Blind Needle Page 22

  As we came along a carpeted passage and through a carved mahogany door into the front hall, music suddenly swelled into the soaring strings and syrupy soprano of a West End musical triumph, coming from a room above. The door opposite the wide curving staircase was standing open a bare inch. Ray swung the door wider and stood aside like a flunkey, while the short thick-set man (his name, I now remembered was Gaz, on whose muscular forearm I’d seen Wayne tattooing a dagger and three drops of blood) pressed his broad hand between my shoulder-blades and gave me a shove, and I staggered in.

  2

  It seemed as though I had intruded upon a cosy family evening at home. I stayed near the door, on the polished parquet flooring where the carpet ended, the boorish stranger who has blundered in and created an atmosphere which everyone is too polite to remark on.

  The room was shadowy and dim, a single small table-lamp in the corner with a tasselled shade casting light along the gold embossed wallpaper, bringing gleams from the expensive reproduction furniture. There were several oil paintings of lakeland scenes in ornate gilt frames – ‘originals’ by local tenth-rate artists – and a couple of tall narrow cabinets with diamond-shaped panes in which were displayed Victorian dinner plates, condiment sets, and a collection of cut-glass animals with glowing pink and green crystals for eyes.

  Benson was standing next to the black marble fireplace, casually dressed in slacks and beige cardigan, but still with collar and tie. He passed his hand over his bow wave of wavy greying hair, the ring on his fleshy hand winking in the dim light.

  Seated in a winged velvet armchair was the older woman I had seen in the restaurant with Ruth Benson, her face smooth and implacable under its glaze of carefully applied make-up. Her hair was cropped above the ears and brushed back so that it looked burnished, a few artful silvery wisps drooping over her forehead and pencilled eyebrows. She wore a loose cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to show thin suntanned arms.

  ‘Give me the case,’ Benson said in a voice that was under almost too perfect control, as if the effort cost him a great deal. He twitched his neck inside his collar, snapping his fingers impatiently.

  ‘The tape in’t here,’ Wayne said, handing it to him. ‘I had a sken before. The bastard’s hidden it.’ He went to stand behind the brocade settee, his bandaged hand stuck out in front of him like a challenge. ‘I’ll get it out of him though,’ Wayne promised, glancing at me, his voice quivering with greedy anticipation. ‘Settle a couple of old scores as well …’

  ‘I hope that hurts like hell,’ I said calmly.

  Wayne reared up. ‘You, squire, have pissed on your chips.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Benson said.

  ‘How about a nice tattoo?’ Wayne grinned maliciously in my direction, his teeth brown square stumps with detritus in the gaps between. ‘Cut price.’

  ‘Bringing him here, for God’s sake,’ Benson murmered to no one in particular, and caught the woman’s eye. ‘They haven’t the brains of a baboon.’

  A blank moment followed during which Wayne twigged that the description applied to him and the others.

  ‘What d’yer fucking expect us to do? I’ve just told yer, the tape weren’t there—’

  ‘All right, it’s done now, forget it.’ Benson put the case down beside the woman’s chair. When he straightened up and turned towards me there was something deeply troubling him, a shadow lurking in his eyes. His usual bluff, confident manner was anything but; he looked uncharacteristically worried, like an insurance salesman faced with a massive claim. ‘Just who the hell are you and what do you want?’ he asked me, his breathing audible in his broad nostrils.

  ‘Bin going around telling everybody his name’s Peter Holford,’ Wayne said, grinning round the room as if at some private joke. Nobody else seemed to find it funny. Benson especially didn’t. His face had broken out in patches of mottled red.

  ‘What are you after? What the hell do you want?’

  I just stared at him.

  ‘You stole this briefcase from my car,’ Benson went on stolidly, ‘which contained £5000 and some business documents and other confidential material. Then you show up at a council meeting, trying to stir up trouble. Would you mind telling me why?’

  I tried and failed to frame an answer that would encompass all my rage and grief and hatred, and gave up trying. So I just said, ‘I want to destroy you.’

  He seemed genuinely astonished. His mouth sagged open. ‘But what for?’

  ‘For what you did to my wife.’

  ‘Your wife? What are you talking about?’

  ‘For what you did’ – I swallowed hard, choked the bile down – ‘to my wife Susan. You killed her.’

  It was as if the room and its occupants had frozen into a tableau: several people standing silent and bereft like mourners round a coffin, except the coffin was missing.

  ‘The guy’s a pure loony,’ Wayne muttered, shaking his head. ‘Anybody know what he’s gibbering about?’

  The blonde woman in the armchair was leaning forward and staring at me with cloudy grey eyes. She clasped her hands together, setting her gold bracelets jangling, and spoke for the first time.

  ‘We have a lot in common. Your name, so you say, is Peter Holford, and your wife’s name is Susan. My name happens to be Susan Holford too. Quite a coincidence.’ She gave the faintest of smiles, cold and fleeting. ‘Unless I’m your wife, Peter, and you’ve forgotten me.’

  Was it possible that I had? It was true that I couldn’t recall Susan’s face, couldn’t get a clear picture of her in my mind … but this woman wasn’t Susan because my Susan was dead. I was positive about that. And what was it that Trafford had told me? That Benson was living with the wife of his ex-partner? If this was the woman, then the only explanation I could think of was that she was lying – that her name wasn’t really Susan Holford. But why should she lie? Why say her name was Susan Holford when it wasn’t?

  ‘Confusing, isn’t it?’ the blonde woman (Susan?) said.

  ‘You’re not my wife.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. Your wife is dead, Peter. Or so you tell us. Your Susan is dead and Neville here is to blame, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want revenge.’

  ‘They had an affair. She went off with him.

  ‘That’s precisely what happened to me,’ the blonde woman calling herself Susan said. ‘Small world.’

  ‘But you’re not Susan,’ I said, grinding it out.

  ‘No, certainly not,’ she agreed with me. ‘I’m not dead.’

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Benson said, his self-control cracking. ‘I don’t give a damn who he is, or says he is, or thinks he is. I just want the tape. Forget all the rest—’

  He glanced towards Wayne, who levered himself up from the back of the settee and came towards me.

  I stepped back instinctively, though there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Gaz was planted solidly behind me, like a boulder that a stick of dynamite wouldn’t have budged. The very worst I could do was to smash some furniture, wreck the glass cabinets and generally make a mess, as if that would do any good. Ray was lurking near the door, thin and edgy, a one-dimensional shadow.

  Wayne said in a hoarse, reasonable voice, ‘Come on, squire, where is it? What have you done with it? Just you tell us where the tape is and we’ll call it quits. I’ll even forget about this.’ He waved his injured arm. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Plenty.’

  ‘That’s not the right attitude.’

  ‘The harbour’s going to get crowded,’ I said.

  The blonde woman, Susan, smiled a thin pitiless smile. ‘You’re not even worth killing, my sweet. Wayne has a special cocktail that’ll make you tell us everything. In fact you’ll be glad to tell us.’ Her mouth went thin and straight. ‘Then you can crawl back under the same stone you came from.’

  Wayne grinned, took a step nearer. ‘I have too.’

  ‘What about the body
in the harbour?’ I kept on. ‘Make a habit of killing people on Benson’s say-so? Do all his dirty work for him, do you?’ I tried to smile but the muscles in my face were stiff. ‘He’s got you by the short and curlies. Any time he feels like it he can pick up the phone and have a quiet friendly chat with one of his brothers in the Masons. The Chief Constable perhaps. I don’t suppose you’re in the local Lodge, are you?’

  It was pathetic, I knew it – a desperate last-ditch attempt at creating a rift of bad feeling between them – and plainly it wasn’t working. Wayne came right up to me and stared me in the face: the slits of his eyes in the puffy folds of flesh were febrile, glittering with hatred.

  ‘Don’t come it, squire, I’m warning you – you’re in deep shit as it is.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Benson broke in, as if he’d reached the end of a very short tether. His slightly bulbous eyes roamed up anxiously to the ornate plaster ceiling as from somewhere above came the sound of a woman singing about lost memories and forlorn regrets in a shaky soprano. ‘Understand me, whatever-your-name-is. Mess me around and I’ll let them sort you out. You’re on a hiding to nothing.’

  ‘Then I’ve nothing to lose.’

  Benson’s mottled jowls quivered. ‘Get him out.’ He gave one swift nod to the others, who started to close in. I tipped over a large blue vase with a curling rim and it broke with a crash on the parquet surround. Benson furiously jabbed the air. ‘I’m not having this here, in my house! Move him! Now! Out!’

  Gaz penned me in a corner. He tensed, forearms bunching, his large veined hands raised and slightly curled. Ray circled round behind him.

  ‘If he wants to play silly buggers …’ Wayne said off-handedly, taking out a soft leather pouch. ‘He just dun’t know who he’s playing silly buggers with.’

  Benson turned on him incredulously. ‘Not here, you cretin. Take him to the shop.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I don’t want to see it—’

  ‘Why not?’ Susan said, getting up. ‘It’s for your benefit.’ The contempt in her voice was unmistakable. ‘None of this would have happened if you’d taken better care of your briefcase or if your daughter had more important things on her mind than what to wear for her luncheon appointments.’

  ‘Don’t put the blame onto Ruth—’

  ‘That’s right, mustn’t upset poor Ruth, must we?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’

  ‘Must keep her pure and unsullied.’

  ‘That’s not the point! You can’t involve a young girl in matters of business, for Christ’s sake. She wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘She understands a fat monthly allowance.’

  Benson twitched his neck, blotchily red, inside his collar. He had the embattled look of a man faced with implacable female logic who would have liked nothing better, this very instant, than to resort to brute force. For a moment they stared one another out, the blonde woman’s gaze as steady, if not steadier, than his. Then he half-turned away. ‘Do what you bloodywell like, but keep Ruth out of it.’

  But she wasn’t going to let him have the last word. ‘This isn’t my mess, remember. And also remember who I’m doing it for, and why.’

  She pushed back her sleeves and folded her arms.

  ‘Now then, whoever the hell you are’ – icily calm, voice without a tremor – ‘it’s all very simple. Either you volunteer the information now, this minute, without pain, or I can ask Wayne to assist you. I hope you’ll be sensible. Then we can get this matter cleared up and out of the way and that’s the end of it.’ She stared hard at me and then gave a little shrug. ‘Myself, I prefer the simple, painless way. But there is an alternative …’

  Holding the pouch in his bandaged hand, Wayne unzipped it and opened it like a small book. It contained a syringe, needles, and a plastic ampoule with fluid the colour of rosewater. He held it out.

  ‘Take a good look, squire.’

  I pressed back against the wall. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t help myself. The lamplight, dim and diffused as it was, reflected a gleam on the glass syringe which seared my eyes. I saw Dr Morduch’s face looming over me and I knew what was coming. I closed my eyes, seeing a swirling redness that sucked me down, and felt my legs dissolve.

  ‘Shit and corruption, look at that,’ Wayne said in disgust. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Stick him with it,’ Ray said. ‘I would.’

  ‘Bring him over here and lay him down,’ Susan said.

  Hands gripped and carried me. I mumbled something, I wasn’t sure what, and the woman said sharply, ‘What was that? What did he say … ?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ Wayne said. ‘Roll his sleeve up.’

  Susan crouched over me and looked into my face. I could tell she was near because her perfume enveloped me like a sickly fog. She leaned closer and enunciated each word: ‘Save yourself the pain. Tell me what you’ve done with the tape. Where is it?’

  I was mumbling again, and that’s what I hoped it was, an incoherent mumble and nothing else.

  ‘Let me at him,’ Wayne said in a throaty, greedy whisper. ‘I’ve bin waiting for this.’

  My sleeve was pushed up my arm.

  ‘You’re sure about this stuff?’ Susan said in a low, terse voice.

  ‘He’ll squeal like a pig,’ Wayne giggled. ‘Oink, oink!’

  I smelt the foul odour of his breath on my face.

  ‘Here we go, boys and girls. Eyes down for a full house.’

  Nausea bubbled and burned in my throat. I swallowed it back and lay still, inert, drained, and waited for the thin cold sliding pain to begin all over again.

  3

  ‘What on earth happened here? Somebody have a fight?’

  The ornate plaster ceiling swam as I blinked open my eyes. Everyone else was standing except me. I pushed myself up into a sitting position on the settee and saw Wayne slide the leather pouch into his pocket and keep his fist bunched round it protectively.

  Nobody was looking at me. They were looking at Ruth Benson standing with one hand holding the edge of the door and staring at the smashed pieces of vase on the parquet floor. It was the silence in the room, the motionless standing figures, the lack of any response which seemed to disturb her most. She advanced slowly into the room, and as I remembered she was an exceptionally pretty girl, with dark eyes and long black lashes, and even her puzzled frown was fetchingly attractive. Ray scuttled out of the way as if he had no right to breathe the same air.

  Benson briskly rubbed his hands together and said jovially, ‘Nothing to worry about, Ruth, darling. Just an accident.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Er, just a chat,’ her father said. His reassuring smile was more a horrible grimace. ‘It’s a meeting, that’s all. If you don’t mind …’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ his daughter said, gazing curiously at me. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere. Don’t you work for us? Are you one of our drivers?’

  ‘This is business,’ her father said grimly. ‘Leave us to get on with it, would you, please? Mmm? Ruth?’

  ‘I know you,’ the girl said. Her face cleared. ‘You’re the one – the man who took Daddy’s case from the back seat of the Merc. You were in the office with Mrs Crompton. She was certain it must have been you.’

  The blonde woman, Susan, was shooting a look of x-ray intensity at Benson, the lines of her face stretched tight. ‘Neville, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Oh yes? What’s this “Not in front of the children” stuff?’ Ruth Benson asked the room at large. ‘Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Ruth, please …’ Benson said wretchedly.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ I said, getting to my feet. Susan gave Gaz a swift flashing glance and he moved up behind me. ‘You’re right, Ruth. I stole all your father’s secrets and now he wants them back.’

  ‘What secrets? What do you mean?’

  ‘Go to your room at once,’ the blonde woman said.

  Ruth Benson swung ro
und. ‘What – did you say?’ Her expression was exactly the same as if the woman had just slapped her.

  ‘Neville, will you please tell your daughter to go upstairs before I start breaking things. We’re in this mess because of her. If she’d had the sense to lock the car that damn case of yours wouldn’t have been taken and we wouldn’t be standing here now like bloody fools.’

  Benson was breathing audibly through his wide nostrils. He brushed back his thick wavy hair, and then, in a process of mime, without actually touching her, began pushing his daughter towards the door. She was my last and only hope, what little hope there was. ‘If he doesn’t get his secrets back he’s going to have me killed,’ I said, edging away, getting the settee between me and Gaz.

  Ruth Benson stared at me in silence, and then she laughed.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re just a thief.’

  ‘That’s right, I admit it. Call the police.’

  Her face clouded over. ‘What secrets are you talking about?’

  ‘I assumed you’d know but now I don’t think you do,’ I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. ‘You just spend the money and have a good time, don’t you?’

  I could never have imagined that Benson’s daughter, of all people, would be my rescuer. Yet she was, it seemed, quite genuinely, the innocent bystander, the one person that Benson feared might learn the truth and who couldn’t be silenced by threats. It was funny, in a way. If I hadn’t been shaking, feeling sick and hollow inside, I would have thought the situation comic.

  Susan started to say something, her face taut and livid, but I didn’t give her the chance. In half a dozen strides I was past her and got between Ruth Benson and the door. Gaz made a move but Benson grabbed his arm, a tangle of emotions distorting his fleshy features.

  ‘Somebody stop him,’ Ruth Benson cried out. ‘Ring the police—’

  ‘That’s the last thing they want,’ I said. ‘I know too much.’