Quick off the Mark Page 5

  Whoever was on the other end seemed absolutely sure.

  ‘Well, thank you for telling me.’ Edward looked grim as he closed his phone.

  ‘Bad news?’ I asked.

  ‘As bad as yours about Tristan Huber.’ He drank the contents of his wine glass and refilled it with a hand that shook. ‘That was the president of the chess club, saying that my friend, Kevin Fuller, a research fellow up at the college, he’s …’ His voice died away.

  ‘He’s what?’ I asked. It was unlike Edward to be inarticulate.

  ‘I can’t take it in … Kevin’s dead. I just can’t …’ He dropped his head in his hands and stared at the grass.

  ‘How, Edward? Where? And when?’

  He groaned. ‘A week ago. I wondered why I hadn’t heard from him. Apparently he was found at the foot of Nelson Point. He’d gone … I can hardly believe it … over the edge of the cliff.’ He swallowed. ‘What’s worse, it seems the poor boy survived for two or three days.’

  Just like Tristan, I thought.

  Nelson Point was a grassy headland a couple of miles around the coast from Longbury, where a white cliff fell down to a pebbly little beach strewn with big chunks of chalk. It had been commandeered years ago by the Army and never formally reassigned, so the undercliff was usually deserted except for a range of seabirds – terns, gulls, cormorants – and the very occasional seal which had lost its way from the treacherous sandbanks on the horizon. The cliff itself was hazardous: bits of it were always detaching themselves without warning and plunging to the beach below. It was a place best avoided.

  ‘Oh God …’ Edward lamented. ‘Is there anything sadder than a promising life cut short?’

  Many, many things, I thought. ‘Did he have a heart attack or something? Was it one of those cliff-falls?’

  ‘He was fucking murdered. By some fucking bastard.’ Tears began to fall down Edward’s cheeks. His eyes were full of pain.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because his hands were taped behind his back and his ankles were taped together. Somebody deliberately threw him off.’

  I hated to think what the poor guy must have been feeling as he plunged to the beach below.

  Edward shook his head. ‘How could this have happened? He was working towards a PhD in Mathematics. He’d already got a Masters from some American university, he had a great future in front of him. And he wasn’t just a brilliant man, he was nice as well.’ When he looked at me his expression was one of appeal, as though he thought I might be able to change things, bring Kevin Fuller back to life.

  I didn’t ask if he had any further details, for fear of hearing of more unspeakable atrocities. But two murders in three weeks, in a town where there was little more violence than the odd random stabbing or fist fight outside the pub on a Saturday night, seemed excessive. A thought flew into my head – and swiftly out again. Could there be a connection between this man’s death, and Tristan’s? At first sight, of course there couldn’t. Indeed, why should there be?

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Edward,’ I said.

  He nodded, acknowledging my concern. ‘It’s his poor parents I’m worrying about. They doted on him.’

  ‘Are they local?’

  He shook his head. ‘Family runs a dry-cleaning business at Borton, on the Rochester road. They’ll be devastated.’

  Eventually Sam and I said our goodbyes, made our way to the end of the garden between tree and overhanging bush, and out into the area outside the gate. I started to head towards my car as Sam said, ‘I’ve never seen Edward in such a state.’

  ‘Nor me.’ I stopped suddenly. I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that there must be some connection between Kevin Fuller’s death and Tristan’s. ‘Sam, I know this is a heck of a stretch but do you think … is it possible that there’s a link between the deaths of this Kevin Fuller and Tristan Huber?’

  ‘Highly unlikely, I would have thought. What did they have in common, as far as we know?’

  ‘Their cruel deaths, for a start. And also …’ I was remembering that last year, Huber Associates had been commissioned to refurbish and upgrade some of the student common rooms up at the uni. It was quite feasible that a senior graduate of Kevin’s status might have been on the student committee keeping an eye on the work as it progressed.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ I said. I checked my watch. It was still relatively early. If I drove fast, I should get to Borton before closing time. I stood for a moment, car keys in hand. Looked at the traffic passing the end of the little back alley without seeing it. Heard a blackbird singing from a chimney pot. Kissed Sam’s cheek, got into my car and set off towards the motorway which would take me most of the twenty-five-mile journey to Borton.

  Why? What did I think I’d obtain? Well, information, first and foremost. And I also had some vague notion of bonding with the parents, assuring them that time doesn’t heal – how can it? – but that some kind of inner peace will be achieved if you can only survive the first agonies of loss. Looking back, this seems pompous and patronizing in the extreme. I can only say that at the time I meant well.

  As I drove out into the country towards Borton, my speed dropped. First a flock of sheep was herded from a field on one side of the road to one opposite, a black sheepdog steering them in a crouching run, barking if one of them got out of line. Then a tractor with a trailer piled high with hay lumbered out of another field and down the road, bits of grass flying from the top-heavy load into my windscreen like demented stick insects, while I uttered a few swear words. The clock was ticking, and I realized that if I didn’t get a move on, by the time I reached Borton, the dry-cleaners would almost certainly be closed.

  But no. As I parked in front of its steamed-up windows, I could see that all the lights were still on. As I pushed open the door, the place was like any other such premises: stacks of plastic bags full of bundled clothes, stainless steel machines churning at the far end, the astringent smell of chemicals, dozens of dry-cleaned garments and laundry shrouded in film-wrap, hanging off racks suspended from the ceiling like so many empty carcasses.

  A man was at the far end of the shop, stuffing laundry into the maw of an industrial-sized stainless steel washing machine, moving stiffly, as though every movement was an effort. He came over to the counter, shoulders hunched, lines on his face that I guessed had not been there a few days ago.

  ‘Mr Fuller?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  I explained who I was, that I had heard about the death of his son, that I had no clear reason for coming, that I simply wanted him to know how much I felt for him, and to offer what tiny spark of comfort I could. And as an afterthought, ask him a couple of questions.

  He stared at me without speaking for an unnerving length of time. Then he lifted the flap which separated the business end of the place from the customer. ‘The kettle’s boiling. Come on into the back,’ he said.

  Five minutes later, I was sitting across from him at a tiny round table, drinking instant coffee from a thick blue mug. ‘The wife and me, we love all our sons the same,’ he said, after some time had elapsed. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to think different, least of all Francis and Michael, Kevin’s brothers. But Kevin was special, always was, right from a little boy. Wanted to do things, wanted to be the best at everything, wanted to go places. That’s why he put in for that scholarship and went off to college in America for two years. Got involved in everything going out there: mountain-climbing, scuba-diving, working with indigenous peoples in Peru, volunteering on some of those programmes they have in America for deprived kids. And the same when he came back here for his PhD at the university. Joined in all the student activities – chess, drama, sport of different kinds. Helping out with literacy programmes, reading to the kids in the hospital, even learned how to manipulate those puppets on strings – marionettes I think they call them – to amuse them.’

  ‘He sounds like a son you can be proud of.’

  ‘He’s that all right. He was …’ he amended
carefully. His eyes welled with tears. ‘His mother and I, we loved him so much. He was such a … such a bright star. Something bright and shining’s been taken from our lives. Only someone who’s been through it could possibly begin to understand how we feel.’

  My own eyes began to fill. ‘I guess, Mr Fuller, the main reason I came to see you was because we need to find out who was responsible for his death.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The police,’ I amended.

  ‘They’ve already been here, asking their questions, wanting to know if we can think of anyone who might have had it in for Kevin, which of course we couldn’t. What had he ever done?’

  ‘They’ll find the killer, Mr Fuller, I assure you. And when they do, it will make a difference to you, I promise. It’s like having an abscess lanced: a lot of the pain and poison will drain away. It won’t bring Kevin back, but knowing is so much better than not knowing.’

  But I could feel him thinking that whatever I said wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference to him or to his family. Not at the moment, in the new rawness of their grief. Unfortunately, he was probably right.

  There was a long silence. Then Fuller said, ‘Thank you.’ He clenched his fists on the table. ‘Though I tell you, if I came face to face with the bastard responsible right now, I would murder him with my own hands. No compunction, no mercy, no more than he showed my boy any mercy. Cutting Kev with a knife. Treating him like a human ashtray. Trussing him up like a … like a carcass in a butcher’s shop.’

  It sounded exactly like the MO in Tristan’s death.

  He waved his hand vaguely, indicating some direction outside the shop. ‘They threw him off the cliff like a … like a sack of garbage.’ His voice rose, lifted by the sobs which fell from his mouth. He sobbed a couple of times, his throat sounding hoarse and overused. ‘My Kevin.’

  ‘Was there anything – the cuts on his body … did they by any chance spell out a word?’ Seeing his look of dawning outrage, I quickly explained about Dimsie asking me to look into the murder of her brother.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said eventually. ‘The police think there was an attempt to … uh … write something, but they only got as far as an L and an I. The bastard must have been interrupted.’

  If I wanted any further proof of a connection between the two murders, this clinched it. Liar, I thought. Who had Kevin lied to? And what about?

  Again, there was silence between us. In the shop the machines whirred and swooshed, endlessly turning the clothes they contained. Then suddenly, as if the words had been wrenched out of him, he blurted out, ‘We didn’t mind that he was queer, you know. It didn’t make a ha’p’orth of difference to either of us, we just felt about him exactly as we always had. Sad that there’d be no grandchildren, of course, but there are the other two to provide us with those, so no, we accepted him exactly as he was.’

  ‘Kevin was gay?’

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘That’s what they call it nowadays. No reason why you should know that about him, of course. And he didn’t exactly take out full-page ads in the newspaper. But yes, he “came out” as they say …’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘When he first went off to America. We’d wondered why there weren’t any girlfriends but we put it down to him concentrating on his school work.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘His mother took it a bit hard, but I pointed out to her that Kevin had so much else to offer the world and it wasn’t for us to judge him.’

  ‘Very true. Now, I have another question, a very important one. Did you ever hear Kevin talk about someone called Tristan Huber?’

  ‘Do you mean that chappie from the decorator’s?’

  Not exactly how Tristan would have described himself, I thought, but near enough. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Kev was on some kind of committee,’ Fuller said. ‘Voting on colour schemes and the like. You can’t beat Magnolia, I used to say, but they go in for much fancier stuff these days.’

  ‘Do you know if your son and Mr Huber ever got together at any point? Over a pint or two, something like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. The wife might, but she’s not really … not at the moment.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You should try the university. They’re bound to know.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll try that. It might give us a lead as to what happened.’

  He stared at me. He had very round blue eyes. ‘Oh, Kev,’ he said. The pain in his face felt like a knife in my own heart. He mopped at his eyes with a handkerchief he took from his pocket, sniffed a couple of times, stood. ‘It’s been very good of you to come,’ he said formally, holding out his hand. ‘And I very much appreciate the trouble you’ve taken.’

  I stood too, shook his hand and left. I looked back and saw him with his head on the table, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

  On the drive back to Longbury, I wondered if Inspector Garside was linking Kevin Fuller’s murder to Tristan’s. Did he also know that Kevin was gay and, whether he did or not, what difference could it make to the CID investigation now going on? Presumably the information might give them another lead to follow in the hunt for Kevin’s killer.

  Back in my flat, I telephoned Sam. ‘I’m back and I’m sad,’ I said. ‘I could do with some company.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  And he was. In my flat, we drank a little wine and chatted about nothing for an hour or so. Closing my eyes, I leaned against his shoulder, taking comfort from the steady beat of his heart before he left. Alone again, I switched on the TV, needing voices and movement, anything not to be on my own. The offerings were meagre. Football. A quiz show. Some mindless sitcom about a chicken farm, starring a ‘personality’ I knew far more about than I wanted to, since he’d recently been giving interviews all over the place to promote his next series, which sounded even more crappy than this one. Some woman with large hair brightly flogged jewellery or cosmetics. More football.

  I switched off. Not for the first time, it struck me that the set wasn’t worth the licence fee, let alone the initial cost. I went to bed.

  FIVE

  The air smelled of wind and freshly landed mackerel as I walked along the High Street, past the greengrocer, and the gift shop selling objects decorated with kitsch slogans like Keep Calm and pass the Whisky, or cushions embroidered with For the Best Mum In the World. Past the café where the playschool mums gathered before they congregated at the school gates. I might have been one myself, if only … I forced myself not to go there. I don’t do if onlys.

  In the windows of the British Heart Foundation’s charity shop I stopped to look at the flyers for coming events. A classical concert at the Open Space; a day-long book-fest; a concert at the Assembly Rooms; an early warning of the panto over in Margate, Aladdin, starring Chris Kearns as Widow Twankey; a Craft Fayre in the Town Hall.

  I was heading towards the Fox and Hounds since I knew that Major Horrocks favoured the place for a mid-morning pint and, if he was there, it would be quicker than driving out of town towards his house and finding him absent. And there he was ahead of me, right on cue, coming out of Marks & Spencer. I saw him stumble on an uneven paving stone and nearly fall. I ran forwards.

  ‘Easy, dad.’ A passer-by caught him by the arm and kept him upright.

  The Major pulled away. For some reason, he was wearing a red woollen waistcoat and a long-sleeved flannel shirt on a hot day in August. It was easy to see he was regretting it. ‘As far as I’m aware,’ he was saying crossly, ‘I’m not your father, and even if I was, I should certainly not allow you to address me as Dad.’

  ‘No offense, dude.’ The stranger looked around and saw me grinning. He smiled back. American, I thought immediately. With teeth that perfect, he had to be. Unless he was wearing dentures, which I was prepared to bet he wasn’t.

  ‘Nor dude,’ said the Major. Then remembering his manners, added, ‘But thank you anyway.’

  ‘My pleasu
re. Your shopping, sir.’ With a small bow, the stranger handed over a green plastic bag which had fallen to the pavement. ‘Is that tonight’s dinner?’

  ‘Well, yes, since you mention it …’ The Major was obviously trying not to look pathetic. ‘Pretty much on my own these days, you see, and though I enjoy the art of the cuisine, I get rather fed up cooking for myself night after night.’

  ‘Know how you feel.’ Again the stranger smiled at me, by now standing beside him.

  ‘And you can get some really good ready-made dishes these days,’ the Major continued.

  ‘Hear what you’re saying, man.’

  ‘Major Norman Horrocks.’ The Major looked at his watch, and held out his hand.

  The other guy took it. ‘Todd DuBois. The Third.’

  Something about his delivery of the name lacked the ring of truth. Did he think none of us had heard of A Streetcar Named Desire?

  ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a beer,’ suggested the Major, ‘seeing as how you saved me from a nasty tumble?’

  ‘A splendid idea.’ His voice orotund, DuBois briefly made a very successful stab at sounding like an upper-class Englishman. Why would he do that, when a minute ago he’d sounded like a character from a Tennessee Williams play? Getting his roles mixed, or what?

  ‘There’s the Fox and Hounds just up the street,’ the Major said. ‘Or the White Swan Hotel further on. Does a nice drop of beer.’

  DuBois launched a mega-watt smile, the sort guaranteed to melt the heart of a grand inquisitor, had there been one present. ‘I agree about the beer. I’m staying there for a couple of nights. It’s never going win prizes for its décor, mind you, let alone its mattresses. I may even have to move if I stay any longer – I really don’t want to do my back in again.’