A Death to Remember Read online

  ‘I wouldn’t. You want to get me sacked?’

  ‘You are...’ He stopped.

  ‘Voluntary retirement,’ I said gently. ‘I’m out of it, Frank. Do your own thinking, huh!’

  For a moment an expression of pettish temper ruffled his face. I thought perhaps I’d antagonised him, and regretted the impulse.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Frank,’ I said, gazing into his bulging, watery eyes, ‘I really came to pick your brains.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He blinked.

  I squeezed my forehead. ‘You know I’m having trouble with my memory...you’ve heard?’

  ‘Something.’ He was still suspicious.

  ‘I worry about it. A thought comes to my mind, and then I find I can’t argue it through, because I can’t remember things. For instance...’ I sat back. ‘The old self-employment fiddle...’ I left it hanging.

  ‘Why’d you want to remember that?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I’ll be glad when I can forget it.’

  ‘Clue me in, Frank. Go on.’

  ‘Why on earth...’ Then he grinned, licking his lips. ‘Yeah. You’ll want to know about Pool Street Motors, I reckon.’

  Well now, I’d never given him credit for such perception. Perhaps I’d misjudged him.

  ‘It wasn’t the self-employment fiddle,’ he told me with confidence. ‘If that’s what you think.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘The wages book was hardly readable, but everything was in order.’

  ‘Ah!’

  I fondled my forehead again, but this time because I’d recognised a twinge of the same trouble.

  ‘Cliff?’ Frank was looking at me anxiously.

  ‘And how many employees did you find, Frank?’

  ‘Hell! It’s a long while ago. Three, I think.’

  I still remembered having four statements. It was now assuming a ridiculous importance to me, because the issue was whether or not I’d had one from George Peters.

  ‘Frank,’ I said carefully, picking my words so that there’d be no misunderstanding, ‘you had my briefcase. You had what was in it. Can you remember just what that was?’

  ‘It’s a while back. I told you.’

  ‘All the same...’

  ‘Well...’ He lifted his head in an attitude of intense concentration. ‘You’d impounded all their books, and there was the usual stuff you’d carry around: receipt book, calculator, note book. You know.’

  ‘And four statements, Frank?’

  ‘No statements. A file for somebody – can’t remember the name now.’

  ‘George Peters?’

  ‘Could be. Yes, that was the name.’

  ‘And what had I done about it?’

  ‘Visited him. Must’ve done, though you hadn’t had time to write it up. A claim for SB...no, I tell a lie...it was for IB. He’d had an accident, and you’d got him to sign a withdrawal. That was it,’ he said with immense satisfaction.

  I went on sitting there, although I’d now received all the information Frank could give me. I didn’t think I could get to my feet.

  It was quite ridiculous that it should mean so much to me. There could be dozens of reasons why nothing fitted together, but by that time my memory had supplied sufficient information to present some sort of picture. It was this picture that was most in peril. Logic chipped at it remorselessly.

  If I’d obtained statements, they would have related to an accident. In that event, I’d have had no necessity to impound account books, and anyway, if, as Frank had told me, the wages records were in order, then there’d have been no reason to take them away. And yet I’d done that. They’d been in my briefcase. I had also been carrying nearly £600. What in God’s name could that have been for? An investigation into an accident could not have involved money. I couldn’t see in what way it could have involved a bribe, either. And there had been no statements in the briefcase. If Clayton had taken them out, they’d have been found on him.

  So perhaps the reason there’d been no statements was because I’d torn them up, in response to a hefty bribe. Assume that, and things began to come together, to produce at least some sort of logic. Not logic I felt like facing, mind you. But logic.

  ‘...if I can help you any more,’ Frank was saying.

  ‘No...no. You’ve been very helpful, Frank.’

  I levered myself to my feet. My legs seemed powerless. I tried to smile at him.

  ‘See you again?’

  He nodded, head cocked, anxiety in his eyes. I got out of his room and headed for the gents. Cold water on my face, and I felt better, well enough to put my head inside the Inspector’s office on my way past, but still sufficiently rocky that I was pleased she wasn’t back.

  Tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe I’d call in tomorrow.

  6

  Sergeant Porter called for me a little after eight. I’d just settled down with Aunt Peg to watch television, looking for a relaxing evening with distraction for my racing mind.

  ‘Coming for a drink?’ he asked at the door.

  ‘Pop in a sec’. Have a word with my aunt.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Bill, always willing to go along.

  They spoke as old friends, but I supposed they must have met at the time of my assault. Aunt Peg said something about had I got my key, and I said yes, and off we went.

  This was the sergeant’s own car, with no official radio, a Fiesta. To my surprise, he headed away from town.

  ‘My statement,’ I said. ‘I thought that was what you’d come for.’

  ‘Statement in the morning. Tonight, a drink, a chat.’ He drove a mile or so.

  ‘I thought you were being diplomatic. Calming my aunt’s fears.’

  ‘What fears?’

  ‘That I might become involved. I’ve had to tell her what’s happened.’

  ‘But still...there’s nothing to fear.’ He glanced sideways at me. I felt that, although I was staring straight ahead. ‘Is there?’

  I recalled that it had been Bill Porter who’d called to see me at the convalescent home, representing the police. But he’d called more often than his duty seemed to require. We’d discussed many things besides my job and my work. I half turned to him.

  ‘She’s my only living relative, Bill. She knows exactly what that blow to the head did to me, and how close it came to being final. I suspect they explained to her that it wasn’t just a matter of my life, but also my sanity. She hasn’t told me that, but sometimes I catch her eyes on me, considering and assessing. She worries, Bill. I wouldn’t want anything to increase her worries. You get what I mean?’

  He pursed his lips, and nodded. ‘I’m not arresting you.’ Then, when I made a sound of protest he laughed shortly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  That laugh had held no humour. Bill never conceded that anything could be amusing. I’d never seen him smile, though, from one or two of his remarks I often thought he seethed with laughter, somewhere way inside. I’d decided that pursing the lips was his closest imitation of a smile. I supplied a more genuine laugh for him, and sat back, relaxing.

  Bill drove us out somewhere into the country, to an isolated pub where he was known. If it had a sign I didn’t see it, and they certainly didn’t trouble to illuminate the exterior. The Snug was warm and cosy, full of clatter and chatter, with nobody who cared who we might be and what we might be discussing.

  We sat at a bench beside the open fireplace, a plain wooden table in front of us. It was a position from which it was possible to catch the barman’s eye. I took a mouthful of my half, and asked: ‘You knew where to find me?’

  ‘Of course. You were living there...then.’

  ‘But I might not have been, now.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Cliff.’

  I watched his face disappear behind his uptilted glass, waited for it to reappear. ‘Don’t forget you’re driving.’

  ‘I’m all right. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Why were you interested in me?’

  ‘Clayton was due out. I thought y
ou might be waiting for that. Maybe I was wrong. Revenge, Cliff. Retribution. It’s becoming quite the thing, these days.’

  ‘You were going to stop me?’

  ‘Well...that’s it, you see. I was interested to see if I would, when the time came. In any event, I kept an eye open.’

  ‘Good of you.’

  ‘All part of the service.’

  His eyes were on the next table, where two old chaps were playing dominoes. Casually he produced cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ he said, as though that could be a crime.

  ‘I’m supposed to go easy on alcohol.’

  ‘Heh, that’s just fine.’ He was delighted. ‘Then you can drive back, which means...’ He raised a finger, and like magic a fresh brimming pint appeared in front of him.

  ‘Better give me your keys now,’ I suggested. ‘You might not be able to, later.’

  He slapped them on the surface in front of me. ‘And of course,’ he said, as though nothing had interrupted the thought, ‘Clayton might not have done it.’

  ‘By God,’ I said, ‘you’ve got a right attack of the funnies tonight. Clayton might not have done what? Banged me on the head? But you know he did. He was there, pocketing the money. I was there, unconscious.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked placidly, sucking at the glass.

  ‘I was told. Damn it, you told me.’

  ‘I told you the evidence we had. When the patrol car arrived you were face down on the step to the side door of your office. You’d been facing the door when you were hit, so even if you could remember anything about it, there’d be nothing you’d have seen. Your briefcase was open, stuff scattered around, and Clayton had that envelope of money in his pocket.’

  ‘It was his spanner, from the garage,’ I reminded him. ‘It was identified.’

  ‘Oh yes, that too. Your memory’s all right with things that’ve happened after you recovered. I mentioned that to you just once.’

  ‘I was naturally personally interested.’

  ‘Right. So it was all evidence. But circumstantial, and he never actually admitted the assault.’

  ‘He now definitely denies it.’

  ‘Ah!’ He looked down at the table gloomily, then up at me. ‘Does he?’

  I was feeling annoyed with his attitude. It was as though he blamed me for police errors. ‘But it was you who prosecuted him.’

  ‘Not me. My Super. That’s his job.’

  ‘But you’ve got doubts?’

  Then he turned suddenly and stared straight at me. ‘Cut it out, Cliff. You know what I’m talking about. How do you see it now?’

  ‘You’re the detective.’

  ‘What the hell d’you think I do?’ he demanded, the angry words sounding strange, as they were delivered without emotion. ‘Peer at clues through a magnifying glass? Put reams of logic together and produce a crook? You know it’s not like that. It’s a bit of instinct and a bit of luck, and putting two and two together. So I’m asking you, Cliff. You’ve got the same double two I’ve got. What d’you make of it now?’

  I should perhaps have been flattered by his confidence in my opinion, but I hesitated. To tell the truth, I’d done a little theorising, as he’d guessed, but I was naturally not prepared to bring anything out into the light in case that, too, crumbled into nothing, like my memories.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, nodding, but his eyes were bleak.

  I sighed. Suddenly I felt tired. In the fireplace a log collapsed and sparks flew. I put my foot on one, killing it before it got a hold. Killing my thoughts. I said:

  ‘Just an idea, Bill. We’ve got a stepson who might or might not have been on drugs. In any event, he’d got no known source of income, and Clayton had the idea his wife was letting him have money. If he was on drugs...well, I don’t know...but I believe it’s an expensive habit.’

  ‘Take my word for it. Expensive.’

  ‘So six hundred quid might not go very far. The lad’s mother might well have got that much together for him, in an envelope, in a drawer in the office. Maybe George would’ve sneaked around to the garage and picked it up, if I hadn’t turned up there. I’d seen him that morning. He wouldn’t want me to spot him at the garage, and I was there all that afternoon.’

  ‘Till after six.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Raising hell.’

  ‘So I believe, though I can’t remember that.’

  ‘You can’t remember seeing what happened to that envelope?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Pity. But somehow it got into your hands...’

  ‘Not my hands, Bill.’

  ‘So you remember that much?’

  ‘Clayton says, not my hands. She put it inside the wages book. So Clayton says. If we’re to believe him, I’d hinted at money helping things along. But I can’t accept I’d say that.’

  ‘Well now.’

  ‘What the devil does that mean?’

  ‘Take it easy, Cliff. Only commenting.’

  ‘All right. The money was inside the wages book. So Clayton says.’

  ‘And...’

  ‘I don’t know, Bill. I can only guess. But say she realised her husband had spotted the envelope in the drawer. She knew he’d be mad if he found out she was going to give such a large sum to her son, and she had to get rid of it. So she slipped it inside the wages book. It fits with what Clayton told me, that he found out about it after I’d left, which was why he chased after me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That much I could see. As a possibility. But how would it help her, giving you the money? I mean, you’d have it then.’

  ‘Oh...that. It would’ve been all right. In the morning, she could’ve come to me and said the petty cash envelope had got itself into the wages book by mistake, and I’d have given it back to her.’

  I looked at him. He was squinting through the smoke of a fresh cigarette, concentrating. Dominoes clattered on the next table.

  ‘Bill?’ I asked. ‘You with me?’

  ‘But that wasn’t how it happened,’ he said. ‘Was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘There’s another possible construction. Her husband ran out after you, your car wouldn’t start, so you were on foot.’

  ‘Unless I took the bus.’

  His head jerked. Ash fell in his beer. ‘You remember that?’

  ‘No. It’s what I might have done.’

  He grunted. ‘Even so...it’s a matter of time. Say she rang her son. No – better – he rang her, just after Clayton had left. “Ma, where’s my money?” And she’d tell him: “The nasty Inspector man’s got it.” Of course, Peters knew you. He could well have been waiting for you...’

  ‘With a huge adjustable spanner in his pocket?’

  ‘From the garage,’ he said stiffly. ‘Don’t find obstacles, Cliff.’ He snapped a glance at me. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘Is it? I hadn’t realised. Then you’ll need all the obstacles you can find.’

  ‘What in God’s name does that mean?’

  I shook my head. ‘He could’ve been hanging round the garage all afternoon, but why would he arm himself with a spanner?’

  Bill considered it. ‘All right. Assume he was at the garage when his stepfather left. No phones involved. His mother told him, face to face. And off he dashed, taking a spanner with him, and managed to get there before Clayton.’

  ‘You’re stretching this a bit, Bill. For me, you said. But don’t strain yourself...’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful oaf, Cliff. Hear me out, damn you. George Peters got there first and bashed in your head. Clayton saw it happen. The lad ran away. Clayton rescued the money, and the patrol car arrived. Clayton took the blame, perhaps because he knew it’d break up his wife, perhaps because he thought even more of George than he said.’

  Then he was silent. I continued to sip at my beer, stretching it out, as Bill had stretched his theory. I wanted him to add the concl
usion, but he wasn’t going to.

  ‘Isn’t that what you thought?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Something like.’

  ‘You see what it means?’

  ‘I still got my head bashed in. Whose hand doesn’t really interest me.’

  ‘Then it should.’

  ‘Oh...’ I looked at him, forcing him to say what I wanted to hear. ‘Why?’

  ‘The wrong man went to prison. The wrong meaning was put on the money. It was intended for George Peters, so it was not a bribe.’

  ‘Nobody’s actually said out loud that it was.’

  I said it in a steady voice, but inside there was singing.

  ‘It was said to me,’ he told me solemnly. ‘Out loud. There was much discussion about it, and how best to handle it.’

  ‘They decided on the best way.’

  ‘So now you know.’

  Then I realised how well he understood. It was not what they knew that mattered, but what I did. I grinned at him. ‘Now I know. Thanks, Bill.’

  He grimaced, and signalled for another beer in celebration.

  ‘There was no bribe,’ he said when it arrived. ‘There was nothing that would have attracted a bribe. No statements. You’d got a withdrawal from George Peters...’

  ‘Then why would I have gone to the garage, with no statement, and no accident to enquire about?’ I demanded.

  ‘Relax, Cliff. Peters could’ve told you about an accident, even though it wasn’t his own. It’s your memory that’s off-key. You went there – curiosity, perhaps – with this fixation of a car running off its jacks.’

  ‘Nudged. Peters said nudged.’

  ‘Said?’

  ‘Stated. In writing. I can see it, damn it.’

  Porter shrugged, gulped his beer, wiped the back of his hand across his lips.

  ‘Don’t shout at me, Cliff. I’m doing you a favour. Making sense, if that’s what you want. There was no bribe, and it looks as though the man who assaulted you is dead. George Peters. So why concern yourself with a different accident, which didn’t involve you as a Social Security Inspector at the time? Let it lie, man. Didn’t they tell you at the hospital that your memory couldn’t be relied on?’

  ‘They said that.’

  ‘Well then...’