by Scott Hunter
“Where’s mother?” I asked. And he told me he didn’t care. Told me to clear off. Close the door behind me.
I walked into the salon in a daze. Not her. Not here. I knew there had been others, but her…
I found Mother in her bedroom. Her eyes were red. I knew the signs. She told me she was all right, asked me where Terl was today. Her hand was shaking as she brushed her hair in front of the full-length mirror with wide, sweeping motions of her delicate, prettily sculpted arm. I told her she was beautiful and she tried to smile.
“Thank you, Rufus. You’re a blessing to me. Always a blessing.” That, I think, was the moment I made my decision. I knew what I had to do.
It was a very simple plan. The woods were my domain, and I was a skilled hunter. Time and again my mother had praised me for the variety of game I brought home from a day’s stalking. Rabbit, pigeon, partridge; all had fallen prey to my skill with a sling and my favourite weapon of all, the one I identified with the most, the glory of Crécy.
The longbow.
Chapter 18
By the time Moran reached the manor gates the sky had cleared and the grounds were silver with moonlight. The house itself was in darkness, squatting silently like a sleeping wolf. De Courcy’s car was parked in front of the porch.
Moran skirted the outbuildings to the right of the main house and worried about cameras. Although he considered a surveillance system unlikely, it was best not to make assumptions; as he skirted the side of a low stable block he comforted himself with the thought that he’d seen nothing to overturn his initial impression of neglect. If there was money here it wasn’t being invested in property maintenance, far less security. He closed his eyes briefly and reopened them. His night vision wasn’t going to get any better. At the outermost edge of the expansive, wall-enclosed lawn the shadow of a smaller building loomed, a different shape to the rectangular, low-roofed outbuildings; its contours were rounded, suggesting a low tower with a conical roof. Moran made a note to explore it later. In the centre of the lawn there was a stone table, possibly a sundial Otherwise there was nothing in the expanse of silvery green to mar the even carpeting of recently mown grass. Someone had at least made an effort on the horticultural front.
He came to the last L-shaped outbuilding, this one connected to the main house. A door beckoned. Moran tried the handle and felt no resistance.
A musty smell made his nostrils flare. He dared not use his torch so he edged forward, testing the floor before committing his weight, stretching his arm in front of him like a sleepwalker. His scalp prickled. This was trespass and no mistake. If he was wrong then his behaviour would take some explaining – and not just to the de Courcys. But Moran had grown used to trusting his instincts; much of the time it was all he had to go on, and now his internal radar was telling him that Celine’s life was in danger. To the accompaniment of his drumming heartbeat he felt his way forward until his hand touched wood. This door, judging by its location, would lead him directly into the main body of the house.
The door knob turned easily. Moran took another breath and stepped into Cernham Manor.
A narrow corridor, no lights. Threadbare carpet.
Careful, Brendan…
He came presently to an open space, dimly lit from above. The main hallway. Nothing stirred. He decided to risk a shielded beam from his torch. In its narrow V he could make out the grandeur of a sweeping staircase and, spread out before him, a flat plain of worn marble. A grandfather clock stood sentinel-like by the far wall and beside it the dark recess of an arched doorway. He traversed the beam. To his left was the main entrance, twin elevations of oak locked and bolted top and bottom. The manor appeared deserted but Moran knew this to be an illusion, perhaps even a carefully prepared illusion for his benefit. But how could the de Courcys know he was here?
He made for the grandfather clock, hugging the wall and creeping quickly past the staircase. That was when he heard it – a thumping, writhing noise, as if someone or something was rolling, or being rolled on the floor. The noise was accompanied by a low murmuring, an indistinct monologue. Moran reached the shadow of the arch and pressed himself into it. Whatever was making the noise was directly behind this door. He turned the iron handle gently and applied pressure but the door wouldn’t budge. He pressed his ear to the wood; the thumping and muttering had stopped.
Moran was torn between continuing his exploration and forcing an entry. Was it Celine? Moran cursed under his breath. Perhaps there was another way in, an internal window, maybe…
Moran turned to find the twin barrels of de Courcy’s shotgun pointing at his head.
“Wrong room,” de Courcy said.
And oh, yes, it was an easy shot for me. The way she fell, I knew she was dead before she hit the ground. I can always tell. I’m used to it. I always shoot to kill. And I never miss. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I hadn’t seen her for a while. Something was amiss, I knew that much. She disappeared for a couple of weeks; I thought she’d gone for good. Stupid – I should have known. She was a skinny girl, didn’t show much. Apparently you don’t when you’re thin and fit like she was. Don’t have all that blubber like the fat bints on TV, stuffing their faces with cake and all sorts of crap in the name of ‘eating for two’.
So by the time I saw her again it was all over. She’d had it. A boy – my half-brother. I heard him bawling up at the house – she’d brought him to my father but he didn’t want to know. I heard the shouting, the recriminations. How could she have done that – brought the boy into my mother’s house? Mother was gracious, she would have taken him in, but father said no. He sent the brat away screaming his head off. I suppose she’d left him in the village later that morning, gone walking like she used to, to think, clear her head, wonder what had happened to her hippy dream. Anyway, there she was, walking in the woods – my rejecter, my mother’s nemesis, the evidence of her crime abandoned to some willing wet nurse for a few precious hours so she could think, plan, figure out what to do with the rest of her life.
Had she named it by then? Did I care? I’m not sure I did. I know him now, of course. He’s very useful to me. But then he was just an unwanted embarrassment.
The sins made flesh…
My little brother.
Matthew.
Chapter 19
“There. Pull over.” Tess was out of the car before McConnell had applied the handbrake. The girl was hurrying away with quick, nervous strides. And who could blame her? DCI Diva was enough to put the wind up anyone.
“Excuse me?” Tess called out and G spun in alarm, her face relaxing as she recognised Tess.
“It’s OK. I just want a quick word.”
The girl’s shoulders slumped. “They’ve only just let me go.”
“Sorry. I wanted to check something.”
“Is Charlie under the arrest? They don’t think she did this terrible thing, do they?”
McConnell sauntered up and Tess saw him run his gaze appreciatively up and down G’s legs then try to pretend he hadn’t as G gave him a reproachful look.
“It doesn’t look good,” Tess said. “That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“She is such a nice girl. I only just met her, and now–”
Tess nodded. “I know. We all feel the same. Thing is, if she didn’t do it – and none of us think she did – then we need to prove it as quickly as possible.”
“But I have told DCI Wilder everything.” G shook her head. Her eye make-up had smudged a little and her cheeks were pale. Wilder wasn’t much fun to spend time with.
“I’m sure.” Tess glanced at McConnell. “You see, G, Charlie’s one of us. Wilder’s on another team. She doesn’t know her.”
“Sure. I see. What else can I say?” G shrugged, reached into her handbag for a tissue. “I go to stay with a friend. She is expecting me soon.”
“It’s all right, G. Look, just have a think. Is there anything you might have forgotten? Anything you might have seen between ten this morning an
d four this afternoon?”
“I go out in morning. Maybe at half past ten. I wait for a bus to town.”
“Hang on,” McConnell said. “Where did you wait? The number seventeen stop across from the house?”
G nodded.
“Did anything happen while you were at the bus stop, G? Think hard.” Tess gave her a smile of encouragement. The girl looked knackered. Probably best to come back to her tomorrow after she’d had a night’s sleep.
G shrugged again. “I wait. Cars go by. No one else is waiting. A motorbike goes past. I remember him because he looks at me and drives slowly, then he speeds up.”
McConnell had a pen and pad out. “Describe,” he said, rolling the r.
“He has on black leather. Helmet, of course. I don’t see his face.”
“What kind of bike, G?” Tess asked. “Try and picture it.”
G sighed. “I don’t know bikes. It is black and metal. It has the bars like this.” She stretched her arms out and towards her.
“Harley?” McConnell muttered.
“I don’t know. It was just a bike. Then I get on the bus. Then I come home, and–” G’s face twitched as she tried to fight back tears.
“Did you tell DCI Wilder about the bike, G?” Tess asked. G was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The girl was really shaken up.
G sniffed. “Sure, but she wasn’t that interested.”
“Oh?” McConnell was jotting furiously. “Why was that, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” G said flatly. “I am not police. She asks me again about Charlie, what we do on Monday night, what time I leave the house. That’s all.”
Tess exchanged a glance with McConnell. “All right, G. Get some rest. If you remember anything else, give me a call,” Tess said. “Here’s my number.”
“Bike worth following up?” Tess was driving. She needed something mechanical to do with her limbs.
“May as well,” McConnell said. “Let’s see now. G caught the bus, she says, at half ten-ish, right?” He studied his notes.
“Right. Traffic cams?”
“Nearest would be top of Whitley Street.”
“So.” Tess tapped the steering wheel. “If he came through town, there’s a chance.”
McConnell grunted. “Maybe. If we can weed out the other bikes as well.”
“It’s a short time frame.”
“Top of Whitley Street to Banner’s would take how long?”
“Let’s time it.” Tess swung the wheel.
As they edged through the rush hour traffic McConnell began to wonder when, if ever, he’d get to that beer he’d promised himself earlier..
Charlie was stiff, sore, tired and angry. She’d spent the night in a cell on Wilder’s orders and her pleas to see DCS Higginson had been ignored. She had tried several times to get a message through to her team but so far Wilder had blocked all attempts. At least Tess knew what was going down. Charlie paced the small room and fretted. Tess seemed pretty sharp, and Moran was a good judge. He wouldn’t have got her on board if he hadn’t been impressed, and Moran wasn’t easily impressed. But what could Tess do? Maybe she thought the same as Wilder and co. Guilty as hell. Hated Banner. Found a way to get in close. Killed him. Then left a spare garrotte under her carpet? Ridiculous. It screamed ‘stitch up’ – but not, apparently, to Wilder. Why not? What did Wilder have against her? Charlie had had no previous contact with the woman. Heard of her, yes. Heard she was well respected down under; heard she’d started at regional SOCU in Bristol before being drafted into the recently formed National Crime Agency, the Home Secretary-instigated successor to the National Serious Crime Unit.
Charlie sat on the edge of the cell’s narrow bunk. That meant Banner’s murder had gone straight to the top. A senior DCI and forensic team conjured up at a moment’s notice. Hardly surprising, after the Ranandan episode: police corruption, international drug cartels, unprecedented loss of police life. And now this. Charlie didn’t hold out much hope for the Chief Constable’s future career once the news reached Whitehall, but that wasn’t her problem. She needed to know someone was on her side. She rubbed her aching eyes. A sleepless night and the prospect of a morning’s interrogation on the wrong side of the table lay ahead. She jumped as the lock rattled and the door swung open.
“Morning, boss.”
Charlie exhaled with relief. “Toby. Thank God for a friendly face.”
DS Glascock dumped the tray he was carrying on the bunk beside her. Coffee, a croissant, cereal. “Thought you might appreciate some breakfast.”
“Are you a detective sergeant or an angel?” Charlie seized the coffee and took a grateful sip. “Thanks, Toby. How did you get it past Rosa Klebb?”
Toby’s face broke into a grin. “Easy. When that miserable sod Maggs challenged me I said I was following DCS Higginson’s orders and if he had a problem with that he should take it upstairs.”
“Genius.” Charlie munched the croissant.
“The gruppenfuhrer isn’t in yet anyway. She’s been diverted to sort some other problem out. Or so I’m told.”
“A reprieve.”
“Boss, I need to ask–”
“I know.” Charlie put the mug down and smoothed flakes of croissant off her skirt. “Did I or didn’t I. So, what do you think?”
Toby cocked his head to one side, a mannerism she had noticed before when something important was being discussed. “What you tell me now is what happened. That’s it.”
“Toby. I didn’t kill Banner. That’s all I’m sure of. I woke up. I went to look for him, and there he was. I thought I’d be next.”
“It must have been terrifying.”
“It was. But Wilder’s scarier.”
“Tess told me they found something in your room.”
“And that,” Charlie leaned back and felt the coldness of the wall, “is the sole basis of Wilder’s case against me.”
“Someone planted the garrotte.”
“Yes.”
“What about the flatmates?” Toby was hovering by the cell door, clearly uncomfortable. “She grilled them yet?”
“I expect so.” Charlie thought about G, her bubbly evening. G wasn’t an assassin, not by any stretch. And Andreas? What did she know about him? Charming, good-looking. Worked in IT. Maybe.
Footsteps rang along the corridor. Maggs, coming to check them out.
“I’ll talk to Tess,” Toby said in a low voice. “She and McConnell are digging for you. We’ll do what we can.”
Charlie squeezed a smile from somewhere. “Thanks, Toby. I’ll hold onto that.”
She had to. That’s all there was.
Chapter 20
Moran felt the barrel of de Courcy’s shotgun burrow into the small of his back. “Sit down.”
He settled himself slowly into the nearest vacant armchair. De Courcy had led him along a chandelier-lit passageway into what appeared to be the main drawing room. Wide and expansive, it was furnished like a salon in an Agatha Christie play. Velvet drapes, plush carpet, fine antiques, gilt-framed portraits, a grand piano. Sitting alone on the six-seater settee was Lady Cernham, hands folded on her lap and a glass of sherry perched beside her on a spindly occasional table.
“Good evening, Inspector Moran.” She nodded imperceptibly and de Courcy joined her on the settee, shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.
“You want answers, evidently.” Lady Cernham took a sip of her sherry. “Well, now you shall have them, for all the good they will do you.”
“Where’s the woman?” Moran elected for an equally direct approach.
“I think I had better start at the beginning.” Lady Cernham smiled sadly. There was no trace of her earlier coldness and Moran had the impression that she was looking forward to what she had to say. De Courcy was silent, watching him.
Lady Cernham replaced her glass on its lace doily. She was about to speak again when the silence was broken by what sounded at first like muffled laughter; the noise quickly rose to a howling crescend
o before tapering off in a breathless, echoing chuckle that made Moran’s hair stand on end. A heartbeat’s pause, and then, through the closed salon door, the passageway outside rang with the reflected sound of intense conversation as if two parties were locked in some fierce dispute. The de Courcys exchanged glances but seemed unfazed by the interruption. A low thumping began, as if someone was beating on a calf-skin drum to attract attention.
“Rufus.” Lady Cernham said simply. “My youngest son. He… talks to himself.”
“Where is Celine?” Moran thought there was no harm in being specific as well as direct. “Why have you abducted her?”
“Abducted that woman?” Lady Cernham laughed thinly. “Don’t be absurd. She’s not worth the time of day, let alone going to the trouble of an abduction.”
“All right,” Moran said. “But the American – Blanche Cassidy?”
“Gone, I’m afraid.” Lady Cernham reached for her sherry again. “Too many questions. Unfortunate timing.”
The drum beat recommenced, slower this time, each report rumbling through the manor like distant thunder.
“Richard here is my eldest,” Lady Cernham said. “Rufus was born eighteen months later. He was a difficult child at first, but as he grew up we became very close. He always wanted to help me, to be with me. It was very rewarding.”
De Courcy frowned.
“His father,” Lady Cernham continued, “was inclined to travel.” She sipped the sherry. “The boys didn’t see eye to eye. They had no role model, no male mentor to guide them.”
“He doesn’t need to know all this.” De Courcy tapped the barrel of the shotgun lightly with one hand while the other reached into his pocket.
“I shall tell Inspector Moran what he wishes to know,” Lady Cernham said coldly.
De Courcy lit a small cigar and grunted. The shotgun lay against his thigh.