Sue for Mercy Page 3

“Words about what?”

  “Not what you’d call a quarrel. He was pressing me to go with him on this trip, but I wanted some time to myself, and refused. Then he tried to get me to promise I’d move in with him when he got back, but...” He smiled, deliberately employing charm. “Leave it, will you? I feel far too fragile for post mortems.”

  “Charm will get you nowhere,” I said austerely.

  “Christ! You sound just like J.B. ‘ Facts, Charles — not feelings!’”

  “Yes, let’s get at the facts, shall we? If you didn’t go back to work, then you must have gone home. I’ve a good mind to ring your people...”

  “They know nothing about this, and I couldn’t have gone home last weekend because there was no one there. Mother was away staying with friends, and Ronald and Jane were at her people’s. There wouldn’t have been anyone there.”

  “Your elder brother — David?”

  “In Northern Ireland, defusing bombs and collecting scars.” He smiled at my expression of alarm. “Just one little one across his eyebrow.”

  “Your father, then?”

  “In jail, where he’s been for the last six months.”

  There was a nasty pause. Out of nervousness I did the wrong thing. I laughed as if he’d made a joke. “Oh, really?”

  “Oh, really!” he repeated, but his tone was biting, and his lips thin.

  “I’m sorry. It was just that it was so unexpected.”

  “To us, too.”

  “What did he...?”

  “Fraudulent conversion, for which he got seven years. He is an accountant, like myself and Ronald.” Again those thin lips held firm against pain; I felt I’d touched not just a raw spot, but an open wound. He was far too thin, and probably lived on his nerves. I looked away, trying to reduce tension.

  “I wish you’d leave it alone,” he said. “I told the police it must have been some hitchhikers who went too far...”

  “They’d have taken your car as well, if they were just out to rob you. You say they took your jacket and your overnight things, and left you your car?”

  “Well, they crashed it, didn’t they? And someone was bound to come along the road...”

  “You’d shaved that day,” I said. “You went off, of your own free will, on Friday evening, to stay with someone you knew. You were with them until late Monday night, when they tied you up, tortured you and then threw you out on the road to die.”

  He wasn’t going to admit it, but he wasn’t going to lie again, either. He was exhausted. I found I was holding his hand in both of mine. It felt warm, but not as warm as it had done the other night. I lowered my eyes to his hand, lifted the sleeve of his pyjama to touch the fast-fading burn mark round his wrist, checked to see that he was watching, and replaced the sleeve.

  “So why hasn’t your family visited you?” I asked.

  “I told Sister they were away. I don’t want them worried. I’ll be out of here by the end of the week. I’m walking wounded now.”

  “You’ve no money — nowhere to go. I’ve got your luggage because Mrs. Burroughs has thrown you out. Your friend Mr. Bessiter said he’d find you somewhere to stay, but I think...”

  “Don’t think any more, Sue,” he said, and removed his hand from mine. His eyes were wide. “Just forget about it, and me. Understand?”

  The bell shrilled, announcing the end of Visiting Hour. A nurse switched on the television set at the far end of the ward. Visitors bustled between beds and back to the outside world.

  “That’s it, then,” I said, getting up and digging my hands deep into my pockets. I felt like crying. “Hope there’s something good on the telly for you.”

  He turned his head fractionally to glance at it. “That? Too far away for me to see properly, without my glasses.”

  “You wear glasses for driving? That proves you weren’t driving at the time of the crash, for you weren’t wearing glasses when I found you, and they weren’t loose in the car, either.”

  “No doubt the hitchhikers fancied them,” he said, smiling. It wasn’t a great effort, as smiles went, but I gave him full marks for trying.

  “Liar!” I said, and stalked off down the ward. The girl from the bed opposite Charles caught up with me as I left.

  “It’s horrid leaving them in here and going home by ourselves, isn’t it?” she said. “I can’t wait to get him out of there and fuss him up a little.”

  I nodded agreement. I felt exactly the same way about Charles, only I didn’t suppose I’d ever see him again.

  Two

  “What do you know, if anything, about a Mr. John Brenner?” I asked our Company Secretary at coffee-time next day. He knew plenty.

  Charles’ boss was some sort of financial wizard, one of the grey men who had advised the last Government on international finance. He had holdings in one or two companies in the town, but this was more to keep his hand in now that he’d officially retired, than because he was interested in their wellbeing. He was reputed to be a millionaire. He lived in a show place called Whitestones, just outside town, and he had at least two Rolls-Royces with telephones in them; he also had a chauffeur, a living-in staff, and kept a yacht in the Mediterranean. He had been seriously ill some time ago, but appeared to have recovered. His picture had appeared in the local paper on occasions when he was guest of honour at some function or other.

  My informant also said that in his opinion, and strictly off the record, John Brenner was a bastard of the first water, and that he only kept his staff by paying them fabulous salaries. In his private life he was supposed to be about as human as a computer.

  “‘Facts, not feelings’,” I murmured, trailing back to my own office.

  “How’s Handsome?” enquired Bessie.

  “Got a skin too few, I’d say. And terribly thin.” I told her what I’d learned the previous night from Mr. Bessiter, but I didn’t tell her what I’d deduced from it, or of my subsequent argument with Charles.

  “Now’s your chance,” said Bessie. “Kidnap him and take him off to your lair while he’s still groggy from the anaesthetic.”

  “Mm?” I said, thinking it was odd that if Charles could remember what had happened to him, and where he’d left his belongings, he’d sent me off to Mrs. Burroughs to look for them.

  “That flat opposite yours — isn’t it to let again? Put him in there, and Bob’s Your Uncle.”

  I grunted. I lived in a big old Victorian house, which was divided up into two flats on each floor, each complete with kitchen, large bedsitting-room, and tiny hall. There was a bathroom on each landing. My flat was on the top floor, and the one opposite me had been empty for some time following a thunderstorm during which rain had poured in over the occupant of the bed. The agents had told me that morning that officially the flat was to be redecorated before it was re-let, but that it might be possible for me to have it for a friend on a week to week basis. I thought about the palatial Whitestones, and Charles’ home, which was reported to be “a fine place”. I didn’t think Charles would like what I had to offer.

  “When you see him tonight,” said Bessie, “you can ask him, can’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m not seeing him again,” I said, and began to talk about the picture at the ABC which I wanted to see instead. I spent a miserable evening, chewing toffees and thinking about my long-lost Rob and about Charles. I was sure Charles was mixed up in something nasty, but I couldn’t believe that he was a villain himself. Of course, I didn’t know what a villain should look like. I just had a feeling that he wasn’t one.

  Like Charles, I went by feelings, and not by facts. Except...

  There was something bothering me. Charles had as good as told me not to go and see him again, but he hadn’t asked where I lived, or made any request about the disposal of his luggage. Was he leaving the door open for me to go and see him again, or had he just forgotten?

  The police were at my flat when I got back, asking for a statement about the accident. I told them what I knew. They seemed set on the
theory that Charles had been beaten up and robbed by hitchhikers, and I didn’t see any necessity to query it. They said I’d probably saved his life, which was nice of them, if not entirely accurate.

  The next morning I woke with a firm determination to put him out of my mind. I would phone Mrs. Burroughs, get Mr. Bessiter’s work phone number, and confirm that Charles had been fixed up with accommodation; then I would drop Charles a note telling him where to collect his luggage, and that would be that.

  Mr. Bessiter was only a trifle less loquacious on the phone than when we had met. He hadn’t done anything about finding a room for Charles, but he’d visited him the previous night in hospital and found him “surprisingly chirpy”. He told me Charles had decided he would have to return home for the rest of his fortnight’s leave, and that he’d be phoning his brother to collect him from hospital, either on Friday or Saturday morning.

  “What about his luggage?” I asked.

  “Didn’t mention it, love. I suppose he’ll be phoning you about it.”

  “He doesn’t have my phone number or my address.”

  “He’ll contact you somehow. Very capable guy, our Charles. Well, must dash — work calls, and all that. Cheers!”

  Bessie came to lunch with a frown. “This Ashton,” she said, picking at her food. “I don’t know if it’s the same family, but a friend of my aunt’s lost a lot of money when a man called Ashton was prosecuted for fraud. You did say your chap was an accountant, didn’t you?”

  “It’s the same one,” I said, reaching for a bread roll.

  “Well,” said Bessie, “I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him, if I were you.” She said she’d been telling her mother about my little adventure, and her mother had got on the phone to her aunt, and obtained the story from her. The Ashtons had been chartered accountants for three generations, and were a highly respected family. Oliver Ashton, the father, had been popular and had done a lot of charity work, which made it all the more astounding when he was arrested, charged and sentenced for fraud.

  Apparently he had suggested to one or two of his clients that they might care to invest in certain blue chip securities, and had asked them to send their cheques made out to him personally, rather than to the firm. Time passed, but the clients received neither their share certificates, nor dividends for the money they had handed over. The money had vanished as soon as it reached Oliver Ashton. The prosecution case was that he had diverted the money partly for his own use, and partly to bolster up his wife’s private company, Collett Cosmetics. Some of the money had turned up in a private bank account of Oliver Ashton’s, but the bulk of it had never been recovered, and he had refused to reveal what he’d done with it. There had been no apparent reason why a respected chartered accountant should suddenly have taken to fiddling the books, but there was no doubt that he had done so. He had pleaded guilty, been sentenced, and the family firm passed into other hands.

  “Anything else?” I asked, although I didn’t really want to hear.

  “Not much. One of the sons is supposed to be brilliant — double first or something, but he’s well out of it, working in London. She — my aunt — thinks the son who worked with his father in the family firm is now more or less on the breadline, working for a pittance in a sinecure found for him by family connections. I don’t know anything else.”

  It was more than enough. I assumed that it was Charles who had worked for his father, and I spent most of the rest of the day wondering if he had been involved in the fraud or not. I thought it was very odd, to say the least, that Charles had been connected with one case of fraud, was now working for a very rich man, and had recently been beaten up.

  Both Bessie and Charles had advised me to keep away from him. I would just go to the hospital to tell him where to find his luggage when he needed it, and that would be that.

  He wasn’t expecting me. I could see his bright head as soon as I entered the ward. His bed was now next to that at which the affectionate young girl was a visitor. He was sitting upright, and trying to write with a left hand free of bandages, but still bound round with strapping. There was an air of tension, almost of fierceness about the way he looked; I wondered if he’d lost weight again.

  “Hello,” I said, keeping my hands deep in my pockets.

  His eyes and mouth flicked into a welcome before he could control himself.

  “Sue!” Then he had himself in hand again, and the smile was gone. “Nice of you to come, but as you can see, I’m getting on well now. I’ll be out tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Left-handed, are you? I wondered why they’d concentrated on that hand.”

  He slid the letter under his pad, his eyes wary. I found I was enjoying our clash of wits.

  “It was nothing but a rough-house that went too far. Nothing would have happened if I hadn’t lost my temper and fought back. Everyone is very apologetic about it, and it won’t happen again. So let’s forget about it, shall we?”

  I saw that there was now a gold pencil and a good quality handkerchief on the top of his locker, with a paperback. A nice-looking grey jacket swung on a hook at the back of his locker, and I guessed his leather grip would be inside.

  “I’m so glad you’ve stopped having amnesia,” I said affably. “It must have been wearing, trying to remember which lies you’ve told to whom. And have your ‘friends’ recovered your car, as well as returning your belongings?”

  “Yes. It’s at the Blue Star Garage. All’s well that ends well.”

  “Except that you’ve lost your digs, had a week in hospital, and are still in pain.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I’ve known these people for years. It was a drunken frolic that got out of hand. It was quite accidental that I got knocked out, and I don’t really blame them for panicking afterwards. It would be absurd to charge them with grievous bodily harm, when I have to go on working with them, and... anyway, they didn’t get off lightly. One man’s got a cracked kneecap and the other’s still sporting a black eye.” Satisfaction oiled his voice, and I smiled involuntarily. He twitched me a grin. “Simmer down, Sue! They’re falling over themselves with apologies, paying for my car to be put right, buying me a radio to go in it by way of compensation. They’ve also offered to put me up.”

  “Like the curate’s egg,” I commented. “Good in parts. You’re an awfully good liar, aren’t you?” He opened his mouth to refute the charge, but by the quick snap of his eyelids I guessed I wouldn’t get the truth. “Don’t!” I said. “If you don’t want to tell me the truth, all right; I suppose you’ve got your own reasons. But don’t lie.”

  He grinned at me, acknowledging guilt, and didn’t volunteer any more information. I realised I’d been standing since I came in, and hooked forward a chair.

  “Your luggage is at my place when you want it. Number 10, Queens Gardens, top floor. Shall I post that letter for you?”

  “No, I haven’t finished it yet. I have to let my boss know when I’ll be fit to fly out to him. I suppose I’ll have to go.”

  “Do you lie to him, too?”

  “Not the way you mean. We lie like the devil to each other, but it’s...”

  “A sort of game?”

  “Yes, we both know the rules.” We were like two fencers, circling each other; he was telling me a great deal about himself all the time. The picture he was giving me of his relationship with John Brenner hardly matched the one given me by our Company Secretary, and yet I preferred Charles’ version.

  “Will you move into Whitestones when you get back?” I asked.

  “Maybe I’ll have to, for a while. He has a staff of four living in already, so my presence wouldn’t make much difference, but... I like to be independent.”

  “You could do with fattening up.”

  “I eat enough, but seem to burn it up. I’ve dropped nearly a stone this last six months.”

  Six months. Since his father was convicted.

  “Why don’t you go back home, then?”

  “Most un
restful. Mother lives in the centre of a well-organised whirlwind and in any case doesn’t tolerate weakness in her sons. She’s incapable of allowing anyone except Jane — that’s my sister-in-law — to sit down and rest while she’s working, and she herself works a twelve hour day. She has her own firm, you know — Collett Cosmetics. Ronald works for her and I don’t know how he stands it. Jane’s not strong; she’s expecting a baby, and... I’ll find somewhere quiet where I can be on my own for a week or ten days. I had intended driving North to visit some friends, but that’s out now. Then I’ll join J.B. on the yacht. I’ll see what happens after that.”

  “You told Mr. Bessiter you planned to go home.”

  “He’s got a loose tongue in his head. I need somewhere quiet where nobody will fuss over me.”

  I crossed the fingers of both hands, took a deep breath, and told myself that a snub wouldn’t kill me. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested,” I said, “but there’s a flatlet going in the house in which I live.” I told him about it, warning him it was in bad decorative order, that it wasn’t particularly well furnished, that there was no garage or cooking, or services laid on. I said I could perhaps give him the odd meal, if he felt like it. I ended up mumbling into my coat collar, expecting him to interrupt at any moment to say he wasn’t interested, thank you. When I finished, I found he was staring at me as if I’d offered him a room at The Hilton.

  “Just for a week?” I said, beginning to hope. “And you do need fattening up. I can be your reference. The landlord would need a week’s rent in advance, but...”

  “Oh, Sue!” Somehow his hand was holding mine as tightly as ever. “If you were to get involved, I’d never forgive myself.”

  I sat there smiling, thinking I’d be able to make excuses to see him often during the coming week, and that maybe he’d even continue to see me afterwards.

  “I don’t know what time they’ll let me out tomorrow, if they do. Number 10, Queens Gardens? I’ll take a taxi...”

  “No, you’ll feel groggy on your first day out. You phone me when you’re let out, and I’ll collect you.”