Deadlock

Conway suddenly raised a hand. ‘I meant to ask you – it’s Anna’s birthday next Monday, the 30th. I’d like a good house plant, or maybe Irene could make me up a bouquet – I don’t know what she’s got in the way of flowers this time of year. I could pick up the plant or the bouquet on Sunday evening, put it somewhere cool overnight where Anna won’t see it.’

‘I’m sure Irene’ll be able to find you something to suit you,’ Garbutt told him. ‘She’s got some first-class house plants coming on. Or she could make up an indoor garden. They’re a bit more unusual and they last a long time. The best thing would be if you had a word with Irene yourself. Drop in one evening on your way home, see what’s on offer.’

‘Right, thanks,’ Conway said. ‘I’ll do that.’

They reached the station in good time. The buildings were beautifully decorated; elegant old bracket lamps shed a golden glow. A striking display of purple and white dahlias graced island beds set in the twin platforms.

Passengers strolled up and down, chatting in friendly fashion, looking about with keen attention as they waited for the train. No stand-offishness here, no grimly silent Monday-morning faces. Everywhere an air of holiday gaiety, even among those clearly on their way to an ordinary day’s work.

Garbutt got out of the car and went into the station with Conway, as he always did. His boyhood love of steam trains was as strong as ever.

‘I wish I could spare the time to put in half a day here now and then,’ he said when Conway came back from buying his ticket.

‘I wouldn’t mind putting in more time myself,’ Conway told him. He came along most weekends, with an occasional extra stint in the lighter evenings.

The signal dropped. The passengers stopped perambulating and lined the platform, craning to catch the first plume of smoke, ears cocked for the distant rumble of wheels.

She came swooping down on them with a heart-stirring rush and roar, the engine splendid in green and black livery, brasswork gleaming, coaches brilliant in scarlet and cream. Along the open windows, men and women leaned out, smiling and waving. Among them, a lad of seventeen or so, scrutinizing the waiting passengers as the train swept in. He caught sight of Conway, his face broke into a cheerful grin. He called out a greeting, lost in the medley of sounds.

Conway raised a hand in reply and hastened along the platform to where the lad’s compartment would stop. The train drew to a halt amid clangs and hisses. Doors swung open. Garbutt stood watching the lively to-and-fro with his eyes alight, savouring the acrid scents of steam and smoke.

‘Pick you up at six-thirty,’ he called out as Conway stepped aboard. Conway turned and waved, gave him a nod. The lad closed the door. The guard waved his flag, blew his whistle.

On the dot of seven thirty-two the engine began to snort and grunt. Along with everyone else remaining on the platform, Garbutt stood motionless as the train pulled out, slow and stately. He stayed gazing after it till its lights had vanished into the shadowy distance and the far-off rattle of its wheels was lost among the rising sounds of morning.

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_3076f282-bcfc-5956-860f-cfd1aa75a595)

The sky was still flushed from sunset when Garbutt halted his car again at Oldmoor station. His watch showed six-ten. Time for a pleasurable stroll round, a good look at every detail, every notice.

He pulled his coat collar about his ears as he got out of the car. Bitterly cold in the wind. At least the rain was holding off.

Promptly at six-thirty the brightly lit train came thundering in. Conway leaned out of a window, gave Garbutt a cheery wave. The train clattered to a stop in the lamplit dusk. Conway jumped down and joined Garbutt under the shelter of a canopy. They stood watching the animated bustle till the train huffed and puffed its way out again, spot on time.

Whirls of coppery leaves danced along the road in the car’s headlamps as they drove out to Ferndale. Lights shone out from scattered dwellings. Conway chatted about his day at the factory. The festivities had been a trifle long-winded for his taste, the speeches a shade self-congratulatory. But it had been enjoyable enough. The sales meeting in the morning had gone particularly well. Plenty of good offers, first-class job lots of materials bought in against the demands of the advancing season.

‘You remember Irene asking me a few weeks ago about new curtains and bedspreads for the back bedroom?’ Conway said.

Garbutt nodded. ‘That’s right. She’d like them for the New Year. The eldest son and his family should be due some leave. They’ll be home from Germany around then.’

‘I promised Irene I’d let her know when we had some good discount offers. I should be able to fix her up now. We’ve got some exceptionally good promotion lines specially for the jubilee. I’ll be very surprised if she can’t find something she likes among them. If you’ve got ten minutes to spare you can pop into the house with me now, take a look at the swatches.

‘If you think any of them might suit, you can take them home with you, Irene can look through them this evening. I’ll pick them up first thing in the morning. If she does decide to place an order I’ll take it then, I can get the order pushed through right away. You’ve got to be quick off the mark with these specials, they get snapped up pretty fast, they’re terrific value.’

‘Sounds just the job.’ Garbutt was pleased. ‘I’ll come in and take a look at the patterns now. I’ve nothing on till seven-thirty, that’s when I pick up my old gent to take him along to his club. Irene’s been very satisfied with the covers you got her for the sitting room, back in the summer.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ Conway said. ‘And I can have a word with Irene in the morning about the flowers for Anna’s birthday.’

There were no lights visible as they approached Ferndale. Garbutt pulled up by the front door and they got out of the car. Conway switched on the porch light. Garbutt wiped his feet on the mat.

Conway stood rigid for a moment, frowning at the sight of the morning paper still lying folded on the side bench, but he made no comment. He picked up the paper, bent it in two and thrust it into the slant pocket of his overcoat. He set down his briefcase and pulled off his gloves, got out his keys.

‘Anna’s probably having a nap,’ he said as he unlocked the front door. His tone strove for lightness. He raised a cautionary hand to indicate the need for silence.

Cosy warmth floated out to welcome them as they stepped into the hall. ‘Come through into the kitchen,’ Conway said in a low voice. ‘You can have a cup of tea while you look at the patterns.’

Garbutt nodded and followed him along the passage to the kitchen. Everything scrupulously clean and tidy. No sign of food preparation, no smell of cooking. A faint drift of music sounded from the direction of the bathroom.

Conway’s face cleared. ‘She’s having a bath.’ His voice held relief. ‘I’ll pop along and let her know we’re here.’ He waved a hand. ‘Put the kettle on. Make yourself at home.’ He went cheerfully off.

Garbutt picked up the electric kettle and filled it at the sink. He could hear Conway tapping on the bathroom door, calling out: ‘I’m home, Anna.’ A brief silence. Louder knocking, the doorknob rattling. Conway’s voice raised, calling urgently: ‘Are you all right, Anna?’ Calling again, more loudly still. Rattling, knocking, calling.

Garbutt set down the kettle and went along to the bathroom. Conway threw him a distracted glance, his face creased in anxiety. Garbutt put his ear against the door panel. Total stillness at the other side, except for the tinkling tune from the radio.

‘She’s locked herself in,’ Conway said in a voice brittle with tension. ‘She never does that.’ He suddenly jumped back and launched himself at the door, shoulder on. The solid structure stood unyielding.

‘Let me,’ Garbutt said. At his second powerful kick the door burst open.

The bathroom was in darkness except for the light filtering in from the passage and the rosy glow from an infra-red heater on the wall above the handbasin.

The two men remained for an instant in frozen silence, gazing in, then Conway raised a hand to pull the cord of the light switch. In the moment before his fingers touched the cord, Garbutt’s eyes made out the pale form reclining in the bath.

The ceiling light sprang to life and Garbutt saw that the bath was full of blood.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_151c8004-837d-5fb1-b358-4087f77804f0)

By eleven o’clock the wind was blowing half a gale. In an interview room in the main Cannonbridge police station a single overhead bulb cast a harsh white light over the bare furnishings. An uneasy combination of pine disinfectant and floral air freshener lent a quirky note to the cheerless surroundings.

The officer detailed to take David Conway’s statement had now finished. He pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll see if they need you for anything more tonight,’ he told Conway. ‘If not, you’ll be able to get off home.’ He halted in the doorway. ‘I’ll try to find out what’s happening about the post-mortem.’

Conway gave a nod. He slumped down in his seat, head lowered, eyes closed.

Some little time later, Police Constable Hamlin came along the corridor, at long last on his way home to bed. Greying hair, an air of shrewd common sense.

He paused by a window to assess the weather for the drive home. The sky was cloudless. A bright crescent moon lay on her back among glittering stars. The wind screamed round the building, tossing trees along the side of the forecourt.

There was no one else in the corridor and he permitted himself a gigantic yawn before moving off again. It had been a very long day. He had been driving back to Cannonbridge alone, shortly before seven, in the happy belief that he would soon be heading for home, when he got a message to go at once to Ferndale. A reported death, his was the nearest car. He had been first on the scene.

He blinked away the grim recollection. His long years in the force had hardened him to a great many things but not to everything. An appalling death for so young a woman. A terrible thing, depression, so much more prevalent nowadays, it seemed, than when he was a young constable, starting out. So much more severe in so many cases, always to be taken very seriously indeed. And the poor husband, Conway, shattered and distraught, but still trying his best to he helpful and cooperative.

Hamlin turned a corner in the corridor. Ahead of him he saw with surprise the light still shining out through the glass-panelled door of the room where Conway had been interviewed. He’d have thought they’d have finished with Conway by now, let him get off home.

He reached the room, halted and looked in through the glass. Conway was alone, sitting at the table, leaning forward in an attitude of studious concentration, gazing intently down at a newspaper folded into a square.

He showed no sign of distress or agitation, he appeared oblivious of his bleak surroundings. He moved his mouth, bit his lip, as if deep in cogitation. From time to time he made a mark on the newspaper with a pen. He put Hamlin in mind of nothing so much as a man at a café table, marking runners on the racing pages.

Hamlin opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘You still here, then?’ he asked on a friendly note.

Conway laid down his newspaper and put the pen away in a breast pocket. He looked up at Hamlin, his face composed but infinitely weary. ‘I’ve finished my statement,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m waiting to see if there’s anything else.’