The lock on the front door was an old Yale, easy to pick. I had it open inside a minute and stepped into the hallway. The house had a cloying, moist, musty smell indicating rising damp. If the vendors had put a high price on it, buyers would have been deterred by the smell. I went into the first room on the left. The street rose sharply beyond my place. From the front window of this house, which was set up on high foundations, the view back to my gate and the side of my house was clear. The room was devoid of furniture, but an old bentwood chair had been placed by the window. Two of the panes had been cleaned. Two styrofoam coffee cups sat on the dusty boards beside the chair. My respect for Claudia Vardon went up a few more notches.
I went back, half hoping that shed be there, standing in the doorway or sitting in a chair in the living room. She wasnt, of course. I washed the glasses, plates and frying pan and made some coffee. I sat and played the tape through but learned nothing new from it. Great voice, I found myself thinking uselessly.
It wasnt late and I wasnt tired. I went for a walk about the block and strolled down to the water below the big apartment complex at the end of the street. The grass had recently been cut and the fresh-mown smell was strong and pleasant as I sucked in deep breaths and did a mental review of the whole Ramona Beckett matter. The lights of the city skyline shone in the still water like a distorted duplicate of the real thing. The more I thought about the case the more it seemed that we hadnt been grappling with reality but with some kind of shadow or mirage. Suddenly, I was tired, mentally and physically, and I tossed a couple of stones into the water to break up the image and went home.
The light on the answering machine was blinking. I hit the play button, knowing for certain whose voice it would be.
Smart work, Cliff, she said. I knew you were the right man for the job. See you tomorrow.
23
Mrs Horsfields voice was still the same soothing instrument when she answered the phone at ten oclock the following day. Good morning, Mr Hardy, she intoned. I was told to expect a call from you.
That was encouraging so I thought Id take a punt. Would you mind telling me how long youve worked for Mr Cavendish, Mrs Horsfield?
Not at all. More than twenty years.
In that time I suppose there would have been a good many associates, paralegals, secretaries and so on in the office.
Certainly.
Do you recall a woman named Claudia? A qualified solicitor?
No.
Youre sure?
Im quite sure. Mr Cavendish has never employed females in responsible positions other than myself.
Couldnt make it any more plain than that. I thanked her and waited to be put through to Wally the sexist. When he came on the line he sounded tired and worn, half the man he used to be.
Hardy, he said, as if even that was an effort.
You dont sound well, Mr Cavendish. But then I expect youre in better condition than Colin Sligo.
No response.
You do know Sligo, dont you?
You know perfectly well I do.
Hes dying of cancer. He saw no reason not to tell me everything I wanted to know.
Ah, I see. Yes, that makes some kind of sense.
Have you been in touch with Sean Beckett recently?
I have no intention of submitting to any interrogation by you. Certainly not at this time.
That appeared to leave the door wide open so I took the step. I want to arrange a meeting
His sigh came down the line like a gust of dry wind. For tonight at nine oclock at Wollstonecraft with Mrs Beckett and other parties whose identities I havent been given. Ive had my instructions. Its all arranged.
Instructions? Who from?
From whom? From Mrs Beckett, naturally. He hung up.
Trouble at the ranch, I thought. Mrs Beckett now, not Gabriella. I wandered around the house in track pants, T-shirt and sneakers for a few minutes mulling this over. It had rained during the night and I went out onto the balcony off my bedroom to see if some fresh-washed air would help the thinking process. My thinking changed course abruptly when I saw the red 4WD with the silver mudflaps turn into the lane that runs off my. street. I knew from my years of walking around the area that you could get a clear view of the back and front of my house from a point along that lane. I also knew where Id seen that vehicle, or one like it, beforein Wollstonecraft, being exited by a man with an aluminium baseball bat in his hand.
I took my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson from its holster in the hall cupboard, checked it over and wrapped it in a plastic shopping bag so that I could carry it in my hand, ready to fire, but not alarm the neighbours. I went out the back door, hunched down behind my neighbours overgrown rubber tree and kicked out three palings in the fence. I went through the gap and across his yard. I couldnt be seen from the high point of the lane there, and the neighbours back gate was never locked. I went through it and was now in a position to work through the streets and come out above where the Pajero would be parked if watching my place was his game.
It was there, bullbars, silver mudflaps and all. The driver was standing in front of the vehicle, shading his eyes and looking down towards my house. I had no doubt it was the same guysame height, same compact build. I hugged the fence, stayed in the shadows and came up behind him, dead quiet in sneakers on the bitumen. When I got closer I could see that his jaw was in constant movement as he chewed. I was beside the Pajero now and sneaked a glance inside. Cigarettes, a lighter and a mobile phone on the seat, no baseball bat. I was almost disappointed. I reached in, took the lighter and lobbed it over his head.
He froze just long enough as it landed and took just long enough turning for me to get around the hood of the car and slam the barrel of the. 38 onto the bridge of his nose. He screamed. The bone gave and the front sight dug into his cheek just below his eye. Blood flowed from the nose and the cheek and he threw his hands up to his face. The chewing gum flew from his mouth. I backed off a step, hoping thered be some fight in him. After all, he wasnt to know that what Id hit him with was a gun. He recovered quickly and came at me, but his eyes were full of tears and he had no judgment of distance. I let him get within punching reach before I stepped aside and hit him again, this time catching him along the side of the jaw. The skin split along the bone. I kicked his left knee inwards and he went down, banging his battered head against the side of the car.
I took the plastic from the gun, crouched down next to him and put the barrel in the hollow just below his prominent Adams apple. His face was a mask of blood. Hed bitten his tongue and blood was seeping from his mouth along with the scent of Juicy Fruit.
Where is she? I said.
Youve taken my fucking eye out.
No, its all right. A couple of stitches and youll be good as new. Same as me with my ear. Where is she?
Who?
Dont be brave, mate. Dont be brave.
You wouldnt shoot me.
Right. I wouldnt, seeing as how Ive got you down like this. Im not licensed to carry the gun at the moment and I wouldnt want to get in that sort of trouble. But Id be happy to break your arm.
Bullshit.
Its easier to do than youd think, especially if youre quick. I was crouched and balanced, he was sprawled and had no leverage. I dropped the gun so that it landed heavily in his crotch. He yelped. I picked up his limp left arm and snapped it across my knee midway between the wrist and elbow. He opened his mouth to yell and I filled it with the blood-streaked plastic carry bag. I held it there until he was gasping for breath.