‘And Jenny McGuire?’
‘I’ve never met her. As I told bloody Judy Johnson and her sidekick a hundred times.’
Nelson thinks how much Tanya would hate to be described as Judy’s sidekick.
‘Jill Prendergast was your friend, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ says Chantal. ‘And she was Ivor’s friend too. That’s why he would never have harmed her, not in a million years.’
‘And Stacy Newman? Was she your friend too?’
‘You know all this. Ivor knew Stacy from the old days in London. I met her once, at a party.’
Nelson decides to change tack. ‘Why have you left the garden like that?’ he asks. ‘I would have thought you’d want to grass it over. Plant something.’
‘I’ve left it like that so I can remember,’ says Chantal. ‘So I can remember you and your pal Phil Trent digging it up. And then framing Ivor.’
‘You’re not a fan of Phil Trent then?’ says Clough.
‘I’m not a fan of anyone connected with this witch hunt,’ says Chantal. She turns to Nelson. ‘I’m not a fan of Dr Ruth Galloway either. Though I know that you are.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Chantal smiles for the first time. ‘Oh, DCI Nelson. What an innocent you are. Everyone knows that Ruth Galloway is the mother of your child.’
*
Outside, Nelson says, ‘I don’t like it. How did she know about Ruth?’
He has never discussed Katie’s parentage with Clough, but he knows that his former sergeant knows, as do the other members of the team.
‘It wouldn’t be that hard to find out,’ says Clough.
‘I suppose not,’ says Nelson. ‘But I don’t like the fact that Ivor’s women all seem to know about Ruth.’
‘Ivor’s women,’ says Clough. ‘It’s amazing how they all stay loyal to him.’
‘Chantal Simmonds is just bloody-minded,’ says Nelson. ‘Crissy Martin though. I think she’s more complicated.’
‘Both good-looking women though,’ says Clough. ‘Not that it’s relevant,’ he adds hastily.
March’s victims were all good-looking, something the press never fails to mention, which probably accounts for the endless public fascination with the case. Stacy and Jill were on almost every front page last week, smiling out from treasured family photographs, heartbreakingly unaware. Nicola and Jenny had been on many of the inside pages. Are they victims of Ivor the Terrible too? Ivor the Terrible. Nelson hates the nickname that the press have given to the killer, partly because he suspects that March loves it. What does the loyal Chantal really think about these women? She says that she was friends with Jill but Nelson doesn’t see her as a woman’s woman. There’s a contempt in her voice when she talks about the members of her own sex, from Judy to Crissy Martin. Mind you, she’s pretty contemptuous about him too. Chantal is a free-range hater.
Ivor March knew Jill, she’d even been at his birthday party. He knew Stacy from way back. Nicola and Jenny had been his students. Had he marked them out from the beginning or was he overtaken by a sudden evil impulse when he saw Jill waiting at the bus stop? Jill had been strangled. Nelson is sure that this was Stacy’s fate too but she had been dead too long for there to be any forensic evidence. And this is probably what happened to Nicola and Jenny. Bastard. His hands clench on the wheel. He’ll make March pay for those murders if it’s the last thing he does.
He thinks about the newspaper article. Jenny’s family have released the last story that Jenny wrote for the class where March was a tutor. On the outskirts of King’s Lynn he takes a detour past the Chronicle offices, which are near the quay. He knows that reporters mostly work from home these days but he’s in luck. Maddie is sitting on a wall outside the office talking into an unseen phone in a way that always makes Nelson want to call the men in white coats.
‘Maddie?’ he says.
She looks up. ‘Sorry,’ she says, to her invisible listener. ‘Call you back later.’ She looks up at Nelson, fixing him with her remarkable green eyes that always look slightly accusing. ‘Hallo, Nelson. What brings you here?’
‘Your article about Jenny McGuire.’
‘You read that? I thought you hated the Chronicle?’
‘Laura showed me.’
Maddie’s face lights up. ‘How is Laura?’ She gets on well with Nelson’s elder daughters, something that Cathbad calls ‘emotional symmetry’.
‘She’s fine,’ says Nelson. ‘I was interested in the extract from Jenny’s story, “The Lantern Men.”’
‘I didn’t have you down as a fiction fan,’ says Maddie.
‘I’m full of surprises,’ says Nelson. ‘Do you have the full story?’
‘Yes,’ says Maddie. ‘I’ve got it as a pdf.’
‘How did you get hold of it? Did you talk to the family?’
‘Yes,’ says Maddie, rather defensively. ‘I spoke to her parents. Nice people. They’re looking after her little girl, Maisie. I think they were glad that someone was interested in Jenny’s writing.’
‘I’m interested,’ says Nelson. ‘Can you send it to me?’
‘I suppose so,’ says Maddie.
‘Thank you,’ says Nelson. ‘How’s your dad?’
Maddie now lives with Judy and Cathbad and their two children. Nelson knows that Cathbad is delighted to have his eldest daughter, from whom he was once estranged, living with them. He’s not sure what Judy thinks about the arrangement.
‘He’s fine,’ says Maddie. ‘He’s writing a book.’
Jesus, thinks Nelson, as he drives away. They’re all at it. Ruth, Cathbad, all those people staring into their laptops at Grey Walls, not to mention Jenny McGuire and Ivor March with his creative writing classes. Why is everyone writing a bloody book? One thing’s for certain, it’s not something he would ever do. Maddie’s right, he’s not even much of a reader. He read a Jack Reacher book on holiday and, though he enjoyed it, that’s probably it for another year. He parks in his usual place and takes the stairs two at a time.
‘DCI Nelson!’ Tom Henty calls from the front desk. ‘I’ve got a call for you.’
Who can it be? thinks Nelson, descending the stairs. Most people now contact him directly or through his secretary. Who would ring the station’s main landline? He picks up the phone, feeling wary.
‘DCI Nelson? This is Sarah Hammond, Ivor March’s solicitor.’
‘Yes?’ says Nelson, every nerve on alert.
‘Ivor wants to talk to you.’
Chapter 8
Ruth gets the message just as she is leaving St Jude’s. She is taking Kate swimming after school. They are meeting Cathbad and Michael at a sports centre just outside Ely. Ruth is running late, as ever.
Call me. N
Ruth sighs. Nelson always communicates like this. A ‘please’ or even a question mark would be nice. And why put ‘N’ when her screen is shouting ‘Nelson’? She knows better than to wish for an x. She imagines he’s ringing to tell her about his meeting with Crissy Martin. Should she leave it? It’s not exactly urgent but, then again, she does want to hear about it. She presses ‘call return’ just as she reaches her car.
‘Ruth.’ Nelson answers immediately. She thinks he sounds odd, tense and almost excited. ‘Something’s happened.’
‘What?’
‘I got a call from Ivor March’s solicitor.’ Ruth can hear voices in the background. Nelson must be at work. He mutters ‘Not now’ to someone then comes back to her. ‘She said March wanted to see me urgently. I went to the prison this afternoon.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He said that he was willing to tell me where the other two bodies are buried.’
‘My God. That’s amazing.’
‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it. But he had a proviso. He always does. He can’t resist playing games.’
&n
bsp; ‘What was it?’ asks Ruth.
‘He wants you to excavate them.’
Ruth stops in the process of loading her bags onto the back seat. ‘What?’
‘I tried to argue with him,’ says Nelson, ‘but he was adamant. He wants you to do the excavation and, unfortunately, he holds all the cards. He won’t tell us where to look unless you do the digging. You don’t have to agree though.’
Ruth stays frozen with her hand on the car door. Ivor March wants her to be involved in the case. A serial killer not only knows her name but is requesting her assistance. Should she refuse? This isn’t her case, after all. She thinks of Frank’s words last night. ‘You’ve got a new team now.’ But, of course, deep down, she wants to do it. She wants to be involved in the investigation. She wants to be the one to find the bodies.
‘I’ll do it,’ she says.
She thinks that she can hear Nelson exhaling. ‘Thank you, Ruth,’ he says. ‘Thank you very much indeed. Can I come and pick you up tomorrow?’
‘Why?’ says Ruth, momentarily confused.
‘Ivor March wants to meet you.’
*
The sign for the Hanged Man actually shows a man with a noose round his neck. Admittedly, he looks rather jolly but it’s not Nelson’s idea of a joke. According to a noticeboard by the car park, the name refers to a boatman who killed himself from a nearby bridge after finding out that his girlfriend was unfaithful. This sombre story does not seem to have affected custom; the tables outside are full and people are sitting on the banks of the river, drinking Pimm’s and making what seems to Nelson to be a lot of unnecessary noise. A boat comes by, crewed by an enthusiastic eight, and two swans pass in stately silence. Nelson scans the drinkers for a man on his own but he sees only braying students or families eating chicken and chips.
Nelson spots Clough’s Land Rover entering the car park so he goes to meet him. He sees at once that Clough, in a tight blue T-shirt, jeans and fashionable-looking trainers, fits in perfectly with the crowd. He’s sure that he, himself, looks exactly like an off-duty policeman. Perhaps it’s the way his sleeves are rolled up? But Nelson despises short-sleeved shirts and he’d only wear a T-shirt if he were playing football.
‘Any sign of our man?’ says Clough, putting on a pair of sunglasses.
‘He’ll be inside,’ says Nelson, ‘in the dark. So you’d better take those off or people will ask where your guide dog is.’
The pub certainly does feel very gloomy inside. It’s also fairly empty so Nelson has no difficulty in spotting a middle-aged man sitting on his own by the fruit machine.
‘John?’
The man jumps, as if he were not expecting the approach. ‘Are you Nelson?’
‘DCI Nelson. And this is DI Clough. I believe you have some information for us.’
‘Yes,’ says John, recovering his poise. ‘Mine’s a pint of Swedish Blonde.’
It’s on the tip of Nelson’s tongue to tell him to buy his own. Apart from anything else, he loathes beers with stupid names. But John is an informant and you always buy drinks for informants.
‘I’ll get it,’ says Clough. ‘What are you having, Nelson?’
‘Coke, please. Jo would have a field day if I’m done for speeding.’ He looks at John who already has two empty pint glasses in front of him. ‘And I hope you’re not driving.’
‘Nah,’ says John. ‘I’ve got my bike.’
Clough gives Nelson a significant look, as if this explains everything. He goes to the bar and comes back with the drinks, including a half for himself.
‘So, John,’ says Nelson, ‘you asked us to meet you. What have you got for us?’
John stares at him over the lip of his glass. He’s a cadaverous-looking man with dark hair, greying slightly at the temples, and deep-set eyes. He looks so like a sinister retainer that Nelson is not surprised to hear that he’s the gardener at Grey Walls.
‘I’ve worked there for eighteen years,’ he says, ‘ever since Ivor came. I’ve seen a few things in my time, I can tell you.’
You’d better tell us, thinks Nelson, or I’ve made this forty-mile trip to a pub with a tasteless name and pretentious beers for nothing. But he knows to keep silent.
‘There were the four of them in the early days, you see,’ says John, after a pause and some ruminative beer-drinking. ‘Ivor, Crissy, Bob and Leonard. Ivor taught painting and writing, Bob was a printmaker and Leonard did sculptures. Crissy was the housekeeper. She did all the real work, all the cooking and cleaning and being nice to the guests. I did the gardening. It was good fun in those days. We all lived together at Grey Walls, teaching and working all day and eating together in the evening, staying up late drinking and talking. One winter we were snowed in and Ivor made all these snowmen, like an army patrolling our walls, he said. In summer we’d sleep on the lawn, looking up at the stars. I was part of it too, because I was the gardener and Ivor said that we had to listen to the land. He said that gardeners were the artists of nature.’
That sounds like something Cathbad would say, thinks Nelson. He wonders if John has called them there to reminisce about the good old days in the commune. But, after another pause for beer, John says, ‘Then she came . . .’
‘Who?’ says Clough, who is obviously getting impatient too.
‘Lisa. She was supposed to be an artist, but I never saw her draw anything. She was Bob’s girlfriend but it was obvious that she wanted Ivor. Once, I caught them in bed together. I was cutting back the wisteria and I saw them through the window. I didn’t say anything though. Anyway, Crissy got pregnant and everyone was so happy. Ivor was ecstatic. He’d lost a baby with his first wife. He said that this was a new chance, a new beginning, an heir for Grey Walls. But then Crissy had a miscarriage and nothing was ever the same again. That’s when it started.’
‘What?’ says Nelson.
‘They’d go out at night, Ivor, Bob and Leonard. They had this van and they’d pick up women. They said that they were saving lost souls. The Lantern Men, they called themselves.’
*
Ruth is swimming, carving her way through the chlorinated water. She used to be quite a good swimmer, the only sport she ever excelled in, and even now she likes the feeling of moving fast, weightless and jet-propelled, something that never happens on land. Kate enjoys swimming too and is going to take part in a gala at the weekend. Cathbad is supervising the children in the smaller pool where Kate is probably challenging the long-suffering Michael to width after width, knowing that she’ll win every time.
Three strokes, breath, three strokes, breath. Front crawl is Ruth’s stroke, she has never worked out the legs in breaststroke and veers wildly off-course if she attempts backstroke. But this is satisfyingly simple, overarm, breath, big kick every third stroke. She’s in the middle lane, not aspiring to the fast track where everyone wears goggles and swimming caps, but much quicker than the steady breaststrokers in the slow lane. She likes it when she catches up with the swimmer in front, forcing them to go faster. God, it’s easy to see where Kate’s competitive streak comes from.
Then it happens. It’s so sudden. Ruth is breathing under her raised arm, turning her mouth not her head, the way she was taught in the Eltham Centre, all those years ago, when she thinks, quite idly: what if I can’t breathe any more? The next minute she is thrashing about in the water, sure that she is going to drown, sure that she no longer knows how to take air into her lungs. She goes under, panics, splashes wildly. Somehow her flailing arms take her to the side of the pool, cutting across the fast lane. She grasps the rail and tries to inhale the chorine-scented air. But her lungs don’t seem to be working. She imagines them as one-dimensional, like the pictures in a book called Flat Stanley that she used to read to Kate. She puts her hands over her mouth and breathes into them.
‘Are you all right?’ The lifeguard, an anxious-looking teenager, is bending down to her
.
Ruth keeps breathing into her cupped hands.
*
‘What?’ says Nelson, so sharply that Clough looks up from his lager in surprise.
‘The lantern men. It’s an old legend round these parts. Mysterious figures carrying lanterns that haunt the fens and the marshes. If you follow their lights, you’re doomed. They can knock you down and leave you for dead. There are lots of stories of wherrymen being waylaid on their way home from the pub. The next morning you’d find their bodies floating downstream. They say that you must never whistle on a dark night or the lantern men will hear you. Ivor might have heard me talk about them – visitors often like to hear the old stories – but he meant the name in a good way. They were a light in the darkness, apparently. They were saving the girls from themselves, teaching them about art and life and all that. They’d bring the girls back to the house for a few days and make a fuss of them. Then they’d disappear.’
‘What do you mean, disappear?’ asks Nelson.
‘I mean Crissy got rid of them. I’d see them in the morning, sitting in the kitchen thinking that they were part of this happy hippy family, then Crissy would make them breakfast and drive them to the station and they’d never be seen again. There was one girl, I think she was from Eastern Europe. They’d found her when she was lost on the fens. She stayed for months and then she just vanished. I asked Ivor where she’d gone and he wouldn’t answer me.’
‘Do you think something had happened to her?’ asks Nelson. He’s more jolted by this story than he cares to admit. The Lantern Men. The title of Jenny’s story. The lights that lure unwary travellers away from the path. He thinks of the three men setting out in the van at night, the searchlight beam across the dark fens.
‘I didn’t think too much about it at the time,’ says John, ‘but then Ivor was arrested for the other murders and I started to wonder.’
‘Can you remember her name?’ asks Clough. ‘The Eastern European girl?’
‘Sonya, Sandra, something like that. Pretty little thing. Only young.’
The Lantern Men Page 6