“I’ve heard he was a decent soul,” smiles Rowan, sensing that Vicky feels a warmth towards Derrick. “Good copper, by all accounts.”
“He had plenty stories to tell,” smiles Vicky. “He was frail, obviously, though that wasn’t unusual. He got cross when he couldn’t do things and he never got comfortable with being looked after, not really. He had terrible arthritis and he suffered terribly with pain in his joints. He’d fallen in love with the Lakes when he moved back up here and I know it hurt him that he couldn’t do much walking like he did when he was young. He always wanted the window open in his room. Loved it when the wind was properly blowing. He was somebody who liked the outside.”
“I’ve read the obituary,” says Rowan. “No children.”
Vicky shakes her head. “He was married once but that had long since broken down. No, I think his significant other was eve, though you wouldn’t have put them together. He was a charming so-and-so, very softly spoken, very thoughtful. He was clever too. He could barely hold a pen but I’d read him the clues from the crossword and he’d always know the answers. When he didn’t he’d insist I look them up. He couldn’t stand not knowing things. I’m just grateful there wasn’t too much suffering. When he went downhill it was quick.”
“Physically or mentally?” asks Rowan.
“Both,” says Vicky, softly. “It happens that way. He started having nightmares. It breaks your heart to see them like that, these old men who used to be, well… I suppose you’d use the word ‘formidable’. He’d been a copper and a private detective and he’d done a lot for a lot of people. Eve told me when she’d come to visit. I think she wanted me to know just who it was I was looking after.”
“The article about his death was a bit vague,” says Rowan, glancing back at Shipley. The other man is looking at him too, whispering in Daz’s ear. Rowan ignores them, focused on Vicky.
“Well, you can’t blame the care home, not really,” says Vicky, draining her glass and staring at the tabletop. “He might have been vulnerable but he wasn’t a prisoner. He’d picked Levens House because he’d always loved the outdoors and he’d always felt pretty confident taking a walk in the grounds. That was one of his pleasures in life.” She smiles at a memory and Rowan is surprised to see tears glisten in her eyes.
“I can see him now. He was always so smart, right to the end. Even when he was losing his way, when he couldn’t remember things properly, when his eyesight was going – even then he wanted a daily shave and wore a suit and tie. He’d never let me do his hair. That was one of his pleasures. He only had a few strands left on top by the end but he would slick it back with a metal knit-comb and a blob of Brylcreme. You could tell he’d been handsome once. Like I say, him and Eve weren’t a neat match but you could see what they meant to each other. She’d visit every day. Read to him. Sit out in the grounds, even when it was raining. I sometimes think she asked me to clean for her just to keep that connection after he was gone. She still likes me to talk about him when I can – anything I remember, any daft joke he might have told. She misses him. Maybe that’s why she gave you short shrift.”
Rowan stays silent, flicking his eyes back towards the two half-drunk men. Daz jerks his head, his chin jutting out. “Help you?” he shouts, and it’s a challenge. “I can take a picture for you if you like.”
Rowan sighs, ignoring him. Vicky begins to turn around but Rowan shakes his head. He wants to hear more. Doesn’t want her to get distracted.
“You don’t work there now,” says Rowan, making sure he looks her in the eye. “You could tell me about the way he died and it wouldn’t be a betrayal of confidence. And I’m very good at protecting my sources.”
“I’m sure you are,” smiles Vicky, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She looks tired suddenly, as if the drink and the conversation has exhausted her. She stretches, hugely, something cracking in her shoulders.
“There was a suggestion of suicide in the article I read,” says Rowan, cautiously. “An open verdict, but I can read between the lines.”
Vicky presses her lips together, shaking her head. “It was ugly. He didn’t deserve that. I didn’t know he had that kind of hate in him.”
“Hate? Who did he hate?”
“Himself,” says Vicky, sadly. “You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t, would you? I mean, I’ve had couples take overdoses in the past so they could die together. One pair, they’d been together 60 plus years. Dressed themselves in their best clothes and took a month’s worth of their heart pills. Fell asleep holding one another’s hands, staring out the window at the sea. Not a bad way to go. Better than Derrick.”
“I don’t want to bring up bad memories,” says Rowan, aware he is lying. That’s exactly what he wants to bring up.
“It wasn’t me that found him, thank God. I think that would have done me in. Poor Radka – she’s one of the Polish ladies… well, she got such a scare. It was a week before she stopped shaking. It wasn’t unusual, him going for a walk after the evening meal. That was still a pleasure for him and it didn’t matter a jot if it was raining or hailing or if it was waist-deep in snow. He’d take a shuffle around the grounds. You could always tell where he’d been from the pipe smoke. He’d leave a grey trail hanging in the air. I can still smell it after all these years. It’s a nice smell. I fill up when I think of it.”
“What happened, Vicky?” he asks, tenderly.
She looks past him, staring deep into a memory. “It was suffocation,” she says, closing her eyes. “The thing on his face almost smothered him and he’d taken a handful of pills just to make sure. His notes were almost illegible but he was saying goodbye. I think the coroner would have said it was undoubtedly suicide but Derrick’s mind had gone a bit and I still don’t know if he really intended to end it. I hate to think of how much he must have kept to himself. If I’d known the nightmares were getting so bad I could have done something, but he was one of those old-school men. You’d find his bed wet through, his pyjamas soaked, but he wouldn’t admit to fear. I think it got to him in the end.”
“The thing on his face,” repeats Rowan. “Can you tell me?”
Vicky’s cheerful mood has disappeared along with the last of the ale. Rowan pushes his half-full glass towards her but she ignores it. She winces as she talks.
“It was a mask,” she says, her lips sticking together as the whispered words rush out. “Radka thought she’d found a monster. She’d done her 10.30 check and his bed was empty. It was an awful night and she thought she should go and check he was okay. She had no doubt she’d find him out in the grounds at one of his usual spots, puffing on his pipe like a steam train. It took her half an hour to find him. There’s a chapel in the grounds, you see. Levens House used to be a private residence. It’s a lovely old building, with a little brick church set in a square of wood. We’d have the odd service there, on warm days, but it was always too drafty to use regularly. As far as I was aware it was locked when it wasn’t in use but one of the maintenance staff must have forgotten to turn the key properly because Derrick got in without a struggle and his hands were little more than claws by the end. You should have seen how he struggled with his matches trying to light his pipe. He was determined, I’ll give him that.”
“The mask,” nudges Rowan. “What did Radka see.”
“It was like something you’d buy in a joke shop,” says Vicky, frowning at the ugliness of it. “A pig mask. This horrible pink thing that he’d pulled right over his head. It was so realistic – the snout all wrinkled like it had been pushed in and slits for the eye-holes. He tied it tight around his neck. Used one of his ties. Just sat there in the cold and the dark and breathed the last of the air. Best clothes and a pig mask. Like I say, Radka hasn’t been right since.”