Another One Goes Tonight

12

On arrival at Keynsham next morning, Diamond was asked by the desk sergeant to report to the assistant chief constable as a matter of urgency. He sighed and walked across to the coffee machine. He wasn’t going to miss his first caffeine boost of the day.

In the CID room, one of the civilian staff looked up and said, as if she was doing him a favour, “Message for you, Mr. Diamond. The ACC wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”

How he yearned for the solid, concealing walls of Manvers Street nick instead of this open-plan layout. He nodded and carried his coffee into the room he called his goldfish bowl. Everyone could watch him through the glass.

Ten minutes later, revived and ready to go, he emerged and was told by Keith Halliwell, “Message from Georgina, guv.”

“I got it,” he said.

On the stairs, he passed John Wigfull, the PR man who raised a hand. “Thanks,” he said before a word was spoken. “I’m on my way.”

Georgina had two people in black suits with her-a man and a woman. They didn’t get up from their chairs, a sure sign that they outranked him.

“This is Detective Superintendent Diamond, who has been handling the Professional Standards aspect,” Georgina said to the suits. And to Diamond she said in a voice almost choking with awe, “Mr. Dragham and Miss Stretch are from the Independent Police Complaints Commission.”

Dragham and Stretch. Like a medieval torture.

Georgina had been dreading this for days.

“We were sent a copy of your report,” Dragham said. “Nice diagrams but not a lot of beef in the findings.”

The diagrams had been Dessie’s, the findings Diamond’s. He felt an instant antipathy to these people. This wasn’t likely to go well.

“I’m a police officer, not a butcher.”

Georgina swayed as if avoiding a punch.

“‘Beef’ is a term we use,” Miss Stretch said. “We need more substance to justify the conclusion you reached.”

“Hard to come by when the driver is dead and the accident victim in a coma,” Diamond said. “The sergeant in the passenger seat was the only material witness and his statement is there verbatim.”

“I saw that, including the ripe language.”

“It’s what you get from a man in pain.”

“We’re going to visit him and get a fresh statement ourselves.”

“I hope it’s more fragrant.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The language. He’s improving every day.”

Dragham took over from his colleague. “But are there any signs of improvement in the victim?”

“They’re all victims,” Diamond said, in a stroppy mode he couldn’t stop. “If you mean the tricyclist, Mr. Pellegrini, he’s still on life support.”

“Have you spoken to the hospital staff?”

“Several times. I was there last night. There’s been no change since he was brought in.”

“We understand he has no family.”

“That’s my understanding, too. His wife died six months ago.”

“So we’re not acting on a complaint as such,” Dragham said. “A case of a police car injuring or killing a member of the public is referred to us as a matter of course and we decide whether it’s appropriate for the local police to conduct their own investigation. If so, it will need to be more thoroughgoing than the one you submitted.”

“I was asked to report on professional standards,” Diamond said. “There’s only so much you can say.”

“The way the officers behaved is just one part of our remit,” Miss Stretch said.

“So I’ve saved you some time. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“A little less abrasiveness would be all to the good,” Dragham said. “We’re not trying to catch you out, Mr. Diamond. We’re independent of the police. Do you have a problem with authority?”

Georgina stepped in fast and avoided an eruption. “I can answer that. Superintendent Diamond speaks his mind but he makes a huge contribution to the work of CID and I, for one, wouldn’t wish to cramp his style.”

Diamond thought he wouldn’t mind having that in writing.

Dragham turned to him and made a feeble attempt at humour. “After that glowing endorsement perhaps we should recruit you.”

“No thanks.”

“Getting back to the fatal incident, when were you first aware of it?”

“Soon as I got into work. People were talking about a patrol car crashing and one of our guys being killed.”

“What time was this?”

“Nine, or soon after.”

“The collision was at six thirty-one,” Dragham said. “When did you get there?”

“Nine-forty, give or take.”

“More than three hours later.”

“I went when I was asked.”

“My instruction,” Georgina said. “The first response was from uniform, as you would expect. I decided we would need a senior officer to report on the professional standards aspect.”

“A lot must have happened already.”

“Yes,” Diamond said. “They were clearing up when we got there. The police officers had been removed from the wreck and taken to hospital.”

“Which is why your report contains no record of what was said by Sergeant Morgan to the paramedics who attended?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“But you haven’t followed up.”

“I went to see Lew Morgan myself and got his version of events.”

“The next day, when he’d had time to reflect on how much he would tell you.”

“It was the first opportunity.”

“No, Mr. Diamond,” Dragham said, “the first opportunity fell to the paramedics and fire officers who were at the scene shortly after the crash and you haven’t taken a statement from them. Crucial things may have been said.”

He didn’t comment. It was fair criticism. He’d been caught out.

“Which is why a more searching investigation may be necessary.”

“To be fair to Superintendent Diamond,” Georgina said, “the injured civilian wouldn’t have been found were it not for the extra search he made.”

“He would have been found at some stage,” Diamond said.

“Almost certainly dead,” Georgina added.

“We haven’t yet visited the scene,” Miss Stretch said. “From the report I gather he was out of sight at the top of an embankment.”

“With the remains of his tricycle,” Diamond said. “No one suspected anyone else was involved.”

“What was he doing there?” Miss Stretch asked. “You don’t say in the report.”

Tricky. He wasn’t ready to reveal any of the information he’d got from inside the workshop, so he gave an obtuse answer. “The force of the impact must have thrown him into the air.”

“That isn’t what I’m asking. Why was he out on the roads at that hour?”

“Only he can answer that.”

“You must have wondered, surely?”

“My job, ma’am, was to check why the police were there, not Mr. Pellegrini.”

“They were responding to a call about a naked man. Was it a hoax?”

“No. It was daft but genuine. I found the waste of space who made it. He was the one who witnessed Pellegrini wandering off course as if he wasn’t used to riding the tricycle.”

“Can he be believed?”

“In my opinion, yes. He’s a pain in the bum, but a good observer. In fact, observing things is his main interest in life.”

“We’ll need to see him.”

“He’ll be only too pleased to talk. His name is Bellerby and it’s the bungalow called Bellerby Lodge with the Union flag in the front garden.”

They were sharp, these two, but with any luck Bellerby would keep them busy for the rest of the day.

He left them to it.

Ingeborg was in the CID room when he returned there. He noticed she already had the hard disk plugged into the computer on her desk.

“Tell me the story so far.”

“You don’t want to know, guv,” she told him. “It’s all about trains-toy trains, real trains, old trains and when it isn’t trains, it’s tracks. There’s masses of stuff here.”

“Emails? I couldn’t find any when I first tried.”

“There aren’t any. He must have another computer for them. He uses this one for the Internet and storing documents he downloads or creates himself. It’s nicely organised, which I’d expect from an engineer, but I’ve found zilch of interest to us.”

“The discussion about murder methods?”

“Not here.”

He almost groaned in frustration. “It must be on his computer. He printed it out.”

“Direct from the website. He didn’t need to keep it on file.”

A painful silence followed while he plumbed the shallow depths of his computer know-how.

“Have you been through everything?”

“I’ve got the overview. I haven’t opened every file yet, if that’s what you’re asking, but I’ve seen plenty.”

“Is there a quick way you can make a search looking for key words?”

“Within a document, I can, and I’ve tried just in case he’s hidden stuff in a long piece about some class of locomotives. I put in Fortuny, for example.”

“And…?”

“No joy. I tried other words like the names of his friends. Up to now, it’s been a waste of time. I really had hopes that we’d nail him this way.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll keep going unless you have other plans.”

He nodded, trying not to load his disappointment on to Ingeborg. “This one was never going to be simple.” He hesitated again before confiding a personal experience. “I was at the hospital yesterday. He’s lying there with eyes closed and no movement except what the ventilator is doing, but I got a kind of message-call it telepathy if you like-that he knows who I am and what I’m about and he’s well satisfied because he’s way ahead of me. Is that possible or is it my insecurity?”

“Funny you should say that,” she said. “I get something like that from working with the computer data. You can’t avoid thinking about the brain that set up the system. This is one very smart guy.”

“We need to raise our game, Inge.”

“But how?”

“We can find out more about how the Filiputs died. There’s the friend called Cyril who spoke at the funeral. He ought to be able to give us the inside story.”

“Do we know his surname?”

“Neither Dr. Mukherjee nor Mrs. Stratford could tell me, but he used to lecture at the same college in Salisbury that Filiput did. That’s how they knew each other. Someone there must remember him. Cyril-it’s unusual, isn’t it, a bit old-fashioned?”

She smiled. “You could be right. None of my friends are called Cyril.”

“You’d remember if you met one?”

“For sure.”

First he needed to find the college. He went off to make a search on his own computer. The first to arrive on his screen was Salisbury College of Funeral Sciences. He grinned and scrolled down the choices.

Up came Wiltshire College. Now that he saw the name he remembered passing it often on his way through the city to the A36, a massive white block several stories high with rows and rows of windows.

He found a phone number to call. Eventually he was put through to someone in the science department who had been on the staff long enough to remember. There was only one Cyril he could recall and he’d retired more than twenty years ago. Cyril Hardstaff. He’d lived in a cottage in Little Langford.

This had to be the man. Diamond remembered a signpost to the Langfords not far out of Salisbury on the A36.

He told Ingeborg.

“Are you going there yourself?” she asked with a glance at the car key already in his hand.

“It’s not far.” In this unsanctioned investigation he couldn’t ask Wiltshire police to check the address for him. Besides, he had a gut feeling it would go wrong if he didn’t make the trip himself. The gods had not been charitable lately.

“Do you want company?” she asked.

“You’re better employed on the computer.”

She rolled her eyes upwards. “Thanks.”

“We went to a lot of trouble to copy the disk. I’m not giving up.”

“You’re not giving up?”

He got out fast.

Driving away from Keynsham, he felt some sympathy for Ingeborg, but this, surely, was the best use of his small team. At some point he expected to elevate the enquiry into a full-scale murder investigation with the whole of CID actively involved, but until strong suspicion turned to certainty, it wasn’t on. Convincing Georgina and Headquarters was a challenge yet to be faced.

There was still a chance, wasn’t there, that Pellegrini was innocent?

The day was clear, the road not too cluttered with commercial traffic and the vast open spaces of the Wiltshire countryside were a joy to drive through. He passed Warminster inside fifty minutes and started looking for the Langfords. Great and Little, Upper and Lower, they liked subdividing villages in this county. It turned out, when he came to the sign he remembered and took the right turn, that there was a Steeple Langford leading to a junction that offered Hanging Langford and Little Langford. Good to avoid Hanging Langford, he told himself. The lane became more narrow and the signs of habitation fewer as he entered Cyril Hardstaff’s home territory. Little Langford was a place of scattered buildings, including a church of its own.

He reached a farmyard and stopped to ask for directions. The young lad he met listened carefully but said nothing. He simply pointed up the lane.

“Is it far?” Diamond asked, hoping for at least a word or two.

The boy shook his head and walked off.

About two hundred yards further on was a slate roof. Trees and bushes obscured the view. As he got closer he saw this stone cottage in a neglected, overgrown garden. A white van was outside and someone’s legs were visible below the open rear doors.

Diamond stopped and got out.

“Morning.”

A woman in her sixties stepped back and looked him up and down. Men in suits are not often seen in villages. She was wearing a tank-top and jeans. Her tanned arms were well muscled.

“I’m looking for a gentleman called Cyril Hardstaff, a retired lecturer. I was told he has a cottage here.”

She nodded as if to confirm it. “What’s it about?”

Nosy, he thought. Village life was like that. “I’m saving my news for him. Can you tell me where he lives?”

“I’m his niece Hilary,” she said.

“Well, that’s a bit of luck.” But he still didn’t plan to share anything with Hilary about Cyril’s links to a murder plot.

She seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Anything you want to know, you’ll have to ask me. I’m clearing out the place by stages. This old heap was where my uncle used to live.”

“Used to live?”

“He died six weeks ago.”

He played the words over, mentally reeling.

“I had no idea.” All the optimism built on the journey had just vanished like hot breath on a mirror. “You have my sympathy.”

She shrugged as if to show she was past needing sympathy. “He had a long life. He was over ninety.”

Diamond couldn’t be so philosophical. Another death. Another old person. It was too mind-blowing to take in properly.

“What did he die of?”

“Old age. He went peacefully.”

That word again.

“Here? At home?”

“In his sleep, the doctor said. Heart. He’d treated him for years.”

“Six weeks ago was February.”

“February seventeenth. I had to register the death.”

“Who was it who found him, then?”

“The housekeeper, Jessie.”

“Is she about?”

A shake of the head. “She packed her things and left the same day. She had no reason to stay. She’d lost her job, hadn’t she? I’m his closest relative, so it fell to me to make the arrangements. It’s been non-stop.”

“Did he own the cottage?”

“He left it to me. He left everything and it’s more trouble than it’s worth. No use to me, most of it. Goods and chattels, the lawyers call it. I spend more in petrol carting goods and chattels to the council tip every day than I’ll ever inherit.”

“I’m shocked. He spoke at a funeral less than a year ago. He seemed to be in fine form then, made a witty speech, I was told.”

“That’s Uncle Cyril for you,” she said. “He was a charming man as any round here will testify and there was nothing wrong with his brain. His passing was very sudden. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss. His body gave up, I reckon. Bound to, if you live long enough, isn’t that the truth of it?”

The logic was inescapable. “I’d like to speak to the housekeeper. Where is she now?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“No forwarding address?”

“If you ask me, she didn’t know where she would end up next.”

“Didn’t she even leave a contact number?”

A shake of the head. “She’ll be in another job by now. There’s no call for her sort of work in the Langfords.”

He couldn’t allow Jessie the housekeeper to go off the radar. She’d been at Massimo Filiput’s funeral. Maybe the lawyers would have her new address.

“Did she receive a legacy?”

“No, it all came to me-and I wish to God it hadn’t. Who exactly are you, asking all these questions?”

If he said he was police, all communication would cease. “I’m Peter Diamond from Bath. There was an accident there a few days ago and a man is in hospital in a coma. We’re trying to trace people who might know him. Your uncle Cyril was a possibility.”

“How come?”

“They both used to visit a house in Cavendish Crescent.”

“Is that so?”

It was hard to tell whether Hilary was holding back information or treating him with the suspicion many country people had for townies.

“He never mentioned them?”

“I didn’t see much of Uncle Cyril. I live on the other side of Warminster.”

“I suppose you had to arrange his funeral.”

“It wasn’t much. A short service at the crematorium in Sarum. Being so old, he’d outlived most of his friends. A few folk from the village came out of respect.” This was better: freely given.

“Nobody from Bath?”

She shook her head. “His old friend Max passed over last year.”

“Max was the person I mentioned, the one he used to visit in Bath. Max Filiput. They played Scrabble once a week.”

“Did they indeed? Crafty old bugger,” she said, eyes lighting up in amusement.

“You mean Cyril? Why do you say that?”

“He had the Scrabble dictionary with words you’d never know unless you had one yourself. It’s on the shelf over there. Does that count as cheating? They will have played for money, that’s for sure. He’d bet on anything, would Uncle Cyril. I threw out his box of Scrabble yesterday. No use to me and I couldn’t be bothered checking if all the grubby little tiles were still in the box.”

“Is there much else to sort out?”

“I’m hoping to finish tomorrow and put the place up for sale.”

“What happened to the car?”

“Which car was that?”

“He used to be driven to Bath when he visited Max.”

“Jessie had a little runabout of her own. I expect they used that. Uncle Cyril had a rusty old Volvo at one time that he serviced himself, but he got rid of it after he gave up driving. Most likely it went for scrap. He wouldn’t have got much for it.”

There was more to extract from her, he was confident. “Now that I’m here, can I help you move anything out of the cottage?” If nothing else, he’d get a look inside.

She glanced at his suit. “You’re not dressed for work.”

“I’ll take off my jacket.”

“If you mean it, you could help shift a couple of beds from upstairs.”

A couple of beds? He’d been thinking of something more portable, like a laptop or some box files.

She stepped back to allow him inside. The living room was bare except for some half-filled cartons and a bookcase. He could tell by the marks on the carpet where other furniture had stood. After removing his jacket and tie he followed her upstairs, where there were two bedrooms divided by a bathroom.

“This was his. Can you take the bed to bits?”

“Let’s give it a go.” He was better at dismantling things than assembling them.

They were in a small room with little else except a fitted wardrobe and a chest of drawers.

He shifted the double mattress from the wooden bed frame and propped it against the nearest wall, and knocked off a picture as he did so. The Laughing Cavalier didn’t enjoy the joke as he hit the floor hard and his glass smashed.

“Oh Christ. I was born clumsy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Leave it.”

The least he could do was stand the frame upright and push the broken glass with his foot into a tidy heap in the corner. He’d just about finished when he noticed at one end of the mattress the manufacturer’s label with information about the features, notably a thousand sprung pockets that ensured comfort, elegance and value.

“What have we got here?”

The label appeared to be one more pocket, bulging oddly, but Diamond had noticed it was unstitched on three sides. He tugged at the edge and heard the sound of Velcro separating. Underneath was a small cavity. Something black had been stuffed inside. He drew it out carefully.

A velvet bag.

“Hey ho.”

Light in weight, it definitely contained some small object.

He loosened the drawstring and brought out a gold necklace that was clearly antique, the pendant in the shape of an engraved serpent’s head, with five inset diamonds and blue enamel for the eyes.

He draped the piece across his palm and held it out to Hilary. “What do you reckon?”

“Where in the name of heaven did the old rogue get this from?” she said, looking but making no move to handle it.

Diamond had a good idea but didn’t say. “Want to try it on?”

She shook her head. “Not my thing at all.”

“The label says comfort, elegance and value. I’d say this has got elegance and value even if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“My flesh creeps just looking at it. I hate snakes.”

“A popular design at one time.”

She put her hand to her mouth. “Is it stolen goods, do you think?”

“He was too old for smash-and-grab raids or break-ins.”

“Well, I can’t think what he was doing with it. What am I going to do with the bloody thing? I was taking the mattress to the council tip.”

He’d been making a rapid review of his options. He didn’t want to reveal that he was from the police, but there was no other way he could reasonably take possession of the bag and its contents. He already had a fair idea where it came from. He could suggest Hilary took it to the lawyers handling Cyril’s estate, but they’d be obliged to inform the police, and if Wiltshire CID got involved one of the first things they’d ask was who had found it.

“Actually,” he said, “I ought to have shown you this before.” He produced his warrant card.

She nodded as if to confirm she’d known all along. “Why the heck didn’t you say you’re a cop?”

“A plain-clothes cop. The general idea is that we don’t go round introducing ourselves to people.”

“And now you think you ought to come clean?”

“So as to hand this in. I’ll write you a receipt. It’s yours by rights if it isn’t stolen.”

“Take it, and welcome,” she said. “What are you really here for? Was he in trouble with the police?”

“As I told you at the start, this is about the man in a coma. I thought your uncle Cyril was alive and might help us identify him.”

“You’ve got another mystery now.” Unexpectedly, she was reconciled to the police presence.

He made a point of writing a form of receipt on the reverse of one of his official cards. Then he pocketed the bag containing the necklace.

“You spoke of betting before we found this. Uncle Cyril liked a flutter, then?”

“He was addicted. It’s why there’s nothing left that’s worth having, apart from…” Her voice trailed off. “Wicked old blighter. Any money I get from the sale of the cottage will go to paying off his debts.”

“That’s tough, really tough. I didn’t know.”

“You said something about him playing Scrabble with Max. That wouldn’t have been for matchsticks, he’ll have made sure of that. You get points for making words, don’t you?”

“I believe you do.”

“He’d lay money on anything. Horses, football, poker. He had a few good wins, but of course in the long run he lost, big time. He ran up massive debts and had some nasty people coming to collect from time to time.”

“Who were they-do you know?”

“He never said. I heard about it from Jessie one time. She was shocked. She said they acted like bailiffs, seizing his electrical goods, his TV, his laptop, even his power tools. She told him to report them but he wouldn’t. He was so worried, he was taking Temazepam to get any sleep at all. Are you still going to help me with this job?”

“Of course. We started and we’ll finish.”

“What we need is an Allen key,” she told him after examining the bolts on the bed frame.

“Definitely,” he said, trying to sound competent. He was not a handyman. He wouldn’t have known an Allen key from a pineapple.

“There’s one downstairs.”

While she was fetching it, he weighed the new information. If Cyril Hardstaff had been in hock to some loan shark he must have felt insecure, to say the least. Unsurprising that he’d have a hiding place for anything of value. Presumably it had been waiting there to be pawned or sold. A man of charm and wit on the surface, at desperation point underneath. These old men and their personal failings were bringing extra layers of deception to the case.

He was relieved to find that the Allen key was nothing more complicated than an L-shaped spanner you used like a key. While loosening the bolts, he asked Hilary whether Cyril had ever been married.

“He was, yes, to my aunt Winnie. She died of a brain tumour seven or eight years ago. A tough lady and very successful. She started a secretarial agency in the days when every business wanted typing staff and it got to be one of the biggest in London, worth millions. She kept Uncle Cyril well under her thumb. He didn’t do much of his gambling while she was alive. We were all a bit scared of Aunt Winnie.”

“I was wondering if the necklace could have been hers.”

“No chance. She went in for fashion jewellery. Showy modern stuff. We’d better turn the bed on its side. It’s going to collapse if you loosen the other bolt.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “I was on the point of doing it.”

In a short time he had the headboard and footboard separated from the frame.

“Did Cyril inherit the fortune his wife earned?”

A smile and a shake of the head. “She was smart. When she wrote her will, she put all her money in trust. He was allowed an annuity of fifty thousand but he couldn’t get his hands on the rest, except a salary was set aside for a housekeeper-because she knew he wasn’t capable of managing on his own. He’s had a string of housekeepers, has Uncle Cyril. He’s not easy to manage. The house in a posh part of London went to him, but he sold it to get more cash to gamble with. I think he bought a smaller place and then sold that, and so on, until he ended up in this dump. Prop them against the wall and you can unscrew the other bed,” she said. She was definitely the foreman of this team.

“If Aunt Winnie was as wealthy as you say, some of her fortune must be left over.”

“I won’t see a brass penny of it. It’s all going to War on Want.”

“Rather that than the bookmakers.”

“True.”

The second room had been the housekeeper’s. Nothing personal remained but it had a fresher look to it than Cyril’s room and the bed was a divan with a padded headboard. He succeeded in shifting the mattress without damaging anything-except one of his lower vertebrae.

He’d never been kicked by a shire horse but he now had some idea how it felt.

He roared.

“What’s up?” Hilary asked.

He slumped on to the sprung bedstead. “Give me a moment.”

“Your back, is it?”

He rubbed it, trying not to swear.

“You know what they say,” she said. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”

“Do they?”

He was in too much agony to trade smart talk.

“There’s a medicine cabinet in the bathroom where he kept his sleeping tablets,” she said. “There must be painkillers of some sort.”

“I don’t want his stuff.”

“I can see if there’s anything you can rub on it. I don’t mind doing it for you.”

“No thanks.” She might not mind but he did. He braced himself and succeeded in standing up. “Let’s see if we can unscrew the legs from this thing.”

“You’re tougher than you look,” Hilary told him.

“I played rugby when I was younger,” he said. “The idea is to get straight back into the game.”

Presently he’d recovered enough to slide the mattress out to the landing on its side and let it shoot downstairs. They dealt with the other one the same way. Then without actually needing to lift them, they manoeuvred them into the van.

She offered to leave the bedsteads for another day, but he insisted he would be all right and they returned upstairs to finish the job. He really believed there was some benefit in soldiering on rather than collapsing and letting the injury stiffen up.

When they shifted the second bed he saw something gleaming on the floor that turned out to be a cheap plastic hairbrush. Pink, with white nylon bristles.

“Jessie’s,” Hilary said, picking it up. “She didn’t leave anything else behind.”

“She won’t be coming back for it,” he said. “Can I see?”

“Keep it if you want.”

“I will.” No detective worthy of the name turns down an offer like that. He wrapped the brush in the folded papers in his jacket pocket. A few blonde hairs were enmeshed between the bristles.

Hilary offered black coffee-there was no milk in the small kitchen-and he drank it standing up.

“All you got for helping me was a sore back and an old hairbrush,” Hilary said. “This hasn’t helped your friend in hospital.”

In his present state of discomfort, he had to think who his friend in hospital was. Pellegrini and friendship went together like fire and water.

A lot has happened since I last put anything in the diary. How events move on. Memo to myself: must do better in keeping the record updated. If I leave it too late, there’s no point really.

What can I say about the last one? He was an overdue train that needed taking into the terminus (he’d appreciate that). After his wife went, he found life increasingly difficult. He had vague suspicions certain people were taking advantage, but he was in no condition to stop them. I did him a service, ending his journey.