More Than Meets the Eye (17 page)

The noise and the unexpected brightness of the lights hit him almost like blows as he pushed open the door. But it was all right. Everyone here was occupied with his own concerns and none of them with him. They gave the black-clad figure with the fiery red hair and the helmet in his hand a glance, then got on with their own conversations. This wasn't rural Gloucestershire, but one of the great cities. It wasn't the habit here to take too great an interest in the business of strangers. Curiosity could be positively dangerous. Alex Fraser loved his work at Westbourne and wanted passionately to retain it. But at this moment he felt that he had returned home.

That feeling was almost shattered immediately. In his fatigue, he nearly ordered a ‘full English' breakfast, realizing just in time that the term would mark him as a Sassenach, maybe even a traitor, if they picked up his accent. But he bit back the words and five minutes later sat looking appreciatively at bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, baked beans and brownies, with two slices of toast on a smaller plate and a mug of strong tea by his right hand.

He hadn't realized until now how hungry he was. He didn't believe fried food could ever have tasted so good, or hot tea so welcome. The owner came and cleared the plates left by others, grinned at the young Scotsman's compliments to his cuisine, and asked him how far he had travelled. Two minutes later, the big man set down a second mug of tea and removed the shiningly empty plates.

Alex was overcome by the warmth of his surroundings and the food he had so sorely needed. He loosened the zips on his leathers and allowed himself to relax. He felt almost at peace with himself, for the first time in many days. His belly was full and he felt a delicious fatigue. Perhaps things weren't so bad, after all . . .

It was two hours later when the morning rush eased and the proprietor came out from behind his counter. He stood for a moment looking down at the fiery red of the head which lay so still and quiet upon the table beside the half-full mug of cold tea. He was surprised how clean the hair and the scalp were, how white was the small patch of neck which protruded from the leathers, how innocent and childlike the thin features looked in sleep.

Reluctantly, he bent and shook the young man's shoulder, noting how thin and wiry it felt beneath the leather. It took him a few seconds and a more vigorous jolting to rouse the sleeping traveller. Fraser returned abruptly to consciousness, springing like a warrior roused to confront his enemy. The big man in the apron stepped back and said, ‘Easy, lad, easy! You've had a couple of hours' rest. Time now to be on your way.'

For a moment Alex stared blankly at his assailant. Then he looked round at his surroundings and slowly comprehended where he was. He said, ‘Thanks, mate. Two hours, you said? You're right. It's time I was away.'

He stood up unsteadily, then gathered his gauntlets and his helmet carefully. Like an old lady with her shopping, he thought. He couldn't remember ever feeling quite as stiff as this. But he was all right once he'd moved the few steps across the floor and out into the welcome coolness of the day.

He'd expected sun, but the sky was grey and a thin drizzle fell steadily. He could see the ghostly outlines of tall buildings through the mist. He stood still for a moment and studied them, getting his bearings before the last stage of his journey. The silhouettes looked ominous in the gloom, making Alex feel very small. Behind them lay the wide black waters of the Clyde, flowing steadily through the industrial heart of the great city.

His bike wasn't where he'd left it. He saw it quickly, though. It lay three yards from where he had parked it, but on its side, with the throttle grip almost touching the huge tyre of the lorry beside it. Someone had tried to pinch it, but given up the struggle when the lock frustrated him and the bike slid from beneath him.

Welcome home, Alex Fraser.

J
ulie Hartley was plainly very nervous. Her eyes darted quickly round the curator's office, then did the same circuit again in reverse, as if she was reluctant to look at the two CID men who had summoned her here.

They noted her anxiety with a certain pleasure. People who were on edge often made mistakes, often revealed more about themselves and others than they meant to do. But Lambert and Hook were too experienced to think it implied any connection with the death which was their only concern. Apart from hardened criminals, involvement in a murder enquiry was a new experience and often an uncomfortable one for most people. It made many of them nervous and apprehensive.

The two CID officers had introduced themselves, but then said nothing further whilst the seconds stretched and Julie completed her survey of the room. She spoke eventually, as they had known she would. ‘I've never been in here before. Never warranted the boss's attention.'

‘But he wasn't your boss, was he?'

‘No. No, he was nothing to do with me, really. But he was Jim's boss. And when you live on the site and you know he controls it, you feel as if he's in charge of you as well.'

‘I see. Did you resent that feeling?'

‘I've never thought about it before. I suppose I did, a little. But that wasn't Mr Cooper's fault, was it?' She smoothed the dress she had put on specially to come in here. She had grown used to trousers and the dress felt strange; she felt an absurd wish to cover her knees as she faced them.

The tall man who had said he was called Lambert had a long, lined face and grey eyes which never seemed to blink. She felt those eyes were recording her every movement and storing up the information for further use. He now said calmly and directly, ‘Did you like Mr Cooper?'

‘I didn't like or dislike him. I didn't know him. You should ask Jim that – he saw him nearly every day.'

‘We already have, Mrs Hartley. And now we're asking you. Surely as a resident you knew him a little, even if that was outside his work.'

Julie wondered if they were playing cat and mouse with her, whether they knew all about her conversation with Cooper last week. It might be better to set it in front of them now, before they could say she'd tried to deceive them. She must cool down and think clearly. She decided that there was really no reason why they should know anything about that. ‘We spoke occasionally. You're bound to meet sometimes in the gardens, once the visitors have left. I've got two boys who are out and about on most evenings, in the summer. It's a wonderful place to bring up children.' She mouthed the platitude everyone seemed to throw at her about the boys. It was surely a safe thing to say.

‘So you met him informally in the gardens. What did you think of him?'

‘I rather liked him, I suppose. Look, I suppose I did know him rather more than I said I did just now. We've been to his house and he's been to ours. The residents tend to get together for an evening about once a month, especially in winter when things are less hectic. Just a glass of wine and cheese and biscuits or canapés, things like that. Strictly informal. But there are usually a dozen of us at these gatherings, so you don't get to know anyone particularly well. And I was always conscious of Dennis being Jim's boss, so I was rather careful about what I said. You don't get to know anyone very well when it's like that. Sorry, I'm going on for too long.'

‘On the contrary, Mrs Hartley, you've explained what went on rather well. I'm sure the information will be valuable to us as we speak to other people who are resident here. Who do you think killed Mr Cooper?'

She gasped. ‘I've no idea.'

‘But you must have thought about it. I'm sure you've discussed it with Mr Hartley.'

‘No.' The denial was prompt and vehement. Her pale, oval face coloured a little beneath her long dark hair. ‘We've hardly had time for that. When you've boys of eight and six to be aware of, life is pretty hectic. You don't get much opportunity to discuss things.'

But there had been time last night, once the boys were in bed, thought Lambert. He wouldn't push the matter, until he knew more about the Hartleys and more about others. He couldn't see at the moment why this woman should be so jumpy; she had no reason he could see to be so. But she was certainly on edge, and she remained so when Hook asked where she had been on Sunday evening.

‘Between six and twelve, you say? That's a long time to account for. Well, I got the children to bed. That would account for the time up to nine o'clock. And it was still very wet on Sunday night, wasn't it? Heavy showers, even after the thunder. So I expect I was at home all the rest of the evening.'

Hook's eyebrows rose high on his normally placid face. ‘Surely you can remember clearly enough, Mrs Hartley? This is only the night before last.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry, I'm scatterbrained as usual.' But she didn't look at all as if that was her normal mode. ‘Yes, of course I was in the house for the rest of the night.'

‘Your husband said you were. He said you could vouch for his presence there.'

‘And he's right. Of course he is. We were both there all night. I don't know why my mind went blank. And Jim's my alibi, isn't he?'

Lambert said with a hint of irony. ‘In view of your admittedly disturbed state of mind, it's possible that significant facts may occur to you in the next day or two. Please contact us immediately if anything does.'

She stood, smoothing down her skirt again, behind her this time. For a moment, it seemed as if she might speak again, but then she nodded abruptly and left them.

‘I had to see you. A phone call wouldn't have done. I'm not much good on phones, even now, when we all have mobiles.' Alex Fraser was rid of his leathers, washed and shaved. His fresh face looked healthy again beneath the fiery hair, though his slim body carried a tenseness which he could not shake away.

Ken Jackson was the only social worker whom Fraser had ever really respected. He'd met him as a sixteen-year-old, known him for three years, and in that time Jackson had rescued his life. Ken wouldn't have put it so dramatically and he'd have given the credit for his reform to the young man himself. But Alex knew the truth of the matter. That's why he'd had to see him now, rather than talk on the phone. Jackson was a father figure, he supposed. He'd never had a father.

Jackson found the beginning a little awkward, as father and son might have done after months away from each other. He'd brought the boy – his charges remained boys well into manhood, for him – back to his own house. He'd sensed as soon as he heard Fraser's strained voice on the phone that Alex wouldn't want curious eyes noting his presence in the council offices and speculating about the reasons for his reappearance.

‘How are you getting on at Westbourne Park?'

It was stiff, conventional, ridiculous, in the way that opening exchanges sometimes are between people who've been close and then lived apart. Alex Fraser said equally stiffly, ‘All right. I like it there. You said I would.' Then the strength of his joy in the place broke through and he spoke more quickly and naturally. ‘More than like it, Ken. I love the work at Westbourne. I'm learning all the time. I can make something of myself there, the way you said I could.'

Jackson nodded and smiled, his own tension dropping away as he heard the new tone in Fraser's voice. ‘You can and you will, Alex. You're interested in plants and you have a talent for them. You didn't expect that and I didn't expect that. But thank God we found out about it.'

Alex smiled that small, secret smile which people found so attractive in him. He was wondering why people who didn't believe in a God still invoked one; he knew that Ken Jackson wasn't a believer. ‘It's because I want to go on working there that I'm here.'

Jackson's face darkened. He rolled the end of the sleeve of his sweater back an inch on his wrist; it was a movement Alex had forgotten, but now recognized. It was a thing Jackson did to gain him a few seconds for thought. ‘There's been a murder at Westbourne, hasn't there? Is that why you're here?'

He'd come straight out with it. The fear that had been haunting him in the two hours since Fraser's strained voice on the phone had told him that he was in Glasgow. But to his great relief Alex said, ‘No.' He thought for a moment. ‘Well, it might be, I suppose. The place is swarming with police. They make me nervous, the police.' He'd not called them filth or fuzz or pigs; that was a kind of deference to Ken Jackson. The sort of deference you might have given to a father.

‘I can understand that. Still, it might not have been a good idea to just piss off. Draws the attention of the CID, you see, when you disappear from the scene like that.'

‘Don't you want to talk to me?' Fraser was instantly not just disappointed but prickly and aggressive.

‘Easy, Alex, easy. I wouldn't have you sitting in my own front room if I didn't want to speak to you, would I?'

Fraser looked round the small room he had hardly registered before, with its family photographs, its prints of the Alps, and in pride of place its picture of Ken on the Matterhorn. In his preoccupation with his own concerns, he'd forgotten how keen Jackson was on mountaineering. ‘No, you wouldn't. Thank you for bringing me here.'

‘That's all right. Alex, if you had anything to do with this murder at Westbourne, if you know anything at all about it, you should tell me now.'

‘I don't. I didn't kill him and I don't know who did.'

Ken Jackson tried not to show his immense relief. ‘Of course you didn't. You wouldn't let yourself down like that. Not after what you've achieved in the last few years.'

‘I have done something stupid, though. That's why I'm here.'

‘I thought it might be. Let's have it.'

‘It's over a week ago, now. I don't know what's going to happen.' For a moment, the tough little Scot looked perilously close to tears. But he pulled himself together and said, ‘I went to a party in Cheltenham with two of the lads I work with. It was a last-minute invitation. I wish I'd never gone.'