A Place of Safety (29 page)

‘You loathsome little shit,’ he said between his teeth as he saw the boy surrounded by curling canvas and torn paper. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He didn’t see the scalpel in the boy’s hand until he reached out to grab him and the blade sank itself into his hand. Hot blood poured out, bringing pain screaming through his brain.

When the phone rang at last, Trish just stared at it. She’d been waiting for so long that she didn’t believe in the sound. Then her hand moved.

‘I’ve got him,’ Caro’s voice said into her aching ear a second later. ‘He’s safe. There are things to sort out, but he is safe.’

Trish’s spine sagged, and the determination that had kept her going seeped away.

‘Where are you?’ she said, pushing Henry’s orchids out of the way. There were yet more tears in her eyes and she felt very shaky.

‘At your flat,’ Caro said. ‘With David. He wants to talk to you very much. Shall I put him on?’

‘Yes, please.’ Trish sniffed while she had the chance. Then Caro came back on the line, saying:

‘OK. Here he is.’

Then came her brother’s voice, pleading and afraid: ‘Trish? Trish, I’m really sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Whatever it is, it’s all right, so long as you’re not hurt. I’m coming straight home now. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. Will you tell Caro?’

She left her briefcase where it was, but grabbed her handbag automatically and was out of the building before anyone could stop her. There was a stitch in her side before she’d even reached
the bridge and lack of oxygen was making her so dizzy that she had to stop to catch her breath.

At last she was home and at the top of the iron staircase. The door opened before she could get her key in the lock. Caro stood beside it, looking much more serious than Trish had expected. But all her attention was on the child, whose small white face showed absolute fear. Forgetting everything George had said about what young boys could take, she grabbed him and held him safe against her.

Amazingly his arms went round her back again.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ Caro said.

Questions were spurting into Trish’s mind, but they would have to wait. David let her go much sooner than she wanted, but she obediently pulled away and smiled at him.

‘Let’s sit down.’ She led the way to one of the squashy black sofas. After a moment he joined her, but he chose a spot a careful two feet away from her. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

He bit his lip and looked at his shoes. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘What? What didn’t you mean?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

Trish felt her mouth opening, but she held back the protest. Caro walked round the open fireplace, carrying a tray.

‘He was in the basement storeroom of the gallery when the director startled him. David happened to have a scalpel in his hand and the director suffered cuts in his hand and arm. No serious damage was done, although there was quite a lot of blood, which frightened everybody.’

Caro’s voice was careful and stern enough to tell Trish there was more to this than she had been able to say in the boy’s presence.

‘But why were you in the gallery at all?’

He kicked the sofa with his heels. ‘Mer said his Dad had treasure in the basement.’

‘Yes, I know. You told me. But it was only pictures.’

‘I thought there was something more inside the tubes. I wanted to know so we could tell the police and make them stop him hurting you again. So I was cutting them open. That’s why I had the knife.’

Trish had to work hard to keep her face from showing shock. The thought of a frightened 9-year-old boy with a scalpel in a room full of Rembrandts was far worse than any cuts in Toby Fullwell’s arm.

‘The paintings are all fine,’ Caro said, interpreting some of Trish’s thoughts. ‘Tea?’

‘I’m not sure I could swallow it. David—’

‘I think perhaps not now, Trish. And you
should
have tea.’ Caro brought her a mugful and handed David a glass of apple juice.

Later, when Nicky was giving him his supper, Caro took Trish outside. The wind was still rushing between the buildings, but it was dry and there was no one to overhear them there.

‘What’s going to happen now?’ Trish asked, dizzy with relief that her brother had not quite reached the age of criminal responsibility. ‘Did he really not damage the paintings?’

‘Not more than anyone would in opening them up like that. He didn’t slash them or anything. He simply unrolled them, and he only cut Toby out of terror. But that’s not the most important thing at the moment. I had got an emergency search warrant, just in case Toby resisted our attempts to look for David.’

‘Did he?’

‘He wasn’t in a position to resist with his hand dripping blood like that, but he behaved so oddly that, once he was on his way to casualty, I asked my officers to make a search of the building. What they found means that some of our colleagues are now interviewing him. I can’t say any more.’

‘This is mad, Caro. You have to tell me what you’re talking about. You can’t leave me hanging like this.’

‘Trish, this is a police matter. You know I can’t tell you any more.’

‘And what do you expect me to do? Leave it there? Did you find something in amongst the paintings?’

‘No.’

‘But there was evidence of a crime?’

‘We found evidence that might be connected with an ongoing investigation, yes.’

‘Is David implicated?’

‘No, of course he isn’t. He was just behaving like James James Morrison Morrison in that A. A. Milne poem.’

Trish had far too much banging around in her brain to identify that, so Caro obliged.

‘You know, the child who didn’t want his mother going out without him to protect – or monitor – her.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘As far as I understand the little David was prepared to tell me, he was trying to get evidence that could be used to put Toby away for a while and so keep him off you. That’s why I’ve been so careful to stress the nature of the wound to Toby’s arm. I’m sure it was accidental. The secretary said she heard Toby yelling something about “I’ll get you, you loathsome little shit” before she heard Toby scream. I don’t want David persuading himself or you or anyone else that he deliberately stuck the scalpel into Toby. That would be the worst possible outcome of this. He’s scared enough already.’

‘Caro, I don’t understand any of this.’

‘I know you don’t. As soon as I can tell you any more, I will. But I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about Toby any longer. Oh, by the way, there was a man at the gallery, who might be able to tell you more. Bloke called Buxford.’

‘Ah. Thanks, Caro. For everything. You know how grateful I am that you stepped in, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Caro put her strong arm around Trish’s shoulders
and kissed her. ‘I’m glad you came to me. I have to go now. But if you’re worried about anything, phone me. I don’t think there will be any repercussions, but if there are, I’ll do whatever I can to sort them out. OK?’

‘He’s under the age of criminal responsibility,’ Trish said. ‘Thank God. Love to Jess.’

‘I doubt if I’ll be seeing Jess for some time. I’ve got to get back to work.’

More mystified than ever, Trish went back to the flat. George had arrived while she was talking to Caro and was being given a brief account of the day’s dramas by Nicky as she chopped onions in the kitchen.

‘David wants to tell you something, Trish,’ Nicky said, turning a tearful face at the sound of her voice. Trish blew George a kiss, longing to fling herself into his arms and let him sort everything out, and went back to her brother’s bedroom.

He was lying propped up against his white pillows, looking fragile and wounded. His black eyes were enormous, and the long lashes looked very dark against his pallid skin.

‘Hi,’ Trish said, striving for a cheery tone. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Not too bad.’ He was whispering. ‘There
was
something in two of those tubes apart from paintings.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Envelopes. One in each of the two tubes. I kept them for you. No one else knows about them. I put them up my jersey as soon as I found them, and Mer’s Dad didn’t know. Nor Caro. Nor anyone.’

‘Right,’ Trish said, smiling to hide all her anxieties. This was beginning to sound more like revenge than an attempt to prove Toby guilty of serious crime, as Caro believed. ‘Where are they now?’

‘I put them under my Scrabble board before Nicky could see them. Over there.’

Trish kneeled on the floor to reach under the bottom shelf of the bookcase for the pile of board games. The Scrabble was the second from top. David had obviously taken care that no one should find it too easy to grab his loot. Lifting off the lid of the box, as though it might contain explosives, she saw only the board and the dark-green bag of spelling tiles.

‘They’re under the board.’ His voice promised such treats that she had to turn to smile at him. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to bear it if his activities today brought social workers back into their lives. Caro’s Delphic utterances suggested Toby was suspected of a crime so much more serious that anything David had done to him would be well outweighed, but Trish of all people knew that police suspicion was proof of nothing whatsoever.

‘Go on,’ he said, with excitement bubbling in his voice. ‘Open them, Trish. See what they are.’

The two envelopes were foxed and flat enough to reassure her that there could be nothing in them except paper. They were also sealed. One was addressed ‘To Whom It May Concern’; the other, to ‘Madame Helene Gregoire’.

‘I don’t think I can. They’re not ours to open.’ This might not have been the ideal moment for a lesson in right and wrong, but she couldn’t shirk it. ‘If you found them in the rolls of paintings, then they belong to the owners of the gallery. I’m going to phone one of them now to tell him that we’ve got the letters.’

He shuddered.

‘Not Mer’s Dad, but the chairman, who is in charge of them all.’

As she watched, his face returned to the frozen politeness she had come to fear. Then he slid down the bed under his duvet and literally turned his face to the wall. Trish felt her tendons cracking and the Procrustes icon enlarged itself in her mind until she could see almost nothing else.

‘He has the right to open them. We haven’t.’

David didn’t answer. Trish put away the Scrabble, then paused for a moment by his bed to brush her hand across his hair.

‘I’m really grateful that you wanted to bring me something,’ she said, trying to reassure him yet still not give him the wrong message. ‘And I know how frightened you must have been in that basement. But we have to do the right thing now.’

He still did not move.

Outside his room, she poured out some of her feelings in a sigh that would have moved all the fog in London last night. Then she phoned Henry.

‘And I have the two envelopes here,’ she said after she had described what her brother had done. ‘They’re addressed in writing that looks French to me and they look old enough to have been written by Jean-Pierre. I can’t leave the child tonight. Shall I call a bike to bring them to you?’

‘No.’

Oh, help, she thought. Now I have really screwed things up.

‘No, Trish, I wanted to come and see you anyway because I have things I have to tell you. Will you be in your flat if I come straight round?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ve got the chauffeur waiting downstairs for when you called.’

George, she thought as the phone went dead. George and Nicky next. She went back to the kitchen, where about a kilo of onions had been reduced to tiny particles under Nicky’s knife.

‘You need to know what’s going on,’ Trish said. ‘And there isn’t much time before the next instalment.’

‘We’re itching to know,’ George said. ‘But you look like death. Go and have a shower while we open a restorative bottle.’

‘There isn’t time. Henry Buxford’s coming.’

‘You can shower in two seconds flat. I’ve seen you do it. Get
on upstairs. I’ll come with you and you can talk while you’re drying. You don’t mind, do you, Nicky?’

“Course not. I’ll finish making the tart.’

‘She’s a saint, that woman,’ Trish said as she fumbled her way up the spiral stairs, giving George the merest outline of what had been going on.

She’d told him quite a lot of the rest between emerging like an otter from the shower and dressing in plain black trousers and the scarlet cashmere tunic. She left her feet bare.

‘Like a penitent?’ George suggested.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’m beyond decoding what my psyche’s doing to us all these days. Oh, help, there’s the bell. We must go down.’

Nicky had let Henry Buxford in and was standing beside him with his bulky coat in her arms, offering him white wine or whisky. He chose whisky, breaking off his thanks to greet Trish.

She took both his outstretched hands and peered uncomprehendingly at his anxious face.

‘There are no words – and certainly no orchids – to tell you how sorry I am that I involved you in all this, that I didn’t listen to what you said, and then put you and the boy at such risk. I can only throw myself on your mercy.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at George.

‘I think it’s possible that Trish is more in the dark than you think,’ he said. ‘I certainly am. Can you tell us what’s going on?’

‘Didn’t you know? Toby’s been arrested for this murder in the Blackfriars tunnel.’

‘Good God!’

‘Yes. The police found parts of a deliberately destroyed umbrella in his study. The whole room was stinking of bleach and there were peculiar traces of carbonized nylon in the grate. He had obviously been trying to burn the fabric of the umbrella.
That, combined with various other pieces of evidence, has led them to believe that the wound they found under the corpse’s chin might have been made with an umbrella.’ Henry looked sick. ‘An umbrella which penetrated and destroyed the brain.’

‘Henry, you don’t have to tell us all this,’ Trish said, remembering all her efforts to warn him of what scaring Toby might do. Even she hadn’t imagined anything like this.