Death Angels

6

IT WAS SATURDAY. KAREN AND WINSTON HILLIER LIVED SOUTH of the river. Macdonald kept a respectable distance from the cars in front of him as he drove west on A236. The rest of the world was in a hurry, and the driver in the Vauxhall behind him gave Macdonald the finger even before they’d left North Croydon.

Make my day, Macdonald mumbled to himself, waiting. Go ahead and pass me, pal, so I can call in your license plate number. They were approaching a junction-he would have to take the left fork and watch his tormentor zoom by, honking his horn and screaming obscenities with his finger in the air.

We’re a nation of hooligans, Macdonald thought. That asshole was no doubt on his way to Griffin Park -the place to be on a brisk day in early February, spending a few carefree hours with your buddies.

When he reached the Tulse Hill district, he parked outside a house on Palace Road. It looked to be newly painted. The people in the neighborhood were from the old middle class and had remained there as the battle lines were drawn all around them. Getting out of the car, he heard what sounded like gunfire coming from Brockwell Park.

The windows were dark, but he knew that the Hilliers were waiting for him inside. Thank God you’re not breaking the news, he thought, although your belated arrival might prove to be a disadvantage if the shock has worn off.

Karen opened the door as soon as he knocked. Had she been standing there all morning long? She might have been mentally preparing herself, Macdonald thought, but she looks like you just broke into her house.

“Mrs. Hillier?”

“Yes. Inspector Macdonald, I assume?”

He nodded and pulled out his badge. She ignored it and motioned toward the living room. “Come in.”

I’m like one of those prowlers who stalk people’s nightmares, he thought.

They walked through the hallway. Illuminated as if by a spotlight, Winston sat in a wide couch at the far end of the living room. Macdonald heard a distant squeaking. Looking out the window, he watched a British Rail train go by, a hundred yards below a bare hilltop.

“We never take the train,” Winston said.

Macdonald introduced himself, but Winston didn’t seem to hear. “The railroad and tracks have spoiled this part of London,” he said. “It’s even worse than highway construction.”

Macdonald saw some bottles to Winston’s right and a glass in front of them. Winston picked it up and raised it unsteadily to his lips. He looked at Macdonald, who took a step closer. Macdonald couldn’t tell whether the pale inscrutability of his eyes was the result of blindness or booze.

“I’m not blind,” Winston said, noticing Macdonald’s bafflement. “Just drunk. Since eleven o’clock this morning, to be exact.”

“May I sit down?”

“Welcome to our happy little home.” Winston’s laugh turned to a hiss. “I told Geoff the program was a good idea.” He got up to take a clean glass from the shelf behind him, then looked out the window. “It sounded exciting.” His eyes were on a second train making its way below the hillside, which had become grayer in the light of dusk. “A fresh start for a young man with a bright future ahead of him. A chance for an education in this brave new world of ours.” He gulped his gin and tonic.

“Why Sweden in particular?” Macdonald asked.

“Why not?”

“Did he have any special reason?” Macdonald heard footsteps behind him and turned around. Karen had walked in with the afternoon tea. He could smell warm scones. “Was there some reason for picking Sweden?” he repeated.

“No, except that he had a pen pal in Gothenburg a long time ago,” Karen said, sitting down next to Winston. She laid out cups and little side plates.

“That’s why he went,” Winston said.

“How did he find out about the program?”

“Through his school here,” Karen said.

“Geoff always wanted to be an engineer, and the curriculum appealed to him. The school had an English name. Chandlers or something like that.”

“Chalmers,” Karen corrected him.

“Chalmers.”

Karen turned to Macdonald. “He received a letter too.”

“From Chalmers?”

“No. Somebody wrote to him from Gothenburg, and that seemed to convince him that he should apply.”

Macdonald could tell how hard it was for her to string so many words together all at once. “A personal letter?” he asked.

“What other kind is there?”

“Was it from his old pen pal?”

“We never found out,” Karen said.

“He kept it to himself,” Winston said, “which was perfectly understandable, but he didn’t want to say who it was from either.”

“Just that he had gotten a letter,” added Karen.

“From Sweden?” Macdonald asked.

“Gothenburg,” Winston answered.

Macdonald heard another train in the distance. The strident sound gradually filled up the house. “And he didn’t mention anything about the letter after he got there and moved into the dorm?”

“Not a word,” Winston said.

“Did he say who else he met there?”

“No.”

“Not anybody?”

“He was killed just a few days later, for God’s sake,” Winston shouted. His gaze turned malevolent. Suddenly he slumped to the floor and lay there facedown. “Get out,” he said, his voice muffled by the carpet.

Karen looked at Macdonald as if apologizing for their grief.

They’ve got no reason to apologize, Macdonald thought. I’m the intruder here.

He said good-bye and went out into the late-afternoon sunlight. Tattered clouds hovered in the western sky. Another hour and it would be completely dark. He turned on the ignition, made a U-turn and drove up to Station Rise, parking at the little depot where the trains took aim at the Hilliers and their anguish. The spot was barely legal, but he went into the Railway Pub anyway, ordered a Young’s Winter Warmer and waited for the foam to evaporate, but not a second longer.