Dome of Death - 13. Chapter 13 Wanted!

‘Peter! What’re you…? What…?’ Hank frowned and looked nervously up the drive. ‘The police have just gone. They…they...’. He shook his head worriedly. ‘You’d better come in.’

We stood in the hallway - awkward.

‘Who is it, Hank?’ Celia’s voice was faint and tremulous.

Hank coughed uncertainly and didn't reply.

I wanted to shout, It’s me! Peter! But controlled myself and said quietly, ‘We couldn’t let you know we were coming. Things have been a bit dodgy.’

‘So I believe.’

I couldn’t work out what was happening. Hank seemed almost unfriendly, suspicious, uncertain.

‘Who is it?’ Celia again; voice cracked, querulous.

‘It’s Peter.’

Silence.

Lack of sleep, festering wounds and physical exhaustion had me out on the edge. I looked at Jon in despair.

He took my arm and said quietly, ‘We’ve arrived at a bad time, Peter. Let’s go.’

‘Peter.’ Celia came in and stood beside her husband, voice low and serious, eyes fixed on mine. ‘The police have just left. They came to tell us that Frances is dead. They said you murdered her.’

I suppose I looked as blank as I felt.

‘That’s bloody ridiculous!’ shouted Jon. ‘How can anyone who calls themselves a friend…’

I put my hand on his. ‘And what do you think, Celia?’

‘I find it difficult to believe.’

‘How difficult?’

She burst into sobs and hugged me, burying her head in my chest. ‘Impossible! You could never do such a thing. Forgive me. It’s just that the police were so insistent and… and Patrick isn’t answering our calls.’

I looked over her shoulder at Hank.

He frowned deeply and said apologetically, ‘In my heart, I knew it was ridiculous, but the police are adamant it was you. They say they have proof!’

‘Proof? What proof?’

‘MacFife saw you and… and your friend driving away from the gallery in the early hours of the morning – just after Frances was murdered.’

It was too stupid for words. ‘But I didn’t even know she was dead! How could…’

Jon interrupted brusquely. ‘I’m Jonathan, Mr Fierney, Jon Moore. Remember we met the other day at Peter’s. I didn’t realise who you were then, but I knew Max. He befriended me when I first arrived on the coast. I worked for him.’

Celia gazed at Jon, uncomprehending, then took hold of her husband as if for support. ‘You knew Max?’

‘Yes. He was the kindest and best man I’ve ever known – until Peter.’ Jon hurled the last two words like missiles, then stood still, daring them to disagree.

Hank and Celia stared, searching his eyes for something. They didn’t find it and with a small cry Celia turned away as if ashamed. Hank bent to comfort her and suddenly I realised they were old - old and tired.

‘Peter’s on his last legs.’ Jon said gently ‘His wounds need dressing and we’re both hungry and thirsty. We’ve just walked from his place.’

They looked up sharply.

‘And neither of us is a murderer.’

‘No. No, of course you’re not.’ Hanks’ voice was almost inaudible ‘I’m sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry. Come through… come through…’ He turned and shuffled into the lounge.

We followed, embarrassed. I was light headed, dizzy, and couldn’t think what to say.

‘Mr Fierney,’ Jon said firmly, ‘can you look after Peter? I’ll help Mrs Fierney prepare something to eat and drink, and then we’ll tell you what really happened.’

He took Celia by the hand to the kitchen where crockery was soon clinking. Hank led me into the bathroom, visibly startled when I stripped. He bathed, disinfected and dressed my wounds and expressed concern about the infected ankle, but asked no questions.

The sandwiches were superb, the tea a fragrant elixir. We ate like starvelings. Afterwards we carried the dishes out to the kitchen and helped wash and clean up. I wanted to re-establish our old easy friendship before returning to the lounge and telling them Max’s death had been murder, not an accident.

They listened to my tale quietly, too miserable to react. Hank was the first to break the silence.

‘It makes sense,’ he said wearily. ‘Max was a mountain goat. He’d never have lost his footing. It had to be something like that. They found an old broomstick on the roof, I remember.’

I nodded miserably.

‘And they tried to pull the same trick with you and Jon.’ He looked at me, face white and drawn. ‘Peter! Why do people do these things? What was it all about? And what’s happened to Patrick?’

All I could offer was a hopeless shrug. ‘I asked MacFife why. He reckoned it wasn’t the money, it was the power money can buy.’

‘Power over what? Over whom?’ demanded Celia.

‘Beats me. I've no idea what he wants the gallery for. Selling drugs? Money laundering? Frances was lying to Max when she said they were going to keep their noses clean – she was already in cahoots with MacFife. And when Max refused to play along they arranged an accident and got rid of him. Then they tried to do the same to me. As for Patrick, I’ve no idea where he might be. All I know is he saved our lives.’

‘But… why would they take him with them?’

‘Panic? He burst on the scene firing his gun, shouting and yelling abuse and threats. They had to silence him in case he identified them later. But I’m sure he was alive when they loaded him into the car.’

Celia stifled a sob. ‘Mr MacFife can have no idea you’re still alive, Peter, so that proves his guilt.’

Hank mused over this. ‘You’re right, Celia. It’s a damned clever plot. Accuse a dead man of murder, so when he disappears his friends will assume he was guilty and did a runner. And if the coroner decided Jon’s fall wasn’t an accident, the cops would assume Peter got rid of him as well as Frances before taking off.’

‘But thanks to luck and Patrick, we’re still here.’

‘And wanted for murder.’ Jon muttered sombrely. ‘What exactly did MacFife tell the police?’

Celia unwound a little from her cocoon of sadness.

‘He told them that he and Frances shared a belated wedding celebration at the gallery that evening with you and Peter. He left the party early, around seven o’clock, to meet someone in Caloundra, and didn’t get home till around four-thirty. He wasn’t worried about leaving Frances alone because you and Jon were sleeping in Max’s old room. He arrived home some time between half-past four and five.

As he pulled into the parking area, you two drove away in the Mercedes. He waved, but neither of you responded. You seemed in a great hurry. Not wanting to disturb his wife he curled up on the sofa in the lounge and fell asleep. At seven o’clock he woke and took her in a cup of coffee, but she wasn’t there. He found her in the gallery, at the bottom of the internal staircase. She had been sexually assaulted, tortured, and her neck was broken. He telephoned the police and reported the death.’ Celia took Hank’s hand, playing absently with his fingers.

I broke out in a sweat. It was too plausible. ‘When did she die?’

‘Between midnight and four a.m.’

‘The story’s too good! I was in Frances’s bedroom that evening until seven o’clock. There’s no way I can prove I was buried alive and trapped in the storm-water drains. Even my alibi with the Alconas doesn’t hold up because I didn’t get there till after four. We could have murdered Frances, faked my wounds, driven up to the Alconas and, while I was conning Mad and Brian to give me an alibi, Jon could have driven on up to the studio in the Mercedes on his own.

That would cover Scumble and Glaze if someone remembered seeing the vehicle on the road that morning. If anyone heard the gunshots, the neighbours would have assumed I was shooting hares. I often take pot shots in the mornings. As for the all-night meeting in Caloundra, Scumble and Glaze would provide an alibi. I’ll bet MacFife’s had something like this worked out for ages. Simply waited for an opportunity. He probably turned Frances over to those two animals as a reward when they returned from dumping me.’

‘Poor Frances,’ whispered Celia. ‘As ye sow…’

‘The only glitch occurred,’ I interrupted, unable to find any sympathy for Celia’s ex daughter-in-law, ‘when Patrick arrived. If there’d been an inquiry he could’ve identified them, so they knocked him out and took him away.’

‘Poor, silly Patrick,’ Celia interrupted sadly. ‘So hot-headed. At least some good came of it this time.’ When she looked up, tears were streaming. ‘Hank confronted him, you know, and he admitted setting your place alight and vandalising the studio.’ She shook her head, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. ‘He has marital problems - not that that gives him the slightest excuse. We hoped he would apologise and make good the damage. It seems he had decided to do neither.’ She turned miserably to Hank. ‘Darling, isn’t it strange he hasn’t been reported missing?’

‘His secretary will probably assume he’s taken the day off, she’s getting used to coping, and he’s been sleeping in the flat above his office so Margaret and the children won’t have missed him yet. I’ll ring and make certain he hasn’t returned, and then report him missing.’

‘And if he turns up dead, you know who’ll be blamed!’ snapped Jon. ‘The way Patrick arrived, shouting, cursing and letting fly with his rifle, it was perfectly obvious he nursed a deep grudge against Peter. The cops will assume Peter got rid of him too, because Rory and Lida, the neighbours, also know that it was Patrick who trashed the place.’ He stopped abruptly, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I told them about our suspicions. It wasn’t till I phoned Peter on Sunday evening that I realised I should have kept my mouth shut.’

Tears ran unheeded as Celia buried her face in her husband’s arms. He stroked her hair helplessly. My brain was churning, trying to find a flaw, a chink in the case against me. I couldn’t.

‘The awful thing is,’ I said, ‘that it doesn’t really matter to MacFife that Jon escaped. He’ll still have the murder pinned on him, and when I don’t turn up he’ll be charged with murdering me as well. Have you an alibi for Monday night, Jon?’

He shook his head angrily. ‘After telephoning you at five, I worked till it was dark then took a book to bed.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘MacFife looks so charming and pleasant.’

‘Perhaps being able to murder at will is what he means by power,’ said Celia chillingly.

I looked around. We were a tableau of impotence. I ran through everything again in my head, but MacFife had it all sewn up. It seemed impossible that it was less than forty-eight hours since the orgy in Frances’s bedroom and Glaze had shoved me onto the beach.

The memory of the Alconas’ generosity sent a spurt of shame. They’d be worried if they didn’t hear from me. And we had to plan. It was impossible now for us to stay with Hank and Celia. They were exhausted and needed to be alone. And the cops were sure to return, knowing we were friends. I excused myself and telephoned from the kitchen.

Brian answered, the obvious relief in his voice exacerbating my guilt. I apologised for my tardiness and asked if he’d heard about Frances. After an alarmingly extended silence he said carefully, ‘Yes. It was in the paper and on the news. You and a Jonathan Moore were named as being required to help the police with their inquiries. Anyone who knew of your whereabouts should contact the nearest police station. I’ll read you a headline, Brutal Murder of Recently Married Gallery Owner. Police seek Director and Manager. I was waiting to hear from you before contacting them. You might need us to vouch for your whereabouts.’

‘No good. I arrived at your place too late.’

Another weighty silence.

‘If that’s the case,’ he said ponderously, ‘then it would be better, in the short term, for you to remain dead – in MacFife’s eyes – and on the run as far as the cops are concerned. I have every confidence in our police force, but they are under extreme pressure at the moment, what with all the looting and other fallout from the floods, and it’s not inconceivable that MacFife’s money and position may influence them more than your sincerity.’

‘I’d decided the same thing and we’ve already made plans to lie low for a while.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll let you now.’

‘Which means you’ve no idea.’

‘I'm not an idiot.’

‘No, you’re not. That’s why you’ll stay with us until the matter’s cleared up. The police are certain to be keeping an eye on Max’s parents’ place, in case you go there.’

I hesitated.

‘When and where do we collect you?’

‘Jon’s with me. You can’t take him as well, so thanks for the offer; it means more than you could ever guess, but honestly… we’ve got everything planned and… I’ll keep in contact.’

Silence. Then, ‘Would Jon fit in … with us?’

‘As well as I do.’

‘I’ll trust your judgement. Jeff will pick you both up this evening at seven o’clock. Give him directions.’

Jeff came on the line bubbling with relief. ‘Peter! I’ve been shit scared something had happened to you. Your Mercedes passed me as I turned on to the highway. I’ve been going nuts worrying, and…’ Muffled voices interrupted him and he came back, ‘Dad’s just told me to shut up and listen. I’ve got a map and pencil and paper, where’s the rendezvous?’

I gave him directions to the place we’d been dropped that morning. As I couldn’t pinpoint the exact spot, I told him to cruise up and down a couple of kilometres each side of it with the interior light on. We couldn’t guarantee to be there exactly at seven because of the long hike down. We’d hide at the side of the road and flash a torch at him.

‘Gotcha. See you in about three hours.’

I replaced the receiver shakily. What had I done to deserve such friends? I wondered whether I would behave as well if the roles were reversed. I told Jon and Celia the news while Hank telephoned Patrick’s secretary, and Jill, his wife. As neither woman knew his whereabouts, he informed the police Patrick was missing, taking care not to mention he’d been to my place. He appeared slightly calmer when he returned to the lounge. The process of righting wrong had begun.

Talk on other topics was impossible, so we went over the details again and again as though trying to undo the past and unlock the key to future justice. Hank, aware of the power of moneyed crooks, agreed it would be better to await developments before going to the police with our tale. Celia looked less than convinced.

‘But, Peter,’ she implored, ‘why would Mr MacFife do that to Frances?’

‘Would you like to live with her?’ asked Jon tersely. ‘He married her, so he’ll inherit the gallery and all her assets. Why keep her?’

‘Terrible. Terrible,’ she murmured.

‘Human nature asserting itself,’ muttered Hank. ‘Never underestimate the depths to which the avaricious will descend.’

‘It’s as if there are two totally different types of human beings – evil and good.’

‘More like a continuum, from the inexpressibly horrible to the unimaginably good,’ Hank said quietly. ‘We each wobble around on a spot somewhere along that line, tending to meet similar types, insulated from people who are completely different. Lawyers, social workers, soldiers and police are among the few who get to see, first hand, the horrors humans are capable of.’

As though emptied of life, the elderly couple sat, softly sad. Polite protestations over our imminent departure couldn’t conceal their relief at not being required to take responsibility for another two souls. We didn’t tell them where we were going, and they didn’t ask. Hank gave us his mobile phone number.

‘I still have a few contacts. I can find out what, if anything, the police are doing, and perhaps some useful information. So you must keep in contact.’

There was time for a lie-down and meal before setting out to cross the rough terrain we had so laboriously traversed only six hours previously. Just after seven o'clock, sweaty, scratched and nervous, we hid ourselves in the long grass at the roadside. A couple of minutes and about ten cars later, the Volvo appeared, interior light burning. As I flashed my torch Jeff was passed by blinding headlights and missed the signal. A short time later he returned, saw our beacon and drew into the side of the road.