Chapter Thirteen

THE GUARD, TYLER, SHOWED MURDOCH into the visitor’s room. “Take any seat you like.”

The room was plain, with a plank floor and one long table running down the centre. About a dozen chairs were crammed along each side, but the table was demarcated with strips of wood to indicate each place. The prisoners had to keep their hands visible within these barriers. The air was close, permanently saturated with the smell of fear and anger. Murdoch chose a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Two doors with narrow, barred windows faced each other across the room. The prisoner came in from one side and the visitor from the other. The guard walked over to the opposite door and pushed an electric button, which presumably gave a signal to the cells.

“They’ll be here in a minute,” he said. He eyed Murdoch curiously. “One of your nabs, is he?”

“No,” said Murdoch and he deliberately began to look around the room. A row of high windows to his right let in natural light but they were too high up to give a view of the outside. It was a dull, grey morning and the wall sconces had been lit. To one side of the door facing him was a portrait of her Majesty. The Queen was depicted in her robes of state and the scarlet, ermine-trimmed train and crimson drapery behind her glowed vividly. Murdoch thought the portrait was a fine copy, better than the one that was in his cubicle at the police station. Directly behind him was a large oil painting of the chief constable, Lieutenant-Colonel Grasett. This one was in the prisoner’s line of vision.

“I’ll be outside the door. Holler if you need me,” said the guard and left.

Murdoch took the opportunity to remove the black band from his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to share the news of Susanna’s death with his father. He sat back, undid his coat, and took out his watch. It was two minutes past the half hour. He knew he was trying to look at ease. It was far from the way he felt, but he’d be damned if he’d give Harry the satisfaction of knowing he was nervous.

He heard the sound of footsteps shuffling. Hurriedly he went back to the table and sat down. The door opened and in came another guard. He stood back to usher in his prisoner. This man, in grey prison uniform, was heavyset, with a pale, clean-shaven face. He was balding and what hair remained was grizzled. Relief rushed through Murdoch. There was a mistake; this was not his father. He was too old, too heavy.

The prisoner moved awkwardly to the table, and suddenly he smiled.

“Hello, Willie. It’s been a long time.”

It was only then, in the voice, that Murdoch knew it was his father. He stood up so abruptly that the chair tilted backwards and tipped over to the ground with a crash. He flushed with embarrassment, feeling clumsy and foolish, the way he always had in his father’s presence.

“Still got two left feet, I see,” said Harry.

Murdoch straightened the chair and sat down, while his father eased himself into the opposite seat. He held out his hand. “Come on, son. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge, but we’re still the same flesh and blood. Won’t you at least shake your own father’s hand?”

His father’s grip was firm, the palm hard and calloused the way he remembered. Harry had taken pride in that. His blows had been as damaging as a piece of wood.

The guard stepped back. “My name’s Barker. I’ll let you both alone, but I’ll be watching through the window. Murdoch, put both your hands on the table and leave them there.”

It was strange hearing somebody else referred to by his name. His father was scrutinising him, and he forced himself to meet his gaze.

“You’ve changed, Will, but I suppose that is to be expected. You were a lad when I saw you last. Now it’s like staring into a mirror.” He ran his hand across his cropped hair. “Rather, say, a reflection of the way I used to be. How old are you now? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-four.”

Murdoch was curt. He had never thought of himself as resembling his father, and it didn’t sit well with him. “Warden Massie says you’ve been convicted of murder.”

Now it was Harry who flushed. “Forget the niceties, eh, Will? Yes, that’s the fact of it.” He grinned again but it was like watching a dog snarl. “Unless there’s a miracle, I won’t be bringing in the new year.” He made a grotesque gesture to indicate the hanging.

“The warden said you beat a man to death because you lost money at a betting match.”

There was a sudden glint of anger in Harry’s eyes, and his lips tightened. Even now, after all these years, that look sent a stab of fear through Murdoch’s body. He leaned back in his chair.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Harry managed to drag up some kind of smile. “I know we didn’t part on good terms, Will, and I’m sorry for that. But as you can see, I’m in desperate straits. I was hoping you might help me.”

“How?”

Harry rubbed at his scalp again. “I never could talk to a man who looked as if he was about to haul off and wallop me one. Makes me nervous.”

“Does it, Harry? Nothing I can do about that.”

He had used his father’s Christian name deliberately and provocatively, but Harry didn’t take him up on it.

“Barker told me I can have a pipe. You wouldn’t happen to have ’baccy on you, would you?”

Murdoch debated for a brief moment whether or not to deny him, but that felt too childish so he fished in his inside pocket and took out his tobacco pouch and matches, pushing them across the table towards his father. He waited while Harry opened the pouch and sniffed at the tobacco hungrily.

“Good stuff, Will.”

Murdoch waited until Harry had filled the pipe, lit up, and drawn in the smoke. The motions were so familiar to him. He’d seen his father do that hundreds of times – and with the same grin of satisfaction across his face. He’d bought him a pipe once as a Christmas present. He’d had to work scrubbing the decks of the trawling fleet until he’d saved up enough money. Forty cents was a month’s worth of work. Fishermen weren’t able to be generous. Uncannily, Harry seemed to pick up on his thoughts.

“Remember that sweet little briar you gave me, Will? The bowl was all carved. Silver tip, too. Very swell piece.”

Murdoch nodded. “You broke it a few weeks later.”

Harry’s face was momentarily lost in a swirl of fragrant smoke. “Did I just? Well, I’m sorry for it. It was a splendid gift.” He glanced in Murdoch’s direction. “I must say, you’ve grown to a fine man. Have you married?”

“No.”

Harry sighed. “After twenty-two years, we have a lot to catch up with, but right now I’m like a dog watching its dinner. There’s not much else I can focus on.”

“You said you wanted me to help you? In what way?”

Harry lowered his pipe. “I’m innocent, Will. I didn’t kill that man. There wasn’t any solid evidence, but the jury didn’t care. Our Bertie had more brains than all of them put together. I didn’t stand a chance.”

It was the reference to his brother that infuriated Murdoch. Harry seemed to have entirely forgotten how he had made the boy’s life a misery because he was slow.

“I understand you quarrelled with the man shortly before he was killed.”

Harry sneered and, for a moment, the thin patina of benevolence slipped. “You understand, do you? How clever of you.”

Murdoch’s jaw felt tight and stiff as if he wouldn’t be able to talk properly. Time vanished, and they were once again staring at each other across the kitchen table. Involuntarily, he steeled himself for the next move: Harry grabbing him by the front of his shirt and lifting him out of his seat. Unexpectedly, however, his father’s expression softened, and his body slumped down in the chair.

“I’m sorry, Will. We’re not getting off on the right foot. I want you to know I’m not the same fellow I used to be. I haven’t had a drop to drink since August. The world looks different when you’re sober. If I could live my life all over again, believe me I would and liquor would have no part in it.”

Murdoch stared back at him. It was still a stranger’s face, puffy, unhealthy-looking skin. Only the brown eyes, which he had inherited, seemed the same.

“You haven’t yet said how I can help you.”

Harry turned to studying the bowl of the little pipe, and he tamped down the tobacco with the end of the match. “I must admit I didn’t know till now that you were a police officer. I thought you were a lumberjack. I sent off a letter. Thought maybe you could hire somebody to investigate for me, but this is even better.”

“Need I point out that as far as the law is concerned, the case is closed. Shut. You’ve been convicted.”

“I didn’t do it. I swear.”

“It’s quite possible you just don’t remember. You hit him in a drunken rage, and now you’ve forgotten. That’s happened before.”

Harry flinched as if he had been struck. “I know, Will. I know that it did, and I’d give my right arm if I could undo it but I can’t. But I don’t want to hang for a crime I didn’t commit.”

Murdoch shrugged. “There isn’t anything I can do.”

“Yes, there is. You’re a detective. Talk to people again. The police had their minds made up I was guilty, and they didn’t do much investigating. Somebody killed the man, but it wasn’t me, I swear.” Harry met his eyes. “You’re the only hope I’ve got. No matter what’s gone down between us, you are my flesh and blood. You can’t deny me that.” He moved his hand as if he would touch Murdoch’s but stopped. “You know I’m a man don’t beg easily, Will, and I’m begging you. Don’t turn your back on me out of spite.”

The door opened and Barker came in. “It’s time for the exercise yard.”

“Can’t I go later?”

“You know you can’t.”

“I’ll skip it then.”

“No, you can’t do that either.”

“I’ll come back later,” said Murdoch.

Harry nodded. “Not too much later. I’ve learned the clocks run differently when you’re in jail. An hour can seem like a week.” He held up the pouch. “Can I hold on to this?”

Murdoch shrugged. “If you want to.”

“Let’s get a move on,” said Barker, and he ushered Harry out. Agitated, Murdoch pushed back his chair, drumming his fingers on the scarred table. This was not what he had expected. He had imagined an encounter with his father many times, but not like this. Not with this soft-voiced, defeated man. A man who seemed sincere. A reformed man. Murdoch put his head in his hands. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he was disappointed. He wanted to go on hating him.