Chapter 11

Frank pulled away from in front of Nancy’s house, Laurel sitting in the back of the car with Nancy, trying to reassure her it was going to be all right. She’d told Nancy what had happened at Sam’s that afternoon, but when she’d told her how ill Sam looked, Nancy went white and needed a glass of whisky before they set off.

Frank was glad to be active; he didn’t want to think about what Stuart Elderkin had told them about Carol. How was he going to tell them about the drawing he’d kept back? How could he explain why he’d kept it back? It was hidden in a drawer in the bedroom of his cottage. Was it because in his heart he knew it was a drawing of Carol and some man, who wasn’t her husband, having sex? He’d tried to put it down to the adolescent sexual fantasies of David. Possibly an Oedipus Complex with the boy imagining himself as the man making love to his mother. How could he show it to them now, when Ann Fenner’s description of Carol Pemberton and the tutor making love on the library rug perfectly matched the drawing? But how had David known about them? He must have found them together, just as Ann Fenner had. In the drawing you couldn’t identify the woman, all you could see was the hair spread out, and her arms raised, her hands gripping the shoulders of the man. He was above her, falling dark hair obscuring his face; his body was youthful, the chest almost hairless, nipples erect and skin pale and smooth. David had captured a moment of intense passion. What effect had that had on him? To see his mother being fucked by his teacher? Part of him was outraged for the boy, but another part of him was seething with jealousy and lust. He didn’t like the effect the drawing had on him: one of uncontrollable desire. He liked to have control of any situation and before wanting Carol, he’d never lost control of himself. He inwardly groaned.

He automatically followed Laurel’s instructions to the Harrops’ house, silent, half-listening to Nancy whispering to Laurel. She seemed a nice lady, grateful he’d come, saying it was good to have a man to take charge. He wasn’t sure what Laurel made of that. If there was any physical danger she was as good as him at dealing with it, probably better.

‘Don’t park in the drive,’ Nancy whispered.

He pulled up in the road out of view from the windows of the house, although as far as he could see there were no lights showing. The rain had turned from drizzle to a slanting, cold downpour, lashed by an easterly wind, bringing with it the sharp smell of the sea.

The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked towards the house.

‘That’s Clara’s car,’ Laurel whispered.

The house was in darkness. He switched on the torch he’d brought with him. ‘We’ll ring the bell; they must be in the back of the house. OK, Nancy?’

In the light of the torch Nancy’s pink hair was flattened against her scalp; she looked frail and frightened. ‘Oh, Laurel. I’m so worried. What if Clara won’t let us in? Supposing she won’t let me see Sam?’

Laurel wrapped an arm round her. ‘I’m sure we can sort it out. Frank’s very good with people, he’ll be able to explain to Clara. She must see sense.’

Blind faith, he thought. His belief in himself was decreasing by the minute. ‘It will be all right, Nancy.’ He pressed the bell. Several times. Then after a few minutes and no response he attacked the large cast-iron knocker. The blows echoed back to them.

‘Let’s go round the back. Sam was in the room with French windows this afternoon,’ Laurel said.

‘His favourite place,’ Nancy muttered. ‘Where he listens to his beloved music. That’s why they retired here: the music, the concerts, going to Snape Maltings, always ending up at The Oysterage at Orford for supper. I expect he’s playing something now, and that’s why they haven’t heard us. I do hope we won’t give them a fright when they see us.’

He glanced at Laurel. He was sure they were thinking along the same lines.

They made their way down the side of the house, Laurel holding on to Nancy, making sure she didn’t trip. There was no light in the kitchen and the blind was drawn. The room with the French windows was also in darkness and drawn curtains obscured any chance of seeing inside.

Nancy trembled, her teeth chattering with the cold and probably nerves. ‘Oh dear, what shall we do? Wherever are they? Do you think Clara’s taken Sam to hospital? But her car’s at the front of the house. Do you think she got an ambulance? Surely she’d have rung me?’

‘Frank, I think we need to get in,’ Laurel said.

Nancy clutched her arm. ‘We can’t, dear, we haven’t got a key.’

‘Laurel, I think Nancy ought to wait in the car. Take the torch. I’ll stay here.’

Nancy turned to him, her eyes wide with fear, her hair plastered to her scalp. She looked ten years older than when they’d set off only twenty minutes ago. ‘What are you going to do? What do you think has happened? Oh, Sam! Please be all right, Sam.’

Laurel took the torch from Frank and tried to move Nancy away from the French windows. Nancy fluttered her arms against Laurel’s hold. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. This is my fault. Clara’s found out and she’s taken him away.’

Laurel blinked away the cold rain beating into her face.

This was a nightmare, he thought.

Laurel looked as though she wanted to pick Nancy up and carry her to the car. They had to get into the house. Now. As quickly as possible.

‘You must do as Frank says, Nancy. At once. Come along, this is no time to make a scene.’

She hadn’t lost the bossy, I’m a teacher and know best touch. He smiled.

Nancy straightened up. ‘No need for that tone, young woman. Dorothy said you were a nice person, now I’m not so sure!’ She allowed herself to be pushed towards the car.

‘Bring back what I may need,’ he said.

Laurel nodded, looking ready to put Nancy in an arm lock if there was further trouble.

He felt round the edge of the French windows while he waited.

A light came round the corner. ‘I locked her in. I don’t think she’ll be sending me a Christmas card. These any use?’ She showed him a large screwdriver and a tyre wrench.

‘I think the direct method is called for. Ready?’ he said.

‘Go ahead. If it’s a mistake we can get the glazier in tomorrow. The firm can afford it. Or do you think we should call the police?’ She pointed the light at the window.

He shook his head. ‘Let’s hope we don’t need to call them when we get in. Stand back.’ He covered his eyes with one arm and smashed at the pane above the handle with the tyre wrench. Several times. Exploding, cracking, shattering. He expected neighbours to rush out. Tinkling sounds as shards of glass fell to the ground, prevented from falling inwards by the curtains. He knocked out jagged edges at the sides of the pane as Laurel held the torch steady.

Satisfied, he pulled back the curtain and felt for a key. He grunted, moved closer to the door, pushed his arm in further. ‘No key.’

‘Sam said he couldn’t get out,’ Laurel said, her voice squeaky

He smashed the lock, then he pushed against the door. It moved, but there was still resistance.

‘Bolts, probably top and bottom,’ he said.

Laurel groaned. ‘Any minute now PC Plod will come round the corner and arrest us for burglary.’

‘Not forgetting locking up an old lady in a car.’ He picked up the wrench. ‘Want a bet? Top, bottom or both? Loser buys double whiskies for winner.’

‘Both,’ Laurel said.

‘OK, I’ll go for top, old people don’t like bending down. Watch out, the glass might come down on your head.’ He bashed at the top pane. The noises seemed louder than last time. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach in. He found the bolt and was surprised it slid down easily. The door still didn’t open, although it bent a little as he pulled it. ‘You win. Drinks on me.’ He bent down and smashed the bottom pane.

He pulled the door open, large pieces of glass exploded on the stones outside the window.

‘Thank God for that,’ Laurel said.

He opened the door and more shards pinged off the stone flags; he pulled back the heavy curtains, they felt like velvet. Laurel shone the torch round the room. It was as she’d described it to him: the black Art Deco furniture, the music system and Sam’s collection of records and tapes.

There was an acrid smell.

‘Someone’s been burning paper,’ Laurel said, as she shone the beam of light over the room. The moving shaft of light stopped. ‘Frank!’

An arm hung over the side of the black settee, its fingers loose, pointing to the floor.

‘Don’t move until I’ve put the light on, and watch where you’re treading, Laurel. Don’t touch anything. Please shine the light on the wall so I can find the switch.’ He was reverting to Detective Inspector Diamond, just as Laurel had changed back into a teacher to control Nancy. Old ways die hard.

He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, it wasn’t pristine but it would have to do. Avoiding the settee, he made his way to the wall switch Laurel had focused the beam on, and pressed it down. Light flooded the room from a central modern chandelier.

Lolling on the settee was the gaunt figure of a man, his face hidden by a crumpled black-and-white cushion, its partners on the other end of the settee and the armchairs.

Frank carefully lifted the cushion. ‘Is this Sam?’

‘Yes.’

The other side of the cushion was stained with blood and saliva. Sam’s face was blue, his eyes bursting from their sockets, bits of black-and-white threads round his snarling mouth and between the incisors. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, and his bitten tongue stuck out from between the retracted lips.

‘He fought, didn’t he? He didn’t want to die,’ Laurel said, tears trickling down her cheeks.

He looked at Sam’s emaciated arms and stick-like legs, revealed where the pyjama trousers had pushed up, his swollen belly obscene in contrast to the rest of him. The yellow skin and eyes gave clues to the disease which would have soon killed him.

‘Could Clara have done this?’ he asked.

‘Nancy said she thought she wanted to kill him.’

‘Why would she do that when it was obvious he hadn’t long to live? Where is she?’

Laurel stood looking down at Sam, the torch, still on, dangling from her hand.

‘Laurel, would you phone the police? I can’t see a phone in here, there’s probably one in the hall. Keep the torch on until you find the light switch.’

He watched as she opened the sitting-room door. He heard the click of a switch.

‘Frank! My God, Frank.’

He rushed to her. She was looking up, her eyes wide, her face blanched. Hanging from a rope fastened to the banisters at the top of the staircase was the body of a woman dressed in green, her neck stretched, the head inclined to one side, her pale face partly obscured by dark, loose hair. Her blackened tongue poked from her mouth, leering at them.

Laurel turned away and Frank held her close. ‘Is it Clara?’

He felt her head nod.

‘Cut her down, Frank, for God’s sake cut her down.’

He needed to get Laurel away from the swaying body. But where? Not to the other corpse in the sitting room. He couldn’t see a phone here. Bloody hell, didn’t they have one at all? ‘Laurel, you’ll have to find a neighbour and ask to use their phone. I can’t see one here. Don’t let Nancy come in. Dial 999 tell them the address and there are two dead people. Could be a murder and suicide.’

She pulled away from him. ‘I know what to do, thank you. I’m not an idiot.’

That was better.

‘Why don’t you sit with Nancy in the car, until the police arrive.’

‘What shall I tell her? She’s cold and wet, and she was in a state before this. Shall I ask the neighbours, if I can find any, if she can go into their house for a while until we can take her home?’ She paused. ‘I could ring Dorothy, she’d come over. Perhaps Nancy could go back to Greyfriars. I don’t think she should be by herself.’

‘Excellent. Although the police may want to interview her as soon as possible.’

‘Bugger the police.’

‘My own sentiments entirely.’ He squeezed her shoulders. He opened the front door which had a Yale lock and an old-fashioned key in the key hole. The Yale was on, but the key hadn’t been turned.

‘Good luck.’

He would have time to take a closer look at the bodies and a snoop round before the flat-feet came.