A broad grin. He wasn’t handsome, not in Brendan’s league at all in terms of looks, but she was conscious of a crude magnetism pulling her towards him.
‘All right, if you really must know. When Brendan was away, Gilly had the house to herself. Once her feller, Hodgkinson, left his wife in hospital, he came around. They had a few drinks and smoked some dope before going to bed. I was waiting for my chance.’
‘Go on.’ She saw he relished having an audience. A bit like Brendan with Squeaky.
‘I fitted a garden hose that Brendan had left out for me to the exhaust of Gilly’s estate car, using a kid’s feeding bottle which he’d cut in half. Wearing surgical gloves. I ran the hose through the garage and utility room and up a hole in the floorboards right underneath the bed. As soon as I switched on the engine, I nipped upstairs. The two of them were dead to the world. I pulled the duvet over Hodgkinson’s nose and mouth, squeezed hard for half a minute and pushed the hose into his face with my right hand, and held it there until he was dead. Same with Gilly, she was stoned, and barely struggled. Not that she was strong enough to fight back, even if she’d realized what was happening. She was a tiny, frail woman. Big tits, mind.’
‘Not as nice as mine, though.’
‘No way, darling, you’re one of a kind.’
She licked her lips provocatively. ‘You’d better believe it.’
‘Anyway, I lugged both of them to the car and put them in the boot with a blanket over their heads. I’d put a folding bicycle in the car as well. After I’d driven to the forest, I dumped Hodgkinson in the driver’s seat. Gilly stayed in the boot. I put some family photos that Brendan gave me next to her body, put earphones on her, and switched on her iPod, so it seemed she’d been listening to her favourite Leonard Cohen tracks. And then I connected a length of vacuum hose to the exhaust, put the other end in the boot, and switched on the ignition. Once the scene was set, I took out the bike and cycled away. We had a couple of lucky breaks. Hodgkinson had told his wife’s nurse that he couldn’t bear what was happening to her. She thought suicide was in his mind. And the detective leading the inquiry owed me a favour. Some of the forensic stuff was mislaid. Nothing could be proved.’
Adele clapped her hands. ‘Amazing!’
He fondled her bare neck. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Amazing.’
‘And it doesn’t bother you? That you killed a couple?’
He exhaled. ‘It was a job. You can’t be sentimental.’
‘Not like Brendan. His conscience bothered him.’
‘Not enough to stop him wanting you out of the way, sweetheart. Lucky you realized and got in touch.’
‘Lucky you were willing to change sides.’
A raucous laugh. ‘No contest. I’ve always fancied you, Adele, you must know that.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said with a sweet smile.
‘Brendan didn’t know when he was well off.’
‘No.’ Adele ran her fingers through Finucane’s hair. ‘Did he say anything about this . . . new relationship?’
‘Nah, he made a mystery out of it. Whoever he was seeing, I bet she didn’t compare to you.’
Adele pictured Squeaky’s weird eyes and red lips.
‘You’re right.’
Finucane closed his eyes as her hand slid between his legs.
‘Ged, is that you?”
Finucane sat up with a start, swearing wildly.
‘What was that?’
Adele moved away from him, gasping in fear. ‘A voice . . . it sounded like . . . no, it can’t be.’
‘Some kind of joke?’ Finucane swore again. ‘You’re not telling me Brendan’s risen from the dead?’
‘I think the voice came from outside.’ Adele pointed to the sliding doors. They hadn’t pulled the curtains when they came into the living room. Outside, the night was black. Not a star to be seen.
Finucane sprang to his feet. ‘Some bastard spying on us? They’ll be sorry.’
‘Ged, be careful!’
‘Don’t worry.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small knife. ‘Nobody messes me around.’
‘I don’t think I locked the doors,’ she said in a whisper. ‘He might . . . come in.’
‘Switch the light off,’ Finucane hissed.
With her finger on the switch, Adele said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you think?’
The last thing she saw before the light went out was the glint of the blade in his palm. She heard him pull at the handle of the sliding doors, and then move through them. Moments later came the scream.
‘Oh, dear me!’
She just couldn’t resist it, as she switched the lights back on. Walking to the open doors, she looked down at the concrete fifteen feet below. Finucane’s body was a heap of broken bones. Better check to make sure he was dead before she called the police to tell them about the intruder who had threatened her with his knife before falling to his death, unaware that the sliding doors gave on to a balcony that did not exist. Adele didn’t believe in taking chances.
Five minutes later, after dialling 999, she made her way upstairs and went into the spare room. Squeaky was lying on the bed, staring at her. At least, Adele said to herself, her ventriloquial skills had come in handy tonight. Only one thing left to do now. Was that fear in the doll’s eyes? If not, it ought to be.
She tore the doll’s head off, and then the rest of its limbs.
Yes, it was childish, but strangely satisfying. Certainly she didn’t feel a twinge of remorse as she waited for the police to arrive. She’d never fretted about tipping Josh out of that boat, the day after he told her he wanted a divorce, and she wouldn’t waste any tears on Brendan or Finucane, let alone horrid, ugly Squeaky.
Leave the guilt to her dead husband, and his dismembered conscience.
<
~ * ~
ALL THAT GLISTERS
Jane Finnis
Jane Finnis was born in Yorkshire, where she still lives. She developed an early fascination for Roman history, and studied history at London University. Her knowledge of the subject informs her four novels about life and death in first-century Britain; her latest title is Danger in the Wind.
~ * ~
T
ony, how good to see you. Come in, come in. It’s been a long time. Too much water under the bridge.’ That was typical of Giles - the expansive smile, the sincere cliche. ‘We ought to have kept in touch, you know, we really ought.’
‘Well, we’re both busy people. “Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away . . .”‘ And that, I admit, was typical of me. I always avoid a direct lie when I can, and if I resort to a cliché, it’s usually a quotation.
Giles laughed. ‘Still quoting the classics, I see. Walking library, we used to call you, didn’t we? Where’s that one from - Shakespeare?’
‘It’s part of a hymn, you ignorant heathen.’
We both laughed then, and for a few moments it was as if we’d stepped back twenty years, to our schooldays and our friendship.
‘Let’s sit by the window,’ Giles said. ‘There’s whisky on the table, or coffee if you prefer.’
I put my briefcase down carefully and sank into a leather armchair. ‘What a stunning view! Nice office, too. You millionaires do yourselves pretty well.’
‘No point earning it if you don’t spend it.’
The office was like its owner, large and showy. It was on the thirtieth floor, with huge windows to make the most of the city panorama below. The furniture was antique, and the computers were state-of-the-art. The smell of money was everywhere.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said as he sat down facing me.
‘No problem. I was delighted when you rang me.’ You bet I was. It had taken me several months to engineer this meeting. ‘And flattered, too. There are several other experts you could have consulted.’
‘Not in your league, Tony. You’re flying as high in your chosen field as I am in mine.’
We drank - I stuck to coffee, Giles didn’t - and exchanged banalities. I asked after his wife (number three to reach that elevation), and commented on his company’s recent dramatic expansion into the Middle East. He congratulated me on my professorship, and complimented me on my latest television series about Iron Age Britain.
‘Which brings us,’ he said, ‘to my reason for contacting you. Have you looked at it?’
‘I have.’ I took the cardboard box from my briefcase, and with a conjuror’s flourish, unwrapped the shining object inside, and stood it carefully on the table.
It was about ten inches long, a model of an ancient boat; the kind of frail-looking craft made of wood and animal skins in which our Celtic ancestors sailed round the coasts of Britain two thousand years ago. The details were perfect - the mast, the rowers’ benches, the oars, even an anchor, all done to scale.
And it was made entirely of gold.
I suppose some people would say an old boat wasn’t an especially attractive subject, but to me it was wonderful, and I couldn’t resist another quotation. “‘It was so old a ship -who knows, who knows? And yet so beautiful . . .’”
He groaned. ‘All right, all right. Shakespeare this time?’
‘No. From a poem by James Elroy Flecker, early twentieth century.’
‘Never heard of him. Now can we get to the point? What have you discovered?’
‘You asked me,’ I said slowly, ‘to check out this little treasure, and confirm that it was made in the first century AD, or possibly the first century BC, as you were told by the man you bought it from.’
‘He seemed honest enough, but he was only a student with a metal detector, not an expert. It’s your opinion that counts. If it’s genuine, it’ll be worth a small fortune. Or even a large one.’ He took a drink of whisky.
‘Correct. So I’ve examined it extremely thoroughly. I ran tests to analyse the composition of the gold - I’m sure you know that even the purest gold contains other metals too. Silver, copper . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve done my homework. And I know you’ve been able to test it using X-rays and such, so you didn’t have to harm the boat itself.’
‘Correct again.’
‘And your conclusion?’
‘It’s a fake.’
‘A fake?’ He stared at me. ‘All that glitters is not gold, you mean? You see, I can throw in an appropriate quote too, if I have to.’
‘Inappropriate, and incorrect anyway.’ I grinned at him. ‘First, because it is gold, and second, because what Shakespeare actually wrote was, ‘All that glisters is not gold”.’
‘Glitters, glisters, who cares, as long as it’s the real thing?’
‘Come on, you’re not that naive. The gold itself is OK. It could even have originated in Ireland, as you were told. But that boat wasn’t made two thousand years ago. Not even two hundred years. Two, possibly.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘It’s the style. It isn’t - well, it isn’t quite right for a Celtic boat of that period. It’s hard to put into words, but I just know it isn’t. It’s the work of an excellent goldsmith, but if he lived in the Iron Age, I’m Julius Caesar. You bought it from a student, you say?’
‘That’s right. He said he found it in a bog somewhere in Ireland. He thought it was old and valuable, but was prepared to let it go cheap, because he was desperate for ready cash. You know how broke students always are.’
‘I remember it well.’ I’d been permanently broke at university, despite doing two part-time jobs during term time, and three in the so-called vacations. My mother couldn’t have managed without my weekly contribution. Dad was dead, and we had my younger sister to support. I’ve got money now, but if you‘ve ever gone through really hard times, you never forget.
Giles, on the other hand, always had money. He went straight from school into his father’s flourishing engineering business, and was sent off to one of the Far Eastern factories to ‘learn the ropes’. The only rope he’d never had to master was how to live solely on the wages his workers earned. Our boyhood friendship ended then, and I hadn’t seen him since.
Giles leaned forward in his chair. ‘You’re quite sure about this, Tony? You wouldn’t spin me a yarn?’
‘Not even a golden one! Believe me, I wish I could say it’s worth a million or three. Of course it’ll fetch a bit, a nice piece like that, and perhaps I shouldn’t have called it a fake - a reproduction, that sounds better.’ I poured myself more coffee from the silver pot on the table, bending my head so he couldn’t see my eyes.
When I looked up again, he was grinning broadly. ‘I know that boat’s not genuine first century.’
‘Ah. You’ve had somebody else examine it?’
‘I didn’t need to. I’ve met the man who made it.’
‘Have you indeed? Tell me more.’
‘He lives in London, goes by the name of Jack Baker, although I think that’s an alias of some kind, because he’s got a hint of a continental accent. Anyway, he’s a superb craftsman. He makes very expensive gold jewellery most of the time, that’s how I found him, or rather my wife did. I’ve bought her several of his pieces, and got to know him personally. He told me that now and then he makes something a little different. And when he showed me this boat . . . well, we came up with an interesting idea.’
I waited like a fisherman feeling the first twitch at his line.
‘I asked you to value the boat because I wanted to make sure we are still friends. I need a friend, someone I can trust, like in the old days.’
‘The old days are gone, Giles. But I’m not going to tell you something is genuine when it’s a fake, am I? Now if it was the other way round, of course…’ I laughed. ‘No, only kidding. You know me, I hate lying.’
‘You always did. But sometimes it’s necessary.’
‘Sometimes, perhaps.’
‘Do you remember what we used to say at school? We two must always stand together, or we’ll fall apart.’
Even after twenty years, our old pledge of loyalty sent a shiver down my spine. We’d last spoken it on a summer night by a lake, while a beautiful girl lay dead on the grass between us.
It had been a dreamlike evening to start with, full of moonlight and even a nightingale’s song. A picnic by the lake, just the three of us - Giles, me, and Lisette Boulanger, the prettiest girl in the school, as well as the most exotic: half-French, sexy as hell, and aloof as a snowbound alp. Every senior boy fancied her, and Giles and I had a bet that one of us would be first to win her. I started favourite, helped by my knowledge of poetry; but Giles could play the romantic too, and as the evening wore on, I couldn’t tell for sure which of us she preferred. Probably she was just enjoying having two young men dancing attendance.
After the picnic, we rowed out on the water. We’d all had too much wine, and when Giles insisted on standing up in the stern to row, his clowning capsized us. We all laughed as we tumbled into the lake. We were strong swimmers and it wasn’t far to the shore. Giles called, ‘You two head for the bank. I’ll push the boat back.’
That shows how drunk we were. None of us thought of righting the boat and clambering in again. The water wasn’t cold, and the night air was so warm we’d soon be dry once we got to shore, especially if we took our wet clothes off and lay on the grass.
‘Tony, Giles, help! Help me!’ As I reached the bank I heard Lisette calling out. For a moment I didn’t take it in, but when she shouted again I recognized panic in her voice, and I found I was suddenly sober. I couldn’t see her in the moonlight so I listened, trying to pinpoint her direction, and she cried out yet again, desperate and shrill. I plunged back into the water and swam towards the sound of her voice.
I was too slow reaching her. She was barely conscious and only just afloat. By the time I got her to the bank she wasn’t breathing. I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and so did Giles when he reached us. She just lay there, still and staring.
O
ur panicky young voices resounded in my head, as they had so many times since:
‘My God, Tony, look, she’s dead!’
‘But she was a good swimmer. I don’t understand it.‘
‘I put something in her drink. Just a couple of pills. I never thought. . .’
‘You spiked her drink, and then she couldn’t swim? Giles, you killed her!’
‘If anyone killed her it was you. You could have got to her quicker, but you weren‘t really trying because you were jealous . . .’
Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Page 9