Recalled to Life (39 page)

He finished and watched Dalziel's reaction closely.

The Fat Man drank some more coffee. There, it hadn't been so bad. Some time, somewhere, someone had been bound to say it, and now it had been said, he could start dealing with it.

'So that's the gospel according to Kohler, is it?' he said.

'That's what Cissy tells me,' said Waggs.

'I'd best talk to her, then. Where's she at?'

'Upstairs in her room waiting for me.'

'You're staying here? Wish I'd known last night, we could have got things straightened out then.'

'Mr Dalziel, I don't know there's much to straighten out . . .'

'You'd be surprised. Come on.'

He rose with a suddenness that sent the table rocking towards Jay Waggs. The American shrugged resignedly and followed him into the elevator. They didn't speak till they came to a halt before Kohler's door.

Waggs tapped and said, ‘It's me, Ciss. Open up.'

There was no reply. Waggs frowned, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

The room was empty.

'So where's she gone?' asked Dalziel.

'I don't know.'

'But you can guess? She's gone to see Westropp, hasn't she?'

'Probably. Shit. I told her to wait. I wanted to be there.'

'Why? What's she going to do? Christ, you're not hoping there's going to be a big climax for your story with Kohler pulling a gun out and blowing Westropp away?'

Waggs said, 'I doubt it'll come to that. She's got very mixed-up feelings about this guy.'

'Mixed feelings? About a man who set her lover up for the big drop? And kept her in jail for half a lifetime.'

For a moment Waggs looked puzzled, then he began to laugh.

'This really isn't a test, is it, Dalziel? You still haven't got it! I'm wasting time asking you questions. You don't know a thing! It was Jamie Westropp she was crazy about, Jamie Westropp she was screwing. Mickledore and her were never lovers. That was a story you Brits invented because it suited you, and Cissy went along with it because it suited
her.''

And now there was no way of not being surprised. It was always the obvious that hit you hardest. But being obvious didn't make it true.

He said, 'I shouldn't be too quick to believe a crazy woman, Mr Waggs.'

'Crazy? Yeah, maybe she was for a while after the little girl drowned. That's what made it all possible, Mr Dalziel. But what really made it work wasn't Cissy's craziness, it was your Mr Tallantire being so hell bent on pinning it on Mickledore, and your Mr Sempernel not giving a fuck who got the blame so long as it wasn't your Right Royal James Westropp!'

He spoke with a passion and force which came of conviction. Or could it be of the desire to be convinced? Perhaps, thought Dalziel, he needs it carved on tablets of stone, which is the way I'll need it too before I accept that Wally was anyone's stooge.

He said, 'So you reckon what got her out of jail was the news that Westropp was dying? Well, this is one reunion I don't want to miss.'

'But you're going to,' said Waggs. 'This is family only, Mr Dalziel. I reckon you'd just complicate matters. So why don't you hang on here?'

He had a gun in his hand. Dalziel looked at it in disbelief.

'You silly bugger,' he said. 'Here's me feeling all virtuous 'cos I'd not thumped you for thumping me, and now you've gone and made me have to thump you anyway.'

Waggs had the puzzled look of one who knows from the movies that it's the guy with the gun who gets to do the threatening.

'Into the bathroom,' he said.

'Nay, lad,' said Dalziel kindly. 'Gun's no use unless you're willing to use it. I reckon you used up your share of GBH when you biffed me yesterday morning. Not your style. Words is what a clever sod like you uses to get out of trouble. Stick to what you do best.'

He moved gently towards Waggs who let the gun dangle limply as he said, 'OK, Dalziel, so you're right, words it is. All I'm asking - '

Dalziel hit him in the stomach, catching the gun as it fell towards the floor and stepping out of the way as Waggs followed it.

'Thing about me is I'm a naturally violent fellow,' said Dalziel. 'I can go on thumping all day.'

He dragged the retching man into the bathroom, took the doorknob in both hands, braced his left foot against the door, and pulled.

There was some slight resistance before the screw gave way. He then pushed the spindle out on to the bedroom floor, went out and slammed the door shut behind him.

He switched on the television. It was tuned locally and there was an item about some visiting Asian politician who was being put up at the Williamsburg Inn for a spot of r-and-r from his official schedule. The camera showed the streets of the historic area and they looked very different from Dalziel's first impression; broad and airy, lined with elegantly proportioned buildings and filled with a golden sunlight which seemed to flow from an older, less hectic age. Even the slow-drifting tourists had the look of genuine time-travellers come in search of the history which their cities had concreted over.

It was his history too, he acknowledged with a slight shock of recognition.

He went out to see what he could add to it.

THREE

'I am going to see his ghost. It will be his ghost - not

him!'

The doorbell rang.

It was the same bell that had rung ever since the first house had been built on this site in 1741. Its tinny note was imprinted so deep in Marilou Bellmain's consciousness, it came close to being a genetic memory. Once during her marriage to Arthur Stamper she had caught an echo of that sound in the windblown decorations on Sheffield's civic Christmas tree, and that had been the moment when she knew she would leave him.

Through the porch outer door she saw a young black woman in shorts and a T-shirt, and she was ready with her little speech pointing out politely but firmly that this was not part of the Colonial Williamsburg public area when the woman said, 'Mrs Bellmain? Hi! My name's Linda Steele. I wonder could I have a word with your husband?'

She would have said no if James hadn't been so positive about admitting visitors today. But that was no reason to let insurance salesmen or religious freaks across her doorstep.

She said, 'What's your business, Miss Steele?'

'Just a social call. We've got some mutual friends in Washington and they said
to be sure to look James up.'

'Who's there, dear?' called Westropp from the sitting- room.

He didn't trust her. She didn't resent the thought. He was quite right. She'd have put up a 'Gone Fishing' sign if she thought she could have got away with it.

'Come on in,' she said.

Westropp regarded the smiling young woman with interest.

'Forgive me if I don't get up,' he said from the old hickory rocker which gave him the pleasure of movement without the effort. 'But I need to conserve my resources.'

'Hi,' said the woman. 'I'm Linda Steele. Scott Rampling said I should call.'

'I see. Marilou, I wonder if we could have some coffee?'

Reluctantly his wife left.

'I saw Scott only the day before yesterday. He didn't mention you, Miss Steele.'

She looked at him curiously. What all the fuss was about she did not know, but at last she was seeing who it was about. This man with his clear English voice whose tone, at once courteous and amused, still contained charm enough for vivid imagination to flesh him out into the sexy number he must once have been. Silent, he was simply a wreck. A wreck of a wreck. A refugee from a concentration camp with wrists so thin, you'd need a glass to read his number. She was here to save him hassle, was all she knew. Well, it shouldn't be a long job.

She said, 'I guess I'm not important enough for Mr Rampling to mention, sir. I gather things have developed since you and he last talked, and he got kind of anxious in case you might be bothered by anything.'

He considered, then said, 'No. No. I don't think anything's bothering me. You can go back and tell him you found me happy as a sandboy.'

He was definitely laughing at her but not maliciously. Rather he was inviting her to share the joke.

'I think Mr Rampling's hoping to get to visit you himself," she said. 'He's coming to Williamsburg in connection with Premier Ho's visit, you've probably read about it, and if he can make time, he says he'll call.'

‘If anyone can make time, it's Scott,' Westropp said, smiling. 'I wish he'd make some for me. Aren't you staying for coffee, my dear?'

She'd risen. This guy was at death's door, but in his own house he still called the shots. Outside was the place to protect his privacy.

She said, 'I don't think so. Mr Rampling said to be sure you didn't tire yourself out with visitors, so I'd best set a good example.'

The door opened and Marilou came in with a tray.

'Aren't you staying?' she said.

'Thanks, but no. I was just telling Mr Bellmain that maybe he shouldn't be bothered by visitors for a while.'

'You were?' said Marilou frostily. 'Tell me, young woman, are you a doctor?'

'Only of philosophy,' said Linda, flashing her keyboard smile. 'Have a nice day.'

She let herself out and saw that she had made the right decision just in time.

Standing at the gate was Cissy Kohler.

She hurried down the path towards her and said pleasantly, 'Hi, honey. It's Miss Kohler, isn't it? My name is Linda, Linda Steele. We haven't met but we've got a lot of friends in common. Mind if I stroll along with you a while?'

Cissy Kohler said, 'Excuse me, but I have to go in.'

'Save yourself the bother,' said Linda. 'I've just been talking to Mrs Bellmain and she says her husband's too ill to see anyone. So why don't we take that walk and talk things over?'

She smiled as she spoke and took Kohler's arm with all the confidence of one who'd done all the training necessary in her profession, and more besides, because she belonged to that generation of women who know there's no such thing as a safe street.

What she didn't know, because there's only one way to find out, is that hours in the multi-gym are but a lightly taken breath alongside twenty-seven years in the slammer.

A finger jabbed at her throat, forcing the thyroid cartilage hard against the larynx. She choked, gasped, tried to gulp, but her epiglottis remained firmly closed, her knees buckled, she staggered forward against the picket fence and jack-knifed over it. At last some air was getting slowly, painfully to her lungs.

She partially straightened, turned her head and through her tear-filled eyes saw the slight, middle-aged woman who'd so easily brushed her aside vanishing into the house.

'Cissy Kohler?' said Marilou. 'Oh my God.'

'Yes,' said Cissy. She screwed her eyes up and said, 'I seem to recall you were kind to me. I don't think I ever thanked you.'

'No. Well, it doesn't matter, I only . . . What do you want?'

'Tell me one thing. You're married to him, right? Were you making it with him that weekend at Mickledore Hall? Had it started then?'

'No!' cried Marilou. 'I hardly knew him. It wasn't till we met in Mexico . . . But why am I telling you this?'

It wasn't altogether a rhetorical question. She truly found it hard to explain the effect this very ordinary-looking woman was having on her. There was about her a kind of authority, the kind that comes from extraordinary experience - a trip to the moon, a descent into hell, a life out of time . . .

‘I'd like to see Jamie,' she said.

Jamie . . . ? No one called him Jamie. No one she knew.

She drew in a long breath. She was Marilou Bellmain of Williamsburg in the house that her family had built and lived in for more than two centuries. That was experience worth having too, that left its own mark of authority.

She said, 'Miss Kohler, Cissy, you were my stepson's nanny; you may or may not have killed my husband's first wife; you were certainly responsible in some measure for the death of his daughter. What gives you the right to come into my house and make demands?'

Cissy Kohler said patiently, 'Would you tell him I'm here, please?'

'I know you're here, Cissy,' said Westropp.

He was on his feet, standing in the doorway, his fingers lightly touching the doorknob, otherwise unsupported. To Marilou Bellmain he looked marvellous, stronger, more alert than she had seen him in many long months.

Then she saw Cissy Kohler's face. Gone was the prison mask of patient blankness. In its place was a silent scream of shock and pain. Cissie hadn't seen this man for twenty- seven years. Her mind's eye was not so ingenuous as to let time stand still. It had greyed the black hair a little, lined the smooth brow, stooped the narrow shoulders, but the basic model had remained the same. This long sack of bones, this papier-mache face beneath a bald and wrinkled dome, these eyes peering out like small creatures of the desert from some deep burrow, had nothing to do with that man.