CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Are you sure you want another murder on your conscience?” demanded
Horton.
Cotter took his time before replying, “Liam is a very troubled young
man. It won’t be murder, not really. I prefer to think of it as putting him out
of his misery, rather as you’d put down any animal that’s hurt and beyond help.
Besides…” He glanced quizzically from Liam’s body sprawled on the bed to his
lover’s severe expression, “…there’s your conscience too,” he pointed out.
Horton merely shrugged. “Shall we do it the same as before?”
Horton shrugged again. “Why change a winning formula? What’s another
‘accident’ between friends,” he added without a trace of sarcasm. Cotter wished
he could be as laid back about things as Daz. Anticipation was like an ice pack
resting on his groin.
Between them, the two men part carried, part dragged the unconscious
Liam to his car although not before Horton has thought to empty the remains of
a whiskey bottle over the young man’s slumped head and deposited it on the
front seat along with its slack, uncooperative passenger. “I’ll drive,” grunted
Horton. Cotter did not argue but clambered into the rear seat.
Not until the car slid to a halt within a few hundred yards of the
Devil’s Elbow did Cotter start to feel excited. Adrenalin flowing fast, an
erection pushing hard against his fly, he scrambled out of the car and watched
Horton heave Liam Brady into the driving seat.
Liam stirred. “What the...?” he started to say then lapsed into
unconsciousness again. Both men heaved a sigh of relief.
“Forget the bloody safety belt,” Cotter urged in a harsh whisper,
“Let’s just get on with it...”
Horton released the handbrake, slammed the door
shut and let the car roll down the slope, gathering pace as it approached the
bed and careering all over the road. Amazingly, it had turned the corner and
disappeared from view before they heard the explosion. Horton remained where he
was but Cotter ran to the bend and peered over the cliff. Smoke and flames
billowed from the wreckage below. He imagined the slim, young body being burned
to a crisp, ejaculated in his pants then
had to rush and relieve himself into a nearby bush. Breathless, heart and pulse racing madly, he
rejoined Horton and they began the slow, thoughtful trek back to the cottage.
A watery moon appeared from behind a cloud to keep company with a
scattering of stars and bring small comfort to Liam Brady where he lay,
shivering, in a clump of bushes not far from where he had watched, appalled, as
Sarah Manners had produced a penis from her trousers and urinated. Confused and bilious, he let his mind grapple
with the implications for several minutes before giving up the struggle.
On coming to, his first thought was “Where the hell am I?” His
second was, “How did I get here?” He got to his feet and tried to remember. His
head was throbbing. No memory came, nothing at all. “Jesus, who am I?” he asked
of the old man in the moon who merely tossed a playful wink. Frantically, he
searched his jeans pockets. They yielded nothing except some loose change.
“Shit,” he yelled at a gloomy, shifting sky already starting to spin.
When he came to the second time, it was to discover securely
fastened into the front seat of a moving vehicle.
“Are you okay mate? Can I drop you off somewhere? Need a hospital,
do you? What happened? Nearly ran you
over, I did. It’s your lucky day mate. Well, maybe not so lucky by the look of
you...” a cheery voice sounded distant and hollow in Liam Brady’s ears. “Yates
is the name, Craig Yates. And you are?” glancing at Liam, a broad smile on the
pleasant, full bearded face.
Liam opened his mouth to speak, shut it again and began to panic. It
was daybreak and a grey dawn permitted just enough light to see by. A van
overtook them with the logo HARRY SMITH’S REMOVALS emblazoned in garish
capitals on the side. “Smith,” mumbled Liam, “Harry Smith.”
“Suit yourself,” said Yates who was not the sort to pry. “So where do you want me to drop you off? I’m
heading for Dover.”
“Can you take me all the way?”
“Sure, no problem, if that’s what you want. Do you want to call
anyone? You’re welcome to use my mobile.”
“No,” said Liam slowly. His eyes started to get heavy again and he
closed them, glad to sink into an anonymous blackness that made no demands on
him but let him snuggle comfortably in its folds, like a child finally settling
down to sleep, exhausted.
At a service station near Canterbury they stopped for a bite to eat
in a burger bar. Liam found that he had enough money for a cup of tea and a
cheeseburger. Both went down well. He left Craig Yates to go to the toilet but
became disoriented, lost both his way and all track of time. By the time he
found his way back to the table, the truck driver had gone. Nor was there any
sign of the truck in the car park. He thought about hitching a ride but thought
better of it. Instead, he asked a waitress for directions and walked the mile
or so along country roads into Canterbury. It was not long before the ancient
cathedral loomed, magnificent, out of a thin morning mist to act as a guide.
He spent most of the morning in another cafe, making two
cups of tea last hours. All the time, he kept racking his brains to remember.
“This is stupid. I have to remember. I have to remember.”
He lost track of time but judged it to be early afternoon and went
to sit in a park. A sign told him it was called the Dane John Gardens. He lay
on the grass, enjoyed a warm caress of sunshine on his face and did not notice
the woman for some time. She was sitting on a bench nearby. There was nothing
out of the ordinary about her. She was in her mid to late thirties, attractive
but in a nondescript kind of way. Her red hair had a bronze glow to it that
seemed about to burst into flames where the sun kept catching it through the
leaves of a tree under which she sat.
She glanced his way several times. He grinned and gave a small wave. It
seemed a natural enough thing to do. She
waved back and looked away again. Then she got up and came over, sitting beside
him without a trace of awkwardness.
The woman said her name was Sadie Chapman and seemed okay. He felt
he could trust her. She seemed willing
to trust him too, which spoke volumes for her character (well, didn’t it?)
since all she had to go on was a name taken from a removal van?
“Can’t you remember anything?” He shook his head. “Then you should
see a doctor.” He shook his head again. “So what am I going to do with you?” He
shrugged and smiled. “You have a lovely smile, Harry Smith,” she told him, eyes
twinkling, and he knew at once that everything was going to be alright…for now,
at least. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re mad either. Well, maybe
slightly,” she added with a big smile of her own, “But aren’t we all, just a
bit?”
They both laughed.
...................................
News of the apparent demise of Liam Brady
spread quickly and earned several paragraphs in late edition of the mid-week
local rag. Cotter’s main concern was
that no body was found. “Suppose he was flung clear? He could have swum to God
only knows where for all we know...”
“Stop worrying. You always worry too much.
He’d have been in no state to think, let alone swim,” retorted Horton
cheerfully. “I should have belted him up good ‘n’ proper but we can’t help that
now. He might turn up and he might not. Either way, he’s not going to be
telling anyone what happened that’s for sure. Mind you, I dare say it would be
nice for his mum if she had a body to bury or whatever...” he mused absently.
“What does it matter once you’re dead? I
don’t know why people make such a fuss,” said Cotter. I hope you won’t make a
fuss when I go.”
“Any excuse for getting pissed is better
than none,” returned Horton with a broad wink. There was a loud knocking on the
front door. “Remind me to get that bloody doorbell fixed,” he grumbled and
gestured rudely for Cotter to answer it.
Two police constables stood on the doorstep,
a man and a woman. “We’re making enquiries about the accident up at the Elbow.
You’ve probably read about it.” Cotter
ushered them inside, fussing. He had
discovered that it was good for a woman to fuss sometimes. It had proved a
useful distraction on more than one occasion. “Do come and sit down. Yes, we
read all about it. A dreadful thing and such a young man, too, his whole life
ahead of him. We knew him quite well, you know. That’s a nasty bend and no
mistake. I’m not surprised people get killed.”
“Only when they’re driving too fast,” said
the policewoman dryly. “You knew him quite well, you say?”
“We certainly did. He stayed here sometimes.
I met his dear mother once, a charming woman!” Cotter enthused.
“Yes. She identified the car…or, rather, what
was left of it. It’s been rough on her. It’s always tough when there’s no
body,” the young constable added, conveying an impression that he felt obliged
to say something, no matter what.
“We understand Liam Brady called here the
night of the accident,” the policewoman stated flatly. It was not a question.
“That’s right,” said Cotter adopting a brisk
Sarah Manners tone of voice. “He stayed an hour or so then left. We offered to
put him up of course, we always did. It’s such a long drive back to London and
it was already quite late. We should have insisted, shouldn’t we Daz?” Horton inclined his head and grunted. “It is such
a tragedy. One never thinks accidents will strike so close to home, does one?”
“One would be very mistaken,” said the
policewoman grimly then, “What was his state of mind when he left? Was he
happy, agitated? Had he been drinking?”
She saw the look that passed between the librarian and her partner. It
spoke volumes and confirmed what they already knew. “He had been drinking
then?”
“Not a lot,” said Cotter, trying to sound
defensive, “I wouldn’t have thought he was over the limit.”
“People never do,” said the policewoman. “Is
there anything else you can tell us that might throw any light on what
happened?” Both Sarah Manners and her partner shook their heads. An odd couple,
she thought although she couldn’t have said why. “Well, thanks for your help.
You may be asked to attend the inquest but probably not.”
“Are they likely to find the body?” Cotter
asked tentatively.
“Your guess is as good as mine. You’ll be
well aware that the tides hereabouts have minds of their own. It seems he
wasn’t wearing a seat belt and went through the windscreen. He might be washed
up. Then again, he might not.” was the young policeman’s second and final
contribution to the sitting room scene before Cotter showed both officers to the
door.
“Thank you Miss Manners,” said the
policewoman. Cotter smiled. Even after all this time, it titillated him no end
to be called Miss Manners. Cotter stood
at the door until they reached their car and the woman began unlocking the door
on the driver’s side. He ducked inside and shut the door, leaned against it to
catch his breath then hurried back to the sitting room where Daz was already on
his feet holding out a large brandy.
“Can there be a funeral if there’s no body?”
Cotter was curious to know.
..................................
“It can’t be right, having a funeral without
a body,” Carol Brady kept thinking throughout the memorial service for Liam Brady at
St Mark’s Church on the Chiswick High Road. But her mother had insisted. “He
deserves a send-off just like anyone else,” she declared and that was an end to
it. No room left for discussion, never mind protest. Carol had caved in quickly
enough. She was in no mood for causing yet another rift in the family. Those
family members who were still on speaking terms attended the service, the rest
called with excuses that varied from the mundane to the absurd, from unlikely
tales to preposterous lies. Carol managed a sad smile just for thinking about
it. Her mother, though, had not been amused.
The wake was a gloomy, short-lived affair. A
decent crowd had gathered although many people were too embarrassed to come
back to the flat. One mourner, Carol reflected bitterly, had aptly summed up
the whole fiasco upon confiding loudly to a companion in the churchyard, “How
can we enjoy a good wake when for all we know the fishes are having him for
dinner?”
To make matters worse, Julie’s aunt Ruth
kept saying how sorry she was and how she blamed herself for asking Liam to go
to Monk’s Tallow in the first place. The
woman was a real pain. But for Julie’s sake, Carol would have told her, “Yes,
it is your bloody fault. So, are you happy now? Good. Now, sod off and leave me
in peace!” She said nothing of the kind, of course, but assured Ruth Temple no
one was to blame, that it was just one of those things life likes to throw in
your face when you least expect it. “Cobblers!” she muttered under her breath
as she watched the woman amble away sniffing gratefully into a tissue.
“A sad business”, murmured a gruff voice
behind her. Carol turned to find a bald, hawk nosed man peering over one
shoulder at her as he poured himself a large brandy. “Daz Horton,” he
introduced himself. “I’m...”
“I know who you are,” said Carol coldly,
“You’re with Sarah Manners. But not today, I see.”
“She wanted to come and pay her respects but
she has the flu.”
“Tell her to wrap up warm. We don’t want
dear Sarah catching her death now, do we?”
“She’s very upset.”
Carol hesitated. “Tell me, Mr Horton, were
Sarah Manners and my son having an affair?”
Horton’s guffaw filled the whole room and
everyone paused in whatever they were doing to look. Somewhat taken aback by
this unexpected reaction, Carol was, for once, relieved when her mother
appeared at her elbow and proceeded to steer her towards a distant cousin whom
neither had never liked. Everyone resumed whatever it was they had been doing
before the interruption while Horton rather enjoyed being at the centre of a
growing buzz of conversation and curious glances.
“You’re Sarah’s partner?” Ruth Temple asked
warily, having made her way across the room to speak to him shortly after the
man’s appalling outburst. This was hardly an occasion for levity, after all.
“That would be Sarah Manners, I believe? I think she may be an old friend. We
shared a flat together many years ago. I’m Ruth Temple, by the way.” The pair
shook hands. “Of course, it may not be the same person. Another friend of ours
– Sarah’s and mine, that is – came to see you about a year ago. Perhaps you
remember him? His name was James
Morrissey. Sadly he died in similar circumstances to poor Liam. At the end of
the day, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” Horton cautiously agreed.
“I’m so pleased to meet you Miss Temple.”
“A friend of mine met up with Sarah in
Brighton some time ago and passed on her telephone number but she must have
taken it down wrong. Perhaps I can give you mine and Sarah can call me
sometime? If it turns out to be the same person, it would be wonderful to hear
from her after all these years. Are you on the Internet by any chance?” Horton nodded.
“Excellent. I’ll give you my e-mail address too.” She had taken a pen and paper
from her bag and was already writing in a slow, impressively legible hand. “Did
you ever get to meet James Morrissey yourself?” she asked without looking up.
“No. But the name rings a bell. I’m sure
Sarah would have mentioned it if, as you say, he looked her up. She doesn’t
tell me everything of course,” he told her, anxious to cover his back, “so I’m
afraid I can’t tell you if she’s the person you both appear to be looking for.
But, who knows? Like you said, it’s a small world.”
“Not that small though,” Ruth Temple
reflected with increasing agitation but judged it best to say nothing. Instead,
she merely handed Horton a piece of paper, smiling pleasantly. He took and pocketed
it without offering to reciprocate. Realizing this, she beat a dignified
retreat. “Nice to have met you, Mr Horton, I do hope Sarah will get in
touch.” Ruth moved away towards a corner
where her niece, Julie, was chatting with a fat woman wearing a ridiculous wig.
She was feeling quite ill and would ask her niece to drive her home. Julie, she
knew, would not mind in the least. Neither of them had been looking forward to
the occasion.
A pensive Horton watched the two women
leave. “Thank heavens for the flu!” he mused with feeling. They had discussed whether either or both
should attend and decided to play safe. It hadn’t entered their heads that Ruth
Temple might turn up. Cotter had changed his mind several times. In the end, a
cold had developed into flu so the decision was made for them.
“It will look odd if we don’t go,” Cotter
had insisted.
Horton had to concede that his long-time
companion and lover had a point. Now,
though, he wished they had both made their excuses and stayed away. He could hardly
risk giving the Temple woman a false telephone number for a second time even
though his instincts warned him of more trouble ahead. He must take great care how he broached the
matter to Ralph, who would panic, of course.
Dear Ralph always went into a paddy at the least upset. It was one of
many ways in which they were about as alike as chalk from cheese. He, Daz, was
inclined to take a more philosophical approach to just about everything. If a
thing had to be done, it had to be done and so be it. Ralph, on the other hand, would always get
carried away. Instant panic would gradually subside to be replaced by a
calculating passion to see events through to whatever end he, personally,
envisaged for them.
Horton sighed, caught Carol Brady’s eye and
nodded a curt goodbye. Making his way to the door, he was aware of people
watching and muttering. “Some people just don’t know how to behave,” he heard
someone say then “Some people have no sense of decency,” another voice piped
up. If only they knew the half of it, he thought grimly, pushing past a small
group in the doorway reluctant to move aside. Once outside, he took several a
long, welcome gulps of fresh air before heading for the car park.
He brooded about Ruth Temple all the way
home. There wasn’t the least shadow of a doubt in his mind that the woman could,
and probably would, given half a chance, make life difficult for them. Nor did
he doubt that Ralph would insist they get rid of her. Naturally, it would be down to himself to
deliver. Horton sighed. Wasn’t it always?
Not that death presented a problem for him, it didn’t. He only wished
Ralph, too, would learn to be more detached from it. True, he played Sarah
Manners to perfection. Even so, rarely a night passed when poor Ralph did not
wake up in a cold sweat from this nightmare or that. Invariably, one or other
of their victims would be playing on his mind.
“What’s the point of brooding over dead
bodies?” Daz wondered aloud. Besides, hadn’t they all been disposed of neatly
and effectively? He sighed again but
this time it became a chuckle and the grim expression broke into a smile. If
he, Daz, didn’t literally knock some sense into him from time to time, he
suspected dear Ralph would crack.
Horton turned off the motorway and headed
for Monk’s Tallow. Yes, he told a kaleidoscope of shadows rushing up at him and
splashing the windscreen, it was high time Ralph learned to be more detached
about murder.
To be continued
