Stone Cold Dead Page 12

  And as I thought this, the steady bend revealed just such a craft. It did, too, seem smart enough to be almost new, such as drug traffickers might well be able to afford.

  Developing this theme in my mind, I strode towards it. It was not alone, I saw. Beyond it were three or four other craft, though looking rather scruffy in comparison to the lead boat, which was clean, bright with its yellow/gold and black main hull, red and orange for its cabin. Smart, even with lace curtains to its windows and a pot of what had been flowering plants on the cabin roof, and indeed it was being lived-in, because one of the mahogany-framed glass doors, which opened from the cabin on to the prow, was a foot ajar. The vessel was firmly tied, fore and aft, to two iron bollards.

  Just in case somebody had seen me, I made a friendly gesture in its general direction, but all that attracted was a young brown and white cocker spaniel, which darted out of the door, barked a couple of times, darted back, then burst out to add another couple of barks.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said to him. ‘I’m not going to touch anything.’

  He was still barking as I walked on.

  The next four boats were very nearly wrecks, each tied to a bollard, but I couldn’t imagine them going anywhere unless it was to the bottom. The last of the run was a very fast-looking motor cruiser, which wouldn’t be allowed to use its speed on the canal. It was firmly cocooned in stretched canvas.

  I marched onwards, paused to get my pipe going, and with shoulders back lost myself in the peace of it. And I completely forgot that I was bang in the middle of what looked like a murder. Murder. Violence. How alien that was to these surroundings!

  On exactly the half hour, by my watch, I reached the concrete ramp, marched up it, and was abruptly thrust into the same old rush of traffic. I had encountered three more locks on the way, but simple, single-rise ones. Turn right, Colin had said. At least I wouldn’t have to cross the road. Crayminster, it was called. It was half-way between being a village and upgrading to a town. Very soon I came to what might have been their market square. It was still cobbled, but no shoppers could stand there for a prolonged or even a brief natter, as the traffic used it as a slight widening of the roadway, where a quick and horrifying overtake might be accomplished. Second to the right, Colin had said. Here was the first. A quick look along it revealed a cobbled surface again, but this was strictly pedestrians only. Motorcycles might have got through. Prams might encounter difficulties. Anything much wider would get stuck.

  I turned away, preparing to head straight to Fenton’s, and a police patrol car drifted to a halt at my elbow, its horn giving a short, warning pip. I paused, glancing at it. Ray was driving it, and he was alone. He grinned, unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out, walking round the car to confront me. He was in uniform.

  ‘Mr Patton...You shopping or something?’

  ‘Shopping, yes. And I’d prefer Richard. I’m just hoping to find something to replace my ruined anorak.’

  ‘It’s Fenton’s you want for that. You’re nearly there.’

  ‘I know. I’ve had full instructions,’ I assured him. ‘And you...I thought you’d got time off.’

  He shrugged, grimacing. ‘Got caught, didn’t I! I just dropped into the station to make out a report. You know...about Clare’s death, and what I know. Keep it official, I thought, do it by the book.’

  ‘That’s always the best course,’ I said. ‘But there’s not much you can say, is there? In this report of yours, I mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well no. What else would I be thinking about at that time but the engagement and what-not! Good Lord—did you see how Mellie’s dad was rigged out? He doesn’t live in this century.’

  I smiled at him. He wasn’t qualified to criticize, he turning up in his uniform. ‘And now?’ I asked. ‘Where’re you off to now?’

  ‘Hell. You know how it is. Put your nose in, and suddenly you’re back on duty. The super’s car’s broken down, way out in the wilds, Crofton Magna way, so I’m going to pick him up and bring him home to his office. I’ll make it a fast run, and...well, tell Mellie, will you. I’ll be along.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ I watched him get back in the car, and drive away, and there it was, Fenton’s. Exactly where Colin had said.

  Although it occupied window space in both streets, the narrow doorway in the corner was squeezed even more narrow by the displayed, hanging garments that almost filled the space. Trousers—corduroy and thick tweed.

  Leather coats. Leggings. Sturdy, heavy boots. I edged through and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled above my head, as it had probably tinkled for over a century.

  There was a smell of leather, of damp tweed and dry rot. The ceiling was festooned with hairy garments, hacking jackets, fawn waistcoats, waterproof trousers, rubber boots that would reach your waist. For fishermen, these.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The crumpled old man was leaning forward over what was visible of his counter between a display of riding breeches and one of leather jackets. I ducked my head, and approached.

  ‘I would like,’ I said, ‘an anorak, preferably with a detachable hood.’

  By that time I didn’t fancy my chances. Anything not to be worn for riding horses, or fetching in and milking the cows, or wandering the hills in pouring rain or a foot of snow, searching for sheep, was not likely to be there. He smiled. The rubicund face cracked open. ‘Your size, sir...um...ah...tricky.’ Then, by some magic related to a stage illusion, he disappeared, and as abruptly appeared at my elbow.

  ‘Something like this, sir?’

  He was holding up a coat that I would not have called an anorak. But as that fellow said—what’s in a name? It was in a fabric I had not previously encountered, looked a little like tarnished steel armour, and was indisputably, as he put it, ‘Completely waterproof, sir.’

  ‘It looks as though it would be,’ I conceded.

  ‘Shall we try it on, sir?’

  We tried it on. By some miracle, or from his experience of heaven knows how many years, it did fit. It was a little longer than what I usually wore, even than my warmest overcoat. ‘That’s to stop the rain dripping into your gumboots, sir.’

  ‘I don’t usually wear gumboots.’

  ‘I could find you a pair. Just your size, sir.’

  ‘No, no. Has it got a hood?’

  ‘Oh yes. Detachable. There.’

  He swept it over my head. It was a little large, but...‘It is usually worn over a woolly hat, sir.’ This, not entirely to my surprise, he produced with the air of a magician, clamped it over my head, and...surprise...surprise. The hood now fitted perfectly. He then demonstrated the locations of the seven commodious pockets, and pointed out that the padded lining was detachable.

  I was quite convinced by this time that it was completely waterproof and possibly bulletproof, realized that it was very warm, as I was sweating, and knew that if I asked to see whatever else he had I would not get back in the two hours. I asked how much it was. I didn’t have that much cash with me. Tentatively, because he probably still thought in pounds, shillings and pence, even sovereigns, I asked if he could accept my credit card.

  ‘Of course, sir. And if you’ll take it off, I’ll pack it—’

  ‘No, no. I’ll wear it. But pop the duffle coat in a bag for me, would you?’

  And so I set forth to walk back. It creaked and it groaned as I moved. He’d said that would wear off, and had sold me a can of something with which I could spray it. ‘It must breathe, sir. Breathe.’

  By the time I got back to the tow-path, sweat was pouring from me. It was a relief to return to canal level, and bask in its rising chill.

  I now had three quarters of an hour left. I felt I didn’t need to hurry. With the new coat, mackintosh, whatever he would call it—certainly not an anorak—I prayed for rain. The sun shone in a clear sky. The creaking ceased. The material began to feel soft. I had to throw back the hood, just to cool my head, and forgot the woolly hat was still there. Thus, head dow
n because I didn’t want to see how far I still had to go, I plodded onwards. The sight of the row of boats was extremely welcome. I’d sweated off at least half a stone.

  He was still there, that spaniel, and once more bounced from the partly open door. That was strange, now I came to think about it, that a steel hull, which was bound to be very cold in this water, should not have been closed up against any possible incursion of cold air. He barked at me two or three times, forepaws on the prow, but when I reached over to fondle his ears he ducked back, ran off inside, bounced out again for two or three more barks, then nipped back inside.

  I waited. His head appeared. One yap.

  I recognized this canine behaviour, having encountered it with our two boxers at home when they had something to show me, an otter or something like that. They’re now getting rare in the Severn.

  ‘Hello!’ I shouted. ‘Anybody at home?’

  There was no reply.

  The spaniel popped out again, with the same number of yaps. I stepped over on to the prow. There was barely foot room to stand straight.

  ‘Anybody home?’

  Silence. The dog went frantic. I opened the second of the pair of doors, and bent low. The head clearance was very little. A steep step or two down, then I could straighten. Just.

  ‘Oh...Good Lord!’

  This forward cabin had a bunk bed each side of the narrow walkway down the middle. Beyond was the kitchen, a compact area. One of the bunk beds had blankets—had held blankets, but they had been flung aside. The dog tramped over them, whining.

  A woman lay on the bunk, barely covered, a young woman whose bruised eyes were wide, staring out above shrunken cheeks. She was wearing what looked like a crumpled and sweatsoaked T-shirt, and jeans. Her face was drawn thin, cheeks flaring hot and red, sweat on her brow. She moaned something, and moved one hand. I stepped over the dog. The hand was clammy. I bent low to her. My mind was running through possibilities. An overdose of whatever obscene drug she’d been using? Her lips moved, her eyes flicked wildly around, as though seeking for something.

  I put the back of my hand to her forehead. Brown, tangled hair was soaked with sweat. Her flesh was burning. One eye was nearly closed, and there was a bruise on her other cheek. Her lips were moving, swollen lips, so I bent low, feeling the radiated heat on my own cheek. Her breathing was harsh and laboured.

  ‘Den,’ she whispered. ‘Denny.’

  I didn’t know what that meant. Where had I heard that name? ‘Den...’ She couldn’t complete it, and writhed her head in frustration on the roll of towel that was her pillow. Her lips drew back, horribly revealing two teeth missing from her upper gums.

  ‘I’m going to get help,’ I said quickly, to save her more effort. ‘Help for you.’

  She fought to reach my wrist. The grip was almost painfully hot—but she was shivering. I allowed her to draw me down, and she breathed in my ear: ‘D...Den...’

  ‘All right. I understand. But I must go now. Get help. A minute.’

  I knew now how close I was to the house. She was drooling, fighting breathlessly to speak. I bent close again. With a desperate effort she managed to mumble: ‘Col...in.’ Her breath wheezed it.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Right. Colin. I’ll get Colin. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ And then I remembered where I’d heard the name, Dennis.

  I bashed my head, trying to get out fast, and cursed the new coat for not being flexible enough, scrambled out on to the tow-path, and with my carrier bag once again in one hand I started to run. The spaniel barked at my heels for fifty yards, urging me on, then he ran back to the boat.

  I galloped, coat flying now, as I had opened it, galloped, panting because I’d been smoking too much (and decided yet again to give it up) along to the forefront of Flight House, where Colin wasn’t because I wanted him. People never are. I burst into the bar. Ted Slater was now interviewing Gerald, who looked round angrily.

  ‘Colin!’ I shouted, using all the breath I had left. Then I pounced on the phone and dialled nine-nine-nine. ‘Ambulance,’ I gasped.

  ‘What is this?’ Gerald demanded.

  But I had no time for him, because they came on. ‘Ambulance,’ I said, ‘to Flight House. Know it?’

  ‘They will, sir. Have you any information?’

  ‘I think we’ll need the Paramedics,’ I said. ‘Young woman, living in a boat on the canal. I think she’s got pneumonia. She’s shivering, and her flesh is red hot.’

  ‘Yes sir. Be with you shortly.’

  ‘And I think she’s been beaten up,’ I added.

  ‘Yes sir. Wait there, please, if you will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hung up, feeling a terrible, empty let-down. I’d been able to do so little for her. So little.

  Then Colin burst into the room. ‘What is it? Who’s shouting for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerald, rising from his seat and eyeing me with disfavour. ‘What’s going on?’

  I tried to speak to both of them at once. ‘In the first parked boat along,’ I said. ‘The red and yellow one…’

  ‘I know it,’ said Colin, his voice dead. He gripped my arm. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a woman inside. I think she’s very ill. Probably pneumonia.’

  ‘Helen,’ Colin breathed.

  ‘You know her?’ But of course he did!

  Colin was white, lines drawn down his face, the stress of multiple incidents gradually undermining him. ‘I told you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She’s the Helen I know,’ he said, more explicitly.

  ‘You’re talking as though you knew she was there,’ I said softly.

  ‘Of course I damn-well knew,’ he said angrily, impatiently.

  ‘What is this?’ Gerald interrupted, heavily authoritative. ‘What does this mean, Colin?’

  ‘Oh...mind your own damned business,’ Colin snapped angrily. The stress was getting to him—he was almost beyond control. He turned to me. ‘The boat’s mine. In February, I tour the canal, end to end, checking, checking.’ He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes hunting from left to right, back again. ‘That’s the boat I use.’

  ‘And you lent it to Clare’s sister?’ I asked, having to restrain him now with a hand to his arm. ‘Helen’s Clare’s sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ He bit it off sharply.

  I didn’t ask why. I could guess. Already I could hear the distant ambulance siren.

  ‘You’d better get down there, Colin.’ I released his arm.

  Gerald moved forward a step. ‘I want to know what all this is about, Colin. And this instant.’ His chin was high. He had summoned up all his authority.

  Colin was almost in tears from frustration and fury, and couldn’t take much more. He spoke very quietly because inside there, somewhere, there was a whole bundle of emotions fighting for precedence, and he didn’t know how to handle them. He simply shook his arm free, said, ‘You’ll have to wait,’ and banged his way out through the swinging doors. I followed him, more slowly. In a second he was at a flat run.

  Suddenly, Amelia was at my elbow. ‘Richard?’ She had heard it nearly all, I could tell that by her expression.

  I filled in what she might have missed. ‘I didn’t spend much time with her,’ I explained. ‘All I know so far is that she’s Clare’s sister, and she’s been living on that houseboat. It belongs to Colin, apparently. And love...I’ve seen women like this before, and my guess is that she’s been beaten up.’

  She bit her lower lip, her eyes bright. ‘We’ll have to go along there and help.’

  The siren was now close. I said, ‘We’ll be in the way.’

  Then Inspector Slater was standing solidly in front of me. ‘Did I hear you speaking about violence, Patton?’

  ‘That was what I thought.’

  He sighed. ‘Then I suppose I’m going to be landed with it.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ I said. ‘We don’t know it’s criminal violence.’ I turned to Amelia. ‘Can you put your hand on a length of string, love?’

 
‘String?’

  ‘Or the like. There’s a spaniel along there, and he’s going to get underfoot. The poor little bugger’s probably hungry and thirsty, so I thought...’

  ‘String?’ she said. ‘String, Gerald? Have you got any string?’

  He stared at her blankly. ‘I suppose. Behind the counter.’

  He had been standing behind us, holding open the swing doors. Now he stood aside for her.

  I was trying to work out what had to be done, what would happen first, and where I came into it. I heard her slam a drawer, then she came rushing out again. ‘String!’ she cried, waving a large ball of thick string.

  I produced my penknife and cut off a couple or so yards of it. She understood what I had in mind. ‘Wait for me,’ she said. ‘I’ll dash and get my coat.’

  ‘No time,’ I told her. ‘Here, try this.’

  I pulled the duffle coat out of its bag, and tossed it to her.

  ‘But it’s Colin’s!’

  ‘Never mind. It’ll go with your hair a treat.’

  ‘Oh, stop your flannel,’ she said. ‘Let’s get going.’

  ‘I demand to know—’ began Gerald.

  ‘You will do,’ I told him. ‘You’ll know.’

  Outside, the ambulance siren was dying to a moan. Appropriate, that was. They had driven round the building and stopped opposite the swing doors. I went forward to meet them, two men and a woman.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked one of the men, jumping down.

  ‘Along the tow-path.’ I pointed. ‘Just round the bend—a red and yellow houseboat. A woman. High temperature. Shuddering, and having difficulty with her breathing. I saw bruises. You’re going to have a hell of a job getting her out of there.’

  ‘Never mind that. Better bring the portable oxygen, Fay. Right? Then let’s go.’

  They set off at a run, one with the stretcher, one with a black case, Fay with what must have been the oxygen equipment. I managed to get a double thickness of string, and tied the ends together. That ought to do it, I thought.