Full Fury (9 page)

If
his justification was in his painting, he must have considered hers was in protecting him from the harshness of life, so that more and more of his precious Art could burst into lurid life, even if it never reached an adoring public.

Into
such an arid relationship there entered Andy Paterson. There would have to be an Andy Paterson some time.

Here
Myra faltered, as though embarrassed. But it was merely because she was uncertain how to present Paterson.

‘
Andy never was a farmer at heart,’ she said at last. ‘I met him at a dance, over at the Darnley’s. He was a big man—big, you understand, more than just size. He swept over you with that laugh of his, and with his confidence. Nothing was ever sacred to Andy, no private thought or secret…’

She
paused. ‘…longing.’ She glanced at Crowshaw, projecting her longing for companionship and affection, reaching for his sympathy.

But
would the longing have been such a secret? She would have shrieked aloud her yearning, with every gesture and every word.

Before
very long she and Andy Paterson were spending two or three evenings together.

‘
We went to concerts in Birmingham, shows, the ballet. Once we did a trip down to London for the opera.’

‘
Did your husband know?’ Crowshaw asked.

‘
I kept nothing from him.’ She was proud, defiant. ‘Do you imagine he’d care?’

‘
I don’t know.’ Crowshaw considered it. ‘I imagine so.’

‘
Then he never showed it,’ she flashed back.

Neville
had presented a flat indifference. He was unmoved to hear that she was spending evenings at Paterson’s place. He didn’t seem to believe it. So she brought Paterson home and showed him to Neville, if only to prove his existence.

Antagonism
bristled at the meeting. Andy was patronising and hearty. He flung out inferences that should have shrivelled Neville’s complacency, but only increased his polite disdain. Paterson he plainly considered a heathen. The evening ended with a singular triumph for Neville’s quiet contempt. And later, when Andy had gone, there was a hysterical outburst from Myra, from which Neville quietly walked into his studio.

It
lasted six months. Neville would not believe. Though she stayed late at Paterson’s farm, Neville would not be shaken. Myra had too much taste, he inferred.

‘
And had you?’ Crowshaw asked.

She
flashed hatred at him. ‘I loved Andy.’

‘
And he loved you?’ he asked softly.

She
bathed in it. Recalling, she moved sensually.

‘
Yes, Andy loved me.’

But
Paterson had become intensely possessive. It mattered little to him whether her husband knew, realized, accepted—or just disappeared in a puff of smoke. Paterson simply hated Gaines for his contempt and his indifference.

Several
times he invited both of them to the farm. It gave him hearty pleasure to flaunt his feelings under Neville’s nose. But every visit ended with Paterson burning in fury, and Neville’s calm eyes never seeing anything but a heathen.

In
the end Myra had grown tired of it. Andy’s possessiveness had become wearisome, and it had all been a failure. She had only wanted to jerk Neville into reality. Really, it had always been that, she told Crowshaw. But Andy would not release her. His hold was a social one. Myra moved—usually without Neville—in a social circle which she prized. Andy could ruin that for her, by always being there with remarks and suggestions calculated to ruin her reputation, which up to that time he had respected. Abruptly she became afraid of him.

Neville
seemed as unmoved by her fear of Paterson as he had been by her apparent attraction to him. There was a terrible scene, when she tried to express her fear of Andy, and her inability to avoid seeing him. But Neville saw it as yet another challenge. She screamed, wept, at his indifference—and Neville simply walked away into his studio.

Then
there was one final visit—Neville and herself—to the farm. She hoped to provoke Neville into some sort of demand, however feeble, that Paterson should never see her again. And Neville calmly walked out into the soft September evening, leaving them together over their drinks.

Myra
was drunk when he drove her home. Neville said nothing.

Crowshaw
waited while she collected herself. The soft scatter of the fountain dwelt on the air. Her voice was hoarse.

‘
Then Andy phoned to say that Neville had bought a gun. He was laughing about it. I didn’t know what it meant. I just couldn’t ask Neville. You understand. It was a joke… or something. I didn’t guess. How
could
I have guessed?’

But
something had happened to Neville Gaines, because he took that gun up to Paterson’s farm, and solved the problem for good and all. And if Myra could understand it, she was now certainly too upset to express anything but anguish.

I
could see that Crowshaw realized there was nothing further to be gained by staying, so shortly afterwards we left.

The
sun was low on the drive back, and dreary streaks of mist snaked across the road between the high hedges, seeping down from the fields. Crowshaw didn’t say a word.

I
went off home, but Crowshaw wasn’t so lucky. Freer had gone off duty. On Crowshaw’s desk were the evening papers, and they weren’t encouraging. They complained there were no official claims of progress on the case. What was holding things up? Crowshaw threw them from him in anger.

There
was a curt note from the Chief Super’s office, requesting his presence early in the morning. He went down to see Gaines, viewing him now with fresh eyes—but he saw nothing new. Sympathised, perhaps, but did not understand.

‘
Have you seen a solicitor?’ he asked.

‘
He came this afternoon.’ Gaines sounded unimpressed.

He
was spread on his bunk, and made no move to rise. Crowshaw took the single hard chair.

‘
What did he say?’

‘
Not to tell you anything.’ Well at least he was frank. ‘But there’s no more to say, is there?’

Crowshaw
said: ‘I’m not supposed to advise you. I’m not even supposed to be seeing you now, not alone. I’ve just been to see your wife.’

Interest
flickered in Neville’s weary eyes. ‘How was she?’

‘
She said you couldn’t have re-loaded the gun.’ Crowshaw watched him, but there was none of the anticipated reaction. ‘Either you took two guns with you—’

‘
No. No, I’m… sure I didn’t.’

‘
Or you re-loaded.’

Gaines
turned slowly to look at him. ‘Why should I help you? I’ve admitted it. Isn’t that enough?’

‘
Far from it. Dozens of people admit to crimes. We have to prove it.’

‘
Then go ahead and prove it.’

The
solicitor had been smart after all. He’d seen the significance of the extra shots. Was Gaines sensing a way out?

‘
We may have to drop the case.’

Gaines
levered himself on to one elbow. ‘Drop it?’

‘
Tell the Magistrate we don’t want to pursue it. You’d be discharged.’

‘
You’re being very frank.’

‘
Because you won’t admit to two guns.’ Then he went on casually: ‘Why did you ask Lovejoy specifically for a thirty-eight automatic?’

Gaines
stared. ‘That’s what they’re called, isn’t it?’

Oh
good Lord, so Freer had been so nearly right.

‘
And you went round Birmingham hunting for thirty eights?’

‘
Only one.’ Gaines lifted his head in challenge. ‘One.’

‘
Then you
must
have re-loaded that one.’

But
Crowshaw had lost him. Gaines was tired of it.

‘
Perhaps I did. If you say so.’

‘
No—you do. You say you killed him. Then you must have re-loaded, or you must have had two.’

Gaines
shrugged, and Crowshaw left him to think about it.

In
the morning he went straight down to see Gaines, and found him about to shave. He threw down on the bunk the thirty-eight that Gaines had bought from Lovejoy, and a handful of rimless cartridges.

‘
All right, show me. It’s empty. You load it.’

Gaines
slowly wiped lather from his face. He came over to the bunk. ‘It’s a joke?’

‘
No. You load that thing if you think you can.’ He twisted his mouth. ‘Then you can blast your way out of here.’

Gaines
gave him an uncertain smile. He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hand, and looked up at Crowshaw as though for guidance. He was so confused that Crowshaw was certain he didn’t know which would benefit him most, to succeed or to fail. Then he flicked the safety catch on and off, and jerked back the chamber.

‘
Lovejoy showed me that,’ he said.

But
he had no idea where the magazine was. He raised his eyebrows at Crowshaw. ‘You win.’

‘
Or lose—perhaps.’ Crowshaw scooped it all into his pocket and turned to go.

‘
Oh… while you’re here…’ It was such a meek little smile. ‘Could you perhaps… change the blade in my razor?’

‘
Oh, you’re good,’ said Crowshaw. ‘Good.’ But all the same he changed the blade.

When
he got up there, the Chief Super’s attitude was unmistakable. ‘What’s holding you?’ he asked bleakly.

Crowshaw
explained stolidly, through all the interruption’s.

‘
He’s faking,’ said his chief.

‘
No, sir. There’s too much circumstantial evidence. I’ll swear he didn’t know how to re-load the thing.’

‘
Then it leaves you with one alternative.’

‘
I know. A second gun.’ Crowshaw paused. ‘There’s something convinces me he
had
got two guns. Something he slipped out, sir. He said, about not having two: “I’m sure.” As though he really wasn’t, and it was worrying him.’

‘
We’ll have to bring him before the Magistrate. Do you want me to ask for an adjournment?’

‘
It may not be necessary.’ Crowshaw looked at his fingers. ‘A dozen men, sir. Twenty. I’ll find that other gun before Monday. It’s got to be somewhere, in all that mud.’

He
looked up into doubtful eyes. There was a long pause. Then: ‘Twenty men, Crowshaw. And get it by Monday.’

On
Saturday morning it began to rain again. I recall that Crowshaw simply saw it as an extra challenge. He was in a fighting mood. We took twelve men from HQ, and met eight they’d provided from neighbouring local stations. I was one of the twelve. Four went on a general search of the farm area, in case that damned second gun was lying somewhere in the open. The rest of us were on mud detail.

‘
It’s not going to be pleasant,’ Crowshaw told us. ‘That gun could have been trodden down under a foot of mud. Very nasty. But the sooner it’s found, the sooner we can pack it in and get round to the pub for a few drinks.’

We
had it quartered with string on pegs and ran the operation like a military campaign. Freer supervised. Crowshaw waited in the Cambridge.

I
drew the pig sty. Freer wouldn’t let us hurry, and I recall it as a special portion of hell. The job had to be done well. Inch by inch. We searched the byres and the sty and the compost heaps, shoulder deep in stench. The rain never ceased. The day began with sardonic humour, deteriorated to grumbles, and ended in near-revolt. We found three more shell cases, but no gun.

Crowshaw
burned with a slow fury. I drove him back, and could sense him smouldering.

I
didn’t know it then, but he went back alone on the Sunday morning, and tramped morosely about the farm. Drover accompanied him, silently and in mute sympathy.

‘
You ever meet him?’ Crowshaw asked at one point.

‘
Gaines? Once or twice. Funny chap.’

And
Crowshaw wondered where a funny chap might have thrown his second gun.

On
Monday morning he went to the Chief Super’s office without any summons. He was so dispirited that he was close to asking to be taken off the case. The Chief Constable was there.

‘
No luck, I hear.’