Over the Edge (13 page)

Another donkey was standing by the door. ‘This is Pedro,’ Gabi told us. ‘He’s our longest-serving resident.’ Pedro stuffed his muzzle in Dave’s jacket and he rubbed the donkey’s ears.

‘Behave, Pedro,’ Gabi said, pulling him away, adding, with a chuckle: ‘You’ll have to excuse him, he’s from Barcelona.’ We entered her tiny, cluttered kitchen and she spooned coffee into three mugs without asking if we’d like one. ‘Find a seat, if you can. Sorry about the mess, but this is tidy for me.’

An Aga cooker took up almost one wall and a table occupied most of the remaining space. We pulled chairs from beneath it and sat down.

‘Doesn’t Pedro find it a bit cool in this part of the world?’ I asked, grateful for the warmth of the Aga.

She stirred the mugs and put them before us, with a jug of milk, saying: ‘Sorry, but I don’t have any sugar.’

‘That’s OK,’ we said.

‘Pedro?’ she repeated. ‘No, he’s happy here. He was rescued from a festival to one of the saints, by a tourist in one of the remote villages. They hold it every year, so Pedro was lucky. The fattest man in the village rides around on the unfortunate animal until it’s near collapsing, then all the other so-called men of the village climb on with him. The donkey is crushed to death.’

Her hands were wrapped around her mug and I noticed that the little finger of her left hand was missing. Paperwork was neatly sorted into four piles on the table, each one held in place by a pebble. I said: ‘There are some evil people out there, Gabi. You probably see more evidence of it than we do.’

‘Animals don’t let you down,’ she replied. ‘You always know where you are with them. I used to work here when I was a teenager. Then, when I was looking for a change, the owner became too frail to manage, so I took it on. You said you wanted to talk about Tony.’

‘How well did you know him?’ Dave asked.

‘Quite well. We’d met several times over the years, at various nights out and climbing functions. Book launches, fundraising, that sort of thing. First time I met him was on a rock-climbing course.’

‘You’re a climber?’

‘Was a climber, but never too seriously. I just went along for the beer.’ A smile lit up her face and the corners of her eyes crinkled into a patchwork of criss-crossing creases. In that moment I realised how beautiful she was. Outdoor girls, I thought. Give me an outdoor girl every time. ‘And then, she went on, hesitantly now, ‘after Jeremy died, we started dating. Just a bit. He found me some work, but it didn’t last.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘With a TV company he was well-in with, as a researcher. We made outdoor documentaries. I loved it, but…it didn’t last.’

‘How close were you to Jeremy?’ I asked.

‘We were engaged. We’d set a date, conveniently after the Everest expedition. But I never saw him again.’ Her head lowered and she lined her coffee mug up with the pattern on the table cover, equidistant from three corners of the design. ‘Tony came to see me, told me what had happened. He sounded grief-stricken, as I was. I suppose we comforted each other. At that level, Mr Priest, it’s an incestuous world. Outsiders don’t understand what drives them on. But…that didn’t last long, either.’

I reached across the table and touched the stump of her little finger with the tip of my forefinger. ‘What happened to that little piggy?’ I asked.

She smiled again and withdrew her hand. ‘Climbing,’ she explained. ‘In Derbyshire. The leader dislodged a stone and it fell on my finger. Chopped it clean off.’ She illustrated her words with a chopping motion.

‘I don’t suppose it was Tony Krabbe leading?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Actually, it was Jeremy. He was devastated. Leaders are not supposed to do that. He half carried me to the road and rushed me to hospital, but they couldn’t save it. This may
sound unbelievably corny to you, Mr Priest, but that’s when we fell in love with each other.’

‘No, it sounds perfectly natural to me, Gabi,’ I replied, smiling at her, ‘and totally understandable.’

Santiago and Pedro were standing by the door as we left. ‘It’s their feeding time,’ Gabi explained, pushing them away.

‘Do you need a hand with those straw bales?’ Dave asked.

‘No, I can manage. I’m as strong as an ox, but it’s kind of you to offer.’

‘I think you took your eye off the ball,’ Dave declared on the journey back to Heckley.

‘No I didn’t. It’s the way I work. I like to create the illusion that my mind has been diverted, but my razor-sharp investigative intellect is completely focused on the job in hand, all the time.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Well…she is rather attractive, now you come to mention it.’

‘Chop her other pinkie off and she could be yours.’

‘So what did you think?’

‘I’m not sure. She didn’t sound too devastated, but Krabbe certainly has an eye for the ladies. No wonder you were so jealous of him. Hey, you never told me how you got on with the other love of his life: Sonia Thornton.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘No. And Robert’s a bit dis-chuffed that you didn’t take him with you.’

‘He’ll get over it. Actually, she’s an ice-maiden. I’ve had warmer conversations with the contents of my fridge. He can do a follow-up, if he wants.’

‘That bad, was it? And what about a follow-up with Gabrielle? Want me to do that one?’

‘Um, no, Dave, I might just take that on myself. Inspector’s prerogative.’

We re-crossed the bridge and joined the motorway westbound. As we drove inland the sun came out briefly and the traffic thickened. South of Leeds it slowed and finally ground to a standstill.

‘Some people have to endure this every day,’ Dave said.

‘Poor sods.’

‘So how’s Rosie these days? You don’t mention her much.’

‘I’m not sure. I saw her last night and she said she was OK.’

‘We could have a foursome, one night, if you wanted.’

‘Thanks. I’ll mention it,’ I replied, untruthfully.

But I did ring her. I spent the afternoon filling in the diary, studying a summary of reports compiled by the reader and discussing the case with Gilbert and the SIO. Soon as I was home I rang Rosie.

‘Listen, Rosie,’ I said, after asking about her
well-being
, ‘I don’t want to crowd you but I’ve an invitation to a function on Saturday night. It’s partly work – I want to have a look at some of the people there. It’s at Heckley football club, in the new hospitality suite. Should be fun.’

‘If it’s work wouldn’t it be better to take one of your policewomen?’ she replied.

‘Possibly, but their husbands object to me borrowing them on a Saturday evening. And…and…’

‘And what?’

‘…and they all have big calf muscles. We’d stand out like a pair of toby jugs.’

‘Charlie, have you ever kissed the Blarney stone?’

‘Um, no, but I once had a romantic relationship with a bag of cement.’

‘Really?’

‘I was all mixed up, those days. No strings, Rosie, and I promise not to ring you again for…oh, a month. No, a fortnight. How’s that sound?’

‘Saturday, did you say?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What time will you pick me up?’

‘I’ll let you know. There is just one other thing.’

‘Oh yes? What’s that?’

‘You’ll have to watch a football match first.’

‘You’re to put these on,’ Duggie said, handing her a small holdall. ‘And make yourself look nice. If you don’t the boss will be very annoyed, and he’ll come round wiv his little ‘lectric friend.’ He made several stabbing motions towards her with a forefinger, laughing and hissing
pssst pssst
between his teeth just in case she was in doubt as to his meaning. ‘Understand?’

Ludmilla cowered and nodded. She knew too well what he meant. She took the holdall into the bathroom and slowly changed. There was lipstick and perfume in the bag, and a pair of high-heeled shoes; items she’d once dreamt of buying but now symbols of a world she hated. She applied far too much of the lipstick and perfume, achieving, at first attempt, the look and smell that were the trademarks of her new profession.

Duggie’s car was not as luxurious as the boss’s, as she thought of him, and it stank of cigarette smoke,
but it was still far above anything else she’d known. They drove for nearly twenty minutes, over some hills where there were no lights from houses, until they were in another small town. She was in the back seat. Duggie had opened the door for her, and placed his hand on her head as she stooped to enter. She could see his face in the driver’s mirror, his eyes constantly flicking her way, so she slid into a corner, out of his sight. At one point they stopped at a traffic signal and she could see a group of people waiting at a bus stop. She could run over to them and ask for their help. There were men amongst them. Duggie would be outnumbered.

Ludmilla slipped off the high-heeled shoes, slowly raised her hand and curled a finger behind the door handle. Very gently, she pulled it towards her but the door wouldn’t spring open as she’d expected. She let go of the handle and sank lower in the seat as the light changed to green and they drove off.

The house was in a cul-de-sac illuminated only by the glow from windows and from carriage lamps on each side of every door. All the houses were big, with double garages, and one or two had a car standing outside. There were no fences or walls around the gardens, but most had small trees growing in them. A door opened and she saw a woman standing silhouetted as a cat sniffed the air before stepping decorously into the night. Ludmilla
couldn’t believe that ordinary people could live in such a fairytale world. The woman closed the door and was gone. The cat scratched the turf, arched its back and strolled around the corner, out of sight.

Duggie drove to the end of the street and stopped, peering at the numbers on the doors. ‘This is it,’ he said.

She tried the car door again but it still didn’t open. Duggie walked round and opened it from the outside. ‘Childproof locks,’ he said, grinning, but she didn’t know what he meant. ‘C’mon, it’s pissing down.’

He took her by the elbow and steered her up the short drive to the front door of the house. There was a name on the wall at the side of the door, but it meant nothing to her. She had no coat on, just a thin silk dress, and she shivered with cold.

Duggie pressed the bell and the door opened immediately. A grey-haired man was standing there, in a jacket and tie. ‘C’m in, my dear,’ he said in a soft, sibilant voice, taking her by the arm and nodding to Duggie. He closed the door, with Duggie on the outside, and turned the lock. ‘My, you’re a bright young thing,’ the man told her. ‘And you’re wet through. Let’s get you out of those damp clothes. Would you like a glass of wine?’ As the door closed Duggie had said: ‘Don’t forget,’ and made the
pssst pssst
noise through his teeth.

Rosie rang me to ask what she should wear, and I’d been a big help. Well, that’s what she’d said: ‘You’re a big help, Charlie.’ She’d decided on a pinstripe suit – ‘My interview outfit’ – with the inevitable red blouse, and looked terrific. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her so.

Heckley Town played their hearts out and only lost by one goal. Everybody agreed that the result flattered the other side, and that if Heckley played like that every week then success would surely follow. Rosie, knowing nothing about football, suggested that if the other side scored more goals every week, wouldn’t all the results be defeats? I began to explain, then abandoned the task.

The hospitality suite ran the full length of the ground’s new grandstand, behind where the crowd sat, and looked out over their heads. It had a glass wall facing the pitch with rows of tables and chairs. All the women wore dresses or suits, but the men were in everything from jeans to dinner jackets. Twenty minutes after the final whistle the players filtered into the function, freshly showered and powdered, identifiable by the huge knots in their ties and the silly hairstyles.

Young ladies in short skirts wandered amongst us with trays laden with wine, and a substantial buffet was laid out near the middle of the room. We stacked our plates – Rosie’s modestly, mine to the gunnels – and shared a table with a couple from
Tintwistle who manufactured rustic garden furniture.

‘For
rustic read splinters in your bum
’ Rosie told me as we moved on. I’d seen Wallenberg circulating, exhorting everybody to give generously, but steered out of his way. Once we’d met, I’d have no excuse for staying longer, and would have to take Rosie home. Work and pleasure are not always mutually exclusive. At one end of the room was what could only be called a shrine to Grace Wallenberg, whom I assumed to be Peter’s mother. A table covered in blue velvet bore a series of framed photographs taken throughout what looked like an active, prosperous life, with a portrait in oils hanging behind them. In her later years she was an elegant lady who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the balcony of Buck house, flapping an indifferent hand at the adoring multitude. Earlier, she’d been an adventurer, but her adventures and hardships were of the type that usually had a flunky or two not far to the rear, bringing along the Harrods’ hamper. There were photos of her standing alongside cars bedecked with Monte Carlo rally plates, smiling from the cockpit of a Tiger Moth, and posing in shorts on the deck of a yacht. There was just one picture of her with the man I presumed to be her husband. She was wearing ski goggles and it said
Chamonix, 1958
in a bottom corner. We were there, a glossy plaque told us, to
support the Grace Wallenberg Trust in its fight against cancer.

‘A noble cause,’ Rosie said.

‘Yep,’ I agreed.

‘She certainly moved around in high circles.’

I leant closer to her. ‘All paid for by ill-gotten gains,’ I whispered. ‘Can’t help wondering how much she knew about it.’

‘Sometimes, it’s easier just to lie back and not ask questions.’

‘Mmm, but that doesn’t make her any less culpable.’

‘The portrait’s good,’ Rosie said.

‘Do you think so?’

‘Mmm. Don’t you?’