The House At Sea’s End

‘There’s no suggestion of foul play,’ said Nelson in his policeman voice. ‘But Mr Whitcliffe was an important witness in another enquiry. I need to know if he said anything before he died.’

‘I’ll get Maria. She did Archie’s bed call. She was the last person to see him before he passed away.’ She gave the impression that it had been in bad taste for Nelson to use the ‘d’ word.

The bed call turns out to involve helping Archie get into bed. ‘Sometimes people need help with toilet,’ explains Maria. ‘But not Archie. He did everything by himself.’

‘In good shape, was he?’ asks Nelson. ‘For a man his age?’

‘He was one of our fittest clients.’ Maria’s eyes brim with tears. ‘That’s what makes it so sad.’

Clough pats her arm sympathetically. Nelson gives him a look.

‘Miss – er – Maria,’ he says. ‘If it doesn’t distress you too much, I’d like you to go over everything that happened with Archie yesterday. Don’t leave anything out, even if you think it’s not important. I want to get a complete picture.’

Maria dabs her eyes with a tissue. ‘I see him in the morning, just a check call. He is reading.’

‘Reading? A book?’

‘No. I think it was a letter.’

‘Did you have any visitors that day? Apart from DS Johnson and myself.’

‘I don’t think so. I can check the book.’

‘Did he have regular visitors?’

‘His grandchildren come sometimes with their families. Some very sweet little children. They like playing in the garden, feeding the fish. There’s a friend who comes too, an old lady.’

‘Did you ever see the grandson who’s in the police?’

‘No.’

So much for Whitcliffe’s claim that he visits all the time.

‘So, yesterday, you saw Archie in the morning. What time approximately?’

‘About eleven.’

‘When did you see him next?’

‘Not until the bed call. I have some hours off so I can pick up my little boy from school.’

‘What time was the bed call?’

‘Nine.’

‘Bit early for bed isn’t it?’ says Clough.

‘We have so many clients,’ says Maria. ‘We have to start early. Archie was one of the latest because he likes to watch Panorama.’

‘Please go on,’ says Nelson, shooting Clough another look.

‘I go in. He is in his pyjamas watching telly. I put his teeth in a glass. Tidy away his clothes, turn down bed.’

‘How did he seem?’ asks Nelson. ‘In good spirits?’

Maria pauses for what seems like a long time. ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘He seem…’ She stops, searching for the word. ‘Thoughtful. Yes, he seemed thoughtful. Usually we chat, about the telly, about my little boy. He’s five. Archie always remembers him. At Christmas he gives me money to buy him a present.’ She presses the tissue into her eyes.

‘But yesterday he seemed thoughtful…’ Nelson prompts gently.

‘Yes. I was a bit worried about him so I went back, about half an hour later. His light was still on but he wasn’t reading. He likes to read. Murder mysteries mostly. I buy them for him from the charity shop. But yesterday he was just lying in bed. I thought he was asleep but when I lean over him he grabs my arm. I don’t think he knows who I am. He says a name, sounds something like Lucy.’

‘Something like Lucy?’

‘Yes. All morning I’m trying to think.’ Her smooth brow furrows. ‘I am trying to think of the name.’

‘Lucy-Ann?’ suggests Clough. ‘Lucille?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t a name,’ says Nelson. ‘Maybe it was something else, like “lucky”.’

Maria shakes her head. ‘No, it was a name. I’ve heard it before.’

‘Lucia? Luke?’

‘No.’ Maria’s brow clears and she almost smiles. ‘I remember now. Lucifer. He said Lucifer.’

‘Lucifer,’ says Clough. ‘Bloody hell.’

They are in Archie Whitcliffe’s bedroom, which already has an abandoned feel. The bed is stripped, the pillow gravestone-smooth. On the bedside table, Archie’s teeth are still in their glass, next to a copy of The Nine Tailors. The family photos still smile down from the walls, but now even the cheerily grouped children seem oddly sad. There is no-one left to look at their forced jollity, no-one except Dorothy and her staff when they clear the room, ready for their next ‘client’. Nelson looks out of the window. The grounds are immaculate but empty. A gardener is cutting the grass but, although it is a fine spring day, no-one is sitting in the basket chairs carefully arranged on the patio. Nelson turns back and, as he does so, he notices a yellowing photograph pushed to the back of the desk. Several middle-aged men sit in a row outside a house, a house which looks vaguely familiar. Three much younger men crouch in front of them. At the bottom, in spidery handwriting, is written: ‘Broughton Sea’s End Home Guard 1940.’