In for the Kill (6 page)

I glanced at my watch. It was almost four o’clock. ‘Could you try her now?’

Miles picked up his phone. ‘She won’t be in the office. I’ll try her mobile.’

I crossed to the window as he called her number.

‘Joy, it’s Miles.’

His voice faded into the distance as I stared at the grey brick façade of the grammar school opposite. It was where Vanessa had once taught, and where our boys had gone to school. Vanessa had suggested I try Miles’s law firm. After my trial and conviction Vanessa had resigned her job as assistant head teacher. She’d since found a new job teaching at a private school just outside Petersfield, which the boys now attended. It was close to where they lived with their stepfather.

My eyes travelled along the road to where a stocky man wearing a crash helmet was standing beside his motorbike, looking this way. Was he following me? Was he a copper?

I wondered if Joy would tell me anything.

Would she still have those reports that Joe had compiled on his investigation into Andover? Had she handed them over to the police? Or had Joe destroyed them? Perhaps Andover had done that after killing Joe. If they were the same reports I had then I knew they weren’t worth the paper they were written on. But what if Joe had sent me edited highlights and the real reports contained some clue as to the identity and whereabouts of Andover? I had to check.

Miles came off the phone. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow.’

Damn. I had hoped it would be today. I said,

‘Where?’

‘The café in the Portsmouth Museum.’

That seemed as good a place as any.

The day was drawing in earlier than usual because of the now relentless rain and heavy skies and I was surprised to find my neighbour waiting for me in the small forecourt of my houseboat when I returned home. Her long, very wet hair in various shades of brown was framing a scowling face. She wore a long flowing green raincoat that reached Doc Martin-type boots.

‘Have you seen my mother?’ She demanded before I had even pushed back the gate. She was glaring at me as if I’d kidnapped her.

I didn’t even know she had a mother. ‘No. I’ve just returned from the mainland.’

She looked cross, as if it had been irresponsible of me to leave when her mother had gone missing.

‘She might be inside your houseboat.’

‘I doubt it. It’s locked.’ I could see that she wasn’t going to believe me, so I opened up and we stepped inside. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Ruby Kingston.’

‘And yours?’

I could see she was reluctant to tell me. I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business, but after a moment she said,

‘Scarlett and no cracks about
Gone with the Wind
.’

‘It’s a very pretty name. Mine’s Alex Albury, but I expect you know that already.’

She sniffed and scoured the interior of my lounge as if her mother could have been secreted somewhere.

‘I wasn’t convicted of kidnap or murder,’ I snapped, irritated by her manner.

‘Makes no difference to me what you went down for.’

‘Or that I was innocent?’

She gave a cynical smile. ‘That’s what they all say.’

‘In my case it happens to be true. What made you think she could be here?’

‘She forgets where she lives. She knocks on all the houseboats along here and I thought she might have got in without you realising it.’

I was about to say that I thought I would have noticed an old lady rattling around the place when something in her expression prevented me.

Behind her scowling countenance I could see genuine concern in her large brown eyes.

‘I’m sure she’ll turn up,’ I said gently, but she mistook my meaning.

‘Oh yes, she’ll turn up, perhaps dead on the beach, washed up by the tide. She might even turn up in the mortuary after being knocked down by a car.’

‘Look, I –’

‘Forget it. What do you care anyway?’

She stormed out and I was left feeling shocked by her sudden outburst and then angry with her.

I dismissed her and her mother from my mind, made myself something to eat and took the folder of Joe’s reports from underneath the mattress where I had stowed it. A bloody silly place, I know, and the first place Andover would have looked. I read through them again. There didn’t seem to be anything in them that Andover would be interested in.

Roger Brookes’ house was just outside a village called Wootton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire; Joe had furnished me with the address two years ago. That must have been just before Brookes had sold out to Sunglow. I jotted the details down in my notebook and lay back on the bed. The couple of whiskies I’d drunk had made me sleepy.

I was woken by a noise. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was almost ten o’clock. The noise came again; someone was trying to get in. Suddenly I was alert. I stuffed my notebook into the pocket of my trousers and crept to the door. I threw it open to find a very wet and very distressed old lady on my doorstep.

This must be Ruby.

‘Hugo!’ she cried, tumbling into my arms and pressing her soaking wet head against my chest, her body heaving with sobs; I could see her pink scalp through her wispy grey hair. Her dress was sodden and her legs and feet filthy. Disgust was my first reaction, followed swiftly by fear, not of her but of my reaction: I had wanted to push her away. I folded my arms around her frail body. It seemed to give her some comfort because the sobs eased. I wondered who Hugo was?

‘You’re safe now. Come on, sit down.’ I eased her towards the bench and prised her arms from around my back lowering her onto the seat.

‘Have you got a handkerchief in your bag?’

Her head came up and she stared at me alarmed. Clutching her handbag tight to her waist she wailed, ‘Don’t you come near me. I know what you’re after.’

I descended to the kitchen to fetch a towel and some tissues. By the time I returned she’d gone and the door was flapping open in the wind. I cursed loudly and vehemently, pulled on my sailing jacket, grabbed a torch and stepped out into the wild April night.

She was a few hundred yards down, stumbling towards Bembridge village. I needed to go after her and bring her back, but she might think I was attacking her, and before I knew it the police would be swarming all over me.

I bounded up to my neighbour’s houseboat and beat on the door. There was no answer. Of course, she’d be out looking for her mother.

Ruby had reached the café that led down onto the beach. If she stumbled onto the shore she might very well end up in the sea, as her daughter had predicted. There was nothing for it but to go after her.

I saw her turn right though, away from the shore and onto the track in front of the Pilot Boat Inn. She disappeared from sight. I sprinted after her, knowing that the path would take her past the backs of houses that overlooked the harbour, through the trees and eventually up to the windmill. It would be dark, muddy and dangerous.

A shaft of light sliced across me as the door of the pub opened and with it came the sound of laughter before it shut again. A man stared at me.

There was something familiar about him. I couldn’t place what, and I didn’t have time to ask him.

I caught up with Ruby after another five hundred yards. I almost ran into her. She was staring up at the back of a large house part shaded by the trees. It was in darkness but its sweeping lawns led down to a folly and its rear windows looked out across Bembridge Harbour and across to Portsmouth, beyond the Solent. I knew this because it had been my home, and my mother’s before her death three years ago. That lump the size of a golf ball was back in my throat. A pain gripped my heart and my breath came in painful gasps as I struggled to control my overwhelming sorrow. I should have been with her when she died. I should have been able to say goodbye.

Andover would pay for that.

I took a deep breath and pushed aside my emotions with some difficulty. Why had Ruby come here?

I stood silently beside her, as if she was an animal I didn’t want to scare off. She was obliviously to the elements that buffeted her.

After a moment she spoke with an edge of bewilderment to her voice.

‘He used to stay here.’

‘Who did?’

‘Hugo. He was so lovely. Where has he gone?

What have you done with him?’ She turned her anguished face to mine. It was smeared with pink lipstick and her thick face powder had run making it look like dirty rain on a windowpane.

Her skin was spongy and criss-crossed with lines, and her milky blue eyes sad.

So she no longer thought I was Hugo. ‘Come on, Ruby, let’s get you home,’ I said. I didn’t dare touch her. How could I get her away from here?

She was shivering and soaked.

‘He pushed her down the stairs.’

That pulled me up with a start. My heart did a somersault. ‘Do you mean Olivia Albury?’

‘Yes. She was my friend.’

So that’s why she had come here. But she was mistaken. ‘No one killed Olivia. She fell. It was an accident.’ At least that was what the police and the coroner had said. A sliver of fear ran through me.

Ruby peered at me. ‘I
saw
him push her.’

She was very insistent. Could she be telling the truth? But why would anyone want to kill my mother? Then again, why would anyone want to frame me? But they had.

The charity that Andover had set up had been registered at this address, and even though there had been a re-direct on the mail perhaps an item of post had got through. Had my mother discovered the identity of Andover and that’s why she had been killed? The thought startled me so much that I found myself trembling. Not without effort I pulled myself together and brought my attention back to the old lady beside me.

‘Come on, Ruby. Let’s get you home.’ How could I believe what she was saying? She was old and confused. She stepped back. Her eyes widened. I could see that at any moment she would scream.

‘You’re going to kill me too.’

‘No one’s going to hurt you, Ruby.’

She looked doubtful. I made a decision. I turned my back on her and began walking away hoping that she would follow. After a few moments I heard soft, hurrying footsteps behind me. I didn’t dare turn round in case she scuttled off again. We reached the Embankment. I was just debating what to do short of locking her on my houseboat when I saw a figure hurrying towards me. Thank goodness, it was Scarlett.

‘Mum, I’ve been searching everywhere for you.’ She took her mother’s arm and gently led her forward to their houseboat.

‘She was at the back of Bembridge House. It’s where I used to live.’

‘I know.’

‘She says my mother was pushed down the stairs. Is there any truth in that?’

‘She’s got Alzheimer’s.’

Ruby suddenly piped up. ‘I hid in Teddy’s room. I thought he might do the same to me, only he didn’t come back.’

My heart quickened. Teddy had been my grandfather. Ruby had got the geography of Bembridge House correct but my grandfather had been dead for sixty-seven years.

‘Do you know anyone called Hugo?’ I addressed Scarlett.

‘No.’

‘What did he look like, Ruby?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I need to get Mum to bed.’

And that was it. It was clear Scarlett didn’t approve of me. Well that was her problem not mine. I had enough on my mind without worrying about an old lady with dementia and a hostile daughter.

I told myself that Ruby’s picture of the past had become confused with the present. Yet, as I made my way to Portsmouth the next morning to keep my appointment with Joe’s secretary, I knew I was kidding myself. If I had needed another reason to destroy Andover this was it. If Andover had killed my mother then I was going to make him suffer for it.

Joy Hardiman wasn’t what I had expected. She was tall as me and I’m six one in my stocking feet. She wore two-inch heels. I wore loafers.

Her handshake was perfunctory but firm. She was older than I had expected, in her late forties, with cropped auburn hair, freckles on a small round face and lively green eyes. I hadn’t expected anyone so elegantly dressed either, in smart tailored chocolate-brown trousers, and an oatmeal polo neck jumper, under a brown leather jacket. But then Joe hadn’t exactly been what you might call your typical private eye, all shabby suits, dandruff and scruffy hair. Instead he had sported a crewcut of greying hair and had always been very neatly turned out in a well tailored suit and tie, or at least he had when he’d visited me in prison. This was twice, before I’d been moved from Brixton to the Isle of Wight.

‘Coffee?’

‘I’ve got one,’ she said.

‘I’ll just fetch myself one then.’

I scanned the small café on the ground floor.

A group of four young people, two girls and two boys, sat hunched over their mobile phones; a scruffy-looking middle-aged man, the frayed ends of his trousers hanging over his scuffed shoes, was reading the
Independent
; a large man, the colour of coal, wearing sunglasses that were too small for his bullet-shaped head, was listening to music on his headphones, and two women in colourful saris were chattering nineteen to the dozen, whilst their four children played at their feet. Then there was Joy who didn’t live up to her name as she stared down into her coffee cup.

‘It’s good of you to meet me.’ I placed my coffee on the table and took the seat opposite her.

‘Miles said it was important. That it might have something to do with Joe’s … death.’

‘I’m sorry about Joe,’ I said gently. ‘You must be very upset.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I shall miss him.’ She spoke with a slight lisp but her voice though sad was steady and I recognised a sensible woman when I saw one.

‘Was Joe working on something connected to me?’

‘The police asked me that.’

I felt a tightening in my gut but was confident that my expression hadn’t betrayed my tension.

Prison had taught me how to hide or disguise emotion. ‘A well built man with a Homburg and huge macintosh?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday morning.’

So the fat man was on to me even before I arrived at Clipton’s funeral. ‘What did you tell him?’