A Death of Distinction Read online

  A man of middle height, who wore size-8 trainers – Reeboks, well worn, the pattern on the sole worn smooth at the inner edges, with a probable drawing pin embedded in one heel.

  A man who drove a car whose tyre tracks should match up with the ones found in the field.

  Someone who committed his crimes in the early morning ... because he had been working during the night previous to both crimes. Someone, like Marc Daventry, who worked shifts, irregular hours.

  Someone who had negotiated to buy explosives and had made them into a bomb – and whom Dex Davis was prepared to identify. Not exactly the best of witnesses to produce in court, but the best they had.

  ‘But where did he get the money?’ Abigail asked. ‘And why Lilburne? Did he really believe he killed his father? And why, for God’s sake, Avril Kitchin?’

  ‘That’s what he’s going to tell us when we bring him in,’ Mayo said grimly.

  But he wasn’t happy that all the links they had so far were with the Lilburne murder. What about Avril Kitchin’s? Apart from the fact, on his own admission, that he hadn’t liked her, there was nothing to say Daventry had murdered her, too, or why. Her killing, whether Marie-Laure was implicated or not, seemed entirely pointless.

  The keys Marie-Laure had handed over had been dusted for prints but the surface, according to Dexter, was too rough to provide anything useful. The enamel tag on the key ring, however, was a different matter, with two distinct prints, one of them matching up with Marie-Laure’s, taken while she was at the station. The other print wasn’t Avril Kitchin’s. It might, with luck, prove to belong to Marc Daventry, but as evidence of murder, it was inconclusive.

  The squad car turned into Evesham Street.

  Although it was only a short distance away from Coltmore Road, the respectability was several degrees lower down the scale, the flat itself being no better. It was on the ground floor of a small terraced house, whose minuscule front garden was a repository for everything representative of a throwaway, takeaway society. They rang the bell marked ‘Garden Flat’ and, receiving no answer, didn’t bother with a second ring but went round the back. Another tiny garden, rank with weeds, a tumbledown shed leaning drunkenly against the back railings. No answer to their knock.

  ‘Give it a push, Pete,’ Kite said. But the rickety-looking wooden door was remarkably resistant to Deeley’s buffalo-charging fifteen stones. ‘Try the window.’

  The scullery window splintered glass into the sink below, already full of dirty washing-up water and crockery. With Farrar’s usual luck, he was the one delegated to climb through, the most finicky of the four but also the slimmest. Avoiding the sink as best he could, he presently opened the door, an expression of extreme disgust on his face, as though there were a bad smell under his nose. The place was clean enough, however, if in a bad state of disrepair, with the half-done washing up appearing to be there simply as a result of the occupant having been in a hurry when he left.

  Almost all his personal possessions had gone with him, with only some dirty linen remaining, stuffed into the bottom drawer of the big, old wardrobe. A couple of shirts, underclothes, and an Arran sweater which Deeley held up inquiringly. Kite shook his head. ‘Probably not. It’s something dark – maroon – we’re looking for.’

  Everything else appeared to have been cleared out.

  ‘Done a runner, hasn’t he?’ observed Deeley after a few minutes’ more unrewarding search, which blinding statement of the obvious was rewarded with a terse instruction from Kite to check the other occupants of the house.

  He came back with the news that none of them appeared to be at home, but in the back shed, amongst garden implements which hadn’t been touched for years, hidden under a pile of old sacks, he’d found a biscuit tin, full of electrical equipment, mercury tilt switches. Kite’s reaction wasn’t the jubilant one he’d expected.

  ‘Take a look at this, Sarge,’ Farrar had said, a minute or two before.

  Kite was now staring at what had been revealed when the DC had unhooked a long mirror, hanging somewhat lopsidedly inside the back of the wardrobe door, with something protruding from behind. The mirror had been hung over a pinboard, easily visible from the bed if the door were left open. Drawing-pinned to it were dozens of photographs. All blown-up snaps of the same girl, taken outdoors and seemingly when she was unaware of the camera, a tawny blonde with an amazing figure and short skirts revealing long legs.

  ‘Very tasty,’ Deeley remarked.

  Farrar said, ‘Could Daventry be our happy little photographer? If so, maybe the gardener will identify him.’

  ‘These are Flora Lilburne,’ Kite said sharply.

  His eyes travelled over the snaps and fell on one different from the rest. It was a shocking invasion of her privacy, more so than the others, taken when she was asleep in what was obviously a hospital bed. One arm was flung outside the bedclothes, a large dressing was on her forehead. ‘What the devil –?’ And then, looking at the last of the pictures, Kite added softly, ‘My God.’

  The snap showed Flora again, this time walking in the street, hand in hand with a man. She was laughing as she turned her face to him. It was still possible to tell that she was laughing, and to recognize the man as Anthony Spurrier, even though both faces had been slashed viciously across, twice, with a sharp blade.

  ‘Move!’ Kite said. ‘And you know where to.’

  21

  He had no plans, other than to drive to Coventry railway station or Birmingham International – it didn’t matter which – abandoning the car in the long-stay car park, where it would probably remain undiscovered for days, and then to take the first train to London. But without knowing why, he found he’d turned off the main road, aimlessly taking side roads with unfamiliar signposts, driving deeper and deeper into the country until finally he drew his car into the side of a narrow lane, doused the lights and sat staring through the windscreen as the light faded.

  Two rabbits hopped across the road and disappeared into the hedge. A lean cat on the prowl, probably from the farm halfway up the hill, suddenly materialized and stalked towards the hump-backed bridge about fifty yards further along, where it leaped up in one neat movement and sat on the parapet, gazing down at what must be a railway line, or a canal. Marc left the car and walked to the bridge to join the cat, where he stood leaning his arms along the low parapet, staring down at the water below. Automatically, he stretched out his hand to stroke the animal’s tabby fur. Offended, or sensing his dark mood, it leaped down.

  In London, he could disappear. He’d cleared out his bank account, all that was left of the sale of the Rumbold Avenue house, so that money, at least, wasn’t a problem for the immediate future. He could take an anonymous room until he could find some way of getting abroad without a passport. It didn’t matter where he went, just generally ‘abroad’. He had a vague idea things would be easier there – that he could, if it later became necessary, find a job, anything, in a hotel kitchen maybe, one of those places where no questions were asked. But that was all in the future. For the moment his aim was simply to get away from Lavenstock. Yet he knew now that his original plan, to reach London that night, was impossible. He was overcome by exhaustion, a lassitude so enormous that the idea of driving to Coventry, or Birmingham, or anywhere at all for that matter, was out of the question. He’d had nothing but a cup of coffee since the previous day and his stomach felt hollow through lack of food, his mind blank with exhaustion. The persistent nagging headache he’d had all day was growing worse. He desperately needed a hot meal, and a bed. He ought to look for a pub and buy some food, but he was afraid he’d have to spend an uncomfortable night in his car.

  Dismayed by the thought of a long search along these dark, empty anonymous lanes for somewhere which might provide meals, unnerved by the thought of the stares of strangers, he stared down the length of the canal. The night had all the smoky nostalgia of a Whistler nocturne – a fitful sky, vapour rising between the banks, a string of barges moored a hundred y
ards or so away, laid up for the winter, covered by tarpaulins. From one of them curled a plume of smoke, its lighted reflection quivering in the olive waters of the canal.

  He thought, where there’s a navigable canal, there are pubs, offering food. The fact of the boats being moored there suggested it, though he could see no sign of anything resembling a hostelry from where he stood. But all he had to do was walk along the towpath and he’d soon come across it. He went back to the car, drove it back to where he’d noticed a derelict, tin-roofed shack next to a rusted gateway. The gate wasn’t locked, held only on the latch, and he drove the car into the field, leaving it behind the shed, where it would be shielded from the road. Good enough for the time being.

  He went back to the bridge and scrambled down the side of it on to the path beside the canal. It was cold down by the water and he began to shiver, already half regretting his decision. Wouldn’t it have been wiser to keep himself out of sight? How long in any case might he have to stumble along in the dark on this muddy, unlit towpath, treacherously undercut in places, before he came to a pub? Who was to say that he’d taken the right direction when he left the bridge?

  He approached the line of barges and came alongside the lighted one, saw it was called the Lucy with Diamonds. Patched with rust, it had seen better days. Its roof was stacked with logs, the smoke curling from the chimney was sweet with woodsmoke. Light glowed dimly from the windows, promising warmth and comfort as he passed. The back half of the boat was in darkness.

  Without any conscious decision of what he was doing, without pause to question the wisdom of his actions, Marc stepped, cat-footed, silently into the cockpit. For all his care, the boat rocked gently, the water slapping against the metal sides. He waited several minutes after it had steadied, and then tried the handle of the cabin door, the top half of which was curtained glass but showed no chink of light. He was surprised to find it unlocked, and he gradually eased the door open and slid into the unlit interior. He stood for a while until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, became aware of unmade-up bunks set either side, against the sloping sides, a further door in front of him. Slipping his Swiss army knife from his pocket, more to give himself courage than anything else, he moved forward then, abandoning caution, pushed open the door.

  Heat hit him, an atmosphere thick and fetid as in an animal’s lair, a smell compounded of sweetish smoke, something savoury cooking in a pot and something other, something rank, animal.

  The space, lit by a single dim lamp, was dominated by a dark green stove, its doors open to reveal a fiercely glowing interior, and next to it was an armchair in which a man was sitting, a huge man with long hair and a beard, wearing a seaman’s navy-blue guernsey and corduroy pants. He was holding a roll-up between his fingers and a gun across his knees and looked expectant.

  Something moved in the shadows.

  At first Marc thought it was a dog, a terrier of some kind, and then he saw the bright, fervid eyes, pointed muzzle and big ears, the mask of a fox. The animal moved forward, awkwardly, it seemed to Marc, and the man laid a restraining hand on its head, to which it immediately responded by sitting on its haunches, head cocked, its unblinking, feral stare on Marc. He saw then that the reason for its awkward movement was that it only had three legs.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ said the man. ‘And you can put that bloody knife away. You can have whatever it is you want, without that.’

  Rick, he said his name was, just Rick, no names, no pack drill, right? It took Marc no more than a minute or two to realize he was more than halfway stoned. Not much longer to believe him when he said the gun was unloaded.

  When Marc said that all he wanted was some food and somewhere to sleep for the night, that he was willing to pay, the man simply grinned and told him to help himself. ‘All friends here, mate,’ he said. ‘Fellow travellers.’

  Later, when Marc was replete with a bowlful of hot, good-tasting stew that was unidentifiable in content and probably better to remain so, and with rough, wholemeal bread that Rick told him he made himself, all washed down with a can of lager, Rick began to talk. Rambling and incoherent, and presently maudlin, maybe from the bottom of the several bottles strewn on the floor round his chair. Marc thought vaguely he was being entertained by the story of Rick’s colourful, itinerant and quite possibly lawless life, but since he couldn’t make head nor tail of more than half of it, he made no struggle with the attempt to keep his eyes open and never heard how it was that Rick had ended up living on a canal barge in the back of beyond.

  He woke in the early hours of the morning in a terrible panic, thrashing around, his heart thumping inside his ribcage, lathered in sweat, constricted by the narrow confines of where he lay, wondering where the hell he was. He tried to turn over and banged his elbow against something hard and metallic, then everything came back to him.

  Last night, Rick must have heaved him on to one of the bunks and thrown a blanket over him, which was rough and smelt horrible, as though it might have been used as bedding for the fox. Underneath it, he was fully dressed, even to his shoes.

  His first thought was disbelief at the unlikely scenario he’d stumbled into, at his own preposterous actions, and then he remembered why he’d acted as he had done last night. He squirmed with embarrassment, but it didn’t matter, nothing could make things worse than they already were.

  He listened to a faint, irregular scratching on the roof over his head, lifting the hairs on his skin. At first he thought it was rats and then recognized the noise was simply birds who were pattering on the roof of the barge, that it was growing lighter, it was almost dawn.

  He was grateful, now, for the immense weariness that had caused him to act as he had done last night. Had he felt able to make the journey to London, he’d have been regretting it by now.

  At least he’d had some food and sleep. If he’d spent the night in his car, doubtless hungry and cold, he’d be fit for nothing today, and he couldn’t afford that: he’d been in such a panic to leave Lavenstock that he’d failed to make sure all the loose ends were tied up, that he’d left nothing incriminating behind. He was almost certain he hadn’t, but something at the back of his mind was nagging, bothering him like a sore tooth.

  The trouble was, his mind felt no clearer than it had last night. He felt as though he’d entered a state where little, if anything, made sense. Like that time before, he was apparently functioning on a normal level, while having no control over his actions, as if he were two people, his thoughts jumbled and incoherent, with only his subconscious dictating his actions.

  The one thought clear in his mind was that he couldn’t leave Lavenstock when he had unfinished business with Flora to complete.

  It took him a long time to find his way back to the main road. He’d driven further out of the town than he’d thought.

  When he left the barge, Rick had still been snoring, dead to the world in the armchair, where, after hefting Marc on to the bunk, he’d presumably spent the night sleeping off the effects of the booze and whatever had been in the roll-ups. Marc had simply poured himself a tumblerful of water, and left money, though not sure that it would be welcomed, underneath the empty glass. But he’d had unbelievable luck, chancing upon somebody like Rick and his Lucy with Diamonds, and he needed to show somehow that he was grateful. The three-legged fox, watching his every movement alertly from the corner where it lay curled up, had made no sound.

  22

  ‘I reckon Mayo must be off his trolley. It’s too rarefied up there where he is now, his brain’s getting short of oxygen ...’

  Deeley opened his eyes, shifted his weight and tested the seat adjustment lever once again to try and ease his legs into a more comfortable position, but the front seat was already as far back as it would go. He yawned and looked at his watch, closed his eyes again. Another half-hour and they’d be relieved and off down to the station canteen and tucking into a good breakfast of sausage, egg and bacon, with a double portion of fried potatoes, lashings of toast an
d gallons of hot, sweet tea. He was a big lad and needed to keep his strength up ...

  ‘Off his trolley,’ the young PC in the passenger seat repeated monotonously. He wasn’t used to this malarkey, he was only here to make up the shortfall, and didn’t think much of it. If this was CID, he’d stick to uniforms. ‘Keeping us here all night. Bet you a fiver the laddo won’t come back.’

  ‘Ours not to reason why, if Mayo thinks there’s a chance,’ Deeley mumbled, resettling himself. ‘Thank your lucky stars you’re off in half an hour and stop moaning.’

  A minute or two later, his eyes flew open again as he was nudged sharply in the ribs.

  ‘Think this might be him, Pete.’

  The new car Flora had ordered hadn’t arrived yet, and Anthony was still taking her to work each morning. The only flaw with the arrangement that, Anthony could see was her rather ambivalent attitude towards time. It was all right for Flora, whose customers weren’t the sort to arrive much before ten, and it didn’t bother him too much, generally, but this morning he couldn’t afford to be late.

  Jenny, the young policewoman who’d been staying the night with Flora and her mother, waved to him as she drove off. Anthony left the car, where he’d been sitting ready for the off, halfway down the drive, pointing in the right direction, and went into the house to try and chivvy Flora along.

  Marc drove slowly, looking for somewhere near his flat to leave his car, but Evesham Street was still jammed with overnight parking, and although lights were coming on in windows all down the street, nobody had yet left for work and vacated a space. He might never have noticed the two men slumped down in the front seats of the dark green Rover, if he’d been driving at normal speed.

  Two men, sitting there, that time in the morning?

  His heart thumping, he drove past them, on towards that end of the street which joined the Coventry Road, hardly able to believe his luck when the big white furniture pantechnicon which had turned into the street just behind him drew up at a house with a For Sale sign in the garden, just beyond the parked car. Ready for an early start, no doubt. The driver jumped out, leaving the van in the middle of the road, effectively blocking the Rover’s route. Even if they’d recognized him, by the time they were all sorted out, he’d be long away.