TWENTY-ONE

In the end, Harry left Chipchase no choice in the matter. His hideout with Shona was going to be made known to the police next morning for the simple reason that Harry had no other way to prove they were not partners in crime. Words like treachery and blackmail were briefly bandied, but Chipchase soon ran out of bluster. He had the theoretical option of leaving Aberdeen before the police came looking for him, but he had nowhere to go and, as he admitted over his third double Scotch, he was too old to go on the run.

'Don't worry,' Harry consoled him. 'It's not as bad as it looks.'

'I don't rightly see how it could be.'

'I mean they have no evidence against us. They won't find our fingerprints on Wiseman's car for the simple reason that neither of us has been near it. And you can prove Askew wasn't one of your investors. They'll give us the third degree, but in the end they'll have to face it. We didn't do it. Danger will back us up. We'll go and see him tonight. Together. Explain why you went into hiding. He'll understand.'

'Yeah. All too bloody well.'

'It'll be OK, Barry. Trust me.'

Chipchase looked at Harry with barely concealed astonishment. Trust was perhaps a strange concept to introduce at this late and unexpected stage of their long acquaintance, but ultimately it was all Harry had to offer.

'Are we agreed, then?'

'No.' Chipchase stared lugubriously into his whisky. And gave a heavy sigh. 'But I'll do it anyway.'

—«»—«»—«»—

They caught the bus back into the centre, a recourse that moved Chipchase to cast a leery eye over their fellow passengers and confide to Harry: 'I never thought I'd end up travelling on corporation omnibuses with the dregs and dross of humanity, you know. We used to sell sports cars, let me remind you. Leather-upholstered bloody limousines. And I've hobnobbed with the great and good on five continents. How's it come down to this, I should like to know. Poor old Chipchase on public bloody transport.'

'Between cars at the moment, are you, Barry?'

'Between bloody everything. Since getting out of clink, I've gone from bad to worse. Every time I've hit bottom, it's turned out there's a basement under it I've yet to visit.'

'What happened to that wealthy undertaker's widow you were sizing up for matrimony when we last met?'

'Some lounge lizard in New Orleans stole her from under my nose.'

'Bad luck.'

'Yeah. I've had more than my share of that over the past decade, Harry old cock, let me tell you.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'It's been a different story for you, though, hasn't it? Marriage to some curvaceous Canadian blue stocking, so a little bird told me, with a young daughter to dandle on your arthritic knee.'

'Who was this little bird?'

'Jackie.'

'Ah. I might have guessed.'

Jackie Fleetwood, their not so dizzy blonde secretary at Barnchase Motors, later Jackie Chipchase and later still Jackie Oliver, owned Jacaranda Styling, a hairdressing salon in Swindon where Harry's mother had been given free perms in recent years for old times' sake — and where, no doubt, news of Harry had occasionally been dispensed. 'Oh yes,' a voice sounded in his mind's ear. 'That boy of mine's finally settled down, I'm glad to say.'

'Why were you in touch with her, Barry? Or is that a stupid question? Offering her an investment opportunity, were you?'

'She turned me down flat.'

'Surprise, surprise.'

'But not before telling me how your slice of life had landed butter side up again.'

'For the record, Donna's American. So's Daisy. We just live in Canada. And my knees are working perfectly.'

'I hope that's not all that's working perfectly. Must be quite a strain for an old fellow like you, keeping a young wife happy. How much younger is she, exactly?'

'Why don't we change the subject?'

'Have you got one to offer that'll take my mind off the fix we're in?'

Harry considered the point for a few moments — to no avail.

Then Chipchase sighed. 'I thought not,' he said gloomily.

—«»—«»—«»—

They soon reverted to subjects very much related to the fix they were in. Upon arrival in the city centre, Chipchase insisted he needed another drink before facing Dangerfield. He took Harry into his current Aberdonian watering hole of choice, the Prince of Wales, and ordered a couple of pints. His debatable contention that it was Harry's round again led back to a question he had so far dodged.

'The police seem to think you squirrelled away some Chipchase Sheltered Holdings money they never found.'

'Pure bloody fantasy. The receiver cleaned me out. There was nothing left. Not a bean.'

'What makes them think there was, then?'

'Their suspicious bloody natures, that's what. If I had a nest egg somewhere, do you seriously suppose I'd be kipping in Shona's attic?'

'No, I suppose—'

'If you ask me, your murder theory's fantasy as well.'

'How do you account for that notice about Chipchase Sheltered Holdings finding its way into Peter Askew's pocket, then?'

'I don't. But unlike you, Harry old cock, I don't feel the need to account for anything. I'll leave that to the so-called professionals. Tell you what, though. You'd better hope I'm right and you're wrong and that there isn't someone systematically knocking off members of Operation Clean Sheet, just in case we're next on the list.'

It had not occurred to Harry until then that the murder plot, if there was one, might not have run its course. It was a disquieting thought, which he pretended to dismiss but in truth could not. It niggled away at the back of his mind as they left the pub, walked down to the railway station and jumped into a cab.

—«»—«»—«»—

There were lights blazing at Sweet Gale Lodge, reassuring Harry that Dangerfield was back from his dinner with Lloyd's widow and daughter. He paid off the taxi driver and led the way to the door, Chipchase trailing a few yards behind and clearly not relishing the encounter that was shortly to follow.

Harry took a few stabs at the bell and stepped back. 'Come on, Barry. Best foot forward.'

'I'm not good at apologies.'

'Only because of lack of practice. Get up here.'

Chipchase joined him on the doorstep as he prodded the bell another few times and peered through the frosted porch window into the hall. There was no sign of movement.

'Where is he?'

'Asleep in front of the telly, like as not.'

'It's freezing out here.'

'Welcome to Aberdeen.'

'Surely he can hear the bell.' Harry left his finger on the button for several seconds. But still there was no response.

'Try this,' said Chipchase.

Turning, Harry saw a key nestling in his palm. 'Thank you.'

He opened the door, calling Dangerfield's name as they advanced along the hall. The lounge to their left was filled with light. But the television was silent. And there was no recumbent figure on the sofa.

'Danger? It's Harry. I've—'

He saw the blood first, a spotlight shimmering on its dark-red surface. One further step into the lounge revealed the rest.

Dangerfield was sprawled face down on the parquet floor directly beneath the balustrade of the galleried landing. His head, round which the blood had pooled, was twisted, like a broken doll's, his eyes wide, staring… and sightless.