Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

Alice smiled faintly, not a friendly smile. “This afternoon I got you to describe minutely what you saw that afternoon in the hayloft. The way they were lying, the sounds they made, the movements. I’m not the world’s expert on sex, but I figure I know more about what a woman feels than you, because nothing in what you described to me was untypical of passionate lovemaking. You said she had her clothes rucked up. She was gasping and crying out, turning her head, squirming. Do you know what it’s like for a woman to experience a powerful orgasm, or haven’t you noticed?”

I said, “Oh, come on. She was beating her fists on the floor.”

Alice took a quick, impatient breath. “Theo, she’d have been trying to push him away if he was raping her.”

She was looking at me through the glasses, entreating me to make some concession to her theory. I was intractable.

She persisted. “As a child, it’s understandable that a sight of adults in the act of love would alarm you, but surely with maturity you can analyze what you witnessed?”

I was in no frame of mind to analyze anything. I didn’t need to listen to her interpretation. I’d been there when it happened.

Angered by my lack of reaction, she pushed her face closer, taunting me. “Tell me this, then. Why was Cliff on the farm at all if it wasn’t at Barbara’s invitation?”

I didn’t respond.

She loosed off a salvo of questions. “Why did Barbara go up to the hayloft? And when my daddy ran into the barn, why didn’t he pull them apart?”

“The attack was over,” I couldn’t resist pointing out. “He went for the gun.”

Her face tightened into an expression that I hadn’t seen before, a hard, accusing stare. “That isn’t true, is it? He had no motive. We heard from Harry that he was innocent. Sally told us you got it all wrong.”

“What are you saying?”

“Theo, I’m saying that you saw those two young people making love. Your precious Barbara was having a terrific climax in Cliff Morton’s arms. You were shocked as only a preadolescent child can be. You hated what you saw. You ran to the house and collected the gun. You knew how to use it. You went up into the hayloft and shot Cliff Morton yourself.”

You won’t be surprised to learn that I got up and walked out of the Annual Cure Hotel. Settled the bill, removed Alice Ashenfelter’s rucksack from the car, dumped it in the hall, and drove off.

I think if any other driver on the A4 that evening had cut across me or just tried to hold the center, there’d have been blood on the road. I wasn’t merely angry. It’s a crimson blur in my memory.

I was through Chippenham before the rage turned inwards. I’d seen trouble coming and ignored it because it was blonde, nineteen, and willing to climb into my bed.

I’d taken the bait.

Too late now to race off down the A4. Escape was a delusion. She’d got it firmly into her mind that I’d killed her daddy, and she was out for blood. Never mind that I was nine at the time. I had to be made to suffer.

I had a fair idea how she’d arrange it. She’d run to Digby Watmore, her pet reporter. News on Sunday didn’t need hard facts. They’d stitch me up with innuendo. Photos of the skull, a Colt.45, and me. And, somewhere down the page, Alice, sexy but soulful, captioned, “I found the murder weapon in Dr. Sinclair’s house.”

In the way of British justice seeking to right itself and keep its dignity, there would follow a protracted period of investigation, off the record for a while, then, in unhurried stages, handed over from police to lawyers to politicians. Grinding to the same tempo, the university would systematically strip me of my responsibilities, a tutor group here, a place on a committee there, loading me with extramural work at the expense of degree-level lecturing, until my position became untenable. Gently but inexorably easing me out.

Something had to be done about Alice.

I had to be positive.

I was home by nine. My first positive action was to pour myself a restoring Scotch and sink it fast. Then I went to the shelf in the hall where I kept the bills and junk mail and picked up something I’d placed there earlier: Digby Watmore’s visiting card. I confirmed what I’d half remembered, that the fat reporter was a local man, a stringer. I took the card to the phone and called him.

Digby was at home. Yes, he remembered me. No, he wouldn’t mind meeting me for a drink. Yes, he could get to Pangbourne in half an hour. He looked forward to seeing me in the lounge of the Copper Inn.

Considering that the last words I’d spoken to him were “Sod off,” he was either very forgiving or a true professional.

You’ll find the Copper Inn in Egon Ronay, a trendy, well-appointed place, too classy for the likes of Digby, but I didn’t want to be seen with him in my local. He was waiting for me just inside the door in his blue raincoat and green trilby. The small eyes shone with anticipation. There was a faint aroma of sweat. For a heavyweight he’d moved fast to get there before me.

No prizes for guessing that Digby was a beer drinker. I carried two pints to the table farthest from the bar.

Naturally, he wanted to know how Alice and I had spent the day.

I admitted we’d been to Somerset. Why deny it? One of my reasons for being here was to get my version in first.

Digby said nostalgically, “Recapturing those war years… Remember the Land Girls? I once went out with one. You You wouldn’t believe the muscles on her.” Almost as an after thought he asked, “Meet anyone you knew?”

“Bernard, the son. He didn’t invite us in.”

“So the Lockwoods are still there?”

“Apparently. We didn’t meet the old farmer and his wife.”

“Pity, they’d have made you welcome, I’m sure. How did the place look?”

“Smaller… and very muddy.”

“You don’t sound too enchanted, if you don’t mind me mentioning it,” commented Digby.

“It wasn’t my idea of a day out,” I said, adding quickly, “Alice thought of it.”

Digby wobbled with amusement. “The eager Miss Ashenfelter. Extremely pretty girl, though. Worth doing a favor for, I daresay.”

“I had no ulterior motive, if that’s what you mean,” I said tersely.

“Wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, old boy,” Digby assured me. “Not so much a favor as a reward, eh?”

I stared back and passed no comment.

“She had spent the night at your house when we called this morning, had she not?”

“True,” I answered. “She arrived very late.”

As a News on Sunday ma n, Digby’s mind was on one track. “And after your day in the country together, is she taking a long, relaxing bath or warming up the bed?”

It seemed she hadn’t phoned him yet. “I left her drinking coffee,” I answered, declining to say where. “I’d like to ask you about Alice.”

He grinned lewdly. “I wouldn’t have thought there’s much more to find out.”

“On the contrary. She arrives from America and asks to see the News on Sunday files, and in no time at all she has a reporter and a photographer in tow, What’s going on? Has she done a deal with you?”

“Not with me, old man. I take my instructions from London.”

“Come on, what does the paper stand to get out of it?”

“A human-interest story. She’s blonde, twenty years old, and the daughter of a convicted killer. She comes to England to find out about him. All good copy.”

“There’s more to it than that. You went to all the trouble of tracing me. Why? I was only a child in 1943.”

“A key witness,” said Digby.

“What do you want from me, then?”

“She asked to meet you.”