Exit

by Belinda Bauer

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Boucher with a brittle-bright smile, ‘obviously the house is your grandfather’s, which just leaves any personal and monetary assets.’

  Reggie nodded.

  ‘I’m sure you know that your father liked a . . . flutter.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Reggie. His father had loved the horses and the dogs and, when he couldn’t make it down to William Hill any more, he’d opened a little online account.

  ‘But he didn’t bet much,’ he told her. ‘I mean, he bet pennies!’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Boucher, ‘he lost pounds.’

  ‘How many pounds?’

  ‘A lot of them.’

  ‘How much is a lot?’

  Mrs Boucher paused perilously and then said, ‘All the pounds he had.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘He lost everything,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry to tell you.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes. Everything. All the money he had.’

  Reggie couldn’t grasp it. He’d lost everything. It sounded like the start of a stupid movie. ‘But,’ he said. ‘I . . .’ He shook his head to clear his ears. ‘Everything? What about life insurance? He had life insurance!’

  ‘He did,’ she nodded, but Reggie’s relief was curtailed as she went on, ‘However, two years ago he cashed in his policy to release those funds, and – given he transferred almost the entire amount to his online gambling account – I can only assume he lost that too.’

  ‘How much was that?’

  Mrs Boucher checked the paperwork. ‘After early withdrawal fees it came to thirty-three thousand pounds.’

  Reggie’s jaw dropped open. ‘And he lost thirty grand ? In two years ? On the horses ?’

  Miss Boucher blanched nervously. ‘I did advise him against withdrawal, of course, but he was quite adamant.’

  It was impossible. Albert had stuff. He paid for things.

  ‘How much is left?’ said Reggie faintly.

  ‘Well, I had to go through quite a process to—’

  ‘How much is left ?’

  ‘Forty-five pence.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Forty-five pence.’

  ‘Pence ? Forty-five pence ?’

  She nodded, not meeting his eyes, and Reggie felt punched in the face all over again.

  They’d never been rich people and he hadn’t expected to inherit much from his father.

  But nothing ?

  Mrs Boucher was talking again and Reggie slowly caught up: ‘. . . current account with the HSBC which was overdrawn by sixteen pounds and seventy-two pence, and a savings account with the same bank that did have ninety-two pounds and twenty pence in it. I took the liberty of paying off the overdraft, including fees, with the money from the savings account, which leaves a total monetary legacy of . . .’ she picked up a cheque . . . ‘thirty-six pounds and ninety-three pence.’ She turned the paperwork around and slid it across the desk at him. Reggie stared down at it as if it were a magic trick. As if any minute now Mrs Boucher would abracadabra the shit out of this whole mess and reveal that actually his father had left a few thousand quid. A few hundred even.

  Something!

  But Mrs Boucher wasn’t magic.

  Thirty-six pounds and ninety-three pence.

  ‘And, of course, anything of his is now automatically yours, as per the terms of the will.’

  Reggie nodded mutely and looked at his watch with a rising sense of panic. The big man would be waiting for him right now at Ladbrokes. What would he say when he told him there was no money? What would he do ? Break his legs? Did people still do that? Reggie touched his nose and could believe that they did.

  ‘Did he have much of value?’ Mrs Boucher asked kindly, and Reggie tried to think of all the things his father had valued. A stuffed pigeon in a glass dome. A horse-hoof inkwell he claimed had come off Nijinsky. That fucking carriage clock.

  ‘No,’ he said, and heard the shock in his own voice. ‘I don’t understand it. He bought me a car. I thought he was doing OK. And all the time he had nothing? I mean . . . Jesus! I mean, what the fuck was he thinking? The fucking fucking arsehole !’

  Mrs Boucher flinched and tentatively gathered the papers back into a pile and self-consciously squared off the corners. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Cann,’ she murmured, and put the papers into a clear plastic folder for him.

  Reggie didn’t answer. What could he say? It’s all right? It wasn’t all right. But there also wasn’t anything he could do about it. There was no money. Not even enough to pay for the funeral – let alone forty thousand pounds to keep some thug from taking their home. It would kill Skipper—

  ‘Mr Cann?’

  Mrs Boucher tentatively slid another piece of paper towards him. ‘I tried my best to keep it low,’ she murmured.

  It took Reggie a long moment of stupid staring before he realized it was a bill for her legal services.

  Seven hundred pounds.

  Felix’s Confession

  ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ said PC Braddick.

  She looked so glum that Felix almost patted her hand.

  ‘Between you and me,’ she went on, ‘I don’t think this is the kind of thing that should be treated as a police matter at all.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ he said.

  ‘Still, it’s my job,’ she sighed.

  Felix nodded. Of course it was. He had killed a man. Whether it was deliberate murder or tragic mistake, it was only right and proper that he be interviewed formally by police. Frankly, he’d have been disappointed if this hadn’t happened. He would have lost a bit of confidence in the system.

  ‘Can I get you anything before we get started?’ she said. ‘Nice cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Well, actually it’s a horrible cup of tea from a machine,’ she said, ‘but it is free. You wait here and I’ll be right back.’

  She went out of the interview room, leaving Felix with a Formica table, four plastic chairs and – on the table – a thing that looked like a shortwave radio. Felix assumed it was some kind of tape recorder. He recognized it from the TV crime shows that Margaret had loved. There was a TV mounted on the wall in one corner of the room and a camera pointing straight at him from the other. Felix flinched and looked away and thought of countless grainy clips of suspects in rooms just like this one, all over the world. People not like him.

  Except now they were just like him.

  Criminals.

  His hands trembled. He clasped them together on the table to try to control the shake. He wasn’t cold – PC Braddick had gone upstairs and fetched him a cardigan – so it would look like exactly what it was: guilt and fear.

  He felt very alone. But he had promised Skipper he would not tell the police about Reggie. And if he told them about Amanda, he felt sure she would lead them to Reggie, which would amount to the same thing.

  Fair or unfair, right or wrong, Felix was on his own – and was determined to keep it that way.

  PC Braddick came back in and put a paper cup in front of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking at the watery grey tea, and sipped it to please her. It tasted exactly the way it looked.

  ‘Shall we start?’ she said.

  ‘Just us?’

  PC Braddick seemed very young to be handling a murder investigation by herself.

  ‘Just us,’ she nodded. ‘Unless you’d like me to call a lawyer for you? It’s no trouble. As I told you earlier, you are legally entitled to have one present.’

  Felix couldn’t recall her saying that, but assumed she must have done so while an ocean was pounding inside his ears. But what was the point of a lawyer? All it would do was prolong the agony and make him look as if he was trying to hide something, when he just wanted to tell the truth and
get out of here as soon as possible.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘Unless you think I’ll be here overnight?’

  ‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ she smiled, and Felix felt enormous relief that they were not going to treat this like anything more than the terrible mistake that it was.

  ‘Right,’ said PC Braddick, and fiddled with the recorder for a bit. One lock of hair kept falling from behind her ear and bothering her. Finally she sat up and blew out her cheeks and said Right! again, and corralled her hair back into a grip.

  Then she spoke to the machine instead of to Felix, saying his name and age and address, before looking at him and giving an encouraging nod.

  ‘Now, Mr Pink, could you confirm for the record that you have been read your rights and that you understand those rights?’

  Felix was sure she had read him his rights even if he hadn’t actually heard them, so he nodded.

  ‘Verbally please, Mr Pink.’

  Felix leaned into the recorder and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t have to lean in, Mr Pink,’ said PC Braddick kindly. ‘The microphone is very sensitive.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Felix and cleared his throat and said it again without leaning in.

  ‘Good. Now, before I ask you anything, is there anything you’d like to tell me about the incident?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Felix, ‘only that I admit it fully. Put my hands up. I acted alone and can only apologize sincerely to that poor man and his family for what happened.’

  PC Braddick looked surprised. Felix imagined she didn’t get many quicker confessions.

  ‘So . . .’ she said, and then frowned – as if now that he’d confessed he’d negated her entire line of questioning, ‘. . . so . . . you’ve made a full and frank confession. Thank you, Mr Pink. That makes everything simpler. Can you explain what happened and why?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, I’ve thought about it so much, and asked questions, but I haven’t been able to . . . ascertain exactly what went wrong. All I can say is that it was an honest mistake and I’m terribly sorry about it. Truly, it will haunt me until—’

  He couldn’t finish. Suddenly he was too choked up.

  PC Braddick took out a little pack of tissues and gave one to him, just the way he’d once offered his hanky to Amanda. That memory only made his tears flow harder. He’d liked Amanda. He’d trusted her. He must be a terrible judge of character. Mar­garet would have spotted something amiss with Amanda, he was sure. Miss Knott had and she hadn’t even met her! But Felix hadn’t had a lot of experience of friendship.

  He blew his nose and slowly calmed down.

  ‘Is there anything else, Mr Pink?’

  Felix hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘That’s all.’

  PC Braddick bent over her paperwork again, then said, ‘OK. If you wouldn’t mind waiting here for a few minutes, I’ll try not to keep you.’

  She scooped up her papers and left the room.

  Despite the tears, despite the tiredness, Felix breathed properly for the first time since the death of Albert Cann.

  Mr Martin had a face like a lemon.

  That’s what Jackie Braddick thought as she watched him mentally searching for a loophole that would allow him to reject Felix Pink’s apology without looking like a complete arse. He couldn’t find it, of course, and eventually his sour little face puckered in concession.

  ‘It’s just very upsetting,’ he said for about the millionth time since walking into the police station and demanding action.

  ‘Of course, Mr Martin. But I can assure you that Mr Pink is truly sorry. He’s an elderly gentleman and—’

  ‘Elderly thief !’ Mr Martin interjected.

  ‘Well, he’s got a nasty bump on the head and seems a little confused. I imagine he just wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s off his rocker? Because if he’s off his rocker, how do I know he’s not going to do it again?’

  ‘I didn’t say he was off his rocker, sir,’ said Jackie sharply.

  ‘Well then, what the hell is he doing leaning over my wall and picking my flowers?’ His voice became loud and Jackie put her hands on her hips.

  ‘Calm down, please, Mr Martin.’

  She waited until he had done that to her satisfaction.

  ‘Now, if you’re prepared to accept Mr Pink’s apology, and if he’d be prepared to be bound over, then I think that would be a good way of handling it, don’t you?’

  ‘What about my losses?’

  ‘What losses?’

  ‘He picked my tulips!’

  ‘One tulip.’

  ‘That I know of! And even if it was only one, I paid for that bulb and I dug it in and I watered it and tended it. That was my flower. And then he comes along and just steals it.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Mr Martin?

  ‘I think compensation would be fair.’

  They glared at each other, unblinking.

  ‘Right,’ sighed Jackie finally. ‘And how much do you think would be fair for picking one tulip?’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘Fifty pounds ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jackie gave him a look that would have withered an oak, but Mr Martin was made of more lemony stuff.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, and banged away through the double doors.

  Calvin Bridge poked his head into the corridor. ‘You all right?’

  She stopped and put her hands on her hips – always a sign of impending meltdown. ‘Effing people!’ she hissed. ‘Worst job ever !’

  ‘Not so fast!’ Calvin put up an imperious hand to stop her. ‘I’m having to go through the Exiteer database again, so I’m still in the running. Want a crisp?’

  ‘I guarantee you lose.’ She stomped in and took a crisp. ‘Get this. I’ve just had to arrest a lovely old man after this utter git comes in accusing him of picking his flowers.’

  ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, Jacks, but that’s theft.’

  ‘But he didn’t pick a bunch of flowers. He picked one bloody tulip !’

  ‘All right,’ laughed Calvin, ‘that’s pretty mean. But technically . . .’

  ‘Wait for it . . .’ she said. ‘You haven’t heard the worst bit yet. When I arrested the old man he . . . cried.’

  ‘Shit!’ Calvin threw up his hands. ‘Take the whole packet.’

  Jackie grinned and swiped the crisps off the table and stuffed a handful into her mouth. ‘Want to see the crime of the century?’

  ‘It’s on CCTV?’ he said, and – when she laughed and nodded – pulled out the chair so that she could sit at the desk and bring up the footage on the screen.

  There it was: an old man walking a little white dog into frame . . .

  ‘Watch now,’ said Jackie. ‘He stops and his dog has a wee, and then he leans over and . . . there. A tulip, m’lud! Plucked in its prime and carried off in broad daylight! Lock him up and throw away the effing key!’

  She giggled, but Calvin didn’t.

  Calvin was frowning very hard at the screen. At the tall, thin man with a vague limp and a short beige zip-up jacket.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘I think that’s the bloke who killed Albert Cann.’

  Felix’s Other Confession

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr Pink. I’m DCI Kirsty King and this is Acting DC Calvin Bridge. PC Braddick you already know.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. How do you do?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Oh, right. Thank you. How do you do? Now, before we get started, are you all right for food and drink and a bathroom break?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Inspector King. Sergeant Coral . . . ?’<
br />
  ‘Yes, Sergeant Coral.’

  ‘He brought me a cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake.’

  ‘Well, apologies for those.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, well, it’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Indeed. So, Mr Pink . . .’

  ‘Felix. Please.’

  ‘So, Felix, I’ve listened to the recording PC Braddick made earl­ier and it appears you’ve made a full and frank admission.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good. That’s good. Well, thank you, Felix.’

  ‘Not at all. When one has made a terrible mistake, one must take responsibility for it.’

  ‘I agree. But there’s something I have to check.’

  ‘Oh yes? What’s that?’

  ‘Given you declined the assistance of a lawyer, I just want to make absolutely sure you know what’s going on.’

  ‘Right ho.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you were arrested, Felix?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure of the actual charge, but it was for . . . for being . . . responsible . . . for the, um . . . death of Albert Cann.’

  ‘Ah. OK. I thought as much. The trouble is, Felix, you weren’t actually arrested in connection with the death of Mr Cann.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No. You were arrested for stealing flowers from one of your neighbours.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yes. A Mr Andrew Martin.’

  ‘Oh. Um. I see. Well, how embarrassing.’

  ‘It’s only because Acting DC Bridge here saw the CCTV footage of that incident that he recognized you as the man who went into the Cann home on the morning of the second that we realized there may well have been a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘PC Braddick actually arrested you for the crime of common theft. She says she read you your rights in relation to that crime.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She says she did, but if you’re disputing that . . . ?’

  ‘No, no, that’s probably my fault. I’m a little deaf anyway and it was a shock to be arrested, and Mabel was barking, and Jackie stood on my pencil, so you can imagine I was quite upset all round.’