Carruthers' Demise, Chapters Thirty & Thirty One

Chapter Thirty

It was around ten a.m. when the estate agent called. Carruthers clutched the phone tensely to his ear.
‘Mr. Cousins?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Carruthers had blinked at first, until his scrambled senses alerted him to the fact he’d used an alias. ‘Oh yes – speaking.’
‘Mr. Cousins - Jeffries and Co. here. In response to your query I do seem to recall an enquiry from a Mr. Bodes concerning properties in the area, however he doesn’t appear to have followed them up – I’m sorry I can’t help you further on this…’
‘Okay, thanks anyway.’ Carruthers felt his spirits instantly submerge, but then a thought came to mind – ‘Would you be able to tell me what kind of property he was interested in?’
‘You mean by way of size?’ There was a pause. ‘If I remember rightly, the type of property with a degree of land available – I recall forming the impression he was considering working from the premises.’
‘Thanks,’ Carruthers repeated, terminating the call. There must be innumerable smallholdings out on the Forest, he thought despondently. It was a hopeless venture but at least there was the minutest chance he might stumble on something.
He drove out to the country road he’d seen Noades swing into a couple of days past. It was an undulating lane winding between pockets of birch and oak, through which he could catch the occasional glimpse of well concealed, substantial properties. Any recognisable vehicles, unfortunately for him, shut off from view. Could that of have been Noades’ intention? Carruthers wondered now, pulling up at the head of a driveway protected by a five-bar gate. If he and Chelsey had wanted total privacy what better place to obtain it? A largish property with a piece of land, tucked safely away – such as the one he was outside now. He could have been a tourist checking his map, had he not been craning his head for that one stroke of fate that might lead him to Noades and Chelsey. A white concreted drive gave way to a crescent, intermittently visible through the sway of trees, and he saw parked within it a sports car of similar shape and size to Noades’.
Carruthers heart began to pound and then stuttered back to silence as he saw an elderly man with a stoop struggle into it and advance slowly down the driveway towards him. He saw now that the vehicle bore no real comparison to what he’d imagined. Only the colour bore similarity.
He drove on, passing through a hamlet consisting of two rows of terraced houses, either side of the lane. Slowing, he ran his eyes along the cars parked on the shingle bordering the road but none matched Noades’ vehicle.
A mile or so further on he encountered a large lake on the outskirts of Beaulieu, again easing off the pedal, and when an impatient driver almost hooked onto his rear bumper he pulled onto the grass verge.
Abandoning his car there, Carruthers elected to walk around the lake’s fringe. Being a fine morning the area had drawn a sizeable gathering; appearing not to have a care in the world, although inside sick with despondency, he shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled along. There were kids with kites and model boats, adolescents with jet skis, couples and families, plenty for him to surreptitiously run his eyes over for that one sighting –
And then from his pocket, the jingling of his phone –
Carruthers snatched it from his pocket; even now there was the slightest possibility that it might be Chelsey, raising his hopes just a little – but no such luck –
‘Carruthers, I’ve been thinking…’ a pause by Adrian, with his normal impersonal greeting – no reference to his missing sister, and yet her half-brother’s next remark surprised him to say the least.
‘Listen old chap, we’ve been on the wrong footing lately – and you aren’t entirely to blame; perhaps if we were to meet up we might have a better chance of finding Chelsey – two heads are better than one, so they say.’
Taken aback as Carruthers was by this change of stance he was in no position to reciprocate. ‘I’m still in the New Forest, Adrian, I…’
‘That’s okay, I can be there. As you say I’ve not been playing my part. I had a visit from the police yesterday, instigated by your prompting no doubt but that’s all right, I understand. It made me realise how little help I’ve been…’ he broke off, gave an incongruous short laugh. ‘I mean I couldn’t tell them a lot really. But I’ve got a few ideas. Look, what say I call you tomorrow when I’m down – I’ve a journalist friend who’d be more than happy to accommodate me for a couple of days.’ He gave a long, pained sigh. ‘I mean – we can’t have my sister as a murder suspect, can we?’
Carruthers scratched his head, nonplussed at Adrian’s change of tack. It wasn’t like him to be so conciliatory, even if his tone remained indifferent. Nonetheless he’d go along with it – anything that might help to find his wife he was bound to accede to.
‘Okay, call me when you’re here.’
‘And then a voice, frighteningly real, ‘Martin – Martin…’
‘Chelsey?’ A high voltage shock leapt through Carruthers’ body. ‘Chelsey! He yelled, impervious of attracting attention from passers-by – but the phone was dead. Adrian had gone, but he’d heard it, Chelsey’s voice in the background as surely as – or had he wanted to hear it, been wanting to hear it so much that his mind had created it?
His phone rang again. His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it. ‘Chelsey?’ he asked, almost pleading.
‘Marty, are you alright? Have you found Chelsey?’
‘No.’ Carruthers shook his head, flat with dejection. ‘For a moment I thought…’
‘I called you just now, but the line was kind of funny…’
‘Funny, how do you mean?’
‘Like there was someone else talking, I could hear you but…’
‘Ah.’ Carruthers had been brought crashing back to reality. ‘So that’s what it must have been…’
‘What what must have been? Look, never mind explaining now.’ Casey’s voice raced with urgency, ‘I called to say I couldn’t find the key – it wasn’t where you said…’
‘What? But it must be there.’ Carruthers fumbled for a cigarette, his trembling free hand making a hash of it.
‘I tell you it’s not, Marty. I don’t want to go back home, I’m scared.’
‘Dammit.’ Carruthers retrieved his cigarette from the ground. ‘Look, is there any sign of anyone having been there?’
‘No, it’s all locked up. The only person around was your nosey neighbour across the way. He came out fishing, wanting to know this, that and the other. He hasn’t seen anyone, I’m sure he would have said.’ She broke off, caught her breath. ‘Marty, what shall I do?’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘I didn’t have to. Before I had a chance to get out they pulled up – and whoever had been watching outside drove off. They asked me questions, mostly about Chelsey…’
‘Did you tell them you were being watched?’
‘Yes of course I did,’ Casey said forcefully, clearly exasperated. ‘When I could get a word in – but they didn’t seem too concerned, apparently there has been a spate of burglaries lately – they just said they’d pay passing attention…’ Casey broke down – ‘I don’t know what to do, Marty. Can I come up, please…?’
‘ Okay. Get yourself up here if there’s no other safe place. Look for what it’s worth I think the police have got their sums wrong. I reckon they’re way off track, and your association with Goldhawk might have put you at risk – who knows? Wait for me in the hotel lounge if I’m not back.’
‘Are you still cross with me, Marty?’
‘I should be, goddamit.’ Carruthers lit his cigarette, exhaled towards the lake, glistening in the morning sunlight. He drew in the warm morning air, it seemed a peaceful, surreal world out here, at odds with the one he existed in. ‘You haven’t done yourself any favours in my book, but right now I’ve got more than that to worry about. Now you stop worrying and get yourself here.’
‘Marty, I’ve been thinking…’ suddenly there was less abjection, a modicum of composure in Casey’s voice.
‘Can’t it wait…’
‘If I could be in jeopardy, possibly because of my association with Goldhawk, then might not Chelsey have been too?’
‘I think we’ve both agreed on what’s happened with Chelsey,’ Carruthers said bitterly, ‘and it has nothing to do with any connection to Goldhawk. Besides, she didn’t sail as close to him as you…’
‘There’s no need for that, Marty, but nonetheless it might be something for you to consider. I’ll see you in the lounge,’ she continued, apparently shrugging off his remark and ending the call.
Carruthers replaced the phone in his pocket, strode along the lakeside, took a bench seat and tried to untangle his mind. He stretched an arm along the back, trying to exude a composure he didn’t feel.
Notwithstanding his bitchy comment to Casey, distasteful as it was, was there some semblance of reality in what she’d said? Could some wired-up-wrong wannabie novelist be behind all this? Casey appeared to have all but wrapped herself around him to make a name, and Goldhawk only needed to have crossed the wrong person – a complete psycho.
He shook his head, hunched forward, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal rim of the bench. No, Casey would doubtless pursue the argument when she got there but Chelsey’s disappearance wasn’t so much connected to that notion as to a pre-planned alliance with Robin Noades.
And what about the key? It should have been easy to find, but if it were to be missing, who knew its location other than he or Chelsey? Nobody as far as he knew. And given that, did it mean that Chelsey had been back to the house – if so he was wasting his time out here looking for her.
But he wasn’t abandoning his cause because of Casey Jennings. She must have missed the key, that was his reckoning.
And then Chelsey’s voice came back to haunt him, for that one second he’d been positive it was her – only for his hopes to be bludgeoned by the sound of Casey – but there was a difference in those voices, one big difference –
Had that difference been bridged by his imagination?
Carruthers supposed that it had, but it didn’t make it any easier for him to accept –

 
Chapter Thirty One

Carruthers spent most of the day searching the Forest between Brockenhurst, Beaulieu and Lymington to no avail. He stopped off at a village, enquiring in its only shop as to whether the shopkeeper had seen anyone matching Noades’ or Chelsey’s descriptions, only to be met with a brisk shake of the head – not an unexpected reaction, indeed everything he was doing in his efforts to find Chelsey was a shot in the dark.
He drove into Beaulieu, pulled into a hotel, drank a shandy, ate a sandwich and casually enquired about sightings from the bartender. The result was again negative, the man had given an apologetic smile – ‘Busiest time of the year for us, this.’ He waved a hand around the bustling lounge as if to emphasise his point. ‘I’d be hard pressed to identify anyone apart from our regulars. I’ve been run off my feet.’
Carruthers thanked him and went on his way, returning once more to the point where he’d last seen Noades, driving slowly along the winding lane and encountering nobody, before reluctantly setting course back to his Lyndhurst hotel.
It was approaching four o’clock when he strode into the lounge to find Casey sitting legs crossed in an easy chair, casually flicking through the pages of a glossy magazine, the black satin blouse she wore matching her raven hair. She exuded the relaxed air of a sophisticated woman.
But as she raised her head on his approach, the dark crescent-shaped shadows beneath her eyes and unusually pasty complexion told a different story.
She offered a thin smile. ‘No luck, eh, Marty? You don’t have to answer; I can read it in your eyes.’ Casey dropped the magazine on the table. ‘Sorry for the assessment but you look as rough as I feel. Have you thought about what I’ve said, Marty?’
Carruthers exhaled heavily, bit back his irritation. ‘You mean about Chelsey? Yes, but I can’t accept the Goldhawk connection, in your case perhaps, but not in hers, look…’
‘Mr. Carruthers, I was told I might find you here…’
The voice came from behind, he was struggling to put a face to it until he crooked his neck and met Higginbotham’s gaze. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’
Carruthers glanced between Casey and Higginbotham. ‘Sergeant, is it necessarily private or can we speak here?’ Seeing Higginbotham’s apparent reluctance, he added, ‘This is Casey Jennings, she isn’t unacquainted with the situation.’
‘Ah yes, Miss Jennings, the novelist. It’s the first time I’ve met a writer face to face.’ Higginbotham gave a polite nod and then sighing, drew up a chair. His expression became grim as he eyed Carruthers. ‘I’ve been requested by Inspector Manners to update you on the situation and to ask whether you’ve heard from your wife.’ He held a fist to his mouth and coughed, adding quietly, ‘I need to remind you of your obligation to inform us of any such developments. I can advise you there has been no activity in regard to your wife’s bank account apart from routine direct debits. So we must assume she is remarkably self-sufficient, or that somebody is supporting her.’
‘Robin Noades.’ Carruthers let out an acidic, humourless laugh. ‘This thing was all pre-planned, you’re on the wrong track in suspecting Chelsey – you’ve got it all…’
‘But the evidence doesn’t suggest that,’ Higginbotham cut in, extending an open hand towards Carruthers, ‘the diary pages…’
‘Could have been a plant,’ Carruthers snapped. ‘No, I’ll rephrase that – were a plant to divert suspicion away from Goldhawk’s real killer.’
Higginbotham arched his brows, cupped his chin. ‘With respect that is supposition – your supposition.’
‘And Casey Jennings has been followed…’ Carruthers crooked his head, gestured to her, ‘someone’s been camped outside her house…’
Higginbotham pursed his lips, considered briefly. ‘I’ve been updated on that; there have been numerous burglaries in the area of late… and Inspector Manners remains of the opinion…’
‘Inspector bloody Manners!’ Carruthers blustered, and then with a deep breath to regain his composure, ‘Look I’m sorry, but why won’t you people listen?’ Carruthers thought about mentioning his missing key, but decided the disclosure would serve only to heap more suspicion on Chelsey.
Higginbotham leaned forward, his voice carrying a hint of impatience. ‘Unless something unforeseen occurs to change our reasoning we are bound to adhere to the most logical theories – and, Mr. Carruthers, you need to face up to facts – that your wife is responsible for Mr. Goldhawk’s death, and in all probability Mr. Foulkes’ also.’
Carruthers flushed, temperature on the up. ‘If I can find this Noades, I can at least prove Chelsey’s innocence – and then, perhaps you’ll stop wasting your time hounding her and get to grips with the real killer.’
Carruthers caught his breath, waited for Higginbotham’s response and received an impatient shake of the head. ‘I would have thought that by now Mrs. Carruthers would have learned about the warrant for her arrest, and if she’s nothing to hide come forward of her own accord – but she seems to have preferred not to do so.’
‘Or perhaps she can’t do so.’ Casey’s voice, rich and critical, cut through the ensuing silence, bringing a violent jerk of Higginbotham’s head. ‘What do you mean,’ he frowned.
Casey thrust a finger into the palm of her right hand. ‘I’ve been stalked – I don’t give a fig about the burglar story, couldn’t give a sodding euro for it. Okay, I might have used Goldhawk for my own ends, but Alexander was not a very nice person. He could easily have been the victim of someone who’s sick in the mind – I could be next on this person’s list and quite possibly Chelsey got there before me.’
Carruthers shook his head but said nothing. That was the part of Casey’s argument he wasn’t going to concede, but he wasn’t lending support to Higginbotham on it. Higginbotham was in a sense only acting for Manners but he was nonetheless part of the investigation team and he wasn’t going to fuel the argument against her by openly disagreeing with Casey.
Higginbotham had been looking to Carruthers, possibly waiting for him to counter, but when nothing was forthcoming he swept a hand across his brow and said, ‘I’m afraid, Miss Jennings, we’ve nothing to substantiate that; as I’ve said – if and when we find Mrs. Carruthers we’ll have solved Mr. Goldhawk’s murder. That is our belief anyway.’ Higginbotham slapped his hand on thighs, rose to his feet. ‘I must be going.’
‘Is that your belief or purely that of the Inspector from London?’ Casey’s throaty voice carried through the confines of the otherwise empty lounge.
Higginbotham swung back to face her as if he’d been tugged by an invisible arm. ‘Both forces are in complete agreement; this is a combined operation.’ He swept a hand through his hair, bid them good-day and strode swiftly into the corridor.
‘He’s not sure,’ Casey said, her eyes following the sergeant until he disappeared from view.
Carruthers’ gaze widened. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘That young man was unwittingly very expressive. His facial expressions when he spoke, his physical gestures, his posture, his complexion – he was uncomfortable being here – and don’t forget he was asked to come here by what’s his name – Manners? Never mind,’ Casey flapped a hand. ‘I think he’s toeing the line, he’s very much the junior partner in this and feels it – the ‘Met’ playing big brother and all that…not quite the combined operation he’s so anxious to have us think.’ She gave a nasal exhalation, ‘I’m not sure he’s convinced…’
‘Well there’s not much we can do about it,’ Carruthers said grimly. He got to his feet. ‘I could do with a cigarette; it’s been another long day.’
He made for the garden with Casey on his heels.

 
Chapter Thirty Two