Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton) Read online

  Taken all round, it’d been a bit of a disastrous Sunday.

  I drove myself home, taking it slowly because there was nothing drawing me, and slowly because the snow was falling again and the wind was buffeting the car.

  The house was old and solid, a big Georgian semi. It’d been too big for Vera and me, and somehow the family we’d expected hadn’t come along. On my own, I rattled around in it. I drove the car into the garage and fumbled the keys from the ignition. The porch was dark, and the hall smelt of damp. It always did that when I got home, never when I left. I went straight into the kitchen and slapped the kettle onto the gas stove, reached inside the fridge and put out a couple of chops to unfreeze, and decided on frozen chips because I hate peeling potatoes. Then I went to stand in the one room that still gave me any comfort. Vera had called it my library, but I thought of it as a study.

  The gas fire gave enough light for standing and thinking. I didn’t want to settle in my old leather easy chair, in case I couldn’t get up again.

  Ted Clayton had said about Gabby Clayton: ‘Reckon she’s just about living.’ I tried to remember her, but there was no reason why we’d have met during the investigation. I’d been a sergeant then, on house-to-house work. No image of her came. Arthur Clayton — yes. I’d been at the station the day he came along, a short, thin husk of a man with horror in his eyes. I’d met Rona Kendall, too, just after the arrest. But of her, the only image was of a distraught face.

  ‘Just about living.’ I reckoned I was a fair way towards joining her.

  That Sunday had been my last rest-day in harness, so I’d decided to treat it as a trial run for all my glorious days of freedom ahead. I’d rolled out of bed. A new day. Tra-la! But it hadn’t lasted long. After breakfast, the grey day had seemed insupportable indoors, and all I had to fall back on was the same old routine. It had therefore occurred to me to drive out into the country and dicker around with a couple of minor issues. But Brason had to go and upset the equilibrium by offering interest, and Ted Clayton had presented a clear line of action I wasn’t going to be in a position to carry through. It left me tense, my mind racing, and staring out at the wind-blown drifts of heavier flakes past my window. Like my life, I thought in disgust, colourless and insubstantial, and blowing past.

  I went and put half a bottle of Barsac to cool in the fridge, and rescued the kettle. A pot of tea while I grilled the chops, then the meal itself, chops and chips and white wine, with a seed catalogue propped against the bottle, calling me to interest but failing.

  I was digging a spoon into pineapple and cream when the front door bell rang.

  At least it was a friendly face. Detective Sergeant Ken Latchett stood in the porch, his dark hair blown and snowflakes standing on his leather-inset cardigan. He was smiling, his wide face alive with it.

  ‘Cash said to come and fetch you over,’ he said. ‘There’s a chicken in the oven.’

  I backed away. He was already walking past along the hall. He paused.

  ‘Seems like I’m too late. You’ve already eaten?’

  ‘Always the detective, Ken.’

  ‘Lamb chop?’

  ‘Nine out of ten. Plural. Come on through, and help me finish a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Can’t stay, really.’ But he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He reached the kitchen, and took it all in with one glance. ‘And seed catalogues, eh? Hardly your style, is it, Richard?’

  ‘I’m looking for a new style.’ I found him a clean wineglass. I waved it. ‘Sit down a sec. I’m celebrating.’

  ‘Oh...what?’

  ‘My new life.’

  ‘I envy you. Really I do.’

  ‘Liar. You love the job. Lap it up like milk, you do.’

  ‘Who trained me, Richard? But there’s all the continent waiting for you, and the Stag raring to go. In the spring...’

  ‘That was really Vera’s idea, you know. I don’t seem to be able to work up much enthusiasm.’

  He looked at me sharply, and changed the subject with heavy diplomacy. He’d always been as transparent as hell.

  ‘You’ve been out, I see.’ He was settling into the chair lazily. ‘Out into the wide open spaces,’ I agreed. ‘I went to see a burnt-out car.’

  ‘Exciting.’

  I gave him the bit of paper. ‘That’s it. I just can’t recall...’

  ‘A three-year-old Cortina? Yes, I remember that. A woman reported her husband missing. I saw her. Had a few words with her.’

  ‘A husband? This is a car.’

  ‘He took it with him. A Mrs Amelia Trowbridge. The car’s hers.’

  I thought about it. Nothing clicked. ‘All right. Get along and have a look at it, Ken, first thing in the morning. Have a word with the local man. Brason. He’s bright. You’ll be interested.’

  ‘Something special?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just unusual.’

  We were silent for a couple of minutes. We’d worked together long enough to respect each other’s silences. At last he spoke up.

  ‘We’re getting Inspector Donaldson. Had you heard?’

  ‘A whisper.’ He was a good man, as far as I’d heard. Hard, though. ‘He’s not likely to be pleased.’

  ‘No promotion, you mean?’ A man expected promotion with a new posting. ‘Perhaps they’ll give him Chief Inspector.’

  I didn’t follow that up, but drew on my pipe until the subject was dead. ‘I saw Ted Clayton today, Ken. I think Clive Kendall’s been back to his bungalow.’

  ‘Sticking his neck out, then.’

  ‘Yes. But he could’ve been scared off. Somebody had left a doll hanging in his garden, with a noose round its neck. It was a pretty strong hint.’

  He nodded. ‘So naturally you went to see Ted Clayton.’

  ‘It seemed the obvious thing. But nothing’s changed, you know. Eight years, and nothing’s changed.’

  The pipe was going well as I considered my own attitude. Nothing had changed there, either. I’d been the arresting officer. We’d pinned Kendall in his bungalow, and there’d been rumours of him being armed. As it turned out it was only a shotgun, and when I went in after him I put a lot of faith in the assumption that it wasn’t loaded. One of my hunches. That one turned out all right, but in disarming him, alone in that place with him for a few minutes, I could’ve justified using some of the violence that was bubbling away inside me. But there wasn’t a mark on him when we got him to the station. God knows why I was proud of that.

  ‘Better get a general call out on him, Ken,’ I said, as though I’d been working it out. ‘Tip off the team for that area to keep an eye on the bungalow. If...’ I said, cocking an eye at him... ‘if Donaldson’ll go along with it.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll persuade him.’

  ‘Oh, and Ken, when you’re out that way, have a word with a farmer called Rennie. Brason’ll show you where.’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’

  ‘He’s had a shotgun stolen. It’s a rather expensive piece of equipment.’

  ‘And?’ He was eyeing me with a smile on his face.

  ‘I was wondering whether Ted Clayton’s done any painting or decorating for Rennie recently. He might have noticed the guns.’

  Ken cocked his head at me. ‘One of your fancy ideas, Richard?’

  ‘The hanging doll could be a blind. Get us thinking in terms of hanging, then blast Kendall’s head off.’ Though that would be a bit too subtle for Ted and Foster Clayton.

  He slapped his palms on the table, levering himself to his feet. ‘Well...better get home. You’re talking as though you won’t be coming into the office tomorrow.’

  ‘Not first thing. I’ve got an appointment. Atlas Electronics. They want a Head of Security.’

  The wind wafted in through the front door as he opened it. ‘I’ll do what you say, Richard. Best of luck at Atlas.’ Then suddenly his eyes were shrewd. ‘But you’re not keen, are you?’

  ‘I’ll see, Ken, I’ll see.’

  Security. The happy huntin
g ground of all senior police officers who’ve been put out to graze. But maybe I wouldn’t be sufficiently senior for them, and maybe I wouldn’t be feeling quite ready for their pastures.

  Atlas Electronics was the only business doing any good on the industrial estate. Starting with the largest complex, in five years it’d spread to absorb three others.

  By the time I’d found the Visitors Only slot I’d already noted that the gate security was lax, and that the canal running through the site offered a clear security headache. But during the interview I found that none of that mattered. What needed guarding was not items you could grab hold of, but ideas too slippy for anybody less than a genius. It would all resolve itself into something close to spying, personal intrusion into the lives of people I’d come to know, and perhaps come to admire and like. Key scientists might require constant and individual surveillance, I was told.

  Inside ten minutes I decided it was not for me. All the same, I was agreeable enough to a conducted tour, though when the Chief Personnel Officer said he’d find me somebody to show me around, I knew I wasn’t for them, either.

  Foster Clayton met me outside the offices, smirking at my surprise and delighted at the advantage it gave him.

  ‘I’m a Production Controller here,’ he told me. ‘When I saw your name on the list I volunteered for this.’

  ‘Good of you.’

  ‘Where d’you want to go first?’

  ‘Somewhere we can talk. There’s no point in showing me around.’

  He gave me a dry smile. ‘Saved you coming to see me at home.’ He offered it as a gift. ‘There’s no sense in upsetting the missus.’

  ‘Nobody needs to get upset.’

  ‘Let’s slip into the canteen.’

  The long, narrow building was empty, apart from the canteen staff, who were busy at the far end preparing for lunch. He sat me at a table by the window, and went to persuade a couple of cups of tea from the counter assistant.

  ‘Their own pot,’ he said, returning. ‘Not the bulk rubbish.’ He winked. ‘Gladys owes me a favour.’

  At fifty, Foster was thickening about the middle, beginning to lean back to balance the weight. His face was more puffy than his brother’s, his hair thinner. There was a sly look to his eyes. He obviously fancied himself with the women, and clearly believed his attentions represented a favour.

  ‘Ted phoned,’ he said. ‘He told me you’d been there, tossing your threats around.’

  ‘Suggestions,’ I said mildly. ‘Ideas.’

  Still smiling, Foster went into his prepared speech. ‘But don’t try pushing me, Mr Patton. Don’t try it. That’s all I want to say.’

  I didn’t reply. I tried the tea. How could the bulk rubbish possibly have been worse?

  ‘Ain’t you got anything to say?’ he asked at last.

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ I congratulated him. ‘Productionn Controller. Well, now...that’s a responsible job. I’m pleased for you. That’s why I think I can ask you a favour, as a responsible man.’

  ‘What’re you up to now?’ His smile was twisted, his head tilted.

  ‘Ted’s wild. He’s not maturing at all. I’d like you to have a word with him. Point out that he’s doing himself no good.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Do you own a shotgun, Foster?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’

  ‘Or Ted?’

  ‘What’d he want a shotgun for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Rats, perhaps?’

  I was well aware that Foster could be a more dangerous man than his brother. Ted would charge right in, but Foster would wait his chance and sneak in from behind. I had to be more subtle with Foster.

  ‘Clive Kendall’s disappeared,’ I said casually. ‘We can’t trace him. So you’d be wasting your time trying to.’

  ‘Now...Inspector....’ He was affable. ‘You know that’s not the point. Kendall disappears — that’s fine with me. I’m not going to hunt him out. But if he comes near me...if I hear he’s back in town...then I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘That sort of talk’s not going to help.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ Foster said amiably. ‘I’m not like Ted. He ain’t going to be happy till Kendall’s dead. But me...well, now, I can rest if I don’t set eyes on him. But if I do, well, then it’s quite possible I’ll get very angry, and there’d be no knowing. I’d like to get my hands round his throat. Yes, I think I’d like that. Then I could look into his eyes and watch him die. Now...doesn’t that make it easy for you? Just keep him away from me. Well away.’ He was twisting a cigarette in his fingers.

  All hot air, I told myself. Kendall wouldn’t be easy to take on with bare hands — he’d been a tall, strong man. And Foster wouldn’t risk physical contact.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then you won’t be too disappointed if you never get the chance? I’m glad of that.’ I smiled into his little, piggy eyes.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve got the idea he’s dead already.’ I had no reason to believe that, but there was no harm in putting out feelers. The threat might already have been finalised.

  For a moment he was very still. Only his jaw muscles moved. I got to my feet. He flicked his lighter into flame.

  ‘Thank you for the tea. Congratulate Gladys for me.’

  ‘Heh — what d’you mean, already dead?’

  ‘I mean I might be coming to see you again. If he’s been strangled when we find him.’

  I walked out into the crisp morning air. The snow of the night had added only two inches to the previous fall, but small drifts were lying against the canteen wall. I realised that Foster had smelt strangely of shellac. It had seemed to form a hard coating around him, like a pungent armour.

  For a moment I paused and looked back. He was standing in the canteen entrance. As I watched he jutted his lower lip and blew a cloud of smoke in front of his face, managing a supercilious smile at the same time.

  Now there was nothing left but to report in to the office, though the thought was a mild comfort. They still had us in a red Victorian monstrosity with a whole list of disabilities, but with the smooth-worn assurance of long acquaintance.

  Ken hadn’t returned from his trip into the country. I was glad of that. There was paperwork to be considered, and a small advantage in being able to cuss it in privacy.

  I’d shared the same office with Ken for a long while. Nothing was convenient. Filing cabinets partly blocked the tall, narrow windows, and you could slide behind the desks from only one side. The floor beneath the door had worn into a deep dent, allowing a draught to cut into my ankles, and the slatted blinds had long since given up the task of preventing the window’s cold air from falling across the desk surface. The single radiator bubbled and hissed, just to prove it was working, but didn’t extend itself to throwing out any heat.

  But it had the advantage of familiarity. You didn’t have to waste any effort in hunting out a correct form, and no thought was disturbed in putting a hand on a stub of pencil. There was a dark patch on the wall behind one shoulder, where I’d made the habit of leaning back with one foot in the opened lower drawer of the desk. It’s an ideal position for a quiet smoke. There had been talk of a move to new premises on the by-pass, but nothing had come of it. But who wants concrete and double-glazing, if it means open planning and impersonal efficiency? Not me. The present battered-wire trays did their job. Just as many files perched in the IN tray, just as few in the OUT. It’d always been a minor mystery to me that it never arranged itself the other way round. Perhaps, I thought, settling in, that happy situation would have come about in new premises, with different trays. I pondered the possibility.

  I lit my pipe. I stared at the calendar, then re-read the note Ken had left me.

  Brason phoned. He’s found somebody who saw smoke early on Saturday. His big case! I’ll have a word with him. Ken.

  The car, I thought. I hunted for the file on Amelia Trowbridge,
and found it in my IN tray.

  Around two weeks before, she’d reported her husband as missing. No suggestion of a crime involved — no foul play hinted. It wasn’t a police matter. The circumstances would simply have been noted, for future reference. But now the car had turned up, and the matter took on a new dimension.

  I sat back. I relit the pipe, and was thus contemplating the passage of time when the door opened, and my boss, Chief Superintendent Merridew, stood in the doorway. His expression was poised between disapproval and jocularity.

  We’d worked together for years, me in charge of the local CID, but somehow we’d never been close. I think he sensed a certain lack of respect in me, but he hadn’t managed to work out whether it was for himself or for law and order in general. It still worried him. He was a tall, lean man with sloping shoulders, a long face, a long nose, and so little used to smiling that the present result was painful and embarrassing.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Richard. I heard you were out and about, yesterday.’

  ‘Shut the door, there’s a good chap.’

  He did. It gave him the opportunity to abandon the smile. ‘No harm in getting out for a bit of fresh air, I suppose,’ he said doubtfully. Then he reached over Ken’s desk for his chair, and sat on it backwards, to indicate that this was all informal, friend to friend. The lines above his eyebrows were etched deep.

  ‘Never find time to get out and about, myself,’ he observed. ‘I often envy you. Turn up anything?’

  I grunted, and stared at my pipe. He hadn’t expected any reply. I waited till he got going again.

  ‘No...well...you’ll be tapering off.’ This time it was a question, but I didn’t rise to it. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d like you to do, though. Donaldson’s coming down...today...tomorrow...it’s not certain.’

  ‘Donaldson?’

  ‘Your replacement. Hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘Not officially,’ I said gently. ‘Not from you, Paul.’

  ‘Ah!’ He touched his fingers to his upper lip. ‘Sorry — must have slipped my mind. Well, it is Donaldson.’