REGINALD HILL
DEATH OF A DORMOUSE
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by
Methuen London Ltd 1987
under the authors psuedonym Patrick Ruell
Copyright © Patrick Ruell 1987
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780586205464
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN 9780007394739
Version: 2015-09-15
Dedication
This one for Billy and Choc who else?
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
Part Two
1
2
3
4
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
Part Four
1
2
3
4
Part Five
1
2
3
4
Part Six
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part Seven
1
2
3
Part Eight
1
2
Part Nine
1
2
Part Ten
1
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
Epigraph
When one subtracts from life infancy
(which is vegetation) sleep, eating, and swilling
buttoning and unbuttoning how much remains of
downright existence? The summer of a dormouse
BYRON: Journal (December 7th 1813)
Prologue
She was lying on a bare mattress in a darkened room. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but this was an unnecessary refinement. In her mind she had been here many times before and knew there was no escape. One strip of light there was which could not be blinked away. It lay on the floor, seeping in beneath the door, and beyond that door on bare stone flags she could hear the sound of footsteps getting nearer.
She lay as still as the mouse which huddles in its cornfield nest, and hears the approach of the coulter, and knows what it means, but does not know how to fly.
Nothing remained in her life, no spur to action, no prick of hope. Nothing of past, present or future touched her life, only that crack of light beneath the door and the footsteps which were approaching it.
She had been waiting for them all her life. They belonged to the secret police who strike with the dawn; to the cruel rapist who lurks in the shadows; to the man she had loved, come here to kill her.
Now they were close. Now the line of light beneath the door was broken by a growing shadow.
Now the footsteps halted.
Slowly the door handle began to turn. Slowly the door swung open. In the threshold loomed a figure, bulky, still, menacing.
Now it was in the room and advancing.
Her mouth gaped wide as her desperate lungs drew in one last, long, ragged breath
Part One
Wee sleekit, cowrin, timrous beastie,
O, what a panics in thy breastie!
BURNS: To a Mouse
1
Trudi? Trudi Adamson? My God! Trudi, is that really you?
Well, its me anyway, said Trudi.
Wherere you ringing from? Vienna? Youre so clear!
No. Not Vienna. Sheffield.
Sheffield. You mean Sheffield Yorkshire?
The note of Celtic incredulity made Trudi laugh. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all.
If theres another, please tell me. Id probably prefer it.
But what are you doing in Sheffield?
Living here, Jan. Ive been living here for three whole days.
A silence at the other end as though this were too much to take in; then in a perceptibly casual tone, And Trent?
Trudi laughed. The second time in a minute. Perhaps in a decade? She said, No. Ive not run away or anything. Trents here too of course. Thats why Im here. Hes been moved again. I thought when we got to the centre of things three years back, that would be the end of it. But evidently not. And this time, I got two days notice, would you believe it?
From what I know of Trent, yes. But at least this time, hes brought you back to England.
Thats right. And naturally I thought, now Im here and so close, first thing Ive got to do is ring Jan and fix to see her.
It was a lie.
The last time the two had talked had felt like the last time ever. Friends since school, they had seen little of each other over the past quarter century as Trudi drifted across the face of Europe in her husbands wake. But they had kept in touch with fairly regular letters and cards. Then a year ago Janets husband, Alan Cummings, had died. They should have returned to the UK for the funeral, but Trent had pleaded a vital business trip. Trudi had fully intended to travel alone, but night after night she had started waking full of terror at the thought of going all that distance without Trent. Agoraphobia was what they had called it all those years ago when she had refused to leave the house after her fathers death. Twice in her marriage the terror had returned. Drugs and psychotherapy had got it under control. But here it was again and Trent had seemed callously indifferent both to her fears and Janets grief.
Dont go then. Ring Jan. Tell her youre sick. Shell understand.
She hadnt. Grief, tension, drink perhaps, had combined explosively. Neither of you coming, is it? Trent was one of his oldest friends! And you, you cow! Who looked after you at school? Me! Who got you your job? Me! Who got you your sodding husband? Me! And now you cant stir yourself when I need you! Useless sodding bitch!
The phone had gone down hard. Trudi had written an apologetic letter. There was no reply, nor had her Christmas card been reciprocated that year.
Trudi had resigned herself to feeling this chill on her one old friendship thicken into permafrost. She regretted it, but lacked the energy or the will to resist it. Had Trent urged her to action she might have made a move. But he hadnt, becoming more and more distant and self-absorbed in the past twelve months.
But it had been Trent who, in the three days since their return to England, had become a passionate advocate of reconciliation. Ring Jan, he urged. You dont make new friends so easily you can afford to dump old ones.
This was cruel, but he had compensated by adding with a rare smile, Fix up to meet her one day soon. Tomorrow if shes free. Ill drive you over. Its only thirty miles over the hills. Then Ill come and pick you up at night.
And again as he had left, he had said, Ring Jan. Arrange to meet. Itll do you good, youll see.
Then he had driven away in his rented car, leaving her in their rented house. What had made Trent pick this place she did not know, but she admitted she was biased against it from the start. The move had been so rapid that her own furniture was still in store in Vienna, and the lack of the familiar sights and smells of her comfortable apartment there was a constant irritation, keeping her from that pleasant supineness which was her normal waking state.
In the end, untypically restless, she had gone to the phone and dialled Jans number.
And it had been worthwhile! Trent as usual had been right.
But now her naturally fearful view of life, her sense that cups are generally raised only to be dashed, set out to prove that it was as right as Trent.
Janet was speaking again. Putting her off.
Trudi, Im sorry. But I cant talk now. Im sorry, but oh, crazy it is, and I should maybe have written, but its all happened pretty quickly, like your move, well, not so quickly as that, but quick enough!
Janets Welshness still broke loose at moments of high excitement and hearing it now took Trudi back thirty years.
Calm down and tell me what youre talking about, she said.
Well, Im getting married again, arent I? Yes, today! Now! This very minute almost. Its just a registry office job this time, of course. When I heard the phone ring I thought its Frank (thats the unlucky fellow), the bastards ringing to call it off. But if I dont rush, well lose our place in the queue and then itll be off whether I like it or not. Oh Trudi, Im sorry. No guests you see, but if Id known you were going to be so handy, you couldve been matron-of-honour or something!
Here was a reasonable explanation for any oddity of reaction. A year ago she had been abusing her friend on the phone for not attending her first husbands funeral; now she was having to apologize for not inviting her to her second wedding!
Jan, thats marvellous, said Trudi, straining for conviction. Many congratulations.
Thanks. Look, I really must go. Then straight after the ceremony were off to the Costa del somewhere for a week. Ring me then, promise? Oh shit. I wont be here, were moving into Franks house in Oldham and I cant recall the number. Here, give me your address and number. Ill ring you.
Hope House, Linden Lane, said Trudi, adding the telephone number.
That sounds posh.
It might have been fifty years ago. Now its an ancient monument. Thank heaven its just on a short lease, said Trudi.
Oh, we have become choosy in our old age, said Janet. Look, I really must go, girl. Ill be in touch, I promise.
After she had replaced the receiver, Trudi stood in a confusion of feeling. Trent had been right. It really had felt good to talk to Janet again. But counterbalancing this was a feeling of illogical resentment at her re-marriage. All that hysteria a year ago, and here she was getting married again! No, it wasnt some awful moral self-righteousness which was bothering her, Trudi assured herself. It was more like simple jealousy. She could hardly expect to get her friend back when she was just starting to share her life with a new husband.
She made a resentful face in the old pier glass hanging behind the phone. Its chipped and peeling gilt frame was symptomatic of this dark suburban villa Trent had brought her to, but perhaps it was too well suited to the picture it now contained. Viennese cooking had turned her dumpy, forty-five years had turned her grey. Only her eyes, clear and brown, belonged to the girl whod married Trent Adamson a quarter of a century ago. She almost wished they too had turned dull and old and could no longer see so clearly.