A Death to Remember (8 page)

I
slid the cup under his nose and told him to drink that, and: ‘Who’s Tessa?’

‘
My wife.’ He lifted his harrowed face. ‘My wife!’ he repeated frantically.

‘
Don’t be a damned fool. She’s only been missing a week, and that – out there – God knows how long...’

His
mouth writhed. ‘You’re sure?’

I
couldn’t be sure of anything, but I made myself sound sure. ‘That thing must’ve been there months.’

It
certainly hadn’t been there on November 16th, sixteen months before, when I’d left the car behind. At that time, Clayton and I had both gone out of circulation. That thought seemed to occur to him. His thoughts were always selfish. Fractionally he brightened, reaching for his cup, sipping it, looking up.

‘
You put sugar in it.’

‘
Sorry. You on a diet?’

‘
Prison food. You know.’

‘
I can guess.’

Then
we stared at each other, aware that we were talking round what we didn’t want to face.

‘
Then who d’you think it could be?’ he asked anxiously.

‘
Let’s just wait, shall we.’

At
that moment a police patrol car drew on to the forecourt and two uniformed officers stepped out, eyes seeking and probing in all directions. By the time I’d got out to meet them, a grey Renault drove in from the other direction, doing a skid stop. Two more men, in casual clothes. One of them I knew, having had various dealings with the local CID on minor fraud cases. Sergeant Bill Porter, solid and humourless and unflappable. He had been the one to visit me, officially, several times at the convalescent home. It was to him I naturally turned.

‘
It’s in there, Bill.’

I
pointed at the boot of the Volvo. He nodded. No greeting. He went and lifted the boot lid, stared, prodded gently, and stepped back, slamming it again. Then he had a few words with his mate, who returned to the Renault and began to talk on his radio, and to the two uniformed men, who began to remove no-go signs from the back of the Rover.

‘
I’ll need to speak to the boss,’ said Porter. ‘Know where he is?’

I
jerked a thumb. ‘He’s in there.’

‘
Will you dig him out for me – I’d better stay here.’

I
nodded, and turned on my heel. Clayton was slumped over the coffee cup, which was now the centre of his universe. I told him he was wanted outside. He shook his head, I thought at first in refusal, but he began levering himself to his feet.

‘
You know what they’ll think. It’ll have to be me.’ He’d said it in despair. Then he stared at me belligerently. ‘Once you’ve been inside...’

‘
Don’t start on that again, and for God’s sake try to get a hold on yourself. We know nothing yet. Nothing. Come on, he’s waiting.’

But
not with impatience. Sergeant Porter was smoking placidly. He turned as we approached, and if he recognised Clayton – he’d surely have done so – there was no sign of it.

‘
I’m afraid we’re going to be causing you some trouble, sir,’ he said. ‘There’ll be some big brass around, and this area’s going to be cordoned off. It’ll be inconvenient, I know. But it can’t be helped. Sorry.’

Clayton
flapped a bit, not sure what his attitude was supposed to be, then he wandered away to watch what the uniformed men were doing, checking how many pumps could now be operated, and went to tell his staff what it was all about. He was back in business.

‘
What d’you know about this, Cliff?’ the sergeant asked.

‘
It’s my car. It’s been stored here since the assault...’ He nodded. ‘I came to pick it up. They’d got it ready for the road. I found
that
in the boot.’

‘
The car’s been here...how long?’

‘
Sixteen months.’

‘H
mm! A bit of unpleasant work for the pathologist, then. I’ll be talking to you later. Hang around.’ He nodded. I wandered away.

He
’d sounded friendly, but I didn’t know how long that would last. I went to find Clayton.

There
was an uneasy silence in the repair section at the back. The corrugated walls were not ringing with activity. I found the four men in a corner, gathered around Clayton, who was telling them what had happened to the best of his knowledge.

This
was the first time I’d got a good look at them without their face masks and the right way up. I didn’t recognise one of them, then wondered why I should expect to. Clayton saw me watching and thrust his way through the group, coming over to seize my arm.

‘
What’s happening?’

‘
Nothing yet. Try to relax, can’t you. Are these the men who were here the day I came...’

‘
Have we got to talk about that, with
this
happening?’

‘
Seems a good time. We’ll be stuck here for hours. Were they?’

‘
You know damn well they weren’t.’ He was walking away from me, not so much impatient as uninterested.

‘
Heh!’ I called after him. He’d gone out the back and I caught him at the foot of the outside staircase. ‘Don’t come that with me,’ I said, tugging at the tail of his jacket. ‘There were three, that day. Let’s have their names.’

Looking
down and back at me, he seemed suddenly confident, and his memory of it angered him.

‘
Don’t think you can stir that up again. You’ll never find ‘em now, anyway, and they wouldn’t talk to you, any more than they did then. Trying to make ‘em admit...whatever it was you were after, and God knows what that was.’

I
let him go, and he stamped on up. I stared after him, remembering how I’d climbed those stairs that day, wearily and dispiritedly because I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere, knowing it’d be so much easier all round to tear up the four statements and pretend I’d never seen Clayton’s team...

Four
statements! I ran up and burst into the office. He was standing at the window, hands on his hips, staring out at nothing.

‘
How many were there?’ I demanded.

‘
How many what?’

‘
Men, that day, in the working bay. I said three, and you didn’t contradict me.
Was
it three?’

‘
Three men,’ he said savagely, not turning to look at me. ‘All working on their own jobs and minding their own business.’

Yet
the number four had come into my mind. Tear up
four
statements, I’d thought, and it’d come without prompting.

‘
Yet there were four statements,’ I said quietly, to myself, really, but he pounced on the words, whirling on me.

‘
That was
it
, wasn’t it! That was what it was all about. Making out there’d been an accident, going on and on about it. What accident? What bloody accident, that’s what I want to know!’

‘
All right,’ I said. ‘Take it easy. If you went on like that, it’s no wonder we finished up shouting at each other.’

He
raised his shoulders, slapped his hands against his thighs, and flopped down into his chair.

‘
That’s better,’ I said. ‘Now...if I came here about an accident, and you said there wasn’t one, then I’d get statements all round, then go back to the person who’d said there was, and have another go. It’s not something I’d go wild about and upset everybody. If the worst came to the worst, I’d arrange a confrontation. Somebody says he’s had an accident here, and you say there wasn’t, then the thing to do is get you face to face...’

‘
What the devil are you talking about?’ he asked wearily, looking at me as though I was insane.

‘
You said there hadn’t been an accident...’

‘
Of course there’re accidents. We get ‘em all the time. But not
your
accident. Not the one you were chuntering about. And how could we come face to face, as you say? You daft or something? The poor bugger was dead.’

‘
Dead?’

‘
Why else did you come round?’

‘
I’d had...I don’t...a statement...’ I realised I was babbling, and shut my mouth firmly. There seemed no solidity in the room, none in my memory. I’d actually recalled the words of George Peters as he wrote them on his statement. Nothing less could have brought me to this place. And George Peters had been alive.

‘
Well say it, say it,’ he demanded angrily. Clayton was the sort of man who can spot an uncertainty or weakness in a flash, and not hesitate to take advantage. There was a sneering challenge in his voice.

‘
Who had died?’ I asked carefully.

Lifting
his chin, he said: ‘A chap called Colin Rampton. Mean anything, does it?’ Now he was looking at me with one raised eyebrow, my sanity still in doubt.

I
shook my head. The name meant something, but it was too vague to capture.

‘
Just one of the fellows who used the garage for their own purposes. They paid a small fee. Not employed by me. Get it? Do I make myself clear?’

Oh
yes, I got it. He was pressing in with his advantage because of my uncertainty, and had clearly brought up the nucleus of our difficulties that day. He’d been worried about his insurance position in the event of a damages claim.

‘
This Colin Rampton...he’d been working on his own car, down in the repair shop?’

‘
No fee from him, mind you. Worked for our accountant. You see, try proving he worked for me. Can’t have two jobs at the same time.’

Then
I had it. Of course, Colin Rampton had been Michael Orton’s assistant. I’d met him once or twice at Orton’s office.

‘
Cut it out, Clayton,’ I said wearily. ‘So Rampton worked for Michael Orton. So he used the repair shop for free. Right? Can we go on from there?’

He
shrugged, and at last took his eyes from me, abruptly bored with baiting me. ‘This was ten days before you came around, making a nuisance of yourself. Who was working for who! As though that bloody mattered. The other three were regulars, but you had to...’

‘
Was Charlie Graham one of the three?’ I suddenly wondered.

‘
Yes. D’you want to hear this or not?’

‘
Please,’ I said, acting meek.

‘
This Rampton character wanted to do some work on his track rod ends...’

‘
The steering ball joints?’ I asked that because that was what George Peters had called them in his statement.

‘
I suppose, I suppose. But he wasn’t going to wait till the hydraulic lift was clear. Not him. Clever dick. Had to put it on a couple of jacks...’

‘
Chocking the back wheels with bricks?’ George Peters had said that.

‘
I suppose. I don’t know, do I!’

‘
And this was Colin Rampton?’

‘
Who else, for Chrissake! Will you
listen
. There he was, lying on his back right under the sump. The bleeding twit. And the whole bloody lot ran off the jacks.’

‘
On its own?’

‘
Of
course
on its own. How else...’

‘
And killed him?’

‘
With a ton of car on his chest, what d’you think!’

‘
And did Charlie Graham see this?’

‘
It was him you had the barney with.’

‘
Did I? I wonder why.’

‘
Mate, you ain’t the only one who’s wondering. Whatsa-matter with you, anyway? It’s straight enough. Didn’t come under my insurance cover.’

I
wasn’t hearing him any more. The accident was right, and it was wrong. Or rather, it was wrong when set against my memory of George Peters’ statement. Desperately, I tried again.

‘
It was his chest?’

‘
Lying underneath...’

Not
his arm?’

‘
His damned chest. It was crushed. He was dead.’

‘
I had a statement…’

‘
From a dead man,’ he jeered.

‘
From a man with a crushed arm. His statement. His accident. You just described it – apart from the other car.’

‘
What car?’