‘No, not for a second.’ Jenny sounded adamant.
Pure relief spread through Barnes’ body. ‘Good, that’s good. Okay, you fetch your phone while I make a call, and don’t worry, Jenny: everything’s under control.’
This time Jenny merely nodded, her face ashen as she scurried from the kitchen. Barnes wasted no time and pulled out his phone, tapping DC Langley’s number, willing him to answer quickly. When Pete picked up on the fifth ring Barnes passed on what he’d learned as quickly and succinctly as possible, ending with an instruction.
‘Pete, you need to get someone up to Margaret Tibbs’ house now. Bring her and Dunne in because they’re up to their necks in this, I know it. If she’s not there, try her shop in the village. She drives a flash white sports car. I saw it when I went up there to question Dunne about the Mills arson attack. Get her PNCed. And ring me as soon as you have them, okay?’
Pete said he was on his way as he spoke, shouting across the office to get a squad car up to Elkdale and that he’d meet them there. In between signing off and hearing Jenny’s footsteps in the hall, Barnes allowed himself a moment to breathe deeply, steadying himself before his next task: informing Frankie about her friend Bea. It wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation but she needed to know, and once they had Tibbs and Dunne in custody he could relax. The main thing was that Frankie was safe. Nobody could hurt her now.
30
Herbert was exhausted. His medications were supposed to help, or prolong as the consultant had explained. In truth the effects were as bad as the insidious disease that was rampaging through his body, progressing quicker than expected. And the pain was getting worse. He needed to go inside and take some oral morphine and have a lie down.
And it wasn’t just the physical pain that was sapping his energy. Herbert’s head was in a mess after the dreadful showdown with Margaret before she left. For a while it was as though she’d lost her mind and there were moments during their argument where he’d wondered who he was talking to as she flipped from the woman he’d once known to a screeching, psychopathic stranger, then back again.
It really had knocked him for six, being threatened, accused, abandoned. He was trapped and dying and alone. Herbert might as well have been back in prison and the irony was that if he didn’t toe the line, that’s exactly where he’d be. He was well and truly buggered.
Throwing down the cloth he’d been using to polish a car that he’d never drive again, Herbert gave in and abandoned his futile task. He’d thought it would occupy his mind and give him a purpose, reminiscing about all the good times he’d spent in his beloved Moggie Minor, the places he’d travelled, the people he’d met along the way. It hadn’t worked because his body was giving in, no matter how hard the spirit tried to spur it on. He couldn’t even summon the energy to pull down the garage door. He’d lock up later, sod it. Her royal highness wasn’t around to tut and huff so leaving the bottle of wax unopened, Herbert shuffled around the side of his car, opened the adjoining door to the house and went into the kitchen.
Two watchful green eyes and a plaintive meow welcomed him into the room. He ignored both and the empty bowl on the floor, conserving his energy and not caring if the fleabag was hungry or not. He’d feed it later. He was tetchy: tiredness and pain did that, plus the interminable waiting for Margaret to come back. When the familiar dull ache began to swell, Herbert paused for a moment, grasping the back of a chair to steady himself, taking deep breaths until the pain subsided before carrying on slowly up the hall. Scafell Pike had never beaten him and neither would the stairs, so gripping the handrail he took them one by one, the lure of his bed and the bottle of Oramorph waiting in his room.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Margaret had made a pact, to be here for him when he needed her. She said she wouldn’t be long but now he was worried she’d lied. What if she wasn’t coming back, what if… Herbert stopped himself. There was no point in imagining the worst because it wouldn’t help.
What would help was a caring hand under his elbow, a supporting arm around his waist, some soothing words of encouragement. Not love – he hadn’t gone soft – but to hear a kind voice, to know someone actually cared would have been enough.
He’d made it to the summit and with a few more shuffled steps he was in his room, thankful it was so small and the bed was only a few feet from the door. Herbert collapsed onto the mattress and when his body made contact he sighed with immense relief, lying still for a few minutes until he got his breath back. Once he’d recovered from his climb, Herbert pulled himself up the bed and arranged his pillows so they supported his back, then reached for the bottle of pain relief. After he’d taken a dose, and an extra sip, he fastened the lid and relaxed back, his right hand reaching for the wooden box that lay on top of the eiderdown, pushed against the wall.
Herbert patted it gently. This was the only thing that gave him any joy and comfort. His treasures, his precious trophies, would see him through to the end if Margaret didn’t return. He hoped she would, though. Not the banshee version; the meek and mild woman who used to make him nice dinners and iron his shirts would do, the Margaret he first met. The house was so quiet, too empty, no homely cooking smells wafting up the stairs. Even the sound of Margaret’s tuneless humming would have been welcome. Who’d have thought he’d miss that? Christ, he really was up shit creek.
The drug began doing its work and Herbert felt his body slump as the pain subsided. Knowing it was best to make the most of any respite and enjoy some time with his memories he flipped open the lid, took out his notebook and tried to focus on the names he knew off by heart. But when his eyes started to droop he gave in, choosing sleep over the glory days. Pulling out one of his pillows, he threw it on the floor and lay down, taking off his glasses and placing them on his chest.
A nap would do him good and maybe when he woke Margaret would be back. She was out there right now, wreaking havoc and until she returned he wouldn’t know if she meant what she’d said, or was bluffing. As he drifted off to sleep, angry words replayed on a loop in his mind, forming images that would torment his pain-free dreams. No respite for the wicked.
* * *
It was the second time the police had called, asking him questions about his whereabouts on the day Bea Butler had been attacked. They wanted to know if he’d been out walking in the vicinity of her house after an eye-witness had reported seeing a lone hiker on the lane. Once again Margaret backed up his story and laid it on thick about how poorly he was, saying it took him all the time to walk around the garden, never mind take a hike. She’d even marched into the kitchen, coming back with his plastic basket of medicines and seemed to take great delight in reading them out one by one, driving the situation home and the detectives away. When they stopped scribbling away in their notebooks and flipped the covers over, Herbert had sighed. He often wondered if they were really taking notes or writing a shopping list, or a list of things to do when they got home, or doodling.
He heard the door slam shut before Margaret stormed into the room, her face ashen apart from two dots of deep pink, high on her cheekbones.
Herbert was standing in front of the fireplace, twisting his fingers, quickly wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his shirt when he caught the irritation on Margaret’s face. Lately she’d developed an acid tongue so preparing for a lashing, Herbert reminded himself of the old saying about sticks and stones.
‘For goodness sake stop fiddling, Herbert. Christ, could you look more obvious if you tried?’
Doing as she asked, Herbert straightened and dropped his twitchy arms and fingers to his side like a naughty nervous schoolboy. ‘What do you mean, Margaret? I swear what happened to that Butler woman has nothing to do with me and neither was the other one. I’ve told the police where I was and you backed me up so what on earth are you alluding to?’
Margaret gave an irritated shake of her head and scowled, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Iknowyou haven’t got anything to do with that, you silly little man.’
Herbert allowed himself a moment of relief then umbrage at that comment, seconds before his heart plummeted when another stone hit.
‘But it’s still you they’re after, so don’t play the innocent with me. I know you burned down Dennis Mills’ house. You’re no angel so quit the act.’
Herbert startled. ‘What? How dare you… I have no idea what you’re talking about, woman.’ Herbert was angry now, and panicking because he had a feeling Margaret knew something.
He was right.
‘Don’t you woman me! I may have given you an alibi for the night the Elkdale Arsonist was on the loose but I saw you leave on my bike and the time frame fits perfectly. Come on, admit it, grow a spine and for once in your pitiful life admit to what you’ve done.’
Silence descended on the room as they stared each other out.Stuff it,thought Herbert,I’ll show her there’s more to me than meets the eye and shut her up for once.‘All right, I did it. There! does that make you happy, being right as usual? And what are you going to do now? Turn me in?’
