The Skull Beneath the Skin (47 page)

But the sea stretched in a calm, moonlit emptiness. She made him wait and search for an hour, tacking slowly up and down the shore line with the sails furled, the engine gently purring. She lay slumped against the gunwale and stared desperately, watching for any movement on the sea’s calm face. But at last she accepted what she had known from the beginning. Simon had been a strong swimmer. But weakened by cold and terror and perhaps by some despair which went beyond them, he hadn’t been strong enough. She was too tired now to feel grief. She was hardly aware even of disappointment. And then she saw that they were making slowly for the quay. She said quickly: “Not to the island, to Speymouth.”

“You’ll be wanting a doctor, then?”

“Not a doctor, the police.”

Still he asked no questions, but put the boat about. After a few minutes, with warmth and energy flowing back into her limbs, she tried to get up and give him a hand with the ropes. But she seemed to have no strength in her arms. He said: “Better go into the cabin and get some rest.”

“I’d rather stay here on deck if that’s all right.”

“You’ll not be in my way.”

He fetched a pillow and a heavy coat from the cabin and tucked her up beside the mast. Looking up at the pattern of unregarding stars, hearing the flap of canvas as the boom swung over and soothed by the swish of the waves under the slicing hull, Cordelia wished that the journey could go on forever, that this respite of peace and beauty between the horror passed and the trauma to come might never end.

And so in a companionable silence they sailed together towards the harbour, feeling the peace of the night flowing between them. Cordelia must have slept. She was dimly aware of the boat gently bumping the quay, of being carried ashore, of his hands under her breasts, of the strong sea smell of his jersey, of a heart beating strongly against her own.

The next twelve hours remained in Cordelia’s memory only as a confused impression of time passing but disorientated, of a limbo in which individual pictures and people stood out with startling and unnatural clarity as if a clicking camera had spasmodically recorded them, fixing them instantaneously and for ever in all their capricious banality.

A huge teddy bear on the desk at the police station, humped against the wall at the end of the counter, squint-eyed, with a tag round its neck. A cup of strong sweet tea slopping into the saucer. Two sodden biscuits disintegrating into mush. Why should they produce so clear an image? Chief Inspector Grogan in a blue jersey with frayed cuffs wiping egg off his mouth, then looking down at his handkerchief as if sharing her wonder that he should be eating so late. Herself huddled in the back of a police car and feeling the rough tickle of a blanket on her face and arms. The foyer of a small hotel, smelling of lavender furniture polish with a lurid print of the death of Nelson above the desk. A cheerful-faced woman, whom the police seemed to know, half supporting her up the stairs.
A small back bedroom with a brass bedstead and a picture of Mickey Mouse on the lampshade. Waking in the morning to find her jeans and shirt neatly folded on the bedside chair and turning them over in her hands as if they belonged to someone else; thinking that the police must have gone back to the island the night before and how odd they hadn’t taken her with them. One old man silently sharing the breakfast room with her and two women police officers, paper napkin tucked into his collar, a vivid red birthmark covering half his face. The police launch butting its way across the bay against a freshening wind with herself, like a prisoner under escort, wedged between Sergeant Buckley and a policewoman in uniform. A seagull hovering above them with its strong curved beak, then dropping to settle on the prow like a figurehead. And then a picture which jerked all the unrealities into focus, brought back all the horror of the previous day and clamped it round her heart like a vice: the solitary figure of Ambrose waiting for them on the quay. And among all these disjointed images there was the memory of questions, endless repetitive questions, of a ring of watching faces, of mouths opening and shutting like automata. Afterwards she could recall every word of the dialogue although the place had slipped for ever from her mind, whether it had been the police station, the hotel, the launch, the island. Perhaps it had been all of these places and the questions had been asked by more than one voice. She seemed to be describing events that had happened to someone else, but to someone she knew very well. It was all clear in the mind of that other girl, although it had happened so long ago, years ago so it seemed, when Simon had been alive.

“Are you sure that when you first arrived at the trapdoor it was up?”

“Yes.”

“And the door itself resting back against the wall of the passage?”

“It must have been if the trapdoor was open.”

“If? But you said it was open. You’re sure you didn’t open it yourself?”

“Quite sure.”

“How long were you with Simon Lessing in the cave before you heard it crash down?”

“I can’t remember. Long enough to ask about the key to the handcuffs, to dive and find it, to set him free. Less than eight minutes perhaps.”

“Are you sure that the trapdoor was bolted? Did you both try to lift it?”

“I tried at first, then he joined me. But I knew it wasn’t any good. I heard the scrape of the bolts.”

“Is that why you didn’t try very hard, because you knew that it wasn’t any good?”

“I did try hard. I pressed my shoulders against it. I suppose it was a natural reaction, to try. But I knew it wasn’t any use. I heard the bolts being shot home.”

“You heard that small sound against the rush of the incoming tide?”

“There wasn’t very much noise in the cave. The tide spouted in quietly like water into a kettle. That’s what was so frightening.”

“You were frightened and you were cold. Are you sure you would have had the strength to push open the door if it had fallen accidentally?”

“It didn’t fall accidentally. How could it? And I heard the bolts.”

“One or two?”

“Two. The scrape of metal against metal. Twice.”

“You realize what that means? You understand the importance of what you’re saying?”

“Of course.”

They made her go back with them to the Devil’s Kettle. It was neither kind nor merciful; but then, they weren’t in the business of being kind or merciful. There were bright lights trained on the trapdoor, a man kneeling and dusting it for prints with the careful delicate strokes of a painter. Then they raised it, not resting it against the rock face but balancing it upright on its hinges. They stood back and, after no more than a couple of seconds, it crashed down. She shivered like a puppy, remembering another such crash. They asked her to raise it. It was heavier than she had expected. And underneath was the iron ladder leading down to death, the ray of bright daylight shining from a crescent exit, the slap of dark, strong-smelling water against the rock. They even made her go down, then shut the trapdoor gently over her. As they had instructed, she pushed her shoulders against it and was able without much strength to force it open. One of the officers climbed down into the cave and they closed the trapdoor and gently shot back the bolts. She knew that they were testing how much she could have heard. Then they asked her to balance the trapdoor on its hinges and she tried but couldn’t. They asked her to try again, and when she failed they said nothing. She wondered if they thought that she wasn’t trying. And all the time she saw, in her mind’s eye, Simon’s drowned body with its gaping mouth and glazed eyes, turning and twisting, sucked to and fro like a dead fish in the ebbing tide.

And then she was sitting in a corner of the terrace, alone except for the unspeaking, unsmiling woman police officer, waiting beside the police launch which would take her away from the island for ever. Her typewriter and hand baggage
were at her feet. There was still a wind but the sun had come out. She could feel its comforting warmth on her back, and was grateful. She had thought that, since yesterday, she would never be warm again.

A shadow fell across the stones. Ambrose had come up silently to stand beside her. The waiting policewoman was out of earshot, but he spoke as if she were not there, as if they were totally alone. He said: “I missed you last night. I was worried about you. The police tell me that they found a hotel for you. I hope that it was comfortable.”

“Comfortable enough. I can’t remember much about it.”

“You’ve told them everything, of course. Well that’s obvious from the mixture of coolness, speculation and slight embarrassment with which they’ve regarded me since they made their untimely if not unexpected visit late last night.”

“Yes, I’ve told them.”

“I can almost smell their exhilaration. It’s understandable. If you aren’t lying or mistaken or mad, then they’re on to a very good thing. Promotion gleams like the Holy Grail. They haven’t arrested me, as you see. The situation is unusual, requiring tact and care. They’ll take their time. At the moment I imagine that they’re still testing the trapdoor, trying to decide whether it could have crashed down accidentally, whether you really could have heard the bolts shoot home. After all, when they returned here last night, in a state I might say of some excitement, they found the trapdoor closed but not bolted. And I don’t think they’ll get any identifiable prints from the bolts, do you?’

Suddenly she felt an immense and overpowering anger, almost cosmic in its intensity as if one fragile female body could hold all the concentrated outrage of the world’s pitiable victims robbed of their unvalued lives. She cried: “You killed him, and you tried to kill me. Me! Not even in self-defence. Not
even out of hatred. My life counted for less than your comfort, your possessions, your private world. My life!”

He said with perfect calmness: “If that’s what you believe, then a certain resentment is reasonable. But you see, Cordelia, what I’m saying to the police and to you is that it didn’t happen. It isn’t true. No one tried to kill you. No one shot back those bolts. When you reached the trapdoor you found it closed. You raised it just wide enough to slide through and climb down to Simon, but you didn’t prop it up completely. You closed that door after you; either that or you partly raised it and it accidentally fell. You were terrified, you were cold and you were exhausted. You hadn’t the strength to shift it.”

“And what about the motive, the photograph in the
Chronicle?”

“What photograph? It was unwise of you to leave it in your shoulder bag on the business room table. A natural oversight in your anxiety about Simon but highly convenient for me. Don’t tell me that you haven’t yet discovered that it’s missing.”

“The police are checking with the woman who gave it to me. They’ll know that I did have a press cutting. Then they’ll begin searching for a duplicate.”

“Which they’ll be lucky to find. And even if they do and the copy, after four years, is as clear as the one you so carelessly lost, I shall still have my defence. Obviously I have a double somewhere in England. Or he could have been a foreign visitor. Let’s say that I have a double somewhere in the world. Is that so unusual? Finding any real proof that I was in the United Kingdom in 1977 will get more difficult with every month that passes. In a year or so I should have felt safe even from Clarissa. And even if they can prove I was here that doesn’t make me a murderer or a murderer’s accomplice. Simon Lessing’s death was suicide and it was he, not I, who killed Clarissa. He confessed the truth to me before he disappeared. He fractured her
skull, beat her face to pulp in his hatred and disgust, then made his escape through the bathroom window. And last night, unable any longer to face the truth of what he’d done or its consequences, he tried to kill himself. Despite your heroic attempt to save him, he succeeded. It was fortunate that he didn’t take you with him. I had no hand in any of it. That, Cordelia, is my story and nothing you choose to fabricate can disprove it.”

“Why should I want to fabricate? Why should I lie?”

“That’s what the police asked me. I had to reply that the imagination of young women is notoriously fertile and that you had, after all, been through an appalling experience. I added that you are the proprietress of a detective agency which—forgive me, I’m judging from externals—isn’t exactly prospering. You’d have to spend a fortune to get the kind of publicity that this case will bring you if it ever comes to trial.”

“Hardly the kind of publicity anyone would want. Failure.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too depressed about that. You showed admirable courage and intelligence. ‘Above the call of duty’ is how poor George Ralston would put it. I think that George will feel that he’s had value for money.”

He added: “If you persist in going on with this it will be my word against yours. Simon’s dead. Nothing can touch him further. It isn’t going to be comfortable for either of us.”

Did he think that she hadn’t thought of that, of the long months of waiting, the interrogations, the trauma of the trial, the speculative eyes, the verdict which could brand her as a liar, or worse, a publicity-crazed hysteric? She said: “I know. But then I’m not much used to comfort.”

So he was going to make a fight for it. Even as he watched her rescue last night he must have been planning, scheming, perfecting his lies. He would use every ounce of his skill, his reputation, his knowledge, his intelligence. He would hold onto
his private kingdom until his last breath. She glanced up at him, at the half smile, the calm, almost exultant confidence. Already he was rejoicing in the release from boredom, buoyant with the euphoria of success. He would buy the best advice, the most prestigious lawyers. But essentially it would be his fight and he wouldn’t yield an inch now or later.

And if he succeeded, how would he live with the memory of what he had done? Easily enough. As easily as Clarissa had lived with the memory of Viccy’s death, Sir George with his guilt over Carl Blythe. You didn’t need to believe in the sacrament of penance to find expedients for coping with guilt. She had hers; he would contrive his. And was it so very remarkable, what had happened to him? Somewhere, every minute of every day, a man or woman was suddenly faced with an overwhelming temptation. It had gone ill with Ambrose Gorringe. But what had he been able to draw upon at the core of his being which could give him the strength to resist? Perhaps if you opted out long enough from human concerns, from human life with all its messiness, you opted out also from human pity.