Funeral Music (21 page)

CHAPTER 23

LET’S JUST GO over it again, shall we? If you’d just tell me again what you told me at the school, starting with why you were at the Assembly Rooms in Bath on the night of Friday the thirteenth of June,’ Bridger said, in control and oily. ‘That’s exactly five weeks ago today.’

Derek sank back in his chair and sighed, trying to swallow the sort of rage that he had long been in the habit of giving full vent to. After nearly an hour’s interrogation in his office at school, against the ecumenical cacophony from the hall below of seven hundred voices with steel band accompaniment raised in Celebration of Their Achievements, they had driven him here. They were sitting in Derek’s blond living room, meticulously done in Pauline’s favourite shades of biscuit, with cushions, picture frames and book spines (Pauline’s ‘little points of interest’) in dark green. It was already after five. The police car was parked outside in the drive and his neighbours would soon be rolling past on their way home from work. They would assume that poor Pauline and Derek, such a nice,
professional
couple, had been burgled, and a spate of solidly middle-class anxious enquiries would be sure to follow, so for them, but mainly for Pauline, Derek would have to concoct a convincing story. Some invention concerning a delinquent kid at school would be easy enough, but he would have to work at it to furnish a reason why the police wanted to talk to him at home rather than at school. Then he would have to remember whatever he said. He reflected that adultery was indeed a wearing business, probably more trouble than it was worth. He was in a very awkward position, he had to remember that, but if he was careful not to antagonise PC Plod here, he would get away with it and Pauline need never know. The thought of Pauline brought a surge of anxiety and another burning wave of indigestion, but he reminded himself that for the moment she was safely out of the way, up at the last session of her weekend course, doing their assessments. Thank God for that, at least. He would be through with this lot soon and then there would be nothing to stop him getting over to Cecily’s as planned. She was expecting him within the hour. He swallowed another chest-prickling, silent belch and sighed again.

‘I went to have a look round the costume museum, in connection with the professional matter I have already mentioned.’

‘And that would be?’

‘That I had been shortlisted for a job which included overall responsibility for the running of the museums,’ Derek rattled off. ‘I wanted to refresh my memory, get an impression of things for the interview. When I got there I was told that the museum was closed to members of the general public and I was annoyed, because the place was literally full of people, and they could easily have let me in.’

‘So you complained, I gather?’

‘I objected, yes. And Matthew Sawyer appeared from the back somewhere and I talked it over with him.’

Derek pushed out of his mind the memory of his embarrassment. ‘I only spoke to him for a minute in a corner of the entrance hall. Yes, I was alone when I spoke to him and no, we weren’t overheard so far as I know. No, as I have already said, I was not alone when I arrived at the Assembly Rooms, but my companion was very taken by the Natural Healing convention and was halfway down the hall looking at leaflets.’

Bridger looked across at Detective Constable Heaton on the other side of the room with raised eyebrows, which conveyed that Derek’s story had so far failed to impress. DC Heaton stared flatly back from the oyster Dralon armchair, embarrassed not by Mr Payne (his was an old, old story) but by the tone Bridger was taking. There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘I’ve already said this, but I suppose you want it again,’ Derek went on, his lips dry. ‘My companion was my secretary. We are...very close, out of school, that is. My wife often works at weekends, so Mrs Smith and I had gone to the Assembly Rooms together.’

‘No need to underline it, sir. We have Mrs Smith’s statement that she gave to the police officer who interviewed her at home on the evening of’ – Bridger leafed slowly back through his notes – ‘Monday the sixteenth of June. She told the officer that you made a brief enquiry about opening hours and left the building. Didn’t quite tell the whole story, did she?’

‘I’m sure she considered the question of my forthcoming interview as a matter confidential to myself,’ Derek said. ‘She is a very discreet woman. She was protecting me.’

‘Protecting you, sir? Protecting you from what, exactly? From being identified as a suspect?’

Derek sighed in exasperation. ‘No, of course not. Look, I’ve explained. We were...close. She and I were spending the evening together. Yes, all right then, the night. Look, is this relevant? I’ve already told you how I
did
spend the evening.’

Again he struggled to control his temper. It wasn’t good for him, all this rage. Again a noxious bulge of heartburn surged in his chest and he stirred unhappily in his chair.

Bridger said, without moving, ‘Let’s just have it again, sir, if we may.’

There was going to be no short way out of this. Derek knew he must not hiss as he spoke, but the recollection of this part of the evening still made the bile rise in his throat.

‘Mrs Smith decided that she would like to stay for the convention evening. I myself did not wish to do so. So we agreed that I would return to her house – yes, as I have already told you, 5 Bladud Vale, Larkhall – and return to pick her up at ten thirty. It was not a row, but I was, well, disappointed. I did not wait to discuss her decision at length. But it was not what you would call a row. It was only a little... acrimonious.’

He gulped dyspeptically, rubbing the flat of his hand slowly up and down his breastbone. He must concentrate. It was essential to convince them of the next part.

‘I got back to the house round about quarter to seven. I brought my briefcase and shopping in but forgot to pick up the carrier bag with the rest of my stuff from the backseat. I parked quite a way up from the house so I didn’t go back for it straightaway. I meant to do it later. I just sat down for a minute first with a glass of wine. Then I was going to go and get it so that I could change. I wasn’t planning to get started on dinner before about eight, so I had a bit of time to unwind. Well, I actually had a few glasses of wine, it had been a very tiring week, and then I fell asleep. I suppose I was just very tired. I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and I suppose I did drink rather a lot on an empty stomach. When I woke up it was after half past ten.’

‘And you had promised to pick up your “lady friend” at half past, had you?’

Derek nodded, wondering fleetingly if Cecily could accurately be described as either.

‘So when I woke up and realised the time I just picked up the car keys and ran. It was late enough already, and we hadn’t eaten or anything. Anyway, I was about halfway along Camden Crescent when it dawned on me that I really shouldn’t be driving. I mean, I felt quite sober but I probably had too much alcohol in my bloodstream. In my job you can’t afford to take risks like that, not that I would want to anyway.’

He did not add that he had also realised at once that the loss of his licence after a drunk-driving charge in Bath late on a Friday night would take some explaining to Pauline.

‘So I had to park the car on Camden Crescent and leave it. I walked the rest of the way to the Assembly Rooms.’

Bridger yawned. ‘In the rain, would that be, sir?’

‘Yes. I got there about quarter past eleven. There was a bloke locking up and he said a woman had just left to walk down to the rank at the abbey to get a taxi. It sounded exactly like Cecily. So I walked on down to see if I could find her, but she must have got a cab straightaway, there was no sign of her. And then I remembered about my bag which was still on the backseat of the car. There were things I needed in it. I decided to walk back to the car and get it.’

He did not mention that by that time he had felt apoplectic with anger towards Cecily and that after following her halfway round town he was damned if he was spending the money on another taxi just so that he could screech up seconds behind her when her taxi drew up outside number 5. He was wet through anyway and couldn’t have got any wetter. He would walk and it would be her fault. Let her worry. Let her drop dead.

‘When I got back to the car the bag on the backseat had gone. It was missing.’ He sighed. It did sound implausible.

‘And yet the car had not been broken into, sir?’ Bridger asked, disingenuously. ‘Amazingly enough.’

Derek coughed. ‘I’ve told you. I had left it unlocked. By mistake, in the hurry, and in the wet. I just forgot to lock it.’

Patiently, he again went through the list of items missing from the green Marks and Spencer’s bag and again Bridger stopped him when they came to the knife.

‘And you didn’t think to report any of this to the police then, sir, the “theft” of valuable items, not even the “theft” of a dangerous, eleven-inch, steel kitchen knife?’

Derek sighed. Of course he had not reported it, and Bridger knew why.

‘You just went out the next day, I think you said, and replaced it from Kitchens in Quiet Street. Using cash. And we’ve noted that you also used cash that morning to buy a pair of corduroy trousers, a checked shirt, a cotton sweater, toothbrush and razor. So that Mrs P would be none the wiser? Very thorough of you, sir.’

Bridger grinned at Heaton. ‘And going back to the previous night, you got back to 5 Bladud Vale at, what time was it?’

‘I’ve told you. Some time around one.’

‘And Mrs Smith is unable to confirm this, I believe you said?’

‘Mrs Smith, as I have told you, was taking a bath. She was playing music very loudly in the bathroom when I got back. She does that when she is feeling at all...tense. She had left a blanket on the stairs, which I took to be an indication that she did not wish to be disturbed. So I slept on the sofa.’

He did not add the little detail, the tiny satisfaction that had rounded off his unplanned and rather untoward evening. When he had got back, bursting for a pee, to find that Cecily had barricaded herself in the bathroom with Marvin Gaye on full blast, he had marched back out into the front garden and urinated savagely into her urn.

‘So all in all, you didn’t get quite the evening you were hoping for then, it would seem,’ Bridger said. DC Heaton gave a little smirk, of which he was instantly ashamed.‘Anything to add at this stage, sir?’

Derek dumbly shook his head, which was beginning to ache. ‘My wife...’ he began, turning towards Bridger in an appeal from one man of the world to another and in this instance futile.

‘I heard later from Mrs Smith about the murder. I was quite upset. But I didn’t know Sawyer. I only spoke to him for a minute, about the museum opening times.’

‘So you are confirming, are you, sir, that you didn’t know that Mr Sawyer had been shortlisted himself for the job you were going for?’

‘No, I didn’t know,’ Derek almost barked. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face as if to wash away the lie. ‘Look, even if I had, does anyone ever want a job badly enough to kill off the opposition? In your experience?’

‘Thank you, sir. Now, that knife you bought. In the kitchen is it, sir? If you’ll just show DC Heaton where to find it, he’ll bring it along, and then we’ll just pop over to the station and see if we can flesh out a few of the details.’

Derek’s despair was too deep for further speech. As he left the room, DC Heaton seized his chance.

‘Sir, don’t you want to arrest him? None of this’ll be admissible evidence if you don’t arrest him. It’s not like you’re letting him stay here, is it? He could claim unlawful detention. You need to arrest him.’

‘Let me handle this, Constable. There’s nothing wrong with the odd short cut, when you know where to make it. Go and get the knife.’

When Derek and DC Heaton reappeared a moment later, Bridger said breezily, ‘Right, sir. Just a few more questions down at the station, if you don’t mind. In the hope that we can eliminate you from our enquiries, sir.’

CHAPTER 24

THE MAN KEPT his eyes closed. Opening them seemed to hurt more, and there was nothing to see anyway, just the roof of the van. Still he couldn’t stop shivering. It was bad, very bad. And he had no idea where he was or for how long they’d been travelling now, since he’d been picked up at the specified point, handed over the cash and seen it counted, and been told roughly to lie down and keep out of sight. In the dark, Le Fournisseur had not noticed that he was ill, nor was he the type to care, unless it was going to stop him getting his money. The van had stopped maybe half an hour ago, and the man had said only, ‘Don’t move’, and then climbed out, banging back the door so hard that the pounding in his head had got even worse. Then silence, except for birds. This was not a city. He could not be in a city. Even if he was near a park he would be able to hear people and traffic. He knew even without ever having been in London that this could not be where he was now, and that the man had lied to him.

The man was back. He must be standing just outside next to the van, just on the other side of this thin metal wall. There was someone with him, another man, also French. They were talking in French. He was supposed to be in London, that was what he had paid the money for. He might not even be in England. Panic hit him somewhere in the stomach with a hot, gripping rush of pain. He wanted to cry out, but only a groan came. He felt his lips. He was so thirsty. Outside, they were talking about him.

‘He’s ill. He can’t go tonight, he’d collapse on the road and get caught. How should I know if he was ill when we left? What’s it to me?’

‘He can’t stay here. If he can’t go tonight, he’ll just have to stay in the van, there’s nothing else for it. Look, you know I don’t like this anyway. It’s got to stop, this part of it.’

‘Don’t start, for God’s sake. Look, he can’t stay in the van. What if he throws up or something? I’ve got valuable stuff in there. Come on, we can get him into your place, can’t we? It’s only for one night. Tomorrow I’ll dump him in Bristol and that’ll be the end of it. Come on, Paul.’

‘
My
place? Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not my place. You must be mad. It’s far too dangerous. Anyway, what about my girlfriend? She’s always coming round, even when I’m not there. What am I supposed to say to her?’

‘Paul, it’s one night. You can say something, tell her you’re ill, say you’ve got an upset stomach. Something. Look, if we try to keep him in the van and he gets worse someone will hear him. Or he’ll bang on the door to be let out. He’s a difficult bastard anyway. He stowed away on a cargo ship to Bordeaux, been in Paris about two months. Immigration got on to him. Okay, so he’s ill but it’s only flu. He’s still tough, and I don’t want trouble.’

‘Bernard, I swear this is the last time, you hear me? Try this again and I’m out of the whole thing. Forget the money, forget the whole bloody thing, it’s too dangerous. I’m not interested, okay? Are you listening to me?’

‘Yeah, okay, okay. It is, you’re right. Last time. We’ll just do the antiques. Look, I’m agreeing, okay? But we’ve got this bastard on our hands until tomorrow, and we’ve got to keep him hidden somewhere. It’ll have to be your room. There’s nowhere else, is there?’

There was a short silence.

‘Fuck you, Bernard, and fuck him. Okay, because he’s ill, that’s all. Not to help you. It’ll have to be my room. We’ll come and get him later, in a couple of hours, after the salon’s closed. And you’d better be ready to give me extra for this, you bastard.’

The voices faded, the men were walking away. So his name was Bernard, Le Fournisseur, the man with the fat yellow fingers. The other one sounded younger. So he was going to have to wait at least another two hours with his thirst, his aching face, his pounding head, his numb limbs. He was in the wrong place, too ill to move, and they hated him. They would soon realise, if they had not already, that it would be easier to kill him. That was what Bernard would want, and Bernard carried a gun. Maybe the younger one would want him dead, too. He stirred and felt the rough canvas of his bag against his thigh. They would get all that, too. He had been a fool to let Bernard see it. They would be talking about him now, deciding where to do it, what to do with his body, sharing out his money. He whimpered into his hands and tears ran from the corners of his tight-shut eyes and rolled into his hair.

When he heard the wrenching screech of the van door opening he realised that he had no strength to defend himself but still enough energy to feel terror. He opened his eyes and raised his head, sobbing. But it was not Bernard, it was the other one, Paul. Paul leaned forward into the van and stared at him over the stacked chairs, the tea chests and boxes, then turned round and hauled in a big soft-looking bundle. So he was going to be suffocated. Then he would be stuffed into a bag and dumped somewhere to rot or be eaten by dogs. He shrank back into the corner where the floor met the cold metal wall of the van and stared helplessly, his breathing short and wheezing. He was too weak to sit up or to scream.

‘Here. These will help.’

They were blankets. Three soft, wool blankets, and there was also a pillow for his head. He must have brought them from his own bed. He must have put himself at risk to bring
him
blankets and a pillow. The man was crouching beside him, spreading them over him like a mother. Now he was ashamed of his tears and the incoherent thanks which came painfully from his thick, dry throat.

‘I’ve brought you some water,’ Paul said, placing a full plastic bottle beside him. ‘I’ll come and get you later, then you can eat, if you want to. You’ll be able to rest properly. You’ll be all right. I’m sorry.’

And then the man Paul was gone. And left in the dark of the van, he first drank some of the water. Then, wrapped in the blankets, he found that his shivering stopped long enough to let him fall asleep.