The study was empty; the light came from the adjacent room. Charles switched off his torch with a dull click and moved towards the half-open door. Through its crack he could see a plush bedroom, dominated by a large four-poster bed. Curtains obscured his view, but the shape of the covers told him that the bed was occupied.
As he entered the room, exhaustion threatened to swamp him, but still he moved forward. Now, in the light of a bedside lamp, he could see Marius Steen lying back on the pillows asleep. The great beak of a nose, familiar from countless press photographs, rose out of the sheets like the dorsal fin of a shark. One large hand lay, palm upward, on the cover.
‘Wake him, tell him and go.’ Charles formulated his thoughts very simply with desperate concentration. He staggered forward to the bedside and stood there, swaying. As he reached for Steen’s hand, he heard a car drawing up outside the gates. He clutched at the hand in panic, and felt the coldness of death.
IX
Charles woke as if his body was being dragged out of a deep pit, and memory returned slowly to his pounding head. He didn’t like it when it came. He could see Steen’s face in its pained repose, and felt certain that he was up against a case of murder.
He was lying in bed in Miles and Juliet’s spare room. Vague memories of getting there. The rush from Steen’s bedroom out through the garage and utility room, as he heard a car stopping on the gravel and footsteps approaching the garage door. Then he remembered skulking breathless behind the bungalow until the car was safely garaged, a rush through the gates, staggering along the road till a police car stopped, warnings-‘Had a few too many, haven’t you, sir? Still, won’t charge you this time. But watch it’ — and ignominious delivery on Miles and Juliet’s doorstep.
He heaved himself out of bed and limped downstairs. The bruise on his ankle was cripplingly painful and he felt his forty-seven years. Too old to be involved in this escalating round of violence.
Juliet stood staring at him as he made it to the kitchen chair. She appeared not to have inherited Frances’ forgiving nature. ‘Really, Daddy, what a state to come home in.’
‘I’m sorry, love.’
‘Miles was furious.’
‘Oh well.’ There were more important things than Miles’ sensibilities.
‘I mean, the police coming here. What will other people on the estate think?’
‘You can tell them the police weren’t coming for you or Miles.’
‘They wouldn’t think that!’
‘Miles can tell them it’s just his drunken father-in-law.’
‘I don’t think they’d find that very amusing.’ She turned away to make coffee. ‘Honestly, Daddy, I don’t think you have any concept of human dignity.’
That hurt. ‘Listen, Juliet darling. I think I probably have more knowledge of the really important things that give a person dignity than…’ But it wasn’t worth explaining; she wouldn’t understand. ‘Oh, forget it. Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘I’m not going in till after lunch. There’s not much to do and
… well, I was worried about you.’
It was the first softening Charles could ever remember hearing from Juliet. It warmed him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Honestly, Daddy, I don’t know what you’re up to half the time. That peculiar phone-call yesterday morning, and now all this. What on earth were you doing in Streatley anyway? I thought you had taken the cab to Reading.’
‘Yes, I know. The thing is, I had to change my plans. It’s all rather involved, but…’ He paused, and all the boiling thoughts inside him strained for an outlet. He had to tell someone. Why not Juliet? ‘Marius Steen is dead.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Her answer was cool and unconcerned.
‘How do you know?’
‘It was on the radio this morning. On the Today programme.’
‘What? How did it say he died?’
‘Heart attack, I think it was. Here’s your coffee.’ As she placed the cup in front of him, Charles looked at his daughter, wondering if she could be involved in this grotesque business. But in her face, as easily read as her mother’s, there was nothing devious; she was telling the truth. ‘Anyway, Daddy, why do you tell me that? Was it Steen you went to see last night?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t know you knew him.’
‘I didn’t.’ He sipped the coffee. It wasn’t what he needed. His body felt dangerously unstable and bilious. ‘Juliet, could you get me a drop of whisky?’
‘At this time in the morning? Daddy’-with all the awe of a television documentary-are you an alcoholic?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Where does liking a drink stop and being an alcoholic start?’
‘I should think it starts when you need a hair of the dog the next morning.’ Juliet italicised the unfamiliar phrase.
‘Well, I do need one now.’
‘I don’t know whether I should-’
‘Oh, get it!’ he snapped impatiently. As Juliet scurried shocked to the cocktail cabinet, Charles asked himself whether he was in fact an alcoholic. On balance, he decided he probably wasn’t. He could do without drink. But he wouldn’t like to have to. It was an old joke-a teetotaller knows every morning when he wakes up that that’s the best he’s going to feel all day. Drink at least offers some prospect of things improving.
He felt Juliet’s shocked eyes on him as he poured whisky into his coffee and drank it gratefully. It made him feel more stable, but desperately tired. Waves of relief washed over him. Steen had died of a heart attack. Thoughts of murder had been prompted only by the events of the previous week and the melodramatic circumstances of the discovery of the body. All the contradictory details evaporated. Charles believed what he wanted to believe. The pressure was off. ‘Juliet love, what’s the time?’
‘Twenty past ten.’
‘Look, I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.’
‘But you must have something to eat.’ Frances’ eternal cry.
‘When have you got to go to work?’
‘Have to leave quarter to two.’
‘Wake me at half-past twelve. Then I’ll have something to eat. I promise.’
It wasn’t until after lunch and Juliet’s departure that Charles remembered about Jacqui, still lying low at Hereford Road. The public announcement of Steen’s death had sapped the urgency out of him and yesterday’s imperatives no longer mattered. Jacqui was just the frayed end of an otherwise completed pattern and it was with reluctance that he dialled his own number.
Jacqui answered. All of the Swedish girls must be out at their various Swedish employments. Her voice was guarded, but not panic-stricken. ‘Charles? I wondered when you were going to ring. I was just about to leave.’
‘Jacqui, I’ve got some bad news…’
‘It’s all right. I heard. On Open House.’
‘What?’
‘The radio.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ There was a pause, and Charles could feel how fiercely she was controlling her emotions.
‘Jacqui, I’m afraid I never got the photos to him.’
‘That hardly matters now, does it? Nothing much matters now.’
‘Jacqui…’
