The Long Kill Page 11

  Another echo of Bryant, but not significant, except that it hinted the two men had sat together at some time, and talked about their residual Polishness, and perhaps laughed at English xenophobia.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you still have a very faint accent of some kind,’ said Jaysmith.

  Ford groaned.

  ‘When I was in my teens, some girl told me it was sexy, so I started exaggerating it, and since then I’ve never got rid of it altogether!’

  The two men laughed. Sally Ford came into the room and said, ‘You two seem to be enjoying yourselves.’

  ‘Just men’s talk,’ said Ford. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’s gone to sleep now. I’ll pop back later.’

  Jaysmith had risen at the woman’s entrance and now Ford joined him.

  ‘Mr Wainwright,’ he said, ‘if there’s anything else I can tell you or show you before you go, just say the word.’

  It was a dismissal; it was also a mockery; but how or why, Jaysmith could not work out.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most kind and helpful. I hope we meet again.’

  ‘Now that you’ve found out what kind of neighbours you’d have, I hope so too.’

  They shook hands and Jaysmith left.

  Driving back through Manchester, he tried to analyse what he’d found out and it came to very little. The simple explanation was that Ford, a friend of Bryant’s whose business took him to Poland from time to time, acted as a courier between Bryant and his girlfriend, Ota, bringing her love letters out and presumably taking Bryant’s in. There need be nothing sinister in that. But somewhere in it he was convinced must lie the reason for Bryant’s targeting.

  He tried to concentrate on the problem but found his mind wouldn’t stay there. He found himself thinking not of Ford and Bryant, but of Wendy Denver, of the emptiness of her gaze, the tightly clutched glass, the sudden tears. Did every death push a survivor to the edge of the void? He tried to take his mind back to Saigon and Nguyet but found that it was all far beyond his conscious mind now, a receding dream. What rose vividly before him was Wendy Denver’s expression, and when he tried to push into the past, he could get no further than Anya Wilson holding her husband’s photograph and staring blankly at the disappeared face.

  The drink had given him the start of a headache and he decided to stop for a coffee. He lingered over it, curiously reluctant to return to Grasmere with so little achieved. Realizing he was going to have to hurry to be back in time for dinner, which on a Sunday was between seven and eight he decided to have a snack in the service station cafeteria. All he wanted was the necessary fuel; he had very little real appetite.

  The foul weather he had left with the mountains was waiting for him with the mountains once more. He did the last few miles at a careful crawl and reached the Crag just before nine. Parking as close to the door as possible, he dashed in through the clinging rain.

  Phil Parker looked out of the bar.

  ‘Mr Hutton, glad to see you back. No weather for driving, this.’

  ‘You’ve said it.’

  ‘There’s been a lot of accidents. Young couple turned their car over on Dunmail Raise. And then old Miss Wilson’s niece from Rigg Cottage …’

  Jaysmith, his face composed to token regret at Parker’s catalogue of disasters, felt his heart constrict with violent, oxygen-hungry fear.

  ‘Anya, Anya Wilson, you mean?’ he cried. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Young Mrs Wilson came down here to see you in fact. Some message from her aunt about the house. She wrote you a note. Then the phone rang. It was old Miss Wilson. They’d just rung from Windermere Hospital. There’d been an accident …’

  ‘It wasn’t Anya then? It wasn’t Mrs Wilson in the accident?’ interrupted Jaysmith, his relief almost as physically painful as his terror.

  ‘No, I was telling you. She was here,’ said Parker looking at him curiously. ‘It’s her father, Mr Bryant. His car evidently came off the road coming down into Ambleside from Kirkstone Pass. He’s been seriously hurt, I gather. It sounds very very bad.’

  Chapter 12

  Parker’s human relish at passing on bad news disappeared completely as he saw that Jaysmith was not the disinterested auditor he had expected. He insisted on pouring him a large Scotch and then gave what details he had as succinctly as possible.

  Anya had arrived at the hotel with Jimmy at about five forty-five. On finding Jaysmith was out, she had sat down to write a note and Doris Parker had made her a cup of tea. Then the phone call had come.

  The Parkers had clearly been marvellous and Jaysmith forgave the garrulous Phil all the minor tediums he had from time to time subjected his guest to. Anya had been almost completely overthrown by the news and Doris Parker had taken control. She had organized Phil to take Jimmy back up to Rigg Cottage while she herself had driven Anya to the hospital.

  Doris Parker joined them at this point in the story.

  ‘I had to leave her at the hospital,’ she explained guiltily. ‘I didn’t want to, but she was so much more herself by the time we got there. They said Mr Bryant was very poorly, but not in danger. I wouldn’t have left her if he’d been in danger, but the girls don’t come in tonight and I couldn’t leave Phil to do the dinner by himself.’

  ‘She knows my limitations,’ said her husband almost proudly.

  ‘But I’m on my way back now. Phil, keep the coffee going, will you? And if things get quiet, you might make a start setting the breakfast tables.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Parker. ‘How long do you expect to be, darling?’

  Before Doris could reply, Jaysmith spoke.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  They looked at him in surprise and he felt the need for explanation.

  ‘I know Mr Bryant,’ he said. ‘He’s acting for me in my house purchase. And the weather’s really foul out there, Mrs Parker. You’ve done enough, I reckon. You’ve got your hands full here.’

  Doris Parker gave it a moment’s thought, then nodded as if two and two had finally made four. Jaysmith guessed that Anya’s attempt to avoid the keen-eyed gaze of the village vigilantes on their few meetings had not been totally successful.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you want, Mr Hutton.’

  ‘Tell me how to get to the hospital,’ he said.

  She gave him brief, clear directions. As he turned to head out into the night again, Parker said, ‘Don’t forget your note.’

  He picked it up from the table beneath the key hooks. It was addressed to J. Hutton, Esq.

  He read it in the car.

  Dear Jay,

  Aunt Muriel’s solicitor seems to think you’ll be sending a surveyor to look at the house before completing your purchase. Aunt Muriel on the other hand can’t for the life of her see why you’d want to waste your money on a surveyor. The house has stood for a hundred and fifty years and will easily see you out (I quote!). Could you give her a ring or call to let her know what’s what?

  It was signed simply Anya.

  No suggestion of a future meeting; on the other hand, she had come to the hotel when she might just as easily have telephoned.

  He sent the BMW cutting through the tangles of rain.

  He saw her as soon as he entered the hospital, standing in a telephone booth. As he approached, she replaced the receiver, turned and saw him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  She looked pale and strained, but far from the point of collapse.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ she said, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand as if to clear her thoughts. ‘He’s broken an arm, cracked a couple of ribs, put his knee out of joint, torn several muscles and got himself spattered with various cuts and contusions. But all the nasty other things they’ve been looking for, like fractured skull and internal bleeding, they just haven’t found. They seemed almost disappointed.’

  She tried a la
ugh. It didn’t come out very well.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Briefly. He recognized me. There’s a lot of shock, naturally. He’ll be in for a few days. They say a week, perhaps more, but they don’t know pappy.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he said. ‘So very very glad.’

  He spoke with such intensity of feeling that she opened her eyes wide as though really registering his presence for the first time. Then they blurred with tears.

  ‘Thank you, Jay, thank you.’

  Her gratitude filled Jaysmith with guilt. All his real concern was for her, not Bryant. In fact the thought had crept into his mind as he drove there that the solicitor’s accidental death would be the best solution for everyone.

  Everyone, that is, except the most important person concerned. There was no way he could permit anything to happen which would reawaken the pain he had seen in her eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘I’ve just rung Aunt Muriel. Jimmy’s fast asleep, so I’ll leave him there tonight. I was going to ring Doris Parker …’

  ‘She knows I’m here,’ said Jaysmith. ‘Come on.’

  They drove in silence. Anya sat away from him, leaning her head against the window and seeming to sleep. But he felt a closeness, a warmth, between them which he was reluctant to break when they arrived at the gates of Naddle Foot. She awoke as he got back into the car after opening them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been very companionable.’

  ‘If it’s company I want, I’ll join the YHA,’ he said lightly.

  She opened the front door and went in, switching off the burglar alarm in a conditioned reflex. He followed. The house felt big and cold and empty.

  She said, ‘Perhaps I should have stayed at Aunt Muriel’s too.’

  He said, rather sententiously, ‘It’s minds that are lonely, not places.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But at least you can warm yourself against people, can’t you?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he said. ‘I can manage to scramble a few eggs.’

  She didn’t contradict this assumption of command but shook her head and said, ‘No, I’m not hungry. I’m tired. At least my body’s tired but my mind won’t stop running.’

  ‘I’ll make you a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Brandy,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What I had in mind was cocoa.’

  She smiled wanly but genuinely.

  ‘You have cocoa,’ she said. ‘I’ll have brandy.’

  He compromised and made two mugs of cocoa liberally laced with cognac. She drank it greedily.

  ‘We were both right,’ she said.

  He wanted to ask about the accident, but didn’t care to, without some hint from her that she was ready to talk about it. She yawned widely several times.

  He said, ‘It’s time for bed, I think.’

  She nodded but didn’t move.

  ‘My car,’ she said. ‘It’s still at the hotel.’

  ‘Yes. It’s all right. I’ll fetch you in the morning.’

  She yawned again but still didn’t move.

  He rose and gently pulled her out of the chair.

  ‘Bed,’ he said emphatically.

  He led her unresisting up the stairs, opened her door and switched the light on.

  ‘It’s a long way for you to drive, there, and back again in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘I could stay,’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes. If you like,’ she said.

  He kissed her gently on the forehead and said, ‘I’ll use Jimmy’s room, shall I? I’m sure he won’t mind.’

  ‘No. He won’t mind,’ she said.

  He paused in the dooway and regarded her for a moment. She stood at the foot of the bed, as still and as slack as Wendy Denver after her collapse, like a puppet resting on its strings. An easy target. All the time in the world to check the range, take aim, and fire.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he said harshly. ‘Quickly. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.’

  He went along to Jimmy’s room. Before getting into bed he studied the photograph of Edward Wilson and remembered yet again that other empty lonely house in Manchester with its lost and baffled occupant roaming round in vain search for some surviving shard of her broken happiness.

  He fell asleep and dreamt of Saigon, but not of Nguyet, or Tai, or Jacob. In fact the city was totally empty except for himself, wandering its streets, vainly searching for someone to love, or someone to kill, he didn’t know which.

  The next morning he awoke at eight fifteen to the smell of frying bacon. Quickly he got up, washed, shaved with a borrowed razor, dressed and descended to the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Anya. ‘You have the gift of perfect timing.’

  She was no puppet this morning, but a bright-eyed, alert young fox in her heather-mix sweater and russet slacks. She placed a plateful of bacon, egg and mushrooms on the table before him.

  ‘He’s doing all right,’ he stated rather than asked.

  ‘It shows, does it?’ she said, smiling. ‘Yes, he’s doing all right. I rang half an hour ago. Early for us but the middle of the day for a hospital, of course! They said he was awake, hungry, and causing trouble. Then they remembered to say that medically he was as well as could be expected.’

  She filled another plate and sat opposite him.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Jaysmith. ‘What time’s visiting?’

  ‘Ten thirty. So if you can drop me at the hotel car park …’

  ‘I’ll take you to the hospital,’ he said. ‘That is, if you don’t mind me going along.’

  She considered.

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said.

  She chewed on a mouthful of bacon and went on casually, ‘You missed a golden opportunity last night, you know.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. I was there for the taking, you must have seen it. Any way you wanted. It would almost have been a kindness.’

  She was looking at him very seriously.

  He said, ‘A kindness to you last night, perhaps. But a cruelty to me this morning. Would I be eating fresh mushrooms if you’d found my head on your pillow when you woke up?’

  She didn’t respond to his smile but said, ‘I’m suspicious of chivalry in a man who shows no sign of being fond of horses.’

  ‘Not chivalry but self-interest,’ he said. ‘I like to take a long view.’

  ‘Yes. I see. Long-term gains rather than a quick killing?’ she said. ‘That makes sense. Come on then. We’d better hurry. We’re picking up Jimmy first. I rang Aunt Muriel too.’

  ‘Jimmy? What about school?’

  ‘I’ll let them know he’s taking the morning off,’ she said firmly. ‘I want him to see for himself that his grandfather’s all right. Otherwise …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he’s got this idea that people go into hospitals to die. You just never see them again. Ever since his father died. Will you clear up in here while I ring the school?’

  On their way to Grasmere, he felt able to bring up the question of the accident.

  ‘I don’t know much. He went off the road coming down from Kirkstone Pass towards Ambleside. You’ll know it, I expect.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He’d used it when returning from Dockray to Grasmere. It was a steep descent, one in four at its worst, and a winding road, but nothing compared with Wrynose, say. He cast his mind back. There were solid drystone walls on either side he recalled, no fences to smash through with deep drops behind.

  But of course he was thinking of it in bright sunshine.

  ‘The locals call that stretch “the Struggle",’ said Anya. ‘Up there the mist and rain had cut visibility almost to nil. He must have missed a bend. He smashed through a gate into a field and turned over. He was lucky to be found.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘A local man, a farmer I think. I must look him out and thank him.’
>
  ‘There was no other vehicle involved?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I wasn’t really taking things in, you understand. What the hell was he doing on that road in those conditions anyway?’

  Jaysmith thought of the road. If you didn’t turn off to Dockray, it ran via Patterdale the full length of Ullswater to Penrith.

  He said, ‘Perhaps he’d been to Penrith.’

  ‘Perhaps. But from Naddle Foot it’d be much quicker and easier to go by the main Keswick to Penrith road,’ she said in a dissatisfied voice.

  The roads were still very wet and Jaysmith drove with care. At least the rain had stopped and there was promise of sunshine above the low ceiling of mist. When they reached Rigg Cottage, Jimmy came running out to greet his mother. Leaving them together by the car, Jaysmith joined old Miss Wilson in the doorway.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied, regarding him grimly. ‘No need to look so proprietorial, young man.’

  ‘Was I? I’m sorry. Though it shouldn’t be long now,’ he said, glancing up at the old house.

  ‘I wasn’t meaning the cottage,’ she said. ‘You spent last night at Naddle Foot, I gather.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said.

  ‘How old are you, Mr Hutton?’

  ‘Forty-three,’ he said.

  She snorted significantly.

  ‘You feel it’s a dangerous age for a man?’ he asked politely.

  ‘They’re all dangerous ages,’ she said. ‘What I want to know is …’

  She paused as Jimmy came running across to them followed by his mother.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hutton,’ said the boy. ‘Mum says you’ll show me that magic trick with the coin again.’

  ‘Yes, I will, Jimmy, I promise. I’m sorry, Miss Wilson, you were saying you wanted to know something.’

  The old woman looked at her niece and said, ‘What I want to know is, are you sending a surveyor to look round my house or not?’

  ‘Would you mind?’ he said, very serious.

  ‘If you mean, do I think the old place is going to fall down, the answer’s no,’ said Miss Wilson. ‘But there was nothing in our agreement about subject to survey, that’s what I told that half-witted solicitor of mine. So if you want the place surveyed, I should prefer you do it in your time, when the house is yours, rather than waste mine when I’ve got better things to be doing!’