The dark side of my soul (2 page)

Sandra quickly pointed out that the chances of finding the exact model and colour were pretty slim, maybe almost negligible and even if we found what we wanted I would still have to get someone to fit it. Also if it came to us being investigated, the police would see from our phone or internet history that we had searched for breakers yards throughout the country and that in itself would be damning evidence against us.

We mulled over several other options, some sensible, some utterly ridiculous. My mind was in a kind of haze, unable to think clearly due to the fog of nervous tension that engulfed it. All the while I was expecting that knock on the door that I knew eventually was bound to come.

At half past four Sandra made tea and brought it in on a tray with some biscuits. On setting it down on the coffee table between us she came up with another suggestion. “I was thinking you could take the car up to the road between Folkestone and Dover, you know, the coast road, where it runs near the cliff edge and run it off the cliffs. By the time it hit bottom the whole thing would be smashed up. That would solve our problem.”

“And suppose somebody is below. There is a path at the bottom by the sea. We could kill someone.”

“Not if you do it late at night. Nobody will be on the path at night.”

“No, no, it’s too obvious. A woman gets run over a short distance from here and that night we have an unlikely accident in which our car is destroyed. Don’t you think the police would put two and two together?”

She slumped down on the sofa next to me. “Well we have to do something.”

We were not criminals, nor were we practiced at deception, yet somehow we had to find an answer to our problem. To make matters worse my mind kept imagining the scene along the road. From what Sandra had said the medics could not have revived the old lady. If she was right, the road would be closed and the body eventually removed, leaving the police to take measurements of the skid marks and how far the victim had probably been thrown. They would note the state and width of the road and the weather conditions. From the measurements and the deceased’s injuries they would be able to ascertain how fast the offending vehicle was travelling at impact and may even be able to make a guess at what type of vehicle was involved. Although not a particularly busy lane, a few cars would be held up, the drivers frustrated at the delay as the police went about their work. At last the road would be reopened and notices placed facing each direction of travel asking for witnesses. The police would depart and all would return to normal as though nothing had happened.

I could not help but speculate as to whom the poor woman was but then I purposely blocked out the thoughts. Nothing could be done for her now. I kept wishing that Sandra had stopped at the accident but then I blocked out those thoughts too, I had to concentrate on the present. I couldn’t change the past.

It was a very quiet afternoon, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall the only sound. I had never thought about it before but suddenly it seemed such a morbid resonance, like the ticking away of life itself. As each second passed it was lost, gone forever and whatever happened in that short space of time could never be changed or revisited.

We took our tea in this silence. Neither of us touched the biscuits. Outside the light started to fade and we both knew it was far too late now to change our minds, we had to go through with trying to get away with what Sandra had done no matter how wrong it felt or how inept we were at it.

At six o’clock we watched the national news on television and at six thirty the local news. The accident was the second item. I had not counted on it being so high profile and at first it added to my nerves but then I thought, tomorrow there will be a different story and the events of today will slowly drift into the past. We just had to get through the next few days and then it would be all right.

As we sat watching the other unrelated news feeds an idea jumped into my head.

“Terry Bovey,” I said allowed.

“What?” Sandra looked at me curiously.

I switched off the TV with the remote control and turned to face her. “Terry Bovey owns a small workshop in Folkestone. A body repair shop, small, very low key. Some years ago he was in financial trouble and he came to me for help. As a financial advisor I was able to sort out his debts, get him time to pay. He mixes with a lot of unsavoury characters and it wasn’t easy. I also got him out of a lot of trouble with the Revenue people. It took me a long time sorting out his affairs and you could say I saved his business but I never charged him. It was pointless, he had no money, but he said that if I ever needed any work done on a motor to go and see him.”

“Can you trust him?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know. Christ, I don’t know if he’s still alive. This was years ago and he was no spring chicken then but it might be worth going into town to see if he is still working. He could repair the car and if I offered to pay him over the top I think he’d keep his mouth shut.”

Suddenly I became more relaxed. I felt a glimmer of hope. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. With the Ford repaired there would be no obvious link between us and the accident and with no witnesses it would be impossible for anyone to prove Sandra’s guilt. We just had to carry on and live our lives as normal. Everything was going to be all right. Then the doorbell rang.

Two

“Are you expecting anyone?” The little colour she had drained from my wife’s face.

“No, are you?” I asked.

Sandra shook her head. We sat still, waiting; hoping that whoever was at the door would simply go away. I realised that even if we managed to get away with Sandra’s foolish crime, this is what it would be like from now on, dreading every ring of the telephone and knock at the door. No matter how I tried to dress it up, nothing was going to be quite the same.

“We had better answer it.” Sandra said, making no attempt to move. Earlier we had closed the blinds before switching on the lights. The faint light filtering out through the windows would indicate that someone was in. The doorbell rang again.

With my heartrate increasing I inhaled long and hard, slowly letting the air out to try to calm my nerves. I rose from the settee and stepped into the hallway and through the frosted glass panels on the front door I could see the shapes of two tall dark clad figures. When I opened the door I was not surprised to find the vague silhouettes transform into uniformed policemen.

One was slightly taller than the other and much older. The shorter man seemed extremely young, too young in fact to be an officer of the law. His face was soft and round and almost pudgy. Without his uniform he would have looked more like a kid from high school. He certainly didn’t look tough enough to deal with hardened criminals and I guessed that he must be a fairly new recruit. The other policeman was just the opposite, with a mean, hard face that looked as though it had seen years of street crime and violence. He had cold penetrating blue eyes that seemed to accuse me even as I stood there. It was he who did the talking in a rough workmanlike voice.

“Good evening sir, I’m sorry to bother you but I wonder if you would answer a few questions. It won’t take more than a minute or so.”

I was nervous, shaking inside but outwardly I tried to appear calm and relaxed. “Certainly, what is the problem officer?”

He was waiting for me to ask them in but I stood firmly in the doorway not budging an inch. I wanted this over with as quickly as possible. As far as I was concerned inviting them into my home would only make matters worse. The hard faced officer seemed to be looking beyond me into the house, taking in every detail and I prayed that Sandra would not come to the door. He could not see her from where he was standing and I hoped that she would keep quiet so as not to get involved. I could imagine her babbling away guiltily and breaking down in tears at the first sign of pressure.

The officer gave a little cough before he started. “I don’t know if you are aware but a serious accident occurred nearby this afternoon.”

“No, I didn’t know that. What kind of accident?” I tried to act shocked.

His eyes stopped roaming around the hallway and fixed on my face, trying to read my reaction. “There was an incident about a half a mile along the lane. It was a hit and run. A woman was killed. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it, being so close. The road has been closed all afternoon.”

“Well, I’ve not been out today. I have been working in the garden out back since this morning, repairing garden furniture.”

“So you didn’t see anything?”

“No, how could I? You can’t see the lane from my back garden.” I was becoming more relaxed. In spite of his tough approach this guy was just fishing, checking out all the locals and their vehicles. Then I had the crumb of an idea. “Mind you, come to think of it I did hear a car go screaming by. Of course it could have been a powerful bike or any type of motor but it sounded like one of those fancy machines that the youngsters drive. You know; the ones with twin exhausts and very loud engines. I remember because it sounded like it was going so fast.”

“About what time was this?” The hard faced policeman asked without emotion.

I delayed, pretending to remember. “Difficult to say, maybe just after two, but then it might have been later, between two and three I should say.”

The pudgy faced one smiled. “That would be about it. That would fit.”

Hard face never reacted at all. Instead he turned and looked at the empty drive. “Do you own a vehicle sir?”

I should have expected the question but it took me by surprise. Whatever happened I knew that I could not let him see the Ford in its present state. This guy would just know and my façade would collapse completely. I had to answer quickly. Any slight delay would indicate guilt so I replied with the first thing that came into my head.

“Yes, of course, we own a Ford Fiesta. My wife is using it at the moment. She has been visiting her sister in London today. She left early this morning and she’s not back yet. You know what it’s like when you get a couple of women together. They can chat all day long. She should be home soon.”

At first I was pleased with my answer. It indicated that our car was in London and had been there the whole day and so could not have been involved in the accident. I knew that Sandra could hear me from where she was sitting in the lounge so hopefully she would remain perfectly still and silent, but then I thought of all the other things that could go wrong. The car had been on the drive for a time after Sandra had come home and when the police vehicles went by. One of the officers could have noticed it when passing. A neighbour may have seen Sandra come home and mention it to the police. Old hard face might also want to look in the garage and although I could refuse to let him without a warrant, it would look bad and almost certainly raise his suspicions.

“When it’s here, do you keep your car in the garage?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat that was the size of a gobstopper. “No we always keep it on the drive. The garage is too full of junk.”

The hard faced officer inspected the driveway more thoroughly. The concrete was a slightly lighter colour, less weathered in the spot where the car was usually parked, indicating that I was telling the truth.

I held my breath and waited as he surveyed the spot, praying that he would not ask to see inside the garage. There was no reason for him to disbelieve me but he seemed to be weighing up the situation. After nerve shattering seconds, at last he simply nodded and pudgy face added with a smile “When some women get together you can’t stop ‘em talking.”

Still without the slightest trace of emotion the older man thanked me for my co-operation and with a kind of resigned air the two of them started walking off down the drive.

“I hope you catch whoever did it.” I called to their backs and they stopped and both turned around.

Hard face spoke quietly but firmly. “Oh we will, you can be sure of that. We invariably do in these cases. The culprit always makes a mistake, drives around with noticeable damage to the car or tries to get it repaired. We’ll be notified of all vehicles that are taken in to repair shops with front end damage. Quite often there are witnesses that the guilty party is not aware of. It is just a matter of time.”

With that they turned and strode away leaving me standing at my front door watching them. I saw them approach the next house. They were speaking to everyone in the village. I had to hope that Jeff, my next door neighbour, or anyone else for that matter had not noticed Sandra’s earlier speedy arrival.

“What did you say that for?” Sandra asked as soon as I had closed the door and entered the lounge.

I sat down with a thump. “Because I didn’t want them asking to see the car, if it’s not here they can’t see it, and to be honest it was the first thing that came into my head.”

“We could be in trouble now you know; if somebody noticed me come back this afternoon I mean.” Sandra gave me a withering look as though this was my fault.

“I know, I know. We’ll have to hope no one saw you. If they did we’re sunk.”

Neither of us slept much that night. We were both restless and worried about what the following day would bring. I knew that I would not be able to concentrate on work the next day so I decided to take some time off. Fortunately working from home meant that I didn’t have to ring anyone and ask permission. It would simply mean that I wouldn’t earn commission that day but that could be made up later when this had blown over and I was in a better mood.

At four o’clock in the morning I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. I made a cup of tea and sat down with it and the phone book at the kitchen table. Terry Bovey was not listed. I crept back upstairs as quietly as possible, in case Sandra had found some respite in sleep. I went into my office and dug out the old file I had for Terry and found a telephone number and then trying to avoid the treads that creaked, I retraced my steps downstairs.

The hours dragged by. The silent house seemed to be sleeping; the only sound the constant ticking of the clock in the hall. Although the kitchen door was closed I could still hear its steady reverberation like a macabre heartbeat. I tried to ignore it but once in my head it seemed to grow louder with each passing minute and I realised how much I hated that damned clock. As far as I was concerned it was a most unattractive piece, ugly even, but it had been left to my wife on her father’s death and she refused to part with it. The only consolation was that the chimes were now broken and it no longer rang out the passing of each hour.

Outside an animal, a fox maybe, let out a lonely plaintive cry then all became silent once more and the night fell quiet again, as though it was holding its breath waiting for something to happen, like a knock on the front door or a ring of the bell and I imagined the hard faced police officer standing at the porch glaring at me saying “One of your neighbours saw your wife come home this afternoon, you lied.” So easy would it be for my quickly fabricated story to be torn to shreds but the bell didn’t ring. No one knocked at the door and the inscrutable clock just kept on ticking.

I tried reading a magazine but could not focus on the words so I made another drink in an attempt to relieve the tension and the boredom. Eventually the first faint light of dawn filtered into the house and I heard Sandra moving about upstairs. We had got through our first night and from now on it would be easier, or at least so I thought. Had I known then how our lives were about to change I would have dragged Sandra, kicking and screaming, to the nearest police station to confess her crime but I could not see the future, could not envisage the evil that was to come, that would engulf us and tear us apart.

When Sandra came downstairs she looked drained, as though she had not slept at all. My wife was slim and normally looked young for her age but that morning, without makeup and with lines of worry drawn on her face, she appeared much older than her years. Her nightdress was crumpled and her hair was a straggly mess. The dark bags under her eyes emphasised the lack of colour in the rest of her face as she sat almost zombielike at the table.

I made an early breakfast of boiled eggs and toast and we ate it together in the kitchen. We spoke sparingly, neither of us mentioning the events of the previous day as though that would somehow reawaken the memory. When we had finished eating I washed the dishes while Sandra sat silently at the table. A mood of deep depression had descended on our home that was not easily going to be dispersed.

At last eight thirty came and I called the number I had found for Terry Bovey. It was some while before the phone was answered by a thin high pitched voice that I recognised immediately as belonging to Terry.

“Boveys,” he said sounding slightly out of breath.

“Hello Terry. It’s Harry Conrad. It’s been a long time.” I wondered if he would remember me but his reply left me in no doubt.

“Hey, yeah, sure has been a while .How you doin’?”

“I’m okay. You’re not listed in the book. I wondered if you were still working.”

“Sure, yeah, still here, thanks to you I guess. Same workshop, same problems, same shitty customers, but I can’t complain. Work’s still coming in and to tell the truth I don’t want too much now. I’m getting older so I just stick to my regulars and don’t advertise any more, no need, enough people know me anyway. What can I do for you?”

“It’s good to hear you’re still operating because I need a little work done to my car. I’d like it done as soon as possible. I don’t expect any favours. I am prepared to pay.”

“What is it?”

“I drove straight into something yesterday and damaged the front section. I haven’t told my wife and I don’t want her to know. If she finds out she’ll never let me live it down. That’s why I want the job done quickly. It’s a Ford Fiesta, about three years old.” Lying seemed to be becoming my second nature.

“What kind of something did you hit?” Suspicion was creeping into his irritating squeaky voice.

“Er, it was an animal, run straight across the road in front of me.”

“An animal. What kind of animal?”

“A badger, I think it was a badger.”

“You think, aren’t you sure?”

“Well it was getting dark. I was so shook up that I didn’t stop.”

There was a pause. “It wasn’t that old woman who was killed yesterday by the hit and run driver, the one that was on the news. That was out your way wasn’t it?”

The sudden assertion took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected him to make the connection and for a second I froze. I tried to recover quickly but it was already too late, the short delay enough to indicate, in his mind at least, that I was the person to whom he had referred. I tried to cover my mistake with a hearty laugh but even to me it sounded false. “No, no of course not, it was definitely a badger.”

“Definitely, I thought you said you weren’t sure.”

“Well it certainly wasn’t a woman, of that I am sure. It was an animal of some kind.” I was becoming flustered. I had not expected so many questions.

“Where?”

“What?”

“Whereabouts did you hit it, in a country lane?”

“Christ Terry does it matter?”

More slow interminable seconds ticked by before he replied. “No I guess not.”

“Can you help me?” I must have sounded desperate and at that point I realised that he had guessed the truth.

This time an even longer delay preceded his reply. “Listen, because of that hit and run incident the police are going to want details of all vehicles with front end damage coming in to the local repair shops over the next few weeks.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. As you know, some of my clients are, shall we say, not exactly legit. The boys in blue already visit me on a regular basis. They’ll be checking me out, that’s for sure, and I don’t need any more trouble.”

“Oh, right.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Look man, I owe you, I know that, but don’t bring your car here. Take my advice; go out of town, preferably as far away as possible. Tell you what; I’ll give you a number.”

I worried at how easily he had seen through my story. Another delay was followed by papers rustling before Terry spoke again. “This guy’s a ways off, someone I know. He’s in Lancashire, near Burnley but he’s good, specialises in your kind ‘a problem. You know what I mean?”

We both knew exactly what he meant but I kept quiet. “He’s not cheap but he’ll keep his mouth shut. Got a pen?”

“Yes, I have one.” I was as good as admitting guilt but I had no other choice. He gave me the number. I repeated it and we said our goodbyes.

I called the number he gave me and it was answered almost immediately in a broad North Country voice. “Jimmy’s repairs”

I began slowly. “Hello, you don’t know me but I have been given your name by Terry Bovey in Folkestone. My name is Harry Conrad and I know Terry quite well.” I waited for the man to speak but was only rewarded with the sound of heavy breathing so I continued somewhat nervously, after all I didn’t know the person at the other end of the line and I only had Terry’s recommendation. “I need some work done on my car. It’s a three year old Ford Fiesta. The front section needs repair or maybe replacing. It’s quite urgent.”

“Is it drivable?” The rough accent was barely understandable.

Sandra had driven home in it so I assumed it was but Burnley was about three hundred miles away. Nevertheless the engine appeared undamaged so I hoped there would be no problem. “Yes” I replied confidently.

“Can’t do nought today, too busy, can start on it tomorrow if you can get here by then. Be three grand-cash.”

“Three thousand pounds, you haven’t even seen it yet. There’s not a great deal of damage. That seems a lot.”

“Eee can always take it to local Ford main dealer.”

I took a long deep breath. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s why tis three grand and I’ve already forgotten your name. Bad with names I am, that’s another reason for price. Cash also means no records, nothing to sign, no bills, no receipts, no computers, no proof.”

And no guarantees or VAT I thought but the work had to be done and this seemed my only option. “Okay, I’ll come up today and I will be with you first thing in the morning.”

He gave me his address then offered a word of advice. “If I were you I’d drive up at night. Not so easy to spot any damage to a vehicle at night.” With that the line went dead.

Sandra was staring at me. “Three thousand pounds, that’s ridiculous.”

“Like the man said we can still go to a local garage, get caught.”

“Shit.” She spat the word out like a bullet. “We could have a holiday in the Caribbean for that.”

“Yeah but because of your stupidity we are spending a few days in Burnley instead.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. You can take the money out of my savings account.” Sandra was near to tears. I had hurt her and I had not meant to, my words were spoken in frustration, without thought.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. The last thing we want to do is to start arguing.” I reached out and took her hand. “I have about three thousand five hundred pounds on my current account. I’ll go to the bank today and draw it out of that.”

“How long will we be there for?” She asked, still almost crying.

“I’m not sure but I guess it will be a few days. I’ll book a nice hotel. We may as well make the most of it.”

“What about my work?”

I thought about it for a moment or two. “I’ll call in for you. Say you have a virus or something and that you’ll have to take a few days off.”

Sandra gave me a watery smile, “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

I squeezed her hand and did my best to return her smile. “Don’t worry. It will be all right. Being away for a few days is probably a good idea. When we get back the car will be repaired and things will have had a chance to settle down. We can get back to normal and forget all about the accident.”

“Mister fix-it” she said ruefully.