“...you what, Martin?”
“In the Good Book — it’s the Samaritan who’s passing and sees the man who fell among thieves. I think that was the phrase. But you’re the one who’s passing, aren’t you? I’m the one who was here.”
“So what does that make me, the bad Samaritan?” Holt laughed again, but not so loudly. “Anyway. Seriously. If you could lend me fifteen, twenty quid, it would make all the difference to my immediate future. And I’ll post it back first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re asking me to take a lot on trust here, Mr. Holt.”
“Not really. I can give you my address, e-mail, mobile number — you on e-mail, Martin?”
“Am I a silver surfer, you mean?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to imply — it’s not like I’m looking at you and seeing an old man or anything. What are you, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, something like that?”
“A little older.”
“But sprightly.”
“Sprightly. That’s a word only attached to the elderly, isn’t it? So no, I’d rather not think of myself as sprightly. Hale will do nicely.”
“Hale, yeah, you look hale all right. But anyway, Martin, all I’m saying is — look, what is that?”
“What’s what?”
“That noise. Is that dripping? Did you forget to turn a tap off?”
“I didn’t forget, no. I seem to have sprung a leak.”
“A real leak or just a washer?”
“Real?”
“I mean, if you’ve got a cracked pipe, that’s a problem. Basically, you’re going to need a plumber. But if it’s a leaky washer, that’s no big deal. I could replace it myself. Wouldn’t take a minute.”
“You’re a plumber?”
“I’m good with my hands,” Holt said.
They were large hands, it was true. And looked well used: had grazes on the knuckles. Perhaps from when he’d walked into that tree.
“I don’t think it’s the pipe,” the older man said.
“No?”
“No. It’s just the tap. Won’t stop dripping.”
“That’ll be your typical washer problem, then. You got a spare?”
“There’s some in a jar,” he said. “In the cellar. With the tools.”
“And a wrench?”
“Yes. Yes, there’s a wrench.”
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. I can fix that for you. Won’t take five minutes.”
“In return for some money, you mean.”
“That’s how these things work. You do a job, you get paid. This, though, is more of your one-time-only offer, because I’m not asking for payment. Just a loan.”
“We’re back to the loan.”
“Sure. The arrangement we just discussed. You let me have twenty, thirty quid, enough to fill my tank and get me home, and I’ll post it back to you tomorrow.”
“Twenty, thirty?”
“Ought to do it.”
“It was fifteen, twenty earlier.”
“That was before I fixed the tap.”
It was still before he’d fixed the tap. The tap hadn’t been fixed yet.
“I’m quite capable of managing by myself, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment. But if I do it, we’ll both feel better, won’t we? I’ll have done you a favour in return for the loan, and you’ll know I’m not some scam artist who’s turned up on your doorstep hoping to rip you off.”
“You could still be that.”
“Well, sure. But at least you’ll have had your tap fixed.”
Something in the fire snapped suddenly, with a bang and a scatter of sparks. Neither man jumped. Holt said, “So, your tools are in the cellar, that’s what you said?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You just point me, I’ll pop down and fetch what I need.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll get them.”
“Well, I’ll come with you, make sure you get the right stuff.”
“No,” Martin said. “I’ll go. You wait here.”
Holt looked around. “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to spend another couple of minutes by the fire.”
Martin said, “I won’t be a moment.”
Alone, Holt rubbed his hands together again, to squeeze the cold out of them. He revolved slowly in front of the flames, warming himself on all sides. Then he gazed around at the room’s contents once more.
Martin Hudson, who would soon be deceased, kept a tidy house.
Holt wandered from the fire to the hallway, where a travel bag sat under a row of coat pegs. It seemed a journey was being planned; possibly an overnight trip. It wasn’t a huge bag. From its unzippered opening, clothing poked: Martin Hudson, it would appear, was a tidier housekeeper than he was packer. There was an envelope in the bag, unsealed, its opening clearly visible. It contained banknotes. Holt raised an eyebrow, and returned to the fireside.
He switched the TV on, registered what was showing, and switched it off.
A moment or two later Martin reappeared, via the kitchen. “Did I hear you talking?” he asked.
“I turned your TV on. Just wanted to catch the score.”
“I didn’t know there was a match on.”
“Euro playoffs. But I missed the sports roundup. It’s okay. I’ll catch it later.”
“No, that’s all right.”
When the set came back on, the newsreader was repeating the main headline.
“—Shrievemoor Maximum Security Prison. Once again, the public have been warned not to approach this man, described by police as extremely dangerous.”
Holt said, “They’ll read the scores again later. I’ll catch them on the car radio.”
Martin turned the set off. “Shrievemoor,” he said.
“That’s quite near, isn’t it?” Holt asked after a moment.
“About ten miles.” Martin was holding a wrench: a pretty hefty example of one. “Well, by road. Less than that through the woods.”
“I think I drove through it earlier.”
“I thought you said you drove from Westerton.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not sure you could have done, then. Not without being lost.”
“Well,” Holt said. “Maybe I passed a signpost for it.”
“Maybe.”
“So,” Holt said after a short silence. “I see you found your wrench.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What about a washer? Did you have a spare?”
“Got one right here.”
Holt took it from him, and the wrench too. It looked a comfortable fit for his large hand. “Righty-ho,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The body of Martin Hudson was found the following afternoon by a friend from the village, who’d been expecting to meet him for lunch. It was in the cellar where the tools were kept, one of which — a wrench — had been used to batter him to death.
“But he hung on for a while,” the pathologist noted. “Probably survived for a few hours after the attack.”
Upstairs, the scene-of-crime outfit were bagging evidence.
“No shortage of prints,” one noted.
They all knew whose they were looking for. Yesterday’s escapee from Shrievemoor had notched up six kills in his time, at least one of them for fun.
Somebody brought in a plastic jug which had been left on the garden path.
“Smells like it’s been used for petrol.”
“Surprised he didn’t torch the place after killing — what was his name?”
“Hudson.”
“Hudson.” The policeman shook his head. “Then again, not much our Derek does surprises me anymore.”
“Man’s an animal.”
When they checked the CCTV at the local garage, they saw the jug again: being filled at a pump by the man who’d said his name was Ian Holt. He paid in cash.
A few hours later, they had him at the station.
“How did you find me?”
They explained.