FORTY

With Dad going back to comfort Ada, I wandered back into the house. Upstairs, at the precise scene of the stabbing – readily identified by the blood stains on the carpet and the wall and the newel post – two people from the police laboratory were taking samples. I stood at the bottom of the stairs wondering if they’d mind if I pushed past them into David’s bedroom to nose around, but decided they probably would, and very much so, too. The door to the back sitting room opened and a woman police constable came out, pushing past me a tad rudely to go out of the front door; I could see beyond her that the curtains were closed, the lights were on and Masson was sitting – to all appearances uncomfortably, as if he were perched on a Space Hopper – on a bright red chair in the modern style; it had a back that was no more than a foot in height, no arms and was covered in an artificial fabric that seemed to be uniquely frictionless. He was staring at someone or something out of my line of sight – presumably Tricia. I couldn’t see Jean, but I guessed she was in there, too.

Suddenly the front door burst open and the police woman returned. She pushed back past me, only now it was totally bereft of any semblance of politeness. She rushed into the back room, shouting, ‘Inspector? There’s something wrong.’

Masson stood up at once. I heard him say, ‘You two stay here.’ With that he was doing a bit of pushing-rudely-past-me of his own (accompanied by a surprised glare that I was once again in the neighbourhood), and was gone. I followed, of course.

Masson made his way to an ambulance; I say ‘an ambulance’, although it was by now the only one in the vicinity, the one with David Clarke having departed. He hefted himself into the back, there was a pause of about fifteen seconds and then his head appeared. ‘Get over here,’ he shouted at me over the heads of the audience; ever obedient, I hurried over and he stepped down to let me in.

One of the two ambulance men was pumping on Mike Clarke’s chest, another had clamped a green rubber mask over his face with one hand and was squeezing a black rubber bellows with the other. There were two drips up, clear fluid running rapidly into his veins; the dressing on his upper abdomen was sodden to overflowing with blood. One of the ambulance crew recognized me and let me assess him. It didn’t take long; he had exsanguinated and all the fluid they were pushing into his circulatory system was just running out into his abdominal cavity within seconds.

He was dead.

As soon as I had informed Masson of this incontrovertible and irreversible fact, he stormed back into the house, having let out his breath in a kind of long, low growl that was not only menacing but, I would imagine, brought up a fair amount of phlegm. I did the formalities in the back of the ambulance and was about to get back down when I spotted that Michael Clarke still held in his hand two pieces of paper.

It was less than five minutes before Masson re-emerged, this time leading Tricia Clarke; she was handcuffed to the woman police constable and Jean was holding her other arm; the newly widowed Mrs Clarke did not look particularly upset but perhaps she had yet to be informed of her new legal status. I tried to attract some attention but, what with the murmuring, gasping and occasional jeer from the crowd, I couldn’t make myself heard. I sighed and murmured, ‘Oh, well.’

I reckoned it could wait.

They let Dad go about an hour later, after his and Ada’s statements had been taken. The crowd had dispersed, Mike Clarke’s body been taken to the mortuary at Mayday Hospital, and all the police had vanished; the insubstantial pageant had faded, leaving not a rack behind.

All except two bloodstained pieces of paper.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ he assured me, although he sounded slightly shaky.

I walked with him over to his execrable yet somehow adorable car. ‘You know,’ he said as he put his key into the door lock, ‘I really did love Ada.’

‘Did?’

He accepted my correction at once. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I’ve been fooling myself for a while.’

‘Ada’s a very nice person. I’m not sure I can say the same about her family, though.’

He took a while to answer. ‘To be frank with you, Lance, I think I would have regretted marrying just one member of the Clarke clan, let alone the whole brood of them.’

He got into the car and started the engine, in the process waking every sleeping babe within a mile radius of Kingswood Avenue, then drove home.

And I was left with those bloodstained pieces of paper.

I went home myself, feeling tired and frustrated; no one would listen to me. Even when I rang the police station to try yet again to get someone to listen to me, I was told that I would be rung back; no one did, of course, because they never do. I went to bed, reassuring myself that it could wait until the morning.

The phone went at three in the morning; in my groggy state I even wondered if it might be Jean or Masson ringing me back, but I should really learn not to be so naive. It was Max, and she was scared.

‘Lance? Is that you?’

I didn’t need to ask why she was ringing me at the hour, and why she sounded terrified, but I asked anyway. ‘What’s wrong, Max?’

‘He’s outside! I can see him in the back garden.’

‘I’m going to put the phone down. As soon as I do, dial 999. I’ll be right over.’

‘Please come quickly.’

‘I will.’

I put the receiver down and was dressed and in the car within ten minutes. It’s about an hour’s drive to Max’s parents’ house but I managed it in forty. When I arrived, there were two police cars parked outside; all of the lights were on and the front door was open. I ran up the path and met two policemen; between them was Tristan, grinning; behind them in the doorway was Max being all but asphyxiated by her mother, her father standing protective guard. I stood aside to let Tristan and his friends past; as they did so, Tristan winked at me; he mouthed something too, and although I could not decipher what, I had the impression it was lewd. I then hurried on into the house.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

Her father opened his mouth, drew in some breath and, as far as I could tell (and I am a doctor), looked about to speak, but he never got the chance, because Jean Abelson emerged from the front room on his left. She looked at me with a completely neutral expression and walked straight past me. By now utterly confused, I looked at Max, for which all I got was a venomous look from her mother and no look at all from her.