Midnight Murders (27 page)

He heaved on the handle. It grated sluggishly. He tugged at it again. The same corpse was still inside. He recognised the feet that looked as though they'd been wrapped in yellow parchment. The face was covered by a sheet. Peeling it back he uncovered the body of the old man. Thrusting his hands beneath the surprisingly light corpse, he lifted it out and laid it on one of the zinc-covered tables. Beneath it was another sheet; thick, lumpy. Scarcely daring to breathe, Trevor drew it aside.

The white face of Lyn Sullivan stared up at him, eyes open, muscles immobile. He could hear Dan calling down his radio for a doctor. Trevor laid his hand on her sweater and felt her heart beat. Slow, but definite.

‘She's alive.' He leaned against the table. The hand of the corpse rolled aside and hit his back. ‘She's alive,' he repeated, only just beginning to believe it.

EPILOGUE

‘Thanks, Trevor. That was a good film and a good meal.'

‘The film was good,' Trevor agreed. ‘I have my doubts about the fish and chips.'

‘Perhaps it was the company.' Spencer pushed his bicycle clips on to his trouser legs and opened the front door of Trevor's new home.

‘Shall we do the same next week?' Trevor suggested.

Spencer managed a tight smile. ‘Yes, I'd like that.'

Trevor stood on the step watching Spencer ride past Peter who, arm in sling, was walking up the path.

‘Came to see if you'd like to go out for a drink after all the hassle of moving.'

‘Some other time.' Trevor led Peter past the lounge and dining room, both carpeted in plain green Wilton but devoid of furniture, and into the kitchen. ‘There's still one or two things I need to do.'

‘One drink?'

The telephone interrupted them. Trevor picked up the receiver. Peter leaned against the fridge, and listened to the one-sided conversation.

‘Yes… yes… fine… yes… see you a week Monday, then. Yes… look forward to working with you. Goodbye.'

‘You took it, then?' Peter watched him replace the receiver.

‘What?' Trevor asked.

‘The job Dan offered.'

‘You knew about it?'

‘There's been talk of nothing else down the station. Special Crimes Sergeant. You won't forget us poor sloggers in the Drug Squad when you're lording it in your new office, bored out of your mind, waiting for a murder to happen, will you?'

‘Would you let me?'

Peter saw a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. ‘Want me to tackle those?'

‘With one arm?' Trevor smiled. ‘I was just about to load the dish washer.'

Peter studied the shining antiseptic surfaces of the gleaming blue and white kitchen. ‘You've done well for yourself here, but do you think you'll survive uncluttered cleanliness?'

‘I can but try.'

‘Must have cost a bomb.'

‘A small one,' Trevor agreed. ‘I couldn't have done it if the sitting tenants hadn't bought my old flat.'

‘I don't suppose you could,' Peter said wistfully remembering the house he had handed over fully furnished to his undeserving ex-wife. ‘Come on, just one quick one.'

‘Tomorrow evening,' Trevor compromised.

‘I know you and your tomorrows.'

‘I'm busy,' Trevor said impatiently. ‘Tomorrow night or nothing.'

‘You'll slide back into a depression if you're not careful. Staying indoors, moping around… what did you do in Cornwall?'

‘Eat, sleep, play with my brother's kids.'

‘My point exactly. You may have bought a great house, but what's the point in hanging another millstone around your neck if all you're going to do is spend every spare minute thinking about furniture and fittings, instead of having a good time? It's what you do, not what you own that's important.'

‘I'm grateful for your advice,' Trevor said. ‘But I'm tired. I'll go for a drink with you tomorrow.' He ushered Peter back down the passage towards the front door. ‘Right now all I want is a bath and an early night.'

‘I can take a hint.' Peter dumped a bottle of wine he'd been carrying on the floor next to the door. ‘We'll drink that tomorrow – after the pub.'

‘See you around nine?'

‘I'll be here.' Peter turned back as he stepped on to the garden path. ‘They're not prosecuting Roland for mishandling that corpse.'

‘That's not surprising. There isn't much you can do to a man who steals a corpse from a mortuary, carries it out to a garden and attacks it, except lock him up in an institution. And as he's already there, there seems little point in wasting taxpayers' money on a trial.'

‘He's locked up now,' Peter said. ‘But what will happen to him when he's released?'

‘The same thing that will happen to all the others,' Trevor said philosophically. ‘He'll be out in the community again.'

‘Think we should apply for doubling of manpower?'

‘Either that or a new prison. See you.'

After he closed and locked the door, Trevor checked that all the downstairs windows were locked. He loaded the dishwasher, tidied round, switched off the lights and looked into the empty lounge and dining room. Tomorrow he'd choose some furniture – perhaps start off in the antique shops. If he couldn't find anything there, he'd visit one or two of the better class furniture shops. There was no hurry. He was going to be in this house a long time, so he could afford to take a few months to find the right pieces. He'd already furnished the master bedroom; it was large enough to take the television, video and chaise-longue he'd bought, as well as a king-size bed. The builder had turned the fourth bedroom into a walk-in dressing room and wardrobe. That had made all the difference to the upstairs and still left two guest rooms. Enough for any visitors.

He opened the fridge, stowed away the wine Peter had brought and removed a bottle that had been cooling all day. He walked slowly up the stairs, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn't easy without his stick, but he was getting there. Another two to three months, the physiotherapist said, and then he'd be walking properly again.

Switching on the small lamps at either side of the bed, he opened the French doors to the balcony that ran the full width of the second floor of his house. Sitting here, he could only be overlooked from the beach, and at this time of night it was deserted.

He set the bottle and two glasses on the wrought-iron pub table he had bought in a second-hand shop in Cornwall, and sat on one of the matching chairs. He took his time over opening the wine, drinking in the beauty of the glistening path painted by the moon on the shimmering surface of the sea while listening to the quiet hiss of the waves as they broke on the pebble-strewn shore.

‘I might have known I'd find you out here.' Lyn moved behind him, her hair wrapped in a towel, another wrapped around her slim inviting body.

‘Wine?'

‘If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk.'

He poured her a glass and handed it to her.

‘If we're going to sit out here, I suppose I'd better put on something more substantial than this.' She stepped back into the bedroom, and he followed her. Reaching out he held her close for a moment, revelling in the warm, sensual feel of her and the rhythm of her heart beating against his. As she raised her face, he kissed her slowly and deeply.

‘You're not sorry I moved in with you?' she teased.

‘Someone has to make sure that you stay in one piece, and if you carry on working the way you did today, you'll save me a fortune in cleaning bills.'

‘I won't cramp your style, then?' She wrapped her arms around his neck allowing the towel she was wearing to fall to the floor.

‘I'm not sure I had a style before I met you.' He kissed the hollow above her collarbone.

‘The wine's going to get warm,' she warned.

‘There's a cool breeze.'

‘That's all right then.' She pulled him back on to the bed.

‘Lyn?' He looked into her eyes as she unfastened the buttons on his shirt.

‘Yes?'

He smiled at her. ‘Nothing.' He kissed her again, and there was no need for more words between them for a long time.

Lyn was a miracle that had transformed his life. And, experience had taught him that miracles shouldn't be analysed or questioned. For once he'd struck lucky, but it wouldn't last – it never did, and in this case it couldn't. There were thirteen years between them; a wealth of bitter experience on his side, and youth and beauty on hers. But for now at least, she was his. He had learned a hard lesson in Compton Castle, but he had learned it well.

Now was all anyone ever had. And this now was more than he deserved.

Katherine John

Katherine John is the daughter of a Prussian refugee and a Welsh father. Born in Pontypridd, she studied English and Sociology at Swansea College, then lived in America and Europe before returning to Wales and a variety of jobs, while indulging her love of writing.

She lives with her family on the Gower Peninsula, near Swansea.

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