The Price of Failure (10 page)

Shock brought the outside world to a halt. It gripped him tightly enough to squeeze his lungs. It caused his mind silently to shout a panicky denial.

The world resumed. He turned the photo over; there was no writing on the back. He ballooned the envelope; there was nothing left inside.

*   *   *

He pressed the button of flat 3 for the fourth time. For the fourth time, there was no response.

The front door opened and a woman stepped out; middle aged, dressed for comfort and not smartness. She went to shut the door.

‘Hang on,' he said.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Leave the door, will you? I need to go in.'

‘I'm not certain…'

‘Detective Constable Carr.' He showed her his warrant card.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't realize.' Then she said curiously: ‘Is something wrong?'

‘It's just that I need a word with Miss Varney because she's been having a spot of trouble.'

‘I heard about that. It's all rather disturbing. I mean, this isn't that kind of a neighbourhood.'

He was in far too much of a hurry to stand and discuss the neighbourhoods in which obscene telephone calls might reasonably be expected. ‘I'm sure it isn't. Thanks.' He moved past her and went inside.

He climbed the stairs, knocked on the door of the flat; knocked again when nothing happened. Knocked a third time just to make certain. Then he began work. In the course of their careers, most detectives learned something about picking locks, especially if they'd had contact with the old-style housebreakers who preferred skill to a sledgehammer and a sawn-off twelve-bore. If on leaving she had secured all the locks fitted to the front door, he accepted that he would be unable to break in, but many people carelessly secured only the most accessible and easily worked lock. He brought a small bunch of picks, which resembled dentist's probes, from his pocket and used them in turn to try to force the main lock halfway up the leading edge of the door. The fourth one moved the tumblers. He turned the handle and pushed and the door opened.

The flat had been cleared of all personal possessions and nothing remained to give the slightest hint as to where she might have gone. In the smaller bedroom, a hole had been bored through the wall – virtually invisible in the larger bedroom because of the patterned wallpaper. When he looked through this, he had a clear view of the bed – the view the camera had had.

The practised skill with which she had seduced him – and in the circumstances this reversal of normal practice was not the farcical suggestion it might seem – the techniques she had used to lift him into fields of passion he'd only previously reached in his imagination, and her readiness to play her part in compromising him, marked her as a Tom despite her air of innocence which had so fooled him. Why? Blackmail? But any intending blackmailer would have to be a fool to presume he enjoyed even the shadow of wealth as a mere detective constable, or that he could alter the course of an investigation. And whoever had set this up clearly was no fool.

14

When Carr drove into the courtyard, Wyatt was by the far line of cars. The detective sergeant hurried across to where he parked.

‘I've been shouting for you all morning.'

Since it was only a quarter to ten, that was a gross exaggeration. But Carr contented himself with saying: ‘Sorry, Skipper. I went straight from home to Miss Varney's flat to ask for the photos and the envelope they were in.'

‘What stopped you doing that yesterday?'

‘She was out.'

‘You should have phoned in first thing this morning to say what you were doing. You know the rules.' Wyatt's regard for the sanctity of rules was often the cause of amusement or resentment. ‘Let's have them, then.'

‘She wasn't at home.'

‘And it's taken you the best part of two hours to discover that?' Wyatt ostentatiously sighed. ‘Look, Mike, I know you're not going to miss the chance to slip in and see Gloria, but for Pete's sake, keep things reasonable. I had the Old Man asking for you and had to cover.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Just remember that my good nature's not elastic … The engineer from Malicious Calls has been on the blower to say he's tried to get hold of the Varney woman to arrange a time for the reinstallation of the equipment, but can't get any answer. And you've found her out each time. We know the phone calls shocked and frightened her, so d'you think it's possible the photos were the last straw and she's panicked and cleared off?'

‘It's possible.'

‘What's her job?'

‘She never said.'

‘Living in Egremont Road, it's either got to be a good one or she has a nicely rich daddy. What about relatives or a boyfriend?'

‘She never mentioned anyone.'

‘Seems you didn't chat her up at all?'

‘I'm a married man.'

‘Sounds good. But then maybe the temptation wasn't all that strong … Until we can contact her again, there's nothing more we can do. So get your nose hard down on all the work you ought to have cleared up days ago.'

*   *   *

There was little more depressing than an empty house. Carr threw his mackintosh over the chair in the hall, went through to the larder and poured himself out a heavy gin and tonic. Then, wanting the sound of voices, he moved into the sitting room and switched on the television.
Coronation Street.
He switched the set off, not bothering to channel hop.
Coronation Street
was one of Gloria's favourite programmes.

He drank. If only he had been leading a normal married life, he would not have become so sexually intrigued; if only he had not been so sexually intrigued, he would never have slid into becoming so sexually attracted that he lost all self-control. If only. The two most futile words in the language.

The phone rang. Because he so needed to be taken out of himself, he immediately decided this was someone ringing to invite him out to supper. Both Jean and Allison had promised to do so, yet so far had not. Jean's husband was a bore, Allison's children were a menace; in his present mood, he was prepared to find either husband or children acceptable company. Carrying the glass into the hall, he lifted the receiver. ‘Mike speaking.'

‘How did you like the photograph?'

He focused his mind, knowing that he was going to have to fight long and hard. ‘It's extraordinary what can be done with computers these days.'

The caller laughed. The line went dead.

He was bewildered. If this was an attempt to blackmail, why hadn't any demand been made? If it wasn't blackmail, what the hell was it? A practical joke? What joker would go to such elaborate lengths and expense – Genevieve's services would have cost big money?

He was duty bound to report the matter to the DI because it might, despite the doubts just raised, be an attempt to blackmail him into perverting the course of justice. But to look at things from a practical point of view, at the moment he could tell the DI nothing that would help identify either the caller or his motive. Better to wait until there was something definite before he suffered the humiliation of having to admit that he had screwed a Tom while his wife was in hospital, desperately trying to keep their baby alive.

*   *   *

Conscience was strange. On Tuesday and Wednesday it had tortured him, today it lay quiescent, yet the facts hadn't changed. Was it self-defence or cowardice which made him remember policemen he'd known who'd had nibbles on the side; the inspector who had run his hand over every new WPC's bottom to gauge the strength of her desire for promotion; the car teams who traditionally were offered quick freebies for ignoring kerb crawlers? The marriages of most of them had survived. It was the knowledge, not the act, which destroyed marriages.

He parked in front of the hospital, picked up the carrier bag from the front passenger seat, locked the car, walked past the east wing and along to the main entrance.

When Gloria saw him, she managed a smile. That was a good sign. He bent down and kissed her, handed her the carrier bag, nodded a hullo at the woman in the next bed, sat on the edge of Gloria's bed.

She opened the carrier bag and examined the contents of the small bags inside. ‘You must have bought the whole shop.'

‘After choosing the pears, apples, and peaches, the chap who was serving me said the grapes were special.'

She brought out one of the small bags, reached inside to pull off a large green grape from the stalk, ate it. ‘That's right, it's absolutely delicious. You're so clever!'

‘Who am I to disagree, even if I don't think I can honestly claim much credit in this case.'

‘It's wonderful seeing you so much more cheerful.'

Could that have been a more ironic remark?

‘I was getting worried at seeing you look so down.'

‘It was the flu that turned out not to be flu.'

‘It was you working too hard. The next time I see Mr Hoskin, I'm going to give him an earful.'

‘Just wait until after the promotion lists have come out, will you? Right now, he's edgy.'

‘Suppose he does go to HQ, who do you think will take over E division?'

‘I've no idea beyond the fact that it won't be Sean.'

‘That won't worry him. The last time Freda came, she said he can't wait to retire.'

‘Which is hardly surprising. He spends most of his time harking back to the days when the bobbies patrolled the streets on foot and the public looked on them as friends. It's never going to be like that again.'

‘More's the pity.'

‘You can't turn the clock back.'

‘But why do things always have to change for the worst? Nowadays, it's sleaze and brutality.'

‘It's not as bad as the media make out. And in any case, the pendulum will soon swing back and we'll all be putting frilly lace around piano legs.'

‘I don't believe that ever really happened. It's a myth that's used to deride Victorian values.'

‘When one reads about the conditions so many people lived under in those days, the values need deriding.'

She reached across and put her hand on his. ‘Do you know one of the things I most like about you?'

‘My handsome profile?'

‘The way you really care about other people; the fact that you'd never knowingly hurt anyone … And that's true, so don't get all embarrassed.'

It hadn't been embarrassment, it had been the return of a sharpened conscience. He hurriedly changed the conversation. ‘Can I have just one grape to taste what they're like?'

‘For heaven's sake, have as many as you can eat.'

He picked a couple off the stalk. ‘They are good! I'll get some more.'

‘Not for a day or two, not with all the other fruit you've brought. Which reminds me – though I can't think why it should – who sent the letter?'

‘What letter?'

‘The one that came this morning.' She pointed at the bedside table.

He saw a large white envelope on which her name and the hospital's address were written in childish capitals.

‘Well?'

‘How am I supposed to be able to answer without knowing what's inside?'

‘But that's the whole point. All that's inside is a photo of you.'

With a sense of shock, he realized why the writing had seemed familiar. Whoever had addressed that envelope was the same person who had addressed the envelope he'd received the previous day.

She chatted on. ‘At first I thought you must have sent it and someone else had addressed the envelope…' She stopped. Her voice rose and sharpened. ‘What's wrong. Mike, are you ill?'

The woman in the next bed leaned across. ‘Shall I ring for the nurse, dear? I remember when my Bill had his stroke. Talking to me, just like you and your hubby, and all of a sudden, he went all limp…'

Ironically, it was the lengthy and unwelcome description of a medical disaster that enabled him to pull his thoughts together. The photograph in the envelope could not be similar to the one he had earlier received or Gloria would have been frantic, probably hysterical. ‘Sorry about that,' he said. ‘A touch of wind. There was steak and onions for lunch and I had a double helping of onions.'

‘In which case, I haven't got much sympathy for you; you know what too many onions do to you … Now, who sent the photo?'

He picked up the envelope and brought out the photograph. Of snapshot size, it showed him about to enter their front garden; his right hand was on the gate, in his left were two plastic bags, one obviously heavier than the other; the collar of his mackintosh was turned up … The last time he'd gone shopping, he'd bought one frozen meal and an apple pie at Marks & Spencer's, and sugar, milk, bread, and jam at Sainsbury's; the wind had been rising and sufficiently biting to remind people that it was nearing the middle of winter. ‘I don't know anything about it.'

‘But you must.'

‘I can only suppose one of the lads took it for a lark.'

‘Why on earth should he do that?'

‘To show you what a good housewife I've become, doing the shopping.'

‘That's daft.'

‘You know what they can be like when they're off duty. Mad. Like three days ago. Elmo put a sticker on the back of Hugh's mac just as he was leaving the station and the poor devil didn't know anything about it until he reached home and his wife saw it. Know what it said? “I refuse to come out”.'

‘You're having me on.'

‘Straight.'

‘But Hugh, of all people!' She giggled.

He returned the photograph to the envelope, slipped that into his coat pocket. He was thankful that she had not stopped to wonder how one of the other DCs could have known when he would be shopping.

A quarter of an hour later, he returned to his car. He sat behind the wheel, stared through the windscreen at the shifting pattern formed as a streetlight shone through the leafless branches of an oak tree that were moving to the wind. One or more men had waited in a parked vehicle to photograph him. They had him targeted …