Her eyes brightened for a moment. ‘Oh, if you could.’ But then she shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea where he is now. Mother doesn’t know. Did she show you the book of press cuttings?’
‘No.’
‘No, of course not, it was still lying there on the floor. The place was an awful mess.’ And then she said, ‘I checked myself because I had the same idea. But the last jutting she got was three years ago. I don’t know whether he’s been in the papers since then. Dad found out, or maybe he knew all the time — anyway, he made her stop them. That last cutting was a picture taken in Basra. But he may have retired by now. He was getting on — over fifty. And if he’s retired, then he’d probably be in England somewhere, wouldn’t he? That’s what all these people who’ve lived all their lives abroad do when they retire. Do you think perhaps David knows where he is?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He tried to get the address out of me.’ No point in telling her that he might have the same idea that I had and try to check the newspaper files. ‘In any case,’ I told her, ‘he’ll have his work cut out to elude the police. I think you can set your mother’s mind at rest. The police will pick him up and … and time will do the rest. Your mother can see him in prison, talk to him; in no time at all he’ll have accepted the situation.’
She thought that over for a moment and then nodded. Yes. That makes sense.’ And then she said, ‘Do you think that’s why he escaped … I mean, did he really want to kill Colonel Whitaker, do you think? His own father?’
‘At the moment perhaps.’ There was no telling what the boy had in his mind. He might simply have been jealous of his mother’s affection for an old love. But I couldn’t tell her that. ‘In my opinion, it was the shock,’ I said. ‘A perfectly natural reaction. When he’s had time to think it over, get used to the idea-’
‘But why did he escape? He’s never done that before. He’s been arrested twice, you see, but he never tried to escape.’ And when I didn’t say anything, she gave a little shrug. ‘Oh well, it’ll all come out in the wash, I expect.’ She smiled briefly, but the smile didn’t extend to her eyes, which were sad and suddenly without lustre. ‘It was silly of me to come really.’ She started for the door, hugging her coat round her. ‘I should have known there was nothing you could do. It’s Mother I’m worried about. David’s in enough trouble-’ She moved her shoulders as though bracing herself. ‘I think perhaps I’ll go and see Dr Harvey. Maybe he’d give her a sedative, something to make her sleep so she doesn’t keep going over it in her mind and getting silly ideas in her head.’ She turned and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Grant. And thank you. I feel a bit better now anyway.’
I took her back through the empty office to the street door and as she wheeled her bicycle out she asked me to telephone her if I had any news. ‘During the day you can always get me at the Infirmary if it’s important. I’d rather you didn’t phone my mother. Promise?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Shortly after she’d gone Andrews came in with the map. By the time I had dealt with the conveyance and finished my other work, it was almost seven-thirty. Time enough to call in at the police station on my way down to the docks. What the boy needed was to be given some purpose in life.
I was thinking about this as I pulled on my coat, wondering at the chance of birth, how some people are born to parents happily married, and others … my own childhood hadn’t been all that happy. I shrugged my shoulders. Life was a battle anyway. Sex, money, happiness — it was all a struggle, like trying to build up this decrepit business. It took all the guts, all the energy you’d got sometimes just to make some sense out of life, and when things didn’t work out … I set the guard carefully in front of the dying fire, feeling sorry for the boy, sorry for myself.
I suppose I was tired. It had been a frustrating week, and now it was Friday and the week-end stretching ahead. I was feeling the need of a drink. There was a pub I went to sometimes in the dock area, a rowdy place, but virile and full of masculinity and talk of far places, a seaman’s pub that always gave me the illusion of islands just beyond the horizon. With a few Scotches, imagination could soar, leaping the tawdry problems of money and piddling lawyer’s briefs.
I went out, closing the door of my office behind me, following the white beam of my torch through the empty outer office with its clumsy mahogany counter and frosted glass panels. I had reached the street door and my hand was on the latch when I remembered the package for Captain Griffiths. I had left it propped up on the mantelpiece so that I wouldn’t forget it.
I went back to my office, my footsteps sounding hollow on the bare boards. He’d never forgive me if I let him sail without his dream of the future all set down in the mumbo-jumbo of legal phraseology. A man needed a dream, something to aim at. You couldn’t go through life without a goal. For him it was retirement and that little whitewashed cottage looking out over the sweep of Rhosilli Bay; for me it was just a solicitor’s office with new paint, new furniture and clients tumbling over each other for my services. My hand reached out for the handle of the door, and then, suddenly, there was the tinkle of glass falling. The sound came from beyond the door, startlingly loud in the empty stillness.
I switched off my torch and eased the door open a fraction, every nerve in my body tensed and expectant. I heard the scrape of the window latch, the scrabble of boots on the sill, the rustle of the curtains as they were pushed aside. A burglar? But nobody but a fool would expect to find cash lying around loose in a solicitor’s office. Perhaps he was after some particular document? But I could think of nothing I was handling at the moment sufficiently important to warrant breaking and entering. I heard him stumble against my chair and then I could hear his heavy breathing coming nearer as he crossed the room to the door. I guessed he’d be making for the light switch, and I flung the door wide and at the same time switched on my torch again.
David Thomas stood there, checked in the white beam of it. His fair hair was plastered down by the rain. His face was streaked with blood from a gash on his forehead, the left cheek bruised and filthy with mud. There was mud on his clothes, too; black, wet patches of it that clung to the sodden cloth. His jacket was ripped at the shoulder and one trouser leg was torn so badly that the flesh of his leg showed through the rent. He was breathing heavily as though he’d been running.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said and switched on the light. His face was ghastly white, his eyes unnaturally wide. He looked scared out of his wits. ‘Well, I don’t expect they’ll think of looking for you in my office.’ I closed the door and walked past him and put the curtain straight. Then I took the guard from the fire and put some more coal on, poking it till a flame showed. And all the time I was conscious of him standing there, watching me in silence, too surprised, too scared probably, to move. I pushed the old arm-chair reserved for clients close to the hearth. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Take your jacket off and come and sit by the fire and dry yourself out.’ He did as I told him, too startled to have any initiative of his own left. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘just tell me what in God’s name made you do such a damn-fool thing?’
For a moment I thought he was going to close up on me the way that sort of kid does when things go wrong and people start asking questions. The sullen tough-boy look had come back into his face. ‘Take your time,’ I said. ‘There’s no hurry. You’ve got all evening if you want it.’ I thought I’d try flattery then. ‘Not many chaps manage to get away from the police so soon after being taken in charge. How did you do it?’
The tight lips relaxed slightly, a ghost of a smile. ‘Luck,’ he said. He was shivering and I poked the fire again, coaxing it into a blaze. They’d got a car to take me to one of their bloody jails. Said I’d feel more at home in the nick.’ His tone was a sneer.
‘And you made a break for it.’