Michael Dibdin - The Dying of the Light

It all began when Chelsea’s central defender scored an own goal with an ill-judged back pass. The London side recovered quickly, coming back with another goal which was disallowed on a blatantly incorrect off-side decision which so upset the Chelsea players that two of them were booked. When one subsequently expressed his frustration by bringing down his opposite number, he was promptly sent off, and Stanley’s centre-forward scored from the spot to level the scores. But although the Blues were down to ten men, this seemed to concentrate their formidable abilities, and by the end of the first period of extra time Accrington had not only failed to score the winning goal but had themselves been saved by the woodwork on no less than three occasions. There were now only five minutes left before the final whistle blew, five minutes for Accrington to achieve the glory which had always eluded them and write their name in the history books for ever…

‘Right, Inspector!’

For a moment Jarvis thought that Rosemary Travis had come to hound him with some new and ingenious theory, but when he looked around he found that the speaker had been Mr Anderson. Beside him stood a plump woman in a loud print dress who wound a strand of pale blonde hair around her finger as she gazed distractedly at Jarvis.

‘There’s lots of rape about,’ she said dreamily, waddling towards him.

Jarvis gaped at her. This was one complaint he hadn’t heard from the other residents. As the woman approached, Jarvis noticed that her right cheek was puffy and discoloured.

‘Fields of it, everywhere,’ she went on. ‘And such beautiful tits, too.’

‘Too?’ Jarvis echoed feebly.

Mavis Hargreaves nodded.

‘A pair, yes. Mating, I shouldn’t wonder.’

She touched Jarvis’s arm.

‘It was worth it just to be outside again.’

Another loony, thought Jarvis, the last embers of hope dying in his heart. They were into injury time now, the referee consulting his watch, only seconds left for Accrington to produce the impossible winner from nowhere.

‘I’ve been asking everyone here about the evening Mrs Davenport died,’ he recited dully. ‘I don’t suppose you recall anything unusual happening?’

Mavis Hargreaves gawked at him with a witless grin.

‘Anything at all,’ Jarvis stressed, trying to let her off easily, ‘however insignificant it may seem.’

‘Only the cocoa.’

Jarvis jerked his head up.

‘Cocoa?’

The woman tittered.

‘I was going to take the wrong mug,’ she said. ‘Would you credit it? I always use the pink one, but that night I went to take the dark blue, which was Dorothy’s, of course. It was thinking about her going, I suppose, that got me muddled. Luckily Miss Davis put me right. “Not that one,” she says, “that’s a special treat for our Dorothy. We’ve put in an extra dose of sugar to speed the parting guest.” ‘

‘She must be concussed,’ Anderson whispered urgently to Jarvis. ‘Even by her standards, this is complete idiocy. I’d better call the doctor.’

Mavis Hargreaves fluttered her eyelashes.

‘I must admit I was tempted! I have the most terrible sweet tooth. Always have had. When I was a kid, I was never without something in my mouth. I just crave it, night and day. So when I went to Dorothy’s room with the others, later that evening, I was naughty. I blush to say so, but, well, to make a clean bosom of the thing, I stole a sip of Dorothy’s cocoa. More like a gulp, actually.’

She smiled at Jarvis, who gazed expressionlessly back. Time had stopped. The crowd had fallen silent and the referee’s breath, drawn to blow the final whistle, remained blockaded in his lungs. Only the ball was still moving, smooth and dreamlike, through the heavy air…

‘Well, it’s quite true that crime doesn’t pay!’ she went on jocularly. ‘As soon as I tasted the cocoa, I realised that Miss Davis must have been teasing me. There was a lot of sugar in it, but it still tasted bitter. Really sharp, it was, with a sort of chemical edge to it. Funny, that.’ …hopelessly low and wide, but about to take that freakish deflection which would place it at the feet of the Accrington centre-forward…

‘And it’s no use you asking me about anything after that,’ Mavis Hargreaves concluded with an embarrassed shrug, ‘because I was fast asleep. I usually suffer from the most terrible insomnia, but that night I slept like the dead. The next thing I knew it was broad daylight, and everyone else had been up for hours!’

She put her hand to her mouth.

‘Except for poor Dorothy, of course.’ …and the huge stadium exploded as the final whistle blew, ending the most extraordinary match which the hallowed turf of Wembley had ever seen. Fans of both teams wept openly and embraced each other, their rivalry forgotten in mutual wonderment at this demonstration that miracles could still happen and anything was possible…

‘Thank you,’ Jarvis told Mrs Hargreaves.

He turned to Anderson with a glazedly formal expression.

‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir, I’ll just have a word with HQ from the car,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll need to speak to you and your sister.’

Rosemary dibbed the forefinger of her left hand into the soft soil several times and drew it out again, the fingernail clogged with dirt. She ripped the top off the small brightly coloured envelope she was holding in her other hand, and poured a stream of tiny black grains into her palm.

‘You see?’ she muttered fiercely. ‘They come from Suttons at 75p a packet, you old fool!’

A car came down the tree-lined drive leading to the road which ran along the top of the ridge. It crunched across the weed-strewn gravel sweep in front of the house and drew up by the front door. Two men got out, looking about them.

Rosemary wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. Bending over the flowerbed, she busied herself with the seeds, letting each fall into its shallow grave and smoothing the earth over it.

‘Afternoon.’

Detective Inspector Stanley Jarvis stood looking at Rosemary from the other side of the flowerbed. His companion, who wore dark glasses and appeared to be chewing gum, remained by the car.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ Rosemary replied.

Jarvis nodded sagely.

‘Planting something?’ he observed.

‘Just a few seeds.’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

Rosemary did not reply. Jarvis walked round the flowerbed and plucked the packet from her fingers.

‘Poppies?’ he exclaimed. ‘I never knew they needed sowing. Thought they just happened.’

‘They do grow wild, of course, but sometimes nature can do with a helping hand.’

Retrieving the packet, she filled the rest of the hollows with seeds.

‘It’s much the same as planting clues in a whodunnit, if you like,’ she mused. ‘It may seem a bit contrived, but the results are so much more interesting than the dreary crimes you read about in the papers.’

Jarvis made a face.

‘I don’t like,’ he said. ‘Now then, do you know where Mrs Hargreaves is? My colleague and I are here to take her statement.’

‘I believe, in the house. Go through the French windows, I should. No one will mind, and it’s quicker.’

Jarvis nodded briskly.

‘Right you are. Tomkins!’

The two men converged on the house. Rosemary upended the packet of seeds, scattering the remainder across the flowerbed.

There, now,’ she murmured. ‘You’ll just have to fend for yourselves. I’ve interfered quite enough as it is.’

She raised one arm in response to a wave from Jack Weatherby, who had appeared from the grove of rhododendrons beyond the croquet lawn. He called out something that Rosemary couldn’t quite catch.