In Cold Daylight Page 8

  'I won't and that's the end of it.' If only it were.

  'I don't understand. Why not?' Her voice was taut with anger.

  I should have told her then about Alison. 'Pressing charges won't save my paintings. It won't undo what has happened here tonight. Let's forget about it.'

  'You run away from everything, don't you, Adam?'

  If only she knew about Jack! 'Drop it, Faye.'

  'You're pathetic,' and she flounced out of the room.

  I let out a breath. I should have told her. The moment had come and gone but I had remained silent. I couldn't get the words out. Soon I would have to. Soon Ben would tell the police everything and I'd have to explain what had happened to Alison not only to them but to Faye. I didn't think she was going to take the news very well.

  I didn't expect to sleep. I lay perfectly still not wanting to wake Faye, staring into the blackness trying hard to remember more of the circumstances of Alison's death; they eluded me, as always. After a while I gave it up. It wasn't getting me anywhere. Angrily I pushed the past away and returned to Jack. I could hear Faye's gentle breathing beside me and, as the rain drummed against the windows I assembled the facts in my mind: I knew that the cancer had been caused by a fire, most probably on board a ship in the dockyard if Jack's choice of 'The Fighting Temeraire' meant anything, and that ship must have had some kind of chemical substance on it. The incident could have occurred on 4 July 1994. I still couldn't recall Jack mentioning anything about fighting a fire on board a ship, but then he had rarely talked about work when we were out sailing. I had to find out which ship and which substance. It sounded so simple. Maybe the fire reports would give me the answers on Monday. Until then I could do nothing but wait.

  I turned over and pulled the bedclothes over me. Faye stirred. Tomorrow I would know if Ben had told the police about Alison's death.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was ten o'clock the next morning when they telephoned. I was polite but firm. They pressed me but I stuck to my decision. As I saw it, I had no option. The next call was from Steve Langton ten minutes later.

  'What's this I hear about you not wanting to press charges?' he launched rather irritably. I didn't blame him.

  'It's not worth it, Steve. They're only paintings; they can be cleaned.' A moment's silence in which I counted silently to five before Steve spoke.

  'It's criminal damage. He could do it again.'

  'Charging him and letting him go won't stop him, will it?'

  'It might for a while,' he replied dubiously. 'I can't hold him. I've got a cell full of Christmas drunks and soccer hooligans.'

  'Then let him go.' What if he comes here? I hoped he would. It was time for us to talk.

  'His name's Ben Harrow.'

  Harrow? Why not Lydeway? Had Alison's father died and her mother remarried? Perhaps Ben had taken his new father's name? Or had he changed it by deed poll? It didn't really matter what he was called, I knew it was Alison's younger brother. So he hadn't told the police about Alison. Or was Steve just trying me out?

  Steve said, 'Do you know him?'

  'No.' It was the truth after all. 'Did he say why he did it?'

  'No. Martin says he didn't damage the building but he does want to claim off the insurance for the damage to your paintings. He'll need a crime number so the crime has to be logged. We have the culprit so we will need to charge him.'

  'Then Martin can press charges.' I heard Steve sigh. 'How did he get in to the exhibition?'

  'Said he was with the caterers, simply walked in.'

  'Did he say where he lived?'

  'He's staying at the White Sails Hotel, Southsea. We checked. He registered in the name of Ben Harrow a week ago. It's his real name according to his driving licence and passport. We ran a check through the computer: he's not got a criminal record and he's not claiming benefit.'

  'Any joy with Jack's investigation?' I didn't expect anything but I thought I would ask anyway, if only to distract him from Ben Harrow.

  'I sent an officer around to question the neighbours, but he got the three monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I'll apply to see the fire reports on Monday.'

  'I've already done that. Brookfield is putting in a request for me.'

  'Adam…'

  'I need to know why Jack died, Steve.' Silence. I said, 'Did you know that Jack swapped his duty with another fire fighter called Ian?'

  'Adam, leave it. You're barking up completely the wrong tree.'

  Maybe I was but I didn't admit to it. His comment also made me remain silent about my idea of the fire in 1994 being in the dockyard. Red Watch was on nights tonight. I thought I might drop by and have a word with Ian.

  After Faye had gone out shopping I headed for the White Sails Hotel. I steeled myself to meet Ben Lydeway's hatred and anger. I tried to rehearse what to say but I couldn't. What was there to say except that I was sorry his sister had died?

  I parked in front of the hotel, which faced the rock gardens and the seafront, and removing my helmet walked up the four steps into a rather shabby reception where I interrupted a woman in her thirties in mid yawn. I asked for Ben Harrow.

  'Room 14. First floor.'

  I climbed the stairs feeling nervous. My heart was pounding. Ben had wanted a meeting; the demonstration in the art gallery, and his subsequent silence at the police station, were his calling card. If he hadn't spoken to the police then that could mean only one thing: he wanted to speak to me.

  The door was ajar and the narrow corridor partly blocked by the chambermaid's trolley. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. A grey-haired woman carrying a white miniature poodle came out of a room further down the corridor and glanced at me.

  'Ben, it's Adam Greene,' I said quietly. The woman tutted as if I'd said something obscene. As she passed me she made childish noises to her little white dog.

  'Ben.' Still no answer. I pushed back the door half expecting to see the chambermaid inside but the room was empty. I crossed swiftly to a small en suite shower room but wherever Ben Lydeway was, it wasn't here. I made to leave when a silver-framed photograph on the bedside cabinet caught my eye. It drew me like a magnet. I lifted it and stared into Alison's laughing green eyes. My heart lurched. Her image had become clouded over the years, tainted by the memory of that accident. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time in years: the vibrant young woman and not the battered and bloodied body on the ground.

  I stiffened. I had seen her on the ground then. I hadn't recalled that before and if that were so, I couldn't have been in that room pushing her. But perhaps I had run down the stairs after she had fallen? No, I was sure I had been on the pathway when she had fallen.

  I replaced the photograph. The receptionist was on the telephone so I simply nodded at her and walked out intending to return later.

  Perhaps Ben had gone for a walk to clear his head of the stench of incarceration, something I knew only too well. I crossed to the promenade and down on to the stones to the water's edge. To my left was the pier at the end of which were a couple of bedraggled fishermen huddled under layers of waterproof clothing and woolly hats staring into a gunmetal sea. It was damp and chill with hardly a soul about. The shops beckoned warmth, colour, life and light; offering the illusion of happiness that would dissipate the moment the tawdry wrapping paper was ripped off the presents that few people wanted and even fewer could afford.

  My mobile rang. I didn't even bother to look at who was calling but answered it automatically.

  'I thought I'd see how you are after yesterday.'

  It was as if the sun had suddenly broken through the blanket greyness. My spirits lifted at the sound of Jody's voice and at the same time I felt a twinge of guilt that Faye had never had this effect on me, nor was likely ever to. Only Alison had made me feel something like this.

  'I'm fine.'

  She must have heard the hesitation in my voice. 'I haven't disturbed you painting.'

  'No. I'm on the seaf
ront. I needed a breath of fresh air.' I couldn't even tell her the truth.

  'I'm sorry about your paintings,' she said gently.

  'They're only paintings. It doesn't matter.'

  A short silence then, 'Are the police going to charge him?'

  'Not if I have anything to do with it. It's not worth it, Jody.'

  'I'm sorry I dashed off like that. I didn't want to get in your wife's way.'

  'That's fine.'

  'You were going to tell me how you were getting on with your investigations.'

  I told her about my ideas on 'The Fighting Temeraire'. 'I can check it out once I get the fire reports.'

  'I'll ask around myself if you like. I'm based inside the dockyard. Someone might recall a fire here in 1994.'

  'It's a long time ago.' I didn't hold out much hope of anyone remembering that far back. 'I don't think you should, Jody. It could be dangerous.'

  'I'll be careful, I promise.'

  I rode home feeling happier at having spoken to her but concerned that she could become a target herself. There was a message flashing on the answer machine. It was from Carol Rushmere. She had found her husband's scrapbooks and she said that I could collect them tomorrow evening if I liked. I did very much, I only wished I could go now.

  Faye returned with her shopping and I retreated to the studio where I stared at the walls and canvases and played games on my computer. She called me when the evening meal was ready which we began to eat in silence only we didn't get very far before the doorbell rang.

  'Who on earth can that be?' Faye said with irritation, rising to answer it but I beat her to it.

  Standing on the threshold were two men: one tall and bony in his mid fifties, the other shorter and fatter in his mid thirties.

  'Mr Greene? Adam Greene?' the younger of the two asked.

  'Yes?' I replied warily.

  'Detective Sergeant Wilcox and Detective Inspector Staples.' The younger man flashed his warrant card. 'Can we come in?'

  I couldn't very well say no although I would have liked to. I felt a sliver of fear creep up my spine. I told myself they must have come about me not wanting to press charges against Ben. Would they send two officers of such high rank though? I doubted it. What did they want in that case? Could they possibly be here because Ben had told them I pushed Alison from that window?

  'If it's about the incident in the art gallery last night,' I began, 'I've already said that I'm not pressing charges.'

  'Who is it, Adam? Your dinner's getting cold.' Faye called out.

  'It's the police,' I shouted back, then to the two policemen, 'You'd better come through.' I waved them into the lounge as Faye appeared in the hall.

  'What do they want?' she mouthed. I shrugged. With a frown and a sigh she returned to the kitchen and I heard her put the dinner in the oven, as I followed the policemen into the lounge.

  The sergeant sat on the sofa by the window but the inspector remained standing with his back to the fireplace. I saw his sharp, grey eyes scan the room. I perched on the chair directly opposite him. I did my best to appear relaxed, but I doubted if I was fooling anyone. Faye entered, and I quickly introduced her.

  'We were just having dinner, inspector,' she said stiffly. 'Can't this wait?'

  'I'm afraid not, Mrs Greene. There are some questions we'd like to ask your husband. We can go down to the station if it's more convenient.'

  Christ! Ben had told them! They'd come to arrest me! I tried not to show fear but these men could scent it at a hundred yards. I wished Steve Langton were here. I tried to tell myself this was simply routine and it would soon be over, but I didn't believe it.

  'I can answer any questions here,' I said abruptly. Faye flashed me a look and sat down in the chair next to me, across a small glass table.

  The sergeant removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. 'I believe you know Ben Harrow, Mr Greene?'

  My heart felt heavy with dread and a pulse throbbed in my head. I held the sergeant's eyes. 'No, I don't know Ben Harrow, but if you're asking me if I have met him then yes, I did. We both did,' I glanced at Faye, 'last night, at the art gallery.'

  'And you haven't seen him since?'

  'No.' My body was rigid with tension.

  'You didn't call on him earlier today?'

  I could feel Faye's eyes on me but didn't dare look at her. They knew I had been to the hotel. The receptionist and that woman with the poodle had seen me, but why had they told the police? Ben hadn't been there. Had he reported something stolen from his room?

  Before I could answer Faye said, 'What is this all about, sergeant?'

  The sergeant ignored her and kept his gaze on me.

  I'd no option. 'Yes, I called on him at his hotel but he wasn't there.'

  'Adam, why on earth did you do that?' Faye exclaimed.

  'I wanted to know why he had damaged my paintings,' I replied as calmly as I could.

  The sergeant spoke. 'What time was this, sir?'

  'About ten-thirty. I went up to his room and knocked on his door. There was no answer.'

  'You didn't go in?'

  'Look, why are you asking me all these questions? He damaged my paintings, not the other way round. I'm not the criminal.' As I spoke, my mind was racing. Should I tell them I went inside and picked up Alison's photograph? Why were they interested?

  'So you had a grudge against him?'

  'Hardly a grudge. I was upset at my paintings but it's not the end of the world.'

  'You didn't want to get your own back?' the inspector said. His tone was casual but his eyes were hard as granite.

  'No.' Now I was puzzled. 'I went to talk to him.'

  In the silence that followed I could hear my heart beating. It seemed so loud that I thought they must all hear it.

  The sergeant spoke. 'You haven't answered my question, Mr Greene. Did you enter his room?'

  I again had no option. 'Yes, I did. I called out to him in case he was in the shower and checked it when there was no answer. He wasn't there. I left.'

  'Did you touch anything?'

  I tensed. Why these questions? What had happened to Ben? Clearly something had and if that were so the police would take fingerprints. They would know. I said, forcing my voice to remain even, 'The doors obviously and I think I might have picked up a photograph frame.'

  'Why would you do that, sir?'

  I could feel Faye's eyes boring into me. 'I thought I recognised the woman in the picture.'

  'And did you?'

  Faye saved me. Her voice cold and firm. 'Inspector, I think you should tell us what has happened.'

  The inspector looked at us, his hands clasped behind his narrow back. 'Ben Harrow was found dead in his hotel bedroom at two o'clock this afternoon. It is estimated he died some time between ten this morning and midday. We are treating his death as suspicious.'

  His words sucked the breath from my body. Ben dead? How? Why? Who? My mind struggled to make sense of this.

  Faye shot out of her seat. 'You can't possibly believe my husband has anything to do with that man's death. Adam wouldn't hurt anyone. This is preposterous.'

  My mouth was dry, my head throbbing. Did this have anything to do with Jack's death? But how could it?

  The sergeant said, rising, 'If you would like to accompany us to the station, sir, there are some further questions we would like to ask you.'

  'You're arresting me?' I felt as though the room was spinning whilst I fought to keep calm.

  'We'd just like to ask you some questions and take fingerprint and DNA samples. I hope you're going to co-operate, Mr Greene.'

  The way he said it left me with little choice.

  Faye said, 'I'll call Graham Johnson. He's a solicitor. Don't say anything until he arrives.'

  'Faye, it's Sunday.'

  'So? It's what he does for a living. Inspector you are making a big mistake.'

  I looked at the inspector's face. He didn't think so.

  CHAPTER 9

  Graham Johnson arri
ved at the police station not long after me. We learnt from Sergeant Wilcox that Ben's room had been ransacked, which Wilcox accused me of doing in revenge for my paintings being destroyed. That also seemed to be the police's idea of my motive for killing Ben. I was glad Johnson was there. He made me stick to my story, the one I'd given the police at my house.

  As the evening wore on, and the questioning grew more intense it took all my mental effort to concentrate and not let my mind flash back to the past and those other policemen in that other interview room. I held myself upright, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, the fingernails digging into the palms; I knew that if the two policemen saw this they'd probably interpret it as a sign of guilt.