Copyright Ó 2006 by John Collins. All rights reserved.
to Freda
for all the good times
My thanks for their help to the management and the staff of Harpers
(which I have called the Marina Restaurant to avoid confusion),
the Marina office, the Royal Lymington Yacht Club,
the Hampshire Police Force, the Encarnacion and Montepiedro hotels,
the Real Club de Golf at Campoamor and the Wicklow Abbey.
My apologies to them for telling a tale in which some of the details of their arrangements are not quite as they were in 2002 (the year in which this novel is set) and for staffing some of them with one or two people whom they would never even consider employing!
My gratitude also to the many friends who advised and helped me, especially
to John Gordon for seasoning my morning coffee with blood and gore,
to fellow novelist Elizabeth Monk for her encouragement and collaboration,
to Margaret Leek, whose wise advice ensured that you know who is who,
and to Justine Maisey, who gave life to the heart of this story.
Somewhere, a long way off, a bell was ringing insistently. He mustn’t be late for class, must be a good example to his staff, he’s always telling the children not to run in the corridors ..... at last he reached out to stop the incessant reverberation, but missed, knocking the alarm clock over and forcing him to sit upright so he could see where it was in order finally to bring its shrill resonance to an abrupt halt. He pushed it, squeezed it and thumped it, but it would not stop. Suddenly and without conscious reflection, he found himself plunging across the room and into the lounge to snatch the telephone from its rest.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry, thank goodness you’re up. Can you come over?’
‘Good Heavens, Phil, what time is it?’
‘The police are here.’
‘I’ll be with you right away.’
Harold squinted at the clock. Did it really say five past six? What were the police doing there at this time? He struggled into his trousers and shoes, looked in vain for an ironed shirt, then grabbed one which seemed less crumpled than the rest. After that it was a fairly straight run to the car with one slight detour when he realised, seconds before slamming the front door, that he would need his keys.
‘You needn’t have hurried yourself, sir,’ the inspector greeted him, ‘we’ll be here for a while yet.’
Harold could see that. He could also see, still in their dressing gowns, Lesley weeping but Phil standing apart from her and looking absolutely furious. The meticulous search seemed to be concentrated on the narrow spaces underneath and behind the furniture, but the whole cutlery drawer had been emptied onto the kitchen table, and was being divided into two. As Harold watched, the pile without any knives in it was picked up and pushed back into the drawer.
‘If it’s the murder weapon you’re looking for,’ shouted Phil, ‘what are you doing here? I would hardly have brought it home with me, would I? It’s probably been thrown into those bushes by the path.’
Everyone stopped what he was doing. There was a moment of silent disbelief, broken by Harold.
‘Look, Phil, if you want me to help you, please say nothing whatever. The things you say might get used against you later.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Harry. There’s a thing called justice in this country. They’ve got no right to search the houses of innocent people.’
‘If you don’t shut up, Phil, I’m going home, and I shan’t come back.’
Eventually it was all over. He stood there, his arm round the sobbing Lesley, who would accept
no comfort from her husband. As he held
her to him, he could feel her whole body shuddering with the horror of this
unjustifiable intrusion. When the
search went into the bedroom, she had almost screamed as the rugged policeman’s
gloved hands carefully felt through each drawer in her bedside chest, then as
he left the room she had tipped all its contents into the linen basket.
‘Couldn’t you have brought a woman with you to do that,’ muttered Harold.
‘Sorry, sir. We normally do, but this morning nobody was available.’
After they had all gone, Harold looked at her tear-stained face. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked.
She nodded, glanced across to where Phil stood awkwardly, then looked appealingly at Harold.
He could not believe it. After such a traumatic start to the day, surely this was one time when Lesley would want her husband to stay with her. He scrutinised her anxiously. ‘You sure you’ll be alright on your own?’ he asked.
She nodded her relief, and began to feed the clean, carefully ironed underwear into the washing machine. They moved the furniture back in place, and left reluctantly.
‘Will she be OK?’ asked Harold, as Phil and he got into the car for the short journey back to his house.
‘Her sister lives in Highfield. She’ll come over as soon as the kids have gone to school. It’s not just this business that’s upset her.’
‘She’ll be fine with her sister, will she?’
‘They’ve taken all our knives. She won’t have anything to cut her food with.’
‘As long as that’s all they took.’
‘No, they took her passport. First thing they took, when they arrived. Before you came. Why did they take her passport?’
Maybe they’ve made a new crime, Harold thought angrily, being the wife of the principal witness in a murder case.
On arrival home, Harold’s first thought was of breakfast, but once that was safely under way he attempted gingerly to allay his curiosity about the possible cause of the strange behaviour of the police that morning. ‘So how did you happen to be down there yesterday when it happened?’ he asked.
‘I was jogging. I jog every day. It keeps me fit.’
‘You too can have a body like mine, eh?’ laughed Harold, unable to understand why some people deliberately chose to be ridiculously thin, when it took so little effort to acquire a comfortable, substantial figure like his.
Having glanced disdainfully at the sizzling contents of Harold’s frying pan, Phil was examining a jar of yeast extract that he had unearthed from the far reaches of the corner cupboard. ‘Pack it in, Harry. This is not an appropriate moment for frivolity. You asked me what was in my statement, so I’m telling you.’
‘Sorry I interrupted, Phil. Carry on.’ Harold was trying to remember how long ago the jar had been purchased. ‘So your statement began with your doing your … er … jogging?’ He pronounced the final ‘g’ as in ‘mug’.
Phil looked at him suspiciously. ‘No, I had to start by telling them who was who, and what the four of us were doing at my place yesterday. Do you know, the policeman who took my statement had not even realised that Eileen was Andy’s wife … well, widow, now, isn’t she. So I had to explain to him that my wife and Eileen are friends, and so that’s why Lesley had invited her and Andy to lunch with us. Then I just described what actually happened in the afternoon.’
Harold watched, fascinated, as Phil spread the glutinous brownish-black substance on a slice of dry toast. ‘But there’s nothing in what you did which could have caused them to behave like that this morning. So it must have been something you said in your statement.’
‘I don’t think so. Right from the start, the policemen who dealt with me treated me as if I was the murderer. It was only after I’d finished my statement, and they’d had it in with them for about ten minutes, that the constable who was with me at the time took a phone call, and I heard him say “Release him?” in a surprised voice.’
Harold was only partly attentive, wondering whether yeast extract fermented when it was left unopened for a long period. ‘But they did?’ he asked.
‘Of course they did,’ Phil snapped. ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I?’
Harold suddenly realised that he would have to stop fantasising about the potentially intoxicating effect of Phil’s choice of breakfast, and concentrate on consoling him. ‘Look, Phil, what happened to you yesterday was a terrible experience. It’s unimaginable. You found your friend seriously injured, you called an ambulance at once, but he died on the way to hospital. Then the police got you to make a statement. That’s what they normally do. Of course you’re upset. It’s a horrible thing to have happened.’
‘I need your advice, Harry. You must have been involved in situations where pupils of yours were suspected of things they didn’t do.’
‘More often in situations where the little horrors were found to have done things that nobody had suspected them of being capable of doing. But of course I’ll help if I can. Tell me exactly what happened. Right from the beginning.’
Phil explained that he always attempted to make the best use of his short visits to England by trying to arrange that he and Lesley spent as much time as possible alone together. This time there was one issue he was particularly anxious to discuss with her. For, as he told Harold, he had become tired of the number of occasions that Andy Turnham’s name came up in their phone conversations. Even though he had to admit that he had appreciated Andy helping Lesley occasionally when Phil had been abroad, the fellow’s familiar manner with her had irritated him. However, when on Sunday he plucked up the courage to introduce the subject, she told him that she had already invited Andy and Eileen to come over to Lymington to spend the following day with them. She had not checked with Phil before doing so, probably because she knew that he would have protested strongly. He, however, having known nothing about this arrangement, had already booked a meeting with his accountant for that afternoon.. ‘Had she asked me first,’ Phil explained as he crunched his toast, ‘I might have felt obliged to cancel or postpone the appointment, but as she didn’t check with me before inviting them, I saw no reason to put my man off.’
Now with hindsight, thought Harold, he may be deeply regretting that decision. Then, as Phil related the full story as he had told it in his statement, Harold began to realise that his friend might really be in very serious trouble.
As soon as the four of them had finished their lunch together, Phil explained, Andy announced that he was going down to the Haven to play with, as Phil put it, the new Satnav which he had just had installed on his yacht. Phil made his way to the accountant’s office as he had arranged, but when his business there was finished he came back to find that Andy had not yet returned, and the ladies were involved in discussion about matters which did not interest him. So seeing that he could still fit his exercise run in before tea, he quickly slipped his tracksuit on, ignored Lesley’s muted protest, and made off towards the Salterns. He had some anxiety during the first part of his run that Lesley might ring him on some pretence and ask him to come back, but she did not disturb him. It was a brisk day, and there was a strong breeze, so that as he ran on the path along the edge of the old saltpans, he was pleased with himself for having used the afternoon well, despite the feeling that there might be some irritation on Lesley’s part after their guests left that evening. When he reached the Haven he glanced along the pontoons, but there was no sign of Andy. One loaded trolley was being pushed by two excited children in brightly coloured anoraks followed by a pair of similarly dressed adults, but among the packed ranks of boats he could see few other signs of human movement. Phil did not know which was Andy’s berth, and he was content to use this as an excuse for not making more contact with him than was necessary.
Phil first saw the back of the figure lying on a bench as he came round the corner of the Town Swimming Baths. It looked so like one of the homeless that he always walked past with a guilty feeling on his occasional visits to London, that the first question in his mind was only Why here, in the cold wind blowing off the Solent? Surely the fellow could have found somewhere a little more sheltered? It was not until he was quite close to the bench that he saw the sole of the man’s shoe sticking out from under his thigh, and realised that something might be very wrong.
Then he was struck by a horrifying thought. Hadn’t Andy been wearing an anorak just like that when he arrived at the house that morning?
He hurried over to the figure, still unsure enough to hesitate before leaning across, then saw Andy’s grey face with the eyes closed, and blood dripping from the bench on to the path beneath … horrible, all that blood … and lying like that … Phil’s first thought was for the leg twisted so awkwardly beneath the body, but when he managed to release it, the other foot slipped to the ground in front of the seat, and Andy’s body rolled forward with it.
‘That was an awful moment, Harry. I got my arms under his back alright, and then his head fell off the bench. It was hanging so loosely I thought he must have broken his neck. Anyway, I pushed him and slid him and eventually I got him lying on his back on the seat. Then I remembered you’re not supposed to move them, are you, but just to make them comfortable where they are, keep them warm, and ring for help. But I was in such a panic I pulled my tracksuit top over my head, intending to lay it over him, and forgot my mobile was in the pocket … stupid thing to do … of course, it was flung out and smashed into the stone wall along the side of the path, and for a terrible moment I thought I’d broken it. But it seemed to be alright, because when I dialled 999 I got through straight away. Then she asked me a lot of silly questions. At first I couldn’t make her understand where I was. Then they wasted time taking down all my details. And then I couldn’t tell her whether he was breathing or not, and I couldn’t feel any pulse. She was talking to as if I was a child, trying to calm me down. Then suddenly … it was like one of those horror movies … Andy’s arm moved and he tried to grab my wrist.’
It was clear that Andy was straining to speak, and was pulling at Phil’s arm to try and make him understand. He was struggling to get words out, his brain fighting to say something desperately important. Phil put his ear down close to Andy’s mouth in an attempt to hear what he was trying to say, but Andy seemed almost unable to communicate. It took what seemed like ages before he could utter a word.
‘And then all he said was “Get a policeman”?’
‘That’s the only bit I heard. He was trying to say something else, but I couldn’t make it out. It was awful. He was gurgling and spraying blood everywhere as he breathed. Then suddenly he stopped, and seemed to lose consciousness again. And by this time the police had arrived, and they asked if I’d done the resuscitation procedure. I never even thought of doing that. I’m not even sure that I can remember how to do it.
‘He was breathing, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he didn’t need resuscitating. You might have killed him.’
‘I just didn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. Anyway I could hear the ambulance by this time, and the paramedics rushed him off on a stretcher.’
‘Look, Phil, what you did was right. It’s very natural to go over it in your mind and worry about whether you could have done something better than you did. But there’s only so much you can do to stop someone dying, and from what you’ve told me I reckon you did all the right things.’ He leaned across, put his hand on Phil’s arm and gripped it firmly. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing else you could have done.’
‘Thanks, Harry. I just hope you’re right.’
‘The police and ambulance arrived pretty quickly, then?’
‘It didn’t seem like that to me at the time. But yes, I suppose you’re right. Maybe the police were passing close by when they got the call. I don’t know why the ambulance arrived so soon. Perhaps they were bringing someone home from hospital.’
‘Could be. Anyway, it’s not important. Is that where your statement ended?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you told them everything you just told me?’
‘Everything that happened, yes.’
‘But did you tell them what you tried to do, and where you failed, and how you felt about it and why you did what you did, like you’ve just told me?’
‘Of course not. You’re my friend. There was this guy taking everything down in longhand. He covered about six pages without all that.’
‘So you don’t think it would have been better to have told him everything, and let him choose what he wrote down?’
‘I couldn’t have talked to him the way I just talked to you. I’ve never met the guy before.’
There seemed no point in further discussing the issue, so Harold, concerned that Phil should have the opportunity to talk about everything that had distressed him, moved on. ‘So then they took you back home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have to tell Eileen what happened?’
‘I dreaded that. She and Andy always seemed so close. But no, she’d gone by that time. There was a WPC in the house with Lesley, and she was marvellous. It seems that she had arranged transport for Eileen to the hospital, and had phoned her brother, so he would meet her there. And then she stayed with Lesley after Eileen left, and didn’t go immediately even after I arrived.’
‘Can you remember what you and Lesley said to each other while she was still there?’
‘Come off it, Harry, she wasn’t taking notes.’
‘Be patient with me, Phil, I’m still trying to work out why they searched your house this morning. What did you say to each other?’
‘I couldn’t think of anything to say. By then they’d told us that Andy had, well, passed away before they reached the hospital, so there really wasn’t any point in saying anything.’
‘Did Lesley say anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘So you neither said anything?’
‘Well, I thought I ought to hug her, or something. But she stepped back.’
‘The policewoman saw that?’
‘Yes, but then I realised that it was the wrong thing to do, because I was still wearing the same T-shirt and tracksuit trousers, so I went and changed. Then the WPC turned a clean bin liner inside out so she could take my things away without touching them with her hands. Why would she do that? They knew there must be some of Andy’s blood on them.’
By now Harold was very concerned, not only about the implications of what he had been told, but also at the rising sense of panic in Phil’s voice. The atmosphere needed lightening. ‘Don’t worry about it, Phil. Just think how many forensic scientists are being saved from going on the dole because of the work you’re giving them.’
‘Very funny, I’m sure.’
‘What did the WPC do after that?’
‘She went. After she’d gone, I tried again to give Lesley a hug, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s been like that ever since.’
The phone rang. Harold picked it up. He listened, then paused for a moment, careful not to show his anxiety. ‘It’s for you. The police.’
Phil was stunned. ‘How do they know I’m here?’ he asked, taking the receiver.
‘They can smell the Marmite,’ suggested Harold, who was looking over Phil’s shoulder through the open kitchen door into the lounge. The early morning sun’s reflection of a car window crept slowly along the wallpaper and came to a halt. So they’d been out there watching all along. Then suddenly it all fell into place, and he felt a cold shiver go through him as he realised. For that’s why they’d only taken the one passport, and that’s why they had waited all this time. They’d expected him to go for the airport, hadn’t they.
Phil was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘To question me? Now? But I’ve already given you a statement.’ He looked at Harold desperately.
The chiming of the front door bell echoed through the house.
‘You’ll want a lawyer with you.’
‘I don’t need a lawyer, Harry. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘These fellows know what they’re doing, Phil. They’re capable of trapping you into saying something which could be used against you later. A lawyer would advise you how to answer.’
‘I don’t have a lawyer. I don’t want a complete stranger sitting next to me who doesn’t know anything about me. I want you sitting there, Harry.’
‘You knew, of course, that your wife and Mr Turnham were, er, good friends, didn’t you, sir.’
‘Just what are you implying?’ snapped Phil, sharply.
Harold was already beginning to regret having agreed to sit with Phil at this interview. The trouble was that the interrogation was proceeding at a normal conversational pace, too fast for Harold to be able to grasp the implications of each question and then formulate sound advice before Phil answered. So he sat in silence most of the time, feeling that Phil was being cleverly manoeuvred by the experienced officer facing them, but not feeling able to slow down the proceedings to give himself time to think.
‘You haven’t answered my question, sir.’
Harold gently placed restraining fingers on his friend’s forearm. The response was an angry silence.
‘Are you refusing, sir, to answer my question?’
‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t answer him, Phil.’
Phil drew in his breath sharply. ‘Mr and Mrs Turnham were friends of ours. We visited them at their home in Romsey a couple of months ago, and stayed for about an hour. Is that what you want to know?’
Harold could stand it no longer.
‘Look, could you turn that thing off, so Mr Gatesby and I can talk for a minute about the way we’re conducting ourselves?’
To his surprise, there was immediate compliance, but the inspector clearly had not expected that Harold’s first comment would be directed at him. ‘I do agree that Mr Gatesby was not wise to answer you in the way that he did the first time, but I would like to know why your question was not more specific. It seemed to me that you phrased it in a way which actually seemed calculated to ensure that you didn’t get a straight answer. Perhaps I should have interrupted and made this criticism of your question while the tape was running?’
The policeman looked at him with surprise, but did not reply. Harold turned to Phil.
‘Look, Phil, if you want this suspicion of you to be cleared quickly, the best thing to do is to answer any factual question you are asked, even if you don’t think it’s relevant.’
‘OK, Harry, I can see you’re right. But what’s my private life got to do with the police?’
‘Answer their questions, Phil.’
After the tape had been turned on again, the questioning continued, but it was clear that Harold’s point had been taken.
‘I believe you spend a good deal of time abroad, sir. How often have you been back to England in the last six months?’
Phil thought for a moment or two, counting on his fingers. ‘Four times.’
‘And how long were you here on each of those occasions?’
‘Once it was only a couple of days. The other times on average about a week.’
‘I see, sir.’
The inspector was about to ask another question, but glanced at Harold’s face and visibly changed his mind. Class under control, thought Harold, and enjoyed the moment. But his relief was short-lived.
‘How many times during those six months did Mr Turnham visit your wife when you were not in this country?’
‘What the hell has this got to do with Andy’s murder?’
‘Phil, for goodness sake.’
‘Sorry, Harry. Oh, OK, I know you’re right. I’ll answer your questions, officer. As far as I know Turnham called on her twice. Once when the washing machine broke down, and the other time was a broken clothes line. Oh, and there may have been a couple of other quick visits. How would I know? I wasn’t there, for pity’s sake.’
‘So he came over from Romsey just to mend a broken clothes line.’
‘It wasn’t just that. She was very upset. The clothes fell on the ground and had to be washed again. He actually had the cheek to tell me off for leaving her on her own so much, but I phoned almost every day, dammit.’
‘Why was Mr Turnham carrying so much money on the day that he was murdered, Mr Gatesby?’
‘I didn’t know he was.’
‘I see. Well, that’s all that I need to ask you at the moment, sir. Now I imagine that a well-travelled gentleman like you would normally be carrying his passport.’
‘Yes.’
‘Could I have it, please.’
Phil took the passport from his wallet, and opened it at the photo page. The inspector took it, closed it without looking at it, and handed it to his assistant.
‘What do you want that for?’
‘You won’t be needing it for a while, now, will you, sir. You won’t be leaving the country until the enquiries are finished.’
‘You’ll be telling me next I’m under arrest.’
‘No, sir, you’re not under arrest. If we do arrest you, we’ll make sure you know that that’s what we’re doing.’
They went out to the car in silence. Once they were seated inside, Harold exploded. ‘I should have refused to sit by you. You needed somebody there who knew what he was about.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Phil. ‘These legal experts, they don’t mind how they get their verdicts. I wanted someone with me I can trust. I don’t want to clear my name on a technicality.’
It’s fine
to feel that now, thought Harold, but those feelings won’t be so strong after a
few weeks behind bars. It was obvious,
however, that Phil was still very determined on the course of action which he
had chosen, and as he had neither been arrested nor charged, there was nothing
to be done at this stage but support him as fully as possible.
18 months earlier
In
the last few days of Dorrie’s life, as Harold had sat there at her bedside hour
after hour, he had begun to accept that her death would be a merciful
release. Somehow it didn’t seem right
to wish her painful life away, but he could not continue to pray for her to
stay alive when she was suffering so.
So as he held her feeble fingers in his, changing hands and leaning this way or that to rest his forearm, he had already started to think about life without her. You had to keep busy, he knew, but to do that you had to be enthusiastic about whatever it was you were doing. He’d found it difficult to believe that he would ever feel enthusiasm again. Looking down at the figure that was only a sad shadow of the girl he had loved so passionately, of the companion whose pleasures and joys he had shared for so many ears, he began to realise how strongly their togetherness had motivated all his activity. Grimly he realised how little he would want to do on his own.
If self-motivation was not the answer, he would have to commit to something, and either work for someone else, or seek employment which would set him a task whilst giving him the freedom to decide how to achieve it. It had been many years since he had not been his own boss, and he doubted he would rest easily under someone else’s rule. So he would look for a post in which he would have some autonomy. But what talents had he to offer? The niche he would most obviously fill was the one from which he had taken compassionate leave ten months earlier because of Dorrie’s increasing disability, for this had happened almost two and a half years before his sixtieth birthday. The eighteen months still left would give him time to find his feet in his personal life, then the question of what to do later could be answered unencumbered by the other current uncertainties.
‘Of course we’d be happy for you to return. We’d be delighted to have you back.’ Harold looked the Assistant Education Officer (Staffing) straight in the eye, but the bureaucrat’s impassive smile told him nothing. Why hadn’t Tinkey seen him personally instead of having him shown into the office of an overpromoted yuppie who had probably been doing the filing a few month’s earlier? Assuming that the fellow had left fulltime education by then, thought Harold gloomily. As he passed the glass door emblazoned “Area Education Officer: John Winkey, M.A.” he saw the incumbent, protected as usual by his formidable personal secretary and two glass walls, giving a very good impression of a man who was at that moment so deeply engrossed in his work that he could not possibly notice who was passing.
There was one member of the Board of Governors who wanted him back, but she was not one whose support cheered him much. How many others on the board, he wondered, would see him only as a useful way to slow down progress by keeping a firm rein on the brilliant young deputy head who had now been running the school unaided for almost three terms? And what did he think about the possibility of his old boss coming back?
Not at all, it seemed. ‘Hi, Harry,’ (in front of the children) ‘great to see you. I’ll be free in about twenty minutes’ (but you knew I was coming) ‘and we’ll have coffee in the staff room.’ (in the staff room?) ‘Wayne, take Mr Aylward and show him what changes have happened here since you were in Class Two.’
Which Wayne did. And called Harold Sir, much to his relief. And treated him with a respect that he felt hadn’t been shown him previously that day. When break came, the staff made him really welcome for a few minutes, then all suddenly disappeared, leaving him and Acting Head Roger Wood on their own.
‘Well, I’m impressed, Roger. Everything’s very active. You’ve made a lot of changes to the building. All those walls knocked down. Weren’t the governors difficult?’
Oh, I didn’t tell them. I went down to see Tinkey, and spun a lot of stuff about it being a long time since much had been done.’ (Really?) ‘He just pushed it all through, and informed the governors that it was their lucky year, and that these things were going to happen. They never knew that it was my idea. They asked me what I thought of my own plans!’
‘Oh, I see. What’s all the new cabling for?’
‘Broadband.’
‘You’re on the internet?’ (nearly said “We’re”) ‘Isn’t that expensive?’
‘It’s a question of priorities. We have limited funds, and we have to spend them in the way which best benefits the children.’ (Well, I deserved that, thought Harold.) ‘Look, Harry, that’s the end of break. Sally’s away today and I’m taking her class, so I’ll have to leave you now. But you know that whenever you want to come over, you’ll be made very welcome.’
There was nothing to do but go. He supposed that he should be grateful to Roger, for letting him down so gently whilst at the same time shutting the door so firmly in his face. Hw would he have felt, what would he have done, had he been in Roger’s position all those years ago. But he just couldn’t imagine that far back.
He tried his hand at private tuition, but lost patience with a situation in which children had been sent to do more work simply because they had not done what they had already been given, and with parents who, dissatisfied with the excellent modern educational methods being used in their children’s schools, wanted him to treat their offspring like parrots. The way to salvation had eventually been shown him, through the auspices of the Adult Education Office, in the form of classes in English as a foreign language at the Community Centre in New Street. When only six potential students appeared on the first night, the Authority had allowed him a second session the following week in the hope that more would join. In fact only four came this time, but three of those were prepared to continue the lessons privately at his house. They met each Wednesday morning at 10am. To his surprise he thrived on it, and gave classes that were lively and always based on the interests and concerns of his students.
One of the three was a Spanish
girl whom he assumed to be in her early twenties, named Eva. She was well ahead of the other two, and he
found great fulfilment in teaching her,
Fascinated by her strong Spanish features and attractive figure he found
having her in the class such pleasure that the moment of her arrival on
Wednesday morning became the highlight
of his week. She responded totally not
only to his lessons, but sometimes to a little hint or innuendo almost as if
she could read his thoughts. She was
pleasingly familiar with him when they were alone together, yet conducted
herself with complete dignity during the lessons, as though she were setting
her fellow students an example of the proper way to behave towards the
teacher. She showed absolute confidence
in him, often staying back after the others had gone, and took it for granted
that he would answer all her questions and help her with her problems, no
matter how much time it took. For his
part, he was happy for her to stay as long as she liked.
For the first time since he had started the course, Harold was regretting his decision not to set a textbook for his trio of students. Until now being unstructured had enabled them to spend their time learning words and phrases relating to whatever was likely to have been of concern to them on the day the lesson took place. They would then be able to have an interesting discussion, using the vocabulary and syntax they had just been taught. This had worked very well so far, and all three had clearly enjoyed and benefited from their weekly lessons. Today was Wednesday, and although his new guest was still with him, Harry saw no reason to cancel the class. Phil left the house a few minutes before ten, intending first to call in at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau, then to the Library to se if he could find any books of a legal or historical nature about wrongful suspicion.
Since there was no textbook to fall back on, and as it was clear that the only topic of real interest in Lymington that day would be Andy’s murder, Harold had his copy of the Daily Telegraph with him when his pupils arrived. He told them that as he might be called on as a character witness it would not be right for them to discuss anything about the case, and turned the pages of the newspaper to find a different topic of interest for that day. To his horror, he found a report of the murder on page seven under a photograph of Andy with details of his life and of the work he did for charity. He flung the paper down, opening a novel that he had been reading a few days earlier, dictated a page of it to the group. Then eventually, appalled by their total silence, he recovered himself sufficiently to remember the Bingo cards which he had saved for an emergency. At first his normally lively trio practised their knowledge of English numbers without enthusiasm. However, once “two little ducks” had been introduced and explained, the atmosphere improved greatly, and by the end of the session all three of them were responding to each number by attempting to create appropriate English phrases for the use of a fantasy Bingo caller. Typically, Eva produced “Harry’s age” for eighty-nine, though the other two watched to see that he was laughing before joining in.
She stayed behind and washed up the coffee cups, as
usual. Now that the lesson was over,
Harold’s thoughts had returned to Phil’s predicament, and he was silent. Eva, however, had found the first part of
the lesson extremely tedious, and was now in a provocative mood. ‘Say me what is in your head, Harry.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What you want me to tell you?’
‘Not say me, tell me.’
‘I do not understand what you are telling.’
‘Oh, never mind.’
He had a sudden thought and glanced up quickly, just in time to catch the look of mischief on her face. ‘You little rascal! You’re pulling my leg.’
She pursed her lips, and wiggled her shoulders at him. ‘I no touch your leg.’
You’d better not,’ he laughed, ‘my resistance is low.’
‘What are you meaning?’
Their eyes met, and he saw that she knew perfectly well what he meant. No, they could not even begin to go down this way. Her friendship was becoming valuable to him, and he must do anything to jeopardise it. He was saved by the telephone.
‘Harry, they’ve arrested me.’
‘Good gracious, Phil, where are you?’
‘Southampton
Road Police Station.’
‘Have you got a lawyer yet?’
‘I want you.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Phil. This is getting serious.’
‘Can you come up here, Harry.’
‘Give me ten minutes. Meanwhile, don’t say anything and don’t answer any questions.’ Why had Phil been arrested? Had the police found new evidence? His train of thought was interrupted by Eva.
‘Is this Phil you speak at, is the man who has going from here when I come this morning?’
‘Yes, they’ve arrested him.’
She became quite distressed. ‘Why arrested? He is good man. He help me not be kill.’
Harold’s tired brain failed to make any sense of this, and he left for the Lymington Police Station with his mind in a whirl.
‘Is Mr Gatesby under arrest?’
‘Are you his lawyer, sir?’
‘I am a friend of Mr Gatesby’s. Surely I have a right to know whether or not he’s been arrested.’
‘I don’t think, sir, that this is a matter which is best dealt with by discussing your rights. I think it is better if we inform you as a matter of courtesy.’
‘Very well. Would you be kind enough to tell me whether Mr Gatesby is under arrest?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘And have you charged him?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘May I see him?’
‘Are you Mr Aylward?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you intending to act on his behalf, sir?’
‘No, I am not. I just want to persuade him to get a lawyer.’
‘Well, if you can do that, it would help us get on with the interrogation. To charge a suspect with a very serious criminal offence when he has no professional legal advisor present could lead to embarrassment later, and so we’ve also tried to persuade him to see sense on this matter, but he won’t listen to us. You realise that allowing you to speak to him at this stage is very irregular, and I must ask you to discuss only the question of his legal representation, and nothing else.’
‘Of course.’
In the meantime, however, Phil, badly shaken by the speed and efficiency with which the arrest had occurred, had begun to realise the seriousness of his position, and was now ready to accept the advice he was being given. He made Harold promise to check on Lesley and to report back to him. He then named Mr Roy Stamp, a local solicitor specialising in criminal cases, and a call was made.
After a late lunch Harold set off to see that Lesley was well. He found her sister, whose name was Margaret, fully in charge of the situation, leaving Lesley quietly ironing a pile of underwear.
Harold took Margaret aside. ‘What did the police say when they called?’ he asked.
‘They haven’t been back,’ she replied.
So his assumption had been right. Phil and he had been followed to his house, for nobody else could have known where they were. He told her about the arrest.
‘Good,’ she said.
Harold was deeply shocked, and left, more confused than ever. Why was it that not only the police but even those closest to Phil seemed to be so certain that he was guilty that they were unable even to give him the benefit of the doubt?’
Later that day, however, he was much cheered to receive a phone call from Mr Stamp’s office asking him to go there the following afternoon at three o’clock. Good to see that he’s found a solicitor who will waste no time sorting this out, he thought, and looked forward to the meeting.
‘I understand you’re a friend of my client.’
‘Yes, I am.’
The solicitor leaned back and fixed his gaze on Harold. ‘He doesn’t have many of them, does he?’
‘He’s a thoroughly nice, genuine guy. He must have lots of friends.’
‘Well, I’ve got what might be called the official list here. It’s not very long, and the name on the top of the list is yours, Mr Aylward.’
Harold was surprised, but made no comment.
‘And so tell me, why are you such a good friend of his?’
‘I met him in the White Hart, about two years ago. My wife was extremely ill. He was very kind, sympathetic. We kept in touch and he always asked after her, and was particularly good to me while I was recovering from the shock of her death.’
‘He was working abroad at that time.’
‘We were in touch by email, and when he came home we always had a pint together.’
‘These visits home were not very long. Didn’t he want to spend them with his wife?’
‘He did. He used to spend the whole day with her, then sometimes come out for a hour or so in the evening.’
‘But he didn’t have a very good relationship with her, did he?’
‘That’s none of my business.’
‘Apart from his kindness to you, what other testimony can you give to support his character?’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for instance, Mr Turnham did lots of work for charity. Did Mr Gatesby do anything like that?’
‘I don’t think he’s the kind of person who would tell his friends about the good things he does.’
‘You don’t really know much about him, do you?’
‘No, I suppose that’s right.’
‘If your wife was so very ill, why did you leave her to go and meet Mr Gatesby?’
‘My daughter insisted that I got regular breaks from Dorrie’s bedside, and often came over in the evening. Respite, she called it.’
‘How much money has Mr Gatesby paid you?’
‘I’m not a professional consultant.’
‘How much did he give you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What money has passed between you?’
‘None.’
‘What favours has he done for you?’
‘What the hell has all this got to do with the case?’
‘I have a job to do, Mr Aylward, and that is to provide Mr Gatesby with a defence. To do that I may need witnesses. These witnesses will be subjected to severe cross-examination, and .....’
‘I understand,’ said Harold. ‘Sorry. Please carry on.’
‘You were with Mr Gatesby at his first interrogation by the police.’
‘Yes, he said he didn’t want a lawyer at first because he hadn’t been arrested.’
‘You’ve been questioning him about his activities on the day of the murder.’
‘I asked him what he put in his statement.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I suspect that the police think he’s guilty, and may not be trying as hard as all that to find the real killer.’
‘So you don’t think he was the killer?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Did you know that he let slip where the murder weapon would be found?’
‘So it was found there?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the bushes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I couldn’t stop him - he just blurted it out. Is that why they arrested him?’
‘I should imagine so.’
‘I honestly can’t think of anything else that I could say about him. It’s obvious that I don’t really know him very well. I don’t suppose I’d make a very good witness.’
‘But you are willing to be called if necessary.’
‘Of course, and to do anything else that might help him.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing to try to persuade him to change the plea he intends to make?’
‘He is going to plead not guilty?’
‘Yes, but I’m afraid the evidence is all against him.’
‘I’m not going to try to persuade him to perjure himself.’
‘Thank you, Mr Aylward. I’ll let you know if we need you.’
Harold left, thoroughly depressed. Although he was pleased that the responsibility for Phil’s defence was now in professional hands, he felt that he had failed because he had been unable to provide Roy Stamp with more evidence of Phil’s good character. He was sure that he would not now be called as a witness or be able to help in any other way, and worse still, he now realised that he was himself no longer so totally certain of Phil’s innocence.
Once home, Harold’s mindset became worse. Could this friend, his friend, have done this, thrust a knife into another man in a fit of jealously? Could he have been lying to Harold all this time? Could he, Harold, be such a bad judge of character? He felt no desire to consider any other possible solution to the crime. He sat down in an armchair, and stared into space, feeling that he had failed Phil by not being able to continue to believe in his innocence, and unable to think of anything that he could do to help him.
He became aware that it was almost dusk. He supposed that he should eat, though he had no desire to do so. Something light, perhaps. Mechanically, he whisked eggs and tipped the mixture into the hot frying pan. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on the front door. Later, that moment stuck in his memory, and when he thought back to it he would always be convinced that he knew at once that it was her, and would wonder at the instant reversal of his depression. So quickly did he move towards the door that he thumped his hip on the corner of the sideboard, and cursed under his breath at the sudden stab of pain. Then he saw her sad face and the redness around her eyes and forgot about himself completely. She did not come inside, but stood on the mat in the open doorway.
‘I am sorry, Harry. I not will be able go to the lesson now.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is different to me.’
‘What is different?’
She turned away, as if to leave, and spoke over her shoulder. ‘I am necessary to go now.’
‘What is different, Eva?’
She looked down at her feet. Harold gently took her elbow, moved her into the hall, and closed the door behind her. She stood there for a moment, but then suddenly raised her head, sniffed, and dashed into the kitchen. Surprised, he followed, and found her holding the smoking frying pan off the hob. Expecting to find her laughing, he was taken aback to see that her eyes were full of tears. He turned the gas off, and put the pan and its burnt contents back on the hob. Then he opened the cabinet and poured them both a brandy. She took the glass without protest, and sat down by him on the sofa. He had no tissues, but she accepted the piece of kitchen roll he offered. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then she turned towards him.
‘I must to tell you, I think.’
‘You must.’
‘The week past, my man has leaved me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I am not sorry. I am happy. He is pig. But today I have no work.’
‘Will you go back to Spain?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I will not tell my fathers.’
Harold looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he realised, and corrected her, ‘Your parents.’
‘Como?’
‘Tus padres. We don’t say “fathers”. We say “parents”.’
‘No teach me!’
‘Why not?’ he asked in astonishment.
‘I have no work.’
‘You don’t have to pay me anything.’
‘No. I do not thief you. I will do work.’
‘What work will you do?’
‘I will do all works. She looked at Harold’s creased shirt. I make the plancha.’
‘You’ll do my ironing?’
‘How did you say?’
‘Will you iron, planchar, for me?’
‘What ion?’
‘Not ion. Iron.’
‘What irron?’
Harold thought for a minute. ‘Four shirts, two sheets, one pillowcase.’
‘What is that?’
‘You iron for me each week. I teach you English each week. Vale?’
At last she smiled.
‘Where will you live?’ he asked.
‘My house. Is not his house. Is of my... parets.’
‘Parents. Parrots are large brightly coloured cage birds. Is it alright for me to teach you now?’
‘OK, I make
irron the shirts,’ she laughed.
The new day forced Harold’s mind once again to consider the possibility of Phil’s guilt, but he was pleased to find that yesterday’s dilemma now seemed far less daunting. He was, after all, Phil’s friend. Phil had assured him of his innocence, so it was his duty to stand by him. His job was to look for evidence which would help clear Phil’s name, not to make a judgement on him. So calm did he feel this morning that he was able to walk at a sensible pace to answer the door when she arrived with his ironing, and so relaxed that he made only a token protest when she took over the making of coffee for them both. Then he remembered what she had said about Phil the last time she had touched those cups.
‘Eva, how did you know Phil?’
‘He stop Matthew.’
‘Who’s Matthew?
‘He not my man. He is gone. He is pig!’ Her face was distorted with anger.
Evidently Eva did not appreciate being reminded of Matthew, so Harold decided to move back to safer ground.
‘What did Phil do?’
‘It was the week past.’
‘What happened?’
‘Matthew make loco.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Phil is good man. He run at house.’
It would be simpler, Harold decided, to ask Phil about the incident. Perhaps when he had had a more understandable explanation, he would be able to feel some of Eva’s certainty about Phil’s innocence. It seemed, however, that she had not yet realised the full seriousness of his predicament.
‘Where is Phil now, Harry?’
‘He is in prison.’
‘That is very bad. He is good man. He no kill.’
‘I will go and see him tomorrow.’
‘You give him abrazo of me.’
Harold promised with his tongue in his cheek, amused by the thought that even had he been so inclined, it could hardly be expected that the prison viewing facilities would allow him to overcome his natural reserve to such extent.
Roy Stamp’s phone call provided him with a further reason to make the trip to Winchester. The lawyer had been involved in discussions about a possible date for Phil’s trial, and still wanted a plea of guilty to be entered..
‘Can you try to persuade him to plead guilty?’
‘Well, I’ll discuss it with him.’
‘Point out to him that his plea could greatly affect the length of time he’s going to have to spend in jail. Once he’s admitted the crime, his perfectly natural motives of hate for the victim can be entered on behalf of the defence, and it will be much easier to argue for a sympathetic judgement.’
‘So you don’t believe it possible to persuade a jury of his innocence.’
‘The proof of his guilt is beyond dispute. You know that the knife was found.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the shrubbery where he said it would be.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘Well, it belongs to him.’
The sudden shock was so great that Harold felt almost as though he was about to be sick. ‘How do they know?’ he asked.
‘They haven’t officially told me, and I’m not supposed to discuss it with you yet. But the forensic boys had it, of course.’
Harold heard his own voice as though it were coming from far away. ‘So it must have Phil’s fingerprints on it?’
Roy Stamp’s
slow, clear words hammered the point home unmercifully. ‘Explain to him,’ he
emphasised, ‘that whatever it is, no jury would believe a defendant in the face
of clear forensic evidence.’ Then he
added, with ponderous emphasis: ‘So he must
plead guilty.’
‘All I’m doing, Phil, is telling you what Roy Stamp said.’
‘Look, I know you well enough now, Harry, to understand that unless I scotch this thing straight away, you’ll keep coming back to it in the hope that I’ll eventually agree to whatever you say. So let’s get this clear right away. I am not going to plead guilty, even if it saves me a lifetime in prison, for one very simple reason. I did not kill Andy. And I’m surprised at you, Harry, not knowing me well enough to see that I‘m not the sort of person who would kill someone. I think that to kill someone you must be full of hate, and I’ve never hated anybody, and certainly not Andy. He wasn’t a guy you could hate. He’d do anything for you. He was helpful, considerate, friendly. At times, I thought, a bit too friendly. They say that this was my motive for killing him. They say I suspected him of being too friendly with Lesley. I have to admit that I didn’t like his manner when he was with her, but then I’m a bit old-fashioned in the way I deal with other people’s wives. I’m a bit old-fashioned about all sorts of things. That’s why I was annoyed with her when she arranged for them to come over without asking me. And then she’d fixed for me to go down to his boat with him, and he was to show me this Satnav thing he’d just bought.’
‘I would have thought you’d have found that interesting. I thought these modern gadgets fascinated you.’
‘What, down inside that little boat, with him! You don’t know the way he’d have been. He’d have demonstrated with one hand, and the other arm would be round your shoulder. I can’t stand that. He was like that with Lesley.’
‘You’re a bit the other way. You can seem a bit of a cold fish at times.’
‘I know, Lesley’s told me that often enough. She could never understand why I wanted to be all over her, yet I wouldn’t touch other people.’
Harold grinned. ‘Perhaps this isn’t the best time for me to tell you this, but Eva asked me to give you a hug for her.’
Phil grinned. ‘Well, to say truth, Harry, I wouldn’t mind her doing that. But you better not bloody try! Tell her to save it for me for when I come out.’
They both laughed, while Harold wondered how he could have ever doubted his friend’s innocence. He also saw that with Phil now so relaxed, he had the ideal opportunity to introduce the other matter he had not been anxious to discuss with him.
‘You remember the knife they found in the shrubbery.’
‘It was the obvious place for the murderer to put it.’
‘Yes. But Roy Stamp reckons they think it’s your knife.’
‘What kind of knife is it?’
‘I don’t know. But it seems they found your fingerprints on it.’
There was silence for a few moments. Harold raised his eyes to find Phil’s fixed on him.
‘So that’s why you think I did it.’
‘I don’t think you did it. I did have doubts, but I haven’t any doubts now.’
‘What do other people think?’
‘I suspect that most people who don’t know you think you are guilty. Your solicitor thinks there is no case for the defence. He says the knife is absolute proof.’
‘Why don’t you think I’m guilty?’
‘Listening to you just now. I’m now convinced that you are innocent, and I’m going to find out about this knife, and I’m going to find evidence to clear you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank Eva as well. She’s never had the slightest doubt.’
Phil grinned. ‘You can give her a hug for me, if you like, Harry.’
For some reason Harold found that exchange difficult to answer lightly, and Phil gave him a curious glance. But hastening to take advantage of the easy atmosphere between them, Harold pressed on.
‘Why is Eva so convinced of your innocence?’
‘Well, I can’t see what that’s got to do with ....’
‘Look, Phil, whatever it was that happened between you, it’s convinced her completely. At this moment, we need to collect together any facts which may persuade people of your innocence. Please stop trying to prevent me from helping you.’
‘OK, Harry, but I doubt if this will be much help. All that happened was I stopped her fellow from hitting her - at least I think he was hitting her. I heard her squeal, then start screaming.’
‘Where was this?’
‘It was a house in Fox Pond Lane. That’s where she lives, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’
Harold was momentarily irritated by the amused look on Phil’s face, but continued: ‘Go on. How did you stop him?’
‘I shouted. As you know, I don’t like physical contact, and this guy was a six-footer. So I didn’t try to tackle him. I just shouted, very loudly, so the neighbours would hear.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Well, he left her alone, came downstairs and out the front door. Fast.’
‘Did he have a go at you?’
‘He didn’t stand a chance. He had nothing on his feet. I was in my trainers, and I’m pretty quick, so I was able to stay quite close to him while I was telling him what for. All he had on were his jeans, which he was still zipping up as he came out the door.’
‘Gosh! So the neighbours were treated to a bit of striptease, then.’
‘More than that. She was still upstairs, but she was leaning out the window, and as far as I could see she didn’t have much on either. She was screaming at him at the top of her voice. They must have heard her a hundred yards away.’
‘Did she look as if she’d been badly hurt?’
‘Sadly, I didn’t have time to look closely at her body. I was too busy keeping just out of his reach while I said my piece.’
Harold grinned. ‘That’s a pity. What did you actually say?’
‘The usual thing. I told him he was several kinds of a nasty coward to attack a woman, and I said I would report the incident to the police.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. Tat place is right at the beginning of my jogging round, so I had time to think about it, and decided not to. For a start, from the way she was shouting and screaming, I rather assumed she’d drunk too much, and I began to wonder whether maybe she was almost, well, enjoying the drama. You see her regularly. She wasn’t bruised or bleeding, was she?’
‘I didn’t notice anything, but I only teach her English, and when she comes to me she’s wears clothes.’
‘Shame on you, Harry. Anyway, you could help her to extend her vocabulary for occasions like this. The only English word she seemed to know was “pig”.’
‘Sorry, Phil, but I don’t make a practice of teaching my students the kind of language that she would have considered appropriate for that occasion.’
How could a charming girl like Eva have behaved like that? Serves me right, thought Harold, as he left the prison. I shouldn’t have asked about things which don’t concern me, and which can’t possibly have any connection to the murder. So as he drove out of Winchester he very properly determined to put aside all thoughts of Eva and other matters unrelated to Phil’s predicament. His task now must be to prove that Phil did not commit this crime. First of all, from what he had said, it seemed clear that Phil had no motive. This should be easy to demonstrate in court. If there had been something between Andy and Lesley, it was hardly likely that Phil would have known anything about it, coming back here so rarely, and for such short periods of time. What other motives could Phil have had? From what was said at the station, it would appear that the police had no grounds for thinking it was robbery. The interrogating officer had made a point of asking why Andy had been carrying so much money on him, so it must have been a fair sum. Yet the fact that the money hadn’t been taken could be thought of as circumstantial evidence for the police point of view, and the prosecution would be collecting little hints like that suggesting that only personal motives were behind this crime. Harold wondered how this could be countered.
Then there was the knife. He could hardly bring himself to think about it, for fear that he would start again to doubt Phil’s innocence. But think about it he would have to, for as Roy Stamp so correctly pointed out, a murder weapon with Phil’s fingerprints on it would by itself convince the jury of Phil’s guilt. Stamp had also said that the knife they found belonged to Phil. How could they be sure of that? They’d searched the house for knives, and it couldn’t have been one of those, because it was found near the murder scene after the search. Did they find an incomplete set in the house, and had they then assumed that this was the missing piece because it was identical? Yet even that was no proof. Stamp had said that he wasn’t supposed to tell Harold these things, but Harold could not believe that the police would have stated that the knife was Phil’s. All that they could have said was that it had Phil’s fingerprints on it. So had Stamp exaggerated what he had been told, in order to convince Harold that Phil was guilty?
Leaving the motorway and driving down through the forest towards Brockenhurst, he concentrated his mind on the problem of how an amateur like himself could find any evidence that the professionals had not already uncovered.