The Silver Falcon (27 page)

Then she switched out the light.

He had seen her quite clearly through the window; the big room was well lit and there were no net curtains. She was sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee. He was crouched under a tree, his body glistening with the rain, the heavy spanner in his left hand; the cotton gloves were sticking to him.

He waited quietly, watching as she smoked a cigarette, finished her coffee. When she got up he flattened against the tree trunk; the light was behind her as she came to the window. Her silhouette was totally black, with the yellow and white room behind her. Then the curtains slid across, shutting her out of view.

He saw her appear at the second and third window, and pull the curtains until there was no light, except a few cracks where the material didn't quite meet.

He didn't mind about not seeing her. He knew where she was. He came out from the shelter of the tree and the rain lashed his skin. He crept to the grass verge round the side of the house, making his way to the back. There was a door, with glass panels and a large dustbin outside it. The window was in darkness; he could see through the glass that there wasn't a light anywhere inside. He tried the handle. If it was locked, he could break the panel, put his gloved hand inside and turn the key.… The back door was far enough from the main rooms; she wouldn't hear any noise. But there was no need to do anything more than turn the handle. The door hadn't been locked. He opened it carefully and stepped inside.

Isabel had switched her telephone off. Mrs Jennings, checking the fire in the drawing room picked it up. It was her husband.

‘It's getting late, Em – you coming back soon? I'll walk up and fetch you if you like; it's raining cats and dogs.'

‘I'm on my way,' she said. ‘I've got an umbrella, don't you worry. Put the kettle on in five minutes.' She put the receiver down, and turned back to pull the iron screen across the dying fire. Then she switched out the table lamps one by one and went to the door; she had already turned off the lights in the hall. She didn't need them, she knew every inch of the house. She'd left her coat and umbrella on a chair by the front entrance. She wasn't going to leave by the back and take that much longer to walk through the downpour. She opened the drawing room door and stepped out into the hall. She gave one cry of terror as the dim, nude figure rose up in front of her and the first blows of the spanner fell.

Nigel Foster loved watching television; Sally had cooked them an excellent dinner, accompanied by some of Nigel's best claret, and Tim and he settled down in the sitting room while she made coffee. Nigel was in a mood of glowing confidence, assisted by the wine and inroads into a bottle of vintage port. Normally they lived quite frugally when they were not entertaining, but the evening was a continued celebration of the Falcon's victory.

He looked across at Tim and grinned.

‘I don't want to sound too much like a smug old sod, but I think we've got that race in the bag. I can't wait to see the video tape of the race!'

‘He walked through them,' Tim said. ‘And he wasn't asked a single question. I think you do sound like a smug old sod, but I think you're entitled to!'

Nigel laughed. Sally appeared with the tray of coffee. He got up to take it from her. ‘Come and sit down, darling. I'll pour it out. Lovely dinner –' He pecked at her cheek. ‘There's a damned good programme on the box tonight.'

He said the same thing every evening; it was part of his routine and Tim was quite accustomed to it. He and Sally gossiped while Nigel settled in front of the set. Whatever he was watching, whether it was comedy, documentary or an old film, he was fast asleep within ten minutes. Sally had taken some needlework out of a bag and was sewing peacefully. Both of them prayed that from the hour of eight o'clock onwards, their owners would leave them to enjoy their evening in peace.

‘I meant to tell you,' Nigel said, ‘I heard on the grapevine last night that Gerry Garvin has told Farrant to take his horses away.'

‘About time – you can't have owners like Farrant without getting dirty yourself in the end. I wonder where he'll send Rocket Man?'

‘I don't know and I don't care,' Nigel announced. ‘He won't get within spitting distance of our fellow.' He got up and switched on the television. ‘Ah, Benny Hill – I like his programmes. Bloody funny.…'

Tim watched his head droop to one side; within a few minutes his breathing was loud and slightly hoarse.

‘It's so good for him,' Sally said. ‘He gets terribly strung up, though you'd never think it. He was having a fit all night before the Lupin; couldn't sleep, bouncing in and out of bed – I nearly go mad with him before a big race. I dread the Derby!'

‘You needn't,' Tim said. ‘I think we're going to win.'

‘It'll make a big difference to you, won't it? Nigel told me about that codicil in Charles's will.'

‘I'll be set up for good,' Tim said.

‘We all will,' she said, bending over the square of tapestry work. ‘It's three years since we won a Derby. There's a South American we're trying to get interested. He's so disgustingly rich it's a crime. If we pull this off with the Falcon, he'll give us a commission for a dozen yearlings next year – just for a start!'

‘It means a hell of a lot to all of us,' Tim said. He lit a cigarette. The television screen flickered, showing the comeedian's moon face in close-up. Nigel was still fast asleep.

‘How much does it really mean to Isabel?' Sally asked him. ‘I can't make up my mind about it.'

‘I don't really know myself,' Tim said. ‘She wanted to carry out Charles's wishes. I don't think she would have done it except for that. Now, I rather think she's got the bug herself. She bought that Monkstown colt entirely on her own, you know. Didn't ask me, or Nigel. Just made up her own mind.'

‘I'm dying to see it,' Sally said. ‘Nigel's mad about it. He's talking about Epsom next year!'

‘What about Epsom?' Her husband had woken up.

‘Nothing, darling,' Sally said. ‘Go back to sleep.'

‘Sleep? I haven't been asleep – I was watching the programme. What were you talking about?'

‘Running Isabel's new colt next year,' Tim said.

‘Hmm,' Nigel pushed himself up in the chair. ‘I'm looking forward to that. But I don't know what'll happen if she marries Richard Schriber. He hates racing – wouldn't even come to Longchamp to watch the Falcon. A husband like that could turn her off completely.'

Tim said nothing. Sally Foster looked up. ‘You don't think she'll marry him, do you? I know you said they were pretty thick in Dublin but I didn't know it was that serious.'

‘The newspapers said so,' Nigel pointed out. ‘You never know. What do you think, Tim? Would she go that far, do you think?'

‘I don't know,' Tim said slowly. ‘I bloody well hope not. I think I'll go to bed,' he said.

‘Good idea,' Nigel agreed. ‘We all will. Tomorrow is another day. Come on, Sal – it's past ten o'clock.'

Tim Ryan didn't sleep. Pretty thick in Dublin. So even Nigel had noticed it, and he wasn't a man who concerned himself with people's private lives. He kept seeing Isabel in tears in the Ritz the night before the race. And her words. ‘I love him. There's nothing wrong, I'd know if there was.' An affair was bad enough; he couldn't bear to think of her in Richard's bed. But marriage to the man described in that dossier Andrew Graham had shown them – that was unthinkable. But Richard had met her and she had driven away with him. It looked as if she had disregarded Andrew's warning. And that was his damned fault, Tim thought furiously. He didn't know why he'd made a mess of that interview but he had. He hadn't frightened Isabel away; he'd merely added the lethal quality of compassion to her feelings for Richard Schriber. There was nothing about Richard to suggest that he was not exactly what he seemed. Yet cunning was a recognized ingredient of psychopathic disorder. An appearance of perfect normality could be assumed and maintained for years, provided nothing happened to disturb it and set the irrational impulses in motion. And you didn't grow out of schizoid tendencies; Isabel was wrong. You might subdue them, but they never disappeared. Andrew had talked of danger. His reaction when she left him at the airport and went away in Richard's car, had certainly been one of hurt and jealousy. But there was an extra element in it, which was growing as he lay awake. He had been worried. Not just jealous, but terribly uneasy, seeing her go off alone with her stepson. She must be with him now; either at Coolbridge or in Richard's flat. He turned on his light and looked at his watch. It was nearly one o'clock. He gave up trying to sleep; there were few books in the bedroom, and all of them connected with racing. There was a book written about the great steeplechaser Red Rum which was more a work of literature than the life story of a National winner. He lit a cigarette and started to read it. It was an hour later when the telephone in the Fosters' hall began to ring and ring.

There was a tremendous amount of blood. It had spurted everywhere, on the walls and the floor. He was standing in a pool of it. There was a sickly smell and a sticky wetness on his naked skin. He looked down in the dimness at the body of the woman. She had given just the one cry, high-pitched with terror, and then the first blow had silenced her, followed so quickly by the second and the third. He had struck and struck at her as she staggered in the darkness. He crouched down beside her and found a slack, bloodied arm. There was no pulse. There was no need to switch on the lights, to make sure. The big hall windows were uncurtained. It might attract attention. She was dead. He dropped the spanner on the floor, quite close to her body. It clanged on the stone flags. He turned and padded away towards the kitchen; his feet were wet and sticky. In the kitchen he switched on the lights; the windows faced to the back, no one would see anything. He filled the sink with warm water. It didn't take him long to wash himself; he filled a bucket with the water and sluiced his body; he washed his hair under the sink tap. Water was running everywhere over the floor, coloured red. He turned off the lights and opened the kitchen door. He stepped out into the rain. He ran back down the drive, keeping in the shadow of the line of trees. The windows of the lodge were still illuminated. He sprinted past, bending double. At the gates he paused; the road was in pitch darkness, sheeted in rain. He was shivering with cold and he still wore the reddened, sopping gloves. He peeled them off, wrung them dry of water, opened the boot of the car and threw them inside. From the recess at the back he brought out a towel. He opened the back door of the car, spread the towel over the seat and got inside. Within five minutes he had dried himself and dressed. He slicked his hair back with a comb, checked himself briefly in the driving mirror, and then doused the inside light. He started the engine and began to back out of the track and onto the main road. He had a feeling of elation, of a destiny fulfilled. What had happened seemed to be inevitable. There could be no guilt where events were predestined. What he had done was justified and he felt only satisfaction. Life was a pattern in which the design only became clear at the end. He had completed a cycle which had begun long ago. He picked up speed and drove on to the main London road. It was exactly a quarter to eleven.

Tim and Nigel Foster drove down to Coolbridge. Isabel, fully dressed and with the local doctor beside her, was sitting in her room upstairs; she was very white and there was a glazed look on her face. She had been given a strong sedative, the doctor explained. Luckily the solid construction of the house had prevented her hearing the murder and coming down to investigate.

It was Mrs Jennings's husband, alarmed when she failed to come home, who went into the house through the open back door and discovered his wife's body. The first thing Mrs Schriber knew of the tragedy was when the police came up and woke her. She was suffering from shock, and the police had given permission for her to leave the house. She had answered their questions, and the sooner she could be got away and into a hotel where she could go to sleep, the better. The doctor looked sick and shaken himself as he talked to the two men. He had seen Mrs Jennings's body. ‘A maniac,' he said. ‘I've never seen such a sight – the place is like a slaughterhouse. Only a maniac would have gone on and on.…' He had turned away and lit a cigarette; his hands were trembling.

Nigel drove her to Lambourn; she hardly spoke in the car. Tim Ryan stayed behind to talk to the detective inspector who had been called in to take charge of the case. He had wrapped Isabel up in a fur coat, supported her down the back stairs and quickly through the staff quarters and out through the kitchen. The kitchen was full of police. There was water all over the floor by the sink; a small pool had collected in an indentation at the base, and in the bright fluorescent lighting it had a pinkish tinge. Ryan put her into Nigel's car and held her hands. They were freezing and limp.

‘It's all right,' he said, slowly and distinctly, repeating it. ‘It's all right, Isabel. You're going home with Nigel. He and Sally will look after you. I'll be down later. You're not to worry any more. You've had a bad shock. You'll be all right now.'

She had looked at him, and answered slowly, forcing out the words.

‘Mrs Jennings … I fell asleep. He's given me something – I'm so deadened, I can't feel anything.'

‘Just as well,' Nigel answered. ‘I'm getting you home and into bed. I'll wait for you, Tim.' He had whispered through the driving window to Ryan before he drove away.

‘Christ Almighty. If he'd disturbed them instead of the housekeeper …'

‘Get her home,' Ryan said. ‘I'll sort everything out with the police and get down as soon as I can. She should never, never have stayed in that house alone!'