Dusty Death (22 page)

But music dispelled all that for him. From the moment when the orchestra began the introduction and he made ready to lay his fingers on the keys of the Bechstein, concentration took over. He heard nothing but the accompaniment of the players around him, saw nothing but the conductor and the smooth ivory beneath his fingers, thought of nothing but the rhythm of performance and the passage which was coming next. Actors spoke of Doctor Theatre curing other concerns; for him, it was Doctor Music which took him over.

He had that wonderful feeling that he was at one with the instrument, that he had become himself an instrument, at the disposal of the composer and totally subject to him. It lasted right through the concerto, as the difficulties flashed past him, disposed of with triumphant ease. He could scarcely believe that it was over so quickly, that the applause was for him. It was not until the conductor came forward and led him from his stool to acknowledge the swelling tumult of that applause that he rejoined the normal world, bowing shyly to acknowledge the wonderful uproar, which should by now have been familiar to him, but which still came as a surprise.

His problems began after the concert was over.

He had visitors after the performance. That was becoming the norm, with his increasing success and his rave reviews, but he hadn't yet mastered the art of receiving their adulation nonchalantly and getting rid of them swiftly but politely, an art which his agent assured him he would need to acquire. That meant that the car park was almost empty when he left the now deserted concert hall.

Every shadow seemed to him to carry the menace of a human shape. He found himself looking over his shoulder repeatedly, even whirling suddenly in response to some unidentified but innocent sound. He even checked the back seat of the Vectra to make sure it was empty before he slid into the driver's seat and turned the ignition key. He called a goodnight to the attendant as he went through the exit, happy to hear the sound of a cheerful answering voice through the darkness.

At least the city was quiet by this time, and Matt knew the route he was going to take. On his way to Liverpool, he had dawdled his way round Preston on the old A59, knowing that he had plenty of time before the concert. But somewhere along that route, his menacing lunchtime companion had picked him up and followed him. He had told himself repeatedly over the last few hours that the man and the mysterious force behind him wouldn't be interested in contacting him again: they had got their message across, and that was that.

Nevertheless, Matt took the motorway route home. He drove swiftly along the M58 to the junction with the M6, then north to Bamber Bridge, then westwards along the M65 until he had passed Brunton, keeping a wary eye on his rear-view mirror. When a car appeared to be following him, he put his foot down hard and took the Vectra up over the ton, wondering what the police would think of his explanation if he was stopped.

The car did not follow him.

The route he chose was considerably further, but not slower. He felt the tension build again when he had perforce to leave the motorway for the last few miles, but it was half past eleven now, and no headlights followed him through the lanes to Waddington.

The cottage looked very black against the hillside in the light of the thin moon. For the first time in months, he wished that he did not live alone. It would have been nice to see a welcoming light within the low-roofed old building, to hear a friendly voice acknowledging his opening of the front door.

He went swiftly through the place, switching on every light as he went, turning the cave of darkness into a box of bright light. There was no one in the house. Of course there wasn't. He had never expected that there would be, had he? He made himself a pot of tea and sat behind drawn curtains, listening to a recording of Brendel playing Mozart, telling himself that he had always intended to wind down like this when he got home.

The episode at lunchtime seemed like a bad dream now, though he could remember every detail of the man's appearance and what he had said. He wondered what it was that these people were so anxious that he should not reveal. But he didn't want to think about that now. At least it seemed they didn't know where he lived. That was a huge relief.

And he wouldn't talk, if they didn't want him to: he had no plans on being a hero.

He washed his cup and checked for a second time that all the doors were locked before he went up the narrow staircase. In the low-ceilinged room beneath the eaves, it took him much longer than usual to get to sleep. He told himself that it was the excitement of the concert and his reception after it, but he knew that it was what had happened earlier in the day which was keeping him awake. At least he was secure here, in his cosy village retreat. It was three o'clock before he fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke later than usual, to the sound of his post coming through the letter-box. Quarter to nine. He was usually up a good hour before this. There was nothing today from his agent. He had received so much good news lately that it was a disappointment when there were no new offers. He picked up the letters and the paper, went into the kitchen, reached for the cereals and filled the kettle. He would read the
Guardian
review of his concert over his breakfast. It was a mark of his increasing maturity that he no longer felt compelled to race feverishly through the pages to find what some critic had said about him.

He thought at first that the envelope with the Lancs postmark would be a circular: it had the computer-printed label with his address which such communications usually carried. He slit it methodically with the rest of the junk mail and carried it to the table with him.

At first he thought the envelope was completely empty. It was only when he turned it upside down and shook it that the single scrap of newsprint fell out. It was not even one of those messages cobbled together with individual letters cut from newspapers and glued to a sheet of paper. This was just a single word in inch-high black print, cut from some headline Matthew Hayward would never identify.

It said simply: ‘REMEMBER'.

They knew where he lived, after all.

Peach and Blake parked discreetly by the training field.

It would be March tomorrow. The snowdrops had almost finished, the crocuses were blazing, and the early daffodils were making a brave show on this sunny morning, insisting that spring was just around the corner.

But this was a bleak place. You could immediately see that the prevailing wind was from the west, from the way in which the stunted hedges bent all one way, as if cowed by the gales. Or as if craving alms of the sun, thought Lucy, who was a romantic at heart and remembered her
Wuthering Heights
. But the wind today was from the north-east, and it chilled their hands and their ears instantly as they emerged reluctantly from the warmth of the unmarked Mondeo and took in the scene.

Money was short at Preston North End Football Club, as it was at most clubs in the Nationwide League. The first team squad had a designated and well-equipped training centre, but the juniors took their chance where they could, which meant enduring arctic conditions on a day like this. Yet only two of them wore gloves as they ran up and down on the half-frozen surface: when you are still a teenager, you are ridiculously reluctant to show any sign of physical weakness to those who employ you.

They were playing nine-a-side on a full-sized pitch, which at least meant they had to run about and keep the circulation going. The man in charge was very black, though a two-inch-wide patch halfway up his face was the only skin which could be discerned. As if in deference to his ancestry, he was as well protected against the glacial conditions as it was possible to be. His tracksuit trousers were tucked into thick football socks, the top part of his head and his ears were insulated under a knitted bobble hat, his hands were invisible beneath thick-knit mittens. His instructions to his charges were made indistinct by a black and white club scarf, wrapped twice around his mouth, with the ends trapped securely within his tracksuit top.

He urged on the youngsters with emphatic arm gestures, though it was difficult to discern from the touch-line that his instructions received much attention from the enthusiastic players. He nodded as he passed the only two spectators he had on this Siberian morning, muttering some remark about their sanity which was mercifully unintelligible.

Percy Peach took advantage of the ball going out of play for a throw-in to flash a warrant card in frozen fingers and yell into the gale, ‘Billy Warnock? Brunton CID. We'd like a word, as soon as you've a minute. Which had better be soon, on this brass-monkey morning.'

Billy nodded. They had come, then. He had known they would, of course, so there was no need to be surprised or fearful, was there? He wondered if they had tracked down Wally Swift yet, whether they had spoken to him. What would Wally have said? He didn't fancy contradicting him. He could still see Wally's wolfish face in the shadows of that dimly lit house, even after all these years.

He lowered the scarf an inch, said as confidently as he could, ‘I'll be with you straight away. Let's go into the changing room over there, shall we?' Then he turned and yelled at the juniors, ‘You're on your own for a few minutes, OK, lads? And remember what I said about discipline and positions. Most of you are just chasing the ball and forgetting your main jobs!'

The changing room was no more than a wooden hut, with a single oil heater in the middle of the floor and two showers which were inoperative because the water was turned off at the main. Billy pulled up three rickety chairs as close to the heater as it was possible to get them and sat down opposite his two visitors. ‘Sent you up from Deepdale, did they?'

‘Not exactly.' What the Secretary of the football club had actually done was given them the man's second name and his job description, and confirmed that he had originally come to the club as a triallist thirteen years ago. ‘We want to ask you a few questions. In connection with your presence in a squat at twenty-six Sebastopol Terrace in Brunton, in the winter and spring of 1990–91.'

He didn't deny it. There seemed little point, when they had the details so precisely. He mustered a big grin from his wide mouth, displaying the rows of very white teeth which his wife said were his best feature. ‘You got me banged to rights there, guv'nor. How can I help you?'

‘You could tell me who committed the murder of Sunita Akhtar, your fellow-resident in that squat, if you're really anxious to be helpful,' returned Peach with equal cheerfulness.

The grin vanished abruptly. ‘I know nothing about that. Nothing beyond what I've read in my paper and heard on my television.' When they continued to stare at him, he added feebly, ‘I can't remember much about those months in the squat. It's a long time ago, now.'

‘So everyone tells us. So let's see if we can prod that reluctant memory of yours a little. Tell us what you can remember about the other people who were with you in that house. Detective Sergeant Blake here will be only too pleased to record a few notes for posterity!' He nodded to Lucy, who produced her gold ball pen from some intimate recess of her clothing and gave Warnock an encouraging smile, exhaling a soft cloud of white vapour from a face which seemed as pale as his was dark in that freezing hut.

‘I don't remember much about them,' said Billy defensively.

Peach gave him the smile of a hungry polar bear. ‘Really? They remember quite a lot about you, Billy Warnock.' You had to stretch the truth a little at times, to encourage reluctant talkers.

‘Well, there was Wally Swift.'

‘That's better! Tell us all about Wally, then.' It was interesting that he had begun with the man they most wanted to hear about. ‘Friend of yours, was he, Wally?'

‘No!' The response was too immediate, the tone too vehement. He tried to rescue things. ‘I remember him best, because we were all a bit scared of him, I think. He was older than us, and he seemed to know what he was about.'

‘Which was what?'

He could scarcely believe that he had led himself here, into the area he least wanted to talk about, the most dangerous area of all for him. ‘I don't know quite what he did.'

‘I think you do, Mr Warnock. And I think you'd better tell us, don't you? Unless you want to get yourself into even deeper waters.'

Billy hadn't realized he was in water of any kind, but this dapper figure in the dark suit and tie and the leather jacket seemed very certain about it. ‘I think Wally was probably into drugs of some kind. I think he was dealing.'

Peach nodded. ‘This is better, Billy. You're beginning to sound more convincing, now. In the light of what we've heard from the other people who were in that squat.'

Billy didn't like the way this was going at all. He had planned to be very vague, to dissociate himself completely from Wally and this killing. But he felt as if a net had been thrown over him: it had been loose at first, almost undetectable, but now he found it being drawn more tightly around him, cramping his limbs for movement when he wanted to lash out wildly. He wondered just who they had been talking to, what damage the others might have done to him with their evidence about those events he thought had been buried for ever. He said desperately, ‘I didn't kill her, you know. That Sunita.'

‘We haven't accused you of that, have we, Billy? Not yet.' Peach nodded thoughtfully, as if wondering exactly when that accusation might best be made. ‘I think the best thing you can do now is to give us your recollections of the other people who were breaking the law with you in occupying that house. Don't you think so, DS Blake?'

‘I think that would be much the best thing for Mr Warnock to do, yes.' Lucy eased back the hood on her anorak a fraction to reveal her lustrous red hair and gave their man an encouraging smile.

Billy was grateful for the smile. He wished he could talk to this softer creature alone, but he knew that that would be quite impossible. He swallowed and said, ‘There were two other girls there, as well as Sunita.'