There! That’s what it’s like to be libbed. I hope you’ve learned your lesson, my girl.
Redpath stood up, sneering in righteous triumph, and backed away from the settee. The telephone purred at him from the floor.
I’ve got to find a safer place.
He looked down at the crimson obscenities that were his hands, and a cold sense of urgency welled up inside him. Moving with a kind of post-orgasmic weakness, he went into the kitchen and began to wash his hands at the sink. The jet of cool water from the mixer tap caused a sharp stinging in his left hand and he discovered that he had managed to cut himself. There was a deep diagonal slice on the ball of the thumb which renewed the flow of blood almost as quickly as he could wash it away, infiltrating the lines of his palm. He tore a wide piece of tissue from a holder on the wall, wadded it into his left hand and hurried to the entrance of the flat. The door was still partly open. He looked out cautiously, surveying the world with the eyes of a stranger, and made sure there was nobody on the stairs or on the ground at the side of the house. Within a minute he had retrieved his bicycle and was riding in the direction of Calbridge town centre, propelling himself with long, efficient thrusts, feeling the sunlight warm on his back.
The return of sanity was like a head-on collision with an invisible barrier.
He pulled hard on both brake levers, bringing the machine to a shuddering unbalanced halt which threw him forward on to the handlebars. The chromed tubing clubbed his chest. He hunched over the front wheel, staring down at the grey-on-black mosaic of the tarmac paving, feeling his face contort into a mask of horror and disbelief. A thin rope of saliva reached tentatively downwards from his open mouth.
What have you done?
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
“What seems to be the trouble, sir?” The young policeman’s voice was sympathetic, but he was eyeing Redpath with undisguised professional interest. His face was pink and hard, cleanshaven to the point of looking polished, the face of a man who would neither invite trouble nor go an inch out of his way to avoid it.
“What?” Redpath’s gaze wandered blankly from the young officer to the nearby patrol car whose arrival he had not noticed.
“I asked if you were in trouble. Are you feeling all right?”
“I…I’m all right.” Redpath straightened up, wiped his lips and tried to smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Did you come off the bike?”
“I did have a bit of a spill,” Redpath said, “but I’m all right.”
“Looks like you hurt your hand.” The policeman’s voice was less sympathetic now, and his eyes were busy. “Blood on your jacket, as well.”
“I know, but it’s only…”
“Have you got far to go, sir?”
“Not far—Bingham Terrace.” That was bloody clever, Red-path thought, still bemused. He was trying to find out where I live without actually asking, and I handed it to him on a plate. “That’s on Disley High Street.”
“I know where it is, sir. It’s right on the other side of town.”
“Yes, but Calbridge is a small place, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like crossing London or Los Angeles.”
The policeman was not amused. “You can soon work up a thirst on a pushbike on a day like this.”
“I don’t drink,” Redpath said, uneasily aware that the officer was not satisfied and was digging his heels in, that it was time to play the old trump card. “I’m an epileptic, you see—daren’t go near booze.” He was rewarded by a barely perceptible slackening of the muscles of the policeman’s waxy face, a flicker of ancient fears in the eyes.
“I didn’t realise that, sir.”
Redpath showed his Medic-Alert bracelet in the manner of one producing a badge of authority. “It’s something you learn to live with.”
“How are you now?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I haven’t been having one of my turns or anything like that.”
“So you’ll be able to get home all right on your own.” The relief in the policeman’s voice was unmistakable. “I mean, we could give you a lift if…”
“No, I’m fine. Honestly.” Redpath smiled reassuringly at the policeman, watching him walk away and get into his car. He remained in the same position, standing astride the bicycle, until the car had moved off, then he became aware of a liquid warmth, stealthy and shameful, spreading down his thighs. A pool of urine made a furtive appearance beside his right shoe. He stared down at it, his vision distorted by tears.
I knew I was turning into a maniac. A frigging, homicidal, enuretic maniac. What’s going to happen to me now?
A part of Redpath’s mind, the part which ever held itself aloof from matters of conscience, told him that Leila’s body would soon be discovered and that he would quickly be chosen as the prime suspect. Marge Rawlings would be only too pleased to testify that he knew Leila was going home at lunchtime and that he was motivated by jealousy, but her evidence was likely to be superfluous. He had left the murder weapon behind with his fingerprints all over it, and he had brought himself to the attention of the police at exactly the right time and place to link him to the crime. Short of committing the murder before an invited audience, he could not have handed the CID a more open-and-shut case. It was doubtful, considering the time it would take, if it was even prudent for him to go back to his own flat to change his clothing…
I’ve got to find a safer place!
Shocked, appalled, confused, driven by an instinctive desire to crawl into hiding, Redpath mounted the bicycle and rode off through the suburban alternation of sunlight and tree-shade, barely aware that he was heading in the direction of the house in Raby Street.
CHAPTER THREE
The door was opened by a sleek, fat, well-groomed man who stared at Redpath with undisguised glee. “I told you it was him,”the fat man called over his shoulder, projecting his voice into the back of the house. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you it was him?” The only immediate response was the muffled slamming of a door somewhere within.
“Pardon me,” Redpath said, taken aback. “Is…Betty in?”
“Sure thing, pardner, sure thing,” the fat man said breezily in a faked Hollywood cowboy accent. “Step this way.” He stood aside to let Redpath enter the hall, then closed the outer door, reducing the ambient light to a whitish glow which came in through the transom. The fleur-de-lis on the half-glazed inner door seemed to deepen from amber to brown. Looking at the simplistic design Redpath again caught the scent of non-existent cloves.
“Ah…” He sought desperately for something to say and heard himself utter a classic banality. “Nice day.”
“I’m Wilbur Tennent,” the fat man said, smiling eagerly at Redpath and now speaking normally. He had the neat, very regular features that are often associated with obesity and his teeth were small and even. His smoothly-combed greying hair and light grey suit with its window-pane checks gave him something of the appearance of a successful bookmaker. To Redpath’s eye he seemed quite out of place in the dark brown dinginess of the house.
“I expect Betty has told you all about me,” Tennent added. “I don’t usually solicit new clients—too big a waiting list, you know how it is—but I’ve got to make an exception in your case, John. After all, you’re going to be one of the family, so to speak.”
“Really?” Redpath gazed at the other man’s snowy, gold-studded cuffs with a growing disquiet, suddenly aware of the stained and odorous condition of his own clothing. What the hell’s going on here? How does he know I’m going to be one of the family? What sort of a family would want me, anyway?