to get on with Eat, Drink and Be Merry. I’d received a cheery email from my publishers only the day before, informing me that they were so much looking forward to receiving the manuscript when it was ready and hoping that everything was going well. Which in publisher-speak meant: don’t forget your looming deadline. I was well aware. I had all the illustrations ready: I just needed to complete the final accompanying texts.

  It was proving much harder than it ought to. Tristan’s death weighed heavily on me. Unsettled, melancholy, I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my work. In front of me was the brand-new book of Japanese prints which had arrived that morning. Delicate and charming, each picture triggering ideas for another anthology, I intended to go through the pages slowly, making notes. I was about to reach for it, but leaning forward, I caught sight of Chris Kearns’ book lying beside it. I could see that three sections of black-and-white photographs interspersed the pages of the volume.

  I love looking at the photos in biographies. Often they’re the most interesting part. I flipped through this one. Here were the Kearns grandparents, the Kearns parents. Here were big moustaches, hats like flower stalls, terrible teeth. Striped bathing dresses and straw boaters. The piers at Margate and Clacton. Chris in a pram. Chris as a boy in a school cap and tie. He wrote well. Even engagingly, his text spiced with amusing anecdotes and references. Despite myself, I found I was drawn into his disaster-strewn story.

  He had a happy childhood – or was that simply emotion recollected in tranquillity? I often wonder where truth lies in memoirs. Was childhood indeed as idyllic as brilliant memoirists like Laurie Lee or Dirk Bogarde portrayed it? Truth is always subjective and rarely absolute. Apart from the misery-memoirs – and how truthful are they? – in retrospect, the golden sun of yesteryear seems to shine continually, far brighter than any contemporary real life sun. On the other hand, were I to write my own record of childhood, I’d be hard put to it to find anything negative or traumatic to record. The death of a pet, a teacher’s caustic comments … hardly the stuff of bestsellerdom. Especially if not followed by a noteworthy later life.