THIRTY-NINE

Of course I tagged along, didn’t I? And much as the good Inspector might not have wanted me there, he could hardly refuse, could he? I’m glad I did, too, because it was a proper carnival of entertainment. There were two ambulances, three police cars, at least a dozen members of the constabulary fraternity and a crowd of perhaps twenty on-lookers.

Oh, and my father’s car.

Uttering a silent but still potent fricative, I pushed through to the front gate where I was stopped by a burly policeman who wasn’t interested in who I was, what I did for a living or the fact that my father’s car was parked nearby and he might well be inside the house. Jean and Masson had disappeared and it was clear that this stolid example of blue-uniformed, decerebrate intransigence was not going to be swayed by anything I might say; also, the Thornton Heath citizenry – or at least those of them who were present – were becoming restive at our duologue and were muttering things like ‘Prat’ and ‘What a tosser’. Frustrated, both physically and emotionally, I was about to leave hoi polloi to their sport and try to gain access another way, when Jean came out of the house.

‘Jean?’ She looked less than elated to catch sight of yours truly, which saddened me somewhat. ‘Is Dad in there? Is he all right?’ She hesitated, then came down the garden path. I said quickly, ‘Can I see him?’

She came to a quick decision which, thankfully, was the one I wanted; I was allowed admittance, much to the disgust of the good burghers of our fair town. ‘Where is he?’ I asked. ‘Has he been hurt?’

She said tersely, ‘No, he’s fine.’

I was relieved, of course. I asked, ‘What’s happened, then?’

‘We don’t know yet. Give us a chance.’

‘But it’s to do with the murders. It must be . . .’

She turned on me at that one. ‘Look, Lance. I’m letting you in here as a favour; the Inspector will probably rip me up into tiny pieces for doing it, but . . .’ She paused, as if she had lost her thread. When she carried on, it was in a pained sort of voice. ‘I suppose I like you . . .’ and another pause, followed by, ‘And you have a sort of right to be here, especially in view of your father’s presence. But please just be quiet and just keep your father company. OK?’

I nodded meekly and followed her into the house.

She led me through the house past the closed doors of the front and rear sitting rooms out through the galley-style kitchen. Dad was sitting in the garden with Ada at a green plastic table on which were two empty tea cups; they were overseen by a woman police constable who stood behind them, her back to the house. She glanced over as I hove into view but was given the nod by Jean and did not spring into action; she was of a fairly stocky build and I was seriously afraid that she would have done me no little harm. Dad was justifiably surprised to see me come out of the back door. ‘Lance!’ he said at once, then looked at Ada and I appreciated for the first time that she was in a bad way. She had been weeping and doing so, it seemed to me, copiously. She had got to that stage which rarely afflicts those beyond childhood; the one in which the weeper starts to gulp and hiccup. She held to her nose a small lace handkerchief but, alas, it was totally inadequate for the task it had been given; it was, to put it bluntly, sodden. Dad was up and out of his chair at once, but not before I had detected a degree of awkwardness ’twixt the pair.

He came over and took my elbow, asking in a quiet tone, ‘Nothing’s happened, has it? Mike’s –’ he glanced over at Ada who was staring at us – ‘all right, isn’t he?’

‘He’s not good, Dad.’ In fact Mike Clarke was receiving medical attention in one of the ambulances; according to Jean, his wound was deep and there was a large amount of internal bleeding. He would require emergency surgery, but the ambulance crew were afraid to move him even the short distance to Mayday Hospital without first making some effort at stabilizing him. David Clarke was in the other ambulance, apparently bruised and battered, but not in a serious condition.

‘Oh, dear,’ he said gravely and kept glancing over at Ada. Jean had slipped back into the house. ‘I did what I could.’

‘What’s happened?’

He deliberately turned his back on Ada, presumably afraid that amongst her undeclared talents was one for accurate lip-reading. ‘I finally plucked up the courage to tell her I thought things weren’t going to work out between us . . .’ He whispered, using that strange enunciation that people think stops the sound of their voice dead at about two feet. He halted, thought about what he had said and what I might be thinking, and added suddenly, ‘Not that I was unkind, or anything . . . but there’s no easy way, is there? I mean, however it was said, it was . . .’

‘Dad, I don’t mean what happened between the two of you: I mean what’s gone on here? Who stabbed Mike Clarke?’

‘Tricia.’ He barely made any sound at all when he said the name.

‘Good Lord!’ This earned me a solemn nod. I asked, not unreasonably, ‘Why?’

He took me further away from Ada, who was again crying piteously and now being comforted by her police escort. ‘I called over here about an hour ago. I’d done a lot of thinking and decided it was only fair to tell her how matters stood. I knew that she’d been waiting at school for Joanna, so I knew she’d be a bit later than normal. Anyway, I arrived, knocked on the door and Ada let me in. She made me a cup of tea and we came to sit out here; Mike was asleep before going to work this evening, and she didn’t want to disturb him. I had just got to the meat of the matter when there was a kerfuffle from inside the house. Well, naturally, Ada went to see what was going on, and I followed, because I didn’t want her put in harm’s way.’

‘And what was going on?’

‘Mike and David were having an argument in David’s bedroom.’ He reconsidered this. ‘No, actually, they were having a fight. Mike had his stepson by the lapels and was shaking him, screaming at him. I don’t mind telling you he was using language that was most unsuitable for a lady like Ada. Mind you, David was being none too restrained. He was spitting in Mike’s face.’ He stopped in recollection. ‘Funny thing was, he was laughing.’

‘Laughing? Was he enjoying it, do you think?’

‘I had the impression that what he was enjoying was riling his stepfather. Ada’s always been a bit reticent about the family dynamics, but I have my suspicions that things can get a little tense at times, especially between those two.’

I supposed that living with a man of Mike’s atavistic tendencies might make for an atmosphere that was less than chilled.

‘What was the row about?’

Dad’s demeanour became even more secretive. After another covert glance at Ada, he said, ‘That’s the funny thing.’

‘Yes . . .?’

‘Mike kept shouting that David had “gone too far this time”.’

‘Is that all?’

‘David just said that he didn’t know what Mike was talking about – he calls him “Mike” just to infuriate him, I think.’ From what I had seen, David would enjoy doing that. Dad continued, ‘Mike said that he wasn’t a puppet and that David was . . . well, he used some fairly unparliamentary language . . . and he seemed to drop him, then brandish his fist at him.’

‘His fist?’ I said, even as I considered that the word ‘brandish’ was such a lovely word.

‘David said something along the lines that he thought Mike was a lunatic, although by now his language was none too delicate either – I’m not sure Ada has ever heard such words, because she looked stricken. She kept calling up to them to stop it. By now Tricia had joined us at the bottom of the stairs; she’d been sewing curtains in the front room. She started to go up, but Ada pulled her back.

‘David kept saying he knew nothing about it – whatever “it” was – but I could tell from his voice that he was really enjoying getting his stepfather going; getting under his skin, if you know what I mean.’ From the few moments I had spent in David’s company, I could see exactly what Dad meant. ‘Anyway, there suddenly came a titanic crash as Mike picked David up and almost threw him out of his bedroom across the upstairs landing. As he did so, he shouted, “These!”

‘That was when Tricia finally got involved. She shook herself loose from Ada and pushed and rushed upstairs, shouting at her husband to stop it. It was difficult to make out exactly what happened then because we only had an obstructed view.’ He said this last in a tone of some disappointment, as if he had been sold duff tickets for the Cup Final. ‘She still had a pair of scissors in her hand, I recall. There was some sort of scuffle and she must have stabbed him.’

My appreciation of Tricia shot skywards; here was a woman not to be trifled with, I surmised. In the face of a marauding Mike Clark, I thought it unlikely that I would have made a gesture as aggressive as that one; in fact, I was fairly sure I’d have been moving backwards at a fairly rapid rate.

‘You don’t know what “these” were?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest. By this time the next-door neighbours had rung the police because of the noise. I tried to do what I could for Mike – putting pressure on the wound and making him comfortable – and got Ada to phone for an ambulance. When she got back from doing that I went over to David to see if he was all right; his mother was cradling him and he obviously wasn’t too badly injured, although I should think he was a bit concussed and shocked.’

A thought occurred to me. ‘Where’s Joanna?’

‘With a neighbour, I think.’

‘You’ve had a quite a day, then.’

He laughed bitterly; I could see that he was worried that he might not have done enough to save Mike Clarke, and he was reproving himself; I thought he was doing so unfairly and told him so. He smiled briefly, then a deep frown replaced it. ‘He’s a funny lad, that David.’ I wasn’t going to argue with him; even amongst the Clarke menagerie, David seemed something special. He said thoughtfully, ‘Even after he’d been thrown against the wall and was clearly dazed and in some pain, he had a satisfied smile on his face, as if he’d achieved something special.’