George Grey began to cry. Leather jacket manoeuvred himself so that, should the landlord be watching still, his view would be at least partially obstructed. Then he again put an arm around one of George’s shoulders. But it was not the caring sympathetic gesture which he hoped it would be taken for, if anyone noticed. Instead he dug hard fingers into George’s flesh and hissed threateningly into his ear.
‘Pull yourself together, George,’ he said. ‘If anybody gets it in the neck for this it’s going to be you, like you said. If you keep your cool everything will be all right.’
‘I don’t see how, I’m a murderer now, aren’t I? And it wasn’t my fault. I walked out of hospital, too. I’m not sure I should have done that. Perhaps I should go to the police and explain. Tell them what happened. Tell them I didn’t mean it.’
‘Now, George, you don’t want to do anything stupid, do you,’ murmured leather jacket.
George continued to snivel. The man in the leather jacket glanced around the pub. There were several other drinkers propping up the bar, who seemed to be keeping the landlord busy. And they were all watching a football match on TV.
‘Look, George, I want to help you,’ he said, sounding suddenly encouraging, perhaps even caring. ‘Why don’t you have another drink — it will calm your nerves.’
He pushed his own whisky, which had stood untouched before him, along the table towards George.
‘We need to perk you up,’ leather jacket continued. ‘I bet you’ve not eaten anything since you left the hospital, have you?’
George shook his head, as he reached out for the proffered whisky. It was his third in the pub, on top of the two he had consumed earlier on the train, and then there were the painkillers.
‘Well, you should come back with me then. I’ll feed you. And you need to get some rest, too. You can stay the night. And if you’re still feeling rough, I’ve a tame doctor I could get over.’
George was beginning to feel very light headed indeed, but he hadn’t forgotten the principal purpose of his journey to London.
‘I want my money,’ he said. ‘Then I can get away. You said you would arrange that, if it came to it, and it has come to it. The police are after me for murder, for God’s sake. I can’t think of anything else to do. I need you to help me get away.’
‘Of course,’ said leather jacket soothingly. ‘Of course, I will help you.’
George looked relieved. ‘As long as you don’t let me down,’ he said,
‘I won’t, I promise you I won’t.’
‘All right, I believe you, but I want my money,’ said George.
‘Not here,’ said leather jacket. ‘I can’t pass that amount of cash over to you here. I haven’t even brought it with me. Come back with me, and I’ll give it you. In cash. Straight away. Then we can plan what you are going to do next, you and Janice, of course.’
George sighed heavily, but he no longer had the strength to argue. In any case, this was an argument he clearly could not win. If leather jacket didn’t have the cash with him, then George had to do what he said to get it. And neither did he have a hope of evading the forces of law and order without the assistance of the man he held responsible for the trouble he was in. It was Catch-22.
‘I can’t walk far,’ said George. ‘You must be able to see that. I’ve pretty much had it.’
‘It’s not far. You know that. Just a few steps. I’ll get you another drink first. Do you good.’
George swallowed the rest of his third double, and accepted the fourth. He had hoped the whisky might make him feel better. But, like so much in his life, he hadn’t thought it through at all. He felt worse than before. Considerably worse. His head was spinning uncontrollably.
He tried to stand up, but couldn’t quite make it.
‘You’re going to have to help me,’ he said.
Leather jacket glanced back at the bar again. This time he couldn’t see the landlord at all. He stood up quickly and more or less lifted George out of his seat.
‘I should never have left hoshpital,’ muttered George, who had begun to seriously slur his words. ‘Too shoon. I feel bad, real bad.’
‘C’mon George, you can do it,’ responded leather jacket, as he wrapped an arm around George’s middle and half carried him out of the pub into the shadows of Catherine Wheel Road.
It was dark by then and there seemed to be nobody else around in the quiet cul de sac, off Brentford High Street, which led only to the Grand Union Canal, and on to the River Thames, via a network of paths and footbridges.
Nine
In the morning, it seemed Saslow was so anxious not to be late that she actually arrived at Vogel’s house ten minutes early. Nonetheless, by the time Vogel and Saslow reached Taunton the local commuters were making their way to work in droves, and they hit heavy motorway traffic. But by and large they had a pretty good run and arrived at the Kivels’ cottage, several miles closer than Blackdown Manor, at just gone quarter past eight.
Moorview Cottage was one of a pair tucked away at the foot of Sampford Moor just out of sight of the motorway. You could hear the steady hum of the M5, though, Vogel noticed as he stepped out of the car, but only just. The place still seemed very peaceful.
It was a cool morning, yet the sun shone brightly. In stark contrast to the previous day.
The cottage was tiny, but very pretty, the render freshly painted cream and the woodwork pale blue, the front garden neat and tidy.
Vogel suspected there would be a bigger garden at the back which would almost certainly contain a vegetable patch, and perhaps a chicken run in one corner. Vogel remained a city boy who had little interest in rural life, but as a committed vegetarian he did fantasise about the joys of growing his own vegetables; as long as he didn’t have to do any digging, planting, or any of the other — to him totally mysterious — tasks that would presumably be necessary. He also liked the idea of being able to walk on to his own patch of land and gather free range eggs, but the thought of having to look after hens, feed them, clean up after them, and perhaps even touch them on occasions, appalled him.
Jack Kivel answered the door, smiling in welcome. He was of average height, but broad shouldered and fit looking, and with a decent head of dark brown hair; barely any grey to be seen in spite of almost certainly being nearer to sixty than fifty. And Vogel didn’t think for one moment that he had been using colour.
He introduced himself and Saslow.
Kivel nodded by way of response. ‘Happy to help any way we can,’ he said. ‘Dreadful business. Sir John dead. That beautiful house gone. And there surely can’t be a worse way to die than in a fire.’
He shook his head sorrowfully as he led Vogel and Saslow into a glowingly warm and unexpectedly spacious kitchen. It had a low-beamed ceiling, a flag-stoned floor, and a window almost right along the back wall with a wide ledge which doubled as a seat. Vogel’s Mary would have said it was her idea of a storybook country kitchen. An Aga took pride of place. Martha Kivel was bending over it, attending to the open oven. She stood up and pushed the door shut.
‘There’s a tray of bacon in there,’ she said almost by way of greeting. ‘It’ll be ready in five minutes. Bacon baps, I thought. Nice and quick, and you can take one with you if you like. I know you people, always in a hurry.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Saslow, with genuine enthusiasm, shooting a glance at the strictly vegetarian Vogel.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Kivel,’ said Vogel quickly. ‘But I had breakfast before I left home.’
‘You’m an early riser, then,’ remarked Martha Kivel approvingly. She stepped forward towards the two officers, stretching out her right hand.