Crybbe aka Curfew

'And you,' Alex said. 'Why the devil did you have to come back and look after me? I didn't want to inflict myself on you. Prissy little Grace didn't want you in her house.'

The crux of it. He might be able to project Grace, like a gruesome magic-lantern slide on his own dusty mental screen.

But you can't make me see her, Dad. You can't do that.

How could she tell him what she'd seen? (Did I really see it? Did I see it?) What would that do for his remission?

'OK, Dad.' she said. 'Drink your coffee. I understand. Look, I've missed the news now.'

Fay switched on the Panasonic radio on the kitchen window ledge. She had indeed missed the news and had to listen to a couple of minutes of sport before the headlines were repeated.

'And to recap on today's main story: in Crybbe, police are investigating the death of a personal assistant to billionaire businessman Max Goff. The dead woman, thirty-five-year-old Rachel Wade, appeared to have fallen from a high, window in historic Crybbe Court This a Offa's Dyke Radio News. Next bulletin: ten o'clock.'

For long, long seconds, Fay didn't move at all. Stood frozen at the sink, a damp dishcloth hanging from one hand.

The kitchen clock, two minutes fast, said 9.17.

Alex, sliding his chair back, getting to his feet, said, 'How come you didn't pick that one up, Fay?'

'I normally make the police calls before you get up,' Fay said numbly. 'We had breakfast instead. Offa's Dyke have an early duty reporter, in at half past five.'

'Ah.' Alex brought his coffee cup to the sink. 'Expect you'll be off to find out what happened.' He looked up, his beard pure white in the dull morning. 'You all right, Fay? How well did you know this woman?'

'Fine, Dad,' said Fay. 'No, I… I didn't know her very well. Excuse me.'

Arnold struggled to his feet to follow her out of the room fell over again. Fay picked him up and carried him into the office, her face buried in his fur.

As she put him down on the fireside chair, she caught a glimpse of her own face in the gilt-framed mirror, a face as pale as dead Grace.

Fay picked up the phone, called the Information Room at Divisional HQ.

'Not much we can tell you, I'm afraid.'

'It was an accident, though?'

'All I can say is, investigations are proceeding.'

'You mean, it might not have been an accident?'

'Hang on a minute,' the police voice said, then she heard, 'Yes, sir, it's Fay Morrison from Offa's Dyke. Sure, just a sec. Mrs Morrison, the duty inspector would like a word.'

'Good morning, Mrs Morrison, Inspector Waring here, if wonder if you'd be good enough to pop into the police station at Crybbe, see the Chief Inspector.'

'Why?'

'Just a few things you might be able to clear up for us.'

'Like what?'

'I think I'd rather the chief told you that, if you don't mind.'

'Oh, come on,' said Fay. 'Off the record.'

A moment's hesitation, then, 'All right, off the record, we've a chap helping with inquiries, Joseph Miles Powys. Says he was with you yesterday.'

'What?'

'Would you mind, Mrs Morrison, just popping into the station? They won't keep you long.'

'I'm… I'm on my way,' Fay said.

CHAPTER II

In his room at the Cock, Guy awoke at nine-thirty.

He'd come back here for a good night's sleep, but it hadn't been one, and he awoke realizing why.

He blinked warily at the overcast, off-white morning. At his suitcase on the floor by the dressing-table. At the wardrobe door agape, exposing his leather jacket on a hanger.

And, finally, at the portfolio against the wall next to the door. Especially at that.

He should never have slept with those drawings in the room. In the practical light of morning, Guy knew he should have left the portfolio in his car. Or, better still, dumped them back at The Gallery after his abortive attempt to quiz the girl.

On his way to the bathroom, he picked up the portfolio and left it propped up in the passage, hoping somebody would nick the thing. It was still there when he returned after a pee and a very quick wash – he didn't like spending too long in bathrooms any more, even by daylight.

Back in his room, Guy burrowed in his suitcase for his rechargeable shaver. He shaved, bending down to the dressing-table mirror, wondering about Jocasta, what kind of night she'd had.

Well, yes, he'd felt bad about Jocasta. In a way, especially when she'd clutched at his arm, pleading, 'One more night – just one night. Hereward'll be back tomorrow. Guy, I can't… I can't spend a night there alone.'

'Look,' he'd argued reasonably. 'Why not lock yourself in your, er, suite? You don't have to go near that bathroom, do you? I promise you, I'll find out about this, I'll tackle the girl again tomorrow.'

'You won't,' Jocasta had wailed 'Your crew'll be back and you'll spend all day filming and you'll forget all about me. I've been very stupid, I know… but please, can't you just…?

'No!'

Jocasta had sniffed and wandered back into The Gallery, leaving him alone on the street with the stiff-backed portfolio under his arm.

Dammit, he'd done what he could. Opened her poxy exhibition, been charming to the invited guests, none of whom – it seemed to Guy – could get away fast enough.

And he'd tried to get at the girl – the damned girl in black with the cruel, dark eyes.

'There she is!' Jocasta grabbing his arm in front of everybody, hissing at him and writhing like an anaconda.

'Where? Who?'

'The one who brought those drawings in.'

'You invited her?'

'Of course I didn't. She's just turned up. Guy, we've got to make her tell us what it's all about.'

'We? We have?'

The girl had spoken to nobody, just wandered around inspecting paintings, wearing a faintly superior, supercilious expression – as well she might, he'd conceded, given the standard of work on show; the artist, Emmanuel somebody or other, apparently specializing in brownish pointilliste studies of derelict farmyards.

To Guy, the girl looked far too mature and aware to be still at school.

Jocasta pushing the portfolio at him – 'Please… talk to her. She'll be impressed by you. She won't dare lie.'

But the girl didn't seem even to have heard of Guy Morrison, which didn't make her any more endearing. Add to this the dark-eyed unfriendly face – and the attitude.

'I was very interested,' Guy began smoothly, 'in the drawings you gave Mrs Newsome. The ones in this folder.'

'I don't know anything about them.'

'That's interesting. She tells me you asked her to try and sell them for you.'

'Don't know what you're on about. She's a nutter, that woman. You know she's on Valium and stuff, don't you?'