Dying on Principle (31 page)

I taught the class without incident and was safely at home when Chris arrived. The kitchen was smelling warmly aromatic. He sniffed, suspiciously.

‘Rice pudding,' I said. ‘And sago, too.'

‘In May?'

‘For Richard Fairfax. He's very ill, Chris.'

He looked sceptical.

‘Where would you like your tea? On the patio?' I reminded him.

Sighing, he took the hint and the tea tray. We sat side by side, the silence between us growing till I decided to end it.

‘In fact,' I said, pressing a lemon ring against the side of the cup, ‘I'd bet he's got cancer. Stomach cancer, to be precise. He's taking the same sort of tablets as my mother took when she was dying. Morphine-based. It may even have spread: his breathing's getting laboured. His housekeeper leaves him cheese and biscuits on a tray and he craves milk puddings. Sugar leaves them too bland, so I've used golden syrup to sweeten them. I've cheated a bit – I started them in the microwave while I warmed the oven. I hope they'll be all right.'

‘And how do you propose to take Mr Fairfax his puddings? Even his car doesn't seem to be immune to – to the interest of other motorists.'

‘Taxi. Nice and anonymous.'

‘And nice and visible. And not trained in protective driving.'

‘How about you, then? He lives not very far from you, as it happens. It would only take you an extra couple of minutes.' What perhaps I ought to have done was confide in Chris the other reason for my going, but I wasn't happy with my duplicity. Visiting a dying man merely to read his files seemed in poor taste, but there had to be something important about the Newtown site. I had a terrible fear that Fairfax and Muntz were not about to donate an important piece of industrial and social history to the citizens of Birmingham: their altruism was much too limited for that. And you don't try to kill someone who might be about to find out that sort of secret. I wished I had the resources Chris – or the opposition! – could summon at will: a miniature camera would make this evening's work far simpler. ‘You could even collect me afterwards,' I added, conscious of another silence.

For answer he turned to me, cupped my face in his hands and kissed me extravagantly. Soon he was out of his chair, kneeling so his body pressed against mine. And then two things happened: the kitchen buzzer buzzed and my chair collapsed. It was some moments before he joined in my laughter.

His face was stern as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Are you sure the events of this lunchtime occurred in the order Dave Clarke says they did?'

I blinked at his change of mood. I didn't answer immediately, largely, I suppose, because my conscience was far from squeaky-clean, which made me unreasonably angry. In fact, I decided not to reply at all, but to sweep, as best I could, into the kitchen. The milk puddings lay golden on the table by the time he joined me. I didn't acknowledge him, but reached for a basket which I padded with newspaper to hold the casserole dishes secure. I covered the lot with a red check tea towel. It occurred to me that should I be able to purloin Fairfax's files, then they'd fit nicely into the same basket and arouse no suspicion. Until he realised they'd gone, of course. And then he'd think the puddings had been nothing more that a ruse. Yet I was genuinely sorry for a poor bastard dying a vile death when I myself was fit and healthy.

I slung on a lightweight jacket and picked up the basket and my handbag.

‘You look like Little Red Riding Hood,' he said sadly.

For the first time I looked him honestly in the eye. ‘Chris, you did double-check his chauffeur, didn't you? He's completely in the clear? You see, what I'm afraid is that it won't be Granny but the Wolf I find there.'

‘What'll you do if he isn't in? And I must say, turning up without warning on the doorstep of someone as busy as Fairfax seems to be a pretty long shot,' said Chris, pulling neatly into the drive up to the Fairfax mansion and applying the handbrake.

‘You know something: I'd be happier if he weren't in,' I said truthfully. ‘I should leave them in the porch, go home with you and leave a message on his answering machine.' And await developments.

‘I'll wait for you here,' he said.

‘And if I don't come straight back I'll phone you and expect either you or Ian,' I confirmed dutifully.

There were a couple of cars in the drive, big Rovers. Good. Plan C: ring the door, hand over goodies, leave – no spying possible. Nonetheless, as I rang the doorbell, my heart was beating unpleasantly hard.

I heard Pilot long before Fairfax's step, and I suspect that when the door opened I smiled first at the dog, who to my relief promptly offered his paw. Fairfax seemed completely bewildered, but then smiled with what appeared to be real pleasure.

‘The meeting is just ending,' he said to me – and to the meeting, perhaps, for, as I entered the snug, Philip Berkeley and Frank, the solicitor whose surname escaped me, got to their feet. Meanwhile Pilot kept nudging my hand with his head, a quite blatant request to have his ears scratched. I obliged.

‘You know Berkeley and Laker, don't you?' Fairfax asked, but not as if it concerned him. As perhaps it didn't – he was greenish grey about the mouth. ‘And Michael Hobbs?'

I nodded.

‘Not as well as I'd like,' Hobbs said. ‘But I'm sure we could work out a price.'

Before I could respond – and my tongue leaps into action of its own accord in such circumstances – Fairfax snapped, ‘Perhaps I haven't made it clear, Hobbs, that Miss Rivers is a friend and colleague I value very highly, very highly indeed.'

Pilot's amiable panting chilled into a much less homely rumble. I wondered what would happen if Fairfax or I told him to kill.

I fussed his ears and sat down while Fairfax showed the men out. What the hell was going on? Valued I might be, but Fairfax had closed his files and shuffled them into a heap on the occasional table next to his favourite chair. I could hear sharp words being exchanged in the hall, but the door was too heavy for me to eavesdrop. When I stopped fondling Pilot, he started to sniff at my basket, which I'd put down at my feet.

‘Not for you,' I laughed, reaching for his collar to pull him away.

He turned on me, snarling.

In a moment, he reeled across the room, whimpering. Fairfax, the business directory in his hand, stood over him.

‘Sophie: come here.'

I obeyed. He passed me the directory.

‘But—'

‘Hit him. And yell at him.'

I managed the yelling. Pilot cowered. Fairfax took my wrist, and forced my hand first towards my chest, and then into a hard backhanded slash. I was as powerless as the dog.

He took my elbow and compelled me graciously to my seat. ‘The Australian red, wasn't it?'

‘I only came to deliver these,' I said, lifting the basket to my lap.

He took it from me and lifted the tea towel. The sago's golden skin had split in a couple of places, but not much had slopped. The rice pudding was intact.

‘What can I say? My dear, I'm very touched.' He kissed my hand and held it a moment to his cheek.

It had been foolish to drink even one glass of that heady Australian wine on an empty stomach. I covered my glass to stop him pouring more. He, of course, was entirely sober, having had nothing but those big stomach tablets and mineral water.

He'd been talking, I think, about his sponsorship of several concerts in next season's MSO calendar, and about the tax advantages. I'm good at nodding sagely even when entirely out of my depth – and, indeed, half asleep. But there are times when the mouth takes over of its own accord.

‘Tell me, Richard.' It still felt strange to be using his first name. ‘All this money you're busy doling out to the MSO – and don't think I'm not really grateful on their behalf, because I know they need it – tell me how you make all this lovely dosh.'

He laughed. ‘Property development, my dear.'

‘But I'd have thought that was dodgy in a recession like this. Look at all the money the Church of England's lost.'

He laughed again. ‘But the Church doesn't have the benefit of my knowledge, my experience, Sophie. One man's loss is another man's gain – though no doubt you'd prefer me to use the word “person”. And I've had one or two little gains. But I get the feeling you're not interested in money.'

‘Not
per se
. But for what it'll do.'

‘What would you do if you suddenly found you had – let's say £10 million?'

I stared at him. ‘£10 million? Would that be enough?'

‘My dear Sophie, how much would you want?'

‘Enough to make an impact. Enough to fund something that would change people's lives – travelling clinics in Africa, maybe a women's hospital in—'

‘My dear child, it's supposed to be
your
life that's changed! Remember my advice the other day?'

I nodded. I'd let slip a splendid opportunity, and I needed another. I might have to make it.

‘Are you going to take it?' he prompted.

‘Not until after my students have taken their exams. And there's all this business at Muntz to be resolved. Poor Melina—'

‘Melina?'

‘The computer technician.'

‘But that was clearly suicide.'

‘It doesn't seem at all clear now. And Blake's death too, of course. I suspect until they've got to the bottom of it, the police wouldn't like us to go bombing off on unscheduled trips round the world. Any of us.'

‘And you especially. That policeman of yours—' He grabbed his stomach. ‘Dear God!'

I went for his tablets.

When his colour returned, I said, ‘You'd be better in bed, if you ask me.'

‘That sounds terribly medicinal. Perhaps you're right, my dear. But on one – no, two conditions. One, you fetch me a bowl of that ambrosial concoction of yours; two, you accept a little gift from me.' He didn't wait for an answer, but gathered his files up and carried them to the far wall. Tweaking a Flemish interior, he revealed a wall safe. He zapped it with his key fob and that was that.

Pilot led me to Fairfax's bedroom, which glowed warmly in the late-evening sun. The Impressionists on the wail didn't look like Athena prints. Fairfax reclined on a day bed at the foot of his bed, the gorgeous brocade of his dressing gown making him look paler and frailer than ever. He accepted the tray graciously, then produced a small, flattish package, beautifully wrapped. I opened the package in front of him. A bra and pants set in apricot silk. I stared at him.

‘What would make me very happy,' he said, ‘would be for you to try them on – my bathroom is over there. No! I shan't ask to see them, don't think that! And in any case …' He let his voice drop and his hand suggested a regretful farewell.

I suppose in real time it didn't take me long to make my decision. He was sick, too sick for sex. Maybe too sick even for fantasies. I could stomp out in outrage, or I could laugh at him, or I could simply take his request at face value. Without speaking, I headed for the bathroom, which was overwarm and rich with mahogany and brass. There was no sign of any peepholes or spy cameras. There were alarm bells by the lavatory and over the bath, little trickles of plaster showing how recently they'd been fitted. In a moment I undressed. The undies fitted.

‘If you don't come out now, I shall demand to see them on,' he called.

I slung my clothes back on and, more shyly than I liked, reemerged.

His eyes worked up and down my body. ‘Yes. But maybe you should go now. Or perhaps I might forget myself.' He pressed a phone into my hands. ‘Make your travel arrangements, my dear.'

We spoke of azaleas for five minutes before his doorbell rang.

‘I blew it, Chris. I'm sorry.' I forgot the elementary rule for dealing with Chris: never let him know all I was up to. Part of my mind was still circling the business of Fairfax and the lingerie, the rest was trying to blot it out.

Chris was at his kitchen sink, draining pasta. Some of it escaped from the colander.

‘Look, if you fish it out of the sink and scald it, no one'll be any the wiser.' Not the most intelligent observation, since there were only two of us there anyway.

He stared appraisingly at the amount left in the colander, grimaced, and scooped ineffectually with a spoon.

‘Here!' I fished with my fingertips, thus, of course, making the procedure even more distasteful. ‘Damn it, Chris, your sink's the cleanest in the Western world. My hands were clean. That sauce is rich enough to disguise any faults.' I lifted the lid and gave it an extra stir. Magic. Tomatoes – sundried, of course – wine, olive oil: Chris's cooking had come on a great deal since I'd taken him in hand.

‘What was that about blowing it?'

‘Look, of course I was being a nice little angel of mercy. But I wanted to get a look at his Muntz-related files. And I wanted to ask about his money-making. And I thought I might just mention Melina to see what his reaction was. He thinks it was suicide. I didn't get round to asking any other questions. But I'll tell you this for nothing: the man has power and enjoys it. Thank God he's not a teacher or a copper. Think of all the harm he could do.'

I poured another glass of mineral water. My head was starting a slow, throbbing ache, so I fished in my bag for a couple of aspirins before sinking down at the table.

‘But why you, Sophie, for God's sake? Why not leave it to us professionals?'

‘Because I'm involved, remember, and also – though I hate to admit it – because I'd rather you than Dave got the credit for sorting it out.'

He plonked the heavy casserole down beside me, and some of the sauce splashed up – viciously staining, of course. He'd grabbed a J-cloth before I knew it, and there he was, dabbing at the shoulder, and then at the patch below the top button.