Carruthers' Demise, Chapters Thirty & Thirty One (standard:drama, 3067 words) [17/24] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jul 22 2012	Views/Reads: 2415/1775	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Martin Carruthers' disappearing novelist wife, Chelsey, is suspected of murder,and he strives to find the truth. Continuation of my drama.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

better chance of finding Chelsey – two heads are better than one, so 
they say.' 

Taken aback as Carruthers was by this change of stance he was in no
position to reciprocate. ‘I'm still in the New Forest, Adrian, I...' 

‘That's okay, I can be there. As you say I've not been playing my part.
I had a visit from the police yesterday, instigated by your prompting 
no doubt but that's all right, I understand. It made me realise how 
little help I've been...' he broke off, gave an incongruous short 
laugh. ‘I mean I couldn't tell them a lot really. But I've got a few 
ideas. Look, what say I call you tomorrow when I'm down – I've a 
journalist friend who'd be more than happy to accommodate me for a 
couple of days.' He gave a long, pained sigh. ‘I mean – we can't have 
my sister as a murder suspect, can we?' 

Carruthers scratched his head, nonplussed at Adrian's change of tack. It
wasn't like him to be so conciliatory, even if his tone remained 
indifferent. Nonetheless he'd go along with it – anything that might 
help to find his wife he was bound to accede to. 

‘Okay, call me when you're here.' 

‘And then a voice, frighteningly real, ‘Martin – Martin...' 

‘Chelsey?' A high voltage shock leapt through Carruthers' body. 

‘Chelsey! He yelled, impervious of attracting attention from passers-by
– but the phone was dead. Adrian had gone, but he'd heard it, Chelsey's 
voice in the background as surely as – or had he wanted to hear it, 
been wanting to hear it so much that his mind had created it? His phone 
rang again. His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it. 
‘Chelsey?' he asked, almost pleading. 

‘Marty, are you alright? Have you found Chelsey?' 

‘No.' Carruthers shook his head, flat with dejection. ‘For a moment I
thought...' 

‘I called you just now, but the line was kind of funny...' 

‘Funny, how do you mean?' 

‘Like there was someone else talking, I could hear you but...' 

‘Ah.' Carruthers had been brought crashing back to reality. ‘So that's
what it must have been...' 

‘What what must have been? Look, never mind explaining now.' Casey's
voice raced with urgency, ‘I called to say I couldn't find the key – it 
wasn't where you said...' 

‘What? But it must be there.' Carruthers fumbled for a cigarette, his
trembling free hand making a hash of it. 

‘I tell you it's not, Marty. I don't want to go back home, I'm scared.' 

‘Dammit.' Carruthers retrieved his cigarette from the ground. ‘Look, is
there any sign of anyone having been there?' 

‘No, it's all locked up. The only person around was your nosey neighbour
across the way. He came out fishing, wanting to know this, that and the 
other. He hasn't seen anyone, I'm sure he would have said.' She broke 
off, caught her breath. ‘Marty, what shall I do?' 

‘Have you called the police?' 

‘I didn't have to. Before I had a chance to get out they pulled up – and
whoever had been watching outside drove off. They asked me questions, 
mostly about Chelsey...' 

‘Did you tell them you were being watched?' 

‘Yes of course I did,' Casey said forcefully, clearly exasperated. 

‘When I could get a word in – but they didn't seem too concerned,
apparently there has been a spate of burglaries lately – they just said 
they'd pay passing attention...' Casey broke down – ‘I don't know what 
to do, Marty. Can I come up, please...?' 

‘ Okay. Get yourself up here if there's no other safe place. Look for
what it's worth I think the police have got their sums wrong. I reckon 
they're way off track, and your association with Goldhawk might have 
put you at risk – who knows? Wait for me in the hotel lounge if I'm not 
back.' 

‘Are you still cross with me, Marty?' 

‘I should be, goddamit.' Carruthers lit his cigarette, exhaled towards
the lake, glistening in the morning sunlight. He drew in the warm 
morning air, it seemed a peaceful, surreal world out here, at odds with 
the one he existed in. ‘You haven't done yourself any favours in my 
book, but right now I've got more than that to worry about. Now you 
stop worrying and get yourself here.' 

‘Marty, I've been thinking...' suddenly there was less abjection, a
modicum of composure in Casey's voice. 

‘Can't it wait...' 

‘If I could be in jeopardy, possibly because of my association with
Goldhawk, then might not Chelsey have been too?' 

‘I think we've both agreed on what's happened with Chelsey,' Carruthers
said bitterly, ‘and it has nothing to do with any connection to 
Goldhawk. Besides, she didn't sail as close to him as you...' 

‘There's no need for that, Marty, but nonetheless it might be something
for you to consider. I'll see you in the lounge,' she continued, 
apparently shrugging off his remark and ending the call. 

Carruthers replaced the phone in his pocket, strode along the lakeside,
took a bench seat and tried to untangle his mind. He stretched an arm 
along the back, trying to exude a composure he didn't feel. 
Notwithstanding his bitchy comment to Casey, distasteful as it was, was 
there some semblance of reality in what she'd said? Could some 
wired-up-wrong wannabie novelist be behind all this? Casey appeared to 
have all but wrapped herself around him to make a name, and Goldhawk 
only needed to have crossed the wrong person – a complete psycho. 

He shook his head, hunched forward, stubbing out his cigarette on the
metal rim of the bench. No, Casey would doubtless pursue the argument 
when she got there but Chelsey's disappearance wasn't so much connected 
to that notion as to a pre-planned alliance with Robin Noades. And what 
about the key? It should have been easy to find, but if it were to be 
missing, who knew its location other than he or Chelsey? Nobody as far 
as he knew. And given that, did it mean that Chelsey had been back to 
the house – if so he was wasting his time out here looking for her. 

But he wasn't abandoning his cause because of Casey Jennings. She must
have missed the key, that was his reckoning. And then Chelsey's voice 
came back to haunt him, for that one second he'd been positive it was 
her – only for his hopes to be bludgeoned by the sound of Casey – but 
there was a difference in those voices, one big difference – 

Had that difference been bridged by his imagination? Carruthers supposed
that it had, but it didn't make it any easier for him to accept – 

  Chapter Thirty One 

Carruthers spent most of the day searching the Forest between
Brockenhurst, Beaulieu and Lymington to no avail. He stopped off at a 
village, enquiring in its only shop as to whether the shopkeeper had 
seen anyone matching Noades' or Chelsey's descriptions, only to be met 
with a brisk shake of the head – not an unexpected reaction, indeed 
everything he was doing in his efforts to find Chelsey was a shot in 
the dark. 

He drove into Beaulieu, pulled into a hotel, drank a shandy, ate a
sandwich and casually enquired about sightings from the bartender. The 
result was again negative, the man had given an apologetic smile – 
‘Busiest time of the year for us, this.' He waved a hand around the 
bustling lounge as if to emphasise his point. ‘I'd be hard pressed to 
identify anyone apart from our regulars. I've been run off my feet.' 

Carruthers thanked him and went on his way, returning once more to the
point where he'd last seen Noades, driving slowly along the winding 
lane and encountering nobody, before reluctantly setting course back to 
his Lyndhurst hotel. 

It was approaching four o'clock when he strode into the lounge to find
Casey sitting legs crossed in an easy chair, casually flicking through 
the pages of a glossy magazine, the black satin blouse she wore 
matching her raven hair. She exuded the relaxed air of a sophisticated 
woman. 

But as she raised her head on his approach, the dark crescent-shaped
shadows beneath her eyes and unusually pasty complexion told a 
different story. 

She offered a thin smile. ‘No luck, eh, Marty? You don't have to answer;
I can read it in your eyes.' Casey dropped the magazine on the table. 
‘Sorry for the assessment but you look as rough as I feel. Have you 
thought about what I've said, Marty?' 

Carruthers exhaled heavily, bit back his irritation. ‘You mean about
Chelsey? Yes, but I can't accept the Goldhawk connection, in your case 
perhaps, but not in hers, look...' 

‘Mr. Carruthers, I was told I might find you here...' 

The voice came from behind, he was struggling to put a face to it until
he crooked his neck and met Higginbotham's gaze. ‘I wonder if I might 
have a word?' 

Carruthers glanced between Casey and Higginbotham. ‘Sergeant, is it
necessarily private or can we speak here?' Seeing Higginbotham's 
apparent reluctance, he added, ‘This is Casey Jennings, she isn't 
unacquainted with the situation.' 

‘Ah yes, Miss Jennings, the novelist. It's the first time I've met a
writer face to face.' Higginbotham gave a polite nod and then sighing, 
drew up a chair. His expression became grim as he eyed Carruthers. 
‘I've been requested by Inspector Manners to update you on the 
situation and to ask whether you've heard from your wife.' He held a 
fist to his mouth and coughed, adding quietly, ‘I need to remind you of 
your obligation to inform us of any such developments. I can advise you 
there has been no activity in regard to your wife's bank account apart 
from routine direct debits. So we must assume she is remarkably 
self-sufficient, or that somebody is supporting her.' 

‘Robin Noades.' Carruthers let out an acidic, humourless laugh. ‘This
thing was all pre-planned, you're on the wrong track in suspecting 
Chelsey – you've got it all...' 

‘But the evidence doesn't suggest that,' Higginbotham cut in, extending
an open hand towards Carruthers, ‘the diary pages...' 

‘Could have been a plant,' Carruthers snapped. ‘No, I'll rephrase that –
were a plant to divert suspicion away from Goldhawk's real killer.' 
Higginbotham arched his brows, cupped his chin. ‘With respect that is 
supposition – your supposition.' 

‘And Casey Jennings has been followed...' Carruthers crooked his head,
gestured to her, ‘someone's been camped outside her house...' 
Higginbotham pursed his lips, considered briefly. ‘I've been updated on 
that; there have been numerous burglaries in the area of late... and 
Inspector Manners remains of the opinion...' 

‘Inspector bloody Manners!' Carruthers blustered, and then with a deep
breath to regain his composure, ‘Look I'm sorry, but why won't you 
people listen?' Carruthers thought about mentioning his missing key, 
but decided the disclosure would serve only to heap more suspicion on 
Chelsey. 

Higginbotham leaned forward, his voice carrying a hint of impatience.
‘Unless something unforeseen occurs to change our reasoning we are 
bound to adhere to the most logical theories – and, Mr. Carruthers, you 
need to face up to facts – that your wife is responsible for Mr. 
Goldhawk's death, and in all probability Mr. Foulkes' also.' 

Carruthers flushed, temperature on the up. ‘If I can find this Noades, I
can at least prove Chelsey's innocence – and then, perhaps you'll stop 
wasting your time hounding her and get to grips with the real killer.' 

Carruthers caught his breath, waited for Higginbotham's response and
received an impatient shake of the head. ‘I would have thought that by 
now Mrs. Carruthers would have learned about the warrant for her 
arrest, and if she's nothing to hide come forward of her own accord – 
but she seems to have preferred not to do so.' 

‘Or perhaps she can't do so.' Casey's voice, rich and critical, cut
through the ensuing silence, bringing a violent jerk of Higginbotham's 
head. ‘What do you mean,' he frowned. 

Casey thrust a finger into the palm of her right hand. ‘I've been
stalked – I don't give a fig about the burglar story, couldn't give a 
sodding euro for it. Okay, I might have used Goldhawk for my own ends, 
but Alexander was not a very nice person. He could easily have been the 
victim of someone who's sick in the mind – I could be next on this 
person's list and quite possibly Chelsey got there before me.' 

Carruthers shook his head but said nothing. That was the part of Casey's
argument he wasn't going to concede, but he wasn't lending support to 
Higginbotham on it. Higginbotham was in a sense only acting for Manners 
but he was nonetheless part of the investigation team and he wasn't 
going to fuel the argument against her by openly disagreeing with 
Casey. 

Higginbotham had been looking to Carruthers, possibly waiting for him to
counter, but when nothing was forthcoming he swept a hand across his 
brow and said, ‘I'm afraid, Miss Jennings, we've nothing to 
substantiate that; as I've said – if and when we find Mrs. Carruthers 
we'll have solved Mr. Goldhawk's murder. That is our belief anyway.' 
Higginbotham slapped his hand on thighs, rose to his feet. ‘I must be 
going.' 

‘Is that your belief or purely that of the Inspector from London?'
Casey's throaty voice carried through the confines of the otherwise 
empty lounge. 

Higginbotham swung back to face her as if he'd been tugged by an
invisible arm. ‘Both forces are in complete agreement; this is a 
combined operation.' He swept a hand through his hair, bid them 
good-day and strode swiftly into the corridor. ‘He's not sure,' Casey 
said, her eyes following the sergeant until he disappeared from view. 

Carruthers' gaze widened. ‘What makes you say that?' 

‘That young man was unwittingly very expressive. His facial expressions
when he spoke, his physical gestures, his posture, his complexion – he 
was uncomfortable being here – and don't forget he was asked to come 
here by what's his name – Manners? Never mind,' Casey flapped a hand. 
‘I think he's toeing the line, he's very much the junior partner in 
this and feels it – the ‘Met' playing big brother and all that...not 
quite the combined operation he's so anxious to have us think.' She 
gave a nasal exhalation, ‘I'm not sure he's convinced...' 

‘Well there's not much we can do about it,' Carruthers said grimly. He
got to his feet. ‘I could do with a cigarette; it's been another long 
day.' 

He made for the garden with Casey on his heels. 

  


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