Shape of Snakes

*17*

It was an involved tale about a pretty little secretary in Sam's office who had ensnared him during the August of '78 while I was in Hampshire dog-sitting for my parents, who were on holiday. It was a brief madness, Jock assured me, a fatal attraction that went sour almost as soon as it started. Sam wanted to dump her the minute I came home, but the girl was having none of it. If she'd worked anywhere else it wouldn't have been a problem, but Sam was worried about how it would affect his career if she turned on him out of spite. It was the early days of sexual harassment cases, and this was a girl who knew what she was doing.

Sam strung her along for a couple of months, then made an attempt to end it on the night I was due to stay late at school for a parents' evening. By malign chance, it was also the night Mad Annie died. "Sam was way out of his depth," said Jock. "He had this crazy idea that if he wined and dined his mistress first, then told her he planned to do the decent and honorable thing and stay with his wife, the girl would accept it. Instead she went ballistic ... screamed and yelled at him in the restaurant ... poured wine down his suit ... and, what with one thing and another, he was in a pretty dire state by the time he reached home.

"He passed Annie in the gutter," said Jock. "She was under the lamppost so he could hardly miss her, but she reeked of drink so he left her. He knew you'd be back any minute and his first priority was to get out of the suit, clean himself up and pretend he'd been in all evening." A glint of humor flashed in his eyes. "Then you come running in fifteen minutes later to ring for an ambulance and the silly sod promptly shoots himself in the foot."

I frowned. "He was watching television. I never even questioned where he'd been."

"You told him Annie Butts was dying in the road outside and he said, 'No, she's not, she's paralytic.'"

"So?"

"Why would he say that if he hadn't seen her?"

I bit back a laugh. "Are you telling me you lied to the police because of some half-assed remark he made while I was screaming down the telephone for an ambulance? He could have told me she was standing on her head and waggling her legs in the air for all the notice I paid him. I wouldn't have remembered afterward."

Jock shrugged. "That's exactly what I said, but he didn't believe me. He reckoned you had a memory like an elephant. He said it would be easier all round if we supported the police version that Annie was staggering drunk at a quarter to eight. I mean it wasn't as if we were the only ones to say it ... everyone was saying it. We thought it was the truth."

"There were only five other people who claimed to have seen her," I reminded him. "One was Geoffrey Spalding who lived opposite Annie at number 27. He's the man who said at the inquest that he tried to persuade Annie to go home but gave up when she started cursing him. His estimate of the time was between 8 and 8:30. Two were an elderly couple at number 8, Mr. and Mrs. Pardoe, who went up to bed at approximately nine o'clock because they were cold and saw her from their upstairs window, but decided against doing anything because she was clearly drunk and the last time they'd tried to help her she spat at them. And the remaining two were a man and a woman in a car who were using Graham Road as a shortcut and said they had to slam on the brakes when a bulky figure in a dark coat suddenly lurched in front of them, screaming abuse. They decided she was 'an aggressive drunk' and drove on to avoid a confrontation. They couldn't be accurate about the time, but thought it was shortly after nine o'clock."

He looked at the photographs that were still in my lap. "You've just destroyed your own argument," he said. "Why would any of those people lie about seeing her?"

"I don't think they did," I answered slowly, "except possibly Geoffrey Spalding, and he may only have been lying about the time. You see, timing's important. One of the reasons the police estimated that she received her injuries fifteen to thirty minutes before I found her was because the Pardoes and the couple in the car both said she was on her feet at or around nine o'clock. If she was dead by 9:30, then ipso facto something must have hit her during those thirty minutes."

"Then how can you expect anyone to believe she was beaten to death hours earlier?"

"I said she was beaten unconscious, Jock, I didn't say she was dead. There is a difference ... particularly when you're talking about someone as well-built and powerful as Annie." I ran an exploratory finger across her celluloid face as if it could tell me something. "I think she came 'round inside her house and managed to get herself out in search of help. The miracle is she had enough strength left to try to stop a passing car. A doctor would probably say it was impossible because her skull was so badly fractured, but it's the only explanation for why she was in the road and why she appeared drunk."

"Or the police were right all the time," suggested Jock. "I remember reading the inquest report. It said there was a high level of alcohol in her blood."

I shook my head. "It was ninety-five milligrams per hundred millilitres of blood-or fifteen milligrams above the legal driving limit. That's the equivalent of four or five shots of rum ... a drop in the ocean for someone who drank as much as Annie. Sam and I can manage that with no trouble at weekends ... you, too, I expect ... but it doesn't make us stagger about like zombies." I gave a weary shake of my head. "She was labeled a road-traffic accident, so the pathologist routinely recorded her as 'unfit to drive,' which the police and the coroner then interpreted as a 'high concentration of alcohol.' In fairness they had witness statements that described her as 'paralytic' and the police found cases of empty vodka bottles in her house, but if the pathologist had done his job properly he would have questioned whether ninety-five milligrams was enough to cause staggering in a fourteen-stone woman with a known alcohol habit."

"You really have done your homework, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"What do the police say?"

"Nothing yet. I want my evidence so watertight that they'll be forced to reopen the case whether they like it or not." I paused. "I'll need you and Sharon to admit you were the couple I followed into Graham Road that night," I told him.

He shrugged. "That won't worry me. It might worry her, though."

"Why?"

"She lied at the inquest. She didn't get to the William of Orange till 9:15. We usually met up about half-eight, had a quick drink, then cut down the alleyway at the back of her house, but she was dropped off by a taxi that night, high as a kite, and totally uninterested in making any more money. So I walked her along the A316 and split away from her when we turned into Graham Road." He went on before I could ask the obvious question. "She said she'd been at a hotel with another client. I assume it was true because she was dressed up like a dog's dinner and stank of fags." He gave a small shake of his head as he recalled the memory. "She certainly didn't give the impression that she'd come from her house. Rather the reverse, in fact. Kept saying she wanted to get back to it because she was sick as a dog from all the champagne she'd drunk."

"But if Tuesday was your day, why would she go with somebody else?"

"She was a pro," he'said sarcastically. "Someone else offered her more money."

"Did she say who it was?"

"She didn't give me a name ... just said it was another regular whom she couldn't afford to disappoint."

"Geoffrey Spalding was one of her clients," I said slowly. "His wife was dying of breast cancer and he didn't want her or his daughters to know he was paying for sex. He took Sharon to a hotel once a month." I laughed at his expression. "No, it wasn't Libby who told me. It was Sharon's son, Michael. I've been writing to him in prison."

"Jesus! Rather you than me then," he said dryly. "He was a right little sadist when I knew him ... used to pluck the whiskers out of Annie's cats just for the fun of it. Do you know why he's in prison?" I nodded. "Then you ought to be careful. His mother was shit-scared of him. And with reason. He had a real temper when he was roused."

I watched the cat lick itself drowsily in the afternoon sun. "You know the one thing that's always puzzled me, Jock ... why neither you nor Sharon stopped to find out if Annie was alive. You must have seen her. Sharon virtually had to step over her to cross the road."

"We truly didn't," he said. "I asked Sharon about it afterward and she went white as a sheet ... kept begging me to keep my mouth shut in case we got accused of being involved in some way."

There seemed little else to say, but I couldn't find the energy to rise from the chair. The journey home held few attractions and, like the cat, I wanted nothing better than to curl into a ball and forget that life was complicated. Perhaps Jock felt the same because the shadows lengthened noticeably before he spoke again.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Yes," I agreed.

He smiled. "Aren't you going to ask me how?"

"There's no point." I leaned my head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "I know what you're going to say."

"What?"

"I'm more relaxed than I used to be."

"How did you know?"

"It's what Sam always says."

"You used to get pretty hyped-up in the old days," he said. "I remember going into your house one day and having to duck a flying saucepan."

I turned my head to look at him, laughing at the memory. "Only because you and Sam came home plastered at some god-awful hour in the morning and got me out of bed with the row you were making downstairs. The minute you saw me you started demanding food, so I tossed the saucepan in your direction and told you to cook it yourselves. You were supposed to catch it, not duck it."

"Is that right?" he asked dryly. "Then how come most of the crockery ended up on the floor as well?"

I thought back. "I was hopping mad, particularly as we had a school inspection the next day. In any case, I never liked those plates. Sam's mother gave them to us."

He grinned at me. "We were so damn legless we probably thought you'd be thrilled to see us. And at least we never did it again. As Sam said, you'd probably start hurling knives the next time."

We exchanged smiles. "I never did find out where you'd been," I murmured lazily. "You swore it was the pub, but it can't have been because pubs closed at 11."

There was the smallest of hesitations before he answered. "A strip club in Soho," he said. "Sam didn't think you'd approve."

I gave a noncommittal shrug. "Was the pretty little secretary with you?" I asked. "It was October-time, so she must have been around."

He shook his head. "Sam wouldn't take a woman to a strip club."

I leaned forward to tuck the photographs of Annie into my rucksack. "Did you ever meet her, Jock?"

"No," he admitted.

"So you've only Sam's word that she existed?"

There was real surprise in his voice when he answered. "Of course she existed! You can't hate someone who isn't real. He told me that night that strangling was too good for her, and trust me ... I was there ... I heard him. He meant every word. That's why I took him to the club in the first place ... to try to get his mind on to something else. He was terrified she was going to come to you with the sordid details ... either that or blackmail him. I'd just about persuaded him to come clean and tell you about it"-he gave a dispirited sigh-"then we walk through the door and you start throwing bloody saucepans at us."

I smiled at his innocence, thinking it was no wonder Sam loved him as a guru. Pupils always preferred a teacher they could manipulate. "Sorry," I said without contrition, "but if it's any consolation there's no way he was going to own up to it. I'm not questioning the affair, Jock, only the conveniently streetwise secretary. He invented her for your sake. He's always been useless at keeping secrets and you were bound to get suspicious if he started saying he was too busy to have a drink with you. I think you'll find he was performing closer to home."

He rubbed his head ferociously. "I don't understand."

"Oh, come on, it's not that hard to work out." I started gathering my bits and pieces together. "What do you think Libby was doing the night Annie died? Darning your socks?"

He wouldn't accept it. "She can't have been with Sam," he said. "Hell, I'd have known if she'd been out. She had my supper waiting, and all the laundry done, for Christ's sake."

"There was a perfectly good bed in your house," I murmured. "What makes you think they didn't use that?"

He stared at me with a look of bewildered hurt on his face, and I was reminded of my own devastation as I listened to Sam's drunken ramblings that night in Hong Kong. It's your fault we're here ... If you hadn't left me in the lurch none of this would have happened ... Women are crooked ... They do one thing and say another ... Why the hell did you have to ask people what they were doing that night? Did you expect them to be honest?

"I could have walked in at any moment," protested Jock, clutching at straws.

"It was a Tuesday," I said, "and you never got home before 10 on a Tuesday."

"But..." His bewilderment increased. "Was anything Sam told me true?"

"I think it was true that it started during the two weeks I was away. I remember him telling me over the phone that Libby had offered to do his washing for him, but when I asked him later if he'd taken her up on it he became incredibly tetchy and said he hadn't seen her. At the time I thought he was cross because she'd let him down, but now I think he was just frightened of giving too much away..."

I watched resentment steal into Jock's face like a thief, and was surprised at how hollow my little victory felt.

"I think it's also true that he wanted to end it," I went on, "and was terrified of making an enemy of her. Personally, I doubt Libby would ever have confessed to it herself-she didn't want to give you ammunition for a divorce-but Sam certainly believed she would." I smiled slightly. "The irony is, I suspect he was far more worried about you finding out than he was about me. He says your friendship is important to him."

"He's a bloody hypocrite."

I didn't disagree. "Why do you care?" I asked. "As you said yourself it was dead and buried years ago."

But Jock didn't want to be reminded of his own mealy-mouthed platitudes. "He got me to lie for him."

"You were happy to do it," I pointed out.

"I might have felt differently if I'd known he was with Libby."

I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Who's the hypocrite now?"

He turned away, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

"In any case," I went on, "I'm betting it was Libby who pushed him into it. The police were asking everyone in the street if they'd seen or heard anything at the time of the accident, and I think she was afraid someone would say they'd spotted Sam leaving your house around nine o'clock. It was safer all 'round if he could deny it and say he was with you at our place."

The steps from bewilderment to hate were short and ugly and could be measured in their passage across his face. I had taken those steps myself and recognized the signs. Yet the object of his hatred was not the man who'd betrayed him, but the woman. "She loved making a fool of me, you know. She's probably been wetting herself for years knowing I was the one who covered their tracks."

I shook my head. "You shouldn't dwell on it. If Sam had been anything more to Libby than a stopgap lover, you'd have been out on your ear and he and I wouldn't still be married."

"I was out anyway," he said angrily. "I never had a chance."

"You had the same chances I did," I said coolly. "If either of us had known what was going on, then both our marriages would have ended in divorce. Because we didn't, yours held together a little longer and mine survived. But yours was on the rocks already, Jock, and you can't blame Sam for that. He was a symptom, not a cause."

He began a rambling defense of his own part in that long-dead relationship. Did I have any idea what it was like to be rejected by someone I loved? Why would he have taken up with Sharon if Libby had shown the slightest bit of interest m him? What did I think it did to a man's self-esteem to have to pay for sex? Of course he hadn't told Sam about her. No man in his right mind would want his friends laughing at him behind his back...

Listening to him expose his heartache in that room stuffed with hidden secrets, I was more amused than sympathetic. Was he so blind to his own duplicity that double standards held no embarrassment for him? And why did he think he could trust me with his pain, when mine was older, more monstrous and a great deal crueller? Like Sam, he saw himself more sinned against than sinning, and, like Sam, his belligerence grew as his own guilt paled before the guilt of others.

When he finally ran out of steam, I stood up and pulled on my rucksack. "I wouldn't waste any more time on it if I were you," I said kindly. "It won't change anything, just make you angry."

"If that's what you wanted you should have left me in ignorance." He watched morosely as I checked to see I'd left nothing behind. "Why didn't you?"

"I didn't think it was fair."

He gave a mirthless laugh. "Well, maybe I don't put such a high price on fairness as you do. Did you think about that? Sam and I go back a long way. Maybe I'd have been happier not knowing."

I was sure he was right. It was truly said that what you don't know can't hurt you, and Sam and he could have gone on forever, the one lying about his stalwart support of his friend, the other lying about his success. It was also truly said that misery loves company and I laid a quiet bet with myself that Jock-a man not given to suffering in silence-would pick up the telephone after I left and offload some of his misery onto my husband.

It seemed eminently fair to me-justice demands a penalty-but whether they would ever speak again was questionable. I wasn't troubled by it. I had waited a very long time for my pound of flesh.