Creed (35 page)

‘Did they tell you who the Official Executioner was at that time?’

‘They got huffy at first and wanted to know what it was all about. I told them the
Dispatch
was doing a feature on the hanging debate; unfortunately that made them even more huffy. But they couldn’t withhold the information, so I got the name eventually. It’s one that hardly goes with the job, although I suppose it was rather silly to expect something macabre.’

‘Who was it?’

‘A man called Henry Pink.’

‘I don’t know why, but it sounds familiar.’

‘He was quite famous for a while, especially just before the abolition of hanging. He wrote his memoirs in the ’seventies.’

‘Is he . . . is he still alive?’

‘Just about. He’s old though.’

‘Of course he’s bloody old. Did you find out where he is?’

‘I’ve done my best, Joe. There’s no need to snap.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know what I’m going through.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry too. I made a few phone calls. Not too difficult – one led to another – but they took time. First was the Booktrust, who gave me the title of Pink’s book and publisher. Then I spoke to someone in the publisher’s publicity department. The girl there remembered the book, but wasn’t sure where the author was now. She checked back for me though and the address they had on file was of a pub in Yorkshire. Seems that was a popular sideline for public executioners; they could run the business and still have time to pop off when the call came. Real servants of the people, these characters. Anyway, I phoned the pub, and no joy. The landlord there hadn’t a clue where Pink was now, nor even if he were still alive.’

‘Prunella, can you just get to it?’

‘Only demonstrating how clever I’ve been, Joe. Indulge me. I enquired which brewery owned the pub and he told me it was a Tadcaster Brewery house, so next stop was their head office.’ She hesitated then, but not to catch her breath. ‘Joe, I . . . I enjoyed today.’

‘You rang the brewery’s head office . . .’

‘It did mean something to you, didn’t it? It wasn’t just . . .’ she lowered her voice, as if suddenly conscious of the office around her ‘. . . you know.’

‘Of course it meant something, Prunella. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.’

‘Not just that. Didn’t you feel something . . . more?’

If you only knew the something more I felt. ‘It was special, very special. We’ll talk about it later, okay? Right now I’ve got all this other stuff on my mind.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Joe. I only wanted to make sure you felt the same as I did.’

‘What did the brewery tell you, Prunella?’

‘I spoke to a very helpful chap there, who said the brewery would still have the address Henry Pink moved to after giving up the tenancy because they liked to keep in touch with their old and valued landlords – apparently they send Christmas and anniversary cards, that sort of thing. Unfortunately they hadn’t been in contact with Henry Pink for some time – ten years at least, he seemed to think – so frankly he didn’t know if old Henry was alive or dead. Anyway, I took down the address, but the brewery man wouldn’t give me the telephone number – against company policy apparently. That was no problem though; I called Directory.’

‘You got it?’

‘I got it and I rang it.’

Creed waited.

‘Joe?’

‘You spoke to him.’ Not a question.

‘No, I spoke to his niece. Pink is a widower with no children of his own and she moved in to take care of the old man when her own husband died. But her uncle has been poorly for some time, which is hardly surprising since he’s eighty-one. She told me she hadn’t visited him for years, and she was quite guilty about that. She must be getting on a bit herself, poor thing.’

‘Visited him? You mean he’s not with her any more?’

‘He was taken into a rest home several years ago, somewhere too far away for his niece to make regular visits. In fact, she admitted she’d only been there once, and he’d been too far gone in the head to talk sensibly to her. She decided he’d be much better off there with trained staff to look after him, though she said he was a very lucky man to have been accepted by such a fine place. Conveniently enough, if you want to see him yourself, Joe, it’s down here in the south. A place called the Mountjoy Retreat.’

Basically Creed had three fairly simple philosophies in life (there were others, but they were minor and usually varied when occasion dictated). The main ones were these: 1) Do unto others before they do unto you; 2) Never trust anyone in authority, ex-wives/lovers, helpful strangers, priests (of any variety); 3) Bend with the wind, and snap back hard in the lulls.

He had never actually defined these philosophies in such definitive terms, had never carved them in stone, but they had certainly served as a kind of tacit guide through the last ten or so years of his life. Call him hardbitten, if you like, call him a cynic, call him a fool; what you can’t call him is gullible (not entirely, anyway).

Although he was attracted to the girl named Cally – who wouldn’t be? – there was no way he would believe she had his best intentions at heart. As far as he was concerned she was up to her gorgeous neck in this unholy mess. She’d drugged him, had kidnapped Sammy, had lied to him – so why
should
he trust her? Even so, to give her a minor benefit of doubt (she had, after all, saved his life too) he’d waited for her call all evening and all night.

Earlier, when Prunella had arrived back on his doorstep, he had turned her away, telling her that he needed time on his own to think, and that he’d take no further action anyway until he was quite sure Cally wasn’t going to make contact. Prunella clearly had been disappointed, for the lustre in her eyes was not only because of the exciting story she had become involved in, but was also because she was keen to repeat some of the previous action of the day. Mistakenly, she’d been impressed by Creed’s prowess.

She had gone away slightly miffed, even though she’d understood the pressure he was under.

Creed hadn’t eaten, hadn’t touched the booze, but had smoked and drunk coffee before eventually drifting into a fitful sleep on the lounge sofa, one ear remaining wide awake in case the telephone should ring. It hadn’t.

He had risen early the next day and, with a further smoke and coffee, searched through his roadmap book, the address Prunella had given him by his side on the kitchen table. He hadn’t found mention in the book of the Retreat itself, naturally enough, but he did trace the village that the address claimed the place was near.

Now he was on his way, through the morning traffic, heading out of the city, going west towards Berkshire, on his way to talk to a retired and, for all he knew, totally senile ex-hangman. He could feel in his water that it was going to be another strange kind of day.

The Mountjoy Retreat was impressive, like one of those mansions for sale you often see full-page, full-colour, in
Country Life
; the kind that aren’t priced, but for which ‘substantial offers are invited’. For all its glory, however, it hadn’t been easy to find. One local that Creed had stopped to ask had heard of the place, but was blowed if he knew where the bugger was ’xactly. Another sent him off in a totally wrong direction. Finally he managed a reliable route instruction from the village post office.

The home was several miles from the village itself, tucked away down a tree-lined country lane with only an insignificant and weather-worn sign proclaiming its existence. Creed had steered the Suzuki between the unimposing brick pillars of the gateway and driven along the winding drive until the trees and foliage on each side opened out and the mansion was there in the distance across the sweeping lawns. He brought the jeep to a halt.

If Creed had had any knowledge of old architecture, he’d have noted that the building appeared to be a combination of sixteenth-, seventeenth– and eighteenth-century styles, but basically Tudor in origin. The rose-coloured brickwork was patterned with soft unobtrusive diapering, and tall windows were symmetrically arranged on either side of an early classical portico whose white columns rose almost to roof-height. There were higher turrets at both ends of the main facing, and plain lawns, made sullen by winter, stretched before and around the broad, gravelled forecourt. To Creed it was just a wealthy person’s paradise.

He drove on, studying the house as it loomed larger in the windscreen, and brought the jeep round to the wide steps of the portico entrance. He parked alongside a capacious delivery van from which covered trays and cartons were being unloaded. Creed climbed out and followed one of the men who was carrying six narrow cartons balanced precariously on top of one another.

A portly figure in a black suit and shiny grey tie appeared in the doorway ahead. ‘Adrian, if you drop those I’ll personally strangle you,’ he said, his expression one of outraged alarm. ‘Chef would
die
if he saw his gateaux in such mortal danger.’ His glance flicked briefly towards Creed before he turned and flounced back inside the building.

Creed overtook Adrian, who seemed suddenly to have lost confidence and was testing each unseen step with a probing foot first before committing himself, and entered the Retreat’s high-ceilinged hall. Its stark whiteness was almost dazzling.

The portly man in the black suit and grey tie was talking to an even more portly, not to say gross, woman seated at a large oak desk. She wore a fluffy pink cardigan over a uniform of pale blue.

‘Final delivery will be around three or four this afternoon, dear, is that all right?’ The man’s voice rose in a sing-song way at the end of the sentence.

The fat woman made a face.

‘Well I did tell you the times when you ordered,’ the man said, somewhat piqued. ‘If only Mr Parmount would allow Chef to cook on the premises we wouldn’t have these problems.’

‘It will have to do, Mr Greenaway.’ She had a child’s squeaky voice. ‘But please no later than three for the last load.’

‘Load? I hardly think that’s an appropriate description. I think you’ll find Chef has excelled himself for this little festivity of yours. I’m sure he could show your own chef – or should I say “cook” – a thing or two. As it is we’ll have to trust your man to warm up Chef’s preparations as best he can. Not the best way to do things, my dear. Extremely
gauche
, if I might say.’

‘I’m sure your bill will excel itself too, Mr Greenaway.’

‘If you want the finest, you have to pay the price. I believe Mr Parmount does require the finest? I’ve never known him to settle for anything less in the past. I’ll be along later to make sure everything is laid out correctly.’ Another quick, and this time disapproving, glance at Creed and the portly man pranced to the entrance door in time to meet the carrier coming through. ‘That lot to the kitchen also, and be sharp. There’s a lot more to do today.’ Then he was gone.

Creed approached the desk.

Miss Piggy-in-Blue regarded him as disapprovingly as had Mr Greenaway. She waited for him to speak.

‘Uh, my name’s Joseph Pink. I’m here to see Henry Pink,’ said Creed.

Her small eyes enlarged a little. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My name’s Joseph Pink. I’m here to see Henry Pink.’

She resembled a malformed ten-year-old who’d been asked the square root of 56,843.05.

‘My uncle,’ Creed explained. ‘My great-uncle. My mother is his niece. His niece-in-law,’ he quickly added, realising his own name wouldn’t be Pink had his mother been a niece by blood. Christ, he should have checked that out with Prunella.