To hell with that!
Gingerly Joe reached out towards the case, paused, telling himself it was better to look stupid alive than stupid dead, reversed the proposition and reached out again, paused again with his hand almost touching the locking catch, drew in a deep breath …
And shrieked as a voice said, ‘Ah, you’ve found my case, then.’
In the doorway stood Andover. He looked neither like a terrorist nor a lunatic. In fact if anything he looked rather sheepish. But Joe was still taking no chances and retreated hurriedly behind his desk.
Andover came into the room and picked up the briefcase. It didn’t explode.
‘I thought I must have left it here,’ he said. ‘To tell the truth, Mr Sixsmith, I’m glad I had an excuse to come back …’
The phone rang, postponing the possibly homicidal reasons for Andover’s gladness.
‘Hello!’ said Joe.
‘Chivers,’ growled the phone.
‘Sergeant Chivers. Well, hello, Sergeant. You got some news for me, Sergeant?’
‘Look, I know what my rank is,’ said Chivers. ‘About that info you so kindly passed on?’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s definitely been a crime committed.’
‘You’re sure?’ said Joe, looking fearfully towards the patiently waiting Andover.
‘Certain. And you know what crime it is, Sixsmith? It’s called wasting police time! To wit, Detective-Constable Doberley’s time. He’s just got back from the Andover residence where he found Mrs Gina Andover and her sister, Mrs Maria Rocca, having tea with their parents, Mr and Mrs Tomassetti.’
‘You mean they’re alive?’ said Joe, dropping his voice.
‘Of course they’re alive! I know that Doberley sings in the same church choir as you, Sixsmith, but that don’t mean he’s so far gone he can’t distinguish the quick from the sodding dead. And here’s something else. On his way out, Doberley met the brother-in-law, Carlo Rocca. They had a little chat. Your Mr Andover was mentioned. Doberley asked if he’d been acting funny lately.’
Sixsmith saw that Andover was opening his briefcase. He had a very strange look on his face. He certainly looked like a man who was acting funny now.
Chivers went on, ‘Rocca was very forthcoming. Said that his brother-in-law had been talking a bit strange in the last few days, going on about dreams and slitting throats, all sorts of crazy stuff.’
Andover’s hand was sliding into the case.
‘That’s what I told you, Sergeant,’ hissed Joe urgently. ‘That’s why I rang …’
‘Yeah. Trouble is, you got the wrong number. So do me a favour. Next time you get a nut in your office, ring the psycho department at the Royal Infirmary!’
The phone went dead.
And Mr Andover slowly withdrew his hand from his case.
It held a tube of indigestion tablets.
He belched. His funny look disappeared. He popped a tablet into his mouth and smiled apologetically.
‘Nervous dyspepsia,’ he said. ‘I’ve been suffering a lot lately. Look, Mr Sixsmith, I wanted to say I’m sorry for my behaviour earlier. I realized once I had time to think about it that I must have made quite the wrong impression. It’s my job training, you see …’
‘You mean, you really were trying to sell me insurance?’ Joe cut in.
‘No, of course not. What I mean is, on the training courses, they teach you that the most important thing is, hit hard. Get the customer’s attention. You follow me?’
‘Not really,’ said Joe.
‘What I mean is, I wanted to talk to someone about … this thing. And I got very anxious about it, so I just let my training take over and when I came in here, I may have been a bit over-dramatic … Look, I know in my mind that Gina’s safe at home, and Maria and Momma and Poppa Tomassetti too, but sometimes what you feel is realer than what you know, do you know what I mean?’
‘You’re losing me again,’ said Joe. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere and have a coffee …’
While reassured that he wasn’t facing a multi-murderer, he still liked the idea of having more company than Whitey, who with a look of great resignation had re-entered his drawer.
Andover glanced at his watch.
‘I don’t think I’ve got time,’ he said. ‘My brother-in-law’s picking me up at half past. He borrowed the car today to go for an interview in Biggleswade and we arranged to meet at my office, but when I realized I had to come back here for my case, I left a message for him to come on here, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Joe. ‘At least sit down while we’re talking.’
A man in a chair is less of a threat than a man on his feet.
Andover sat down and resumed talking.
‘The thing is, I’ve been having these dreams. At first they were vague, undetailed. I just used to wake up with a general sense of something being very wrong, and this stayed with me all day. A sense of something unpleasant somewhere over the horizon. Then they started getting clearer. And clearer. And … well, what it boils down to is this. I arrive home. I go in the house. No one answers my call. And there they all are. Gina and Maria and Momma and Poppa … sitting round the coffee table … and there are cups and saucers and a half-eaten Victoria sponge cake … and they’re all dead, Mr Sixsmith … they’re all dead!’
His voice which had almost faltered to a halt suddenly rose to a shout.
‘Ah,’ said Joe with a briskness born of a determination not to do anything which might suggest he wasn’t taking Andover seriously. ‘So what you came to report to me was not a murder but a dream of a murder.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the man, back to normal level. ‘But more than a dream, I’m sure. Such vividness, such detail, has got to be more than just a dream. I’m convinced it’s a warning, Mr Sixsmith. I believe unless I do something, it will happen. And if it happens, it will be my fault. A sin of omission, or even God help me, of commission.’
‘Pardon?’ said Joe.
Andover leaned across the desk and fixed him with a gaze which would have sold freezer insurance to Eskimos. Perhaps that’s what sbhahk meant.
‘This is the worst of my dream,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure when I wake up if I feel like I do simply because I’ve found the bodies or whether it’s because I’m the one who killed them!’
Joe glanced at his watch.
‘Will your brother-in-law come up for you or will he be looking for you outside the building?’ he asked.
‘He’ll wait outside. I’ll see if he’s there, shall I?’
Andover came round the desk to look out of the window.
Joe, who didn’t fancy being outflanked, stood up too and sauntered to his filing cabinet.
‘Can’t see him,’ said Andover. ‘I hope he hasn’t got held up at Biggleswade.’
It was on the tip of Joe’s tongue to say, no, Mr Rocca had arrived home about half an hour ago. But on second thoughts it didn’t seem a good idea to let on he’d brought the police into it.
He pulled open a drawer of the cabinet in the interests of verisimilitude and said as he examined its contents (two tins of cat food and a tennis ball), ‘Why’d you come to me, Mr Andover? Why not go to the cops?’