One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16) Read online

  ‘Because I’m not proud of it.’

  She drew her breath in sharply. Then, fearful that his choice of words could be disastrous, he told her, quickly, what he’d told us about the youth, and strangely she seemed comforted. She even smiled at him and spoke gently, chidingly.

  ‘It’s not like you.’

  ‘I don’t know what got into me. Some anger — at his arrogance I think. And at myself … when I’ve always said you shouldn’t ever point a gun, even unloaded, at a person … ’ He shook his head in self-criticism. ‘You can see, it’s so difficult to admit it, even now.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ I put in, ‘he did not.’

  ‘Why unfortunately?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because, if you’d mentioned nine-two before they fixed their time of death, it’d sound better. Now they’re going to wonder — as I’m wondering — why you picked on that time.’

  ‘I hardly picked on it.’

  ‘No. I remember. You’re so certain of the time.’

  ‘Beyond his right ear … the wall clock.’

  ‘Which you didn’t wish to smash with a bullet?’

  ‘The thought entered my head.’

  Or had this colourful point in his story arisen from having seen the fascia clock shattered by a bullet?

  ‘But surely you realize how convenient this is for you! Out of the two hours you were there, the only possible time with any chance of being confirmed is a period of two or three minutes, during which the man outside was shot in your car.’

  ‘Convenient — yes,’ he said stiffly. His wife was white, her eyes huge.

  ‘When you lifted his head … ’

  ‘Oh no!’ she moaned.

  ‘Please, Mrs Abbott! When you did that — you said it was against the clock in the fascia. Did you, at that moment, see the time it was showing?’

  ‘I was hardly … I wasn’t looking there.’

  ‘Even subconsciously. So that later you were prompted to produce an alibi for around nine.’

  ‘Produce!’ His voice was emptied of emotion. ‘I didn’t invent it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It has to be considered.’

  ‘I think I made a mistake. I need somebody to help me and you’re not doing that.’

  ‘I’m taking the line the police would. Talking round it.’

  ‘Then … just talking … I’d say, looking back on it, that my memory is of blood … blood.’ He drew back his lips in a grim display of teeth. ‘There was no clock visible.’

  I looked at Bella, expecting a protest. But she was staring at him with devotion. She ached to help him. ‘Poor Victor!’ she whispered.

  ‘Then,’ I said heavily, ‘we’ve got to assume it was pure coincidence, this youth appearing at exactly the time you needed an alibi.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like your choice of phrase.’

  ‘You should not have shot him — he’s your friend.’

  His lips were colourless. ‘It seems I need one, somewhere.’

  She drew his arm closer.

  ‘But you see the point,’ I went on doggedly. ‘Assuming both clocks were reading the correct time …’

  ‘I always keep my car clock, my watch, exactly right.’ He thought of something else. ‘And the club clock’s an electric one.’

  ‘Then … ’ I collected myself, angry at his pedantic insistence. ‘Then, what we’ve got is a killing just three minutes before you fired at that youth. In other words, at just about the time he must have arrived in the car-park. You’re surely not suggesting that he did it! That’d be completely self-contradictory. If what he was waving was a real gun, why would he charge in on you in the hope of getting another? And you’ve said it was only a toy.’

  ‘I could have been mistaken.’

  ‘But you’re saying it too late!’

  He shook his head, chiding himself. He was stubbornly and perversely honest. ‘No, I couldn’t have been mistaken. I know how a genuine pistol handles.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ I said, more sarcastically than I’d intended. ‘Were you so honest when you said you were ashamed?’

  ‘Of course. Where is this leading, Mallin? We’re both very tired.’

  ‘When anybody speaks of being ashamed, the implication is that there’s a deliberate act involved. The way you told it, this ear-lobe shooting was a calm and calculated thing. I’m wondering if it was a little different. If you panicked and in sheer terror let off a shot that just happened to nick his ear … ’

  I paused. It was an offering, something he could use if he ever had to admit it to the police. But Bella surprised me by springing abruptly to his support, like a tense cat.

  ‘That’s stupid. I don’t think you could be very good at your job. Victor’s not a coward. Your sort of people seem to think that anybody who’s inoffensive and kind and doesn’t like to hurt people … ’

  ‘Bella, please!’

  ‘No. I’m going to say this. You let people walk all over you. But you’re not going to be frightened by a young lout waving a plastic thing … ’

  I was close to laughter, she was so fierce in his protection and he so embarrassed at her warmth.

  ‘All right. All right,’ I said. ‘I get the point. No need to get worked up. But we’re left with the fact that he didn’t tell the police. It’s a serious offence to wound a person with a pistol.’

  ‘They all need shooting!’ she cried, her voice fluttering.

  ‘Perhaps. But this is the law, so I’m not sure it’d be a good idea to produce this youth. In any event, he might not be prepared to confirm your story. They go about in gangs, you know. Probably he’s some sort of leader. In that case, he’d lose face by admitting he’d been chased off by somebody who couldn’t even hit him at ten yards.’

  ‘He didn’t try!’ she protested.

  ‘But does the lad know that?’

  The idea presented them with a mildly humorous thought and I was pleased to find the tension easing. I had gone through all the questions I wanted to ask and it seemed to be a good time to leave.

  I protested that, no, I didn’t need a drink before I took to the road, and my general impression was that they were about ready for bed. Me? I was exhausted.

  I drove back to the Mid-M Motel, wondering what I’d say to that young layabout if I ever found him, wondering how I was going to get a sight of that Dolomite and its blasted clock.

  And wondering, as sleep flushed over me, how George was getting on at the other end.

  TWO

  GEORGE COE

  The mileage read 63 from the motel to Bentley Hall, 58 of them on the motorway. I noted that, for the expenses. To my mind, Dave’s much too casual about that sort of thing.

  I made the run in one hour and seven minutes, which included a halt at the Parkway Service Area to consult my map. All I had was the name Bentley Hall and I was carrying with me the impression that Colmore was some lord of the manor, or the like. It had its own location on my map, a couple of miles west of the town and isolated down a long minor road. The road turned out to be tarmac’d, but crumbling badly. It climbed steadily, so that, pausing to get my bearings, I could look back over the rolling countryside to the distant strip of motorway I’d recently left. Trees were pressing in on me and the ditch on one side was deep. I continued until the Victorian mansion appeared, without warning, as I rounded a bend.

  It was set back on the right of the roadway, which continued on past it. There was a recently painted sign on a gatepost:

  BENTLEY HALL RESIDENTIAL COLLEGE

  The short drive terminated in front of a pillared portico. Vast and ancient rhododendrons cast an eternal gloom around me. As I recalled it, the sun had been very hot and bright all the way there. In that drive it was cool and dim, and restful.

  A dozen other cars were parked in casual disarray. A man had his head stuck under the bonnet of a Mini.

  The hall was wide, with patterned tiles, an
d had a heavy black carved oak staircase rising to one side. Little signs on the walls issued instructions: Reception. Library. Principal. There was an air of gently organized relaxation about the place.

  I strolled well inside, where I could see up the stairs and along two of the corridors, and into one of the side rooms, which had its original door replaced by one with a glass panel and a small counter inset. There was no movement. No sound. I wondered what to do.

  Then, her feet silent on the carpet, a woman appeared in my upward-angled line of vision on the landing. She moved towards its rear and I could see only her head. I couldn’t decide what she was doing. The impression was of a fast-moving and stocky woman. Then I realized what she was doing, because there intruded into the silence, tiptoeing, a sonorous bell-like tone, not shrill nor harsh, which grew until it invaded every corner of the building and as gently moved away to silence.

  I glanced at my watch. It was seven o’clock. I had been listening to the dinner-gong. And I was trapped. The moment I’d walked through that front door — it had been wide-open, invitingly — I had become lured into another world, another age. Here was gracious living. I wanted to curl into its placid dignity and never leave it for the harsh outside world, where people put holes in the back of other people’s heads.

  I wondered whether Dave had managed to confirm, as we’d guessed, that the shot had been a twenty-two. It all seemed so far away.

  She was coming down the stairs. Yes, a solid woman, mid-thirties, handsome but certainly not beautiful. Her chin was too long, her nose too long, and the lines round her mouth and eyes would have to be laughter lines, or this was a very severe woman indeed.

  She noticed me. ‘Well … hello. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Hasn’t anybody looked after you?’ She smiled. Oh, definitely, these were laughter lines. ‘I didn’t know we were one short.’

  Now there was a bustle throughout the upper floor. Voices. Chatter. Half a dozen people pushed past her and she came down after them. She held out her hand.

  ‘I’m Dulcie Colmore. We’ll soon get you settled. What’re you on? The French For Conversation course, or the Crime Writing?’

  ‘Neither, I’m afraid. Do you do a course on Crime Writing? I’d like to hear a bit of that. Some of these chaps … ’

  Her mouth was pursed in a questing smile. She nodded. ‘Let me guess. You’re a policeman. Don’t tell me they’ve really sent a live one!’ Then she leaned forward, put a hand on my arm and laughed. ‘You should see your face! Sorry. But you’re big enough.’

  ‘I’ve been a policeman,’ I admitted. ‘But we get too old for it, so we do a few private jobs. George Coe, ma’am. And you’ve already answered my first question.’

  ‘Questions? Oh heavens, I’m going to be grilled! But not now, dear, if you don’t mind. We’ll be going in to dinner. And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’ She looked at me anxiously, her head cocked like an owl. ‘Have you eaten, George Coe?’

  ‘A sandwich before I left.’

  ‘Left where?’

  ‘Watling. You might have heard of it.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. It’s built on the site of an old Roman camp. Did you know that? The whole history … But there I go again, and we’re not in the classroom now. I’ll just arrange for another place at my table. If you’ll pop up to the next floor and turn left, you’ll find the gents, and soap and towels. Do what you’ve got to … ’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘ … and I’ll see you in the dining-room. Just along that corridor.’

  Then, deftly, she melted into one of the groups streaming past, at once involving herself in the chatter. ‘Wasn’t he splendid? I never knew that about suicides … ’

  I went upstairs. The window to the toilets was wide open over the reaches of flaming garden and descending downs. Far away, edging the horizon, was the grey haze where the moors began. A voice called out and a woman answered in the distance. Somewhere there was music, my favourite sound, the guitar. They conspired to trap me in the aura.

  I went down to the dining-room, which was three large, panelled expanses of splendid wall, strangely hung with modern expressive art, and one wall of leaded windows onto a terrace. A half dozen long tables, each seating ten people, were fully occupied. The noise was deafening.

  ‘Over here,’ she cried, raising an arm.

  She sat at the head of the table by the windows. A seat at her elbow was unoccupied.

  ‘Boeuf Strogonoff,’ she said. ‘You look hungry, you poor dear. Fading away.’ She considered my bulk fondly.

  I smiled around at my companions. Dulcie Colmore was serving.

  ‘Why were you expecting a policeman?’ I asked.

  ‘I keep trying. Sometimes I succeed. We have week-end courses on dozens of subjects and I try to persuade volunteer lecturers who’ll be of interest. This course — it’s for budding crime writers — is just a week-end. It began yesterday evening. They all start on Fridays and we’ll go home on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘But not you. This is your home?’

  ‘I’m the principal. Of course, I stay. Help yourself to vegetables, there’s a good man. A pity there’s no wine.’

  ‘You were saying — about the course?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed. I’d persuaded a couple of top writers to speak for us, but that’s fiction of course. So I phoned the local nick … is that right, nick? … and asked them if they’d send us a professional. They said: no. But for one splendid moment I thought they’d changed their minds.’

  The meal was excellent. The week-enders enjoyed it noisily. I had to raise my voice. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Her lips puckered impishly. ‘You’ll do.’

  ‘I’m here professionally.’

  ‘You’ll do fine.’

  ‘Mrs Colmore … it is Mrs, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is your husband, Mrs Colmore?’

  She stared blankly past me. Suddenly her face was alive as she registered a remark from my far-side neighbour. She laughed. ‘Tonight, perhaps,’ she promised. There was polite encouragement. And then, still smiling, flushed, she spoke softly, for me alone.

  ‘With his fancy woman, I wouldn’t be surprised. But now, in your honour, George Coe, your favourite, my favourite … She raised her voice above the clatter and they all caught it up. ‘Everybody’s favourite … ’

  It was steamed jam roll. Obviously it was a renowned speciality of the house. I shouldn’t really. I’m getting far too big. Ah well, if you insist! It’d been years … It was delicious. I had another helping and a cup of coffee and we sat while the rest gradually dispersed. There was one more session that evening, I gathered. We sat until we had the room to ourselves. The small staff cleared the tables and a rattling arose from behind a far door.

  She had lit a cigarette, calmly waiting. When her eyes turned to me they were teasing — brown eyes behind large, gold-rimmed spectacles. Funny, I hadn’t noticed she wore them. When she spoke her gaze was on her cigarette, which she moved gently, tracing patterns with the smoke.

  ‘Mr Coe, we don’t take life too seriously here. Oh, our students come to learn. That is serious enough. But also, for most of them, it’s a week-end of relaxation from their normal work. For some it’s a retreat from loneliness. We have regulars who’ll come once a month, whatever course we’re running. We know that. We’re not a university. We try to serve the best possible meals within our budget, though the sleeping’s perhaps a bit rough — dormitories, mainly. But we maintain a friendly, relaxed atmosphere. And I don’t want that disturbed by any official or semi-official interference. My husband’s got a minor position here, but he’s not greatly missed. Leave it at that, please.’

  ‘I don’t shout things around. You mentioned a woman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You reckon he’s gone away with her?’

  ‘He’s gone away with women before. He’ll be back. It’s … comfortable here.’

  ‘You know who this
latest woman is?’

  She shrugged. ‘I believe so. I’m sneaky, you see. I make discreet enquiries. I observe things. No wonder, you’re telling yourself, that he’d look elsewhere.’

  ‘He must be very insensitive.’

  ‘Well thank you, kind sir.’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Thank you, George. But, you see, I laugh a lot. I work all hours and I love every second of it and life’s fun — and Charles hates that. Basically he’s a serious man. Mostly I laugh in the company of other men, you see. There’s a fresh crowd every week-end. I love entertaining. Sometimes I sing at the piano.’

  ‘And there’ll be the regulars. The ones who keep coming back.’

  She laughed and slapped the back of my hand and, still laughing, said: ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  She was a boisterous extrovert, who’d probably exhausted dear Charles. His absence didn’t have to mean he was dead in Abbott’s car. Not yet. I’d hate to see those dancing eyes cloud.

  ‘Shall we say I’m chasing a debt?’ I asked, smiling, making a lie of it.

  ‘More likely he’s found a woman this time who’s got a jealous husband. Oh heavens, wouldn’t that be a scream! Two of them, face to face.’

  ‘And you could put me in the way of finding her?’

  ‘She’s run away from her jealous husband!’

  ‘It’s your fiction. Build it up as you wish, as long as you know where she is. Or was, before he went away with her.’

  ‘Ah, you disappoint me. I thought I’d found somebody with a sense of humour.’

  ‘It gets blunted, when your work’s involved with life’s failures and disasters. It’s a bit sordid.’

  She grimaced. ‘I know.’

  I questioned her with my eyebrows, but she didn’t take it up. ‘When did he disappear with this woman?’ I asked.

  ‘Tuesday. It was Tuesday he drove away from here.’

  The day of the Watling killing. ‘Taking his suitcase?’

  ‘Taking nothing. He drove away at half past seven.’

  ‘You noted the time?’

  ‘It’s his usual time on Tuesdays. It’s club night at his shooting place.