Verdict Unsafe (26 page)

She had been waiting about five minutes when she saw Drummond approach; the number of that bike was one that she had firmly committed to her less than reliable memory. He drove past; she checked her watch. Five to nine. Oh, well, she might as well be hung for a sheep and all that. She wanted to know where Drummond was going, in view of his unfinished business. She did a three-point turn, which surprised her with its efficiency; she wasn’t the world’s greatest maneuverer of a car. A car that obeyed her was a plus. She followed his rear light through the cobbled streets, the traffic moving slowly as people made their way to the bonfire, stepping out into the road with no regard for safety. And as the flames of the bonfire lit the black shiny surface of his bike, Drummond rode across the rough ground, behind the crowds of people, heading toward the underpass.

Judy couldn’t follow in the car; she ran down the window and watched Drummond as he arrived at the underpass and dismounted, hoisting the bike onto its stand. He removed his helmet, and walked down the ramp. She parked as soon as she
found a space, and jumped out. He had a three-minute start on her, but she might as well see if she could find out where he was going. She walked quickly through the onlookers, feeling the heat from the huge crackling fire as she passed, seeing the Guy Fawkes perched on top begin to catch, smelling the onions from the hot dogs. She was hungry; she was supposed to be having dinner.

But if, as she suspected, she had lost Drummond, she might just come back and have a hot dog and watch the real fireworks, rather than go back to Lloyd’s emotional ones. The music began, and a
whoosh
of flame rose and burst, raining color against the black sky as she reached the underpass. The firework display had begun.

Her lip swelling, blood pouring down her face, down her neck, soaking into Lennie’s sweater, Ginny had cowered into the corner of a buttress, trying to make herself invisible; the footsteps had passed, and with the relief, she had felt herself drift away.

Now her head was swimming, her eyes were throbbing, and there was a dull ache down the side of her face. She closed her eyes; it hurt too much to keep them open. There was a lot of noise. Bangs and cracks, and something that sounded like a machine gun. Music. More bangs and sizzles. She screamed as someone touched her, covering her head to shield it from further blows. But the hands were gentle, the voice female.

“Ginny?” An arm was around her shoulders. “Oh, my God, Ginny—What’s happened to you?”

She looked up, but she couldn’t see very well. Her eyes hurt, and anyway it was growing very dark …

She opened her eyes again. Her eyes still hurt, and the left one wouldn’t open. She was lying on her side, her face on the damp paving, her legs drawn up.

“Ginny—just lie still till you feel better.”

It was Inspector Hill. She was feeling her pulse, moving her hands over her ribs, moving her arms and legs.

“I’m all right,” Ginny said.

“You’re not. I’ve got to get you to casualty, Ginny. Do you think you can get up?”

She didn’t want to get up. Why did she always have to get up first? Couldn’t someone bring her a cup of tea in bed sometimes?

A voice from very far away. “Ginny—don’t think there’s anything broken. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t move.”

She’d gone. Good. Ginny wanted to go back to sleep …

She opened her eyes again, and she was sick. She sat up, her back against the wall, and closed her throbbing eyes. She heard more footsteps, and opened them again. Inspector Hill crouched down beside her.

“Good girl. How do you feel?”

“Terrible. Sick.”

“Do you still feel faint?”

“No.”

“Do you think you can get to the car? I’ve brought it right to the underpass.”

She was being lifted up. Not like Lennie lifted her up, not swept up into someone’s arms. Just lifted, the inspector’s hands under her armpits, like you lifted a baby.

“Ginny, if you lean on me, can you walk a few steps to the car?”

Oh, yes. She walked two, three, four steps, and they were out where the fireworks were louder and brighter, hurting her head, going up the ramp toward a car. She was lowered down into the car seat, her arms slipping away from the inspector, who tipped the seat back gently.

It was better, once Inspector Hill had closed the door, and the noise had gone. But her face hurt.

Matt wrestled with the nonsnarl hose of the air pipe, which had somehow tied itself into a reef knot, and persuaded it to stretch to the other side of his car, where he checked the tire pressure.

He went through his mental list of what he still had to do. Oil. Water. Antifreeze. Windscreen washer. What else were you supposed to check when you were going on a long trip? Lights.

It would save time tomorrow, because he would have to fit in sleeping at some point before he set out, if he didn’t want to end up a statistic.

*   *   *

Bangs and flashes were all around him; the smoke from someone’s bonfire drifted across Rob’s line of vision as he crouched down below the level of the bush that spilled over the unfenced frontage of the garden onto the pathway. He watched as a youthful policeman crossed the road and walked along the side of the house toward the people around the bonfire.

Kids were gathered around, their parents shouting warnings about not getting too close. Dad was getting ready to light some goodie that had cost the earth and would rise and burst into life and die in seconds.
Daddy, Daddy, can we go in the garden and play with explosive devices and naked flames? Of course, dearest
.

The noise, the smell, the flames … They didn’t seem like fun to Rob. They seemed like a particularly bad night in Belfast, when he had watched as a car bomb had gone up. They had had a warning of a bomb; they had evacuated the area. He hadn’t been hurt; no one had.

But it was the first time Rob had seen a Semtex explosion in the flesh. TV gave you a miniature of it. You saw a street, a car. You saw a flash. You heard a dull thud and saw the camera shake. When the picture cleared, you saw smoke and buildings without glass.

You couldn’t feel the breathless instant between seeing the flash and hearing the explosion; you didn’t feel the air shake and the earth vibrate with the blast. You were given no conception of what it was like to see a complete and sturdy car there one minute, and its tangled innards the next; the twisted metal that fell from the sky, the shattered glass that sprayed into the air like lethal, lacerating champagne. You couldn’t smell the air afterward. But November the fifth was full of similar sights and sounds and smells; playing with fire seemed an odd way to Rob to want to spend your leisure time.

The policeman was in conversation with the man; he pointed toward the house across the road. Rob took his chance when he turned away again, and stood up, strolling to the cab. He was unlocking the door when the policeman thanked the
neighbors and walked back down the path, crossing the road toward him.

“Excuse me!”

Rob turned from the cab.

“Can you tell me when you parked here, sir?”

“About twenty to nine, I think,” Rob said. “About half an hour ago or so.”

“Did you see anyone around here? Hanging about—showing an interest in this house, maybe?”

He pointed to the house again.

“No,” said Rob. “Sorry.”

“Well, thanks anyway.”

Rob got into the cab and rolled down the window, watching as the man across the road lit the blue touch paper and took long, backward strides to where his children stood.

A jet of flame shot down and the rocket took off, soaring up through the air with a piercing whistle before its short, violent life ended with a bang.

Lennie backed the Transit out of the alleyway. A constant stream of people were walking past, on their way to the bonfire. There were dozens of ways to get to the sodding bonfire— couldn’t they take a different one from this?

A flashing blue light caught his eye, and he held his breath as he heard the siren. A fire engine, going the same way as the crowds. Perhaps they could give some of these people a lift. A police car, too. Oh, no, groaned Lennie. No more cops. Please, no more cops.

He drove the Transit back into the alley, as close to the door as he could get.

Case had remained seated throughout Lloyd’s off-the-cuff analysis of his character, his motives, his competence, his politics, and, for good measure, his honesty, credibility, and integrity.

Lloyd, breathless, and perhaps beginning already to reflect on what he had said, as he did when he thus castigated Judy, fell silent. But his blue eyes still shone with anger, and there
was no guilt attached to this reflection. He was reflecting that, unlike Judy, Case had not got up and left before the tirade had become wounding. And—also unlike Judy—Case did not appear to have been wounded. So it had been a bit of a waste of breath, really. If Judy failed to leave in time, something would hit home, something would really hurt her. And he would have a moment’s satisfaction, and feel guilty for weeks. But this had been like trying to land a telling punch on a man in full medieval armor.

“Chief Inspector Lloyd,” said Case. “You are aware that I could have you up on at least three if not four different disciplinary charges?”

“You can do as you please,” said Lloyd. “I have to work with you, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like you, or respect you or your judgment. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I have to listen to you speak of a friend of mine in insulting and abusive terms.”

“A friend of yours? That’s a very coy way of putting it.”

“There’s nothing coy about it. Judy Hill is a friend of mine. A trusted friend, whom I will continue to trust, regardless of this great favor you have done me.”

Case shook his head. “Then you’re a fool.”

Lloyd sat down. “You might be right that Drummond was someone else’s fall guy,” he said. “You might be right that the Malworth Mafia is trying to cover it up. But I think there’s something your jungle drums have failed to communicate to you. I’ve known Judy Hill for twenty years.”

“Then I’m sorry,” Case said. “I thought your relationship was of more recent origin. But I strongly advise you to put an end to it. Look—I don’t doubt that she sincerely believed Drummond was the rapist. I don’t doubt that you had got your murderer, and just needed the proof. I can see how tempting it would be to use one of the bastards to nail the other. But good cause or no, corruption is still corruption in my book.”

“And in mine.”

“Not from where I’m sitting. You’re standing too close to it.”

“I’ll offer you a wager,” said Lloyd.

Case’s eyebrows rose.

“My flat, my car, my bank balance, to a penny piece—when we get to the bottom of this, Judy Hill will be proved to have had no part in any of Malworth’s shenanigans.”

Case smiled. “I’ve never been much of a one for women,” he; said. “Never felt the urge, really. A confirmed bachelor. And when I see someone who has got it as bad as you, I’m glad.”

“It’s a serious bet,” said Lloyd. “Are you taking it?”

The phone rang, and Case picked it up. “Case. Yes, he’s here.”

Lloyd waited to be handed the phone, but Case continued to hold on to it, listening without speaking. “He’s on his way,” he said, eventually, and replaced the receiver. “That: was Inspector Bell,” he said. “His men had to go chasing after an anonymous nine-double-nine. Caller didn’t speak, but didn’t hang up. The emergency operator recognized Handel’s
Fireworks
music, reckoned the phone must be at the Malworth bonfire, sent a fire engine, and informed us. We found Colin Drummond’s body in the Parkside underpass.”

Lloyd stood up. He was disconcerted to find that his first reaction to this second murder—his very first reaction—had been relief. His second was that if Case always took that long to send officers to a murder, the bodies must often be moldering by the time they got to them. He went to the door, and was called back.

“Oh—and Lloyd.”

Lloyd turned. “Sir?” he said. Unofficially he could call him a bigoted, deluded incompetent. Officially, now and then, he would call him sir. It might be nice to hang on to his job.

“That bet?” he said. “You’re on.”

CAROLE’S HANDS WERE STILL SHAKING AS SHE GOT back in, put on the television, and the kettle.

Twenty-five minutes to ten. One hour and ten minutes ago she had left the house, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. She had done the hardest thing she had ever had to do in order to do what she must do. And she had done it. She had done it.

So why didn’t she feel different? Why didn’t she feel free? Why did it feel as though nothing at all had changed?

Surely, surely, it was over
now
.

The firework display was taking a breather before its finale; pop music had replaced Handel for the moment, the fire was blazing, and the vendors were vending.

Lloyd had tried to ring Judy, to explain why he wasn’t there, and that they had yet another inquiry from which she would doubtless find herself barred, but she hadn’t been there. She had probably got tired of waiting for him, and had gone to visit some friend he knew nothing about, he had thought, irritated with her again. It was as if she were deliberately avoiding him.

He picked his way through spent rockets and Catherine wheels, breathing in wood smoke, sulphur, and potassium nitrate, a quite pleasing combination, oddly enough. The break in the program had come at exactly the right time; Lloyd had heard his voice echo around the entire area when he had appealed for witnesses over the PA system. He could get used to that—maybe he would be a DJ on local radio when he retired.

The ones who thought they might have seen something of
interest were being interviewed in the church; Roman Catholic, of course. No way that C of E adherents would have kept their church going in an area like this. Tom Finch was over there now, sorting the wheat from the chaff, appropriately enough.

They had so far found five cartridges in the underpass, from a semiautomatic pistol of some sort, but no pistol. They would be searching the park tomorrow.