‘Then on the Saturday, something rattles you. You lose your nerve, drive down to Streatley in secret, change the tape in your father’s Ansaphone, prepare the body and move your whole schedule forward a week. That, I must confess, is the bit I don’t understand. By doing that you made the whole crime worthless. You were losing money. No doubt you had your reasons.
‘But when the new will came to light, you were liable to lose even more money. So, seeing the flaw in its hastily drawn up provisions, you started your vendetta against Jacqui’s child, a vendetta that Dr Lefeuvre was about to complete when I arrived. No doubt, before that you used the cruder talents of Jem and Eric. Certainly, when you realised my connection with the case at Bloomwater, they were the bully-boys you turned on to me.
‘Well, I think that sums up most of my conclusions. How am I doing?’
He looked up at Nigel Steen. The man’s face was white and mean and he was pointing an automatic pistol at Charles’ chest. But he still tried to maintain some shreds of panache. ‘Very good,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you know about the boxes in the freezer?’
‘Ah, I must confess I have been in this house before. Just before your dramatic “discovery” of your father’s corpse, I… er… fell over the boxes. They were heavy and had the words “Do not refreeze” written on them, but I didn’t immediately realise the significance of that. Sorry. I was a bit slow on the uptake.’
‘I see. Well, since I am going to kill you anyway-an intruder in my house, I met you, drew my gun; you attacked me and in the ensuing fight the gun went off, unfortunately killing you-I-’
‘If that’s as successful as your other crimes, I think I’m fairly safe.’
‘Quiet!’ Nigel waved the gun. ‘Let me fill in the details. One thing you were wrong about is the extent of my crime. The things you describe could be classed as fraud and harassment maybe, but in fact there is a murder involved.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Steen looked at him open-mouthed, robbed of the drama of his pronouncement, as Charles continued, ‘Bill Sweet’s murder.’
‘Whose?’
‘Bill Sweet, the man who was found shot dead at Theale.’
‘Oh, was that his name? I didn’t know.’
‘You mean you didn’t know his connection with your father?’
‘No. Was there one?’
‘What happened, Steen?’
‘We came off the M4 and suddenly there was this maniac in the middle of the road, flagging us down. I swerved to avoid him and hit his silly little car. I tried to drive on, but he came at me with some story of having run out of petrol. Then he looked in the car, saw my father crumpled up and started to speak. I panicked and shot him. I went through his pockets-for some reason they were full of dirty pictures. I took them and his wallet and threw the lot, with the gun, into the river.’
‘Why his wallet?’
‘To disguise his identity. I don’t know. I panicked. I wanted to forget all about him-pretend it hadn’t happened.’
‘And that’s why you haven’t moved the Rolls since that night. You even left your father’s keys in it. You seem to do rather a lot of panicking, don’t you? Not a very impressive criminal.’
‘If my plan had worked, it would have been a master-stroke. To save a quarter of a million-that’s the sort of thing my father used to do.’ The envy in his voice was almost pathetic.
‘But you could never do what your father did, could you, Nigel? Business, women, even crime. You just never made it.’ Nigel Steen’s knuckles whitened around the gun and Charles uttered another silent prayer. He seemed to be getting very religious all of a sudden. ‘Because you never had the guts to carry anything through,’ he continued. ‘Why didn’t you carry this one through?’
‘Because of you, you little sod.’ Nigel spat the words out.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you and your bloody Detective-Sergeant McWhirter business. When you rang up that Saturday and checked the registration of the Rolls, I thought the police were on to the Theale murder.’
‘Good Lord.’ Charles had completely forgotten about the first entrance of McWhirter. It came back to him vaguely. And that had actually ruined Nigel’s crime. Charles could have chosen any excuse for the phone call and it was pure chance that he had lighted on the meaningless ‘number plate racket’! ‘So that’s what made you drive down in the Datsun, and move the plan forward, and lose a quarter of a million pounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good Lord.’ Charles was absolutely flabbergasted, but he hadn’t really got time to analyse his reactions. Nigel was still pointing a rather businesslike gun at him. ‘Nigel, I’d put that thing away. The police are coming. You stand a chance as things stand at the minute. They need never find out about Sweet’s murder. Just get you on the other charges.’
‘I don’t believe you, Paris. You’re bluffing. There aren’t any police coming.’
‘There are.’ Charles prayed that he was speaking the truth. ‘Joanne Menzies is getting them.’
‘So, she was involved with you. The bitch.’
‘I think you’d better hand that gun over, Nigel.’ Charles rose to his feet.
‘Don’t move! I’ll shoot you!’ Nigel held the gun away from him, as if he was afraid of the bang it would make. Charles felt himself sweating.
He tried desperately to control his voice. ‘No, Nigel, you won’t shoot me. This is cold blood, Nigel. Something you’ve got to think about. Not like shooting Sweet in a moment of blind panic. Not like doing it by remote control, having Jem set up a trip-wire. This is you committing a crime, Nigel.’
The two men faced each other. Their eyes were interlocked and the gun pointed directly at Charles’ heart. The pause seemed endless.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Nigel tensed as if to fire, and Charles closed his eyes. Then he heard the clatter of the gun falling on to the desk. He looked at Nigel Steen and saw the glint of tears in his eyes as the young man rushed out of the door.
Charles collapsed like a glove puppet with the hand withdrawn, and stood for a long moment, sagging. The doorbell was still ringing. But before he went downstairs, he crept into Marius Steen’s bedroom.
Jacqui was still unconscious, breathing heavily under the anaesthetic. Gingerly Charles raised the sheet that lay over her thighs. There was no blood, no sign that she had been touched. As he looked down at the body he used to love, he thanked God for letting him arrive in time.
When he opened the door downstairs, he heard the roar of a motorboat leaving from the boathouse at the back. On the doorstep in front of him stood Joanne Menzies, alone. She was breathless. ‘I couldn’t get the police. Didn’t see a phone. I’ve just walked from the car.’
So it had been a bluff. Charles started laughing, clear ripples of relief shaking his body. He clasped Joanne in his arms, not for love or lust, just sheer joy at being alive.
The speedboat was found splintered against Goring Bridge. It had missed the lock and been driven full-tilt down the hard steps of the weir. Nigel Steen’s body was found in some weeds nearly a mile downstream. Whether the death was suicide, or a result of his natural aptitude for failure, was never established.
XIX
Bartlemas and O’Rourke’s tall Victorian house in Ideal Road, Islington, was like a chaotic museum. Every available wall surface was covered with memories of Kean and Macready; even in the lavatory the twin deities looked down beneficently on lesser mortals.
A battered life-size carving of Kean as Shylock greeted Charles as he entered the front door. The beak of a nose seemed strangely reminiscent of Marius Steen. O’Rourke took his coat. ‘You know, people keep saying we ought to hang coats on Shylock’s arm…’
‘But we’re sure Edmund wouldn’t like it,’ said Bartlemas, appearing from nowhere in a shiny apron with an
