Neither of us spoke. Sandy pressed the gun against my temple and ordered Moss to go through our pockets. I could feel the round rim of the barrel digging into my skin. I was fighting to keep still, not to betray the fear I felt by trembling. ‘Chuck everything on the desk there. Make sure you get their phones.’ Dean must have made a slight move. ‘You!’ Sandy rapped at him. ‘Keep your hands up!’ With his free hand he picked up Dean’s wallet and opened it. ‘Detective Constable Dean Collins,’ he read aloud, as Jamie walked in. ‘Oh dear, that complicates things rather.’
Jamie took the wallet from him silently and read it for himself. He flicked a glance at Dean, and then at me, his blue eyes cold. ‘Juno. I knew I was going to have to do something about you sooner or later.’
‘Like you did something about Nathan Parr?’ Dean demanded.
Jamie raised his brows. ‘And what do you know about Nathan Parr?’
‘I know that you killed him, you bastard.’
Jamie picked up Dean’s phone from the desk and began scrolling through it. ‘I trusted Nathan. I thought he was a friend,’ he answered, his gaze fixed on the images on the phone.
‘I expected loyalty. I didn’t know he was a liar and a spy.’ He found the photographs Dean had just taken, of the pictures on the wall, the drums of hazardous waste down in the tunnel. He held up the screen so that Sandy could see. ‘I think we’ll just erase these.’ Our hard-earned evidence vanished with one push of his thumb. ‘Parr got what he deserved.’
‘And Ted Croaker?’
‘He got greedy, thought he could blackmail us.’
‘So you threw him in the pit,’ I accused him.
‘Like the garbage he was,’ he responded smoothly.
‘You can’t expect to get away with this,’ Dean warned him.
Jamie just smiled. ‘Moss, drive down to the farm, fetch Pike up here, will you?’
‘Moss!’ I called to him as he turned to go. ‘You know this is wrong. You said yourself, too many have died already—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he growled, flicking a nervous look in his employer’s direction before he hurried from the room.
‘How can you do this?’ I asked Jamie. ‘Three people dead. What gives you the right—’
‘Don’t you dare lecture me about rights,’ he countered, suddenly fierce. ‘What do people like you know about running an estate, about heritage and tradition, about keeping farms from going bust and this house from collapsing, about responsibilities towards your tenants, towards the countryside, the land—’
‘Which you despoil by polluting it?’
That pulled him up short. He bit his lip, but he didn’t want to show that I’d touched him on the raw. He sat back on the edge of the desk and studied the two of us reflectively. ‘Now, Detective Constable Collins,’ he said after a moment, ‘I think it’s time we had a conversation about how much you and your superiors know about our little operation here.’
Dean grunted. ‘You expect me to tell you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Jamie smiled. ‘The only question is how much you’re prepared to allow the lovely Juno here to suffer before you come to your senses.’
Dean shot me an anguished look.
‘Tell him to get stuffed!’ I recommended.
‘It’s easy to sound brave now,’ Sandy said sadly. ‘You’ll feel a little differently, my dear—’
‘Mr Jamie, the catering staff will be here soon.’ Mrs Johnson spoke with perfect calm, reminding him of an inconvenient fact, unfazed apparently by whatever he and his uncle were proposing to do to us.
Jamie frowned, irritated. ‘This early?’
‘They’ve been told to come in early, sir, there’s a lot to do before the concert this afternoon.’
Suddenly I realised. The piano in the ballroom, the rows of chairs, the trays of canapés: today was the day of Ricky and Morris’s concert. As if on cue, a blue van came trundling down the drive and passed the window, heading around to the back of the house. ‘Special Events Catering’ was written on the side. The staff were beginning to arrive.
Jamie swore. ‘We can’t have all these people about. Johnnie, just keep them out of the way, in the kitchen. Offer them breakfast or something.’
She was about to go out when he stopped her. ‘Miss Jessica is still tucked up in bed. I don’t want her coming downstairs and seeing all this. Take breakfast up to her bedroom, will you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ she nodded and left.
‘What’s going on?’ a weary voice demanded from the hall. A moment later, Emma stood in the doorway, wobbling unsteadily on her high heels. She was as pale as a corpse and clearly suffering the effects of last night’s party. ‘You’ll wake up the others.’
Jamie swore softly. ‘Shit! Emma, are they still here?’
‘They slept over,’ she responded, gazing around with eyes narrowed against the daylight, her pupils no more than pinpoints. She gestured at me. ‘What’s she doing here?’ She scowled groggily at Dean and tottered into the room. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Never mind, my darling.’ Sandy turned towards her and I felt the release of pressure from the pistol as he turned away the gun. I let out a breath. ‘They’ll soon be gone,’ he went on, as if pacifying a spoilt child. ‘Now, why don’t you go and wake up your friends and tell them it’s time they went home?’
‘But they might want breakfast,’ she objected.
‘Emma!’ Jamie snapped. ‘Just do as you’re bloody told! Get rid of them.’
Moss returned at that moment, with Green Bastard Hat, who gave me a foul grin. He was obviously enjoying the prospect of a rematch.
‘Perhaps all this had better wait until later, dear boy,’ Sandy observed calmly, ‘until after the concert. Lock ’em in the wine cellar till then.’
Jamie shook his head, ‘Too many people around down here.’
‘An attic, then.’
‘What happened to Gavin Hall?’
Silence fell, as if they were stunned I had dared to speak. They all turned to look at me. ‘What happened to him?’ I demanded.
‘It was his own fault,’ Emma said petulantly.
I gazed at her in astonishment. ‘You killed him?’
She hunched a pettish shoulder. ‘Eddie and I went into the woods just to … you know, take care of a little business … a little exchange.’
‘Money for drugs,’ I completed for her.
‘Well, we didn’t know the boy was there. He must have hidden when he saw us coming. He shouldn’t have been snooping about.’ She smiled. ‘He was probably embarrassed about being seen with that stupid sword … anyway, he saw us. So what? There was no need for him to have run. We called out after him. I’d have paid the little creep to keep quiet, only … he leapt up on that tree trunk and …’ She shrugged carelessly. ‘That was that.’
I couldn’t believe how little his death mattered to her. ‘Didn’t you try to help him?’
‘It was obvious he was beyond help. And we didn’t want to get too near him, frankly.’ She giggled. ‘He lost his specs as he was running away. I saw them go flying off. He was blundering about … you know, looking back on it, it was really very funny.’
Something exploded in my heart and in my head. I was on top of her, on the carpet, driving my fist into her face, punching her again and again. She tried to fend me off. Enfeebled by her hangover she could do no more than slap and scratch. I just went on punching.
Hands tried to drag me off, to wrench me away. Perhaps Dean used the distraction to make a move. I’m not sure what happened but a shot rang out. I turned to see him falling, heavy and slow until his body hit the carpet and lay still. I struggled against restraining hands to reach him. I realised that someone was screaming. It must have been me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I had a vague, half-conscious memory of being dragged upstairs; lots and lots of stairs.
My body felt battered and bruised as if I’d been thumped repeatedly. In a dull, sicke
ning rhythm my aching head throbbed. The taste of blood was in my mouth, I felt around with my tongue. My teeth were all present but my lower lip was split. I was lying on a floor. I felt it hard beneath my body and my exploring fingers touched rough wood planking. I opened my eyes and shut them again, assaulted by bright, grey daylight. There was a strange smell coming from somewhere – earthy, like mushrooms. I pulled myself cautiously up onto my elbows and squinted around the room.
The walls on either side of me slanted steeply towards one end. A small round window was set high into the sloping ceiling, letting in the unforgiving light. I was in an attic, directly beneath the roof. Perhaps a servant had once slept in this room. It was empty except for a metal bed frame, an old chest of drawers and Dean. He was there on the floor beside me. I scuffled across the bare floor towards him. He was lying very still, eyes closed, a deep frown between his brows, both hands clutched to his right side, beneath his ribs. Blood had seeped between his fingers and dried sticky, and run down to stain the wooden floorboards. The sharp tang of his blood filled my nostrils. He was pale, skin clammy, his scalp shining with sweat beneath his stubbly hair. But he was alive, his broad chest heaving painfully at each shallow, ragged breath. I whispered his name.
He opened heavy-lidded eyes and he swallowed. ‘Sorry, Juno,’ he breathed.
‘Let me see.’ I moved his hands away gently from his wound and pulled up his sweatshirt. An evil red flower had bloomed across the white T-shirt underneath, dark in its centre. The wound was bleeding, but slowly. I ripped off my jacket and shirt, rolled the shirt into a pad and pressed it against the wound. Then I placed his hands back over it whilst I unknotted my scarf to bind round it and keep it in place. This wasn’t easy. I had to slide the scarf beneath his back in order to tie it around him, a manoeuvre that caused him to draw in a sharp breath and swear. The wound began to seep. It was obvious he shouldn’t move, couldn’t walk.
I bundled up my jacket and slipped it under his head. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ I lied.
I didn’t know what was going on inside his body, what organs the bullet might have punctured, what bones fractured, what vital blood vessels severed. But at least the bleeding was slow. Maybe we had some time. ‘I’m going to get us out of here,’ I promised, touching his hand.
He smiled weakly. ‘Green … hat …’ he whispered, ‘… out there …’
I pointed questioningly towards the door.
He nodded and winced. ‘With … gun …’
‘Don’t talk,’ I told him. ‘Rest.’
‘Juno …’ he began, with what was obviously a great effort, ‘if you get out of here … tell my wife …’
‘Don’t you dare!’ I hissed at him. ‘Don’t you start all that “tell my wife I love her” shit! We are getting out of here.’ I squeezed his hand hard. ‘Both of us. Understand?’
He gazed at me sadly. ‘Whatever you say …’
‘Good. Now shut up and let me think. Close your eyes. Concentrate on keeping pressure on this.’ I indicated the makeshift dressing over his wound and watched him as he sighed and his lids sank to a close.
I stood up, tiptoed to the door and listened. I could just detect a tiny metallic rhythm, no louder than the ticking of a watch. I recognised that irritating, teensy-weensy, cicada-type sound you hear when someone sitting close to you is listening to music through headphones. Green Bastard Hat was at his post, but only just. Good. I didn’t want him to hear me moving about.
I checked the round window. I’d noticed a row of them in the roof on the day I first came to Moorworthy House, squinting up at them from the terrace below. They were set into the tiles, behind a balustrade. They were for show and didn’t open. There was certainly no mechanism for opening this one. And it was very high up; all I could see through it was sky, a dull grey blanket of cloud.
I turned to examine the room for anything useful. The bed was no more than an iron frame without a mattress, not even any springs. The chest of drawers was old, probably Victorian, and heavy; two small drawers at the top, four bigger ones underneath, all with round wooden knobs for handles. I pulled out each drawer. Someone had lined them with wallpaper, pale green with cream flowers. But they were empty. Nothing I could use as a weapon or means of escape. No handy implement I could bash Green Bastard Hat over the head with. I stared in desperation around plain, painted walls.
In the corner, where the sloping ceiling almost met the floor, was a door about two feet high, the top edge sloping in line with the wall above it. I hunkered down for a look. Possibly it was the door of a cupboard, but as this was an attic, I thought it more likely that it gave access to the roof space. It could only be a small space, probably big enough to store a trunk or a suitcase or two. The door had no lock, just a plain brass knob. It turned, but whoever had last painted this room had glossed over door and frame together, effectively sealing the door shut. What I needed was something sharp enough to penetrate the coat of paint, and slim enough to slide between the frame and the door. I needed my penknife, which was lying useless on Sandy Westershall’s desk.
I glanced over at Dean, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was still breathing, I didn’t know if he was conscious, didn’t want to wake him to a world of pain. Anything useful would have been emptied from his pockets downstairs. I wouldn’t risk disturbing him. I sat with my back against the wall, thinking.
For the first time I noticed that the chest of drawers was set on wooden feet, only an inch or so high, meaning that there was a narrow space underneath. I lay down and peered under it. Something was lying in the dust, on the bare boards, something tiny but within reach of my fingers. I slid my hand underneath and managed to sweep out whatever it was. I picked it up and blew off the fluff. It was a key – not a door key or a key to the chest of drawers, but the kind of small, flat key that is used to open the locks on luggage, barely an inch long. I tested the end of it with my thumb. It wasn’t sharp, but it was metal, and it was hard.
Holding it between my thumb and forefinger, I tried to force the end of the key between the little door and its frame. It wasn’t sharp enough to pierce the skin of paint, but the edge was hard enough for me to scrape it away, a centimetre at a time. I began scratching at the paint repeatedly, tiny flakes falling off at first, revealing brown wood underneath. After a few minutes my hand ached from holding the key, from making the same tiny movement over and over. But suddenly the end of the key slid through into space. It was easier then, once I had made a start, scraping the paint off all around as I worked my way along the top of the door to the corner and then down the side. About halfway down I tried the brass knob again, thinking that perhaps I’d freed up enough of the door to make it move. But it wasn’t until I had reached the final inch that I was able to yank it open.
The smell knocked me back, earthy like toadstools, the smell of a wet forest floor. It made me cough and raise a hand to shield my mouth and nose. I peered into the small, shallow space under the roof. I was looking up at rafters and the underside of original slates. A bright shaft of light, no bigger than a penny, pierced the dimness, shone through a hole where a slate had slipped to one side. I cast one glance back at Dean and then crawled through the door into the space beyond.
There was no room to stand up. I was on my knees. I poked a finger through the hole made by the slipping slate and managed to push it aside a little more. The circle of light became a triangle, big enough to put my hand through. I felt around, found the edge of the slate, felt the single iron nail that pinned it to the rafter, jiggled it about. It gave slightly but not enough for me to pull it out. I drew my hand back inside.
I was kneeling in what looked like orange-brown dust, the spores of dry rot. I recognised it from Boring Roy’s description. The rafters above my head were shrunken and dry, deep crevices in the wood laced with tiny white filaments, delicate as strands of cobweb. Cotton-wool cushions sprouted here and there: the fungus that was gradually eating the timber away, crumbling it to dust
.
I put both hands on a rafter and pushed hard. It creaked and rocked. I sat with my back braced against the wall, my hands against the floor. I bent my knees and kicked. The timber groaned. Fragments fell away – not splintering, not cracking loudly, but softly crumbling.
I gave another kick, both boots full on, and heard a tile slide down the roof outside. I paused, ears straining, in case above his music Green Bastard Hat had heard the noise I was making. I peeked back through the little door into the attic, but all was quiet and still – no angry footsteps, no sudden rattle of the key in the lock. Dean lay still as the effigy on a tomb. I didn’t want to, but I closed the little door on him, pulling it shut.
Then I began kicking again, hard as I could. With each kick I felt anger getting stronger within me, pounding inside me with each blow. ‘That’s for Gavin,’ I muttered. ‘That’s for Ben, that’s for Nathan.’ I felt as if my thigh bones would break but I could see the rafter sagging beneath my onslaught and I kept going. ‘That’s for Nathan, that’s for Dean—’ No, not for Dean, because Detective Constable Dean Collins was not going to die, not if I had anything to do with it. Baby Alice, she of the crumpled red face and tiny pink fists, was going to get her daddy back.
They had taken away my phone and my penknife; they should have taken my boots. I just had time to fling myself to the side as the rafter disintegrated, collapsing in splintered chunks around me, sending up a cloud of thick, powdery dust. A slate, falling inward, caught me a glancing blow on the shoulder. I coughed, retched, struggled onto my knees. Another slate dangled by its nail before my face and I yanked it out. There was a hole in the roof big enough for me to push my head and shoulders through and I stood up. Coughing, eyes watering, I breathed in fresh air. God bless you, Boring Roy.
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