The Silver Falcon (30 page)

He sat down again and waited. Years of dealing with criminals of all varieties had completely hardened his sensibilities. He could see that Isabel Schriber was feeling sick and he didn't want her to cave in until he'd got everything he could out of her. And to do that he was going to shock her even more.

‘This was no ordinary thief,' he said. ‘I'll admit, we took the view that it was an attempted burglary because you're a rich woman and it was a big country house where jewellery and valuables would be found. But no professional thief takes off his shoes. He might wear tennis shoes, to creep about, or rubbers, but he doesn't go barefoot. And he doesn't slosh bucketfuls of water round, just to wash his feet.'

He paused. ‘It was a very messy killing,' he said. ‘I've seen a number of murders, Mrs Schriber, but I've never seen so much blood before. It was everywhere in that hall. Over the walls and the drawing room door, pools of it on the floor. Whoever killed Mrs Jennings must have been spattered from head to foot. He couldn't have travelled a yard in that state. And he used a car because we found tyre marks in a field outside the gates. So I reckon he wasn't just barefoot. He was naked, Mrs Schriber. Stark naked, but wearing gloves. And that means he went in there to commit murder. He washed himself clean in your kitchen.'

‘I don't believe it.' She heard her own voice from a distance. She couldn't take her eyes off that square face, with the blue shadows round the chin, and the hard little eyes behind the glasses.

He had conjured up an image of such horror that she couldn't accept it. A naked, bloodstained figure, wielding a heavy spanner, while all around the blood flew, drenching the walls and the floor. And then padding away in the darkness, to wash the reek and stain away. She had left the house through the kitchen. She remembered that floor, slippery with water, and the pinkish colour under the strip lighting.

‘You said it was burglary.'

‘I know we did,' he agreed. ‘At first sight. But we think differently now. We think someone went into that house to murder the woman he saw in the drawing room. A woman he knew to be living there alone, sleeping alone. We have a maniac on our hands. A homicidal murderer. He must have watched that house because he knew your habits and your housekeeper's. And he knew his way about. It's a horrible thing to say, Mrs Schriber, but if he hadn't chanced on Mrs Jennings you'd have woken up to find him standing by your bed.'

It was a warm afternoon, with sunshine flooding through the open windows. Isabel was freezing cold.

‘Is there anyone,' his voice said, slightly confidential in a lower tone, ‘anyone at all who might want to kill you?'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘No. You can't believe a thing like that.…'

‘We're trying to find a reason,' he explained. ‘Otherwise we've just got to look for a madman. And he'll do it again. There'll be another woman in a lonely house or a flat. I want you to think of anything, anything, however trivial or unrelated it may seem, and tell me, because it just might be a clue. Like that feeling of being watched. You didn't mention that when I first saw you. You were too shaken up. But things come back. People remember. That's what I want you to do, Mrs Schriber. Think back from the time you moved into that house. Mr Jennings also said there
was
a man who called there one afternoon when you were in London. His wife told him about it; he said he'd heard the house was for sale. It's probably nothing. But we've got to follow up everything, every clue. We've got to catch this man. I'm going to leave you in peace now. But just try and think back, and if you remember anything – anything at all … let me know.' He was holding his hand out to her, and the pressure was surprisingly limp for such a decisive person. She got up as the two men went out.

‘Good afternoon,' they said and closed the door. She heard Tim's voice outside, with other voices.

She found a cigarette in her handbag and lit it. Her hands were quite steady. There was a second door, leading out into the back corridor. She didn't want to see Tim or Nigel or anyone. She opened the door and went through into the passage; there was a door at the end, leading to the Fosters' swimming pool and garden. She walked out quickly, closing it, and stood for a moment in the sunshine. There were chairs and a swing seat, and a portable barbecue by the changing rooms. Isabel walked towards the swing seat; the sun was quite hot, the air very still.

The sense of inner chill was still with her. She sat on the sofa seat and swung herself to and fro, her face turned up towards the sun.

Cold with fear. The basis of most clichés was solid truth. She was shivering in a temperature of close on seventy degrees, because her nervous system was reacting to the stimulus of fear and horror.

Coolbridge, the lovely manor house set in its splendid gardens, had symbolized her search for security and identity after Charles's death. It was her first step towards breaking the links his personality had forged around her. She had sometimes described the house as having a dream-like atmosphere; so still and peaceful with the serenity of great age. Now it was a dream transformed into a nightmare, a place where evil had stalked naked and red, and the victim could so easily have been herself. Did anyone want to kill her? She remembered that question, asked so deceptively as if it weren't really important. And her own answer. No. An answer that came from utter conviction. No. She had been sitting with her eyes closed. Now they opened, and the glare of the sun stung them to tears. No one had any reason to kill her any more than the unfortunate housekeeper whose kindness in staying late had made her the victim. If that tough, smug policeman was right, then a lunatic, possessed with a desire to kill, had wandered into the district and fastened on Coolbridge and its lonely occupant as the object of his mania. It was an idea of sickening horror, but it ended there.

She was feeling warmer. There was nothing more to remember, no point in playing back the details of that night. It was time she took up responsibility for herself, and repaid the Fosters for their kindness, Tim for his solicitude, by putting what had happened where it belonged. As a dreadful incident in her life which was best forgotten. She was not going to hide by the swimming pool, indulging herself with fears. She was going to walk round the yard and see the colt she had bought in Ireland, which had arrived yesterday. She was going to talk about that at dinner and forbid anyone to mention the police. And on Sunday, as she had promised, she was going back with Richard. Ten days later, on Wednesday 5 June, she would be at the Derby to see the Silver Falcon win.

11

The voices Isabel had heard did not belong to the police. Nigel Foster was irritated to find Tim and a strange man waiting in the hallway. Tim had introduced them.

‘Nigel, this is Dr Graham. An old friend of Charles. He's driven down to see Isabel.' Foster glanced from Tim to the older man. ‘Was she expecting you? She's only got up today. Her doctor said …'

‘I can appreciate that,' Andrew interrupted. ‘Believe me, I would not impose myself on you unless it was really very urgent. All I want is a chance to see Isabel for a few minutes.'

Nigel went on being irritated.

‘She's just been visited by the police. I shouldn't think she'll feel much like seeing anyone else straight away. I'll go and ask her.' He went into the sitting room, shutting the door on Tim and Andrew.

Andrew didn't say anything. ‘I can't find her,' Nigel was back immediately. ‘She must have gone out in the yard. Excuse me, Doctor. I'm a bit pushed at this hour of the day.' He stamped off, leaving them.

‘Don't mind him,' Tim said. ‘It's just pre-Derby nerves. He's been snapping at everyone this morning. We'll go and look for her.'

One of the lads had taken Isabel to see the two-year-old colt. It was the start of evening stables and the yard was full of activity. There was a brisk, cheerful atmosphere. People grinned at her; it was an overspill from the victory at Long-champ and excitement was building steadily about the great day on 5 June. The day after he had won the Prix Lupin, the Falcon's odds had shortened to four to one with the leading bookmakers; every lad in the yard had backed him to win, and the rumours were flying round the pubs about his fitness and improvement since the race. The boy guiding Isabel was seventeen, a round-faced, cheery apprentice, with a strong midlands accent. He had been promised a ride that season, and been given the new colt to ‘do'. He brought Isabel to the box and stood aside to let her go in.

‘Luvly lad this one, Madam. Manners like a real gennlmun. Not like your other one – can't get too near 'im! C'm on now, there's a good lad –' The chestnut colt was standing near his haynet; he turned to watch as Isabel came towards him. The beautiful intelligent eye regarded her with interest. The lad had come to his head and slipped on a head collar. He patted him on the neck, and offered him a hand to lick and nibble to keep him occupied.

‘Don't even really bite,' he said. ‘Big baby, aren't ye –'

Isabel came close and stroked him; his neck was silky, the skin soft and warm to the touch. The affinity she had felt for him in Ireland was even stronger. There was immense dignity and pride in the way he held himself and a true alertness in the splendid eye. But no vice, no stallion savagery looking for the chance to lash out at the human enemy.

There were many emotions contingent upon owning a racehorse, and Isabel had seen most of them. Pride, greed, sentiment, gross commercialism, ambition; and very rarely love and understanding of the animal concerned. Charles had loved his horses and she knew this to be exceptional. But this tenderness towards his mares and foals had never prevented him from getting rid of the unsatisfactory or the barren. Equally his pride in his stallions was in a way an extension of himself. She did something she had never done in her life before at Beaumont. She kissed the colt lightly on his satin nose. There was a faint lipstick smudge on its white muzzle. ‘For luck,' she said to the lad. ‘I'm delighted with him. Has he travelled well?'

The lad hesitated; the colt hadn't eaten up the night before, and left part of his morning feed. The journey had upset him. But it didn't do to worry owners. He had learnt that much.

‘Not a bother on 'um,' he said. ‘Never turned an 'air, Madam. Did ye, old lad?'

‘Isabel.'

Tim was standing in the doorway, and there was another figure with him, not quite so tall. He moved into clear view and she saw that it was Andrew Graham.

‘We've been looking everywhere for you,' Tim said. ‘I went to the Falcon's box first. Andrew wants to see you for a few minutes.'

Isabel turned to the stable lad. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.' The boy saluted, sure of a tip the next day. She was a generous owner, not like some of them. One bugger with three top-class horses never gave more than a pound to the lads who ‘did' them. He was lucky to have Mrs Schriber. Never less than a fiver there.

Isabel went out of the box into the evening sunlight. Her heart was beating very fast. ‘Hullo, Andrew.' He held out his hand and she took it.

‘I'm so sorry about what you've been through,' he said gently. ‘I called yesterday to say so. You weren't up to taking the call so I came down. I hear the police were here today – how did it go?'

They were walking slowly back towards the house.

‘It was very unpleasant,' Isabel said. ‘Horrible. I don't want to talk about it.'

‘Do they think they'll catch the killer?' She looked at him and shook her head. ‘Do they have any clues?'

‘They didn't mention anything. But they don't think it's a burglar.'

‘No,' Andrew Graham said. ‘I don't think it is either. That's why I came down to see you. I have to see you, Isabel. And I'm sure you know why.'

They had come round the back of the house; they were close to the garden and the swimming pool. Isabel stopped and faced him. She saw that Tim was ranged alongside him and knew that before they found her in the yard, he had been saying to Tim Ryan what he was now trying to say to her. ‘I don't know why, Andrew,' she said. ‘If it's to talk about what happened, I've already told you, I don't want to discuss it. It's a horrible nightmare, and I want to forget it. I want to forget the whole thing.'

‘You wouldn't listen in Paris,' Andrew said. ‘For God's sake, Isabel, for your own safety, you've got to listen now.'

‘How dare you say that!' Her pulse was racing now. ‘Just because this ghastly thing happened, you start bringing up that business about Richard's illness – it was ten years ago and it's got nothing to do with our lives now. I'm going inside.'

She turned and hurried through the garden into the house. They heard the back door bang shut.

‘She won't face it,' Andrew said. ‘Deep inside she knows, and she won't face it. That's why she had to run away just now. Before I put it into words.'

Tim was very white-faced. ‘I'm going to the police,' he said. ‘I'll drive up and see Inspector Lewis tonight.'

‘No,' Andrew said. ‘I'm the one who has to do that. I should have done it yesterday, but I hesitated. Now I know I was wrong. I have the medical record. They'll listen to me.'

‘I'll talk to her,' Tim said fiercely. ‘I'll bloody well make her listen –'

‘Don't,' he advised. ‘You might push her into doing something foolish. If she tells him he's suspected anything could happen. He mustn't know. And he won't try anything while she's here. We have a day or two. You leave the police to me. I'll go now; you've got the hotel number. Call me tomorrow.' He turned and walked away; his shoulders were slightly bowed. He looked like a man who had finally lost a long, sad battle which was none of his making.