A Fall from Grace (28 page)

Trench sat thinking. Then he said, “You can go back to town now.”

Charlie turned the car again, and went back to headquarters in Halifax.

“I can't say what I shall do,” said Trench gruffly. “But I can say I shan't forget what you've told me, and what you've conjectured.”

“I don't ask for any more,” said Charlie. “I think those two girls—”

Trench held up his hand.

“You can fill me in on all sorts of gaps in my knowledge,” he said, “but for God's sake don't try to teach me my job.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Here we are. I've enjoyed our talk, in a sort of way. Now you can sit back and do what you were supposed to do from the start: nothing. Can I rely on you for that?”

“Yes, you can.”

As he drove off Charlie felt mildly snubbed, but also that he had been fairly listened to, and taken seriously. He was conscious that in some respects he had held back, keen—in order to be believed—to give Costello the benefit of the doubt whenever he could. Was it just chance that the probable encounter between Rupert and Costello took place at the top of the steepest side of the quarry? Was it lucky chance that the blow that connected with the victim had landed on the part of the body least likely to identify it as the work of a human being rather than rocks and tree stumps on the way down?

He remembered the last line of one of his favorite films: “Nobody's perfect.” In police work no case, no outcome of an investigation was ever perfect, or answered all the questions. He felt convinced that his series of conjectures was as close as he could come to the truth, and also had a chance of being followed up by Superintendent Trench.

But until he knew it was being followed up, the case was not closed.

It was four or five days after he had his talk with Superintendent Trench before Charlie saw the Carlsons again, at least to speak to. He saw Chris now and then, pounding the streets house by house (he typically stuck with old-fashioned methods of campaigning, because they put the emphasis on the candidate meeting the people). Charlie also saw him twice speaking on the village green, with Alison in tow, by now looking very pregnant. Charlie guessed that an obviously pregnant wife was a campaign plus, then kicked himself for his cynicism. So when he, Felicity and Carola dropped in on them the following Sunday it was with little hope of finding Chris at home. But there he was, pondering an asinine question for
The Times
' Questions Answered column.

“What is the origin of the term ‘raining cats and dogs'?” he mused aloud. “That might do.”

“Won't someone have asked it before?” said Charlie. “They seem to have an itch to find an explanation for every common-or-garden expression.”

“Maybe,” said Chris. “Do you think they have someone who goes through all the columns to avoid repetition?”

“I should think they put them all on a computer,” said Charlie. “Everything else is.”

“What about, ‘Has anyone ever trained a dog to shut the door behind him?' ”

“It sounds ideal,” said Charlie. “A question no one but an idiot would ask. Why the obsession with dogs and cats?”

“We're thinking of getting one of each for Junior when he comes.”

“Is this jigsaw all right for Carola?” asked Alison. “I should think it's about her age group.”

“It'll be ages before the baby can do it,” said Carola with satisfaction.

“I'll go and put some coffee on,” said Alison, making for the kitchen. A glance passed between Charlie and Felicity, though it didn't need to. The purpose of their visit had been well canvassed before they set out. Chris was impervious to the glances, and was crouched over his computer. Eventually he stretched his arms up to the ceiling and got up.

“ ‘Why is a dog's life assumed to be miserable and overworked?' ” he said. “The best I can do on a busy day.”

“We were a bit surprised to see you here,” said Charlie. “How is the campaign going?”

“Not bad, not bad.” He thought for a moment. “In fact, rather well, I think. There's lots of time yet. I don't imagine the election will be till early February. Desmond has promised to come and speak as soon as he's free . . . I got the impression last week that Sunday electioneering was a waste of time—people have other things on their minds. That's the only reason I'm home now.”

He had registered a whiff of disapproval from Westowram people at Sunday being used for electioneering, thought Charlie. His reputation for selflessness and purity of motive was taking a bit of a knock.

“Are you getting lots of helpers?” he asked. Chris brightened at once and grinned in self-satisfaction.

“Oh yes, we are! A real little volunteer army. People who say I've helped them, in some cases. Rather gratifying, really. And the indication is that the Labour Party is going to put up yet another party hack. That will be a big plus if they do.”

“You are becoming quite a Machiavellian political animal,” said Charlie.

“Hark at those big words!” said Chris defensively.

“I married big words,” said Charlie, not bothering to mention his three advanced levels.

“Well, Little Fetus is going to have an inheritance of multisyllabic words from his mother and a thoroughly cynical view of the world from his father,” said Chris.

“I hold with the view that a child's genetic inheritance comes mainly from grandparents,” said Charlie. Then an awful thought struck him. “Good God. Is that why Carola is like she is?”

* * *

“I wanted to talk to you, away from the men,” said Felicity in the kitchen. “It's about something rather personal.”

“Oh?” was all Alison said, but her body seemed to stiffen.

“It's about my father's death.”

“How could your father's death be personal to me?”

“It's . . . just a theory. Charlie thinks there is a connection with Anne Michaels, the girl who organized the children's gang we told you about. It concerns the
house in Forsythia Avenue, number fifteen, that was empty for a long time.”

“This is getting curiouser and curiouser,” said Alison, hiding her face by fetching down a sugar bowl from a shelf.

“This house was used by a man and a woman, arriving separately, presumably for sex. It's possible, no more, that there will be an investigation into those two people.”

“I see.”

“I think I know the motive of one of those people in having these assignations. I thought it might be advisable to be prepared, and perhaps to make a clean breast of the whole thing before being forced to.”

“Did you? . . . Oh, I think this coffee's done. Shall we go through? I don't think I want to hear any more.”

She seemed to be trying to bustle cheerily into the living room, but the tension in her body didn't allow her to do it convincingly. She poured, offered cream and sugar round, then sat down while her husband went on talking. The subject was by chance apt.

“The only thing I regret about the mayoral bid is that the last months of pregnancy will be a little bit side-lined—from my point of view, but not from Alison's, of course. I have my image of Son and Heir, and he isn't the sort who will take kindly to being pushed into second place.”

“Have you decided on a name yet?” asked Charlie politely.

“Oh—
nearly
decided, but we don't spell it out, because it seems like tempting fate. It's a sort of tribute to my father—a bit Scandinavian. It's Kristian.”

“Oh, but you'll have two Chrises!” said Felicity.

“His name will be with a K. And probably I will start
asking people to call me Christopher. It will give me greater gravitas.”

“Just so long as you don't start wearing a bowler and carrying an umbrella to work,” said Charlie.

“That's not gravitas, that's a uniform. And a bloody boring one at that . . . You know, I
think
—no,
hope
—that young Kristian is like his grandfather, my father, and is very responsible and cares for others, helps them, and realizes he's not alone in the world but is part of it.”

“You want him to be like you,” said Charlie. “All fathers do.”

“No, not like me. Not painting on a small canvas but on a big one. Doing good to the whole world. That's what I think a good Christian wants to do, so that's what we're naming him for.”

“You want him to be a super-you, though,” persisted Charlie. “A very sensible hope. Let's pray that's how he turns out.”

“The best thing to hope is that he has a lot of Alison,” said Chris. “She's the really
practical
dreamer.”

He wasn't looking at her, but was crouched over his coffee cup, gesturing in her direction. It was Felicity, sitting beside her, who saw the tear force itself out of her eye and run slowly down her cheek to her chin.

* * *

“What do you think will happen?” Felicity asked Charlie when they had said their good-byes, torn Carola from her jigsaw and were strapping themselves into their seats in the car.

“Depends on Trench, and whether my eloquence has persuaded him to do anything. If it hasn't, I suppose Chris and Alison can go along just as they have been doing, and Chris will be happy in a fool's paradise. If
Trench has done something . . .”

He paused.

“Do you think it will destroy the marriage?” Felicity asked.

“I'd be willing to put a small bet on its doing nothing of the sort. I think that after a few days—maybe only a few hours—Chris will accept what she did, accept her motivation and eventually see the baby,
feel
the baby, as entirely his. He has the sort of sunny nature that can do this, and he'll have what he wants—a child of his own. Who can say the baby won't be that?”

They had come to the bottom end of Luddenden Avenue. On an impulse Charlie turned, not down the hill toward home, but up the road, and then into Forsythia Avenue. Felicity understood that it was to be a valedictory sight of number twenty-three, from which her father had walked three weeks and more before toward the quarry. It was also a first good sight of the house where Alison had made love to Ben in order to make a child for Chris. As they drove up the tree-lined street Charlie's antennae twitched and his body stiffened.

“Look,” he said.

On either side of the road a woman and a man were obviously going from house to house. Respectably, neutrally dressed, they were doing it methodically but briskly.

“Plainclothes coppers,” said Charlie. “I know the breed, from the haircuts to the sensible shoes. Trench has taken the bait. They'll be asking if anyone saw the couple who used number fifteen. Maybe they even have photographs of them.”

They drove past, looking neither to left or right, and then past Rupert Coggenhoe's bungalow, already discreetly
on the market. At the top of the road, where the tarmac ran out and the path to the quarry began, Charlie turned the car round. Felicity sat silent, remembering the tear that had meandered down Alison's cheek. She felt glad she didn't have Charlie's job.

R
OBERT
B
ARNARD
's most recent novel is
Dying Flames.
Among his many other books are
The Graveyard Position, A Cry from the Dark, The Mistress of Alderly, The Bones in the Attic, A Murder in Mayfair, No Place for Safety, The Bad Samaritan
and
A Scandal in Belgravia
. Scribner released a classic edition of his
Death of a Mystery Writer
in 2002. He is the winner of the Malice Domestic Lifetime Achievement Award, the prestigious Nero Wolfe Award, as well as the Anthony, Agatha and Macavity awards. An eight-time Edgar nominee, he is a member of Britain's distinguished Detection Club, and in May 2003, he received the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement in mystery writing. He lives with his wife, Louise, and their pets, Jingle and Durdles, in Leeds, England.

Also from Robert Barnard

Dying Flames

The Graveyard Position

A Cry from the Dark

The Mistress of Alderley

The Bones in the Attic

Unholy Dying

A Murder in Mayfair

The Corpse at the Haworth Tandoori

No Place of Safety

The Habit of Widowhood

The Bad Samaritan

The Masters of the House

A Hovering of Vultures

A Fatal Attachment

A Scandal in Belgravia

A City of Strangers

Death of a Salesperson

Death and the Chaste Apprentice

At Death's Door