He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2) Page 5
‘Did you have to pay her for her information?’
‘David!’
‘What?’
‘She’s a police officer. Did you see me give her money?’
‘No.’
‘There’s your answer then. But I’ll owe someone a favour.’
‘I shouldn’t think Mrs Swaine would be too pleased to learn you’ve been breaking confidences with total strangers,’ I said.
‘Who’s going to tell her? You?’
I smiled at Jo. ‘What’s my silence worth?’
‘How would you like the rest of your beer over your head?’
I laughed. ‘Hungry?’
‘Your treat, you said.’
I nodded.
‘In that case, I’ve never had lobster before.’
Out of habit, I looked at the prices in the menu. Then looked at Jo. I think my mouth was open. She was laughing at me and said she’d have a ploughman’s and another drink.
Jo’s phone rang and I took the opportunity to go to the bar and order our meals and refills. The pub was warm and the beer was already working its magic. Sometimes when I had a drink in a decent pub I really had the urge to settle in and make a session of it. I was feeling like that when I returned to our table. Jo didn’t look happy.
‘Bad news?’ I said.
‘Nigel Tate is dead. Pretty bad news for him, wouldn’t you say?’
***
13
I asked Jo if she wanted to rush back. She eyed me strangely and said what for? She wasn’t related to him. It was a good point. I asked her if she still wanted to eat and she said yes. She downed the wine quickly and I went back for another. Behind the bar they were getting to know me.
I set the glass down in front of her and said, ‘Who called you?’
‘Rebecca Swaine.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Like a woman who’s just lost her husband. How do you expect her to sound?’
‘What I mean is...’
‘I know what you mean. She sounded composed, not a gibbering wreck. She seemed under control.’
‘Did she say how he died?’
Jo seemed to have slipped off somewhere. Aware that I’d asked her something she said, ‘What?’
‘I said, how did he die?’
Jo was still thinking about something else. But she was looking hard at me. It was disconcerting. ‘Suicide. She said he killed himself. She didn’t say how and I didn’t ask.’
Eventually, our food arrived. I was ravenous but I felt uncomfortable, disrespectful, about diving into my steaming steak and kidney pudding with the news of sudden death hanging in the air. The pub was quite busy. There was a good sociable noise. It helped.
I said, ‘Did she give you any instructions?’
‘Asked me to go and see her.’ And I realised why Jo was looking so down. She’d just lost a decent opportunity, something that might have looked good on her CV.
‘Sorry, Jo.’
‘What for?’
‘You lost a job. A good one.’
Jo frowned. ‘No. She wants me to find out who killed him.’
‘You said it was suicide.’
‘Yes. But someone drove him to it.’
***
14
The skies had darkened considerably by the time we left the pub. I didn’t suggest a gallery or a show or a bit more sight-seeing. I hailed a passing black cab and told him Charing Cross. Jo didn’t try and talk me out of it.
We were ten minutes early for the train but it was at the platform waiting. I asked Jo if she wanted anything for the journey and she didn’t. I fancied a couple of tins but, owing to Jo’s lunchtime imbibing, I’d be driving when we got to Ashford so I dared not. I settled for a black coffee and went to look for some.
Jo had found an almost empty carriage. When I returned, I arranged myself opposite her in a pair of seats.
She said, ‘You could have said you were getting coffee.’
‘I asked you if you wanted anything.’
She made a face. I offered to go and get her one. She told me to stay where I was. Women.
We arrived back at Ashford International a little after three.
When we were back at the car, Jo said, ‘How about I give Rebecca Swaine a call? We could pay her a visit on the way back? You’ve got business to discuss, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure she’d be too happy to have me barging in talking about money and books when she’s just lost her husband rather unexpectedly.’
‘Fair enough. You can wait in the car if you like.’
Before I could protest further Jo had her phone to her ear and was walking away from me in search of privacy. She was back in two minutes.
‘Well?’
‘Goldenhurst, Jeeves.’
A bleary dusk was settling in by the time we were driving through the woodland that crowded the road to the Swaine residence. I needed the headlights on.
There were no vehicles in evidence on the Swaines’ parking and turning area. I’m not sure what I’d expected but I had expected something: emergency services, unmarked police cars, undertaker’s vehicles, family and friends come to comfort, perhaps. There were lights on in the house. As arranged with Jo, I sat in the car with the heater and the radio on while she went to see what was what. I watched the front door open and Rebecca Swaine was backlit. The women exchanged a few words and Jo hurried back to me, tapped on the window and beckoned me with a crooked finger. I was pleased. I’d rather be in the house than stuck out in the dark. Alone. My Manderley feeling was back and it gave me the willies.
Mrs Swaine greeted me with the air of someone disconnected. I expressed my sympathy for her loss. She didn’t cry. She didn’t look like she had been or that she might. After the coat and slippers routine, she showed us through to a different room. It was a fine and spacious living room. There was a low ceiling with exposed old beams. They looked original to me. Some nice artwork, some nice furniture, nice curtains, nice lighting. It was quite nice. This is where the fire burned that I’d smelled on the previous visit. It wasn’t burning now and the room was chilly and desolate for it.
Mrs Swaine bade us sit. We obliged. She sat too. We stared at each other for an uncomfortable, long moment.
‘He hanged himself in the woods behind the house. He must have done it sometime in the previous night. When we realised he was missing and that he hadn’t slept in his bed we went looking for him – Sigmund and I. Nigel’s car was still in the garage so he couldn’t have gone anywhere. Sigmund found him. It’s shaken him up. I shouldn’t have let him look with me. He is very sensitive to... violence.’
Mrs Swaine seemed to be bearing up quite well. But probably that was the effect of the stiff upper lip classes she’d taken at finishing school.
‘Mrs Swaine, did you tell the police about the blackmail threat?’ said Jo.
After the briefest hesitation, Mrs Swaine said, ‘No.’ She stared into the coldness of the empty fireplace.
Jo looked shocked. ‘Why?’
Something in Jo’s tone touched Mrs Swaine. She turned those effective eyes on Jo. ‘He’s dead. He killed himself. Finding out why he did it won’t change that unalterable fact. It won’t bring him back and it can’t change anything. I imagine that will be an end to the matter of blackmail.’
‘I have to advise you to tell the police, Mrs Swaine. They could investigate and charges could be brought. A crime has been committed and it’s led to a man taking his own life.’
Mrs Swaine raised her chin a notch in preparation for argument and said, ‘There is no evidence to back up any assertion of blackmail.’ There was something of a rebuke in there for Jo’s impertinence. And then Mrs Swaine softened: ‘So you see, Miss Cash, there really is nothing for the police to be interested in.’
A bit of an atmosphere descended. The air felt a bit tense. Jo was not happy – I understood that much. Mrs Swaine was resolute. I was ignored. A creak of floorboards indicated someone mov
ing about upstairs. Mrs Swaine glanced at the ceiling.
‘Also, I’ve now changed my mind about asking you to investigate further. When I spoke to you earlier I was... emotional. I wasn’t thinking rationally and sensibly. I see now that it would serve no purpose to investigate the matter further. Naturally, I shall pay you for your time and effort and I shall be happy to add something extra for your... understanding.’
After a brief uncomfortable pause, Jo said, ‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs Swaine. You’re my employer. If you want to terminate our association, that’s your right. I’ll send you a bill for my time and expenses and it will be commensurate with the rates we discussed.’
‘As you wish.’ Rebecca Swaine turned her whole trunk in my direction, signalling that she’d closed the subject with Jo. ‘About those books. I think I’d like them back, Mr Booker, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Swaine. I sold them today to a dealer in London. I reached into my inside pocket and withdrew the cheque made out to her. I passed it across. She studied it and bit her lip. ‘That’s the full amount. It’s not far short of what we discussed. It’s a good price,’ I said.
She breathed out a little too heavily. ‘Well, if they’re gone they’re gone, I suppose. Thank you. You have both been very efficient. What do I owe you, Mr Booker?’
‘Nothing, Mrs Swaine. I had to go to London anyway,’ I lied.
After another brief pause Mrs Swaine stood. Jo and I stood. ‘I would be grateful if we could all just forget about this whole sorry business,’ she said. ‘I only want to get on with my life.’ Her composure was extraordinary.
Mrs Swaine saw us out. It had started to rain again. It fell in irregular sweeps. A cutting wind was swirling around the hills that overlooked the Marsh, ruffling the evergreen shrubs into gossip and gyrating the taller bare trees around, like drunk-dad-dancing at a wedding.
Again, Mrs Swaine didn’t wave us off. The door was firmly shut before we had hurried across the gravel to the car. Instinctively, I glanced up at the window I had seen Sigmund Swaine scowling down at us from on our previous visit. It was too murky for detail but I was sure I saw the man’s darkened form looking down at us. Something crawled down my spine.
I risked a quick look in Jo’s direction as we weaved our way across the Marsh. The dashboard lights gave her features a theatrical ghoulish countenance. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Bit annoyed. But, like I said to her, she’s the boss. She doesn’t want me investigating, I’m not going to investigate.’ That sounded brave.
‘Don’t you have a professional curiosity to satisfy?’
‘No. Being in the police has cured me of that. I’m not about to start wasting my time on something I’m not going to get paid for.’
‘Why do you think she changed her mind about having you follow it up?’
‘Like she said, it would serve no purpose. If that’s the way she feels, that’s the way it is.’
‘I must say, I think you’re taking it very philosophically.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I still get paid for two days’ work and I had a little trip to London and a nice lunch, which she can pay for.’
‘I paid for that.’
‘OK, I’ll give you the money.’
I tutted. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’
‘I’ll give Marion a call tomorrow. Let her know. That won’t hurt.’
***
15
I could tell Jo was disappointed with the way things had turned out. I was too. There wasn’t much more conversation. When we got home she disappeared upstairs. The ladies had shut up shop and, after checking everything was switched off and they’d locked the front door, I decided to organise a take-away and watch a film. I shouldn’t have been as hungry as I was after the pub lunch. I considered the possibility that I had worms.
The evening weather had degenerated into the sort to make the battening down of hatches and pugging down on the sofa in front of a good film a good option. Even a bad film. Rain was being driven across the English Channel to lash the front windows. I invited Jo down, but she declined without excuse. Not that she needed to provide one to me.
Two hours later I was comfortably stuffed with Indian food and on my second bottle of Whitstable Bay ale when Jo knocked at the dividing door. I called her through and paused the film just as Nick Nolte was fighting for his life in Cape Fear. If I hadn’t watched the film at least a dozen times I might have been cross.
‘You’re too late for food. There’s a bit of naan bread left somewhere.’
‘Tell me you’re not drunk?’ She looked serious.
I sat up straight. ‘What’s wrong?’
She perched on the arm of the chair. ‘Mrs Swaine just called me. Sigmund’s gone missing. He’s not in the house and he doesn’t drive. She’s worried about him.’
‘He seemed big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself. Besides, didn’t she terminate your employment?’
‘Sigmund’s missing. She’s worried. She’s called the police but they aren’t interested, obviously. So she’s phoned me. Can we go up and help her look for him?’
I laughed heartily. ‘You are joking? In this?’ I pointed at the front window, which was doing a good impression of a shower screen with someone using it on the other side of the glass, as it bore the brunt of a very wet and windy Channel gale.
‘She sounded desperate.’
‘Tough.’ To emphasise my reluctance to be part of such an idiotic venture I took a swig from the bottle.
‘If I help her, she might reinstate me to find out who was blackmailing her husband.’
‘She agreed to that?’
‘No. David, I can’t force you and I won’t hold it against you if you say no, but I really want this job. I need this job. I don’t want to go up there alone. But if I have to I will.’
The words emotional and blackmail sprang to mind. There seemed a lot of it about.
I sighed rather theatrically, picked up the remote and turned everything off. Jo smiled nicely and said thank you.
***
16
Jo drove the roller skate. The tempest buffeted her little hatchback as we made our way on the otherwise and unsurprisingly deserted Marsh lanes.
Mrs Swaine opened the front door as soon as we entered the driveway. She was wearing a full-length waxed coat, wellington boots and a wide brimmed hat, which she held in place with a hand. So much for no outdoor footwear in the house. We got out to join her in the overhanging area in front of the garage door. I’d rather hoped that either Sigmund would have returned or that we might be invited in for a warm and a chat first – draw up our plans of action. I was to be disappointed on both counts.
Mrs Swaine had to raise her voice over the noise of the wind and rain in the trees and foliage that encroached everywhere. ‘Thank you both very much for coming. I’m sorry, I really had no one else to call.’ Away from the house it was pitch dark. I looked for an outside light but saw none. I tested my torch.
‘He’s not back then?’ said Jo, almost shouting.
‘No.’
We knew that he’d been ‘missing’ for over an hour at least.
‘Where is there for him to go?’ said Jo.
‘There’s nowhere. That’s why I’m so worried. It’s only woodland and fields. There are no outbuildings apart from the greenhouse and I’ve checked that.’
I said, ‘Don’t take this as anything other than a good question, Mrs Swaine – are you positive he’s not in the house somewhere?’
‘I’m certain. I’ve looked everywhere he could possibly be. And I’ve checked the garage.’
‘Has he done this before?’
‘Never.’
‘And there is no vehicle he could have left in?’
‘No. Our only transport is Nigel’s car and it’s still here. And Sigmund doesn’t drive.’
‘What about a bicycle?’
‘We don’t own any.’
‘No. He has to be here somewhere. I can only think that he’s hurt somewhere.’
I could only wonder what had possessed the man to go wandering off in such rotten weather. But then on the one occasion I’d met him he hadn’t seemed all there. A thought occurred to me. ‘Is his coat missing? Footwear? Is he dressed for being out in this?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ And she obviously wasn’t going to waste time going to look.
Jo said, ‘There’s no point in us all looking. Mrs Swaine, you stay here. He might come home. You have my number. If he shows, call me. David and I will look around the woods. Is there a favourite route or an area we should try first?’
Before she could answer, I said, ‘Has he got a mobile phone?’
‘No, he hasn’t. He can’t bear them. The only access into the woods is through the hedge over there.’ She gestured at the darkness. ‘There is a path.’
Jo and I trudged off across the sodden lawn. My trainers were already letting in water. We agreed not to split up because neither of us knew the area and I had not thought to bring my own phone. I had brought an umbrella, which was not very clever. Before we had made it to the hedge it had turned inside out. I swore as much at my stupidity as at the wind.
Jo had a good long raincoat with hood attachment and stout footwear. I just got soaked. The rain plastered my hair to my scalp and ran down the neck of my short jacket. It virtually blinded me to the little my torch beam illuminated. Branches like outstretched limbs of desperate people grabbed and clung to us as we pushed our way deeper into the wooded night. We had to progress in single file. We played our torches around us. The mud under our feet was slippery and dotted with puddles. I tried to see if I could make out recent footprints but I couldn’t swear to anything. It was no surprise and certainly no teddy bears’ picnic.
We hadn’t been searching for ten minutes before I took hold of Jo’s sleeve. She turned to face me and I told her what a waste of time I thought it all was. We weren’t going to see anything that was more than a foot either side of the path.