Days Without Number (19 page)

'We all put our necks on the line,' said Anna, deaf to the true meaning of Nick's words. 'Squabbling like schoolboys won't help.'

'You sound like Irene,' said Basil.

'Shut up, Basil. This is important. Did Farnsworth say anything that implied he'd ever heard Dad mention a Venetian cousin, Nick?'

'No.' For some reason, Nick did not feel inclined to expand on his answer.

'Right. And it's paranoid to think Davey might have a copy of the will. My bet is we destroyed the only copy.'

'What are the odds on this bet?' Andrew glumly enquired.

'The best we're going to get. I'm as pissed off about all this as you are, Andrew, but--'

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'I doubt that.'

'All right. You can take first prize if you want. I don't care. I'd like to get hold of that Hartley bitch, but I don't think I'm going to get the chance. I don't know why she played such a cruel trick on us, but the only way--'

'There has to be a reason,' said Basil.

'Really?' Anna stared at him. 'And what is the reason?'

'I don't know.'

'Exactly. You don't know. I don't know. We don't know. And I can't imagine Elspeth Hartley's going to let us find out. So, I suggest we concentrate on making the best of it.'

'Ah. The philosophy of last resort.'

'Thanks to putting that piece of paper on the fire last week, we have this house and equal shares of what it's worth. That's all that matters now. Everything else is just a losing lottery ticket. We have to put it behind us. I'll speak to Irene once Laura's gone back, but I'm sure she'll agree. We must go on as if we'd never heard of Elspeth Hartley.'

'What about cousin Demetrius?' asked Andrew.

'Him too. In fact, especially him. We have to draw a line under this, boys.' Anna took a large swallow of gin and tonic. 'And move on.'

Moving on was precisely what Nick had in mind. He could only hope the humdrum routine of his everyday life in Milton Keynes would enable him to forget the events of the previous week. After the others had gone, he went into the study and stared at the photograph on the wall of his father and grandfather at Tintagel with Ralegh Radford in the summer of 1935. Michael Paleologus had been nineteen then, though he looked older, with his middle-aged tweeds and earnest expression. There were two blurred figures in the background Nick had never noticed before: a pair of workmen leaning on shovels and looking towards the camera, visible only from the waist up because of the ditch they were standing in. Could Fred Davey have been one of them? Nick peered long and hard, but knew he would never be certain. Not that it 158

mattered. Davey had been there. And in some sense Nick could not begin to understand, that did matter.

The thing Nick's father had concealed in the cellar had seared itself into his mind's eye. Sleep lured him back down to see the slab being raised and to watch as the light fell across the unblinking stare of a fleshless skull. He jolted awake to escape it, not once, not twice, but three times, as the night passed, dark and silent hour by dark and silent hour.

Before dawn Nick was up and washed and packed. He wanted only to be on the road now, away and alone. He decided to leave a note for Pru rather than wait for her, as he had said he would. After a hasty breakfast and the late dawning of a grey and mizzly day, he went out to the car to check the tyres and top up the windscreen-washer for the journey.

The tyre gauge was in the glove compartment. As he opened the passenger door to fetch it, he saw an object on the driver's seat which had certainly not been there before. It was a large brown envelope, unsealed and evidently containing something bulky. On the face of the envelope, in felt-penned capitals, were the words D.C. WISE, CROWNHILL POLICE STATION, PLYMOUTH.

Nick stared at the envelope for a moment, wondering what it contained and how it had got there. None of the windows had been forced; the car was securely locked. Someone must have borrowed his key. It had been in his coat pocket, hanging in the hall, since he had driven back to Trennor from Plymouth the previous morning. Someone at the funeral party must have taken it, slipped out into the yard and then slipped back again. It would not have been difficult. It would have taken no more time than a visit to the loo. But who would do such a thing? Who - and why?

Nick picked the envelope up and slid the contents out on to the seat in front of him. It was a video cassette. Whoever had put it there wanted him to see something - before the police saw it.

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A few minutes later, Nick was in the drawing room, staring at the television as the video began to play.

It had been shot at night, with an infra-red camera. Nick recognized the grainy, bleached look of it from TV News war-zone footage. But this was no war zone. This was the ghostly night-as-strange-day world of Bodmin Moor. The camera dwelt on the Caradon Hill transmitter and the more distant hump of Kit Hill long enough to fix the approximate location. Then it panned round to something closer at hand: a fenced-off patch of bush and bramble. Nick knew exactly what it was. And he already knew what he was going to see.

A vehicle, by its shape obviously a Land Rover, pulled up at the side of the road further down the slope. Its lights died. A few minutes passed, then two figures climbed out and looked around. Identification would not have been easy, though to Nick they were all too recognizable. They opened the back door of the Land Rover, lifted out a bundle about six feet long and carried it up the slope, until they were probably about twenty yards from the camera. They hoiked up the lower half of a stretch of fence and one of them crawled through, pulling the bundle after him. The other switched on a torch, its pool of light like a splash of acid on the film. The bundle was pushed forward. It vanished from sight. The torch was switched off. The man inside the fence crawled back out. then he and his companion retreated down the slope.

As they climbed into the Land Rover, the camera started moving, the picture joggling as its operator hurried down the slope after them. The vehicle performed a three-point turn and, by the time it had completed the second, reversing leg of the manoeuvre, the camera was only a few yards from the rear bumper, the lens focusing fast on the number plate. And there the number suddenly was, clearly legible for two or three seconds before the Land Rover moved forward and accelerated away down the lane, its lights coming on as it gathered speed, its occupants confident that they were leaving no trace of their visit behind them.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

'Carwether Farm.'

'It's me, Andrew.'

'Nick? You're up early.'

'Yeah. Look, er, when's Tom leaving?'

'His train's at eleven. Why?'

'Could I come over to see you after he's gone?'

'I suppose so. But there are things I need to get on with. I do have a farm to run, you know.'

'It's important. Very important.'

'I thought you were going home today.'

'There's something you have to see, Andrew. Believe me.'

'What is it?'

'I can't explain that on the phone. But you've got a video, haven't you?'

'Yeah. So?'

'So expect me around noon. And say nothing to Tom.'

Nick had plenty of time to consider their situation while he was waiting to set off. He replayed the video until every grainy image was printed on his mind. He tried in vain to deduce the motives of whoever had videoed them that night. Just as he tried in vain to decide what they should do about it.

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He left shortly before Pru was due to turn up and took a circuitous route via Launceston to make sure there was no danger of reaching Carwether before Tom's departure. It was in fact just after noon when he drove into the yard. Andrew was in a disgruntled mood. Nick's phone call had made him anxious and hiding his state of mind from Tom had been a strain. But that, of course, was nothing compared with the condition watching the video plunged him into.

'Oh my God,' he murmured when it had finished playing. 'Oh my God.'

'Do you want to see it again?'

'What?'

'Do you want to see it again!'

'No.' Andrew rubbed his eyes, struggling to organize his thoughts. 'I never want to see it again.'

'It exists, whether we like it or not. And it would be na�ve to imagine it's the only copy.'

'Show me the envelope.'

'There.' Nick handed it to him.

Andrew stared at the name and address for several seconds. 'What does it mean?'

'Not sure. Whoever put it in my car wants to tell us something. It's a message. They're going to send it to the police. They might send it. They've already sent it.'

'What would the police make of it?'

'Not much, as it stands. We could be going to ridiculous lengths to fly-tip a roll of carpet. But if a note goes with it, suggesting it's more than a roll of carpet. . .' Nick shrugged. 'I guess they'd have to investigate.'

'They could work out where the shaft is from the direction and distance of the Caradon Hill transmitter.'

'Yeah.'

'Then they'd find the body.'

'Yeah.'

'And then they'd come looking for me. My registration number's clear to see.'

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'Yeah.'

'Shit.' Andrew dropped the envelope, stood up and walked to the window. He stared out into the wet and windswept yard for a moment. Then he moved away suddenly, striding across to the television set. He stabbed at a button on the video player, releasing the cassette, and pulled it out of the machine. 'Who did this, Nick?' he asked, almost rhetorically.

'It must have been put in my car by someone at the funeral party. My coat was hanging in the hall, with the keys in the pocket.'

'That narrows the field.'

'To two, I reckon. Obviously, the family, Pru, Baskcomb and the Wellers aren't in the frame. That leaves . . .'

'Farnsworth and Davey.'

'Yeah.'

'One or the other.'

'Or both. They left together, remember.'

'But they couldn't have shot this.' Andrew slapped the cassette against his palm. 'Neither of them is agile enough - or technologically wised up, at a guess.'

"I agree.'

Then it has to be Elspeth Hartley.'

'Looks that way.'

'She knew the body was there all along, didn't she? That's what it was all about. She must have followed us when we went to Minions on Saturday morning and watched us poking around the shaft. That's how she knew where to lie in wait for us. And we didn't let her down, did we?'

'She certainly seems to have been one step ahead of us all the way.'

'Yeah. And she still is. What does she expect us to do about this video?'

T'm not sure. Maybe she's giving us a chance to go to the police before she tips them off.'

'Why would she do that?'

'I don't know. But then . . .'

'What?'

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'We don't know why she's done anything. We don't really know the first thing about her.'

'Except the people she's in with.' Andrew stared down at the cassette clutched in his hands. 'Sitting back, waiting to see which way we jump, laughing at us, having a ball at our expense.'

'I'm not sure abou--'

There was a loud crack as Andrew hooked his fingers under the plastic cover of the cassette and wrenched it off, dragging a loop of tape with it. Then he started pulling the rest of the tape out, breathing heavily as it bunched and tangled in his grasp, until finally it snapped off at the end of the spool. He threw the empty cassette on to the floor and headed for the kitchen, taking the jumble of tape with him.

'What are you doing?'

Getting no answer, Nick followed Andrew into the kitchen, where he saw him standing by the range, leaning against the rail as he dropped the tape into the fire. He replaced the lid with a thud and turned slowly round. 'You're going to tell me burning it's a waste of effort, aren't you?'

'We have to assume--'

'I know what we have to assume.' Andrew grabbed his coat and made for the door. 'The fucking worst.'

'Where are you going?'

Slamming the door behind him was Andrew's only response. Nick started after him, then stopped. What was the point? Whatever he said, Andrew would not listen. He heard a shout of 'Stay!' out in the yard, directed at the dog, followed by the noise of the Land Rover engine. Then a shadow roared past the window. Andrew was gone.

A few minutes later, Nick started back for Trennor, this time taking the direct route. He did not know what to do for the best. Go to the police? Or go home to Milton Keynes and wait to see what happened? Why had Elspeth given them the chance to choose? What did she want - or expect - them to do?

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His mind was as full of questions as it was empty of answers. Strictly speaking, they did not know Elspeth was responsible for the video. Nor could they be certain either Farnsworth or Davey was involved in planting it in Nick's car, although how else it could have got there was hard to imagine. He would have to speak to Andrew again later, when he was calmer, and try to find a way forward. Meanwhile-A thought burst suddenly upon him. Whoever had put the video in the car had necessarily had the run of the boot, where Nick had put the envelope holding the contents of the file his father had kept on his breakdown. Was it still there? He pressed his foot to the floor, desperate to reach the next lay-by.

Where all, it transpired, was well. The envelope did not look as if it had been tampered with. Nick stood by the open boot, the chill moorland air buffeting around him as he leafed through the documentary evidence of his loosened hold on reason. It was all there, every letter, every bill, and much more besides.

Including, chanced on by his questing fingers, the printed programme for the degree ceremony he had not been supposed to attend. He pulled it out and stared at it for a moment. Visitors are asked to enter and leave the Senate House only during the interval between the presentation of the candidates from different Colleges, the heading read. Photography and smoking are not permitted. There was the date: Friday, 29 June 1979. And there were the names, in orderly columns. He knew he would find his own, if he looked, listed as one of those proceeding to a degree in absentia. His father must have asked for the programme to be sent to him, a small and poignant memento of an occasion he had no doubt hoped to witness proudly and in person, whereas instead-It was then that Nick remembered Elspeth's brother, the brother she had supposedly gone to see collect his own degree that day. That must have been a lie, of course, devised to account for her knowledge of Nick's breakdown. But why tell it at all? What had she gained by it?