Roots of Evil(120)

He got out, casting a wary glance towards the house and scanning the dark lane. There were plenty of places for Fane to be hiding, but nothing stirred anywhere and there was no longer that indefinable sense of not being alone. He walked to the back of the car, expecting to find the exhaust pipe on the ground. The exhaust was intact but the cause of the problem was obvious; the tyre on the driver’s side was absolutely flat, in fact it was right down to the wheel’s rim. Presumably it had been punctured by one of the sharp stones on the lane’s unmade surface, or – and this seemed more likely – Edmund Fane had jabbed something sharp into the rubber, as part of his incomprehensible plan.

But I can’t help it, said Michael to the car. You’ve got to be driven: you’re the only means I’ve got of reaching a phone. And I’m certainly not staying out here for Fane to come back and see if I’ve succumbed to the gas fumes, and maybe have another crack at me when he finds I’m still alive.

The steering groaned again against the weight of the flat tyre, but Michael managed to drag the steering wheel around so that the car was at least facing the right way. The wheel rim screeched like a soul in torment, and it would probably not last for more than a few miles, but providing it got Michael to the village, or, at worst, to a house with a phone, he did not care if he tore the car to shreds.

He switched on the headlights and the hazard warning flashers, bounced the car down the lane, and wrenched it on to the high road in the direction of the village.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE




Edmund was glad to reach his own house, and to feel its clean, well-ordered ambience fold reassuringly about him. He switched on lights and picked up his post, which as usual had been delivered after he left the house. One of the disadvantages of living in a small market town was that you got a very late postal delivery; he seldom saw his private mail until he got home each evening. He had complained a number of times about this, but nothing had ever been done to improve things.

He could not decide when to go back to Deborah’s house to check that his plan had worked and that Sallis really was dead. Would early tomorrow morning be better than later tonight? If he was seen going back there late tonight, it might look a bit odd, even with the very good excuse of returning the mobile phone. It might be better to leave it until the morning. Perhaps he would drive out there before going into the office. He had better not leave it any longer than that, though, because presumably there was no automatic cut-off and the gas would just go on escaping. He did not want to end up gassing half the county, for goodness’ sake!

He was as sure as he could be that Sallis had not heard him steal into Deborah Fane’s house and turn all the gas rings on. If that light careful tapping on the kitchen window had happened to attract his attention, Edmund had had his excuse all ready. He had come to return the mobile phone which he had only just found. And he had tapped at the window first in case Sallis had been asleep – a tap light enough not to disturb a deep sleep but loud enough to alert someone who was awake.

But Sallis had not heard. Presumably he had taken the pills provided by the hospital and fallen asleep, either in the upstairs bedroom or on the deep old couch in the little study – Edmund had seen the glow of the electric fire from that room. It did not much matter where Sallis was because the gas would fill up the house very quickly. Would it affect the old electrical wiring and cause a fire as well? Edmund supposed this was possible.

He switched on the oven and while he waited for the remains of last night’s casserole to heat up, he sat down to consider Sallis’s mobile phone. He had spoken more or less truthfully when he had said he was not familiar with mobile phones, but it was easy enough to see the principle of making and receiving calls, and to call up the directory of saved numbers. Whom did Sallis phone? What kind of friends and business associates did he have? It might be as well to know: to be prepared for any questions that might come hurtling out of the unknown after Sallis’s death was made known. If Michael Sallis had family who might know the truth about Ashwood – who might still talk about it, or hand down the memories – Edmund needed to know.

But when he scrolled curiously through the list of names and numbers there did not seem to be very much of interest, and there certainly did not seem to be any family names, which had been his main concern. There were various hostels and homeless centres and housing associations, which would be connected with CHARTH, and there were several numbers casually listed under first names. Edmund supposed these would be friends. Most were in London, but some were not. A number was listed for Francesca Holland, which was a surprise: Edmund frowned over that for a moment, and then moved on. Doctor, dentist, bank. One or two restaurant numbers, a taxi firm in North London. It was interesting how you could build up a picture of someone’s life from their stored phone numbers.

The oven timer pinged, and Edmund went back to the kitchen and ladled his food on to a plate. He liked to have a proper nourishing meal in the evenings. Normally he had a glass of wine or a small whisky as well, but tonight he would not do so in case he did decide to drive back to Deborah’s house later on. He was always very strict with himself over not drinking when he was driving.



It was just after seven when the phone in Trixie’s house rang, and Francesa’s heart sank. Michael was not coming. Probably it had been just a casual invitation that he would have kept if something better had not turned up, and the kiss and the intimacy in Trixie’s kitchen had been just casual as well. The something better had turned up, and now he was phoning with a polite excuse.