The Count of Eleven (34 page)

He remembered the gong-note of the old blow lamp as it had struck Arrod’s skull: bonggg-gg-g … g … But the new tool was far more efficient. It was virtually inaudible from outside the shop, yet in a few seconds flames began to feel their way along the gap between the floorboards. When he saw the lowest signs on the front of the counter start to curl up and sputter, he turned off the blow lamp and returned it to the briefcase before rising to his feet. (I hope you’re insured,” he told the shop. “A little expenditure can save a lot of heartache.”

He walked invisibly to the van and drove back to the cross. A woman surrounded by several carrier bags was standing by the bus shelter now, and beginning to sniff the air. Any moment she would notice the smoke oozing from beneath the door behind her. If she ran to the nearest phone, the fire brigade should be in time to save the adjoining shops. Jack winked at the clown. “Never thought we’d be glad of early closing day, did you?” he said.

The librarian was delighted with Jack’s haul, which included books borrowed years ago under names other than Samson from libraries in Birkenhead and Chester. “We may send you out again soon,” he said, and Jack mentally crossed another name off his list, though he didn’t yet know which.

When he arrived home Laura was asleep in bed. Though he didn’t like to leave the situation unresolved it felt like a flaw in their life he couldn’t very well wake her up. In the morning he was waiting for her at the breakfast table. She ran downstairs late as usual, ready to linger over toast and Marmite and run to brush her teeth before hurrying to school. He had the newspaper open at the paragraph about her. “Laura, do you know anything about this?”

“Can’t it wait until she comes home?” Julia said.

“Won’t we all feel better once it’s out of the way?” When neither of them spoke he said “So what do you know about it, Laura?”

“One of my friends’ mums is a reporter.”

“And?”

“She asked me about the money while me and Stephanie were walking home.”

“She interviewed you, you mean.”

“I didn’t know she Was until she’d finished and she said it might be in the paper.”

“I’ll be having a few words with her.”

“Dad, please don’t. Stephanie’s my friend. Her mum didn’t write anything bad about us.”

Jack gave in, though he wasn’t entirely happy. “I suppose we’ll just have to get used to being news for a while.”

It seemed to him that there was more to it, but he wasn’t sure what until the post came, consisting of a letter from the bank. “Please contact me at your earliest convenience to arrange an appointment,” he read aloud to Julia. “Sounds as if Hardy’s after our money.”

“Unless he wants to give us some.”

“I wonder if I could make that happen,” Jack mused, and phoned the bank.

Mr. Hardy wasted no time once Jack was put through to him. “When would be convenient for you to come in to discuss your financial situation?”

“How about now?”

“My diary is full until lunchtime. This afternoon, perhaps?”

‘I’ll be at work.”

“And your wife?”

Ignoring that, Jack said “Tomorrow as soon as you open? That’s if it won’t take long.”

“I don’t foresee much discussion.”

‘I’ll look forward to it,” Jack said, baring his teeth at the phone. “I get the impression he’s read the paper,” he told Julia.

“Does he want us both again?”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants, only what you want.”

Then I’ll come.”

Jack might have been able to take a harder line on his own, but Julia’s presence needn’t enfeeble him. He was trying to think of an excuse to leave early for work and finish making his phone calls when she commandeered him to help tidy the house. With just the two of them in it, it didn’t seem so cramped; it wasn’t for lack of space that they kept touching each other. They hadn’t finished cleaning their bedroom when they started to undress each other, and they weren’t even half naked when Julia pulled him down on the bed and clasped his waist with her legs. He felt huge and hot inside her. As she cried out and dug her nails into his shoulders he thought it was the loudest cry he’d ever heard.

They lay embraced until it was time for him to leave for work. Perhaps he would have a chance to use the phone this afternoon, he thought as he drove to the library. He arrived a few minutes early, and manned the reference desk while his colleagues headed for the staff-room. He was making for the phone directory when he caught sight of the headline on the front page of one of the newspapers. CANAL MURDER “MAY BE WORK OF MERSEY BURNER’, it said.

Jack went quickly to the table, reminding himself that there was no need for stealth. The newspaper report said that the police believed Walter Foster had jumped into the canal to avoid being burned alive. They had also found similarities between his death and those of Jeremy Alston and Stephen Arrod. It wasn’t clear to Jack whether the police had invented the nickname in the headline. He was scrutinising the report, having scanned it, when the librarian approached him. “Jack?”

“Just glancing at the paper,” Jack said, and turned his back on it. “I’ll be at the desk.”

Something about the librarian’s expression halted him. “Or do you want me somewhere else?”

“I don’t, no.” The librarian was trying to make it into a joke, stretching his mouth in a clown’s grimace. “Your fan club is downstairs. The police.”

Jack’s first thought was that he had been too slow. Instead of making the phone calls and perhaps even visiting one of his list he had dallied with Julia and allowed bad luck to catch up with them. It wasn’t just bad luck, it was the worst, because it entailed his abandoning her and Laura to it. He felt unworthy of them. He’d had the chance to assure them a good life and failed. He turned away from the librarian, embarrassed by the prospect of being seen to be found out, and made for the stairs.

The rubbery treads seemed to adhere to the soles of his shoes. The sensation was unpleasantly reminiscent of a dream, but in dreams one was never aware of the future, whereas now he was imagining Julia and Laura learning what he’d done on their behalf. Shouldn’t he at least phone Julia and tell her before she learned from someone else? He couldn’t think how to begin: he couldn’t think of a single joke.

Reaching the foot of the stairs put an end to his thoughts. He was hesitating between the two sections of the library when Stella came out of the video section. “What have you been up to, Jack?”

She was treating it as a joke too. Of course, he thought, the police hadn’t told his colleagues why they wanted him. “Where are they?” he said.

She jerked her head back, jingling the bells which dangled from her ears. “Waiting for you.”

Over her shoulder he saw a police car parked outside the revolving doors. A uniformed policeman was standing beside the car, his back to the library. He must know that was the only exit Jack could use which wouldn’t set off the alarm, unless someone else was posted beyond the other door. It occurred to Jack that he would be able to phone Julia from the police station; he was entitled to one phone call. He trudged towards the doors, his inability to think what he could say to her slowing him down until it seemed as though he might never reach them.

He was pressing his hand against the metal plate on the foremost door, the coolness of the plate fading as he did so, when the policeman with his back to him raised both hands to his face. Jack heard a match scrape, and smoke began to puff out of the policeman’s face. If Jack could lure him to the van and reach the blow lamp It wouldn’t be fair; the man was only doing his job. Jack squared his shoulders and marched through the barrel of doors into the sunlight and a sweetish aroma of pipe-smoke. “I believe you’re looking for me,” he said.

The policeman emitted a couple of puffs before turning to him. Perhaps the pipe was meant to counteract the school-boyishness of his face. He appraised Jack for several seconds before admitting “That’s right.”

“Well, you’ve got me.”

The policeman gave him a stern look which impressed Jack as restrained under the circumstances. “Remind me what I should call you, if you will.”

“Call me Not the Mersey Burner, but the Count of Eleven would require too much explaining. “How about sir?”

“As you wish, sir.”

There was no point in ant agonising him. “The name’s Jack Orchard.”

“Mr. Orchard. This shouldn’t take long,” the policeman said, relighting his pipe. The match flared before his face, and Jack felt as if the man was playing with him, trying to taunt him into a confession. A couple of readers with whom he had discussed books stared at him and the policeman before entering the library. “Can we do this in the car?” Jack said.

The policeman took the stem out of his mouth and used it to point at his colleague in the driver’s seat, who was studying a street map. “He doesn’t appreciate the pipe.”

“Then put it away, and your matches before I show you what to do with them.” Whichever of Jack’s selves would have said that, it was headed off by a fear that the librarian might be calling Julia. “What did you say to my boss?” Jack demanded.

The policeman gave him an expertly blank look. “What should I have told him?”

“Why you wanted to see me.”

“Just that, of course.”

The policeman seemed about to go on, but Jack interrupted him. “Do you mind if I make my phone call now?”

“We’re quite busy, Mr. Orchard. Is it anything that can’t wait a few minutes?”

Surely that couldn’t be another taunt; perhaps the man didn’t realise “I’m married,” Jack told him.

“Congratulations,” the policeman said with what sounded like irony. “Still getting used to the idea?”

Perhaps after all he knew what he was doing to Jack. He opened the matchbox, and Jack felt his fingers stiffen. “Been married long?” the policeman said, watching him over the flame.

“Nearly thirteen years.”

“Lucky for some. Children?”

“A daughter.”

“One can be enough, I keep telling my wife.” The policeman waved smoke away from Jack’s face. “Is your daughter the problem?”

“This conversation is.”

“I see, sir.” The policeman’s face could hardly have turned redder if Jack had trained a flame on it. With a briskness which all but convicted Jack of having wasted police time he said “We’d better establish the facts of the case.”

“Here?”

“As good as anywhere. Between two-thirty and three o’clock yesterday you were ‘

“In Bromborough.”

“For what purpose?”

If he insisted on playing games he would have to play by the Count’s rules. “Collecting overdue books,” Jack said.

“So we gather from the gentleman you collected them from. He had a good deal to say about your methods.”

“There were witnesses.”

“Oh, quite. I didn’t know if you realised there were.”

If he was only to be accused of arson, Jack thought, shouldn’t he confess? Could the police connect the fire at Dail’s Signs with anything but arson? After a pause the policeman continued “What time would you say you returned to your vehicle?”

“The first time or the second?” Jack wasn’t about to ask that, and he mentally challenged the policeman to do so. “It must have been a few minutes before three.”

“Do you recall driving past a sign maker shop?”

Jack was losing patience. “I may have.”

“Please try to concentrate. Perhaps the name will jog your memory. Dial’s Signs.”

“Not Dial’s, Dail’s,” Jack refrained from saying, and managed not to smile at the obviousness of the trap. “I don’t remember any such name,” he said.

“Between the library car park and the cross.”

“Then I must have passed it. Why do you ask?”

“Because we’re questioning everyone we can trace who was in the area about that time, Mr. Orchard. We need to find out if they noticed anything suspicious, anything at all.”

Pipe-smoke drifted towards Jack and gave him an excuse to cough into his hand while he controlled himself. “Was there a breakin?” he said when he was sure he could appear concerned.

“Arson. Someone set fire to the shop for no reason we’ve been able to discover so far.”

“Dear me. I certainly saw no-one who looked capable of such a thing. Is the shop near a bus shelter?”

“Just by one.”

“I seem to recall a lady with a load of shopping at the bus stop, but I’m sure she couldn’t have been who you’re looking for.”

“She sounds like the person who called the fire brigade. What vehicle do you drive, if I may ask?”

“A blue van. There it is.”

“Then we can eliminate that. She said she saw it passing.” The policeman gazed at Jack as if reluctant to let him go. “Please let us know if anything further occurs to you, however unimportant it may seem. Now you’ll be wanting to make your phone call.”

“I don’t suppose it was that urgent. I expect as a father you’ll know how it feels.”

“Nothing too serious, then.”

“Our daughter was in the news. She was beaten up by three boys, and now someone’s sent us quite a sum in case we have to go to court.”

“I heard about it.” The policeman gave his pipe a final suck before opening the passenger door. “If those scum ever end up in custody overnight I shouldn’t be surprised if they put one another in hospital.”

The police car pulled away, and Jack stood in the sunlight, trying to grasp what the encounter had meant. He wanted somehow to recapture the sense of relief which had seemed to underlie his feelings when he’d thought the police had caught up with him. He walked into the car park and around the van, and then he saw that his luck was still taking care of him. Being questioned by the police had shown him not to visit any of his list while he was out on behalf of the library, since that way his whereabouts could easily be traced. If this hadn’t been the first time the police might well have been suspicious, but instead the Count had triumphed again; he hadn’t even needed to explain what phone call he had wanted to make. He strode back into the library, feeling absolutely on course. “I see from your face that it wasn’t too serious,” Stella said.

Jack put a finger and thumb to the corners of his mouth, for his expression felt capable of splitting his cheeks. “Quite the reverse.”