See No Evil

18

The sunlight woke him up, burning red through his closed eyelids. He was slumped on his side on the pavement, dried vomit inches from his nose. He sat up and looked at his watch. Five past five. The sky was the light grey of a summer dawn, there was no one to be seen on the Embankment, although single cars were speeding past even at this time of the morning. His head pounded. He ran his tongue over his teeth: the inside of his mouth felt as if someone had poured vinegar and lighter fluid on to a large ball of cotton wool and then ignited it. The pounding increased in intensity and chemicals in his stomach began to gurgle and churn.

He pulled himself to his feet. There was no sign of his companion of the night before, nor of his bottle of whisky. He felt his trouser pocket for his wallet: still there. He began staggering unsteadily northwards towards King’s Cross. There was still enough alcohol in his bloodstream to disrupt his balance, but the walk and the early-morning sunshine did him some good, stirring his feeble circulation.

He reached King’s Cross, found an all-night chemist and bought some paracetamol, found an all-night café and grabbed a fried breakfast. There were quite a few people around King’s Cross at that time on a Sunday morning as the dregs of the night traders in sex and drugs overlapped with early-morning workers. His head still pounding, he crossed the road into the station in search of the first train to King’s Lynn.

It was nine-thirty by the time he got to Norfolk and he decided to take a taxi straight home. There was no way he could face the hospital in his current state. The cottage was guarded by police tape and a uniformed constable. He introduced himself, climbed upstairs, pulled the curtains and went back to sleep. The phone rang a couple of times and he ignored it.

At one in the afternoon he woke up, had a shower and called Alfie to take him to the hospital. The taxi fares were racking up: he would have to organize himself a car. There was still some activity outside the cottage, where the twisted wreckage of his Maserati was being carefully loaded on to a lorry. A policeman was taking down the scene-of-crime tape. He nodded to Calder and jotted something in his notebook.

In the back of the taxi Calder checked the voicemail on his mobile. Messages from William, Kim, Jerry and his father all asking where the hell he was. The only one he called back was Jerry. He quickly explained about his sister and said he wouldn’t be at the airfield for the next couple of days. Jerry’s anger changed to shock and sympathy. Calder took a deep breath as he hung up. If only the same could be said for his father and for William.

The throbbing in Calder’s head ratcheted up a notch as he approached intensive care. He saw the hunched figure of William sitting in the waiting area. His brother-in-law looked up, recognized Calder, and returned his stare to the floor.

‘How is she?’ Calder asked.

‘What do you care?’

‘How is she?’ Calder repeated.

William sighed. ‘She did well overnight. She’s in the operating theatre again this morning. They think she’s going to make it, we’ll know more when they’ve finished in there.’

‘And the other leg?’

William shrugged. ‘They’re going to try to save it. No guarantees.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Calder said.

‘Go away,’ William said quietly and clearly.

‘Where are the children?’

‘With Kim and your father. Somewhere. I don’t know where.’

Calder left William and wandered around the hospital. Eventually he spotted them outside, squatting on the grass beside a rose bed. Kim was reading to Phoebe and Dr Calder was reading to Robbie.

‘Hi,’ Kim said when she saw Calder. She finished her sentence and closed the book. Dr Calder ignored his son and read two more pages to his grandson. Calder sat down beside them and watched the quiet concentration on his father’s craggy face, the shock of thick white hair on his bent head. Robbie was sucking his thumb, transfixed as he listened to the low Scottish rumble of the story.

‘All right now, Robbie. Take your sister and see how many of those wee petals you can collect for me,’ he said, pointing towards the bed of yellow roses. The early blooms were past their prime and the soil was scattered with wilting petals. ‘Put them in a nice big pile and count them. When you get to twenty, let me know.’

Robbie was proud of his counting abilities and dragged his sister off to do as he was bid.

‘You look dreadful, Alex,’ Kim said. ‘What have you done to your head?’

Calder grunted and touched his temple. There was a large bump where the table lamp had made contact with it the night before.

Dr Calder eyed his son up and down. ‘Are you sober?’

‘Yes,’ Calder said. ‘I’m at the hangover stage. It hurts like hell.’

‘Stupid bugger,’ the doctor said.

Calder couldn’t argue. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He was ready for it. Ready for all the criticism his father wanted to pile on. He had no defence. He would accept it all.

‘I’ll go and play with the children,’ Kim said, and moved off towards the rose bushes.

‘She’s been a great help, that girl,’ Dr Calder said. ‘She’s really been very good with Robbie and Phoebe. I don’t think William could have handled them without her.’

Calder looked at his father. He hadn’t meant to say anything, but he couldn’t help it. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m so sorry.’

His father smiled. The eyes twinkled, that sympathetic twinkle that was famous throughout Kelso. He reached out and touched Calder’s arm. It was a light touch, but it was strong and reassuring at the same time. Calder began to talk, talk in a confused torrent about Anne, about the van Zyls, about the bomb, about hitting Cornelius, about his mother, about everything but Kim. That he was still too ashamed to mention.

The doctor listened.

‘I know how much you love Annie, Father,’ Calder said. ‘And you know how much I love her. You know I wouldn’t have done any of this if I thought there was any risk to her.’

There was a squeal as Robbie impaled his finger on a rose thorn. Calder and his father watched as Kim swiftly examined it and kissed it better. Eventually his father spoke. ‘Someone tried to kill my son and ended up nearly killing my daughter. I’m angry about that, very angry about it, but not with you. Getting plastered and hitting an old man in the face doesn’t help very much, although I can understand why you did it.’

‘Men like that are untouchable. He’ll get away with it.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Dr Calder. ‘Kim told me how much you’ve helped her after what happened to her husband. Anne and William and the children will need your help now.’

‘William won’t talk to me,’ Calder said. ‘And I can quite understand why.’

‘Och, that will change. I’ve told William I’m going to take the children home to London tomorrow. Maybe even take them back to school. Kim’s been a great help here, but William’s in no shape to look after them.’

‘What can I do?’

Dr Calder looked at his son carefully. ‘Let’s talk about that later, shall we? In the meantime let me look at that bump on your head.’

It was evening and Calder had been home from the hospital for an hour. There was some straightening up to do: the police had thoroughly searched the outside of the house and had also been over his clothes and shoes. He was beginning to feel a bit better, the headache had subsided, but there was still muzziness around the edges of his brain. He couldn’t help thinking about Anne; the operation had been a success, but he tried not to dwell on the explosion and his part in it.

He heard a car draw up outside. It was his father’s beaten-up red Volvo, with Kim in the passenger seat.

‘We won’t stay long,’ Dr Calder said as he entered the house. ‘But I want a quick word with the both of you before I go down to Highgate with the wee ones tomorrow.’

Calder led them both through to his sitting room. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Have you got some of that Laphroaig I gave you?’ his father asked.

‘How about a glass of wine?’

The doctor frowned. ‘Finished it last night, did you?’

‘Started it and finished it, I’m afraid,’ Calder admitted.

‘Hmm.’ Dr Calder’s disapproval of the use of expensive single-malt whisky for binge drinking ran very deep. ‘Wine will do fine,’ he said grudgingly.

Calder opened a bottle and poured two glasses, giving himself iced water.

‘Very wise,’ said Calder’s father, noticing.

‘What do you think about Annie?’ Calder asked. ‘The doctors are so uncertain at the hospital.’

‘She’ll pull through,’ Dr Calder said with confidence. ‘She’s a tough girl. With injuries like that, recovery depends on the attitude of the patient. The more stubborn and bloody-minded they are, the better.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Calder said.

Dr Calder smiled. ‘I’m right.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Now. Someone has severely injured your husband and your sister,’ he said looking at Kim and Calder in turn. ‘My question is, what are we going to do about it?’

‘What do you mean?’ Calder asked.

‘Well, I’ve listened to what you’ve said and what Kim’s told me and I’ve heard about your bloody stupid antics in London, and I’m angry too. There’s obviously some link between what happened to Todd and what happened to Annie, and that link must be your inquiries into the death of Martha van Zyl. Alex is right: the most likely person behind it all is Cornelius van Zyl.’

Kim and Calder nodded. Dr Calder continued. ‘We should help the police as much as we can, but I share Alex’s concern that they won’t find the evidence to arrest him. If he got away with it, I would be very angry.’ The bushy white eyebrows knitted together and the craggy face set itself in a determined stare. ‘Very angry indeed.’

‘Me too,’ said Kim.

‘Alex?’

Calder nodded.

‘So. What are we going to do?’

‘I can’t see what else we can do, except tell the police all we know,’ Calder said. ‘I can hardly beat a confession out of Cornelius, can I?’

‘Come on, Alex,’ his father said. ‘I’m disappointed in you. You’ve done this kind of thing before, haven’t you? I won’t have the bastard who crippled my daughter getting away with it. You were asking what you can do to make up for what happened to Todd and Annie. Well, I’m telling you. Nail him.’

Calder smiled at his father. Suddenly the fuzziness in his brain cleared. ‘There are things we can do,’ he said. ‘We can’t investigate the bombs in the Yak and the Maserati any better than the police can. But Kim’s original instincts are exactly right. Martha van Zyl’s death is the key. If we can find out who killed her and why, then what’s happening now will make much more sense.’

‘There’s something there Cornelius doesn’t want us to discover,’ said Kim. ‘And he’ll go to great lengths, even to the point of murdering his own son, to stop us.’

‘We can’t be sure it is Cornelius,’ said Dr Calder.

‘Fair point,’ said Calder. ‘But once we find out more about Martha we’ll know one way or another.’

The three of them exchanged glances. There was a new sense of purpose in the room.

‘It’s going to be dangerous,’ said Kim. ‘Todd and Anne have both been injured. If you persist in asking questions, they’ll come after you.’

‘She’s right,’ Dr Calder said.

Calder looked at his friend and his father. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Say what you want to say,’ his father said. ‘It has to be up to you.’

Calder closed his eyes. The danger was real, he knew it. But so was the opportunity: the opportunity to do something for Todd and Anne, for Kim and his father, but most of all the opportunity to do something for himself. It was a way out, a way for him to face all those tomorrows.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

His father smiled.

They heard a loud knock at the front door. Calder noticed a crisp cream envelope lying on the mat. He opened the door to see a small black man in a baggy suit whom he recognized as Cornelius’s driver getting into a Mercedes parked a few yards down the lane.

Calder picked up the envelope and took it back into the sitting room to show to the others.

‘Did he drive all the way up from London just to deliver that?’ said Kim.

‘Presumably.’

‘I wonder what it is. Probably a threat of some sort.’

‘Let’s see.’ Calder slid his finger along the seal of the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper bearing a bold, forward-sloping scrawl. He scanned it and passed it on to his father and Kim.

Dr Calder examined the letter. ‘Sanctimonious bastard,’ he said, when he had read it. ‘You should have hit him harder.’

Calder felt a little better at breakfast the next morning. His father had stayed the night and had gone for a brisk early-morning walk down to the sea. William and the kids had checked into a hotel in King’s Lynn. Calder scanned the newspapers over a second cup of coffee. There was a big article in the Financial Times on the bid for The Times, which was now threatening to turn into a full-scale takeover battle. The Laxton Media board were dithering over Zyl News’s offer. In the meantime, three other potential bidders were said to be looking closely at the situation: a large German publishing conglomerate, an Irish property tycoon who owned papers in South Africa, Ireland and the United States, and Telegraph Newspapers, who published a rival quality broadsheet. The price was high, but The Times was a unique newspaper. According to the FT there was no clear favourite. The Germans had deep pockets but a struggling share price, and the Irishman was showing signs of breaching his own rule never to overpay. Despite the likelihood of referral to the Competition Commission, Telegraph Newspapers were reported willing to try their luck. Sir Evelyn Gill and Cornelius van Zyl were well known for their desperation to own the paper, but both were stretched financially.

Any one of them could emerge as a successful bidder. Anyone but Cornelius, Calder hoped.

Calder realized that inactivity was his enemy. He phoned his insurance company to set in motion a claim for the wrecked Maserati, then he and his father drove to the hospital, where Anne was stable but unconscious. The doctors had saved her leg, reconstructed it almost. They pronounced her ‘a fighter’ and were now much more confident that she would pull through. There was no change with Todd. Calder avoided William, but exchanged some friendly words with Kim. Dr Calder set off with the children for London, and dropped off Calder at a local garage where he hired an old black Golf to last him until he got around to buying another car. He drove it back to his cottage to find Detective Inspector Banks and her chubby friend waiting for him.

He invited them into the house, and made them a pot of coffee. Banks looked even paler than she had the previous Saturday, except for the dark smudges under her eyes. It had obviously been a long weekend.

‘How’s it going?’ Calder asked.

‘Forensics have confirmed that the bomb in the plane was made by the same person who made the bomb in the car.’

‘Big surprise,’ said Calder. Banks glanced at him sharply. ‘Did Benton Davis tell you anything?’

‘No more than he told you. We have made inquiries with the police in South Africa about Martha van Zyl’s death. We’re waiting to hear back from them. In the meantime, we’d like to ask you a few more questions.’

‘Please do.’

She pulled a single sheet of paper out of a folder. It was a sketch of a middle-aged man, beefy with short hair and a moustache. Calder studied it.

‘Have you seen anyone like this around here?’ Banks asked. ‘He’s about five foot eight inches tall, and he might have been wearing a black leather jacket.’

Calder shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘We have a witness who saw this man driving along the lane outside your house on Friday. He stopped and had a good look round. It matches the description of the man walking along the airfield perimeter the night before the Yak bomb went off.’

Calder studied the drawing. ‘Sorry. I don’t recognize him at all.’

Banks took back the sketch. She showed no sign of disappointment. More questions asked, another blank drawn, it was all part of the process.

‘How long have you known Mrs van Zyl?’ she asked.

‘We were at university together. But I hadn’t seen her for ten years until a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I see. But you’ve spent some time with her over these last couple of weeks?’

‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

‘Have you been able to get a sense of the state of her relationship with her husband?’

‘Yes,’ said Calder. ‘She loves him very much. She’s devastated about what happened to him.’

‘She hasn’t mentioned any strains in their marriage?’

‘No. She’s a bit frustrated with where they live, I suppose, but that’s all. Why? Are you suggesting she’s responsible for the bombs?’

‘She would stand to inherit a fortune if Todd were to die.’

‘That’s absurd!’ Calder said, too loudly.

‘Possibly,’ Inspector Banks said. Calder was aware that she was looking at him closely now. ‘Are you sure that you know of nothing else that might suggest marital difficulties?’

Two scenes flashed into Calder’s mind: Donna Snyder at Todd’s bedside, and himself and Kim in his back garden. Just as quickly he tried to banish them. ‘Quite sure,’ he said slowly.

‘What about your relationship with Mrs van Zyl?’

‘I know what you are implying and I resent it,’ Calder said calmly. Inspector Banks’s hazel eyes searched his. He held them.

‘All right,’ said the detective. ‘Just one last question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’

Calder frowned. ‘I don’t see what relevance that has to this.’

‘You were last seen, intoxicated, getting into a taxi to King’s Lynn station. You didn’t return home until the next morning.’

‘I don’t have to tell you where I was,’ Calder said.

Banks sighed. ‘No you don’t. But you’ve been cooperative up to now, and it seems odd to me that you refuse to answer the question. It arouses my suspicion. Makes me curious. If you don’t tell me, I will find out the answer.’

Calder looked at her. He wanted to help, and she almost certainly would find out anyway. ‘I went to see Cornelius van Zyl.’

‘Ah. I don’t think that was a good idea, Mr Calder.’

‘But I’m sure he’s responsible for this,’ Calder said.

‘If he is, and I stress if, the last thing we want you to do is go barging in accusing him. He will need to be treated carefully.’

‘Have you seen him yet?’

‘I’m going down to London early tomorrow morning, with my superintendent.’

‘Superintendent?’

‘This is an important investigation.’

‘And Cornelius van Zyl is an important man?’

‘He certainly is,’ said Banks. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Calder.’

Calder saw the two detectives to the door. He was shaken by Banks’s questioning, especially about his relationship with Kim. He really didn’t want that to come out. He was quite sure that it had no relevance to the attempt on Todd’s life: the idea that Kim was in some way responsible was absurd, no matter how much money she stood to inherit. But on the other hand he was encouraged by Banks’s persistence and perceptiveness. If she grilled Cornelius like she had grilled him she might get somewhere.