“Why the bloody hell would he do that?”
“We all have cases we can’t let go.”
“I don’t know, don’t care. Not then, not now.” He brooded a moment. “No one could have done more than I did.” He uttered a chuckle, shrill and inappropriate. “Isn’t that what we all say, Mr Ravyn, about the ones that get away? Even you, maybe?”
“From time to time,” Ravyn admitted.
“Not bloody often, from what that little prat on the telly said.” There was unexpected sharpness in Highchurch’s voice. “No one wanted that case solved back then, not the villagers and no one in Stafford. No one wanted Dale in the dock. The villagers believed he would use his magic to settle all feuds, and no one from the Chief Constable on down wanted country ignorance and superstition put on public display. They all but told me not to look for him. If I had not been so bloody-minded, maybe they’d have moved me up for playing along; maybe Lionel would be where you are now.”
“You did what you thought was right.”
“Did I? Or did I just go through the motions? Description sent to all seaports, airports and train stations; to all constabularies; even to ruddy Interpol.” He closed his eyes and shook. “Bloody hell!”
A brief spasm twisted Highchurch. His eyes opened and bulged. His face purpled. He dropped his mug of tea to the floor.
“In a ruddy sinkhole! Dead and decaying at the bottom of that bloody sinkhole while I searched everywhere for him. While I killed my career, and Lionel’s. Bloody hell!”
The attendant rushed in, giving Ravyn a venomous look.
“Leave me alone.” Highchurch shook off her attention.
Ravyn put the cracked mug on the tray, then daubed at the stain with a small towel. The attendant held Highchurch’s thin shoulder, steadying him as he composed himself.
“I’m fine, just need a moment.” He patted the attendant’s hand, and she eventually departed, taking the tea tray with her. He turned to Ravyn. “You must forgive me, Chief Inspector.”
“I understand.”
“I doubt it,” Highchurch said. “But I think you will.”
* * *
Detective Sergeant Leo Stark brushed dust from his suit. He was momentarily enveloped by clouds of neglect. Most people would have said removing the dust transferred from the evidence box was hardly an improvement. Even he had to admit there was some truth in that. His best suit, worn only on special occasions, still looked as it had been rejected by a charity shop and fished from the bin, and the one he wore now was hardly his best, just the first grabbed in a failed rush to get to work on time. But, as he often said, and half-believed, he was very hard to fit – too tall, too thin, with arms and legs disproportionately long – so he had little choice but to make do with what he could find for as long as possible.
The dust settled, but not before he sneezed twice.
“Could you not have left the dust in the archives, Sergeant?”
Stark looked up. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you.”
Superintendent Heln frowned. There might be some tasteless jape hidden in Stark’s remark, but he let it go. “Where is Ravyn?”
“The chief inspector’s gone up to Yew’s Reach.”
“Yew’s Reach? What’s…”
“To interview DI Highchurch.” Seeing Heln frown again, he added: “The original investigator on the Stryker case.”
“Don’t see much point in that,” Heln said. “He failed to bring the case to a successful conclusion. Miserably, we now know. What insight could a senile old duffer possibly offer?”
“Time often provides a vantage to viewpoint.”
Heln bit back a sharp retort. It appeared Stark was picking up more than Ravyn’s bad habits and archaic attitudes.
“Why did you not accompany Ravyn?”
“I needed to get up to speed on the old case, sir.” He gestured at the box. “I’m nearly through.”
“I take it, then, you will brief the inspector when he returns?” Heln said. “Rather backwards, is it not, you briefing him?”
“DCI Ravyn reviewed the statements and reports before I came in.” Stark remembered standing in the doorway, watching a blur of flipped pages, Ravyn lingering upon each sheet less than a second.
“Just the one box?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see you and Inspector Ravyn as soon as possible,” Heln said. “There are aspects of the case we need to discuss.”
“I’ll text the chief inspector, sir, but I think he plans on directly going to Knight’s Crossing from Yew’s Reach.”
Heln started to protest.
“And he’s asked me to go down to Brighton.”
“Brighton? What in heaven’s name for?”
“To see if DS Marquest kept any personal notes.”
“Not entered into evidence?” Heln glanced at the meagre box. “I suppose it’s too late for discipline if materials were kept back.”
“Yes, sir,” Stark agreed. “He’s dead.”
“Then…”
“A son.” Stark’s brow furrowed. “Or a daughter. I’ll check with Personnel when I get the address.”
“Very well.” Heln turned to leave, then turned. “I expect to see the two of you as soon as possible. This is a high-profile case.”
“So I gathered from the telly, sir.”
“It deserves more than Ravyn’s gut feelings and sheer luck.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll let the chief inspector know.” But he was already talking to air. “Bloody little prat,” he muttered.
Chapter 8
Oh! I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside!
The scenery was a blur. Cars swiftly vanished in his mirrors. It was amazing, not to mention satisfying, how fast he could go in a car without a guv’nor. He would fulfil his promise to Aeronwy that he would ‘nip over and back’ and be home in time for supper. He was glad he had not mentioned Brighton to her, a place she associated with summer holidays, the Royal Pavilion, and spending too much money on things she did not need in the trendy shops. That he was gallivanting around Hammershire for Ravyn was bad enough. She would still accuse him of neglect, silently of course, but at least she would not stare sullenly at her supper and torture him by scraping her fork on her plate, aimlessly pushing food around. He consoled himself with the thought she would be back to normal after an hour or two of sulking, or maybe the next day.
Detective Inspector Highchurch eased himself out of the public eye and into a secure retirement, but Detective Sergeant Marquest’s pension was far from comfortable. He was well liked, evident from evaluations and commendations, but, reputation stained, sharing in Highchurch’s failure in not running Dale Stryker to ground, he found himself without friends, without options, without a future in the police work, and with no recourse but to find something else to do with the rest of his life to supplement his meagre pension.
He had always had an eye for antiques and fine art, thanks to an education above his country origins, courtesy of a favourite uncle who liked him better than his parents. He took that knowledge and a small legacy and started up a shop in Brighton, which apparently did well until his death sixteen years later, when it was taken over by son Lawrence and did even better.
Stark parked off Bartholomew Square, near the Brighton Town Hall, and walked a block up Prince Albert Street towards The Lanes. Once, it had been the heart of a simple fishing village, but was now a confusing maze of narrow brick-paved alleys lined with shops of every stripe, posh diamond merchants and fine art galleries cheek to jowl with Pakis and pensioners selling plastic gewgaws to tourists and cheap knockoffs of Rolex, Coco Chanel and Armani. Before, a manifestation of English values and the traditional work ethic; now, a gaudy tribute to greed, pretentiousness and artificiality.
Good God! he thought. I’m getting as bad as Ravyn.
The file from Personnel indicated pension payments had been mailed to Marquest Antiques and Fine Art until Marquest’s death. When Stark arrived at the address, howe
ver, after dodging his way through waves of tourists, yobs, giggling birds and foreigners, he found it occupied by a shop called Yesterday’s Futures, the name emblazoned over the entrance in an electric-blue Victorian font. The display window was filled with bizarre gadgets, garments modelled after Victorian and Edwardian fashions, dozens of exotic corsets that would not have been out of place in any BDSM shop in Soho, and a dizzying array of goggles. He supposed the antiques shop must have gone belly up because nothing of what he saw in the window would ever have appeared on Antiques Roadshow.
He should have called, he knew, should have double-checked the information from Personnel, but there had seemed no need. He was about to turn back, perhaps stop by the Brighton station and try to pick up a lead on the current whereabouts of Marquest’s son, when he spied an ornate gilt inscription on the door: Yesterday’s Futures, Lightning Lawrence Marquest, Prop.
Stark pushed through the door, leaving a world of cheap plastic and synthetic fabrics, entering a wonderland of brass and copper, leather and silk. There were a few customers in the shop, all looking as if they were on their way to or from a fancy dress ball, garbed in uniforms that might have existed if the Empire never fell, wearing revealing Victorian under garments, cocked top hats and complexly crafted goggles. Suddenly, Stark felt out of place, out of time and space. He felt the odd man out.
A smirking black man with longish slicked-back hair and silver goggles pushed up onto his forehead wore a backpack crafted from brass and adorned with delicate filigrees and spinning gears. Tubes of rubber looped from the backpack, which occasionally issued a puff of steam, and connected with a copper-headed sledgehammer that could have crushed Stark’s head with a gentle tap. Two girls in mini top hats, long purple dresses and riveted corsets which pushed up their bosoms with extreme generosity looked at him, then each other, and giggled, as if sharing a hilarious secret.
A portly round-faced man with dodgy whiskers and wearing a brown leather morning coat, a silk top hat and an ambassador’s sash stepped from behind the counter. He bowed deeply.
“Good day, m’lord, and welcome to Yesterday’s Futures,” he said. “How may I serve you? Are you seeking a death ray?”
Stark was rarely at a loss for words, but now could only force an inarticulate gurgle. He felt the burning gazes of everyone in the shop trained on him, an alien in their midst.
“Perhaps a set of goggles for protection during the dust storms that plague the Martian Low Deserts in the long summer or from the venom shot by the swamp-devils of Venus – as you know, m’lord, they always go for the eyes.” He appraised Stark’s lanky frame. “I can see you are a man of action, an explorer, perhaps, but have you ever entertained the possibility of Her Majesty’s Royal Airship Service, perhaps as First Officer?”
Stark made a sound like “Err.”
“Yes, everyone wants to be Captain, do they not, but consider the action-filled life of the First Officer – all the adventure and few administrative responsibilities.” He leered and elbowed Stark gently. “Not to mention a girl in every port – exquisite jewels of the East, all well versed in the love secrets of the Orient.” He chuckled. “We must do all we can to, shall we say, keep up the Empire, m’lord.”
“Uh.”
“I have just the uniform for you, m’lord, First Officer of Her Majesty’s Airship Invincible. It’s brilliant white with blue and gold piping, very nice, very elegant, resplendent with medals and ribbons, awards for outstanding bravery. I think I could even add a Victoria Cross for valour during the Battle of Vladivostok.”
“The…uh…”
“Latest clash with the Russian Empire. Tsar Wars, so to speak.”
Stark heard two soft giggles and a barely contained snort.
“Don’t be concerned about either price or fit.” He again eyed Stark’s gangly form. “It was a custom order not redeemed by the would-be purchaser – scurrilous scoundrel! – so I can apply quite a deep discount. I am sure I tell you nothing new when I say it will be a stretch – if I may be allowed a small pun – to fit the uniform to you, but I am a Master Tailor, by Royal appointment of Her Most Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, and – ”
“Stop.” In one fluid movement, Stark withdrew his warrant card and flipped open the case. “Are you Lawrence Marquest?”
The man went pale.
The customers went about their business.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not as far as I know, sir, but I would like to speak with you about your father.” He glanced about to see everyone looking anywhere but at them. “Privately.”
“About Dad? We can go into the Salon.” He half-turned toward a girl with a smudged face, a sooty shirt and fingerless black lace gloves. “Take over, will you, Sheila, and see we’re not disturbed. Thanks.” He motioned Stark toward the rear of the shop, then stopped and turned to Sheila. “Perhaps some tea and biscuits, luv?”
Sheila stuck out an impudent pink tongue.
“Perhaps not,” Lawrence sighed.
“That’s all right, sir, I’ll try not to take up too much of your…” He looked around. “…your valuable time.”
Lawrence conducted Stark through a workshop where peculiar projects were in varying states of construction and into a cozy room appointed with the furnishings Stark had expected to see in the front of the shop when he had thought to find an antiques shop. Lawrence fit into this room like a well-manicured hand into a chamois glove. Stark felt as out of place here as he had up front.
“I can’t imagine why you’d want to talk about Dad,” Lawrence said. “He died more than fifteen years ago and had been kicked out of the police about that long before.” He tone acquired a bitterness at odds with his jovial appearance. “To what do I owe your visit, Sergeant Stark?”
“It’s about the Stryker Case.”
“Oh.” He rested his chin on his clasped fists. “That.”
“You may have heard…”
“I’ve heard nothing, Sergeant,” Lawrence said. “I own neither a telly nor a wireless. And I do not read newspapers or magazines.” He paused. “At least, not current publications.”
Stark had a brief vision of Lawrence Marquest sitting in a club chair, glass of brandy at hand on an inlaid table, reading an 1882 issue of the London Illustrated News under the glare of a gaslamp. Dismissing the image, he told Lawrence about the missing boy and what had been discovered beneath Stryker Farm.
After awhile, Lawrence nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Dad always had doubts about Dale Stryker having done it.”
“Did he share those doubts with Inspector Highchurch?”
“He may have,” Lawrence said. “I don’t know.”
“What did he say about the case?”
“Not much,” Lawrence said. “What I knew, I learned mostly from eavesdropping, listening to rumours, and reading. He talked a bit with Mum before she died, but not really with me.” He paused. “Do you know what they did to my dad, the police, I mean?”
“A little,” Stark said. “He retired on a smaller pension than he might have otherwise received and moved…”
“They chucked him out on his arse! Smiled, patted him on the back as the knife went in. Best for all, they said. Bastards!” His fists were bloodless. His lips tightened, his face flushed, and his jaw muscles bulged as he grit his teeth. He forced a deep breath and relaxed, somewhat. “Sorry, Sergeant. Thought I was over all that, but I guess I no more am than Dad was. Deep wounds never heal.”
Stark nodded, but held back commiserations. Expressions of such feelings seemed, to him, hypocritical, no matter the sincerity.
“I’ll help you all I can, but I don’t know what I can tell you that is not already part of the record,” Lawrence said. “The case was all but forgotten by most people when I was growing up, and, as I said, Dad talked little of it. Really, I learned more examining microfiche copies of newspapers at the Brighton Library than I ever did playing the spy at home.”
&nbs
p; “Why did your father have doubts about Dale Stryker’s guilt?” Stark asked. “Seems he was the only one.”
“Oh, no, there were others, well, at least one other, I think,” Lawrence said. “Old geezer. Don’t recall the name, but he was a copper there.” He rubbed the fingers of his left hand against each other and his eyes drifted to the right. “Dora, maybe?”
“Dorry? Albert Dorry?”
“Yeah, I think so.” His gaze returned to Stark as he stopped searching his memory. “As to why Dad didn’t.” He shrugged. “He may have known the family slightly, leastways may have heard of them before the murders. Born in Denby Marsh, he was. Isn’t that near Knight’s Crossing?”
“Not far.”
“Lived there more’n a dozen years, till my grandparents moved house to Stafford. Grandfather went into the pottery trade, but it never worked out, not that the old martinet ever admitted it. Hadn’t been for Uncle Silas, Dad would’ve never amounted to much either. Gave him an education – to spite his brother, I think – and a legacy that eventually started this place. Didn’t like Dad going into the Police, but he respected it, though there might have been a little of spite in that too, seeing Dad out from under his brother’s thumb.”
“Grandparents still alive?”
Lawrence shook his head. “Died afore I was born. Just as well, I think. Her, heart attack while screaming at the butcher; him, by drink, though the official cause of death was downing.”
“Drowning?”
“Fell face-first into a bowl of soup, empty fifth on the table.”
“You can’t pick your family.”
“Too true!” Lawrence nodded, overenthusiastically.
“How well did your father know the Strykers?”
“I don’t know that he did, but I figure he must have, at least to some degree, coming from Denby Marsh.” He spread his hands before him. “You know how it is in those villages. All very inbred, almost incestuous. Everybody is somebody’s cousin, even if they’re only connected by what went on behind the woodpile, if you know what I mean.”
Murderer in Shadow Page 13