Animal Instinct

by Animal Instinct (retail) (epub)

  He went back into the shack and dressed in the blue linen suit he’d brought from Marlowe Avenue. The first suit he’d worn in a year. Katie was right: he was gaining weight. Knotting his tie, he surveyed his reflection. His face was still gaunt, his tall frame skinny and his hair flecked with grey, but there was no doubt about it: he was healthier than six months ago.

  He reached a decision. His plan – to find Bella then slip back into obscurity – needed to change. He would go to Pennefeather’s and tell Katie about their son’s lie. That was as far as he’d got.

  Outside, there was no sign of the Border terrier. Joe placed a bowl of water in the porch along with meat patties from the Big Mac he’d bought on his way back from Canterbury. Minutes later, as the sun chased the mist away, he lowered the hood on the red MGB and steered it onto the road.

  He drove parallel with the track that brought the steam locomotives of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway to Dungeness. The old-style tourist attraction – a one-third scale railway manned by cheerful retirees – went some way to restoring Joe’s faith in human nature. The good old days. Indulging in nostalgia made him feel like an old fogey – half man, half Werther’s Original – but he was learning to enjoy the consolations of being out of step with what passed for civilization. The Nintendo Wii remained at Marlowe Avenue, along with the blowtorch for browning crème brûlée, the ‘soft close’ kitchen drawers and all the other must-haves by which Katie set so much store.

  Joe found his spirits dipping. He remembered his shrink’s advice.

  Mood is a muscle. It needs exercise, unless you want to fall back into depression. Think positive – that was the trick. Keep busy.

  Focus on Luke’s lie.

  The mysterious H.

  Bella Pennefeather.

  He’d failed to find the missing girl but was not responsible for her death, any more than he was to blame for what happened to the Kinsella sisters.

  Think positive.

  Think positive.

  A flock of starlings took to the air. No, not a flock… the collective noun was something else, but what? A murder of crows, an exaltation of larks and… the word came to him… a murmuration of starlings.

  Watching the birds darting and swooping in dizzying formation, he searched for the appropriate term for a bunch of ex-coppers.

  A disappointment?

  A regret?

  No, a disenchantment

  A disenchantment of police officers.

  With time to kill, he left the open spaces of Romney Marsh and took a meandering route through the countryside, heading for Pennefeather’s Wildlife Park. On the radio, Nina Simone sang ‘Feeling Good’. The song briefly dispelled Joe’s feelings of gloom and doom, the singer’s voice in harmony with the sunshine as the mist lifted from country lanes, orchards and ancient villages.

  Stowting Common. Swingfield Minnis. Pett Bottom.

  Names from a bygone era, like Joe Cassidy himself.

  * * *

  It was just past eight o’clock as he arrived at the entrance to the wildlife park and found his way blocked by a police car.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Closed to the public today.’

  Joe saw a gaggle of reporters in the lay-by, along with a TV crew and a car from BBC Radio Kent. He considered dropping Katie’s name but thought better of it.

  ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

  ‘You need the private entrance,’ said the officer.

  Joe steered the Roadster half a mile down the lane that ran alongside the estate, passing the old stable block, then pulling to a halt outside tall gates sandwiched between sturdy pillars. A black Fiat 500 was parked in the lay-by opposite. One of its tyres was flat. In the driver’s seat sat an auburn-haired woman, talking on her mobile. A journalist, thought Joe. She tried to catch his eye but he avoided her gaze, stretching out an arm to press the intercom. The response was immediate. Adam’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Joe Cassidy.’

  A click. The gates opened to reveal wildlife parkland. Rising in the distance, surrounded by hedges, was the Palladian mansion.

  ‘Only a dozen bedrooms,’ Adam had said. ‘Fifteen at most.’

  Joe drove through the gates, keeping an eye on the journalist in his rear-view mirror. He saw her scribble something on the back of her hand and guessed she was noting his registration. Losing sight of the Fiat, he rounded a bend and entered the world of Adam George Pennefeather.

  Little had changed since his last visit, over thirty years ago. Once a grubby grey, Pennefeather Hall was now pastel blue, the Doric columns a soothing shade of cream.

  He drove through woodland, passing enclosures that housed the collection of animals started in the 1950s by Adam’s father, scion of the Pennefeather brewing empire. To the left, in a meadow shaded by huge oaks, a brace of European bison drank from a trough, turning their heads to regard the new arrival with passing interest. To his right, an electrified fence surrounded an enclosure occupied by black and white Colobus monkeys. Their terrain was divided in two: a glasshouse of jungle canopy and an outdoor area resembling a children’s playground. Two monkeys were swinging from the climbing frames and ropes.

  Joe felt uneasy about animals in captivity but Pennefeather’s was highly regarded by those in the know. Its record for animal welfare and its captive-breeding programme were universally lauded.

  Passing a vegetation-rich enclosure, Joe glimpsed remains of the Sumatran tiger’s breakfast: half a sheep carcass hung from a feeding hook.

  More animals. The giant anteater, grizzled leaf monkeys and Indian desert cats. Snow leopards and ocelots. The Canadian timber wolf and honey badgers – ferocious creatures, despite their name. The enclosure that housed Western Lowland gorillas sat on the far side of a small wooden bridge, along with the cafe, staff offices and the elephant house where fifteen-year-old Joe had almost lost his life, showing off to a girl during a school visit.

  In front of the mansion, an avenue of chestnut trees lined the manicured lawn. Slowing, Joe passed a grass mound adorned by a bronze plaque that glinted in the sun. A memorial to Adam’s dead child. No dates, just the name.

  Gabriel.

  Two police cars were parked by the steps leading to the front door, along with a cluster of expensive cars that made Joe’s MGB look tinny. A powder-blue Porsche. A black Bentley. A red Mercedes convertible sporting a vanity registration plate, PI22A. Joe pulled up next to Adam’s Range Rover and turned off the engine. Silence descended. He sat quietly for a moment, bracing himself for what lay ahead.

  * * *

  ‘You know where we found her?’

  Adam stared out of the drawing room window. His skin was sallow, his eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe.

  The man appeared not to hear.

  ‘The meat store,’ he said. ‘Naked. Hanging from a hook, a plastic bag over her head, hands tied behind her back, like she was waiting to be cut up and fed to the tigers.’

  ‘I can only imagine what you’re going through,’ said Joe. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Adam’s jaw tightened. He looked haggard, on the verge of collapse.

  ‘Your wife’s there now,’ he said. ‘SOCOs. Tents. Floodlights. I hope to God she knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘Who found Bella?’

  ‘Tom Lycett,’ said Adam. ‘The elephant keeper. I insisted on seeing for myself, before the police arrived, but Christ, I wish I hadn’t.’

  He closed his eyes and rubbed a knuckle back and forth across his bald head, as if trying to root out a searing pain.

  ‘Lycett had been looking for her. We all had. He was on the verge of going home. Then he remembered the meat store. The one place we hadn’t looked.’

  Joe said nothing.

  Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent.

  Letting the seconds tick by, he took stock of the room.

  Marble fireplace. Chesterfield sofas. Cherrywood tables. Overstuffed armchairs and ottomans, areas for
reading, tables set up for cards and chess, or whatever games the rich played between cocktails and kedgeree. No TV. Too vulgar.

  A grand piano bore framed family photos. The parquet floor was spread with the sort of rugs Joe had often seen on weekends, when Katie insisted on traipsing around National Trust properties. One wall was lined with glass-fronted mahogany bookshelves. Among the leather-bound volumes were books revealing the extent of Pennefeather’s fascination with the macabre, including a biography of Gilles de Rais, born in 1404. As a result of researching the Kinsella case, Joe knew the Frenchman’s murders of children (estimates ranged between eighty and six hundred) put him at the top of the true-crime connoisseur’s list.

  His stomach lurched as he saw another book, a paperback.

  The Salamander.

  The tabloids had bestowed the nickname on the day Joe had found the man’s final victims. His cursory knowledge of the creatures’ habits had been gleaned from Animal Encyclopaedia but was enough to trigger the realization that had led to the grim, underground discovery. The man’s real name – Graham Dye – sounded innocuous. No one would ever know how many had suffered at his hands, staying silent out of fear or shame. Joe wondered how it felt to be one of the women who survived but chose not to go the police, leaving the Salamander free to prey on others.

  Dismayed by the discovery that Adam owned a book lambasting him for failing to find the girls alive, he forced his focus back to the matter at hand.

  A dead girl.

  His son’s lie.

  Adam turned to face him, rolling up his sleeve and baring the scratches on his wrist.

  ‘Did you tell your wife about these?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe.

  ‘I thought so. She asked about them, even though they weren’t on view.’

  ‘I’m sure you understand why I told her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Adam. ‘You could tell I lied about being scratched by the langurs. I saw it in your face.’

  ‘It didn’t ring true,’ said Joe.

  Adam nodded. ‘Idiotic of me. But I didn’t want Katie to be distracted by what really happened.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Bella and I had a row. I’d told her to stop being a spoilt brat. I got angry. She had a panic attack and lashed out.’ He sighed. ‘“Panic attack” – otherwise known as hysteria.’

  ‘Did you lash back?’

  The man held Joe’s gaze.

  ‘I grabbed her wrists, to stop her clawing my face. They’ll find my skin under her fingernails.’

  Joe kept his expression neutral. ‘Have you told Katie?’

  A nod. ‘I worried people would get the wrong idea so I came up with the yarn about the langurs. Stupid of me.’

  The door opened. A fragile blonde woman entered wearing an expensive-looking towelling robe and unlaced trainers. She was carrying a glass of white wine. Joe put her at the same age as Adam but a combination of money and cosmetic surgery held the ravages of time at bay. Her tan suggested a long summer abroad.

  ‘This is Isobel,’ said Adam. ‘My wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Joe, aware of the inadequacy of his response, but the woman didn’t seem to register his presence. She took a cigarette from an onyx box. Adam produced a lighter from his pocket.

  ‘I told you about Joe,’ he said. ‘I asked for his help yesterday.’

  ‘I can’t find any slippers.’ The woman’s voice was deep. A committed smoker. From the way she slurred, Joe guessed she was coming round from a sedative, or drunk, possibly both.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Adam, as though soothing a child who had woken from a nightmare. ‘Sit on the sofa.’ He took her glass and set it on a table.

  A peevish note entered her voice. ‘It’s only a light breakfast wine.’

  Her husband smiled. ‘I’ll try and rustle up some tea.’

  As if on cue, a pregnant woman entered with a tray containing mugs of tea. Blue eyes. Long blonde hair. Shoulders sprinkled with freckles. She wore sandals and a yellow, hippyish smock that nailed her as a member of the Birkenstocracy. She was followed by a man sporting a neatly trimmed beard and the kind of stripy shirt Joe associated with City traders.

  ‘My daughter, Saffron,’ said Adam. ‘Her husband, Liam O’Mara.’

  ‘Are you with the police?’ said Liam. The lilt in his voice reminded Joe of a stag weekend in Dublin.

  ‘Joe used to be a copper,’ said Adam. ‘He’s an old friend. His wife’s in charge of the investigation into…’ He tailed off then rallied, as though recalling his obligation to perform introductions at a dinner party.

  ‘Liam’s the pizza whizz-kid. Have you heard of Planet Pizza?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Joe, recalling the registration plate on the Mercedes while noting the firmness of O’Mara’s handshake. He reiterated his condolences to Saffron who nodded then sat next to her mother, nursing a mug of tea. Liam sat beside his wife, taking her hand.

  ‘Jesus…’ he said to no one in particular. He picked a mug from the tray, revealing a flesh-coloured nicotine patch on the back of his hand, and took a slurp of tea. Joe saw Isobel’s jaw clench.

  ‘Must you?’

  ‘Not to worry, darling,’ said Adam.

  Liam turned to Joe. ‘You’re the one who caught the Salamander?’

  Isobel closed her eyes. Adam cleared his throat.

  ‘We don’t talk about that man,’ he said. ‘What he did was unspeakable. My wife gets upset.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Joe.

  For several seconds, no one spoke. Joe wondered if the entire family was on sedatives. The silence was broken by a car crunching on the gravel outside.

  ‘What are we supposed to do now?’ said Isobel, flicking ash in the direction of the fireplace.

  ‘The police will tell us,’ said Liam. He turned to Joe. ‘Your wife’s in charge?’

  ‘Yes. This is a vital period in any investigation. Anything that might help, no matter how insignificant, now’s the time to tell the police.’

  ‘You’ll help,’ said Adam. A statement, not a question. Joe met the man’s gaze.

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘We may be stuck with the second banana but I know which Cassidy I want on the case.’ He paused. ‘In spite of what happened to those girls.’

  Joe bristled. ‘Katie’s terrific,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t be in better hands.’

  ‘I thought you’d relish the opportunity. Or don’t you believe in redemption?’

  ‘What redemption?’

  Beneath the Botox, Joe detected Isobel’s attempt at a frown.

  ‘Joe knows,’ said Adam. ‘He may not admit it but that’s why he’s here.’

  Joe suppressed the urge to walk out. Shock made people say the unsayable. Besides, the man had a point.

  A knock.

  ‘Come in,’ said Adam.

  Katie entered followed by a ginger-haired man. He had the physique of a rugby player and wore a garish tie. Yellow with blue and red triangles.

  Raising an eyebrow at the sight of her husband, Katie was quick to regain her composure.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Duffy. My number two.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the red-haired man.

  Isobel waved her cigarette in Joe’s direction.

  ‘That’s what he said. Do you people have no imagination?’

  Saffron patted her mother’s hand.

  ‘It’s hard for people, Mummy. Don’t be harsh.’

  Katie turned to Joe. No trace of a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Joe’s a friend,’ said Adam. ‘I asked him to find Bella.’

  A muscle twitched under Katie’s eye but she said nothing. Adam continued.

  ‘He won’t interfere with your investigation. We’ve closed to the public, obviously, but the animals still need tending and the keepers are on site. I have no objection to Joe having a chat with them.’ He shot a look in Katie’s direction. ‘As long as he doesn’t g
et in your way.’

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  Joe cleared his throat. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Outside, on the steps of the mansion, Katie’s face creased into indignation.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this.’

  ‘I’m not queering your pitch,’ said Joe.

  ‘It certainly feels that way.’

  Joe kept his voice low. ‘Three questions, then I’m gone. Time of death?’

  Katie’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to talk about an investigation?’

  ‘This is me,’ said Joe. ‘I need to know if there was a chance that I might have found Bella alive.’

  He held her gaze. She blinked, softening her tone. ‘I don’t think you need to lose any sleep on that score. This isn’t Kinsella mark two.’

  Joe felt a wave of relief. He pressed on. ‘Did you get my text about scratches on Adam’s arm?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You didn’t call back.’

  ‘I got your bloody text,’ said Katie, no longer trying to conceal her exasperation. ‘I talked to him about the scratches. I’m the SIO. I’ve been up half the night. Please go away.’

  She turned to head inside.

  ‘Not till we talk about Luke,’ said Joe.

  Katie stopped. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He knew Bella.’

  Katie turned. Her blink rate doubled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Last night, when you mentioned her name, he reacted oddly. When I showed him her photo he said he’d never seen her before. I think he was lying.’

  He could see her mind racing.

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘Good question.’

  His wife stared at him, her frown deepening.

  ‘Is this one of your “gut instinct” things?’

  ‘He’s my son,’ said Joe. ‘I know him.’

  ‘And I don’t?’

  As Joe drew breath to reply, the red-haired DS emerged from the house, holding his mobile.