Robbie's Wife (25 page)

“I’ll miss you, too.”

Ali sipped his tea and nodded.

I made a cup of tea and when Agnes came down the stairs I told her I had helped myself to some meat pie. I didn’t want George to get blamed for the missing portion.

“Mr. Precious tells me you’re leaving us, Mr. Stone. I’ll call that a going-away gift.”

Over her shoulder I could see Ali and Joshua bowing in mock supplication, looking up toward the ceiling and mouthing the words, ‘Thank you missus, thank you,’ and I realized that I was smiling broadly. I was smiling at their antics and smiling because I would see Maggie soon and there was no more Robbie, only a dim memory of a man I had met once who was a sheep farmer in Dorset who had suffered a terrible accident.

But the image of Maggie leaning against the doorway in the hall, cradling her mug of tea and saying ‘there’s a handsome, gentle man and he’s only going to stay one night and what would happen if I went into his room in the middle of the night and fucked him’ was as bright and clear as the two men who sat opposite sipping tea.

I went upstairs to arrange the common room for breakfast. Agnes was already making toast and rock-hard slices were being stacked on plates. Ali was making tea in chipped china pots. Each time I do something this morning, I thought, it will be the last time I do it. Joshua and I dressed those who could not dress themselves and I helped Mrs. Churchill who sipped her tea through a straw, tried to guide some of the porridge into Simple Simon’s mouth, the usual breakfast chores and as always it was a bit of controlled chaos. When it had settled down Joshua and I were off to change linen. I carefully looked out the window of the front of the building, but there was no sign of the traveler, nor was he at the back behind the dustbins. Another six hours, I thought, and I will have disappeared from Bournemouth.

At midmorning, while Joshua and I were still stripping beds, Ali came to tell me that Alfie wanted to see me. I was puzzled, since Alfie never came into Precious Little in the mornings. When I entered his office there was Alfie behind his desk and another man, middle-aged, balding, sitting in the chair opposite Alfie. He studied me carefully as I came in.

“Jack, this is D.C. Hoad of the Bournemouth CID. He tells me there’s an investigation into Robbie Barlow’s accident and he wants to speak with you.”

I must have looked puzzled because Alfie added, “Detective Constable Hoad. He’s a policeman.”

The man in the chair didn’t speak.

Neither did I. I tried to keep my face as expressionless as possible, as if I were simply the bloke who had taken care of Robbie at Precious Little.

Finally the man spoke.

“We’d like to talk with you, Mr. Stone. There are some questions about how Mr. Barlow was injured that perhaps you can help us with.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help. I saw Robbie here some time after his accident.”

“But you spent some time at Sheepheaven Farm in Mappowder, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Long before Robbie got hurt.”

He rose, not taking his eyes off my face. “We think you can assist us, Mr. Stone. It would be helpful if you came to the police station with us.”

Who was us? He seemed to be alone. What could Alfie have possibly told him? Why had Alfie been called down to Precious Little in the morning?

“Is it necessary to go to the police station? Why not right here?”

“We prefer that you come with us, Mr. Stone.”

“But I’ve nothing to tell you!”

“You let us be the judge of that, Mr. Stone.” He turned to Alfie. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“Is this because I was working illegally? Is that what this is?”

“No, Mr. Stone. Frankly, I have no interest in your arrangement with Mr. Precious.”

What the hell had Alfie told him? Why was I being taken to a police station? I sucked in my breath, held it a moment, slowly releasing it, and I took stock. There was nothing to worry about. They knew nothing. No doubt I was only another piece of a puzzle. Although Mary the barmaid and Will Stryker had told me Robbie had suffered an accident, apparently for detective Hoad there were unanswered questions. It was better to go along.

“Alfie,” I said. “What about my pay packet? Can I have it now?”

He opened the drawer of his desk, slid the brown envelope toward me. The detective watched with what appeared to be mild interest.

There was a police car outside and a uniformed constable leaning against the fender. He stood when he saw the detective, opening the back door of the car. He appeared to be no more than a boy, fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, but he was obviously old enough to be a policeman. I doubted if he was the rest of the detective’s reference to ‘we’d like to talk with you.’

The trip was silent. It wasn’t until we came to the police station that I remembered my bag and laptop in the kitchen at Precious Little. No matter, I thought, Ali and Joshua would keep an eye on my things.

Inside, the detective stopped to chat with another man, then motioned for me to follow him. He went into a room with a table, several chairs and nothing else.

“Cuppa tea, Mr. Stone?” he asked, drawing a chair up to the table for me.

I sat.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Oliver?” He raised his eyebrows at the young constable who had followed us into the room, and Oliver scuttled out. The detective reached into a box on the floor, took out a recording tape and broke open the plastic sealing it. He snapped it into a tape recorder that was fixed to the end of the table and turned it on

“Today is the fourteenth of August, 2001. The time is eleven twenty-one. Persons present are Detective Constable Barry Hoad and Mr. Jack Stone.” He raised his eyes to focus on me and continued. “Mr. Stone, you don’t have to say anything. If you are charged with an offence it may harm your defense if you don’t mention something during the questioning which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. And, of course, you have a right to have a solicitor present.”

“Am I being charged with a crime, detective?”

“Not at the moment. This is being done under what we call the codes of practice. You can look at a copy of the codes if you’d like.”

“It’s not necessary, detective.”

“Well, then, Mr. Stone, shall we start?”

“You’re in charge here. Like I said, I have no idea what it is that I know that might interest you.”

“Do you know a Miss Mary Bertram?”

“No.”

“Barmaid at the Flying Monk in Mappowder?”

“Oh, that Mary. Yes. I never knew her last name.”

“How about a mister Nick Monaco?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Were you ever in the gypsy camp at the top of the rise above Sheepheaven Farm?”

“I walked up that way once. Robbie Barlow warned me to avoid it when I told him where I’d been. He said they were people not to be trusted.”

“If I told you Nick Monaco lived in that camp, would that jog your memory?”

“Like I said, I walked that way — I never met anyone there.”

“Mr. Monaco says he met you. He says you spent a night in his coach.”

Good God! I thought. The traveler went to the police. Somehow I had missed him at the Kings Head and he had done as he threatened.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let me explain, Mr. Stone. A police constable questioned Mr. Monaco the morning after Mr. Barlow was injured. It was routine. He was told not to leave the vicinity. Later, Miss Bertram was asked if there had been any strangers in the village and she told the constable that Monaco had been asking questions that day about Mr. Barlow’s accident, so the constable went back to question him again, but he and his lot had disappeared.

“Now I’m of the opinion that people do a runner when they’ve got something to hide, so he went on our wanted list. Two days ago Miss Bertram was in Bournemouth and she told us she went to Precious Care to take a lager to Mr. Barlow.”

He smiled. “Rather a nice gesture, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

“And she saw Nick Monaco across the street from Precious Care. She went to a phone box and called the police. Said it gave her such a start she never went in to see Mr. Barlow. So we were on the lookout for Mr. Monaco and we found him in the Kings Head. Does that ring a bell, Mr. Stone?”

“Does what ring a bell?”

“The Kings Head.”

“I know it. I’ve had a pint or two there.”

“You were supposed to meet Mr. Monaco there last evening?”

“I’m in the dark, here, detective. I left Sheepheaven Farm long before Robbie had his accident. I never met your Nick Monaco and I certainly never spent a night in anyone’s coach. As for meeting this man at the King’s Head, that simply never happened. No reason in the world for it to happen.”

At that moment Oliver showed up with two mugs of tea, setting them on the table in front of us. I was grateful for the interruption. I could feel my temples pounding and the balding man in front of me was beginning to sound like Clive Owen. His measured voice wasn’t accusatory. It was as if he were repeating a story for my benefit, careful not to skip over any details. He leaned forward and said, “Joining the interview is Police Constable Oliver Damory.” Then he turned his attention back to me.

“Mr. Monaco tells us that you came up the field into his camp in the rain, covered with mud, the night Mr. Barlow was injured.”

“He’s a liar.”

“Do you deny you were in that field that night?”

“Look, I don’t know this Monaco, never met him.”

“Bournemouth is peppered with CCTV, Mr. Stone. Closed circuit television cameras, fixed to utility poles, the fronts of buildings, aimed at places where we know things often happen. And there’s one in front of the Kings Head. That’s how we found Monaco. And you’re on tape talking to him two nights ago in front of a chip shop on the prom.”

“I don’t remember every punk who asks me for a fag outside a chip shop!”

“You haven’t answered my question. Do you deny you were in that field that night?”

Apparently the traveler had told him everything. My mind raced and I seized the story I had threatened the traveler with.

“Yes, I was there. I came back from London and I was coming through Mappowder in the evening and I thought it would be a lark to surprise Maggie and Robbie so I parked the car at the top of the field. But it started to rain and it got slippery so I went back to the car. I surprised someone breaking into it. I heard the window break and I yelled and whoever it was took off.”

Detective Hoad leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea.

“You can check with the car hire agency in London. They’ll tell you the car was damaged.”

“And you didn’t go down to Sheepheaven Farm?”

“It was muddy, my car had been broken into, it was raining and I felt stupid. I didn’t want to show up on their doorstep like that and I was headed back to London that night, so I drove back to my hotel, cleaned myself up and turned the car in the next morning. You can check it out.”

“We will, Mr. Stone. Why do you suppose Mr. Monaco would tell us you spent the night?”

“I have no idea. As you said, he was on your wanted list. I certainly wasn’t.”

“Why you, Mr. Stone? Why would he pick you out for his lie? That part puzzles me.”

“Look, I was a stranger in that village. I stood out like a sore thumb. If he wanted to shift suspicion, why not pick a stranger? And why would I want to injure Robbie Barlow?”

“That puzzles me, too, Mr. Stone. But Monaco has two eyewitnesses who say they saw you in the coach that night and the next morning.”

“Robbie said there were all thick as thieves. They’re lying.”

“There’s that possibility, Mr. Stone.”

“It’s no fucking possibility! It’s the fucking truth!”

“No need for that, Mr. Stone.”

“When can I go back to Precious Care?”

He rose. “Your tea’s getting cold, Mr. Stone. You’ll excuse me a moment?”

Then his voice became formal as he said, “The time is two minutes after twelve, and we are taking a break in this interview.” He reached over and snapped off the tape recorder.

I watched him leave the room. Oliver still stood by the door as if the teacher had asked him to be room monitor and keep order while he was out of the room. Oliver was silent, his hands clasped in front. I looked at my hands resting on the table, and I noticed that the backs had small brown spots, the kind that had been on the hands of my grandfather. When had those appeared, I wondered. My tea was, indeed, cold, but I sipped at it anyway. My throat was dry and I could feel Oliver’s presence behind me. In a few minutes the door opened again and Hoad came back to the table. “You need to go to the loo, Mr. Stone? Sorry I didn’t ask before.”

I shook my head.

He snapped on the tape recorder, saying, “The time is twelve fifteen, continuation of the interview with Mr. Jack Stone. Present are Detective Constable Barry Hoad, Police Constable Oliver Damory and Mr. Jack Stone.” He leaned back again in his chair.

“I’m puzzled by several things. Why would Nick Monaco make up such a story about you? Why would you want to injure Robbie Barlow? Why did you end up at Precious Care in Bournemouth taking care of him? You stayed there until he died, Mr. Stone. And according to Mr. Precious, you were the one who took primary care of him. As I said, it’s all very puzzling. I need a bit of time to sort it out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out! I went down there to see Robbie, there was a job, I was short of money, I worked long enough to make my fare back home. Taking care of Robbie was part of my fucking job!”

“Still, we’d like you to spend the night with us. Tomorrow we’ll sort all this out.”

“You can’t keep me here! Are you accusing me of attacking Robbie Barlow?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything yet, Mr. Stone.”

“Then I’m leaving.” I stood up and was suddenly conscious that Oliver had shifted so that he stood in front of the door.

“I think not, Mr. Stone.” Detective Hoad’s voice was no longer passive. “You’ll be assisting us in the investigation.”

“Are you charging me with a crime? Because if you aren’t, you can’t keep me here and there’s nothing more than that fucking gypsy’s lie for you to go on.”