Dying to Write (28 page)

‘Might be worth a try. Assuming he drives. Or she.'

‘Just to shut you up, mind,' said Tina, ‘when I'm back – Monday morning, that'll be – I'll get on to Cardiff, just to see who's got a licence and who hasn't. OK?'

‘Monday!'

‘We're allowed to go home at weekends sometimes, Soph,' she said resentfully, pushing away from the table and picking up her bag. ‘In any case, there's one other thing you don't seem to have thought of. It doesn't have to be the epileptic who fed the pills to Nyree. Someone could have nicked them – that old guy said people were always leaving things in the bathroom. The owner might have been too embarrassed to own up. Got to think of everything. Can't go jumping to conclusions. And if I were you,' she added, with a touch of venom, ‘I wouldn't go telling Chris all this. He'd have bloody kittens. All these theories of yours!'

I nodded. She was referring obliquely, wasn't she, to my belief that Courtney was gay? Apologising would only make it more awkward. And, in Courtney's case, no less true.

‘You going to see that young man?' asked Ian. ‘Send my best wishes.'

‘And mine,' I added quietly.

Ian always enjoyed driving: when he was at the wheel his face softened and his hands were relaxed. So I felt no guilt when I asked him to take me the long way back. I wanted to see once again the corner of the grounds with the ruins of the home farm, and I didn't see myself jogging that far for another couple of days. And the course ended after lunch tomorrow. Ian turned the car obligingly, and we followed a succession of lanes so narrow you wouldn't believe you were within ten miles of the city centre, and two of the M5, under which we eventually plunged.

He parked where the driver of that red car had parked on Wednesday morning.

‘Don't worry,' he said, as I opened my mouth. ‘Ade and his mates have already checked on the tyre tracks. Chris thought you were panicking unnecessarily but he's a stickler for detail. Especially where you're concerned.'

‘I suppose you wouldn't dream of telling me what sort of tyres they were and whose car they belonged to.'

‘No, I wouldn't.' Then he grinned. ‘But I dare say Chris will if you ask him.'

‘They do match one of the students', then?'

‘Didn't say that.'

Inside the car, the noise was bad enough. When we got out, it enveloped us. Ian stood aside to let me over the stile first. Seeing how slow I was, he stretched out a matter-of-fact hand to help. Then he got over himself, surprisingly lightly for a man in his late forties. If he grunted with the effort no one would have heard. We walked up to the ruins as quickly as my cuts and bruises would allow. Then on to the ice house. There the noise was bearable, but still intrusive.

Ian peered down. ‘Chris reckons they'd store ice in this for the big house.'

He sounded doubtful.

‘That's right. I'd have thought this one a bit too exposed to be successful. Perhaps there used to be trees round it but they've been cut down.'

‘They'd really keep ice back from the winter?'

‘No other way of getting it, I suppose.'

He went slowly down the steps and gave the door a perfunctory rattle. Then he came and stood beside me again.

‘We looked all over this lot, Sophie,' he said at last, his voice heavy with forbearance.

‘I'm sure you did. And it's too hot to be doing all this haring about now. I'm sorry, Ian. I don't know what I'm doing or why.'

‘You think Kate's still alive, don't you? The gaffer does, too. He thinks someone's keeping her alive. That asthma spray and what have you.'

‘It has to be someone on the course. There've been so many of you people around, no one else would have had access to the things. But the course ends tomorrow. So what will whoever it is do then?'

We stood side by side, staring at the ice house, absorbed in thoughts that were for me, at least, very disturbing. What would I do, if I'd kept someone for a week without a ransom demand? Or had one been made, without Chris telling me?

‘I suppose no one's been in touch with your people?'

‘Lots of them, Sophie. Cranks anonymous. People knowing where she is, and by the way, is there a reward? A couple of clairvoyants: one of them says she's dead and buried in the Mendips, and the other says she's alive, “somewhere”. But there haven't been any proper ransom demands.'

‘So what happens tomorrow? Does the kidnapper set her free? Or kill her? Or go home and leave her to starve to death?'

‘Your guess is as good as ours. The problem is, he's no fool, this villain. He obviously knows you're on to him.'

‘I wish I bloody were!'

‘Thinks you're on to him, then. Sophie, this isn't the time for do-it-yourself detection, you know. If you've got any ideas, for God's sake tell me. Or Chris.'

‘I've told you the only thing I can think of. And I know there's some Japanese trade connection with Vietnam – it's in this morning's
FT
, nothing secret. That's why the Japanese wanted Nyree, no doubt – something to do with some deal her husband's involved in. No idea what, though. And no idea at all how that would involve Kate. Unless you've come up with things in her past?' I paused hopefully.

‘Not a bloody thing. She was good at her job, then she picked up a legacy – yes, all bona fide, we checked it – and took premature retirement. Like that Matt said, she was positively vetted. Jesus, Sophie, this is a crazy spot to stand talking in. No shade for miles. Nowhere to sit. And it's so humid you'd think you were in Viet bloody Nam itself.'

‘That's what she called it,' I said. ‘Nyree. She didn't want to go.'

‘Don't blame her.' He turned and scanned the expanse of parkland, which shimmered back, blandly. ‘All this space, and all within spitting distance of Brum. I'm surprised someone's not developed it properly. This side of the motorway, you know, this'd make a good golf course. And that marshland across the way – I'm surprised no one's got round to dredging it. Make a nice little water-park, that would. Ever done any windsurfing, Sophie?'

‘It's a nice thought, in this weather.'

We turned together and walked slowly back to the farm. We paused there long enough for another cursory check.

Nothing.

The air pulsed in the sun. We walked as quickly as we could towards the gate, Ian putting his hand to my arm if he thought I was stumbling.

‘When I was a kid,' he said, ‘I had this book about India, I think it was. How when they wanted to get a tiger for the sahibs to shoot, they used to tether this goat where the tiger could see it or smell it or whatever. In this heat, in this noise, stuck up there on that hill, I reckon I knew what that goat felt like. Come on,' he added in his normal voice, ‘I need a cup of tea.'

We spent the journey back putting together a team for the MCC's winter tour. It was too short for us to get beyond the opening batsmen and the possibility of a specialist wicket-keeper. I'd have been happy to spend the rest of the afternoon talking cricket. It would certainly have been preferable to hanging around waiting for someone to do something, possibly to me. He must have seen my expression as we pulled into the area the police had appropriated for their car park.

‘Come along with me – I reckon you need some tea, too. Any response to the gaffer's press conference?' he asked the room at large, as we entered the comparative cool of the stable.

There was a gloomy murmur. He pointed to the chair beside the desk and went to make the tea himself. No one else would make it the way he likes it: Earl Grey so pale as to be gold; no milk; a paper-thin slice of lemon. He didn't speak until we'd drained our cups. Then, as I heaved myself up from the chair, he said quietly, ‘I'll have another look at those statements, Sophie. See if anyone else was sleepy after that pudding. In the meantime,' he added, raising his voice, ‘no more heroics, eh? Remember that goat!'

Two thirty. The kitchen was still empty. I was so out of touch with the course I coudn't even remember who was supposed to be cooking? Was it Gimson? And wasn't there some rumour that he was refusing to take his place in the roster? I suppose, since he was no doubt considering the joys of Harborne, or that part of it that comprised Rose Road Police Station, the whole issue was academic anyway.

I put on the kettle for another cup of tea. I'd been foolish to drink beer in such heat, especially at midday: it had left me feeling very second-hand. My clothes were sticking to me, the sweat defying my deodorant, and my hair was wilting. The whole of me was wilting, come to think of it. I could do with a nap. But the fear that it would turn into a whole afternoon's sleep put me off the idea, and I joggled the teabag in the hot water rather longer than usual. I needed to raise my caffeine level a bit.

At this point Shazia pushed open the door, banging down a couple of Sainsbury's carrier bags on the table. She didn't speak to me, but ostentatiously emptied the bags, putting a load of salad stuff into the sink. Without asking I boiled the kettle and made another mug of tea. I passed it to her. She pushed it away. Oh, God: I'd made another enemy. I'd wanted Shazia as a friend but I suppose my offhand attitude to the course had irritated her. Funny, I'd thought we were on the same wavelength at supper last night. I ought to ask her what I'd said or done, and explain or apologise.

Suddenly she turned. ‘I know it's not your fault. I'm being unfair,' she said. She picked up the tea. ‘But they've taken Naukez now.'

‘Why on earth?'

‘Just for questioning, they say, but – oh, Sophie, what did you say? To make them suspect him?'

‘I just said I'd seen him leaving the house. But it wasn't him I followed, Shazia. I followed someone else. I don't know who. You could hardly see your hand in front of your face before that storm. They can't think it was anything to do with Naukez!'

‘It's because he's out on his own such a lot. No alibi. And they reckon he must know the park better than anyone. And, of course, he had that problem with Nyree. Horrible woman!'

‘What problem, Shazia?'

‘Didn't you know? You must be the only one who doesn't, then. She followed him up to our flat, the first morning she saw him. The Monday, I suppose it must have been. I seem to have lost all track of time. And then that afternoon she kept on pestering him to take her to see the badgers. Oh, Sophie, what if he had? If she'd been with him when she died?'

I shook my head. I didn't want to interrupt her: she plainly needed to talk to someone.

‘If his family find out … They've never liked me. They'll blame me for not being a good wife, or something.'

‘They can't do that! You've done nothing wrong!' But then I remembered families didn't necessarily employ logic when it came to making judgements. And I had interrupted her flow.

She started tearing viciously at the lettuces. I reached across for the watercress and started picking it over. If I waited, perhaps she would start again.

She did; but not as I'd expected.

‘And then there's this course. These students, I mean. It was all wrong from the start. All that hostility. I know Nyree was responsible for most of it, but no one seemed to want to be part of a group. All you individuals going in separate directions. Not you especially – you don't even want to be a writer. But no one's trying to help anyone else like they do in other groups – it's all self, self, self. I thought things might change after Nyree's death. I suppose they did. For the worse. Fancy, Sophie, threatening to sue because there wasn't a teacher. And now –' she turned the tap on – ‘now here they are wanting a barbecue tonight. I ask you, a barbecue. No one wants to prepare it, of course, because somehow they'll all be too busy preparing their piece for tonight.'

‘Are they going to get one?'

‘They are not! Salad and Sainsbury's flans, that's what they're getting, and ice cream to follow. Full stop. I'm supposed to do the lunch tomorrow – that's part of the contract, that and the first supper. And I suppose I'm being a bit ungracious not wanting to do more.'

‘Nonsense. You've had more than enough to put up with. Any idea who fingered Naukez, by the way? Since it wasn't me.'

She shook her head. ‘All they'd say was they wanted to ask him some questions. Sophie, what shall I do?'

‘Trust Chris. He's got to investigate, because if he didn't he'd be in the shit. But he won't accuse anyone falsely. He wants to find Kate. He won't mess around trying to frame an innocent man.'

Shazia nodded, and then seemed to go up a gear: ‘What d'you think you're doing with that watercress? You'll get your dressings wet.'

‘Only one cut. I can stick another plaster on it. And I shall get it wet anyway when I was my hair – I mean, look at it!'

She looked: she didn't try to pretend it was pretty sight. She burrowed in a drawer. ‘Better use these and keep the dressing dry, if you ask me.' She passed a wad of thin polythene gloves stapled together at the wrist. ‘Tape them on: there's no point in taking unnecessary risks.'

I nodded. I tore one free, put it on and started on the watercress. It made a fiddly job fiddlier, but perhaps she was right.

‘Thanks, Sophie,' she said, as I rinsed a colanderful under the tap. ‘But you're supposed to be washing your hair, remember – and you've already prepared one meal. Mostly on your own. It won't take me long to finish this lot.'

I tore off another glove, but she picked up the rest and thrust them at me. ‘Go on, take them all – they're not very strong.'

 

I managed to shower and wash my hair without soaking through the dressing, but drying my hair was tricky. I had to use the wrong hand for the dryer because the cable pressed to hard against the cut, and I kept blowing hot air not at my hair but down my back and on my breasts. If only Courtney – but if I thought about him I might start to cry again.