Days Without Number (8 page)

'Old Ferry Inn.'

'Irene? It's me.'

'Nick. Thank God. Where are you?'

'Never mind. What's happened?'

'Are you at the wheel?'

'No. I'm parked. What--'

'Dad's dead.'

'Sorry?' He had heard, of course. But he could not trust himself to have heard correctly.

'Dad's dead.' Irene sobbed, then swallowed hard. 'Pru found him this morning at Trennor.'

'I can't . . . What . . .'

'I know. It's hard to come to terms with. He was so very much alive yesterday. All his wits about him - too much about him, for our liking.' She sniffed. 'Sorry. It's a shock, I know. Sorry to have to inflict it on you.'

'What happened? Was it... his heart?'

'No. A fall of some kind. Down the cellar steps, apparently. The policeman said he seemed to have hit his head, probably on the handrail.'

Nick closed his eyes. There had been many times in his life when he had silently wished his father dead. He could admit that to himself, though he never would to anyone else. Those times were behind him now, buried by the overdue realization that the mistakes he had made were not his father's fault, even though he had displayed such outspoken intolerance of them that it was tempting to lay them at his door. Michael Paleologus had been no-one's idea of a perfect

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parent, treating his family much as he had his students, with a kind of baffled disbelief at their capacity to misunderstand how and what to think. The older he had become, the more Nick had grudgingly admired his refusal to compromise. He had died as he had lived - believing he knew best.

'Nick?'

'Yes. Sorry. A fall, you say?'

'So it seems.'

'He was unsteady on his feet. You were right.'

'I know. But . . .'

'What?'

'Do you think we upset him yesterday, badgering him about selling up? Do you think that might have . . . led to this?'

Nick recalled the expression on the old man's face as he had laid into them the previous afternoon. He had not been angry. He had not even been hurt. He had merely been as self-righteous as ever - and as he would probably want to be remembered. 'No, Irene. I don't think so for a moment.'

Michael Paleologus's innate sense of timing had not deserted him in death. Nick had been absolutely certain he was returning that day to the known quantity of the life he led away and apart from his family. Instead, five hours after driving out of Plymouth, he was driving back into it. His father had posthumously decreed that he was not to escape so lightly.

His destination was not the Old Ferry, nor yet Trennor, but 254 Citadel Road. Irene had phoned him when he was halfway back along the M5 to say that she had contacted Andrew, who was coming into Plymouth to assist with the 'arrangements', by which Nick took it she meant consulting an undertaker. It was more convenient for them all to meet afterwards at Anna's flat.

They made a sorrowful gathering in the cramped basement lounge. Basil doled out tea, coffee and biscuits as soon as Nick arrived and Irene gave him a tearful hug.

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'The police wanted a formal identification,' she said. 'Andrew and I went.'

'Sod of a place, that mortuary,' put in Andrew, shaking his head. 'Dad lying there, looking as if he might sit up any minute and tell us not to be so stupid.'

'He'll be transferred to the chapel of rest tomorrow,' Irene went on. 'After the postmortem.'

'Postmortem? I thought you said he'd hit his head.'

'So it seems. But they need to check, I suppose. There'll have to be an inquest.'

'Did you . . . see the wound?'

'No. It was at the back of his head, they said. We didn't ask to see it.'

'Nor would you have,' murmured Andrew. 'Believe me.'

'Have you talked about a date for the funeral?'

'It'll probably be next Monday,' Irene replied. 'You can stay down until then, can't you?'

'Of course.'

'We've made an appointment to see Baskcomb tomorrow.'

'Right.'

'We'll need to think about hymns as well. And flowers. And announcements. And--' She broke off, sighing and sat down, pressing a hand to her forehead. 'I thought he'd live for years, I really did. Years and years.'

'You won't have to do all the sorting out, Irene,' said Anna, putting her arm round her sister. 'It'll be a team effort.'

'How's Pru?' asked Nick.

'Pretty upset when I saw her,' Anna replied. 'Not exactly coherent. The police had fazed her with all their questions. They won't let us into Trennor, you know.'

'What?'

'Just routine,' answered Irene. 'It won't be for long.'

Nick frowned down at his sister, puzzling over exactly what was being left unsaid. 'Routine?'

'In case it was not an accident.' Basil's voice sliced softly through the silence left trailing by Nick's query. They are paid to think of such things.'

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The ramifications of Basil's tartly accurate observation coursed through Nick's thoughts, much as they no doubt did through his brothers' and sisters'. But they were not discussed, nor even referred to, until later in the evening. Andrew had asked if anyone wanted to join him for a drink at the Yard Arm before he headed back to Carwether. Sensing there were going to be no other takers, Nick volunteered.

It was a quiet night at the pub. They settled themselves at a table set in its own discreet corner and toasted their father's memory in Courage Best Bitter.

'A real shock, eh, Nick? Who'd have thought it, after that vintage performance he put on yesterday?'

'Perhaps it took too much out of him.'

'Less than it took out of me, I'll bet. I'd have made sure we parted on better terms if I'd . . .' He shrugged. 'Well, you know.'

'Yes. I know.'

'It'll take some getting used to. Him not being around, I mean.'

'It certainly will.'

'Some getting used to, yeah.' Andrew took a deep swallow of beer. 'I'll say.'

'When I got Irene's message, that something terrible had happened, I thought for a moment . . .' Nick hesitated.

'What did you think?'

'That it was you.'

'Me!'

'Well, after the way you stormed out of Trennor . . .'

'You thought I might have gone home and strung myself up from a beam in the barn?'

'Not exactly. I just--'

'I was pretty upset, Nick, I don't mind admitting. But what's new? Dad's needled me for years.' Andrew looked away, apparently lost momentarily in recollection of such times.

'What's new is that he won't be needling you any more.'

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'No. He won't.' Andrew chuckled wryly. 'And you know what? I'll miss it.'

The too.'

'Yeah.' Andrew looked back at his brother. 'Be hard to explain that to anyone, though, wouldn't it?'

'It would.'

'Which is why we ought to keep quiet about yesterday's bust-up, in the unlikely event that the police start sniffing around. Mention a family row - or Tantris's money - and that lot could begin to wonder whether, well . . .' He lowered his voice, unnecessarily, since there was no-one within earshot. 'Did he fall or was he pushed?'

'Nobody's going to wonder that, Andrew.' Even as he said it, Nick felt uncertain on the point. To an outsider, apprised of the circumstances, it could seem a possibility. 'Oh God. You don't think they might, do you?'

'Not if we don't give them any reason to. Look, obviously we'll accept Tantris's offer, but there's bound to be a delay. Dad's will will have to be probated and the rest of it. Then there's the inquest. We don't need to rush into anything.'

'From what you're saying, we can't.'

'Exactly. Tantris isn't going to go away. We just have to bide our time.' Andrew stared thoughtfully into his beer. 'Dad was right. He'd have hated being in an old folk's home, however well appointed. It was a quick exit and maybe a merciful one. We could look back on this one day and think it was, well, the best way for it to be.' He glanced up at Nick. 'Don't you reckon?'

Andrew had parked his car in one of the streets that led up from Citadel Road towards the Hoe. Nick walked to it with him after they left the Yard Arm. A cold wind was getting up, clearing the drizzle and revealing a window of stars in the inky cloudbank out over the Sound.

'I'm hoping Tom will come down for the funeral,' said Andrew as they neared the Land Rover.

'He's bound to, surely.'

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'Only if I succeed in contacting him. All I've reached so far is his answerphone. I could ask Kate if she's got a mobile number for him, but... I'd rather not.'

'Won't you tell her about Dad? They used to get on well together.'

'Suppose I'll have to. Christ, you don't think she'll want to attend, do you?'

'I don't know.'

'Can't stop her, I suppose. As long as she doesn't bring that smug bastard Mawson with her. Wives and children and ex-wives' new husbands. You're well out of all that, Nick, take my word for it.'

'Glad to.'

'Yeah. I'll bet.' They came abreast of the car. Andrew unlocked the door, climbed in, wound down the window and started up, the engine spluttering in the cold air and sending up a plume of exhaust. 'See you soon, then. I'll--' Something caught his eye. He gestured through the windscreen at a piece of paper wedged under the wiper. 'Bloody fly posters. Shift that, would you, Nick?'

Nick slid the offending item out from beneath the wiper blade. Before he had a chance to examine it, however, Andrew had clunked the Land Rover into gear and pulled away, shouting a goodnight as he went. Nick gave a halfhearted wave and watched him turn out of sight at the end of the street.

Only then did he walk into the pool of amber light beneath the nearest streetlamp and look at what he held in his hand: a sealed blank white envelope, dampened by the drizzle. He tore it open, pulled out the contents, and found himself looking at a condolences card. There was an artist's impression of a candle, beside the Gothically scripted words In Sympathy. He opened the card, where more words were printed. Thinking of you at this sad time. But there was no signature. No name. No message. The condolences were strictly anonymous.

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The incident grew more worrying the longer Nick thought about it. He could not help turning it over in his mind as he drove back to the Old Ferry later that evening, secretly glad that he and Irene were making the journey in separate cars. He did not want to tell her about the card for the simple yet disturbing reason that it made no sense. No-one in the Citadel Road area knew Andrew, let alone his Land Rover. If the card had been dropped through the letterbox at Anna's flat, it would have been puzzling enough. As it was, the message seemed intended for Andrew alone - for reasons which Nick could not even guess at.

Irene had closed the pub for the evening. A sign apologizing for the fact and citing a family bereavement as the reason hung on the door, palely lit by the headlamps of Nick's car as he slowed for the turn into the yard.

He entered by the back door, which had been left unlocked for him, cut through the darkened bar and carried his bag up the stairs. As he reached the top, the television news cut out in the sitting room and Irene called to him through the open doorway. 'Nick?'

'Who else?'

'Join me for a nightcap?'

'OK.'

Irene had left Anna's flat half an hour or so ahead of Nick. It looked to him as if she had hit the whisky since then. The heat from the gas fire had filled the room with the smell of it. He poured himself a finger and sat down opposite her, noticing as he did so the tears welling in her eyes.

'Bad times, eh, sis? Bad, sad times.'

'I think it was worse when Mum died.' Irene thumbed away the tears and sniffed. 'This is mostly shock.'

'Well, we had plenty of warning with Mum, didn't we?'

'Too much.'

Ts none at all better?'

'Not sure. Maybe.'

'Did they tell you . . . exactly when they think he died?'

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Ten hours or so before Pru found him, apparently. So, late last night.'

'And he was at the bottom of the cellar steps?'

'Yes.' She smiled. 'Maybe he'd gone to fetch a vintage claret to celebrate the defeat of his children.' More tears came then, which she mopped with a tissue.

'Did he have a bottle with him?'

'Sorry?'

'Was he carrying a bottle when he fell? I mean, why else would he have gone down there?'

Irene frowned. 'I don't know. Nobody's mentioned it. Maybe he hadn't got that far.'

'But he must have, if he fell as he was leaving. Why would he be leaving empty-handed?'

'How do you know he fell as he was leaving?'

'Because the injury was to the back of his head. That's what you told me.'

'Yes, but . . .' Irene's blurred gaze snapped into focus. 'What are you getting at?'

'Nothing. Just . . . trying to understand what happened.'

'What happened was that he slipped or tripped . . . and fell. What possible difference can it make whether he was coming or going at the time?'

'None, I suppose. Except . . .' Nick took a sip of whisky. 'Andrew reckons we should be careful not to mention Tantris's offer to the police.'

'It's none of their business.'

'No. Precisely. But if they got wind of it, well, they might put two and two together and make five. Like Basil said, they're paid to be suspicious.'

'Rubbish. They're far too busy trying to solve real crimes to waste time looking for imaginary ones.'

'Let's hope you're right.'

'Of course I'm right.'

'OK, OK.' Nick sipped some more whisky and smiled appeasingly. 'The shock's probably got to me too.'

'Probably.' Irene looked fondly at him, her anger fading as

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quickly as it had flared. She leaned forward and patted his hand where it was resting on his knee. 'I didn't mean to be tetchy. We need to help each other through this, not bicker.'

'You're right. Sorry.'

The too.'

'Have you spoken to Laura?'

'Yes. She's coming down at the weekend. The school were happy for her to leave earlier, but I couldn't see the point. It'll be nice to have all the formalities out of the way when she arrives.'