Dying on Principle (29 page)

‘I don't recognise anyone in here,' I said, patting the photos. ‘And I'd say that neither of tonight's attackers was the man that drove at me on the High Street. Which reminds me, your canteen couldn't run to a tea towel and some ice, could it?' I could feel the heat from my knee. I'd stripped off my ruined tights when a WPC had dressed my hands, and could simply bundle ice cubes into the towel and swathe it round my leg. Not elegant but effective.

Tom padded off; Ian stared at me. ‘What I can't work out, Sophie, is why you ran all the way up here and made yourself bad. Gave them quite a scare with your asthma. Why didn't you knock at someone's door and raise merry hell? Much more sensible.'

‘I know that now. I wasn't expecting the asthma – must have picked up some pollen to set it off. But how d'you select a household to disturb? Be tough if you chose one where they were deaf or something. Chummie getting closer all the time and you trying to yell through the letter box!'

Ian laughed but without amusement. ‘There's something else, isn't there?'

‘Lots of things. The first is that I'm bloody scared. Someone else's car – and I wasn't safe in that. And their nerve – a couple of hundred yards from here, and police cars constantly turning up the hill! Ian, I can't get it out of my head that the chauffeur may have been involved. Surely he could have put up more fight?'

‘And if he was involved, would that mean your gentleman friend was involved?'

‘Surely he's too ill?'

Before Ian could answer – and goodness knows what sensible observation he could have made – the first WPC returned, and made a point of drawing him to one side before whispering to him. They both looked at me.

‘Back in five minues, Sophie – OK?'

It had to be, didn't it? I shifted my knee and thought patient thoughts.

After rather more than five minutes, Ian returned. He sat down heavily, as if trying to balance his thoughts.

‘I reckon your chauffeur may be in the clear. He was out front shitting bricks – sorry, Sophie – saying his passenger had gone missing. Quite upset, he was. Seems he drove round looking for you. I almost had him in tears when I said I'd have to talk to Fairfax too.'

‘Good. I'd like him to fry a bit. What about Fairfax?'

‘We shall have a conversation tomorrow, don't you worry. But this chauffeur character reckons the old guy's as sick as you think he is. He begged me not to disturb him. Quite convincing. What do you think?'

Ian had so rarely asked my opinion that I was silenced. At last I managed a weak shrug of acquiescence. ‘I'm in your hands. You're a pretty good judge of character.'

He hesitated.

‘What would Chris do?' And suddenly I found myself yawning till the tears came. ‘I think he'd say leave it.'

Ian nodded. ‘I've phoned Val and she's airing the spare bed. I know you don't like her cooking, Sophie, and I dare say she wouldn't like yours, but it's a safe haven. Chris'll no doubt want to work out something more permanent tomorrow.' He looked at me meaningfully.

I chose to ignore his insinuation. ‘Tina as minder?'

‘Tina's too grand for that now she's a DS. Not that we couldn't ask, of course. Owes me the odd favour. But I'll warn you, she's still into chicken and chips – and reggae.'

Tina had moved in to guard me some fifteen months earlier when someone had designs on my life; I don't know which of us had irritated the other more. She had since fallen in love with a friend of mine, which was a bit of a problem because he was gay.

‘Has she got over Courtney?' I asked, smiling my thanks to Tom, who'd returned with a red plastic bucket full of ice, apparently from the inside of a freezer, and a striped tea towel.

‘Still hoping, still visiting him in Durham nick when she gets free time. And busy decorating a flat for him for when he comes out in June. I don't know, Sophie, these kids. Mind you, you didn't set her a good example – which you should have done, being a teacher.'

‘I told her he was gay. What else could I do? She's in for a lot of heartache if she doesn't accept that.'

We nodded solemnly; and I realised I didn't like Ian's assumption that I at least was old enough to know better.

For form's sake, and to divert the conversation, I flicked through the photos again. Where on earth was Chris?

‘Come on, love, you look as if you've done enough for one day,' Ian said at last, taking the file from me. ‘We'll stop off at your place and get your things, and then I'm taking you home.'

I was forced into it: ‘What about Chris?'

Ian laughed. ‘You won't want to see him. I've never seen a man get pissed as quickly as he did tonight.'

Val, Ian's wife, pressed another Weetabix on me, but I was firm: I had to get back home, if that was where Chris had said he'd meet me. I also wanted to be there before him, so that I could get into some clean clothes. Washing my hair and showering were on the agenda too, provided I could fit rubber gloves over the bulky dressings on my hands. On further consideration, however, it might be a good idea to soak them off and put on fresh ones, and I was engaged in this when Ian called upstairs to say Chris had arrived. My hair, alas, still hung wet about my ears.

‘Give me a couple more minutes! Brew up some coffee while you wait,' I called over the banister.

The slam of my front door suggested either that he'd taken umbrage or that he'd sent Ian off. I finished my hair, wincing as I shifted my grip on the brush or dryer, and then slapped on some make-up. I had a feeling I might need a false front as the day progressed.

At least I looked better than he did – he gave the impression that he'd prefer quieter Alka-Seltzer. I slotted a couple of slices of wholemeal bread into the refurbished toaster and slapped both butter and low-fat spread on to a tray on the table. When he merely looked martyred, I dug out a pot of apricot jam and plonked that down too.

‘Sophie—'

‘I'll talk when you've eaten,' I said. And, since the toast smelled good, popped in another couple of rounds for myself. ‘I think we'll eat on the patio.'

He took the tray while I unlocked. It was cool, but looked as if it might warm up later.

‘About last night,' he began.

‘Titus Andronicus, were you? Never mind, this coffee'll sort you.'

‘I'm sorry, I should have—'

I didn't want apologies. I fetched my handbag and, dropping it on the table, ferreted inside.

‘There!'

‘What the hell?' He looked at the object more closely, but glanced up at me before touching it.

I shook my head. ‘I wouldn't. It might be perfectly innocent, of course, in which case it'll be covered in prints, but let's not risk it. Be more interesting, I suppose, if it's been wiped clean.'

‘But what is it?'

‘The business part of a microwave – at least I think so. I found it in a skip at work. I rescued it to see if it would help Simon – you can see what a good job he did with my toaster. But …'

‘Come on, spit it out!'

‘Do you remember,' I said slowly, ‘that old story about a woman shoving her poodle into a microwave to dry its darling fur – and cooking it? We have this guy whose brain ends up more like an omelette than a blancmange. There couldn't possibly be a connection, could there?'

‘Jesus! How revolting!'

‘Is there someone in the forensic-science lab who wouldn't laugh at the idea? Because I'd like to ask Simon if it's possible. I wanted to last night, but I thought I'd better get your permission.'

‘You
are
taking this seriously!'

‘I am.'

He pushed away his coffee, rubbing his hands over his face. ‘How good's this chap?'

‘He'll fix anything electrical. He fixed my radio. And the toaster. He'd be discreet, too. He'd tell us if the theory's viable. Better than making laughing stocks of ourselves?'

‘Phone him and tell him we're on our way. Bloody bugs!'

Adrian, wearing a towelling bathrobe and quite clearly nothing else, opened Simon's front door. I could have done without him; I was going to be in the awkward position of swearing Simon to secrecy even from his lover. Even more unpleasant for him, perhaps, especially in view of Adrian's flounce when we asked to speak in private, and the prima-donna slam of the door when he'd shown us into the living room and gone off in search of Simon.

Chris raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I thought viola players were supposed to be the serious, reliable types of the orchestra.'

‘There's a whole set of jokes about them on the Internet!' Then I heard Simon's voice in the hall outside.

He hadn't shaved but had pulled on jeans and an Oxfam T-shirt, a shade of green that didn't suit him but with gaudy parrots, which did. He flicked his eyebrows when Chris repeated the need for absolute confidentiality, and wouldn't sit down. But as Chris outlined the problem he stopped fiddling with an out-of-control spider plant and gave us more and more of his attention. Without speaking, he dug in a cupboard for some paper, and sat down at the table. Then he pushed away again, and hunted irritably before pouncing on a calculator.

‘There!' he said at last, pushing the paper towards us.

Chris and I stood shoulder to shoulder and read.

I suppose with Chris's background it meant more to him than to me. I got as far as F = 2,450 MHz before my interest wavered. But Chris dabbed his forefinger on one of the further equations. ‘Yes! And it would be conical, wouldn't it?'

‘But how would you deliver it?' asked Simon.

‘Would some ducting do? Because the headset cables were in ducting?'

‘Ideal.'

‘That's what I thought. So if you assume a heat rise of, say, 20°C, then –' His voice dropped, he took Simon's pencil and started some equations of his own. ‘There! Less than ten seconds to kill a man.'

‘But from outside a window?' I chimed in.

‘Remote control. Like on your telly,' said Simon. ‘You'd need thoughtful preparation beforehand, but you wouldn't be long doing it. And a couple of minutes afterwards to remove the evidence.'

‘With the victim sitting there plugged into his machine. Hey, Chris, was the computer still running?'

‘Fancy your not noticing! Yes, the screen was blank, but the computer was still switched on.'

‘Some sort of shutdown programme,' said Simon. ‘What was this person watching, anyway?'

‘I wish I could tell you,' Chris said, sounding genuinely regretful, ‘but it's still confidential. Out of my hands, now, actually – it's been taken over by another team. I'll let you know when I'm allowed to.'

The men smiled at each other.

‘It's a bit unusual, isn't it, someone in your position knowing this stuff?' Simon said.

‘I could say the same of you. Playing a big wooden fiddle and this sort of knowledge …' Chris shook his head. ‘My background's no use at all to my job, but at least it got me accelerated promotion. I can't see it whizzing you up to the front desk of the basses.'

Simon bowed his head ironically at Chris's use of the appropriate term. ‘Nor on to the coach for Cardiff. I'm sorry, but now you'll have to excuse me.'

Chris was in the driver's seat of his Peugeot, staring at Simon's calculations.

‘I'm not going to wait any longer,' I said. ‘What's this about the computer? What the hell was Blake watching?'

He looked at me repressively and then laughed. ‘OK. So long as you promise—'

I crossed my heart exaggeratedly and pressed a finger to my lips.

‘Commercial Vice are involved. Very high-class, very professional virtual-reality porn. The electrodes would be attached to, er, the parts you wanted stimulated.'

‘So much for Mr Blake's being a pillar of the Methodist Church. So where would he have got the stuff?'

Chris rubbed his forehead. ‘There's no sort of identifying material, no warnings about copyright, no salacious trailers, nothing. Just straight in – as it were.' He blushed, then started to laugh, but more, it seemed, with embarrassment.

‘Are you implying that it could be home-grown? Made at Muntz? I mean, doesn't that sort of thing require an enormous amount of expertise – and resources, come to think of it?'

He nodded. ‘I'm going to have to ask some interesting questions. Me and some Commercial Vice people. Any ideas?'

‘Tricky, since he made most of the engineers redundant last week. I suppose you could pursue a couple of lines – those who were disgruntled and those who were favoured enough to stay.'

‘Sophie, love, we shall be pursuing
every
line.'

‘Better get you back to work,' Chris said at last, starting the car.

‘Work? Hell! I never phoned in or anything!'

He passed me his mobile phone and pulled into the traffic. ‘Never thought I'd see the day when you forgot to go to work,' he said mildly, when I'd left a message with a secretary I didn't know to say I was on my way.

‘Me and Mrs Cavendish both. Christ, she must be dying if she's taken time off!'

‘I'm not sure you ought to mention the D-word in the context of George Muntz. And I may well have been joking – are you sure you ought to be going back?'

‘A-level class this afternoon. Only a couple of weeks to D-day. But I'm not convinced I want to sit in my office waiting for someone to come and get me. Chris, I just want to go and lose myself in Rackhams or somewhere and get some clothes and make-up and then go and have my hair done – like normal women do!'

‘You look all right as you are to me.'

‘
Oh, reason not the need!
' I said, rather more passionately than he seemed to think necessary.

He looked at me sideways, but probably did not dare speak, even to identify the quotation.