Martha Grimes - The Lamorna Wink

“But what I think is that Chris wouldn’t have done anything. I think she was too good a friend to take her suspicions to the police. I think she was like that.”

Moe sat unhappily, looking down at the carpet at his feet. “Poor Johnny. The poor lad.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Macalvie said, “There’s another thing, Mr. Bletchley, that I think you need to know.”

Tentatively, Moe raised his eyes to look into Macalvie’s. “You’re going to tell me something about Noah and Esmé. You found something else.” He said this as if new knowledge about the deaths of his grandchildren would fall on his head like an ax. He stiffened. “Go ahead.”

Macalvie, who had never thought of himself as a comforting person, searched for words. “That’s always been a mystery. It’s stuck with me. I never closed the case. I’m afraid that we’ll never be sure; still, I went over the file again and wondered if the medical examiner’s report was absolutely clear to you.”

Moe Bletchley look at Macalvie, his eyebrows raised in question.

“It’s the drowning. There were deep abrasions to Noah’s skull. What must have happened was Noah slipped and was knocked unconscious and Esmé, tried to pull him back and got pulled in herself. What I’m saying is that Noah wouldn’t have known anything and Esmé would have drowned very fast. And drowning definitely isn’t-if you have to die-the worst way to go.” What a lie, what a bloody lie, thought Macalvie, moving his eyes away from Bletchley’s, for he was sure the old man could read the lie in them.

Moe was perceptive, but he was being told something he wanted to believe, and no matter how sharp his mind, perception went out the window. “What you’re telling me is that they didn’t suffer much, that it was quick.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know if that helps at all; I just think the worst of remembering is imagining the terror a little kid would go through.”

Moe had his face in his hands now and tears leaked through his fingers. All he could do by way of answer was to nod his head.

“And probably you-you and your son-have always felt responsible.” Macalvie leaned toward him and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Bletchley, you weren’t responsible. Neither of you. It was a hideous accident.” Macalvie said it again.

“You weren’t responsible.”

Macalvie had never had any intention of letting Morris Bletchley see the tape; saying that he did was the only way to get Brenda Friel to give it up.

He stood on the cliff above the stone steps and looked out over water like steel and a sky the color of lead. He imagined how a visitor knowing nothing of its history would consider it an impressive, even a beautiful prospect. The bay, the sea beyond it, the ragged, precipitous cliffs had an almost calming effect on his mind. Whatever perilous events had taken place here, they had left no footprints.

Macalvie had never destroyed evidence before. He reasoned-yes, rationalized-that the tape would do little if anything for the prosecution’s case against Brenda Friel; the tape wouldn’t even work against Simon Bolt, had he been living, or Sada Colthorp. The only person who would be convicted on the basis of this film was the young woman who’d led the kids down the steps, and Macalvie marveled at her utter disregard for the danger this film would put her in. If she were found and indicted, she might possibly enter into a plea bargain and give up the other three, but two of them were dead and the case against Brenda Friel in the deaths of Tom Letts and Chris Wells was so strong that adding conspiracy to commit other murders would merely add one more life sentence to her time.

His concern was for the Bletchleys. Why should they suffer more than they already had just to see Brenda Friel get a third life sentence? This film was what the tabloids lived for. Some unwritten law should protect innocent survivors such as the Bletchleys. Such as Maggie.

He held one of the tapes as if weighing it, reached back, and flung it as far out as he could; then he did the same with the other, watching it flip and then hang there, defying gravity for a moment and then falling.

Time ticked by as he stood there, doing nothing but looking. Gray sky, gray sea, gray cliffs. It was a relief to look out on a scene that met the eye with such utter indifference, that was blanker than the blank faces of strangers. It was one of those Indian summer days, August in September, that comes along so seldom. It was late and he should have been at Camborne headquarters an hour ago. Still, he stood there, prospect impressed.

It was getting hot. Macalvie took off his coat.