An open window, p.9
An Open Window, page 9
‘Better come inside, and I’ll brew some tea.’
I paused to turn on the propane gas bottle, then opened up.
8
He sat on the bench seat behind the folding table and watched me, tapping a cigarette pack on the table surface.
‘You always do that?’ he asked.
For a moment I thought he was querying my tea-making technique. I glanced round.
‘Turn on the tap outside,’ he explained.
Busying myself with cups and sugar, and putting out the milk, fresh from the farmer’s Jerseys that morning, I said: ‘It’s habit. A safety measure you get used to. Always turn off at the mains, sort of.’
‘So you have to use mantles.’ He waved, utilising the end of the gesture to prod a cigarette between his lips.
I now saw where we were heading, and gave him the information he wanted.
‘A lot of the sites have standpipes for water and outlets for electricity these days. You just connect up, and pay as you use. That’s fine for the people who come and settle for the whole of their holidays, but if you move around there’re places that don’t have the outlets. Like here. So you’ll find most caravans carry gas bottles and gas cookers, and of course gas mantles, unless you’re going to run your battery down. It becomes routine to turn off the tap on the gas bottles every time you leave your caravan. Safety, you see.’
The kettle was singing. I had time to light my pipe. He was not actually smiling, but the wrinkles round his eyes were deeper.
‘I know you’re an ex-copper, Mr Patton.’ At my raised eyebrows, he went on: ‘Yes, I checked. My rank, you were. So we talk, and I don’t have to draw it out, word by word. All right with you?’
I didn’t ask why he’d found it necessary to check on me. I nodded. ‘But you’ll need to ask. I don’t know what’s on your mind.’
‘Plot 13.’
‘That much I guessed.’
‘That day, you came back late.’
‘We’d been way up north, Abersoch way.’
‘And the young woman, Nancy Rafton, was already occupying plot 13?’
‘She was.’
‘Which you’d come to consider as virtually yours?’
‘Not quite like that. But it’s superstition, you see. We’d go away and return after a fortnight, and usually it’d be empty. The farmer said he’d try to wangle that, but he couldn’t enforce it.’
I got up to pour boiling water in the pot, and sat down again to give it five minutes.
‘Your wife isn’t superstitious?’
He hadn’t asked about me. On Fridays I walk between the joints of paving slabs, if there’s an ‘r’ in the month. ‘Amelia,’ I said, ‘will cross the road in order to walk under a ladder. She’s very superstitious. She thought plot 13 was lucky.’
‘But it wasn’t, was it?’
‘Perhaps she’ll change.’
He rattled the spoon in his saucer. I got up to pour the tea. He continued placidly. ‘This time there was the other caravan in plot 13. You parked your outfit a little distance back, and you both got out to look. Miss Rafton had apparently just driven in, but the caravan had been there…’
‘I could tell that. It’d got a settled look.’
‘Been there for three days. She got out of her car and went to the door…’
‘Flicking her lighter.’
‘Yes. But did she go to her gas bottle first and turn it on, as you did?’
I screwed up my eyes, concentrating on the visual memory. Tea slopped in my saucer. ‘No,’ I decided. ‘Straight from her car to the caravan door.’
He was spooning in sugar, concentrating on it. ‘So that she couldn’t have been an experienced caravanner—as you are?’
‘True,’ I admitted modestly.
‘She probably always left it turned on.’
‘Conceivably.’
‘Mr Patton…’ Now his eyes, clear grey I saw, were on me above the rim of his cup. ‘I’ve been making a few enquiries. She was away all that day. She’d previously been asking around for your wife.’
‘I was told that.’
‘And she worked for an enquiry agency. Possibly she’d decided to report back, personally, to the client.’
Whom I now knew to have been Walter, but I said nothing.
‘Then returned, perhaps, for a bit of a holiday herself. I’m only guessing,’ he admitted, almost with shame. He was a man who had to have facts, not conjectures. ‘But in any event, I have a witness who was up with a sick child, and who can say that Miss Rafton was awake very early that morning, because she saw a light in her caravan. That would be a mantle, Mr Patton. There is another witness who will say that Miss Rafton drove away just after sun-up. Have you anything to say to that?’
I thought about it. The question was: did I have anything I wanted to say? I looked at him. He seemed a tough and inflexible character, but at that moment his thin, firm mouth moved towards a smile, before he tamed it.
‘I’m asking,’ he said, ‘because I need your help. My super would tell me I shouldn’t involve civilians, as you are now. I would tell you that I’ll use whatever and whoever might help me. So—on those terms—what do you have to say?’
This is a well-used trap for the unwary. I’m trusting you, so you can trust me. But he knew I wasn’t one of the unwary, so perhaps he knew that I could trust him, and that I’d realise that. I said carefully:
‘A person, perhaps an amateur with caravans, might wake in the dark and light the mantle, but leave when the sun’s up, and not notice it was still on, and leave it going.’
‘Just as I thought. So if somebody came along and turned it off at the bottle, casual-like, then on again, the mantle would go out but the gas would go on feeding in slowly, turning the caravan into a potential bomb.’
‘A child,’ I ventured. ‘Not understanding.’
‘I’ve tried it with yours. The gas control taps are a bit too stiff for children.’
‘So you reckon you’ve got a murder enquiry on your hands?’
‘Rather more than that.’ He sounded self-satisfied about it. ‘Plot 13, you see. It could well be expected that your caravan would be occupying that slot. If she’d reported back to the client, quite specifically: she’s at plot 13, so and so and so…You get my point? I believe that caravan explosion was intended for your wife, and that someone, who didn’t know her by sight, mistook Miss Rafton for her.’
You will have realised that I’d already thought of that, but had tried not to allow it to intrude in the forefront of my mind. The idea made my flesh crawl, now that it’d been prodded into life.
‘I wouldn’t want to think that,’ I murmured.
‘But I have to. Don’t you realise? I’ve got to consider whether it’s necessary to put a guard on her.’
‘You don’t need to take it—’
‘With you dashing off for days on end, the moment your wife’s in hospital…’ His nostrils quivered with distaste. ‘Somebody ought to keep an eye on her.’
I sighed. If there was anything I didn’t want, it was this possibility being brought to Amelia’s attention. To have my own vague conjecture confirmed in this way also intruded into the arrangement I’d made with her. How could Walter’s death have been anything but murder, if the explosion had been intended for Amelia? I had to stall him off. Of course, a punch on the nose is useful for this sort of thing, but the truth’s less energetic.
‘It’s complicated,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have to go into detail. It’s true that my wife might have been a target. It’s one of these will situations. Her uncle has died, just a week after the explosion. She inherits a great deal. If she’d died in the explosion, her inheritance would’ve been returned to the estate, and shared out, and the status would have been quo-ed.’
His eyes were bright, and he was leaning forward eagerly. ‘Go on.’
I shrugged. ‘As my wife didn’t die, she’s already inherited. If she died now, I’d inherit from her. So you see, whatever motive there was for killing her then, it’s gone now. You needn’t trouble your head about protection.’
Did I think I was going to get away with that? Not a bit of it. His rather expressionless face came alive with interest, and he was impelled to his feet. You can’t do this in caravans; he got his thighs caught under the table. He slumped down again.
‘So that’s where you’ve been!’
I nodded. ‘Legal details.’
‘Legal details, my ass. You’ve been poking around.’ He thrust a finger towards my nose. Another snag with caravans, there’s no retreat from thrust fingers.
‘One can’t,’ I said with dignity, ‘help asking questions.’
‘And this place, where the uncle died?’
‘Boreton-Upon-Severn,’ I told him reluctantly.
‘Anywhere near Bridgnorth?’
‘They’re both on the Severn, some miles apart.’
‘Then that’s where I’ll find my murderer.’ He thumped the table with enthusiasm. ‘Miss Rafton’s agency’s in Bridgnorth.’
If there was anything I didn’t want, it was police intervention. They already had one murder investigation on their hands at Boreton, into which I hoped to make my own discreet intervention, but it wouldn’t be easy to link two murders 150 miles apart. Yes it would. Tolchard’s death had provoked Walter into changing his will, which had conceivably led to the explosion, possibly—no, probably—intended for Amelia.
‘It’s a bit out of your territory,’ I said, to discourage him.
‘You don’t know my super. He’ll get me a dispensation.’
‘They won’t like that.’
‘My super will. He’ll love to see the back of me for a while. When are you going there again?’
Did he expect to cadge a lift? ‘Tomorrow morning,’ I said bleakly. ‘Reading of the will. Inquest on Monday,’ I added. ‘Morning,’ I said, rubbing it in, knowing he’d never be able to make it.
‘Inquest?’ He blinked.
‘I told you. My wife has already inherited. Her uncle died.’ I couldn’t help taunting him with an extra titbit. ‘He died two days after changing his will in her favour.’
‘Did he now!’
‘An accident. A pure accident.’
‘Another accident? Oh brother!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be off. Might just catch the super at home. Get him out of bed if I have to. I could still get to the inquest.’
‘I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms,’ I assured him.
He’d mastered the trick now, and slid sideways along the bench seat. He thrust out his hand. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Patton. We’ll meet again.’
Not if I could help it. I think I smiled, but it was becoming dark in the caravan. I watched him from the window, a flitting shadow, and tried to light the mantle, but my hand wasn’t steady and I broke it, so I had to set fire to a new one. Yes, I was upset. He’d out-thought me all the way through.
In the morning there was time for an early visit, but I said nothing to Amelia about Inspector Melrose and the thoughts he’d provoked. I tried to be cheerful, and promised to phone, or be back, the following evening. She told me not to forget to ask about the dog. I didn’t tell her that dog or not I was going to have to prove her uncle had been murdered.
I got away from there at ten o’clock. Or rather, I walked out to the hospital car park at ten o’clock, but Melrose was waiting by the Volvo, trying to hide his delight behind a cigarette. It was a small barrier for such a grand delight.
‘I’ve got it!’ he burst out. ‘On liaison. Full support from the local lot.’
I was clearly expected to be pleased. ‘Smashing,’ I said.
‘I’ll make it for the inquest. See you there, shall I?’
‘I hadn’t thought of attending.’
‘Then I’ll see you around. Look after yourself.’ He slapped me on the shoulder as though we were long-established friends, and opened my car door for me.
I got in, my face fixed, raising my hand. The fool was waving when I glanced in the rear-view mirror.
I’d done nothing, absolutely nothing, to inspire his obvious friendship. But a professional policeman, especially in the CID, can find it a lonely and friendless existence. Perhaps he saw me as the only innocent creature in a world crawling with predators.
Satisfied with this rationalisation, but not with the possible complications, I drove fast for Boreton, and straight to The Beeches. I was now becoming familiar with the route, so that there was a corner of my mind available for thought. This was not necessarily an advantage. I should have used it to assess the current situation, but there was a vague and tenuous trend to my thoughts, more an assembly of mood than an arrangement of fact. Surprisingly, there was a distinct reluctance to be returning at all.
This I recognised in its contrast with my mood on the previous journey in the other direction. Then there had been eagerness, to get to Amelia, and afterwards to return. There had been something specific to return to, a security, a home, a new start. Now all this was melting into the mist. I should have anticipated Amelia’s reaction, and planned how best to handle it, to persuade her. Now I drove fast to The Beeches, with specific instructions from her on how best to justify shading her from the warm glance of fate.
There would be no sun that day. I had watched the clouds mounting ahead of me as I drove eastward. The day of the reading. I could see no possibility of anything but stress and anger ahead. At one-thirty I parked in the drive, behind a BMW 320. The reading was to be at two.
I walked round to the rear, which already had impressed its lure on me. Three men were erecting tubular scaffolding over the conservatory, preparatory to starting the necessary repairs. Clare was standing a little way back, watching them with a proprietorial interest. She was dressed not as a visitor to a formal occasion, but casually in a tweed skirt and a light jumper, a black silk scarf at her neck. She gave the impression of one who had come intending to stay.
‘And look for any cracked panes. Every one to be replaced—you hear? It’s to be exactly as it was.’
She cupped one elbow in her other palm, poising a cigarette in front of her face, and nodded, though whether in emphasis or acknowledgement of my presence I couldn’t tell. The men continued as though they hadn’t heard. I could have told her they would not be the team who did the glazing work, but I didn’t trouble. I edged past, but I’d guessed she had noticed me from the first moment. Very little would escape Clare.
‘I had to see Carne about this,’ she said into the air, though it must have been intended for me. ‘He had to authorise it. Such officious twaddle! There’s a snack in the dining room, if you’re hungry.’
I realised I was. I said thank you and went into the kitchen.
Mary Pinson smiled, the brightest bit of the day so far. There might have been a snack around, but in the kitchen there was a meal.
‘So there you are,’ she said. ‘You’re cutting it fine. I’ve done you a bit of sirloin, and there’s lemon meringue pie to follow.’ She eyed me with calculation, as though detecting a depleted pound from my regular 225. ‘You’d better have it here.’
I grinned at her. ‘Wheel it on.’
She was the type who likes to watch others eating heartily. I was aware of her attention. She allowed me to work my way into it before she spoke again.
‘Mrs Patton—how is she?’
‘As they say, as well as can be expected. She won’t be mobile for some time, though. Her name’s Amelia, by the way.’
As I spoke, I realised I was assuming that Mary Pinson might at some time need to know that. To welcome Amelia. I put my head down and continued to clear the plate, pushing it aside in time to receive the pie, and asked: ‘The dog. Sheba. I don’t see her around.’
‘Donald’s taken her for a walk.’
Ah…Donald! I hadn’t given much thought to Donald, who hadn’t been mentioned in connection with the factory.
‘He came by bus,’ she went on, her voice even, ‘and walked from Boreton.’
‘And he still had enough energy to take Sheba for a walk?’
‘Clare came, you see. I think he prefers Sheba’s company. Would you like coffee?’
‘Love it. White, with sugar, if you don’t mind. I was going to ask you, Mary. About Sheba. That day, the day Walter died…where was Sheba? Did you leave her down here, in the kitchen?’
I managed to say this casually, though so much depended on her answer. It did not deceive her; I saw her mouth twitch.
‘You won’t leave it alone, will you! I told you—it had to be an accident. But I didn’t tell you about Sheba. I kept that in reserve, to see if you’d persist. And you are persisting.’ She shook her head, sad for me and my delusions. ‘Sheba was Walter’s dog. She spent most of her time up there with him in his room. Of course she was there that day, when I left. And there she was when I came back, her head out of that open window and howling. It was how I knew that Walter had fallen. Knew at once. Poor Sheba!’
She placed my coffee on the table before me, her head close to mine, suddenly speaking softly. ‘So we’ll have no more silly talk about murders, shall we? Unless you’re going to say…’ She drew back, her face distorted by an abrupt, girlish giggle. ‘…that Sheba pushed him from the window.’
I thrust my chair back and got to my feet. ‘It would explain Sheba’s distress,’ I pointed out. Which had now disappeared completely. She burst into the kitchen, the smell of food tormenting her and the excitement of company distracting her from it.
Standing behind her in the doorway was Donald.
Donald—the youngest of the three children. He’d have been about twenty-eight, old enough to have grown away from the rejection gesture of untidy disorder, as adopted by youth, and yet still carrying it with him. Tall and slim, even thin, with the tattered hair Amelia recalled as belonging to his father, riotous above a wide forehead and a long face, clean and shaven. The anorak, in the pockets of which his hands were buried, had suffered the constant wear of a vast number of days, and possibly nights. His slacks were baggy and dirty, his suede shoes scuffed. The pallor of his face seemed to indicate illness, but his eyes suggested strain.
