Читать книгу Death’s Jest-Book - Reginald Hill - Страница 28

It had been the best weekend of Hat Bowler’s life, no competition, not even from the winter weekend a couple of years ago when he’d trudged back from a long unproductive stint in a hide looking for a reported Rock Thrush and there it had been, perched on the bonnet of his MG where it stayed long enough to get three good shots with his camera.

It hadn’t just been the sex but the sense of utter togetherness they shared in everything they did. Saturday had been a perfect day till dinner when she’d pushed away her plate and said, ‘Shit, I’m getting one of my headaches.’ At first he’d laughed, taking it as a joke, then had felt a huge pang of selfish disappointment as he realized it wasn’t. But this had quickly been blanked by anxiety as her face drained of colour. She’d assured him it was nothing, taken a tablet, and when, instead of retiring to her own room, she lay willingly and trustingly in his arms the whole night through, this had seemed an affirmation of love more powerful than sex. Gradually the next morning the colour had returned to her cheeks and by lunchtime she was as active and joyous as ever, and that night … if ever joy was unconfined, it was in the boundless universe which was their bed that night.

They didn’t leave the room till halfway through Monday morning, and only then because they were due to check out. Slowly they drove back into Mid-Yorkshire. They were in Rye’s Fiesta – Hat’s MG was taking even longer than its owner to recover from the injuries sustained during the rescue mission – but it was lack of volition rather than lack of power which dictated their speed. Both knew from experience that joy is a delicate fabric and life’s shoddy sleeve has a thousand tricks up it which can be played to bankrupt poor deluded humans even as they rake their winnings in. This journey was a time-out. In the car with them they carried all the joyous certainties of that hotel room, but what lay ahead could never be certain. Out of some part of Hat’s subconscious, the existence of which he had hitherto not even suspected, the Gothic fancy leapt that if they had been driving along a narrow mountain road with a rock face on one side and a precipice on the other, it might have been well to seize the wheel and send them plunging to their deaths. Happily a hawthorn hedge and a turnip field didn’t offer quite the same incentive, so it was a fancy easy to resist and one he decided to keep to himself. What after all was he feeling so pessimistic about? Had not Rye promised he would be safe with her, and he certainly intended exerting all his strength to ensure she stayed safe with him.

Impulsively he leaned over and kissed her, nearly bringing the turnip field into play.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘don’t they do road safety in the police any more?’

‘Yeah, but some of us get special exemption.’

She reached over and touched him intimately.

‘And that’s a special exemption, is it? Hang on.’

The turnip field came to an end to be followed by a meadow full of sheep with a rutted overgrown lane in between. Rye swung the wheel over and they bumped up the lane for twenty yards or so before jolting to a halt.

‘Right,’ she said, undoing her seat belt. ‘Let’s have a road safety lesson.’

For the rest of the journey his heart was like a nest of singing birds which permitted no discordant future possibilities to be heard. The world was perfect and all that lay ahead was an eternity exploring its perfections.

But, for all his certainties, he was sorry when the journey came to an end and they turned into Peg Lane where Rye lived. Somehow, cocooned in the car, they had seemed as solitary as Adam and Eve at the world’s dawn. Still, God was obviously smiling upon them as there was a parking space right in front of Church View, the big converted townhouse which contained Rye’s flat.

He followed her up the stairs, wondered as she inserted the key in the lock whether it would be naff to offer to carry her over the threshold, decided it wouldn’t and who the hell cared anyway? put the cases down and stepped forward as the door swung open.

And saw over her suddenly rigid shoulder that the flat had been burgled.

The flat was a mess. It looked as if stuff had been removed from cupboards and drawers and hurled about recklessly in a desperate search, but as far as he could see the only thing that had been broken was a Chinese vase in the bedroom. It lay beneath the shelf it had fallen from. It struck Hat as he stood there looking down at it that this was the first time he’d been in Rye’s bedroom. But not the last, he told himself complacently.

Then he saw her face and all such smug self-congratulation vanished.

She was staring at the shards of the broken vase, her face as pale as the fine white dust which surrounded them.

‘Oh shit,’ said Hat.

He could guess what the vase had held. Aged fifteen, her twin brother Sergius had been killed in the car accident which left his sister with the head injury whose healing was marked by a distinctive silver blaze in her rich brown hair. The twins had been close in life, he knew that, but just how close Sergius had stayed in death he hadn’t known till now.

How he would have felt about bedding down with Rye in the presence of her brother’s ashes, he didn’t know. Not that there looked any likelihood of being put to the test in the near future. He tried to put a comforting arm round her shoulders but she turned out of his grasp without a word and went back into the living room.

Personal contact not getting through, he tried professional, urging her not to touch any more than was necessary, but she didn’t seem to hear him as she moved around the living room and the kitchen, checking drawers, boxes, private hiding places.

‘What’s been taken?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘So far as I can see. Nothing.’

Didn’t seem to make her happy. Come to think of it, it didn’t make him happy either.

He looked around himself, hoping to find a gap. She didn’t own a TV set or hi-fi equipment, the obvious targets. Lot of books, wouldn’t be able to check those till they were back on the shelves, but they didn’t seem a likely target. He went back into the bedroom. What the hell was she going to do about those ashes? Her clothes, which had been tipped out of drawers, were scattered over them. Not the kind of thing you wanted to find in your undies, he thought with that coarseness policemen learn to use as a barrier between themselves and the paralysing effect of so much of what they see.

There was a lap-top open on a table by the bed. Funny that hadn’t gone. Expensive model, easily portable. He noticed it was in sleep mode.

‘You always leave your computer on?’ he called.

‘No. Yes. Sometimes,’ she said from the living room.

‘And this time?’

‘I can’t remember.’

He ran his fingers at random over the keyboard and waited. After a while it got the message and began to wake up.

Now the screen came into focus. There were words on it.

BYE BYE LORELEI

Then they vanished.

He turned to see Rye had come into the room. She was holding the power cable which she had just yanked out of the wall socket.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

‘Because,’ she said, ‘if I want a detective, I’ll dial 999.’

‘And are you going to dial 999?’

She rubbed the side of her head where the silver blaze shone in the rich brown hair.

‘What’s the point?’ she said. ‘You lot will only make more mess. Best just to tidy up, get some better locks.’

‘Your choice,’ he said, not wanting to force the issue. ‘But maybe you ought to make absolutely sure nothing’s missing before you make up your mind. You won’t be able to claim unless your insurance company sees a police report.’

‘I told you, nothing’s missing!’ she snapped.

‘OK, OK. Right then, let’s do a bit of tidying up, or would you like a drink first?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Look, I’ll do the tidying up myself. I’d prefer it.’

‘Fine. Then I’ll make us a coffee …’

‘Christ, Hat!’ she exclaimed, her hand at her head again. ‘What happened to that guy who was so oversensitive he couldn’t make a pass? I’ll spell it out. I don’t want a fuss, Hat. I’ve got a headache, Hat. I would rather be alone. Hat.’

Of course she would. He forced himself not to glance towards the shattered vase.

He nodded and said brightly, ‘I think I’ve got that. OK. I’ll ring you later.’

‘Fine,’ she said.

He went to the door, stood looking down at the lock, and said, ‘Thanks for a great weekend. I had the best time of my life.’

She said, ‘Me too. Really. It was great.’

He looked back at her now. She managed a smile but her face was pale, her eyes deep shadowed.

He almost went back to her but had the wit and the will not to.

‘Later,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

And left.