The Price of Failure (5 page)

Six weeks later, number 16 had become theirs.

All the houses had been built without garages because then it had been inconceivable that those who lived in them could ever afford to run cars. He found a parking space, locked the doors, walked along the pavement, opened the wrought-iron gate, and continued through the small front garden – immaculately kept, as was the back garden; both Freda and he were keen gardeners – to the front door. As he stepped inside, Jane came out of the front room. ‘Hi.' She passed him and went up the stairs. Brief as the greeting had been, it was more than he sometimes received. Relations between them were never as smooth as had been those between Evelyn and him. Jane made a point of nonconformity. Recently, she'd become friendly with a man with an outrageous hairstyle and earrings. Pure yob. All right, one couldn't forever swim against the tide, but that didn't mean one had to paddle in the backwaters of a sewage plant …

Freda appeared in the doorway of the kitchen at the end of the hall. ‘Evening, love.'

He went forward and kissed her on the cheek. She'd lost her looks and her figure, but he still saw her as the woman he'd married. ‘What's for grub?'

‘Steak and kidney pie. It'll be ready soon, but there's time for a drink if you'd like one.'

‘That's the best idea I've heard all day.'

He followed her into the kitchen, crossed to the larder. ‘D'you want a lager, or something else?'

‘A lager'll be fine.'

He opened and emptied two cans, stepped back into the kitchen, handed her a glass. They drank, for a while not talking because they had long since reached the point where they could be comfortable with silence. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Mike popped in to see Gloria this morning. Says the baby's still alive.'

‘How long's she got to go now?'

‘He didn't say. Can't be long, surely?'

‘I keep praying she'll make it.'

He knew that that was literally true – she did pray. He didn't because he'd seen too much of the underside of life to believe in a loving God. But that didn't worry him because he never questioned the reason for his existence, being content merely to accept it.

She put her glass down on the kitchen table, went over to the stove and checked the contents of the two saucepans. ‘Cauliflowers were cheap, so I bought one. You like them, don't you?'

‘That's right.' There were other vegetables he preferred, but long ago she'd got it into her mind that cauliflowers were one of his favourites and he'd never thought it worth the effort to contradict her.

‘Eve rang earlier. She thinks Bill's found another job.'

‘Surprised he could summon up the effort to look.'

‘Stop talking like an old man, Father. It's Eve that's married to him, not you or me, so how he goes about things is for her to worry over.'

Bill always made a fuss of her. ‘Is Jane in for grub?'

‘I don't know.'

‘She ought to say.'

‘It won't make any difference to what's on the table whether she is, or isn't.' She turned back from the stove, studied him. ‘How's the day been?'

‘Much as usual, really.'

‘Something seems to have got to you.'

He drank. ‘The Old Man's been sharp enough to cut himself.'

‘What's upset him?'

‘Jack Warren, over at C division, has pulled in a villain the whole country's been after for months. That'll have him smelling of violets at county. Which could scupper our Bevis's chances of promotion.'

‘He'll surely get that sooner or later?'

‘I reckon. Tell you one thing. I hope to hell I'm retired before he's wielding real clout. Blokes like him make life bloody difficult for the rest of us.' He drained the glass, belched.

‘I keep telling you not to do that.'

‘What's it matter when neither of the kids are around to hear?'

6

As Carr walked into the general room, Atkin – the newest member of CID and still finding his way around – said: ‘The telephone people rang through just now and said to tell you that Miss Varney has had another obscene telephone call and it went on long enough for them to trace it.'

‘And?'

‘The number's listed under the name of Mrs Dunn and the address…' He looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Oakley, Torrington Without. I asked him, without what?'

‘And no doubt he congratulated you on your wit?'

Atkin grinned.

Carr looked at his watch. ‘I'll run out there now and find out what's what.'

‘D'you need back-up?'

‘Yeah. I've a load of G forty-fives to complete so the job's yours.'

Atkin swore.

Carr entered his forthcoming journey in the Movement Book, kept on the table under the notice board, then made his way down to the courtyard and the CID Escort.

He could easily have passed through the village and not noticed it. There were only half a dozen houses and bungalows stretched out on one side of the road. A village that lacked a pub? On his return, he could tell Atkin why it was called Torrington Without.

In the garden of the end bungalow, an old man dug with the endless rhythm learned from the days of farming before full mechanization. Carr stopped the car, leaned across to lower the passenger window, and asked where was the house called Oakley? The old man dug another spit, straightened up slowly, hawked and spat, and, leaning on the handle of the fork, stared into the far distance. Carr waited, understanding the country character sufficiently well to know that any sign of impatience on his part would arouse scornful amusement.

‘Turn right after Ebb's Wood,' the man finally said.

Carr drove on, past fields hedged with thorn and down to winter corn, and reached a small wood that was being coppiced; it was interesting, he mused as he turned right, how some of the old ways of farming were returning in an attempt to work with Nature rather than against her.

Because it seemed probable that Oakley was where the caller – Mrs Dunn's son? – lived, he had subconsciously been expecting to find a house as mean in character as the obscene calls. Reality was a large gateway with elaborate gates flanked by curving brickwork and beyond which – though only the several chimneys could be seen above the trees – lay a large house. Had Atkin, over enthusiastic as ever, misheard at least part of the name of the house? Oakley Cottage?… He drove through the gateway, passed a range of buildings to the left that clearly had been stables and accommodation for the outside servants and when the drive forked, chose the left-hand side. It looped around the trees and bushes to bring him to a large, sprawling Edwardian house that was far more imposing than it was attractive.

He parked by the raised circular flower bed, left the car and crossed to the porch which would not have disgraced a minor palace. The massive wooden door was patterned with wrought-iron studs and the bell pull was in the shape of a fox's head. He waited to be greeted by the traditional butler who, with one superior, snide glance would indicate that he should have used the tradesmen's entrance. The door was opened by an elderly woman with a face of rough-hewn granite who appeared to be dressed in cast-offs.

‘Yes?'

‘Detective Constable Carr, county police. I'd like a word with Mrs Dunn, if she's in?'

She moved to one side and he accepted this as an invitation to enter.

She pulled the door shut with a quick squeal from the massive iron hinges. ‘What d'you want?'

‘If I could speak with Mrs Dunn…?'

‘Who the devil do you think I am?'

He hoped the answer wasn't obvious. ‘I'm here concerning a telephone call…'

‘I've not made any call to the police.'

‘It was to Miss Varney…'

‘I know no one by that name.'

He persevered. ‘Nevertheless, Mrs Dunn, this morning someone phoned Miss Varney … Is this house the only one called Oakley?'

‘Of course.'

‘Is there an Oakley Cottage?'

‘No.'

‘Then the call must have come from here.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘There was a trace on Miss Varney's line and…'

‘A trace?… I've never heard such ridiculous nonsense.' Without warning, she turned on her heels and stumped across to one of the four doors which led off the very high-ceilinged hall. He followed her, wondering as he did so who had shot all the heads mounted on the walls?

The room was large enough to contain a grand piano that merely took up one corner. Through the three wide, deep windows, there were views across gently sloping land to the distant sea.

‘Kindly explain what you are talking about, young man.'

Ten to one she was the local master of foxhounds and God help any would-be hunt saboteurs who tried to upset her sport. ‘Over the past three weeks, Miss Varney has received a number of obscene calls. She reported that fact to us and we got in touch with the Malicious Calls bureau of British Telecom who put a trace on her line. At around eleven this morning, there was another obscene call and BT have informed us that it was made from this address.'

‘Are you suggesting that I made the call?'

‘Of course not, that's unthinkable,' he hastily assured her. ‘But I imagine you have staff?'

‘Vera. There is no one else.'

‘Does she have a son or any other male relative who either lives here or has recently visited her?'

‘She's unmarried and dislikes all her relatives.'

‘Do you employ outside staff?'

‘There's Andrew, the gardener. A damned good worker, unlike his predecessor who spent half his time sitting on his bum.'

He all but giggled because he found it surrealistically amusing that she should use the word ‘bum'. ‘Might he have been in this house some time around eleven?'

‘Most unlikely.'

‘But you can't be certain?'

‘My good man, since I do not have him in view all the time, of course I cannot.'

‘Were you at home?'

‘I was in town, trying to deal with the incompetence of my bank.'

‘Was Vera here?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think I might have a word with her?' He thought that she was going to refuse, but in the end she marched out. He stared round the room at the strange and confusing contrasts it offered. The curtains were faded, the armchairs and two settees needed re-covering, one of the two carpets on the parquet floor was noticeably threadbare, but a third one, with a triple medallion design, which hung on the wall, was in pristine condition and glowed with colour, two bow-fronted display cabinets held small, beautifully crafted figurines, and three paintings of pastoral scenes possessed a quality that made him certain, despite his ignorance of art, that they were worth a great deal of money.

She returned, accompanied by a woman who was dressed neatly and with some taste and whose expression was placid.

‘Well, ask,' snapped Mrs Dunn, as she thumped down on the nearer settee.

He faced Vera. ‘Can you say whether the gardener was in the house this morning at around eleven o'clock?'

‘He came in for his coffee like always, but that was earlier.'

‘How much earlier?'

‘Half-nine, like as not.'

‘And he was in the house for how long?'

‘A quarter of an hour; never stays any longer.'

‘Did he return later on?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Couldn't be more certain.'

Initially, he was surprised by the almost aggressive confidence with which she had answered the last question. Then he reflected that to work for Mrs Dunn, she must possess a stronger character than was immediately apparent. ‘Has any other man been in the house?'

‘Only the telephone engineer.'

‘Why was he here?'

‘We've had trouble with the line crackling and going dead. I asked 'em two days ago to do something about it and it took them until this morning to turn up.'

‘What was the time when he was here?'

She thought. ‘Must've been around eleven.'

‘Was he on his own?'

‘Well, I had to look to the cooking.' For the first time, she was unsure. She looked very quickly at Mrs Dunn. ‘I thought it would be all right, leaving him to do the work. I made him show his identity card before I let him in.'

Eureka!

7

Chance sometimes leads to farce, but more often to tragedy. Had Trent not left number 36 as Carr was walking towards it …

Trent was a conceited man, yet at the same time smart enough to recognize his own weakness. He held the police in contempt, but accepted that there were a few who were smart and therefore he always allowed all of them a greater degree of intelligence than he believed they possessed. So during the course of a job, he invested in self-denial. He enjoyed wine, especially a Chambertin or, if feeling like a millionaire, a Romanée-Conti, but since even a couple of glasses could affect a man's judgement and Sod's law decreed that that judgement would be most needed when least available, he became a temporary teetotaller; he no longer had a woman living with him, even though his sex drive became still greater because of the tension, as women were emotionally unstable and not to be relied upon. Instead of wine he drank Coke, instead of a live-in woman, he bought the pleasures of really high-class tarts who were the soul of discretion. The first deprivation was a penance; the second could have its advantages.

Eros would have watched their performance with pride. At the conclusion, he handed Genevieve an envelope and she accepted it without counting the money it contained. He had been very generous. Not only did that generosity do his self-esteem good, it was fair reward for the touch of genius she brought to her work.

‘Come back soon; real soon,' she said, with soft inviting warmth.