Time to Kill (26 page)

Peter Chambers was being released in six weeks, thought Mason; everything was working out just fine. ‘Can't we file for a stipulated hearing time?'

‘That shows our hand, as far as costs are concerned.'

‘Doesn't it show our determination, too?'

Instead of directly answering Bell said, ‘How's the job hunting going out there?'

‘Moving along. One or two possibilities,' lied Mason, easily.

‘Another defensive ploy is their knowing that your anonymity is blown when – and if – we get to court.'

‘We've been this way already!'

‘And I want to go this way again. You think you could keep a job if you hit the headlines like you did before?'

‘That's intimidation!'

‘That's reality. Which I want you to face.'

‘Whose side you on?'

‘Yours. And don't be offensive, Jack.'

‘I can use my inheritance.'

‘I know what your inheritance was. You going to put all that at risk, all that and a hell of a lot more, public notoriety all over again as well as the financial cost if we lose!'

‘We can't lose. Everything's stacked in my favour.' For the first time Mason fully realized what he was going to achieve. The prison authorities were going to rack up a big bunch of costs, which he wasn't going to be around to pay because he wasn't Jack Mason any more. OK, it wasn't going to be a financial penalty Frank Howitt was going to have to pay but the motherfucker would pay in every other way.

‘I told you before, you're starting from the back. No matter how justified you might be in court you're the ex-con and traitor to this country.'

‘Go ahead and initiate proceedings,' insisted Mason. ‘And send your bill to the PO box you've got.'

‘You don't have anything permanent yet?'

‘Still moving around. You can send any papers I need to sign to the box number, too.'

‘I've got a responsibility to give you my best advice. And my best advice is to accept the offer they've already made and move on.'

‘Issue whatever you've got to issue,' instructed Mason. ‘Let's see what balls they've got.' And lose yours in the process, he thought.

Beverley arrived back at the apartment by 5.30, as she had done every day since his return to San Francisco to live with her, and as he had done every one of those working days, he greeted her in an immaculate apartment (‘You must have thought I was a total slut when you first walked in!') with a table and chairs set out in readiness on the minuscule balcony. While she showered he mixed the martinis, the glasses frosted, for when she came out on to the balcony which still had a better view of the bay and the Golden Gate bridge than his original hotel. It had become another ritual for her to be naked beneath the thin shift in which she emerged, bare foot.

‘How's your day been?'

‘Slow,' he said, as always prepared. ‘There was a lot of stuff waiting for me at the post office and I managed to track down some employment outlets in Los Angeles and San Diego. I thought I might make a quick trip to register. If I caught the first flight I could probably cover San Diego and Los Angeles in one long day.' He did have the names and addresses but no intention of bothering with any of them.

‘What about the agency here?'

‘I checked today, of course. There's nothing.'

She sat opposite, her nakedness obvious through the thin material as she knew he liked. This time, however, she was not looking directly, invitingly, at him as she usually did, but studying the glass in front of her. ‘I've got to make my first report soon. I'm going to need names, stuff like that. And I had a call today from Glynis, asking how things were going.'

‘Call?' queried Mason, who'd checked for email exchanges less than an hour before Beverley's arrival home. He didn't for one minute like the idea of their changing the way they communicated.

‘She's thinking of another trip out here.'

Keep it easy and cool, Mason decided. There hadn't been any reference to David Slater in the
Frederick News-Post
in the past three days from which to decide his return east, to finish what he'd started. Which wasn't really a serious obstacle to his moving on. ‘She's determined to get you between the sheets, isn't she?'

‘Don't talk like that, darling.'

‘When's she coming?'

‘She didn't say. It was just a casual conversation.'

‘I'd have to move out while she was here, wouldn't I?'

‘I wouldn't let her come here.'

Mason shook his head. ‘We couldn't take that chance. I could use the time going down to San Diego and Los Angeles.'

She looked down again into her almost empty glass. ‘I've got to make that report in the next few days. Glynis isn't coming that soon.'

Mason got up, took the pitcher from the refrigerator and replenished both their glasses. ‘We'll work it out. But talking about Glynis reminds me. I owe you some money. I spent a while on the phone – your phone – myself today, talking to my lawyer about the compensation claim.'

‘Glynis asked me about that,' disclosed Beverley. ‘Asked me if I knew what was happening.'

The walls were definitely closing in, thought Mason. ‘Why did she ask you that, as if she knew we've come as close as we have?'

‘I raised it with her,' admitted Beverley. ‘Asked her if she knew what was happening about it back there.'

Mason sipped his drink, to gain time. ‘Why did you do that?'

‘Because it could affect us. I don't want anything to affect us.'

‘What did she say?'

‘That the prison authority is going to face you down, make you back off.'

Beverley Littlejohn would definitely lie and cheat for him if he asked her, Mason decided. He really had to think this through, maybe even change his mind about walking away from her as he'd originally intended. Whacking the kid had been easy. Whacking Slater and Ann wasn't going to be and there was no way he could anticipate the alibi he might need. ‘That's what my lawyer told me.'

‘Back off then!' pleaded Beverley, urgently, coming up from her drink. ‘What's more important, you and I and what we could have together? Or screwing an asshole of a prison guard and his employers by getting a few bucks?'

Three million dollars was hardly a few bucks, thought Mason. ‘Put like that there really isn't a choice.'

‘You going to do it then?' Beverley asked, anxiously. ‘You going to abandon the whole thing?'

Why was it so important both to Beverley and the dyke in Washington to know whether he was going to pursue his civil action? wondered Mason. ‘I'd do anything for you. Anything and everything,' tested Mason.

‘And I'd do anything and everything for you … for us,' said Beverley.

‘I need time to think … work things out,' said Mason. Most importantly of all to work out the benefits of keeping you on the leash you've put around your own neck, he thought.

‘One more day!' she pleaded.

‘No, Ann.'

‘Just one more day!'

‘We decided. You've talked to Denting. To the vicar. You know.'

‘I want to be with him, when it's done.'

‘We'll both be with him.'

Slater waited for her to break down but she didn't. She said, ‘Tell them we're ready.'

Twenty

A
nn leaned, stumbling, upon him so heavily that Slater was practically carrying her, one arm supportively tight around her shoulders, his other hand cupping her nearest elbow to keep her as close as possible and to remain upright. Ann was entirely in black, her face completely covered by an encompassing black veil into which Slater hunched, because he had not only to prevent her collapsing, but also to use as much of the veil's shadowing concealment against the cameras he hadn't anticipated, local television as well as press photographers. There was a lot Slater hadn't expected. Jeb Stout was there representing the University of Maryland – their wreath a basketball-sized sphere describing David as a star – along with Victor Spalding and two other teachers from David's school. So was Peter Denting with the two nurses permanently assigned to David throughout his hospitalization. Andre Worlack's exhibition designer came down from New York and there was a wreath from the San Jose company with which Slater had negotiated the large contract. Slater wasn't aware of the homicide detective John Stone until they left the church at its rear. Throughout the service, conducted by the hospital vicar, Ann still needed Slater's supportive arm around her shoulders, rising and sitting at Slater's urging, unable to sing – unable even to hold a prayer or hymn book – and seemingly oblivious to the sermon or to the eulogy in which David was referred to as a sports prodigy and an outstanding scholar, emptily embellished with phrases about God's mysteries and brilliant, short-lived blazing comets.

At the graveside Slater needed the help of Mary Ellen Foley to keep Ann upright. As the coffin was lowered, Ann emitted a wail more animal than human. There was no reception wake. Mary Ellen rode home with them in the funeral car and helped Ann immediately to undress and settle in bed, although she refused the sedative that the doctor had prescribed. When Jean arrived to drive Mary Ellen home, Slater told her to keep the gallery closed for the rest of the week and that he'd call at the weekend to tell her if Ann intended opening the following week, doubting that she would. He warned Mary Ellen he wasn't sure when he'd be returning to the office, either. Finally alone, he checked every hour upon Ann, who remained unmoving as she'd settled in their bed, apparently asleep. In between he drank two very large brandies, without their having the slightest effect before impulsively packing all David's clothes and belongings, including his basketball, belatedly sorry that he hadn't included the ball in the burial coffin, cumbersome – maybe even unacceptable – though the gesture might have been. He thought, inappropriate though it also might have been, that he should have included David's hunting knife: it had epitomized the camping weekends that there would no longer be. And Slater cried, abruptly at different memories and reminders, sometimes as loudly and unrestrained as Ann had wailed at the graveside.

Slater came awake slumped sideways on the couch upon which he'd finally sat after packing David's things. The lounge was in complete darkness but he knew at once that he was not alone in the room. As he straightened, sticky-eyed, aching and cold, he blurted, ‘Who is it …? Where …?' There was the shift of somebody moving. ‘Ann?'

There was no reply but Slater became vaguely aware of a figure sitting on the facing couch and leaned sideways again to snap on the table lamp. Ann wore a housecoat but it was open over the nightdress into which Mary Ellen had helped her. She was staring directly ahead, unfocused, holding between both hands a tall tumbler Slater knew would be gin, already half drunk. ‘Ann?'

‘David's gone,' she announced, no emotion in her voice.

‘Yes.'

‘We won't see him. Never again.'

‘No.'

Like an automaton she lifted her glass, drank deeply, and lowered it back to her lap. ‘He was killed. Murdered.'

‘Yes.'

Ann moved, only slightly, looking properly at him for the first time. ‘You know?'

‘Of course I know, darling. He was run down … a car that didn't stop.'

‘No!' she contradicted, louder than before, indignantly. ‘He was killed by Jack. Jack ran him down. Killed him.' She drank again, robot-like.

Their doctor had warned Ann's reaction might be unpredictable. ‘The police are going to find who did it. There's a detective working on the case now. I've spoken to him.'

‘Jack did it. Tell him that Jack did it.'

‘I will,' said Slater. ‘I'll call him tomorrow.'

‘You're not listening to me … believing me …' Indignant again.

‘I am, darling. I'll tell him tomorrow.'

‘Listen to me!' Ann insisted. ‘I've seen Jack … know he's here. That he's found us. Wants to hurt us.'

‘It's late, Ann. Let's go back to bed. I'll get you the medicine the doctor prescribed.'

Ann finished her drink in a gulp, at once offering her glass. ‘Get me another. Don't water it down with too much ice. I want to taste the gin.'

Slater hesitated, knowing from the accompanying pamphlet that alcohol was not recommended with the medication she'd been prescribed, but then took the glass to the kitchen where the rarely used drinks were. She was rambling, in shock, but nowhere near drunk. He wouldn't let her have another, after this.

‘Thank you,' she said, accepting the drink when he returned.

‘We'll go to bed after this.' He considered having another brandy but decided against it. His mouth tasted sour from what he'd already drunk.

‘When you went to San Jose,' she started again. ‘When I took that afternoon off from the gallery …' Ann stopped, looking at her glass as if in memory. ‘I didn't check the CCTV. I wasn't there. A lot had been overrun when I did look, the following day. That's when I saw him. He'd gone past the gallery. He doesn't look quite the same. He seems broader, but I know it was him.' She was talking quite ordinarily, her voice flat, conversational.

Slater sat gazing at his wife, unspeaking, unsure. It had to be a fantasy.
Had
to be. Maybe it was more than shock, a nervous breakdown even, brought on by grief. ‘What did you do with the tape, Ann? Have you kept it, for me to see? Changed it for one of the spares I gave you?'

Ann shook her head. ‘We'd talked about it, remember? Decided there was no way he could find us. He didn't look quite the same, like I said. I thought I was imagining it. Now I know I wasn't.'

It just wasn't possible, couldn't be possible! ‘You saw his face?'