Fatal Last Words

Eighty-six

As the old man turned over the soil in his rose garden, his wife’s two pet nuisances, as he insisted on calling them, played around at his feet. The bloody animals have been walked twice today already, he thought. Where do they draw their energy from? His strong wrists twisted, flicking some earth at Jarvis with his hoe, then a second damp clod at Joe, smiling as they dodged out of the way. But he was always careful to miss them.

‘Must oil that bloody gate,’ he muttered as he heard it creak, twice, once on opening, then on closing. He turned to face his visitor, and saw Bob Skinner walk towards him.

And he knew.

‘I need to see your stick, Donald,’ he said, then bent to pick it up from where it lay on the path. He tossed it in the air, then caught it, spinning the rough, hickory in his fingers, admiring the steel circlet at its neck and then the heavy steel cap at the end of the hand grip. Peering at it intently.

‘It was shame, Bob, rather than prejudice, I promise,’ Colonel Rendell said.

‘Shame?’

‘They made me feel unmanned. When those people, that tribe, parked in front of our houses, I was angry; I admit that. Indeed I expressed it forcefully to you at the time. I blustered to Margot, said something about going out there myself and moving them on. And she told me to do just that. And so I set out, I got halfway there and then I saw them, how rough they looked, and those dogs of theirs, and I discovered to my horror and shame that I was afraid to go through with it.’

He looked at Skinner, as if he was pleading for understanding. ‘Bob, I’ve seen service in some very rough places. I was in the Falklands, I was in Northern Ireland, and I never once felt fear, but suddenly, on Sunday, there I was an old man, too bloody scared to tell some ruffians to be on their way, or even to walk his wife’s dogs. When you offered to do it, and I accepted, that was the most shameful moment of my life. Later, as I had my usual evening whisky in the Golf, when I saw that man, half-drunk, loud, being objectionable with his friend, I just lost it. I felt myself exploding inside; it was all I could do not to confront him there and then.’

‘Donald,’ said Skinner, ‘don’t tell me this now. Wait till you have a lawyer with you.’

‘That won’t make my story any different; you’re going to hear it. I didn’t follow him, you know, not at first. He left before me, maybe a minute or so. I walked up Hopetoun Terrace, for an extra breath of air on my way home. Then I saw him again, in Erskine Road. I made for him then, but he cut down the pathway. I caught him up, and I told him that he and his crowd should clear off, and leave us decent people to live in peace and quiet. He called me a stupid old man in his broken English, and then he pushed me away, and turned his back on me as if I was an irrelevance.’ The colonel sighed. ‘That’s when I hit him; once, then again, and although he put his hand up the second time, he still fell. On the ground I hit him again, once or twice more, that’s all. I heard him moan, but I turned and walked away.’

‘Did you know he was dying?’ asked Skinner.

‘Honestly, I did not. When I got home and saw the blood on my stick, I realised that I might have hurt him badly. I could have called an ambulance then; I should have, but I didn’t. When I found out that he was dead, I almost came to you then, until I heard that you were looking for his friend. I suppose I reasoned that if you thought he did it, best to keep quiet until you found him, and hope that you didn’t. It wouldn’t have been the first unsolved murder in this area.’

‘But it’s solved now, Donald. Come with me, please. One of my inspectors is waiting in the street, in a car.’

‘Let me go in and pick up some things. Say goodbye to Margot at least.’

‘It won’t be goodbye, only farewell for a while. No, I know you, old guy. On Sunday, you confused cowardice with realism. If I let you go in there, likely you’d be in the library with a shotgun in your mouth. No more death, Colonel Rendell. I’ve had enough for this week.’