It was a pay and display car park, divided into neat bays by low wooden rails. Three people were at the ticket machine, trying to help each other find the right change, but I didn’t bother with a nicety like paying. I drove straight past them and went on a tour of the park, looking for Curzon’s elderly Volvo. I was beginning to think I’d guessed wrongly when, suddenly, there it was. I parked tight behind it, blocking him in.
They weren’t in the shop so I set off down the limestone path towards the cliff and its viewing points. The place was buzzing with lesser-spotted birdwatchers. Some were obvious amateurs, with the wife and kids, hoping to see a puffin; others dripped with hundreds of pounds worth of cameras, binoculars and telescopes, and you just knew they could tell an Arctic warbler from a Greenland chiffchaff at five hundred metres and would sniff with disdain at anyone who couldn’t.
The RSPB information board said that there could be up to a quarter of a million seabirds there, including the largest colonies of gannets and kittiwakes in the British Isles. By the smell of the place I’d say they were all at home. I walked down the grassy field towards the sturdy fence that protected the edge of the cliff, and the thought of it, there in front of me, gave me a nervous feeling in my legs.
It took your breath away. Four hundred feet, dead vertical, and every square foot inhabited by a screaming, cawing, gaping mouth, demanding attention. The air in front of the cliff was filled with wheeling and swooping seabirds looking for their own offspring. I stood mesmerised, my mind completely boggled, and almost forgot why I was there.
There were five observation points where the fence was designed to give the birdwatcher a view of the cliff face. It was elbow to elbow at the first one but I guessed that number five, half a mile away, would be relatively quiet, so I struck out towards it.
When I was nearly there I saw Toby coming towards me, cleaning her spectacles, binoculars hanging round her neck. They were those green rubberised ones that have lens covers dangling on them. When she was right up to me I said: ‘Good morning, Toby. Fancy meeting you here.’
She peered up at me, thrusting her face close to mine, like short-sighted people do. ‘Charlie?’ she said. ‘Is that Charlie?’ She hooked her specs around her ears. ‘It is!’ she declared. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to count the gannets,’ I told her. ‘It’s part of my job.’
‘How many did you get?’
‘Five thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven.’
‘I got five thousand seven hundred and ninety-six. You must have counted one of them twice.’
‘Never. You must have missed one.’
‘Rubbish! Have you seen them dive in?’ She made a diving motion with her hand, terminating in a splosh.
‘Spectacular, aren’t they. Where’s your daddy?’
‘He’s following me. Must have stopped to look at something.’
‘You walk on, Toby. I’d like a word with him.’
‘Without me there. I get the message. Is it true you’ve solved the murder?’
‘You ask too many questions, but yes, we think we’ve solved it.’
‘Will you get promoted?’
‘No! Now go!’ I pointed down the trail and she skipped away.
He was meandering, stopping to use his binoculars, then consulting a bird book to try to identify something he’d seen. I leant on the fence and watched the aerial ballet being performed before my eyes. The gannets were special, folding their wings for the last fifty feet of their dive and entering the water with hardly a splash. They rose out of it a few seconds later, not a feather out of place, their painted heads as immaculately drawn as the Clinique girls at the mall.
‘Hello, James,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were a twitcher.’
Curzon shook his head to break out of the reverie. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘A twitcher? No, not me. This is a surprise. What brings you to Bempton?’
‘Grizzly said I’d find you here, and I just wanted to fill you in before I went back to Heckley. Are you heading home?’
‘Yes, I think Toby’s seen all she wants. But haven’t you work to do? I think we know enough about the whole sad case, don’t you?’
‘Possibly, but I’d like to clarify a couple of points. Can we have a chat back at the house, if you don’t mind?’
‘Fine,’ he replied, but his expression indicated that he’d prefer to have his fingernails pulled out.
At the cars I suggested that he lead the way because he was more familiar with the lanes. ‘Do you mind if Toby rides with me?’ I asked. ‘We’ve some catching up to do.’ Toby looked delighted with the idea.
He led us along back roads, skirting the Wolds with their wide, lush valleys, through villages with names as unlikely as Grindale, Thwing and Octon. Sledmere, with its ornate Victorian architecture, demanded closer inspection, but we drove straight through. It would have to wait for another day. I asked Toby how the tennis serve was going and she told me that her father had promised to buy a serving machine, so she’d have something to play against.
‘I’m going to call it Rafael, after Rafael Nadal,’ she told me.
‘Sounds fun,’ I said. ‘Some of those machines are so realistic they grunt and spit.’
‘Rafael doesn’t grunt and spit,’ she protested.
‘No, but some of the women players do.’
‘Ha ha! Perhaps I should start. When we get one will you come over and have a go on it?’
‘Ooh, we’ll see.’
‘It’s not just me. Grizzly would like you to, as well.’
‘Ha! I doubt it.’ Curzon had stopped at a narrow junction, waiting for a tractor and trailer to go by. The farmer gave us a wave and we were off again.
‘She’s not going to marry Kevin, you know.’
I said: ‘Toby, you should keep things like that to yourself. It’s personal.’
‘She told me last night, in bed.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, it’s personal.’ She twisted in her seat until she was facing me, her knees drawn up. ‘She’s on the shelf, now,’ she declared, ‘so you could marry her, and that would make me your sister-in-law. Would you like me for a sister-in-law?’
I nearly drove into the ditch. ‘Over my dead body,’ I told her.
Curzon took me into the room with the deep-buttoned easy chairs and then vanished for several minutes. He reappeared carrying a tray laden with coffee and biscuits.
‘No milk, I believe.’
‘Thank you.’
He fussed about, placing my coffee on the Queen Anne table at the side of my chair, leaving me a napkin, neatly folded and geometrically positioned. I didn’t mind the time-wasting: I wasn’t looking forward to our conversation any more than he was. Eventually he took his place in the easy chair facing me.
‘So what’s it all about?’ he asked.
‘I think you can guess,’ I replied. ‘I went to see Motty Dermot last night, as you know, and we had a long conversation. I say conversation, but I did most of the talking, asking direct questions that required simple answers. Unfortunately, that caused me to make some mistakes with his replies in the past, to jump to false conclusions. Motty told me that he was assisted by the meister to kill Peccadillo, and I was led to believe that this meant Threadneedle, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?’
He sat in silence for a long while, then chose his words carefully. ‘Motty goes back a long way,’ he said, ‘and he’s lived a sheltered life, surrounded by horses and racing folk, like his father and grandfather before him. He, and others like him, are like conduits going back two hundred years, with language and values that stretch back that far. Because I live in the Big House he credits me with some sort of respect. Respect that I don’t deserve. When he talks about the meister, he means me.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Not particularly.’ He pushed himself upright, saying: ‘Biscuits. Please, have a biscuit.’
I sat patiently waitin
g until we were both furnished with a side plate and a home-made crunchy cookie. ‘I think you’ve worked it all out by now, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’re a good cop.’ I took a bite of biscuit and sipped my coffee. ‘I was in big trouble,’ he continued. ‘Big financial trouble. The gales had taken off much of the roof and the rain was doing the rest. First estimate was quarter of a million, going up every day. We were running as fast as we could just to stand still. We applied for grants everywhere imaginable, tried to do a deal with the local council, but nobody was interested.’
I sneaked a look at the clock on the wall and thought I’d better speed things up a little. I said: ‘And then along came a white knight in the form of Arthur George Threadneedle.’
‘Something like that. We knew him quite well, through the musical evenings and the horse racing. Put it down to naivety, greed, desperation, what you will, but we fell for the spiel and invested fifteen thousand pounds in the Peccadillo syndicate. It was peanuts, really, but it was just about my last fifteen grand. If the rumours could be believed – that Peccadillo was descended from Shergar – it would win a race and then earn us a fortune in stud fees. It all sounded so simple.’
‘But you’d learnt about genetics, and genetic fingerprinting.’
‘That’s right. The horse couldn’t run, wouldn’t even cut the mustard as a selling plater, and the new techniques would prove it wasn’t descended from Shergar. I took Threadneedle to one side and spelt it out to him. He thought about it and came up with the idea of the fire. I went along with it and Motty came in with us. I thought Threadneedle would do the deed and I’d be a mere spectator, but at the last minute he said he’d be under suspicion as he was the owner. We’d have a better chance of success, he said, if he had a good alibi and Motty and I did the dirty work. He swore there was no paperwork to link either of us to the horse, so we did it. We shot the horse first, then broke its leg, then started the fire. It was the dirtiest night’s work I’ve ever done.’
‘Who fired the shot?’
‘I did. Motty was supposed to, but he couldn’t reach. I was more or less forced into it.’ He sat quietly for a while, then added: ‘I’m not offering that as an excuse. I was just as culpable, whoever fired the shot.’
‘Did you start the fire?’
That took him by surprise. He thought about it for a few seconds, looking embarrassed, then took the line of least resistance. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. Another long, awkward pause before he enlarged upon and tried to excuse his admission. ‘Right from the beginning that was supposed to be my role in the job – starting the fire. Threadneedle had laid a trail of straw soaked in paraffin or petrol, and brought a box of cook’s matches, just in case I forgot mine. It was slow to start; I thought we’d blown it, then it went up like a bomb.’
I took a sip of coffee, then said: ‘But it was all unnecessary, wasn’t it, because the country homes people stepped in and offered you a lifeline?’
‘Yes, I suppose it was. Two days later, would you believe. Their letter came two days later. We thought they’d forgotten us – they’d been sitting on our application for a year – but then, out of the blue, they came to the rescue.’
‘Sighs of relief all round.’
‘You can say that again. We’d have gone under, no doubt about it. Funny thing is, that doesn’t sound so bad, now. I’d have lost this place but we’d have stayed a family. Now I’m scared stiff I’ll lose the girls. I can’t see Pumpkin ever forgiving me. Losing her love is a price I can’t afford.’
I’m normally immune to moral blackmail, but he had a point. And I don’t believe in the confessional approach. All that does is transfer the pain to someone else. Someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’ll go to my grave with my heart filled with black secrets, and they’ll all go with me.
‘What happens now?’ he asked.
‘I’ll go back to Heckley,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow I’ll have a word, off the record, with our prosecution service lawyer. I’ll tell him about this hypothetical case involving a humane killer, a racehorse that couldn’t run and a deliberately started fire. He’ll tell me that no crime was committed other than a fraudulent insurance claim, but as the chief claimant was dead it was not in the public’s interest to pursue it. Case closed. We’re short of filing space at the nick, so we’ll probably destroy the file.’
‘Really?’
‘I think so. I’ll probably fail big Dave’s Gaitskell Heights test, but you won’t be doing anything similar in the future, will you?’
‘Gaitskell Heights test?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Right. Well, I can safely say no to that. You’ve been … It’s more than I deserve, and I’m grateful. You know you’ll be welcome at Curzon House any time you like, and I speak for the girls as well as myself.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, but I knew that when I drove down that lane again it would be for the last time. I placed my empty mug back on the tray and manoeuvred myself to a standing position. ‘Say goodbye to Toby for me, please. I’ve enjoyed her company.’
‘She’ll be sorry you’ve not said it yourself.’
‘Oh, she’ll get over it,’ I told him. Most people do.
He invited me to the village gala at the end of August. I said it was a busy time for us but I’d try to make it, then it was back to the car. I wound the window down so I could hear the plunk plunk of Toby’s demon serve for as long as possible.
Gaitskell Heights are a pair of Sixties tower blocks at the heart of the Sylvan Fields estate in Heckley. They quickly became run-down and neglected, and because of this they were used by the council as a dumping ground for poorer tenants, meaning anyone who fell behind with their rent. Then they widened the qualification requirement to include single-parent families, immigrants, druggies on rehabilitation programmes and all the other unfortunates, misfits and bone-idle dropouts that wash up on the edges of society. The locals call the flats Gaza.
When I’m lenient with someone like Curzon, when I’m dealing with someone I might like under different circumstances, Dave always asks me if I’d pass the Gaitskell House test. If they lived in a tower block and not in a six-bedroom town house, would I treat them with the same consideration? Of course I would, I tell him, but he doesn’t believe a word of it, and neither do I.
Sean and Carl pleaded guilty to aggravated burglary and robbery and are awaiting sentence. The kidnapping charge was dropped. They are remanded in custody and have been told to expect custodials. Janet Threadneedle is out on bail, living at her sister’s in Harrogate, awaiting trial for murder. She’ll be given life, but life can be short. Oscar Sidebottom was briefly sectioned and is now awaiting psychiatric reports prior to his trial for attempting to pervert the course of justice. Terry Bratt was sentenced to community service for offences against the Dangerous Dogs Act, but allowed to keep Bruno on condition he had him neutered and microchipped. Dave’s canine friend, Banjo, wasn’t so lucky, which resurrected the usual joke: ‘Was it mad?’ ‘Well, it wasn’t too pleased.’
Buckingham Palace issued a statement saying that Ghislaine and the prince had parted amicably, each to pursue their own career. The weather changed at the end of May and we had a dreadful summer. All over the country, barbecues, bought during the first flush of spring, stood dripping and rusting on block-paved patios, monuments to the Englishman’s eternal optimism. I didn’t make it to the village gala, and the rain lashed down all that weekend, so I doubted if Curzon sold many houses. In September a postcard arrived on my desk, addressed to: Detective C. Priest, Number One Policeman, Heckley, Yorkshire. It was a photograph of Mont Blanc, sent by Toby. The message was brief, saying that the treatment was doing her good and she was feeling a lot better. I guessed that she was at some sort of clinic. I took the card home and pinned it on my board in the kitchen, between last Christmas’s Age Concern raffle tickets and the washing machine settings.
Dave, Jeff and I had been for a walk, taking in the Derwent reservoirs. Dave offered to bet me a pound
that Jeff would tell us that the Dambusters trained there, but I didn’t take up his offer. On the way down Jeff said: ‘The Dambusters trained here, y’know.’
‘Really,’ we replied, giggling with silent glee.
It was a miserable day – autumn had come early – so we didn’t hang about. I’d had a bath and my M&S ready meal and was just about to start watching In Bruges, which Jeff had loaned me, when the phone rang. It’s usually bad news when the phone rings at nine o’clock on a Saturday evening so I answered it like the professional I pretend to be.
‘It’s me,’ said a female voice from the not-too-distant past.
‘Hello, me,’ I replied. ‘This is a surprise. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, too. I was just about to watch In Bruges. I’m told it’s good.’
‘It’s brilliant. Look, Charlie, why don’t you bring it round here and we could watch it together. I was about to open a bottle of Lindemans but didn’t want to drink it by myself. I’d love to see you.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ I said. ‘I’ve been out for a walk and am well knackered. I won’t be very good company, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter if you fall asleep.’
‘And …’ I added, thinking on my feet, ‘and … there’s the little matter of the three cans of Foster’s I’ve just downed. I can’t afford an OPL rap.’ Actually, the three cans were in the fridge, still chilling.
‘Oh, that’s a pity. I just felt like some company. Tell you what: how about if I brought the bottle round to your place?’
This was becoming worrying. I said: ‘Much as I’d like to see you, I don’t think you should drive. You sound as if you’ve had one or two already.’
‘Just a little one, that’s all. I could always take a taxi.’
Sometimes, I feel as if I’m the victim of circumstances. I said: ‘A taxi?’
‘That’s right. They’re cars that take you where you want to go, for a small fee. Shall we say half an hour?’
A Very Private Murder Page 25