The Lamorna Wink (17 page)

Macalvie said, “There was so much lying going on in that house, I didn't know who not to believe.” Arms crossed on the table and looking at his drink, he went on. “We got there a few minutes after midnight, the ambulance before us. I told them not to take the bodies up before the ME and I looked at them. It was raining this time and the steps were like glass, bloody slippery. The little kids were lying on their stomachs. The bodies didn't sink or get carried away because they got tangled up in the rope that anchored the boat. They were side by side, their faces turned toward each other as if they'd been talking; probably they had, before—well, whatever happened, happened. They were wearing cotton pajamas, hers white, his blue, and flannel robes that would have been some protection against the cold but not much. Slippers, too. Two of them—the slippers—had been washed away by the choppy water. Their feet weren't any bigger than the palm of my hand.” His elbow propped on the table, he held up a hand for Melrose to judge. “They were holding hands.”

He stopped at this image, which was clearly disconcerting, as if he had no choice but to reenter the scene.

“So what had happened? Did they go down the stairs because they wanted to get into the boat? I didn't believe that. Why did they, then? They must've been told to go down the stairs. Or been told—something. A trick? A treasure? No one in that house had any idea of what they were up to.

“Karen Bletchley got back to the house a half hour after I got there. There'd been trouble getting hold of her, the housekeeper told me, because the people she was having dinner with in St. Ives weren't on the telephone. Hard to believe, in this day and age, with that kind of money. But maybe that's what the well-heeled call roughing it. Daniel, the father, was purportedly in Penzance on business. He didn't get home until an hour later.”

“Purportedly?”

“When a man goes out at nine o'clock at night, it might be for a beer or smokes, but I have trouble thinking it's business. I also doubted it was business when he stalled on producing the name of this business associate. I assumed it was a woman but didn't want to make a point of it then. He was too cut up, remorseful, and—as the Irish say—destroyed. The sort of man who blames himself because he lacks hindsight.”

“But later?”

“Did I pursue this line of inquiry?” Macalvie smiled and took another swallow. “Of course. Finally, he admitted it but refused to give the name of the woman. Bletchley's stubborn, believe me. Even when I threatened him with obstruction, he refused. Anyway, Dan Bletchley was away when he was needed and the man probably never will get over it. To be gone when you know you were desperately needed: I know what that's like. I felt sorry for him. All of his life he's going to hold himself responsible.”

They sat, whiskies in hand, the main source of light and heat coming from the fireplace. They had drawn as close as they could to it.

“Karen Bletchley was hysterical at first. It took two WPCs to hold her back from the clifftop, to keep her from going down those stone steps. I told the ME to sedate her, just enough so I could talk to her.” He looked up when Melrose made a sound of disapproval. “You think cops are heartless? Give somebody twenty-four hours to think things over, and you won't get a proper statement. Too much will be suppressed, not necessarily intentionally.”

Melrose said he was going to get refills. While he stood at the bar, waiting for the fresh drinks, he wondered if Karen Bletchley had told Macalvie the same things she'd told him.

“What did she tell you?” he asked when he'd returned to the table.

“After the initial questions had been answered about where she was”—Macalvie accepted his refilled glass from Melrose—“she asked did I believe in evil spirits? In hauntings? In premonitory occurrences? ‘It's not what I believe, it's what you do,' I said. She said there was something wrong at Seabourne—which I was only too willing to believe, given what happened, but not that ghosts were responsible.” Macalvie paused for a drink of beer.

“She went on. ‘I thought at first I was simply too imaginative. Or reading into behavior things that didn't exist. Furniture moved around in their school-room, for instance. When I asked them why'd they done it, they said, “We didn't,” and tittered. Noah and Esmé, are—were—very close.' Then she said, ‘Every once in a while I'd see some new bit of clothing, like a handkerchief or a bracelet they claimed to have found in the woods. One day I was watching them and saw them talking to a strange man. At least I thought it was; I couldn't see very well into the trees. I was rather frightened. It all seemed so—menacing. And one day I saw a figure in dark clothes and dark hair across the pond farther along. A woman was standing there. Were these people putting them up to their tricks? The children did silly little things, like putting a tiny tree frog in Mrs. Hayter's apron pocket. The poor woman had a fit! But when I asked them, they just denied it and looked . . . sly. That's the only way I can describe it—sly. It was almost like a campaign to make us uncomfortable.' ”

Melrose studied his glass and thought about Karen Bletchley, there in the library, but did not interrupt.

“I asked what her husband's response was to all of this. She didn't answer for a moment, but finally said that Daniel brushed it aside as a series of childish pranks. ‘Good lord, Karen, a tree frog in someone's pocket and you think we're in the grip of evil spirits!'

“It's Daniel Bletchley's father, Morris Bletchley, who actually owns Seabourne. He went to live at the Hall—a kind of nursing home, which he also owns—not long after the death of the kids. They were his grandchildren. At the time it happened he was living with them. He's used to controlling things. He's apparently a hell of a good businessman, given the success he has with that chicken franchise.

“I'm mentioning this only because now he was confronted with an action—and its horrible consequences—that was out of his control. He said the least of any of them and seemed to be affected most. At least more than his daughter-in-law—despite the hysterics. Anyway, that was my impression.”

The proprietress was calling time.

Macalvie said, “You hardly ever hear that anymore, do you, what with the new licensing laws.”

Melrose gathered up their empty glasses. “Is it too late?”

“No, but I'm in the chair this round.”

Melrose made a face and took the glasses. The woman behind the bar pursed her lips but got the drinks. As he stood there, Melrose looked back at Macalvie and thought he look stranded in the room now emptying.

He went back and set the drinks down. “This case never closed for you, did it?”

Macalvie was lighting another cigarette. “They don't, my cases.” He stared at the fire, smoked his cigarette.

“But this one, especially. You've been reporting conversations verbatim. How could you do that after four years?”

“My notes. I've read through them so often, trying to work out what I missed, you could see light through the seams of the pages they're written on. That's why.”

Melrose thought of the letter his mother had written. “Why do you think you missed something?”

Macalvie cut him a look. “Because it hasn't been solved, so I must've.” Ash fell from the cigarette he wasn't attending to. He said then, “Let me tell you something: I was a policeman in Glasgow for several years, started out as a PC but wanted to be a detective. That was my great dream, to be a detective.” He looked over at Melrose. “I bet you never thought I'd have a great dream, right?”

“You don't strike me as a dreamer.”

Macalvie smiled and went on. “I got to be a DI pretty quickly, mostly because of a particular case I worked. Pretty big case, it was. In a shootout, the suspect's daughter got caught in the crossfire. She was eleven or twelve. It wasn't my gun that did it but he thought it was, and held me responsible because I was the one who'd been plaguing him all along.

“Anyway, I was transferred to Kirkcudbright. I guess to get the heat off. It was bad, the pressure. You can imagine there weren't a hell of a lot of homicides in Kirkcudbright, which is a kind of artists' haven; I guess artistic jealousy is about the top rung on their crime ladder.

“But I met someone. She was a painter and a beautiful woman. I moved in with her. She had a daughter, Cassie, who was six years old. Maggie, my girl, always used to tell me how much safer she felt with a copper in the house, how she could sleep easier. Then one night Cassie was taken right out of her bed and out of the house.”

“God, how awful!”

“We kept expecting a phone call, a ransom demand, some word. But there was no word. Nada. Nil. Nothing for two weeks. Maggie was nearly crazy, forced into this limbo of not knowing. So was I.

“Then I got a message slipped into the paper we had delivered. I was to go to an old cottage in the Fleet Valley. There was a map, a route I was to follow. Eventually I found the place. It was a derelict cottage, birds nesting in the thatch, windowpanes broken. The most intense silence; I've never known such silence. It smelled of death. I moved very slowly, had my gun ready. I thought it was a trap.
Why
it might have been a trap, I had no idea. I found Cassie in the kitchen. She was propped up in a chair, shot in the chest. On the table was a piece of paper, and on it was written,
How does it feel?
And then I knew. The bastard had plenty of friends on the outside; this was payback for collaring him.

“There was a bowl of Wheetabix in front of her, half eaten.” Macalvie paused, looked at Melrose. “The body was warm, the milk still cold fresh.” Out of electric-blue eyes, he stared at Melrose. “See, they'd added that little detail, that coup-de-grâce, in case I hadn't suffered enough, making me think, If I'd only got there fifteen minutes earlier. . . . But I couldn't have. They'd obviously monitored my trip. One of them probably called ahead to give my position.”

A flicker of pain brushed Macalvie's face. “Fifteen minutes earlier I could have heard her voice, heard her cry. That was how I was supposed to think. The only consolation was she appeared not to have been mistreated.

“I called it in. Police, ambulance, they were there in under twenty minutes. While I waited I kept thinking, If I'd been smart I wouldn't have taken the route they gave me—”

“No. Then they wouldn't have gone through with it. They'd have stepped up the anxiety even more and then put you through it again. I don't think there's a way to outwit a person whose only motive is to make you suffer.”

Macalvie sat back. “That's why I never dropped this case. Those two kids—”

“I know.” Melrose thought how Brian Macalvie never talked about himself. And yet you always knew exactly where you were with him. You might not know where he came from, where he lived, who his mates and girlfriends were, but you knew his mental geography. You knew his territory.

Macalvie shook his head, drank the rest of his whisky as if preparing to go, but still sat looking at the floor, or his shoes or shadows. “She felt so much safer with me in the house. Christ! Having me in the house was like having a ticking bomb there; I brought all that grief down on the poor girl's head.”

“What happened to her? Maggie?”

“I don't know. We broke up, of course, soon after the kidnapping. I begged her to stay. I thought I could help her, which was arrogant, I guess, but she wouldn't; of course she wouldn't. There was no way she could ever think it wasn't my fault.”

The proprietress, toweling glasses behind the bar, had been giving them hurtful looks for half an hour now.
The rest of the place is empty; there's just you lot that's keeping me up.

Macalvie looked her way, palmed his cigarettes back into his pocket, and said, “Let's go.”

Outside they stood for a moment looking up at the stars and out over the water. Melrose said that not even the most vivid imagination would see such a bizarre murder here in Lamorna Cove.

“Not in Kirkcudbright, either.”

S
etting his electric wheelchair on a collision course with Matron, down at the end of the long gallery, Morris Bletchley released the brake and sped down a highway of oriental carpet.

Here she came, stomping toward him, looking less and less confident that she would win this game of chicken. She had a great ski slope of a bosom flying downhill from some stiff lace thingamabob at her throat. Her hair was in its usual punishing bun, stuck sharply with several silver-headed pins, pulling her scalp back to within an inch of its life.

Just pray your maker has gone to prepare one of those rooms always on offer, thought Morris Bletchley, arrowed straight at her. Why had he ever hired her? Probably for the same reason he kept her on: With the name MATRON pinned to her chest, she looked like she'd come from central casting. You just knew that's what a matron looked like. He'd had to put up with so many of those creatures when he was growing up, it satisfied his sense of the rightness of things that he should now be able to call the shots. There! she'd chickened out and was pressing her bosomy self flat against the wall. Moe stopped just short of her feet and asked innocently, “You wanted to see me, Matron?”

“Mr. Bletchley! I cannot put up with these ridiculous games you play.”

He loved the way she talked—such pomposity. “But that's part of your job, to keep us old fools in line.”

“I wanted to see you about the Atkins woman. She's come, she's here, but she hasn't—or her family hasn't—her part of the fee. Which is small enough,” she added disapprovingly.