A Question Of Identity Part 42

'Right.'

'And you know it. Shove your pride where the sun don't shine for once.'

He laughed. 'That doesn't sound like you.'

'No, well, that's Sam for you. Anyway are you hearing me, Simon?'

He poured them each a fresh gla.s.s of wine.

'You staying?'

'Please. Then we can open another bottle.'

'Plan. But just answer the question first.'

'I'm hearing you, Catherine.'

She threw a pot holder at him. But she was filled with relief. They were friends again, he would lean on her while always pretending he was doing no such thing. She didn't think he realised how tricky the next few months were going to be.

They broached the second bottle and sat by the fire, Wookie pressed up close to Simon, Mephis...o...b..sking in front of the flames.

Cat looked at her brother, pale with tiredness, hollow-eyed, his blond hair in need of the barber. She loved him dearly, and she wished him not only the usual things, love and security and happiness, a solid home base, but for the p.r.i.c.kle hedge that grew round him to be cut, like his hair, or chopped to the ground.

She also realised that, at least for now, and perhaps forever, she must keep knowledge of the situation between Richard and Judith to herself. But she was used to that.

That cop. He kept on saying it until it was like a drill going into my head.

'You weren't yourself. You weren't yourself.'

No.

I wasn't Harry Fletcher because I've never been Harry Fletcher. I've no idea who Harry Fletcher is.

Yes, I have. Harry Fletcher's a decent bloke. Good plumber. Reliable. Hard-working. Honest. Looks after his mother-in-law.

Harry Fletcher has a smashing wife and he has the best two lads in the world. He loves them. He'd die for them. He'd kill for them.

But he didn't. He can't have done. He wasn't himself.

Alan Keyes, now, he's your man. He's a killer. They let him off. Why, I've no idea, I'm not into his secrets or theirs. But they let him off even though he was a killer.

He's the one who liked to do it. Old ladies.

Keyes is your killer, not Harry Fletcher. But Keyes doesn't exist and who's Harry Fletcher? The one who was never born.

'You weren't yourself, Harry.' Spot on.

But it's like this. Harry Fletcher has confessed to the lot. n.o.bby Parks wasn't a murder. How was anyone to know he was in the shack? He was out all over the town at night. Like me. Only he wasn't, and he died, but that's not murder. An accident isn't murder, it's manslaughter. People often don't get a sentence at all for manslaughter.

Olive Tredwell. Yes, but I wasn't myself. I'd just found out about n.o.bby. I went mad.

'You weren't yourself, Harry.'

So that leaves two. Rosemary. She just had to go because she might have seen something. That's regrettable. Didn't mean to upset Kaz and the kids. Rosemary and n.o.bby. Not meant to be killed.

So that leaves one.

'You weren't yourself, Harry.'

No. I haven't a clue who I am, to be honest, so they can work with that, psychiatrists, all those people, they can understand and write it up so it's not what people think of as murder. They've got words. Phrases. Jargon.

'You weren't yourself, Harry.'

So the way I see it, it'll be five years in the hospital for treatment, cure, and out. The lads will be a bit bigger but not much. I'll see them. I'll go home to them. They'll understand how much I love them. Everybody will. Like that young cop. He understood. So it'll be all right. I won't lose them after all. And they won't lose me.

Result, then.

Result.

Sixty-six.

THE PHONE RANG.

'DCS Serrailler?'

He knew the voice. But that was all. Just a voice.

'Yes.'

'Result, then. Pity we're invisible.'

'Sorry?'

'I meant, it would be nice to go public and claim the prize, but we can never do that. So you get the glory. We begrudge you not at all, knowing you won't forget.'

'Forget what?' Simon could barely believe what he was hearing.

'That it was all down to us. If we hadn't given you a piece of vital info, you wouldn't have got on to Fletcher.'

'So what you're saying is, having Harry Fletcher behind bars is all down to you? We didn't play any part in getting this result at all?'

'Oh, come on, Superintendent, we'd never say that, now, would we? Just that you acted on information received. From us. But if there are any medals going, you get them. I'd say that was more than fair. Cheers, then. Nice working with you, Superintendent.'

Simon was incandescent, about to put in a call to the Chief, to make an official complaint, to write an official letter to . . .

But he didn't. He wouldn't.

He went downstairs to take the press conference.

The day petered out, as days after a successful op always did. Everyone had the usual sense of anticlimax and back to routine after the jubilation, no one felt like going to the pub at the end of the shift.

Simon drove home. He would shower, change, drink a Laphroaig, make an omelette and a salad. Go on with reading The Heart of Midlothian, lying on the sofa.

It was cathedral bell-ringing practice. He would open the big window to let the changes in. Another whisky. Early bed.

There were a couple of dull-looking letters and a magazine in his letter box. And a white envelope with 'By Hand' written, top left, and 'Simon'.

Dearest Simon This has been a difficult week, I'm in pieces, not certain how to process what's happened. I knew Kenneth hadn't much longer to live but his actual death has been a devastating shock.

I know I hope you will understand that I'm not sure where I am or what I feel otherwise. So I cannot and must not see you, or talk to you anything. Please don't try and get in touch. I don't know how long it will take, when I will feel I can see you. Or even if I ever will. I don't know who I am just now.

Please, understand all this and forgive, dear Simon.

Rachel He stood with the letter in his hand, in the light of one lamp, as the bells began to ring.

Acknowledgements.

I am greatly indebted to Brian Hook for his detailed information and guidance on a number of specialist police subjects and also for his inventiveness and ingenuity in advising me on several scenarios.

Barrister Anthony Lenaghan has again been most helpful in giving me the benefit of his professional expertise in legal matters and trial procedure and I am also grateful to him for allowing me to take over his Yorkshire terrier, Wookie, for a role in this book.

Barbara Machin has helped me to unravel several plot-knots and come up with some clever suggestions about criminal psychology and behaviour and Dr Jill Barling has helped by talking through medical details and practice with me on many occasions.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

The Simon Serrailler Crime Novels.

THE VARIOUS HAUNTS OF MEN.

THE PURE IN HEART.

THE RISK OF DARKNESS.

THE VOWS OF SILENCE.

THE SHADOWS IN THE STREET.

THE BETRAYAL OF TRUST.

Fiction GENTLEMAN AND LADIES.

A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

I'M THE KING OF THE CASTLE THE ALBATROSS AND OTHER STORIES.

STRANGE MEETING.

THE BIRD OF NIGHT.

A BIT OF SINGING AND DANCING.

IN THE SPRINGTIME OF THE YEAR.

THE WOMAN IN BLACK.

MRS DE WINTER.

THE MIST IN THE MIRROR.

AIR AND ANGELS.

THE SERVICE OF CLOUDS.

THE BOY WHO TAUGHT THE BEEKEEPER TO READ.

THE MAN IN THE PICTURE.

THE BEACON.

THE SMALL HAND.

A KIND MAN.

Non-Fiction THE MAGIC APPLE TREE.

FAMILY.

HOWARDS END IS ON THE LANDING.