Never Go Back (16 page)

‘When were you planning to pay Tapper this little social call, then?’ Chipchase asked as they trudged back towards Stockwell Tube station.

‘Right now,’ Harry replied. ‘We’ve got his address, thanks to Danger.’

‘Yeah. Leafy Carshalton. All right for some, hey?’

‘Did he ever strike you as the impulsively generous type?’

‘Anything but. There were moth holes in his ten-bob notes.’

‘So, why would he send Mrs Nixon off on a luxury cruise, all expenses paid?’

‘To get her out of the way. To ensure she couldn’t let slip anything significant about Coker’s long ago, mysterious demise.’

‘Good to know we’re thinking along the same lines, Barry.’

‘We make a good team, Harry. You know we do. The old firm back together. A winning combination.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

‘Have I?’

‘Quite a few times. And every one of them… has been the prelude to disaster.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Carshalton was a far cry from Brixton. Cherry trees were in blossom round the old village pond, the quacking of ducks audible above the rumble of traffic. They crossed a park where several pedigree Carshaltonians were exercising their pedigree hounds, then walked along a well-spaced row of half-timbered, double-gable-fronted houses with Land Rover Discoveries and E-class Mercedes gleaming on the driveways.

Tancred’s contribution to the vehicular excess was a sleek, sporty Jaguar. Its owner, dressed for golf in check trousers and bottle-green sweater, was loading a bag of clubs into the capacious boot as Harry, with Chipchase as usual in the rear, turned in from the road.

‘Tapper.’

‘What?’ Tancred whirled round. ‘Good God. Ossie. And … yes, it’s Fission, isn’t it?’

‘Long time no dirty looks, Tapper,’ said Chipchase.

‘What brings you two here?’

‘You’ve heard about Danger?’ Harry asked.

‘Yes. Magister phoned. I should tell you that he didn’t… speak kindly of you.’

‘He’s a little overwrought.’

‘Forgivably so, I rather think.’ Tancred closed the boot and jangled his car key. ‘I have no idea what you’re mixed up in, of course, but—’

‘A triple murder inquiry, Tapper. That’s what we’re mixed up in. And it’s not a pleasant experience, let me tell you. Especially when you consider that we’re innocent.’

‘I’m sure you are. Nevertheless, someone did murder Danger, didn’t they? We can be sure of that, I gather. And you were on the scene, so I also gather. I suppose it’s inevitable you’d come under suspicion.’

‘Aren’t you just an itty-bit worried in case some homicidal bloody maniac’s knocking off us Clean Sheeters one by one?’ Chipchase asked in a challenging tone.

Tancred smiled nervously. ‘I confess I am.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive. They also have to be maintained. I haven’t told my wife there’s any cause for concern, so… I’m obliged to carry on as normal.’

‘Is your wife in at the moment?’ Harry asked.

‘Er, no. She isn’t.’

‘Perhaps we could step inside for a word, then. If it’s convenient.’

‘It’s not, actually. I’ll be late for my round of golf if I don’t leave soon.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘Even so, I—’

‘It concerns a Caribbean cruise you recently paid for.’

‘What?’

‘Coker’s widow, Tapper,’ said Chipchase. ‘You put her out of our reach, didn’t you?’

‘I certainly did nothing of the—’ Tancred broke off, shaped a friendly grin and waved to a neighbour strolling past the end of the drive, leading a Dalmatian. ‘Morning, Hugh.’

‘Morning, Gilbert.’ Hugh waved back.

‘All right,’ said Tancred reluctantly, once Hugh and the Dalmatian had moved on. ‘Come in if you must. But I can’t spare you more than a few minutes.’

‘Don’t worry, Tapper,’ said Chipchase as they headed down past the double garage towards the side-door of the house. ‘We won’t stay any longer than we need to.’

—«»—«»—«»—

They got no further than the kitchen, Tancred seeming unwilling to let them invade his domain any further. They were there, his frowning, pettish expression made clear, strictly on sufferance.

‘One or two nice vintages here, Tapper,’ said Chipchase, eyeing the wine rack. ‘You’re obviously more of a Bordeaux man than a—’

‘Shall we cut the small talk? If that’s what you’d call it. The fact of the matter is that Magister specifically warned me you might be in touch. When I tell him of your visit, he’ll take it as confirmation of your complicity in a plot against him. I was inclined to regard that plot, or at any rate your involvement in it, as a figment of his imagination, but I’m beginning to think I may have to… reconsider my position.’

‘We’re under suspicion,’ said Harry. ‘That much is undeniable. So, we’re having to do what the police don’t seem prepared to do. Find out what’s really going on.’

‘Well, you’re wasting your time, then. I certainly can’t tell you. It’s as big a mystery to me as you say it is to you.’

‘Not quite. We don’t know why you paid for Mrs Nixon to go a-cruising. But you do. So, why not fill us in?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, but it is. We wanted to talk to her about Coker’s death. Your… generosity… has stopped us.’

‘Sorry, I’m sure. Naturally, I had no idea it would prove so inconvenient.’

‘What would she have told us, Tapper?’

‘Nothing of any relevance, I strongly suspect.’

‘Why did you do it, then? Why did you send her away?’

‘I didn’t send her. I simply… enabled her to go.’

‘But why?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Why?’

‘All right.’ Tancred slapped the flat of his hand irritably on the work top. ‘I’ll explain. Even though I strongly object to being obliged to. Danger suggested I call on her and pay my respects — our respects. The visit… stirred my conscience. I used to patronize Coker. You know that. Several of us did. Spectacularly unfunny remarks about bananas and coconuts and so forth. Looking back, I’m… pretty ashamed of how I treated him. Paying for Glenys to see Antigua again was…’ He shrugged. ‘My way of making up for it.’

‘You expect us to believe that?’ snapped Chipchase.

‘I do.’

‘Why did you keep it such a secret?’

‘Isn’t that obvious? To avoid having to admit to you and the others why I did it. I dislike… showing my feelings. I always have. I strongly disapprove of the current vogue for soul-baring. I believe some things — perhaps even most things — are best left unsaid.’

‘Can you lend me a hanky, Harry?’ Chipchase sarcastically enquired. ‘I think I might be about to blub.’

‘You must have chatted with Glenys at some length before coming up with the cruise idea,’ said Harry.

‘What if I did?’

‘Discuss Coker’s death with her, did you?’

‘Briefly.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Nothing of any significance. He was depressed. Unstable. Mentally ill, it seems clear now. The drowning could have been suicide … or an accident. Who knows?’

‘He fell overboard from a Scottish ferry.’

‘So I believe.’

‘You never mentioned it when we were talking about him on the train.’

‘I didn’t want my arrangement with Glenys to be satirized by you lot. I’ve already told you that. So, I… pretended to know as little as everyone else.’

‘Where was the ferry sailing to, Tapper? And where was it sailing from?’

‘I don’t believe I asked. To or from one of the islands, probably. Inner Hebrides. Outer Hebrides. I really can’t say. Does it matter?’

‘Perhaps. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s probably… unimportant.’

‘Yeah,’ said Chipchase. ‘I bet you do.’

‘Have we covered the ground?’ Tancred fired back. ‘I really do need to get on.’

‘All right,’ said Harry, confronting the dismal certainty that they would get nothing more out of him — and the disturbing thought that there was nothing more to be got. ‘We’re going.’

‘But we’re not going away.’ Chipchase winked at Tancred. ‘Know what I mean?’

Hard by Carshalton Pond stood the Greyhound Inn, a mellow-bricked Georgian watering hole. In its bar, as thinly populated at noon on a Thursday as might be expected, Harry and Barry sat by a window, drinking Young’s bitter and debating the credibility of local worthy Gilbert Tancred.

‘He might be telling the truth,’ said Harry. ‘His explanation made a certain amount of sense.’

‘Then again,’ said Chipchase, ‘he might be lying through his teeth.’

‘There’s no way to tell, is there?’

‘Yes there bloody is. He was a merchant banker, wasn’t he? So it stands to reason you can’t believe a word he says. Besides, you were adamant: one out of him, Fripp and Judd had to be in on the plot.’

‘I was, wasn’t I? But, thinking about it, Fripp’s a non-starter. He didn’t know about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings.’

‘One out of two, then. And Tancred’s the one who’s had to cobble together a cover story.’

‘But we can’t prove it’s a cover story, Barry. We can’t prove a damn thing.’

‘What are we going to do, then?’

‘I don’t know. Any suggestions?’

‘Well, we could … rattle Judd’s cage. See how he responds to some… gentle pressure.’

‘I can’t see him being mixed up in murder.’

‘Neither can I. But…’

‘It’s worth a try?’

‘Yeah. Particularly when there’s nothing else to try.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Epping was at the far eastern end of the Central line. The journey there from Carshalton was long and slow enough to prompt numerous doubts about its wisdom. A walk of a mile and a half from the station to Judd’s large mock Tudor house on the edge of Epping Forest converted those doubts into grumblings of outright discontent on the part of Chipchase, who falsely claimed that he had recommended phoning ahead, whereas Harry’s recollection of the plan hatched at the Greyhound was quite otherwise.

A short-haired, snub-nosed woman of middle years dressed in a velour tracksuit was power-hosing a behemoth-proportioned Jeep on the driveway as they limped in off the road, Harry still bothered by his injured knee, Chipchase by rank unfitness and thin-soled shoes. The woman switched off the hose as they approached and semi-rural quietude suddenly descended.

‘Afternoon,’ said Harry. ‘Judder about, is he? Er, Bill, I mean.’

‘Sorry, no,’ she replied. ‘What did you, er…?’

‘We’re a couple of his… old RAF chums, luv,’ panted Chipchase.

‘Oh, right. You must have been at this thing in Scotland, then.’

‘We were,’ said Harry. ‘Reckoned we might drop by and see what he made of it.’

“Fraid you’ve had a wasted trip. He and Mum flew to Fuerteventura yesterday. They’ve got an apartment there. They won’t be back for a week or so.’

‘A week?’

‘At least. Could be longer. Well, they’re free agents. That’s the beauty of retirement, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Chipchase. ‘There’s just nothing to beat it.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Their dishevelled, footsore appearance moved Judd’s daughter to offer them a lift to the station, which they gratefully accepted. Slumped aboard a lumbering Tube as it bore them back into London, they found nothing to say. Even recriminations were beyond Chipchase now. Somewhere in the vicinity of Snaresbrook, he fell asleep. And somewhere not much further on, so did Harry.

—«»—«»—«»—

They woke at Ealing Broadway, roused by the sputtering death rattle of the train’s motor and the draught from its open doors. Chipchase looked much as Harry felt, which was a long way short of top form. ‘Where are we?’ he growled as they grabbed their bags and stumbled out onto the platform. And Harry’s answer was grimly apt. ‘The end of the line.’

—«»—«»—«»—

It seemed pointless to backtrack to Paddington now they had come this far west, so they caught a stopping train to Reading and carried on from there to Swindon. Their arrival on a grey, chill, drizzly evening was altogether about as miserable as Harry had feared it might be.

Accordingly, he raised no objection when Chipchase suggested stopping off at the Glue Pot en route to Falmouth Street. It had to be more than thirty years since they had last drunk there together. They went in and toasted old times with best bitter.

‘Who’d have thought it, hey? The two of us back in the Pot.’ Chipchase managed a weary smile. ‘We’ve sunk a good few pints here between us.’

‘I’ve pulled a few too. I had to take a job behind the bar when you and Jackie skipped to Spain.’

‘Bloody hell. We’re not going to go over that again, are we?’

‘Just making an observation, Barry. That’s all.’

‘Well, try making a bloody cheerier one.’

‘None springs to mind.’

‘Pity.’

They said no more, but drank on in silence as the pub gradually filled around them.

—«»—«»—«»—

The door of 37 Falmouth Street did not open with its normal fluidity when they made the short transit there from the Glue Pot two hours later. Harry had to yank a tangle of letters out from beneath it to complete their entrance.

Most of the letters were junk mail for Mrs Ivy Barnett, the computers that had generated them remaining stubbornly impervious to her death. But one was for Harry, a surprise which registered even through the beery blur that fogged his mind. It was a padded envelope, addressed by hand in large, jagged capitals. He tugged it open and a computer disk slid out into his palm. He peered inside the envelope in search of an accompanying note. But there was none.

‘What the bloody hell’s that?’ asked Chipchase, peering over his shoulder.

‘What it looks like.’ Harry held the disk up. ‘Shame I haven’t got a computer to run it on.’

‘Is this something… you were expecting?’

‘No. I wasn’t expecting any post at all. Other than a bill from the undertaker. Which somehow I don’t think this is.’

‘Who sent it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Harry peered at the envelope. ‘Posted in… Edinburgh… last Friday.’

‘Know anyone who was in Edinburgh last Friday?’

‘Yeah. So do you. Me, Askew, Lloyd, Fripp, Gregson, Judd and Tancred. Our train stopped at Waverley station for about ten minutes.’

‘Long enough to post a letter if you looked lively?’

‘Probably. But only two of us got off.’ Harry replayed his encounter on the platform with Askew in his mind. Askew had been breathing heavily. Had he just run to and from the nearest post box? It was possible. It was definitely possible. ‘Only two of us. Me and Peter Askew.’