Dying for Millions (15 page)

His voice was surprisingly deep: I'd expected a whispering tenor.

‘We're doing our best, sir,' Ian began, immensely kind. And then he stopped. I followed the line of his eyes. Mr Harris's side pocket was convulsing. He put his hand in, and removed it promptly, shaking it then putting the index finger in his mouth.

He shook his head; more in sorrow, it seemed, than anger. He turned to his wife. ‘It's no good,' he said. ‘There's no taming her.'

‘A ferret,' Ian said. ‘It's got to be a ferret.'

‘Too big for a pocket. And there was no smell.'

‘A clean ferret.' Ian had his head down on the steering wheel; tears of laughter glistened in the streetlights.

‘No! You only have to look at him! A gerbil! I bet it's a gerbil!'

Had it been Chris, I could have inveigled him into letting me look at the magazine, once it had officially been logged in. But it wasn't Chris. So it was simpler to battle through the now vicious snow to the newsagents, which stayed open the most appalling hours, and try to buy my own copy. Fortunately they always had an heterogenous supply of reading matter, and they let me dig through old copies till I was filthy, stiff – and successful.

What I now needed was a tame pharmacist with patience, to tell me if any of the herbs in the so-called remedies might be toxic. There was an obvious candidate: Carl. If he could call me, I could call him. So I did.

As luck would have it, it was his wife who answered. I got a sub-zero reception when I asked to speak to him. There was, of course, no way she would do anything as simple as call him; she went – excessively slowly, it seemed at my end – to fetch him.

‘Sophie? What do you want?' His tone was ultra-business-like. I thought I detected the click of another extension being lifted.

‘Helleborin,' I said.

‘I beg your pardon?'

I'd swear she echoed him.

‘Could you tell me if any of the following plants contain helleborin?' I read out the list in the teen mag.

‘Negative. But telling anyone to put anything in anyone's drink to change their behaviour is irresponsible in the extreme'. He sounded outraged. Did he think I was going to try it on him? ‘One person's common herb may be another person's allergen. Even simple things like parsley!'

‘Parsley?' I echoed. ‘But that's supposed to be good for you!'

‘A lot of things good for you in small amounts can be damaging if you take them in concentrated form,' he said. ‘Parsley's one of them – the seed, in particular.'

‘Oh. Anything on basil or mint?'

‘Pennyroyal – is that on your list?'

‘Yes. As a remedy for irregular periods.'

‘They used to use it as an abortifacient.'

I was lost for words.

We exchanged a couple of polite sentences about the following week's trip and I hung up.

I ought to sit and think this through. If Karen had been inspired by this article to try and influence Andy – a big if, since I didn't think even she was that stupid – at least she'd only have put trivial, probably harmless, herbs and spices in his drink. But what if she'd been inspired – if that was the word – to experiment? That meant she had almost certainly been responsible for Pete Hughes's death. No wonder she was distressed. But what if she just
thought
she'd done him harm? – That would cause her at least as much misery. I ought to have read those letters. In fact, I ought to go into college and read them right now …

I woke up with a start, ready to run, my heart pounding, my hands tense. Why was I asleep at my dining-table? And then that didn't matter, because whatever had woken me hadn't been part of any dream.

There it was again!

Someone was at the front door, fiddling with the lock.

I froze.

Rationally, I knew I was quite safe. I had deadlocked the front door: no one could get in. The Yale lock rattled again. Then someone started on the Chubb.

I scuttled into the kitchen and reached into a cupboard. No one was going to get me without a struggle. I crept towards the hall, hiding behind the half-open kitchen door.

Another rattle: the Chubb lock responded, all five levers of it. The door opened.

‘Sophie?'

‘Andy! You stupid bastard!' I flung into the hall. ‘You had me wetting myself with fear and you nearly got a faceful of this!'

‘But I always let myself in. That's why you gave me the keys.'

‘You always ring first.'

‘I did!'

‘You bloody well didn't.'

‘I pressed the bell. Is it my fault if it doesn't ring? Your batteries must be flat: where's that tester gadget?'

‘In the glory hole.' I flounced off to get it. And then I came back. ‘What the hell am I doing, testing batteries?'

‘Well, you need to know if your doorbell rings, don't you?'

Andy followed me to the kitchen table with the noise end of the bell. He prised off the back, and fished out the batteries: ‘There. Flat as pancakes! Any spares?'

I pointed at the glory hole.

He reached in. ‘They're your last ones. Where's your shopping list?' He scribbled on my kitchen jotter. ‘What's the matter? And what the hell's
that
?'

‘I told you, you scared me. And
this
is something Chris got for me to deal with unwelcome visitors.'

‘Christ – is it CS gas?'

I patted the little canister. ‘He didn't want to tell me and I don't want to know. He didn't lift it from police stores, don't worry. He brought it home from a conference in the States. Free sample.'

‘OK, I don't need chapter and verse. Sit down before you fall down, why don't you?' He pulled a chair back for me and, when I sat, pressed my shoulders down. ‘Jesus, that's some dose of stress you've got. What's up? Apart from thinking I'm Burglar Bill, that is.'

‘Quite a lot,' I said. And gave him a brief resumé.

What I wanted him to do, of course, was give me the complete run-down on where he'd been, phone Ian and do the same, then deal with all the other problems. For once – just once – in our relationship, I wanted him to be grown-up and responsible. Just once would have been enough.

‘So, is there any news about that kid?'

‘None – and I – hell! I was going into college! Look, I'll see you in a bit – OK?' I was on my feet.

‘Well, it would be, if you were going anywhere. But surely even your august seat of learning closes down for the night.'

‘Of course – but—'

‘And I'd imagine that it would be all tucked up by ten?'

‘It's not ten o'clock!'

‘No. It's eleven.'

I gazed at him. Then, as it dawned on me that he wasn't joking, I looked at all the little clocks on the kitchen appliances. They all agreed: one minute past eleven.

‘Are you all right?' he said; he sounded anxious.

‘Fine! Why?'

‘You're sure? You're very pale. Look at you – you can hardly stand up.'

Come to think of it, sitting did seem altogether safer. I sat.

‘Fancy a cup of – hell and damnation!' He fell over my bag of marking, which I'd dropped in its usual place: he picked it up in some irritation and looked inside. ‘Why is your lunchbox still full – well, nearly full!' He waved a stick of celery at me, the marks of my teeth evidence that I'd had at least one bite. ‘Some executive sweep you off to an expense-account lunch at the Mondiale? No? And what – since this kitchen is uncommonly tidy – did you have for supper? Sophie, kid, you really do run risks with your health. What shall I get you?' He washed his hands, dried them carefully, and dug in the fridge.

A bowl of pasta and a glass of wine later, I was feeling much better. But Andy clearly wasn't. He'd got that transparent look about the eye sockets that he always got when he was tired or stressed. Since it was now nearer midnight than I cared to think about, with a nine o'clock class to start my Friday, I could quite understand how he felt. I also knew that if I started to ask any questions he didn't like – and I knew he wouldn't like any of them – he'd go to bed faster than I could put out the milk bottles. But I had to mention Karen. It was still snowing, though not much had settled, and I was terribly afraid she might feel that sleeping rough was a heroic way to get Andy's attention. Or Andy.

‘Did Karen strike you as … unusually smitten?' I asked.

He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Some of these girls – I'm not being politically incorrect, they're not women – they frighten me. They're virtually children, but they want real sex. Some go to lengths which – well, they disgust me. At first I wondered if the threats could possibly – but surely a teenage girl couldn't – could she?'

‘What's Ruth say? She's had enough experience of the breed.' I suddenly realised I hadn't asked after her. ‘I'm so sorry – is she any better?'

‘Lots. I'm quite surprised, actually, because she left all her herbal remedies back in Devon. It must be the northern air. Look – I ought to phone her, and Griff told me not to use my mobile—'

It was easier just to nod permission than to ask why the hell he'd left it so late. Surely he should have called the minute he arrived: with luck she'd tell him so.

Closing the dishwasher door on the dirties, I reached down breakfast crockery. Whatever mode Andy was in at the moment, he'd have to put up with bread – or toast – and jam. There was nothing else in the breakfast line, despite the fact that the freezer was full of frozen curries and stews and a couple of exotic gateaux; I'd even polished off the spare bread I always kept handy. Somehow I'd have to fit in a supermarket shop, though Fridays weren't the best days for whizzing round the aisles.

‘Right,' Andy said, putting his head round the door, ‘early start. Six-fifty to Newcastle. OK for a lift?'

‘Provided you'll dig me out of the drifts,' I said: weary or infuriated, I wasn't sure which.

‘You're on. I'll wake you at six.'

I was so near an orgasm. So very near. But Kenji pulled away, and his funny monkey's face was replaced by Chris's, or at least what little of Chris's face I could see underneath his flat police cap.

‘Out!' he yelled, and Kenji gathered up his thesis and waved goodbye. ‘I've got a date with CNN anyway,' he said, over his shoulder.

Chris pulled his cap further over his eyes. He had a senior officer's baton and a failing erection.

And it was morning. And I was cold because the duvet had gone walkabout. No orgasm, either.

I was fully showered, dressed and made-up before I could bring Andy back to life.

‘You'll have to move fast – there's quite a lot of snow.'

I threw him our communal dressing-gown; he grabbed it and was beside me at the window, staring down at Balden Road. Not even a milk float had sullied the snow. Next-door's cat had made it halfway down my path, before changing what passed in its case for a mind.

The roads weren't in fact too bad once we reached the bus routes, which had been salted and gritted. We made New Street Station rather more quickly than a normal traffic-filled morning, and I parked with no problems.

‘I'm seeing you on to the train – no arguments.'

‘I should be grateful,' he said, muted, and set off at a spanking pace to the booking hall.

It was only after he'd bought his ticket – second-class – that I was able to say it. ‘I think you're taking the most enormous and totally unjustified risk. You should consider other people, even if you refuse to consider yourself. And – listen to me, don't turn away – you should have told the police where you were.'

‘Guilty as charged,' he said roughly. ‘Tell you what – as soon as you see the train pull out, you can call the fuzz and they can meet me at Newcastle.'

‘That is, of course, if you're still on the train at Newcastle.' His face gave him away. ‘What the hell are you up to, Andy?'

‘Tell you when I can, love. You know that.'

‘I don't. Not with you in this mood.'

‘It's not a mood. Look, just give me a break, will you? I'll be happy to talk to the police – once I get back to Ruth.' He fished out his diary and scribbled. ‘There – my address and phone number. I promise I'll go straight there and stay there until the police are happy. Or if they want me back in Brum I'll come back to you – if that's OK?'

I nodded, reluctantly.

‘Phone the fuzz as soon as the train pulls out and give them that address. And then swallow it!' He grinned and hugged me. ‘And find that kid – what's her name, Karen? – and persuade her to fall in love with a local lad. How about Andy Hunt? He's got nice knees, so Ruth tells me.'

‘She's probably a Blues supporter,' I said, returning the hug.

Despite everyone's loudly-expressed fears that the train would no doubt be delayed by the wrong kind of snow, it pulled in on time. Andy got a seat and returned to the door, leaning out to talk to me.

‘Andy,' I said, ‘couldn't you give up Africa and play trains instead? You could be to rail travel what Richard Branson is to aeroplanes! Sorry, only joking.'

‘I don't think rail privatisation's all that funny,' he said. But his expression was stony: I shouldn't have laughed about Africa.

A silence ballooned between us. I was frightened; we never used to have secrets. If we'd rowed, there was always a joke to bring us back together. But this wasn't a row; it was a withdrawal. At last, the guard started looking officious. And suddenly Andy flung open the door, stepped out and kissed me.

‘It'll be all right, kid. I promise,' he whispered. He stepped back in, slammed the door, and was gone.

As soon as the train had disappeared, I set off to find a phone. Ian was up and about, but still at home. He read Andy's address and number back to me, to make sure he'd got it right. ‘I'll get on to the transport police – make sure they keep an eye on things between here and the north. OK? And Sophie – there's a wine-tasting competition next weekend and I've entered you as my partner.'