‘You’re a good lad, Jonathan. I’m sure you’d have done anything you could to avert this tragedy.’
‘Yes. I would.’
‘I never doubted it for a moment.’ Something in his narrow-eyed gaze suggested, nevertheless, that the issue
was
in doubt.
This was the moment Mum chose to deliver the tea – and a plateful of biscuits. She stammeringly added her condolences to mine as she manoeuvred the cups and saucers and sugar bowl. Lashley soothed her nerves with his earnest appreciation and then, when she’d left us alone again, slipped a silver flask out of his pocket and poured a slug of whisky into his tea
and
mine.
‘We both need this, I reckon,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘The police gave me a fairly garbled account of what you told them, Jonathan. Drownings aren’t that uncommon in these pits, you know. Steep sides. Deep water. Lads larking about. So, their first thought was it was an accident. But they said you seemed to think Oliver killed himself. And that he was being followed by a former Wren employee called Strake. Have I got that right?’
‘I don’t know how Oliver died,’ I said, drinking some of my tea and tasting mostly whisky. ‘But, yes, Strake had been following him. I’m fairly certain about that.’
‘And you were with Oliver yesterday evening?’
‘Yes. I was.’
‘I’d be grateful if you could fill me in … on exactly what happened.’
‘I’ll try.’
And so, for the second but not the last time that day, I recounted as much as I knew of the final hours of Oliver Foster. Repetition didn’t reveal previously hidden significance. It was as bewildering in retrospect as it had been to live through. Lashley listened intently between sips of fortified tea and draws on his cigarette. His furrowed brow suggested he was seeking what I was helpless to supply: the true meaning of all that had occurred.
‘I’m sorrier than I can say,’ I concluded, ‘that I just … drove away and left him there.’
‘It’s what he asked you do, Jonathan,’ said Lashley consolingly. ‘And if he was planning to do away with himself, you couldn’t have stopped him. He wasn’t the kind of boy you could stop doing anything he was set on.’
‘Even so …’
‘This business with Strake is baffling. I persuaded George to let me get rid of him last year. The fellow simply wasn’t pulling his weight. I believe Francis took him on originally. They were in the army together. When Francis left, Strake stayed on – far longer than he should have been allowed to. If he really was following Oliver, it’ll have been because someone was paying him to. But who’d do such a thing? And why?’
‘I asked Oliver that. He wouldn’t say. He called it the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’
‘The photographs are equally baffling. Oliver was unhealthily obsessed with his father’s suicide, as we know. But why pose for pictures at the site now, nine years later?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘There was no sign of the knapsack at the pit?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘It’s a gruesome coincidence, I have to say.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Ah, perhaps you don’t know that Ken’s briefcase went missing at the time of his death.’ I did know, of course. Vivien had told me. But till now I’d forgotten. ‘It was never found. Odd. Damned odd. Like Oliver’s knapsack. And his choice of Relurgis Pit.’
‘The first one Wren’s ever worked, according to Vivien.’
‘Exactly. Ancestral ground, you could call it. If you had a mind to.’ He drained his cup and poured himself some neat whisky. ‘The police will simply go through the motions, Jonathan, take my word for it. They don’t suspect third-party involvement, so they’ll leave it to the coroner to decide whether it was an accident or suicide. They won’t waste any of their time, as they see it, looking for Oliver’s knapsack. That’s why I’m wondering …’ He broke off and cleared his throat, then leant across the table towards
‘Yes. I would.’
‘I never doubted it for a moment.’ Something in his narrow-eyed gaze suggested, nevertheless, that the issue
was
in doubt.
This was the moment Mum chose to deliver the tea – and a plateful of biscuits. She stammeringly added her condolences to mine as she manoeuvred the cups and saucers and sugar bowl. Lashley soothed her nerves with his earnest appreciation and then, when she’d left us alone again, slipped a silver flask out of his pocket and poured a slug of whisky into his tea
and
mine.
‘We both need this, I reckon,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘The police gave me a fairly garbled account of what you told them, Jonathan. Drownings aren’t that uncommon in these pits, you know. Steep sides. Deep water. Lads larking about. So, their first thought was it was an accident. But they said you seemed to think Oliver killed himself. And that he was being followed by a former Wren employee called Strake. Have I got that right?’
‘I don’t know how Oliver died,’ I said, drinking some of my tea and tasting mostly whisky. ‘But, yes, Strake had been following him. I’m fairly certain about that.’
‘And you were with Oliver yesterday evening?’
‘Yes. I was.’
‘I’d be grateful if you could fill me in … on exactly what happened.’
‘I’ll try.’
And so, for the second but not the last time that day, I recounted as much as I knew of the final hours of Oliver Foster. Repetition didn’t reveal previously hidden significance. It was as bewildering in retrospect as it had been to live through. Lashley listened intently between sips of fortified tea and draws on his cigarette. His furrowed brow suggested he was seeking what I was helpless to supply: the true meaning of all that had occurred.
‘I’m sorrier than I can say,’ I concluded, ‘that I just … drove away and left him there.’
‘It’s what he asked you do, Jonathan,’ said Lashley consolingly. ‘And if he was planning to do away with himself, you couldn’t have stopped him. He wasn’t the kind of boy you could stop doing anything he was set on.’
‘Even so …’
‘This business with Strake is baffling. I persuaded George to let me get rid of him last year. The fellow simply wasn’t pulling his weight. I believe Francis took him on originally. They were in the army together. When Francis left, Strake stayed on – far longer than he should have been allowed to. If he really was following Oliver, it’ll have been because someone was paying him to. But who’d do such a thing? And why?’
‘I asked Oliver that. He wouldn’t say. He called it the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’
‘The photographs are equally baffling. Oliver was unhealthily obsessed with his father’s suicide, as we know. But why pose for pictures at the site now, nine years later?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘There was no sign of the knapsack at the pit?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘It’s a gruesome coincidence, I have to say.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Ah, perhaps you don’t know that Ken’s briefcase went missing at the time of his death.’ I did know, of course. Vivien had told me. But till now I’d forgotten. ‘It was never found. Odd. Damned odd. Like Oliver’s knapsack. And his choice of Relurgis Pit.’
‘The first one Wren’s ever worked, according to Vivien.’
‘Exactly. Ancestral ground, you could call it. If you had a mind to.’ He drained his cup and poured himself some neat whisky. ‘The police will simply go through the motions, Jonathan, take my word for it. They don’t suspect third-party involvement, so they’ll leave it to the coroner to decide whether it was an accident or suicide. They won’t waste any of their time, as they see it, looking for Oliver’s knapsack. That’s why I’m wondering …’ He broke off and cleared his throat, then leant across the table towards
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