Dying Fall (12 page)

If there's one thing I hate it's kerb crawlers. I don't care whether they're prominent men in posh cars or young idiots in elderly Datsuns like this one. Hate them all. My usual trick is to embarrass them. Stop. Stare as if memorising a face. Peer ostentatiously at the number plates. Write down the number.

That's what I meant to do this time.

But the man didn't accelerate sharply away. He got out of the car.

A woolly cap pulled well down. A scarf over the face and heavy-rimmed glasses. A slit, then, of dark skin. A tracksuit suggesting heavy muscles. Gloves.

He started to walk towards me.

At this point I did a really stupid thing. For years I've taught elementary self-protection to groups of vulnerable women students. Don't run, I tell them, unless you can run somewhere safe. A well-lit house; a group of people; even a car with an alarm to activate.

And what did I do? I ran. I zapped off into a piece of waste land which labours under the name of Chadbrook Walkway. Stupid, stupid, stupid. As I realised when he followed me.

The thought of being raped on a March night with the rain just starting concentrates the mind wonderfully. I could just lead him round in a circle. I could head for one of the other exits – one would take me to a playing field, the other to a couth housing estate. And in one of those elegant houses lived Richard. No contest.

Now I knew where I was heading, my breathing cleared. I realised I was grinning. I was going to make my pursuer regret this. He'd have to follow me through the prickliest thickets and back again. All the time I was edging closer to where I wanted to be. Now for the little stream, and the delightfully boggy surround. I knew where to jump. He didn't.

I made the last couple of hundred yards without company.

If Richard and his wife were irritated by my eruption into their quiet Saturday evening, they were too kind to show it. They found dry slippers, whisky, a towel for my hair. And left Schubert on the CD while we waited for the police. Sheila offered to come with me to the police station, and urged me to return after I'd made my statement. But I thought I might be gone some time, and it was late enough already.

I had a terrible sense of
déjà vu
. It was all done with efficiency and professionalism. The woman interviewing me made the connections I hoped she'd make – no, I didn't think it was coincidence that I should be attacked so soon after finding that Asian student's body. She ran me back herself, saw me safely into my house, and left a contact number.

Weird, it was only when I was in the bath that I realised that the dark skin of the Datsun driver was feigned. I would swear that he was neither Asian nor Afro-Caribbean.

And even weirder, as I hauled myself out to phone Inspector Hathersage, that I should quite suddenly realise what was different about Jools's living room. Hanging on the wall was what looked very like an original David Cox.

Ian Dale's Sundays must begin earlier than mine. But then, I suppose that my Saturday evening had been unnaturally long. He'd come about the attack, of course.

‘Give me a minute to get dressed,' I said. ‘I can't think in a nightie.'

The poor man sighed almost visibly with relief. I can't think why. My dressing gown was impregnably decorous – I'd never got round to buying anything more erotic, even when my relationship with Kenji was at its most interesting. And looked at dispassionately, the tracksuit I chose must have revealed far more of the Rivers anatomy. I made tea – it seemed we both liked Earl Grey with lemon – and waited for him to begin. Nice avuncular inquiries about my health. But something was worrying him. I let him drift round to it. Yes: this suggestion that my assailant had been in some sort of disguise. Why did I think that? Brown eyes? Dark skin? Had I seen his hands? Had he spoken?

Eventually I shook my head. ‘I'm sorry, Ian. You'll just have to trust me. I know, that's all.'

He sighed and shut his notebook. We talked about the rest of the day, and whether it was too early to risk pruning roses. What did I propose to do?

‘Keep out of harm's way.' I smiled glibly.

He'd be happier not knowing what I had planned.

I'd never expected burglary to be so easy.

I'd never quite got round to returning George's key, of course, and it struck me that Short Dressing Gown should still be in bed with – at very least – the Sunday papers. But as I stepped into George's hall I found I was shaking uncontrollably.

I wanted to say goodbye. That was one reason for coming. I could only do it in his home – Oxfam's now. He'd willed it to all those millions of children whose brothers and sisters had died for want of vaccination or rehydration. I didn't know about the rest of his will – except for the bassoon, of course. The other reason I'd come was to check through his papers to see why anyone should wish to kill him.

His diary? The diary he'd have patted back into place in his inner pocket after our phone call. A meeting confirmed. Duke of Clarence, 10.00, Sophie. No sign of it. Then I realised it must be locked in some official file. He'd have had it on him when he was killed.

I forced myself into the kitchen. His calendar, the one by the phone. A bird for each month – he supported the RSPB too. But he hadn't filled in the spaces usefully. There was a pencilled S, and a faint R for the same day. R? The cork board listed telephone numbers for his dentist, doctor and bank, a need for coriander (fresh), and a couple of charity appeals he might respond to. The herbs on his windowsill needed water; I put them in a carrierbag to take home.

Back to the living room and the bureau. A slot for bills pending, another for bills paid. Photos from the American tour. They were all blurred. Unlike George, that. He was always most punctilious in his composition and focusing. Then I realised: it was my eyes that were blurred. I wiped the tear splodges from the top print and shoved the wallets – some three or four into my cagoule pouch.

I tried his bedroom, of course, as I'd done before. Now a smell of emptiness to go with the stale bedclothes. I put my head on the pillow that still smelt of his aftershave and wept.

I could smell Sunday lunches cooking as I cycled back. Comforting roasts, milky puddings. Safe as childhood. I ought to eat. There was that steak. I could eat that steak.

I reached for the Jameson's. A good slug. Then I saw George's eyes, reproachful across my kitchen table.

‘Damn you, George! Damn you. You leave me but you won't go away!' I think I said it out loud. I tipped what I'd poured down the sink. ‘There! Is that good enough for you?' But it wasn't, and I smashed the tumbler at the floor.

The bathos of scrabbling round picking up splinters of glass calmed me a little. Enough to work out that a cup of very strong, sweet drinking chocolate might be just as good, and that I might then be able to think about food. As I sipped, I looked at George's photos.

Mostly they were of his colleagues, singly or in groups, usually with a landmark in the background. There was a lovely study of Aberlene, proud as an African princess. Jools arm-wrestling with a horn player – by his expression he was losing. Pam under her double bass's travelling case. Stobbard Mayou – he'd conducted the band for the first time on the tour in a huge sombrero. Had George realised how beautiful the man's body was? But of course he had: he'd waited for exactly the right moment to press the shutter. Tony with the woman violinist who'd toured with them. Perhaps she might be the reason why Tony preferred to travel by car; perhaps he was snatching time with her on the way.

But I ought to ask him. And I ought to ask about his threat to kill George.

It had occurred to me that cross-questioning an old friend was something better done on a full stomach, so I filled mine with the promised steak. I permitted myself a glass – one glass – of Valdepenas, gesturing, before I drank, at the photographs.

I cycled to Tony's flat near Edgbaston Cricket Ground. I wish he'd chosen it because he shared my passion for the game – my father bowled leg breaks for Durham – but Tony can't tell an off-drive from an over, despite my years of patient nagging. The development cowers behind a decorative but very high wall, and I found to my horror – imagine it, living under someone's surveillance the whole time – that I was required to tell my business to a security guard before I was allowed in. He was from the same green-coated firm as the guards at college and just as aggressive, though perhaps if I'd come in a Rolls he'd have discovered courtesy.

Tony was standing at his open door. That was for some time the only indication that my visit might be welcome. He was cool to the point of frostiness, but showed me into his living room.

‘Well?'

I hesitated to pollute his cream leather armchairs with my jeans and cagoule. I pulled the latter over my head before sitting. Reminded of his manners, he took it from me and left the room, presumably to hang it up. I looked around me – at a room as elegant as Jools's. Tony's interior designer had conceived what he probably described as a more masculine ambience, but it was one I wouldn't have minded living in. That built-in hi-fi, for instance, with its concealed speakers, would have suited me down to the ground.

Tony came and sat opposite me, barely troubling to conceal a glance at his watch.

‘I thought you might want this,' I said, producing the US tour photo.

His face flooded with colour. ‘Where did you get this?'

‘Why d'you ask?'

‘Because – Jesus, because I'd like a copy of it!'

His emotion seemed genuine enough.

‘Enough to kill for one?'

He looked bewildered. ‘Sophie, I get the feeling you're not joking. Jesus, you're not, are you? What the hell are you suggesting?'

‘George took this. Someone overheard you threatening to kill him. Tony, please, please tell me you didn't kill him.' Damn it, my voice had broken, and I could feel tears coming.

‘Of course I didn't bloody well kill him! For Christ's sake, Sophie, he – I – Look, let's have a coffee and sort all this out. OK?'

I followed him into his kitchen, to remind us both, perhaps, that we were friends. He filled the kettle, allowing me a view of a still forbidding profile. Then he reached out china mugs, and, in an odd touch of domesticity, loaded a plate with biscuits. And he made tea, not coffee. I started to laugh.

‘Well?' Then his face softened slightly. ‘Incongruous, I suppose. But George always liked biscuits with his tea, didn't he? Why the hell should I want to kill him, Sophie? I loved that man. He was my friend, too, remember. And remember the verdict.'

‘Why should anyone want to kill him? And I think they're likely to reopen the inquest. Thanks to you bringing me George's bassoon,' I explained.

‘So why accuse me of killing him?'

‘Because you met him the day he died. There was an R on his calendar that must have been you. And – like I told you someone overheard you threatening to kill him.'

‘Jools. Yes, it was. And she told Groom as well. What a good job I'd already talked to Groom and told him all about it. I didn't realise I was supposed to tell you too.'

‘You weren't. But I had to ask. Because it was about George.'

He poured the tea and pushed my cup over to me. ‘OK, OK. I know. But I hate all this questioning, all these people trying to prove me guilty – you, of all people.' He stopped and looked at me. He sighed. ‘Sorry. I can guess what you're going through. There's trouble at work, see. A lot of unrest in the orchestra. Guess who's at the bottom of it? Punctuality. Missing rehearsals. Not the greatest of musicians even on a good day. People resent it, you know, someone letting them down all the time. They want people to remember a concert because they've played well, not because someone else has been scattering dominoes everywhere. So there have been moves to … get rid of her, to be honest. And that takes years. Bloody Musicians' Union poking its nose in.'

‘Not if you follow the agreed procedure, surely?'

‘Still takes years. And every time she makes a mistake it's another crack in the band's reputation. We're living in harsh times, Sophie, in case you hadn't noticed. Too many orchestras fighting for too few gigs and too little money. So if the Liverpool Phil sound better than the MSO, who gets the next contract? Anyway, I had a deputation the other day. Had to respond somehow. And Peter Rollinson's been pressing me to act for years.'

‘Any reason why you only act now he's off sick?'

‘Only that the players brought it to a head.'

‘Mayou been complaining?'

‘Oh, how casual! Come off it, Sophie. Don't come the innocent with me. I know you've got the hots for him. And I reckon if it hadn't been for your flu you'd have had yourself a weekend in Munich. No, he's not been complaining officially. He said it was a domestic dispute and it would be inappropriate for him to get involved. But he's certainly criticised her. Not in public but he's had her back to his room on a number of occasions. And you could hear that it wasn't to discuss the weather.'

‘I thought the rooms were soundproofed.'

‘They're still yelling when they come out.'

‘Ah.'

‘Anyway, to get back to George. He promised to try and do something. Make it clear she had to improve. Offer to help her. Anything. Because he loved the band, Sophie. The whole band. The man was so loyal. So although I'd had the official warning letter typed – I'd even signed it – I put it back in my pocket till the next day. And I told him if he didn't manage it, I'd bloody kill him. So there you have it. And before you ask, Groom has a copy of the letter. And a duplicate with a new date will go out as soon as the hoo-ha's died down a bit.'

‘Any idea what's the matter with her? She used to be my friend, Tony, but she's weird at the moment.'