High Island Blues

by Ann Cleeves

  He stood by his car and looked up at the dark silhouette of the house. There were lights at the windows on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. He guessed that was where Mary Ann Cleary had her apartment. Benson had been wrong then, to suppose that she was asleep.

  Only one other window was lit. The house was so big and so dark that it would be impossible in the daylight to work out whose bedroom it was. Perhaps Joan Lovegrove was there, lying awake, despite the sedation she’d been given. Perhaps someone with a guilty conscience had left the light on in the hope of driving away nightmares.

  He got into his car and drove slowly down the track, expecting at any moment to be stopped, but the detectives from Galveston had only just arrived and there was no one on the gate. As he passed through the quiet streets of the town he met a small convoy of cars. Reinforcements, he thought. And perhaps the medical examiner. He hoped that Esme’s body would have been removed by the time it got light. Just before he joined the I10 at Winnie he saw a truck, with the logo of a television station on the side. Rob’s punters would wake up to a circus of flashlights and fast-talking reporters.

  The freeway into Houston was clear and he seemed to come to the dramatic skyline at once. It appeared so unexpectedly that he realized he could not have been concentrating on the road. He switched on the radio to keep himself awake and heard the first news report of Esme Lovegrove’s death.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Although the business park where Brownscombe Associates had their office was marked on his road map, George had to drive round for a quarter of an hour before he found the actual building. The development was small-scale, providing accommodation for insurance offices, investment brokers and computer consultants, but the units – new brick and glass blocks – all looked similar. Brownscombe Associates was in a building at the edge of the park looking out over flat open space, which was probably a school sports ground.

  It was 4 a. m. The door to the building which housed three other companies was locked. George parked in the shadow and dozed. At 6 a. m. a security guard turned up in a van. He unlocked the main door with a master key and drove away. As soon as his tail lights had disappeared George tried the door again but still it was impossible to get in. Access for employees was by a coded button press. He touched a few buttons hopefully but nothing happened. He returned to the car worried that if he made too many mistakes he might trigger an alarm system. As he had approached the entrance a bright security light had flashed on.

  The first keen employee arrived at six-thirty. He carried a bundle of envelope files. From the car George had a good view of the button press but the man was so quick and deft that he could only make out the first figure. Two. Then two buttons pressed together. Then another single further down the pad. The man pushed the door open with his backside, his arms full of the files. George held his breath, hoping the door would just shut gently so the lock would not catch. But once inside the man pushed it tight again. A light went on in a second-floor office. Clarke Accountants. Brownscombe Associates was on the ground floor.

  Five minutes later a pick-up truck drove down the road and stopped with a jerk outside the office block. George ducked down in his seat as it passed him. A heavy, middle-aged woman got out, and pulled a shopping bag after her. She shouted some words of Spanish at the driver, presumably her husband, and he drove away. She wore carpet slippers and a large overall tied at the back. The office cleaner.

  It was obvious that she mistrusted the push button key. She set down her bag before tackling it. She fumbled in her overall pocket for a scrap of paper where the numbers had been written. Then she prodded the combination slowly and deliberately so George could see exactly what she was doing. Two, then four and six together, pressed with the index finger of each hand, then nine. The door clicked open. She turned her eyes skyward as if thanking heaven that the contraption had worked again.

  She picked up her bag and let herself in, closing the door carefully behind her. After a moment the offices of Brownscombe Associates were flooded with light. There were three rooms in a row. Probably a reception area and individual work spaces for Michael and Laurie. All faced out to the car-park.

  George climbed stiffly out of the car and pressed the buttons. The door unlocked and he let himself in. He saw then that he had only gained entry to a gloomy lobby, lit by shadowy emergency lights. There was a lift and a flight of stairs. Each of the businesses had its own separate security system.

  The entrance to Brownscombe Associates was on his right. There was a heavy glass door with the firm’s name in gold letters. A bunch of keys hung from the lock, but the cleaner was still inside. He could hear the sound of an industrial floor cleaner and her remarkably tuneful singing. He waited, aware that time was passing and soon other workers would be arriving.

  Eventually it seemed that the cleaner had finished with the Brownscombes’ offices and was prepared to move on elsewhere. She switched off the lights, wedged open the door and pulled through the floor polisher. George melted into the shadow by the stairwell. She pressed the lift button. George heard her pull the polisher into the lift and the machine move up to the next floor. The Brownscombes’ door was still open and he slipped in. A few minutes later he heard the lift return and the cleaner close the door behind him.

  He was in a reception area. There were two desks with computer screens and keyboards, a row of filing cabinets and in a corner easy chairs and a low table, where prospective clients would be given coffee and asked to wait. He found the current project files in the first cabinet he tried. It was locked but the keys were in the top drawer of one of the desks.

  He found the Wildlife Partnership information immediately and he sat on one of the easy chairs to read it through. It was light enough now to see. He worked quickly and meticulously, reading every sheet, not skipping a word. It all suggested that the Wildlife Partnership was a legitimate account. There were copies of proposals made by the Brownscombes for work to be carried out. Mick had visited Central America several times to visit reserves and meet local workers but all the expenses were itemized and receipts provided. There was no indication that either of the Brownscombes had visited England on the organization’s behalf, no copies of the mailshot sent to Cecily Jessop. George replaced the papers tidily. He was not disappointed.

  He had achieved what he had come for and knew that he should leave. Even if Laurie had not yet returned to work he knew from his previous phone call that secretarial staff had been covering the Brownscombes’ holiday and presumably they were continuing to hold the place together now. They could arrive at any moment. He had checked that the big glass door could be opened from the inside without a key.

  But he did not leave. He realized with a shock that he was enjoying himself. The possibility that he might be caught only added to the exhilaration. He wondered how he would explain his rashness to Molly. She would say he was an old fool trying to recapture his youth.

  He moved on to Laurie’s office. At the window there were vertical blinds. He adjusted them so he could not be seen from outside but he still had sufficient light to read.

  The room was business-like and uncluttered. The drawers of her desk were tidy. There was nothing personal. No photos of her children. Not even a box of Kleenex. The top of the desk was clear except for a computer terminal and a plastic tray marked FILING. He was grateful that the office system was so unsophisticated. In the tray were two slender files which must just have been opened. New business. One involved a shopping mall which had requested suggestions for landscaping. The other was labelled OAKLANDS and contained only a single sheet of paper.

  This was a short letter from Mary Ann Cleary. It was formal, even hostile in tone. It asked Brownscombe Associates to draw up plans for the new wildlife sanctuary in the Oaklands grounds and confirmed a meeting between Mary Ann and Laurie to discuss the details. The final sentences read: ‘I hope this settles the matter. I am prepared to co-operate with you over this project but have no desire to see you and Mi
chael socially once it is completed, or to go over past history again.’

  So, George thought, Mary Ann had been telling the truth about her meeting with Laurie, but as he had suspected, she had not told him everything.

  George returned the files to the plastic tray and moved on to Michael’s office. It was evident that Michael had worked in a less organized way than Laurie. A book shelf containing field guides, atlases, reports and a pile of large-scale maps stood against one wall. A plan had been laid out on the floor, presumably because there was no longer any room on the desk. This was covered with letters, data from field-workers and half-completed, hand written reports. George flicked through the chaos quickly. He saw nothing which might be relevant to Michael’s murder.

  The desk drawers seemed to be filled with junk chocolate bar wrappers, drawings which his children must have done when they were young. There was a crumpled fortieth birthday card from Laurie with a picture of an Indian elephant on the front. Inside she had written: ‘Hope we make it to India before we’re fifty. But you’ll only do it if you learn to hustle!’

  It was evidently a shared joke and George thought that despite her toughness Laurie would miss him.

  In the bottom drawer, underneath a pile of computer paper used as scrap, there was a large brown envelope. It seemed to contain mementos of Michael’s youth. Perhaps he had brought it with him from the UK with the carved lapwing and his binoculars and telescope.

  George cleared a space on the desk and took out the contents, one at a time. There were photographs. One was of Michael as a child in his new Grammar School uniform. He stood in front of a holiday caravan and looked out at the camera sullenly. The other was of a girl. She was wearing the same brown and yellow tie but she was older, perhaps sixteen. Written on the back in round handwriting was: ‘All my love. Nell.’ Nell was round-faced and smiling, quite ordinary. Was she Michael’s schoolgirl sweetheart? If so, why had Molly found no trace of her?

  Next came a certificate, hand-written in flowery calligraphy which stated that Michael Brownscombe had been a member of the junior team which had won the North Devon Naturalists’ Spring bird race in May 1970.

  Then George brought out a letter which couldn’t have come with the envelope when Michael moved to Texas. It was dated two years after his marriage. At the head of the paper a printed label with the writer’s name and address had been stuck. The address was a village in North Devon which George did not recognize. The name was Paul Butterworth. He was the teacher who had encouraged Michael’s birdwatching. So Molly’s instinct was spot on again. The two men had kept in touch. George felt a mixture of admiration and resentment that she always seemed to get things right.

  The letter contained descriptions for birdwatching trips, walks in places which he assumed Mick would remember, but after the details of badger watches and peregrines returning to breed on nearby cliffs there seemed to be a warning: ‘They came to visit me again with more questions. Still flying kites, I think. Of course I said nothing. But I thought you should know that even after all this time they haven’t given up.’

  Last out of the envelope were some newspaper cuttings. They were clipped together with a rusting staple and so faded that they were hard to read in the half light coming through the blinds. They came from the North Devon Journal Herald and were dated just before Michael had made his trip to the States, with Rob and Oliver. George settled to read the substance of the text when he was startled by the sound of the door into reception being unlocked.

  He froze, then replaced the contents into the envelope and put it back into the drawer. Later he would wonder why he hadn’t taken the unread newspaper cuttings with him, but now he thought about nothing but making his escape. The only way out of Brownscombe Associates office was through reception. He closed the drawer silently, and began to make his way to the door to listen for movements in the outer office. But as he turned his elbow caught a wire basket overflowing with paper which sat on the edge of the desk. It fell and landed with a clatter on the floor. The noise seemed deafening.

  A woman’s voice, cheerful and unsuspicious sang out. ‘Hi, Sandy! You’re in early today, hon. Be an angel and cover the front office while I go upstairs to the restroom.’

  There was the sound of a door closing. She must have been in too much of a hurry to wait for an answer.

  George walked quickly to the reception and let himself into the lobby. By now it was crowded with people pushing their way up the stairs or waiting for the lift. A well dressed middle-aged man held the main door open for him and he left the building. It was eight-fifteen and the sun was shining. The day was already hot. He drove his car to another anonymous street in the business park and slept for an hour until the worst of the peak time traffic had passed. Then he made his way to High Island.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was turning into the hottest day of the spring. George arrived back at the Oaklands Hotel in the early afternoon, still high after his successful raid into the office of Brownscombe Associates. Ex-senior civil servants didn’t often get the opportunity to go breaking and entering. He was light-headed through lack of sleep and fizzing with ideas.

  Despite the heat the place seemed powered by a manic energy. Competing radio and television reporters were camped out in the street by the gate into the hotel, prevented from entering by two impassive deputies. When George stopped to tell the deputy he was a resident, a young man jumped forward and stuck a microphone through the open window.

  ‘This is Chuck Wendell. Eye Witness News. Could we have your reaction to this terrible tragedy. Do you still feel safe in there?’

  George wound up the window and drove steadily through, but the television stations had found local people prepared to share their story. Along the street reporters with excited voices were talking to camera and encouraging their victims to give an opinion of the Oaklands Hotel and the visitors who chose to stay there.

  Inside the hotel it was the same. Feverish discussion, rumour, complaint. At this time on a normal day residents would be lingering in the restaurant or drowsing in one of the air-conditioned lounges. It would be so quiet that you could hear lizards in the garden and the water sprinklers on the lawn. Instead there was a background noise of muttered conversations. But there seemed to be no movement yet to persuade the sheriff’s department to let them all fly home. They were too involved in the drama for that. It was a soap opera being played out just for them and they didn’t want to leave before the final episode.

  Joe Benson was still in Mary Ann’s office. There was a stubble of beard on his face and George thought he had probably been there all night. And that he must look equally disreputable. When he knocked on the door and walked in Benson did not seem surprised to see him.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘ Or beer?’

  ‘Coffee. Thanks.’ Mary Ann’s tea tray had been replaced by a coffee machine.

  ‘You hear what they’re saying out there?’ Benson asked.

  ‘Not in detail.’

  ‘They don’t seem to think very highly of us.’ He turned his voice into a falsetto, parodied an upper-class English accent: ‘I’m sure in Britain the police would have cleared it up by now.’

  ‘Take no notice. Every community has its share of narrow-minded bigots.’

  ‘Sure,’ Benson said. ‘I’m one myself. For instance I’m convinced that this killer’s one of you Brits.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You’ve heard the propaganda. We all carry guns and knives. We don’t need to smash people’s skulls in.’ His voice was mocking but he seemed to be making a serious point.

  ‘Is that what your detective thinks?’

  ‘Ah, well now. I think the detective might just fall into that category we were discussing earlier.’

  ‘Narrow-minded bigot?’

  ‘Let’s just say he hasn’t formed a very favourable opinion of your friend Mr Earl.’ He paused, leaned forward. ‘ The detective is a very upright man wit
h strong traditional views. A family man. You know what I’m saying, Mr Palmer-Jones?’

  George nodded.

  ‘Your friend is single. He has an unconventional lifestyle. He travels to countries whose regimes we couldn’t support. You know he’s been to Cuba? Now that doesn’t make him guilty. But it means our detective would like him to be guilty. I told you he’s an upright man. He wouldn’t rig the evidence. All the same he’ll do his damnedest to find something.’

  He sat for a moment in silence. ‘ There wouldn’t be anything you want to discuss with me, Mr Palmer-Jones?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not just yet.’

  ‘You had a good night’s sleep then?’

  ‘Oh,’ George said lightly. ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘I hope you don’t intend to play this alone, sir. I reckon I’ve been very straight with you. I covered for you when the detectives asked where you were.’

  ‘I’m waiting for a phone call from the UK,’ George said. ‘ Then I’ll have more idea.’

  ‘And you’ll tell me then what you’ve been up to? I tell you we could certainly use some movement.’

  ‘There’ve been no developments this morning?’

  ‘Nothing. Like I said. I don’t think your compatriots entirely trust us. They haven’t exactly been forthcoming. If they confide in you I can rely on you to pass the information on?’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ George said. ‘Of course.’