Dying to Know (16 page)

I sighed. ‘Oh, dear.'

‘What is it?' Max was genuinely worried.

‘It's Mr Hocking.'

Max was so excited, I feared for her cerebral vasculature. ‘Is it?' she demanded in the sort of voice that's considered overacting even on the operatic stage. The figure, meanwhile, was at the French windows, apparently wrestling with the handles; even from a distance it seemed to be hesitant, uncertain.

I said, ‘What's he doing here?'

‘Isn't it obvious? He's the murderer!' Through the ill-fitting double glazing the sound of wood splintering could be heard. ‘He's come back to the scene of his crime.'

‘But why?'

The doors were pulled open and the figure disappeared into the darkness of the house. Max said, ‘To find the incriminating evidence.'

‘Which is?'

She didn't know, but didn't care either. ‘Does that matter? We should phone the police.'

I suppose we should have done, but I had access to confidential medical information on Samuel Hocking that Max was not privy to, and it made me doubt that he was the man who had been running around the neighbourhood murdering people. ‘I think this has gone on long enough.'

‘What has?'

I stood up. ‘It's time to confront our intruder.'

She was horrified and, I like to think, awed. ‘But, Lance . . .'

‘Don't worry. I think I'm safe. You stay up here.'

Like the hero that I felt I ought to be, I left the room, and went down the stairs. After picking up a torch from the kitchen, I went out of the front door and over the brick wall. I made my way down the narrow passageway and only slowed down when I came around the back of the house. The figure was moving around inside the back room, various scrapings, clicks and soft clunks accompanying it; there was clearly a search going on, so in that at least, Max was right. I could tell that the movements were strained and jerky, an impression that they were painful to make made all the more real by the odd groan.

I stepped to the opened doors, and was aware that Max was disobeying orders and was now standing at the corner of the house in the shadows; she had a cricket bat in her hands. I took a deep breath. ‘Good evening.' He looked around at once, saw me and jumped. This did his back no good at all, I think, because there was a distinctly painful yelp and I saw him stiffen as if petrified. It was, I am ashamed to admit, a gratifying response. ‘I am reliably informed that tampering with a crime scene is a criminal offence, you know.'

He smiled but his cheeks must have been stiff and cold because it was very small and very fleeting. ‘I expect you're wondering what I'm doing here, doctor?'

‘It had crossed my mind to enquire.' And I thought at the same time, Are you a murderer?

He tried the smile again but with barely any more luck. ‘Well, you see—'

I interrupted. ‘Why don't you come outside where I can see you a little better?' There was a fine drizzle and I was getting cold to boot, so I didn't see why he shouldn't share a little of the pleasure.

He did so, albeit now moving with the pace and agility of a stuffed gorilla. Max came up to stand beside me. He looked at her but I didn't feel polite and made no introductions. I said, ‘So what were you doing, Mr Hocking?'

His face was wet but I guessed that not all of the moisture was due to meteorological factors. He finally found some words; whether they were words of truth was another matter. ‘I was getting something. Something of mine.'

‘What “thing”?'

A natural question to ask, I thought. Mr Hocking's mouth opened for a moment, or rather his lower jaw dropped and I saw his tongue lying limply in his mouth, before he said, ‘An old family heirloom.'

‘What heirloom was that?'

He was still pausing a lot, but getting more fluent as he replied, ‘A picture . . . An oil painting . . . Of a landscape.' For a moment it seemed as if Lightoller were a kleptomaniac, what with this and Dad's watch but then Hocking said, ‘I wanted him to value it.' This last came out in what was an unmistakably triumphant tone, as if he were pleased with himself for thinking of so clever a story.

Max demanded, ‘Why is it at his home? Why isn't it in the shop?'

But Hocking was running smoothly now. ‘He said that he wanted to do some research on it; look it up in his books.'

He nodded as he heard the words and thoroughly approved. I didn't believe him but I had no choice but to accept his story. ‘Well, I don't think it's a very good idea to break in to get it, Mr Hocking. The police may not be as trusting as me.'

He relaxed as much as his back would allow. ‘No, no, I see that.'

‘I'm sure if you go to the police station and explain, they'll be able to help you.'

‘Yes, yes.'

I smiled, although I didn't feel particularly happy. ‘Good.'

He took a deep breath, clearly a man who was greatly relieved, then laughed. ‘I suppose it was rather stupid of me.'

Neither Max nor I said anything. He was just standing there, fidgeting and I suddenly wondered if he was hoping that I would go away and let him carry on. ‘So you'll be off then.'

He looked surprised, as if such a concept had never occurred to him. ‘Oh! Oh, yes.'

I just stood and watched while he gathered up his burglary tools and put them in a small holdall that was on the ground beside him.

‘What about the door?'

‘What about it?'

He shrugged. ‘Won't the police wonder . . .?'

‘I'd be surprised if they didn't.'

He digested this for a while, then, ‘Right . . . Goodnight.'

I gave him the benefit of my pearly whites and said, ‘And goodnight to you, Mr Hocking. I strongly suggest that you talk to the police about your heirloom.'

Another rather sad nod and then he departed in a stiff, shambling shuffle, trailing clouds of embarrassment.

I went and examined the door. Mr Hocking's attentions had resulted in a large splinter of wood poking out, dislodging the facing plate so that the door latch could be prised away; the door was still held by bolts top and bottom but it wouldn't have taken much more to open it.

‘Shouldn't we tell the police?' asked Max beside me.

I had been wondering that. ‘I need to think about that,' I said as I jammed the splinter back into place, then examined it closely by the light of the torch. It wouldn't bear close inspection, but fitted quite well and, since the paintwork was fairly cracked and peeling, I was optimistic that the less than penetrating gaze of the local constabulary would not spot evidence of tampering.

TWENTY-TWO

‘
T
here's something very odd going on around here,' was Max's perspicacious comment as we digested our conversation with Mr Samuel Hocking, gentle giant, master baker and decidedly unmasterly housebreaker.

‘It's not a totally implausible story,' I said, but my heart was not really in it. I kept wondering if Mr Hocking could possibly be more than he seemed.

‘Do you believe it, then?'

I sighed. ‘No.'

Max was preparing a meal and I was sitting at the kitchen table watching her and drinking a beer; Dad's taste in the art of the hop was not exactly mine – he preferred beers with quaint names like Throgmorton's Kneebuckler and Chumley's Old Disgusting – but I had found something that at least didn't make me feel as if I were swallowing a mixture of kettle descaler and Bovril. It was always a pleasure to watch Max and I found it all rather distracting. She was preparing chilli con carne; I had been brought up to be polite and so didn't tell her that I didn't like spicy food. Nor did I tell her that no one was keeping a watch on the house next door, just in case she went back into
Hong Kong Phooey
mode and made me go and look out of the upstairs windows.

She said with her back to me, ‘So what do you think he was doing?'

‘He was doing what everyone seems to be doing in this affair; looking for something. The question is, what?'

In the background, Tommy Vance was just beginning his show and the kitchen was filled with the odour of frying onions and Max was opening a can of chopped tomatoes as she suggested, ‘Money?'

‘Maybe.'

‘He was an antiques dealer; they're always rich, aren't they?' Before I could answer, she turned and, wiping onion tears from the side of her nose, asked, ‘Is there any red wine?'

‘If I know my father, I should imagine there's a couple of gallons of the stuff somewhere.'

I went in search and found it, after some lateral thinking and astute second guessing of my father's thought processes, at the back of the garage in a home-made rack. After returning to the kitchen and opening it for Max, I said, ‘I suppose it could be money . . .'

‘Perhaps a very rare antique . . .? Perhaps Mr Lightoller found a long-lost Rembrandt in a skip somewhere.'

It sounded unlikely to me, but I couldn't discount it; I couldn't discount
anything
, if I were to be honest with myself. John Lennon's nasal twang was inviting us to imagine some load of tosh about not having a heaven.

Max was quite an expert cook, I was noticing, handling the implements with ease and facility. ‘And you said something about Lightoller being a blackmailer.'

‘He was suspected of it; nobody every proved anything.'

‘So maybe this is about blackmail.'

‘Well, the bakery's next to the antiques shop, so it's conceivable that Lightoller got wind of something, or saw something, that Hocking wouldn't want to broadcast.'

Max put in the minced beef she had found in the refrigerator, leaving it to fry with the onions and garlic. ‘Perhaps he's been having an affair with one of the customers . . . Passion over the pasties.'

‘Kisses over the cakes?'

‘Fun beside the fancies!' She burst out laughing which made me laugh too. While she stirred the meat, I returned to the table and the beer.

‘I wonder if Hocking's got an alibi for the murders,' I said ruminatively.

‘We have to find out.'

‘How do we do that?'

To Max, it was simple. ‘I'll go into the shop tomorrow and ask a few questions.'

I was slightly uneasy about this. Max poured the tomatoes over the meat and then added seasoning and some chilli powder. Then she covered the pan and came to the table, glass and bottle of wine in hand. ‘There,' she said. ‘Give that half an hour and I'll put some rice on to cook.'

‘Is that a good idea?'

‘The rice?'

‘No. Poking around in Hocking's shop.'

‘What harm can it do?'

‘If we're right, he's a murderer, Max. Two people down . . .'

‘Even if he starts to think I'm being a bit nosy, what can he do? Drown me in dough? Push me into the oven?'

‘Don't joke about it.'

She leaned forward to kiss me lightly on the cheek and whisper breathily into my ear, ‘Don't worry, lover. I won't let him get me on my own.'

‘It's no joke, Max. People are dying around here.'
Another one may yet die, too.

Her face fell. In a hurt tone, she protested, ‘I realize that.'

And I had to backtrack. ‘I'm just worried about you.'

For which I received a bigger, longer kiss and harmony was restored. Cod opera came over the airwaves and I groaned. ‘Not again.'

She laughed. ‘You're so old, Lance.'

Which rather hurt. ‘Just because I have some taste.'

‘It's the future of music,' she proclaimed as there came from the radio the voice of someone who had clearly heard too much Wagner.

It was in an attempt to retrieve my credentials as a streetwise, happening guy that I said, ‘This lot did “Killer Queen”, didn't they?'

‘That's right. And “Seven Seas of Rye”.'

I nodded sagely. ‘Oh, yes.' And I hoped that I said it convincingly. ‘Killer Queen' had struck me as unlistenably twee.

Before we ate, I phoned the hospital but there was still no change. I then laid the table as Max dished up the meal. I had found a bottle of Sheepstrangler's Curse to drink while Max was happy with the remains of the red wine, so we settled down for what I expected to be a rather cosy meal.

She waited for about six minutes.

‘Mr Hocking obviously thinks that there's something next door of significance.'

I nodded. The chilli con carne was hot, hot, hot and the consequent pain was occupying most of the space in my brain; already my nose was running and there was an uncomfortable sheen of sweat around my eyes. Max took advantage of this, thus showing how ruthless a woman can be. ‘If we could find out what it was . . .'

The chilli would have to have been white hot for me to have missed the dreadful implication of what she had just said. I stopped chewing, and looked at her aghast.

‘No.' And with this word I shook my head so vigorously that one or two drops of sweat flew off the end of my nose.

‘But it might give us the answer,' she countered. ‘If we found what Mr Hocking was looking for, we could go to the police and it would get your father off.'

‘
If
we find it.'

‘There's that, yes.'

‘And
if
Mr Hocking is the one behind all this. We don't know that he is; he might even be telling the truth.'

Max, who seemed to have oral and pharyngeal mucosa that was certified for thirty minutes' fire retardation, carried on ploughing her way through the chilli. She indicated my plate with her fork. ‘Eat up.'