The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 32

  They headed for a low, L-shaped building in an advanced state of dilapidation that crouched at the western end of the fields. Even in the fast-fading light, the years of neglect were all too evident. Much of the roof had fallen in and through gaping holes, trees thrust their way to the sky. There was no glass in the windows but most of the bars fixed across them to deter burglars still looked intact.

  De Silva followed Claybourne up the wooden steps to the porch. The front door hung precariously by a single hinge. It opened with difficulty, making a grating sound that set de Silva’s teeth on edge.

  The room they walked into stank of damp; rubbish and dead leaves littered the floor. The remains of a meal stood on a table: a few scraps of bread and a melon rind that were providing a feast for a pair of common tiger butterflies. Through a door to the right, he caught a glimpse of a dimly lit room with a low bed in it. From the rumpled covers, it seemed that Claybourne had been sleeping in this godforsaken hole.

  ‘How did you find this place?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘I spoke to some of the locals; they knew about it. I come here sometimes when I want some peace and quiet.’

  ‘You certainly found it. What do you do for water and supplies?’

  ‘There’s a well at the back. As for the rest, I pay a local man to bring in what little I need.’

  De Silva shuddered inwardly. How cheerless and lonely the place was. It was no wonder the fellow looked so grim.

  ‘I don’t expect Randall will be here for a while,’ said Claybourne. ‘I told the guide what time we would arrive and stressed that we wanted to be here first.’

  ‘Always an advantage.’ Surreptitiously, de Silva touched the Webley in the shoulder holster tucked under his jacket. If it came to a fight, he hoped the gun would be an advantage too.

  Claybourne permitted himself a rare smile. ‘I thought we might be glad of something to steady our nerves before the fun begins.’ He went to a cupboard made of dry, cracked, wooden panels. The shelves held a meagre stock of packets and tins of food as well as a few mismatched tumblers and a bottle of whisky. Claybourne poured them each a generous measure then gestured to the verandah. ‘It’s stuffy in here. We can probably risk staying outside while we drink these.’

  There was no furniture on the small verandah so they remained standing while they drank in silence. De Silva ran their agreement over in his mind. He was to conceal himself in the bungalow while Claybourne offered to throw in his lot with Randall. Claybourne was convinced that Randall would then say enough to incriminate himself and de Silva would pounce.

  But a chill crept down de Silva’s spine. Was he mad to have agreed to this? He imagined the scene if he’d been duped and had to explain that to Petrie and Clutterbuck.

  Claybourne drained his glass and set it on the ground. ‘Drink up. We’d better get ready for our visitor.’

  The last of de Silva’s whisky was still in his mouth when the blow hit him squarely in the diaphragm. With a gasp, he doubled over and alcohol splattered the boards. The glass dropped from his hand and shattered. He just had time to lift his head when Claybourne punched him again, this time between the eyes.

  His legs gave way and the floor rushed up to meet him. Through a fog of pain, he realised that Claybourne had grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands behind his back. He tottered, blinking as he felt the sticky warmth of blood. A length of coarse rope went round his wrists, binding them together. He felt a boot nudge him in the ribs. He groaned and fought down the desire to retch.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘You bastard. Untie me.’

  ‘Can’t do that, old sport. You’ve an important part to play in my plans.’

  De Silva struggled feebly as Claybourne dragged him to his feet and hauled him to the nearest window. He was surprised to find the man was so strong.

  ‘You’re going to be my decoy,’ Claybourne said coldly, producing another rope with which he tied de Silva to one of the bars. His stomach turned over. Why hadn’t he foreseen this? The man was mad and he had walked straight into his trap. He should have brought Prasanna or Nadar with him, not just left a note saying where he had gone. But he mustn’t show he was afraid.

  ‘You’re crazy if you think this will work, Claybourne. If it is Randall, he’s bound to see I’m not you. He’ll realise something’s up and make a run for it.’

  ‘If it was light and he could see you, I agree, but you know as well as I do that darkness falls quickly here. I told the guide to take a detour and make sure they arrive after sunset.’

  He patted de Silva down and found the Webley. Removing it from its holster, he nodded. ‘Reliable weapon this; better than mine. Good range too. I should be able to stop Randall with the first bullet.’

  De Silva’s blood roared in his ears. Suppose Claybourne wasn’t as good a shot as he thought he was? If the man coming really was Randall and not Ralph, it was unlikely he would be unarmed. And even if Claybourne succeeds, he thought, where does that leave me? The answer stared him in the face: an inconvenient witness.

  Claybourne pulled a roll of tape from his pocket and fixed a strip across de Silva’s mouth. More tape trussed his ankles. Claybourne went back inside and emerged with a kerosene lamp which he hung from a beam. ‘That should give Randall a bit of light but not enough to see your face. You and I are about the same height, so that ought not to be a problem.’

  The matter-of-fact tone filled de Silva with despair. Even if he had been able to talk, he doubted there was anything he could have said to change Claybourne’s mind. He wanted vengeance for the wrong he believed had been done to his friend. Nothing was going to stand in his way. A suspicion crept into de Silva’s mind that Claybourne’s feelings for Wynne-Talbot might have gone beyond friendship.

  Dusk quickly turned to darkness as they waited. At first, de Silva’s arms throbbed then they became numb. The tape over his mouth made it impossible to take in air, but he forced himself to suppress the surges of panic he experienced and breathe steadily through his nose. He thought of Jane and faced the possibility he would never see her again. His heart ached at the prospect but he saw no way out.

  A fatalistic calm settled on him as he listened to the sputter of the kerosene lamp and the sound of insects banging monotonously against its glass. The crescent moon threw a lurid light over the vista of ruined bushes and dry scrub. A breeze got up, rustling through the matted creepers that shrouded the old bungalow. He fancied he heard voices calling to him. Were they the voices of the dead?

  A hiss from Claybourne’s direction jolted him back to a state of full alertness. His heartbeat quickened. ‘It’s Randall,’ Claybourne whispered. ‘He’s coming.’

  For a few moments, two lights bobbed across the open ground then one of them curled away and was swallowed up by the jungle. It was impossible for de Silva’s mouth to grow any dryer than it already was. He forgot to breathe through his nose and suffered another bout of panic that set his lungs on fire. Forcing himself to subdue it, he strained his eyes to make out the approaching figure’s face. A few more paces and the man halted. ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Hello, Johnny.’

  His captor’s voice was so close it made de Silva start.

  ‘I imagine you didn’t expect to hear from me again,’ Claybourne went on.

  ‘So it’s really you. But that’s wonderful! It’s marvellous to see you, old man. When I got your message, I hardly dared to believe it. Your name was on the casualty list. You were on it as missing, believed dead.’

  ‘I wasn’t far off. I spent three months in hospital with severe burns and amnesia. The doctors told me afterwards that they hadn’t expected me to pull through.’

  ‘I can barely make you out there in the shadows. Move that lamp so we can see each other properly.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?’ De Silva heard a note of uncertainty in Randall’s jocular tone. ‘We’ve a lot of catching up to do. Poor old Ralph – I expect you know he di
dn’t make it. It was a dreadful shock for Helen.’

  ‘Oh, but she had you to console her, didn’t she?’

  ‘Ah. That was a terrible mistake, Matthew. I’ve regretted it ever since. She led me on and I shouldn’t have fallen for it. After the tragedy, the only honourable thing to do was stay with her. It’s not been easy I can tell you.’ His voice cracked. ‘I expect you know how badly it’s all ended.’

  ‘Do you really think I’m gullible enough to believe you care for anyone but yourself?’

  ‘I don’t blame you for mistrusting me, Matthew.’

  ‘And there’s more, isn’t there? You didn’t just want Ralph’s wife, you thought you’d have his life too.’

  De Silva heard Randall’s sharp intake of breath. For a moment, he seemed lost for an answer. In the silence, de Silva tried to make a noise to attract his attention but it was impossible. Then Randall rallied. ‘I can explain—’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I realise some people would say what I’m doing’s wrong but look at it from my point of view. I wanted poor Helen to have the life that she would have had if Ralph hadn’t died. I believe he really loved her at the end, so, if you like, it would expunge my guilt. His family are overjoyed. To them it’s put right all the wrongs of the past. Let them keep that, Matthew.’

  ‘Why did Helen die, Johnny? Did you drive her to it?’

  ‘What the hell!’

  ‘Don’t act the innocent with me.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. It was an accident. I would never have hurt her. I was determined to care for her for Ralph’s sake. You and he were the best friends I ever had.’

  An edge came into Claybourne’s voice. ‘A strange way to treat a friend, Johnny.’

  ‘Helen started it, Matthew. If she hadn’t given me the eye—’

  ‘Don’t keep blaming it all on her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I admit I was at fault too.’ He groaned. ‘God, what a bloody disaster it’s all been. I’d do anything to be able to go back and put it all right.’

  De Silva squirmed and tried to move. The feeling had gone from his arms and his chest ached, but he shifted his head forward and back enough to bang it against the bars. The inside of his skull jangled with the impact and he didn’t try again. The sound was muffled, but Randall must have heard it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Rats, I expect. The place is riddled with them.’

  To de Silva’s despair, Randall seemed satisfied.

  ‘Come on, Matthew. We can’t bring Ralph and Helen back to life, but we can still be friends.’

  ‘Can we?’ Bitterness infused Claybourne’s voice. ‘I saw you do it, Johnny.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you kill Ralph. You didn’t realise I was lying nearby, did you? I saw what you did.’

  ‘Matthew, you can’t think…’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He was in agony, Matthew. Almost gone. He begged me to put him out of his misery.’

  The first bullet passed close to de Silva’s ear. Its heat seared his skin. The sound was so loud that it deafened him for a moment.

  Claybourne’s aim must have been wide of the mark. Randall didn’t stumble or cry out. Metal glinted in the darkness. De Silva braced himself as Randall fired in return, but that bullet also went wide, burying itself in the wall. The noise still reverberated when the third shot rang out. This time, Randall reeled and fell to the ground. De Silva’s bones turned to water and he closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, Claybourne knelt by Randall. After a few moments, he hauled himself to his feet. ‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly, as he looked down at the body. He stepped away and the barrel of his gun caught the light.

  De Silva held his breath. Did he want to face the bullet that would end his life, or let it come out of darkness? He chose the first; he wouldn’t be a coward at the end. Willing a goodbye to Jane that she would never hear, he held his breath. He thought his heart would explode from his chest as the black circle followed an upward curve. His knees sagged and horror engulfed him. The gun rose higher until it reached Claybourne’s right temple. And there it stopped.

  **

  Something scrabbled over his body, rousing him from his stupefied state. The kerosene lamp had gone out but the moon was high. By its light, he saw a creature he identified as a langur monkey. It sprang away as he moved and went to perch on Matthew Claybourne’s lifeless body. Its jaws worked as if it was making the angry, high-pitched screeching noise langurs emitted when they were alarmed, but the sound was strangely dim. His ears throbbed.

  His inclination was to close his eyes again and slip into unconsciousness but he forced himself not to. Moistening his lips with his tongue, he found that the tape had loosened enough for him to suck it in. With a little more effort, he nipped it between his front teeth; more persistence and he had made a gash in it. He leant forward and gulped a deep breath of pure night air.

  The monkey leapt off Claybourne’s body and bounded away into the bungalow. Left alone on the verandah, de Silva spent the next hour working his ankles free. His hands were a harder challenge; the rope had hardly any give in it. Even after another hour of twisting and turning, he had only loosened his bonds a fraction.

  Cramp and the pain where the rope abraded his skin were excruciating and the throbbing in his ears had intensified to a burning sensation. He rested for a few minutes then changed his tactics. Bending one knee, he put his foot flat against the wall and pushed hard while throwing his weight forward with all the force he could muster. After three attempts, he moved to the other leg. He had almost given up hope when the bar shifted a little.

  It gave him the confidence to redouble his efforts until at last it gave way, catapulting him to the floor. He lay winded for a while, deciding what to do, then he remembered the plate with the remains of Claybourne’s meal. He was sure there had been a knife there. If he could get to it, it might be possible to use it in some way to cut through the rope.

  Gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet and shook the broken bar free of the rope. It clattered to the ground and he froze as he saw a flicker of movement in the darkness beyond the kerosene lamplight. Claybourne still lay motionless but what if he had been wrong and Johnny Randall wasn’t dead? The fellow would be crazy to let a witness live. His heart thudded, then a black shape swooped from the eaves and soared into the darkness. A bat. Gradually, his heartbeat steadied.

  Inside the bungalow, it was very dark and it took him several minutes to find the table. Laying his cheek on the surface, he felt around for the plate and knife, but they were gone. He cursed then remembered the monkey. It must have come for the food. Maybe it had knocked the plate on the floor.

  After another painstaking search he found it. He made a shuffling turn and managed to locate the knife. The floor was made of wooden boards, roughly laid. If he could nudge the knife over to one of the gaps and wedge the blade in, it might hold steady enough to enable him to cut through the rope around his wrists.

  It was a slow process and more than once he had to stop to stretch and roll his shoulders in an attempt to ease the stiffness and pain that by now plagued his bruised and battered body. At last, the section of rope he was working on split. His strength failing, he pulled his wrists free.

  The relief was overwhelming. He stumbled to his feet and tottered into the other room then collapsed on the low bed. It smelt of mildew, but he didn’t care. At that moment, he wouldn’t have changed it for a room at the Crown Hotel.

  His eyes closed, and he slept.

  Chapter 30

  Hebden unwound the bandages around de Silva’s wrists and carefully inspected the still-angry wounds.

  ‘Hmm.’ He dabbed away some pus with a piece of cotton wool soaked in surgical spirit and de Silva flinched. Hebden looked up. ‘Sorry. I’d like to keep these covered for a few more days. I’ll re-bandage them for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How’s the head?’
>
  ‘The headache has gone.’

  ‘Still got a bit of ringing in the ears though?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That should pass. As you were so close, the impact of the gunshots will have affected your ears. It’s not uncommon to suffer some discomfort and loss of hearing for a while. You were lucky though. It could so easily have been much worse.’

  De Silva nodded. He was well aware that his brush with death had been close, and if he hadn’t been, the dismayed telling-off Jane gave him when she found out about the episode would have left him in no doubt.

  ‘I’d like to get back to work on Monday,’ he said resolutely when Hebden had brought scissors and lint from his bag and got to work.

  ‘No doubt, but I don’t advise it. I’ll come again in a couple of days and we’ll talk about it then.’ He neatened the second bandage then replaced the scissors and the remaining lint in his bag. ‘In any event, I don’t think it would be wise to arouse your wife’s ire at the moment.’

  De Silva grinned sheepishly. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘By the way, I thought you might be interested in some information uncovered when Randall’s possessions were searched. Archie Clutterbuck decided he ought to try and find out if there was anyone who should be notified of his death but there was no indication of it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He did find a stock of pills in Randall’s baggage – Nembutal. The very thing that Randall asked me for and I turned him down. There’s no one else he could have consulted this side of Kandy, so I deduce that he brought them with him when he came to Nuala. If he already had his wife taking them, I believe that would have made her fragile state worse. If I’m right, even though he didn’t kill her, he hastened her death.’

  ‘But why didn’t he dispose of them?’