Ian Carter was well aware that, as a career police officer, he’d often been absent or distracted from family matters. Perhaps that had contributed to the breakdown of his marriage. Certainly, when they had still been together, his then wife, Sophie, had been more than ready to remind him of his failings. These had included his frequent preoccupation with criminal matters and often physical absence on police business.
‘You seem to spend so much time dealing with so many dreadful people!’
He had pointed out the purpose of his job was to make sure the dreadful people did the time. Mistake.
‘And I don’t appreciate bad jokes on the subject, Ian.’
She’d also complained that he had a policeman’s suspicious mind. And that isn’t attractive, Ian, really, it’s not! The words echoed in his head. He had been tempted to reply, Why? Have you something you’d like to hide? And he’d known that the reason he’d never asked was because he already knew the answer. Sophie was planning her escape from their marriage; and an old admirer, Rodney, was lurking in the background. You’re not jealous of Rodney, are you, Ian? He’s an old family friend. I’ve known him all my life.
Eventually, he’d told her he was certainly not jealous. Definitely not of Rodney the man, who was prosperous, smug, pink-faced and a tad overweight. But that was Carter’s opinion. He conceded that Rodney had a golden touch in business matters; and would be well able to support Sophie in a manner Sophie thought she deserved. But neither was Carter a fool. He wished she would just make up her mind. In the end she had done so, and left.
‘Of course she did!’ pointed out a worldly-wise colleague at the time. ‘Telling her you weren’t jealous, well, it was like holding open the door for her; and offering to carry her suitcases to the car.’
Still, he liked to think that, despite his failings as a husband, he’d done his best as a parent, no matter what Sophie might have suggested. Sophie, together with Rodney and the couple’s young son, now lived in France. Millie, his daughter, had been packed off to boarding school in England. Time not spent at school was divided between her mother’s new household and his, such as his was.
‘Dad?’
This from Millie, standing in the doorway and eyeing him sternly. It was half term, and she was spending it with him. Clearly, she did not mean to waste valuable time.
‘We really need to talk.’
She was propped against the frame of the open door into the kitchen, and he was struck by how much taller she seemed to have grown. She wasn’t a little girl: she was a teenager. She wore leggings terminating in flower-patterned laced boots; a baggy sweater with the sleeves pushed up above her elbows, and her arms were festooned with bangles of the sort sold at craft fairs. More alarmingly, she was beginning to look and sound like her mother. That minatory gleam in the eye; the reproachful tone; ah, yes, he remembered all so well . . .
‘What about?’ he asked warily.
She came into the room and advanced on him ruthlessly. ‘You need someone,’ she said.
He knew what was coming, but still asked, ‘What for?’
‘Look at this place!’ She gestured around her at the sitting room, with its jumble of furniture.
OK, it wasn’t the former manor house not far from Lyon which Sophie, Rodney and their infant son enjoyed. But it suited him. He defended himself.
‘I’ve got a cleaner. Her name is Katie. You’ve met her.’
She uttered a faint dismissive sound. ‘I know! Yes, I’ve met Katie. And, by the way, you need to have a word with her about bleach. She’s mad keen on the stuff. I’ve told you before about it. After she’s left the kitchen and bathroom stink of it. At least get some air freshener. But that’s not what I mean. Look around!’
Ian found himself looking furtively about him, but he still wasn’t sure what he should be looking for. ‘What?’ he mumbled.
‘This place is exactly the same as when you moved in here!’ Seeing his puzzlement, she added crossly, ‘It ought not to be! Dad, face it. It’s like, like you just unpacked.’ Her tone changed to the kindly but firm. ‘I worry about you.’
Hang on, wasn’t he the one who worried about her? When did they exchange roles? Apparently, while he wasn’t paying attention.
‘You need to move on! You and Jess could set up a proper home . . .’
Proper home? His house was small but warm and he liked to think it was cosy. He toyed briefly with the idea of sharing it with Jess Campbell. It was an attractive idea. But Carter heard himself say loudly and very firmly, ‘No!’
‘Don’t say “no” like that.’ She was unimpressed. ‘You sound like a policeman.’
That was Sophie’s voice absolutely. Carter rebelled.
‘I am a policeman!’
‘You are a superintendent and everyone says you’ve had a top-notch career . . .’
Who are these people who reckon I’ve had a great career? Carter wondered. And why do they use the past tense? I’m not ready to be put out to grass!
‘But what about home life? Unless I’m here, you’re on your own. Don’t let chances slip by, Dad. You and Jess get on so well and—’
Time to stand up for himself. He took a deep breath and said aloud, ‘Millie, take it from me, it’s a great mistake to try and organise other people’s relationships.’
‘I’m not organising you!’ she protested huffily.
‘You’re doing your best. Look, sweetheart, I appreciate your concern. But if there are any changes to be made in my life, I will make them. I realise you mean well, but I don’t need help.’ He saw her mouth open to argue and added quickly, ‘Can we leave it at that, please?’
‘All right,’ said his child graciously. ‘For now.’
He remained staring at the spot where she had been standing. She’d made a dignified retreat to her room; where she had probably turned on her computer. It’s what they all did, he thought, or seemed to be what they all did, youngsters. They retreated to an artificial space, probably because real space was too difficult to deal with. That was a concept too alarming for him to deal with at the moment. But it wasn’t a thought that went away. Instead, it threw up a memory of a toy bear named MacTavish which had been Millie’s one-time confidant, friend and constant companion. Where was MacTavish now? he wondered. Why could he, her father, not offer the support a toy bear had once done? He could run a crime investigation department, with all its twists and turns, unexpected horrors and moments of success or failure, run it pretty efficiently. Now it appeared a piece of cake compared with running his own life.
He went to the window and stared out into the night scene with the streetlamps glimmering and only the occasional dog walker venturing out into the cold. Somewhere out there, he thought, crime is being planned or is already underway. The weather is never discouraging enough to deter the criminal world.
So-called white-collar crime did not have to consider the weather, of course. But criminal activity is a many-headed hydra. Somewhere out there something was about to happen. Who knew where? Or why? Or of what kind?
The light was still showing under Millie’s door when he went to bed. He tapped on it and called, ‘Goodnight, love!’
‘Night, Dad!’ came the reply, muffled by what sounded like a soundtrack from a film.
Tomorrow, he thought, I’ll suggest a game of chess, or Monopoly, or something. Why didn’t I suggest that this evening? Self-reproach filling his head, he slept very badly. That’s what a guilty conscience did to you.
Or what it did to the honest citizen. Guilty conscience, in his experience, seldom troubled the career criminal. Even when heinous crimes had been committed, they rarely accepted the blame for what they’d done. Unless they were going up before the parole board, of course. Then they were quick to say they had changed.
Anger, that was what so many of them felt. Anger against a world that somehow had cut them loose from society, and from what they believed was theirs by right, whatever that might be. It was the same kind of emotion, absolving them from blame, that meant they also so seldom took the responsibility for what they had done. It was always someone else’s fault, even the victim’s.
He fought back, didn’t he? What was I supposed to do? The aggrieved voice of one teenage mugger echoed in his ear. Useless to attempt to explain that what he ought not to do was attempt to mug an innocent pedestrian in the first place, let alone stab the victim. Such logic bounced off a wall of incomprehension. No wonder he worried about his daughter, soon to leave school and set forth into the world unprotected. Any ideas, Sophie? Ian snarled mentally. Over there in France, living comfortably, washing your hands of inconvenient details?
He didn’t know it then, but he was not the only one facing tricky personal problems; and some cannot be resolved by thinking about them. Some require action.
Elsewhere, the evening was clear and cold; and out in the countryside, far from the city streetlamps Carter had seen from his window, it was also very dark. The moon was a perfect sickle hanging in the indigo sky; like a giant Christmas bauble that someone had forgotten to take down on Twelfth Night. But the light it cast was limited to its immediate surrounding sky. This other watcher, in the concealed spot he’d chosen, stamped chilled feet and thrust hands deep into pockets. It didn’t make any difference. At least the earlier rain had stopped, but it was still bitterly cold and the movements were an instinctive attempt to generate more warmth and fostered the illusion that toes and fingers were less chilled. Relief only lasted for a moment, though, and then reality returned. Too bad; the watcher could wait it out. It was nearly time to make his move. He felt that concentration of the senses experienced by the hunter when the prey is almost within reach. The prickle that ran along the spine. His hearing was alert for the smallest sound.
But perhaps he wasn’t alone? Something else had moved first in the darkness. There was a faint rustle beneath the leylandii that stood lined up like guardsmen along the roadside edge of the property, and behind which he’d chosen to conceal himself. He raised a hand to push aside their wintery foliage and peered into the blackness, muscles tensed, ready to defend or attack as required. But he could make out no more than an indistinct darker patch in the murk at the foot of the trees. Then it – if it had ever been there – was gone. The watcher pulled out a mobile phone and pressed it to read the time. Not much longer. No point in getting jumpy now, imagining things. It had probably been a cat . . . or a fox. Yes, most likely a scavenging fox. But the sounds and scents of countryside unsettled him. He had an impulse to get the business over and done with. Time to make a move, to get what he had come for. No more putting it off. He pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It creaked and he wondered whether the sound could be heard within the cottage, like a warning signal. No, that was unlikely. He was the only one whose nerves were on edge, he told himself. The other one, he was sitting comfortably indoors, imagining himself without a care in the world. Well, something will have to be done about that! It should have been done long before. Nothing is gained by putting things off.
The watcher set off down the path, the gate closing behind him with another mocking creak. It began to rain again, quite heavily, as if all nature were taking an interest in what he did; and joining forces against him. That was an uncomfortable thought and he pushed it away.
Behind him, the breeze rippled through the trees again and another shape briefly shimmered across a moonlit corner of the garden, and was lost in the tangle of shrubs. The night has its own inhabitants, each about their own business. Even the fox had paused to watch with its yellow eyes as the caller reached the door, before it slipped away.
If Jeremy Harrison felt surprise on seeing his visitor, that wasn’t the emotion that registered on his face. As the unexpected caller observed, it was more in the nature of annoyance.
That encouraged the new arrival. ‘Put your nose out of joint, has it? My turning up? You might try and look pleased to see me, Jerry!’ He grinned, nearly laughed. But that was nerves, not humour. Get a grip! he ordered himself.
‘Why?’ retorted Harrison. His original surprise was giving way to anger. What was so damn amusing? Fellow was standing there on his doorstep, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Pleased to see him? Of course he wasn’t. He scowled out into the cold winter evening and the rain threw a handful of what felt like ice pellets striking his face. His impulse was to recoil back into the warmth of his hallway. But he couldn’t do that. He had to stand his ground, rain or no rain.
The caller didn’t offer a reason, only said, ‘It’s perishing cold out here, old son.’
‘It’s still winter, and it’s been cold for a couple of months,’ parried Harrison. ‘You haven’t turned up out of the blue to tell me about that, I suppose.’
He remembered the last time they’d met. It had been a very long way from here; somewhere that could hardly have been more different from the present location; and the weather had been decidedly hot. This meeting now was not only in sharp contrast weather-wise but, unlike the previous chance encounter, had evidently been planned by the caller. Yet the whole thing was wildly, what? Bizarre? Perhaps, perhaps not. Life had a way of throwing up unexpected mantraps. Perhaps, years ago, when they’d bumped into one another in that expatriate workers’ club amid the desert sands, it had only been, after all, a pre-run of this encounter on a wet, near-freezing late evening in the English countryside.
The caller was speaking again, in that same maddeningly chatty tone.
‘You need to get a plumber in to look at the overflow. There’s water dripping off this thing you call a porch . . .’
The visitor jabbed a finger upwards to indicate the tiled shelf projecting from the cottage wall and supported by a couple of unpainted wooden posts with nails protruding from them at random intervals. This suggested climbing roses; so possibly the porch had a more eye-pleasing appearance at a different time of year. Harrison already had a plan to fix it in the spring. In the meantime, it was no damn business of anyone else’s; and it was particularly annoying to be told to do something that was already planned. What was more, a glint of mockery in the caller’s eye knew this. Harrison wanted to snap, ‘Shut up and go away!’ But he didn’t.
The caller seemed intent on rabbiting on about it.
‘By morning it will have frozen. You need to get up in the loft and take a look at the tank. You don’t want the ceiling caving in on you later on, when you’re tucked up snug in your bed. You’re some sort of engineer, aren’t you? I’d have thought you’d fix it straight away. You do fix things, don’t you, Jerry?’ The visitor gave a semblance of a smile, but this time there was no humour in it. ‘And don’t you let this place out in the summer?’
‘Don’t stand about under the porch, then,’ said Harrison curtly, realising, even as the words left his mouth, that they might sound like an invitation to come indoors. That was certainly not what he had intended. But he was shaken at seeing the visitor; and it had thrown him off his stride. Moreover, the remark about his letting out the cottage to holiday-makers in the summer suggested the caller had been taking an interest in him for some time. To have expected that the visitor might have phoned ahead to let him know he was coming tonight was also a waste of time. Of course he wouldn’t; because he knew full well that, forewarned, Harrison would’ve gone to earth, like the fox that haunted his garden after dark. The caller would have knocked at the door in vain. His quarry would have long gone.
So he felt unable to do anything about it, and was seized by a paralysis that was mental, not physical, in origin. He should slam the door in the visitor’s face. He still wanted to do that. But the moment for it had passed. He should have done so as soon as he saw who the new arrival was. Now he felt oddly powerless. He couldn’t even contact the police. The caller wouldn’t allow it. In any case, what would he tell the cops? The forces of law and order were miles away from here. Even if they took his appeal for help seriously, they still couldn’t get here in time. He didn’t even have the option of phoning the pub down the road and asking the landlord to do something on his behalf. He was on the point of being taken prisoner, here in his own home. Indeed, he’d already been rendered powerless by his own earlier inaction. Standing here, as he did, letting the newcomer take all the initiative, make the running . . .
Now he simply stood aside as the newcomer pushed past him, scattering moisture and leaving wet footprints on the hall tiles. Those wet marks increased Harrison’s resentment. They appeared symbolic, marring the perfection of the space, his space. A fresh blast of icy wind blew through the open doorway, causing Harrison to slam it shut in an automatic gesture. Too late, he realised that he’d lost the last chance of escape.
He watched with increasing but silent fury, a small knot of fear forming inside him, as the newcomer took off his waxed coat and hung it up with others on the row of hooks, screwed into the wall for that purpose. Drops of the rain that had adhered to the outer fabric now began to trickle off the garment and form a small puddle on the floor. The puddle began to spread, eating up the footprints, underlining that, from now on in, things could only get worse.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t sell this place, along with everything else.’
Why shouldn’t I? Harrison wanted to shout. It was mine. I could sell it all if I wanted. Every porcelain ornament, every smoke-darkened oil portrait of forgotten Victorians, every bit of silver that made work cleaning it. And I did sell it. It’s absolutely nothing to do with you. This is my life and I run it as I wish!
But he had never been able to run it as he wanted. He’d only deluded himself into thinking that he could, seizing the reins of his own destiny. A stupid fancy, that was what it had been. Harrison said nothing . . . and as for Destiny, that had proved an unbroken horse, galloping off into the distance.
There was a small mirror on the wall beside the coatrack. The visitor had been peering into it as he spoke, back turned to his unwilling host. He gave every sign of being at ease. Not at all worried, as Harrison was. He’d soon be totally in control.
Do something! urged the voice in Harrison’s head. Don’t just stand here letting it happen! But its tone was forlorn, despairing.
The newcomer continued to chat as though this was a regular social visit. ‘I called by back in the summer, but I missed you. You were away abroad somewhere. A couple with a young family were staying here. But I’m a patient man. I can wait. And lo and behold! Eventually the wanderer returned.’
‘What do you expect me to say?’ the goaded Harrison snapped. ‘Congratulate you?
‘I could use a whisky, Jerry.’ The unwished guest was smoothing down his hair as he spoke, using both palms. Satisfied at last, he turned to face Harrison.
Before the unrelenting stare, Harrison capitulated. Nothing for it but to lead the way into his warm and comfortable sitting room. Until just a few minutes ago it had been a snug little refuge. It had now been invaded by the newcomer; and he would never feel the same in here again, thought Harrison sadly. He brought out the bottle of whisky and hunted out a couple of tumblers, aware his visitor was watching him closely. But his original despair was fading, displaced by rage. How dare this wretch invade his home, his privacy, threaten him psychologically and – quite possibly – physically? That was when he remembered the knife.
It was a small implement, with a carved bone handle and a short, but sharp, blade, a souvenir of his travels. He remembered buying it from a stall in a bazaar. He had a flash of memory, not clear, but a moment of heat, dust, noise, so different from the cold, damp English winter. To peel fruit, that’s why he’d bought it. Now he kept it in his drinks cupboard, to facilitate the opening of sealed bottles. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was the only one to hand. The only chance he might have. He slid it into his sleeve.
Five minutes later, they sat either side of the fire, drinks in hand. Anyone, looking in through the window, would have thought them a couple of old friends settling down for a pleasant evening’s chat and memory-sharing.
The visitor raised his glass in salute. ‘Not too late to wish you a Happy New Year, Jerry, I hope.’
Harrison said nothing, burying his nose in the whisky tumbler.
‘You owe me, old lad,’ said the other, still speaking pleasantly.
‘Do I, hell!’ objected Harrison.
‘And I’ve come to collect. Don’t say you weren’t expecting me, sooner or later.’
Harrison admitted, ‘I thought you might turn up one day.’
‘There you go, then, Jerry. And here I am. You know, you really should have scarpered while you could. Hanging around here, well, that was always asking for trouble. Just think, you could have sold this place and bought somewhere in a warmer climate. Spain, perhaps? Or Italy? Did you not think of me?’
‘Why?’ snapped Harrison. He felt the fury rising in him again, displacing the paralysis induced by shock. ‘Why the hell should I sell the cottage? It suits me down to the ground, and, anyway, it has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all! You play no part in my life. You never have. Your opinions mean nothing to me.’
This elicited a particularly mirthless smile. ‘They should, Jerry. You must know that. But perhaps you don’t know me well enough, old chap. Or not as well as you thought you did.’ He raised his glass in salute. ‘A funeral libation! Your funeral, of course.’ He drained the whisky in one draught.
Harrison knew his chance had probably gone, but rage flared up again and gave him strength, and the resolve. . .
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