Denton raised his head. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Somebody grabbed Jarrold before he could put another bullet into you. Happened to be a private detective.’ Munro glanced at Markson, who seemed engrossed in his notebook, slowly turning the pages from back to front. ‘He was following you.’
Denton frowned, bewildered. ‘I’d just got back from France.’
Munro laid his hat on the bed again. His hair was pressed against his scalp where the hat had rested; he stroked the sides with his palms. ‘This is an embarrassment for the Metropolitan Police, Denton. I was going to tell you in good time. It’s, mmm, not something we’re proud of.’
‘I remember now — I thought somebody was following me. I think I’d thought so before, but there was never anybody.’
‘Lady Emmeline — Jarrold’s mother — was having you followed. She sent copies of their reports to Georgie Guillam.’
Denton’s brain seemed slow. He had to remind himself who Guillam was. When he remembered, he was enraged. ‘Why?’
‘I told you that Georgie’d pulled Jarrold over into his bailiwick. I thought it was just to make the connection — get himself some credit with the upper crust. Maybe that was all there was, to start with. He told the super he’d gone to Lady Emmeline’s house and offered her his help. Because Jarrold was now his responsibility. That could have been just Georgie’s sucking up. But getting the private detectives’ reports from her-He wanted to get something on you. So did Lady Emmeline. She really hates you, you know — a lot worse than Georgie. So they scratched each other’s back.’
Denton felt out of breath. ‘That’s how Jarrold knew where I’d be when he decided to shoot me.’
‘His mother wrote to him at least once a day. Sent him telegrams — one the night before you came back from France.’ Munro rubbed his forehead and blew out his cheeks. ‘One of the detectives had tailed you to the Channel ferry and told Guillam. Guillam cabled the French demanding they tell him when you started back. When he heard from them-’ Munro shook his head. ‘He did what no copper should ever do. He notified Lady Emmeline. After, he said he did it just so’s her detectives could pick you up again. But she telegraphed Jarrold, so what Guillam did meant that Jarrold could find you, too. Jarrold’s mother — and therefore Jarrold — knew where you’d be twelve hours before your boat landed that morning. The dicks picked you up again at Waterloo.’
‘And so did Jarrold.’
‘That’s my reading of it.’
‘But-’ Denton was thinking of the logistics of getting from Lady Emmeline’s Sussex house to London, then to Waterloo. Twelve hours would be plenty of time. Still-‘But why?’
‘Why Georgie, or why Jarrold?’
‘Jarrold.’
‘Loony.’
‘Not good enough, Munro. He’s insane, but he’s sane enough to get from Sussex to Waterloo, avoid the detective following me and wait for the opportunity to shoot me.’
‘Well, he knew about the detective, so avoiding him wouldn’t take a genius. Anyway, the detectives didn’t know him. The rest-’ Munro shook his massive head. ‘He’s a loony.’
‘With all respect, sir-’ Markson had put his notebook away. ‘It’s true it’s never been established
Munro waved the comment away. ‘He shot him because he was a loony that had been pestering Denton for a long time. He couldn’t get what he wanted from him, so he took his revenge.’
Denton had put his head back. He wasn’t listening to them. He looked at the ceiling and tried to remember what had happened. The shooting was a gap, but the rest was there: Mrs Castle, his returning home, the parting from Heseltine at Waterloo. Before that, the night crossing, the journey down from Caen. The farm. The barn. The hay. He said, ‘Heseltine and I go to France. We come back. Jarrold is waiting for me in London. He shoots me.’ He sat up. ‘How soon after I was shot did Heseltine die?’
Munro groaned. ‘Oh, Judas-’
Markson got the notebook out again, wet his finger, went through the pages. ‘Um — hmm.’ He went to another part of the notebook, licked a finger. ‘Mmm. Looks like the Heseltine suicide was the next morning.’
Denton pushed himself up and leaned his weight on his right arm. He pushed his face out as close to Munro’s as he could get it. ‘Two men travel together and come home and within twenty-four hours one’s shot and one’s dead! What does that tell you, Munro?’
‘Aw, God, Denton-Don’t do this to me, man.’
‘It’s just coincidence?’
‘Look-Give us some credit for brains, will you? Heseltine was in a bad way. He went away with you because you’d befriended him; isn’t that the way it was? His dad said something like that. He comes back to London, the next morning he reads in the paper you’ve been shot and are near death. It’s the last straw. Don’t you
Denton did get it. He wavered: he hadn’t seen it that way. It could have happened like that. Maybe Heseltine’s cheerfulness had been the rise before an inevitable drop, the shooting the immediate cause. And yet-‘Why did Jarrold shoot me
‘Because it’s the day he slipped his nurses and headed for London. D’you think we didn’t interview them? His mother had two male nurses watching him, or so she said; well, what they were was two local ploughboys that could have been diddled by a ten-year-old. Turns out they let Sonny roam the grounds while they had their tea in the kitchen every day and played peeky-boo with the housemaids. He could have slipped them any time he wanted.’
‘Then why that day?’
Munro pounded the arm of the chair. ‘Because he’s a bleeding loony!’
Denton lay back again. He felt exhausted, jangled; his blood seemed to be pounding in his head. ‘Why did we go to France?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Then why didn’t you ask me?’
‘Because you were unconscious! Because you wouldn’t see us! Because it doesn’t matter! I suppose you went to give Heseltine a change of air. You’d taken him under your wing, hadn’t you? Who the hell cares?’
Denton closed his eyes. He was almost panting. ‘There’s a barn in Normandy. I think there’s a body buried in it.’
‘Oh, Jesus-!’ Munro clapped his hat on his head and stood up. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He turned on Denton. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly, but I’ve got a long ton of work to do. This is all old stuff, closed, finished. You get yourself better, that’s your job. Don’t complicate mine, will you?’
Denton kept his eyes closed. ‘Why would two men who found where they think a body is buried in France be dead or near-dead as soon as they get back?’
Munro started to say something. He looked at Markson. ‘You’re blowing bubbles. Denton, think about it — Jarrold tried to shoot you. The dick wrapped him up and put him on the ground and that was the end of him — he went right to the station and the lock-up, and he hasn’t seen the light of day since. Yes, Jarrold tried to kill you on the day you got back from France. But there’s no way he could have had a hand in this other fella’s suicide the next day — and no reason! Now get yourself better, and we’ll have a brew-up together and chew it over someplace friendly, all right?’ He jerked his head at Markson.
When the two detectives reached the door, Denton said, eyes still closed, ‘Munro? What’s happened to Guillam?’
‘He was busted down to detective and sent to East Ham — the whole way across London from where he lives. Satisfied?’
‘Wasn’t Guillam partly responsible for attempted murder?’
Munro sighed. ‘Georgie’s got friends, Denton.’ He and Markson went out, and the door closed.
Gallichan came that afternoon and made himself comfortable so that he could explore more of Denton’s dreams. Denton was tired of it. He said, ‘I read once about a doctor who found a man who’d been shot in the stomach. The man healed with a hole the doctor could look through. He learned all sorts of things about the stomach. It made him famous. I think you’re using these dreams as a hole to look into my mind.’
