‘Shall we get a coffee?’
I agreed, yawning again. ‘Have you caught her?’
‘Sadly no, but we don’t think she’s in the area. We spotted her on CCTV last night at a motorway services on the M6. She must have hitch-hiked.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Or she has an accomplice? Maybe this Wolf gave her a lift, who knows? Tess did warn me that he was around. Or maybe Penelope or Lucy have spirited her away somewhere to save their reputations. Maybe they’re all in this together.’
He shrugged. ‘She was alone on the camera. Anyway, she has family in Scotland. We think she might be going there.’
All around us, the hospital was starting to come alive, morning staff emerging from offices after handover, bed washes about to begin. They’ll wash my dad first, if memory serves, after the meds, so it was just as well we were heading down to the coffee shop.
My dad didn’t like being helpless. And he certainly didn’t like me seeing him that way.
In the coffee shop, we found seats at a small table between a gasping woman in a dressing gown with a tube attached to her nose and a young couple, the woman hugely pregnant, constantly stroking her extended belly through a thin checked nightdress.
‘When did Tess die?’ I asked when Rob Howarth returned with a white coffee and an almond croissant for me, a cup of tea for himself.
‘Yesterday morning, we think – a few hours before you found her, though the post-mortem won’t be until later today.’ He tore open a little packet of sugar and poured it into the tea. ‘We think Tess Hotchkiss came out here, looking for you. She caught the Lowestoft train first thing, then a taxi to Eden Gardens. She went into the café, asking for directions to the house, and we think “Monica”, or this person who calls herself Monica, recognized her as a person opposed to their religious group. She killed her with the same knife she attacked you with. It’s captured on your CCTV.’ His eyes met mine over the lip of his cup. ‘You could go back to that morning and view it. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, shuddering. ‘I’ve got no plans to.’
‘Tess Hotchkiss was stabbed so hard in the head that the knife pierced the skull in places.’ He sipped his tea, his expression thoughtful. ‘It was an extraordinary attack. You’re extremely lucky to be alive, Sophia. So much so, we’re wondering if she intended to kill you at all.’
‘I don’t feel lucky.’ I didn’t know what else to reply. ‘Did the people at Tess’s church say why she came all the way out here to see me?’
‘No.’ He put the cup down. ‘Presumably, from what you’ve told us, it was in connection with this “Wolf” character.’
‘Will you question Aaron Kessler?’ I asked.
There was a long pause.
‘What?’ I asked in the face of his silence. ‘Did I say something wrong? I mean, he’s the one thing all these people have in common.’ Suddenly I was filled with a burning rage.
‘So, Sophia …’ He was crimsoning a little, his mouth compressing, as though he were getting ready to tell me to calm down.
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t you dare “So, Sophia” me. I don’t understand what the problem is. I’ve been saying all this from day one – it’s very simple. We went through all of it again yesterday, after this crazy woman nearly slit my throat—’
‘Sophia—’
‘My mum was in a cult years ago and writes a book about it, right?’ I furiously counted these events off on my bandaged fingers. ‘A book that will ruin reputations left, right and centre. A publisher approaches the people involved and says, “Hey, this is happening, what do you think?” And almost immediately my parents are put through a six-month campaign of intimidation and criminal damage.
‘This so stresses out my mum that she hangs herself and attacks my dad when he tries to stop her. Right? And then, no sooner is she dead, than strange people start following me. One of Aaron Kessler’s little worshippers even gets a bloody job working for me in my café, all the better to keep searching the house. And then, when someone who’s spoken out about the cult in the past pitches up, she stabs her in the head and hides her in the boot of her bloody car!
‘These people – Penelope, Lucy and Aaron Fucking Kessler – all of them, all want to stop this book being published because of something my mum says in it. Every single thing that’s happened supports this view, and people are now dead because of this! So don’t “So, Sophia” me, Rob. Will you question Aaron Kessler?’
The entire coffee shop had turned to stone. The pregnant woman, obviously in some distress, was still breathing shallowly and rubbing her belly, but her partner was staring at me. The other customers were staring at me. Even the girl working the counter, with her green apron and name badge reading ‘Hi I’m Valentina!’ was staring at me from over the top of the cake stands.
I crossed my arms mulishly and ignored them all, focusing on Rob.
Of all the people present, DI Rob Howarth seemed the one least taken aback by my outburst.
‘Sophia, I understand that you’re very upset.’ His tone was calm, almost apologetic.
‘You think?’ I snarled.
‘You may not believe me, and that’s your prerogative, but here’s my problem. All these things that you’ve described, when you say them like that, they do indeed sound like a story. A logical flow of events, if you will.’ He set his tea down on the table. ‘But in this cult of yours, anyone can take a load of details, throw them together and make a narrative out of them. Anyone can have a story; it doesn’t make it true.’ He shrugged. ‘I need more than a narrative. I need physical evidence.’
‘How much more evidence could you possibly need?’ I snapped.
‘These connections, Sophia – they’re nearly thirty years old! There’s no evidence that Lucy DuBois or Penelope Longman have any connection to Aaron Kessler that isn’t purely historical. No evidence that the woman you called “Monica” ever burgled your parents’ home. She only started working at the garden centre a week ago.’
I groaned aloud. He just didn’t get it. ‘Look—’
‘By your own admission,’ he said, not rising to me, ‘you’ve never seen the people you allege followed you on the train again. We’ll naturally keep investigating, but there’s no proof that this was anything more than the work of a single random mentally ill person. Someone who became inflamed when she heard her religious group was under attack in the press because of a book that was going to be published, and who acted alone, breaking into the property, insinuating herself on to your staff, and ultimately killing Pastor Hotchkiss.’
‘Acted alone?’ I let out a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Really? So I imagined the couple on the train, then?’
There was a long pause.
‘In answer to your original question, yes, we did question Aaron Kessler. I spoke to him yesterday. He’s co-operating fully with the investigation. He gave us this woman’s name – her real name – her address, and a lead on the sister in Scotland.’
‘But Tess …’
‘Why would he want Pastor Hotchkiss dead? As he pointed out, she’s been “maligning his religion” for the past twenty-seven years. Why would he suddenly want her killed? Why would anyone? There’s no logical reason for it.’
I wanted to grab him and shake him. ‘Because of the book Mum was writing! The stuff in the notebooks!’
‘But you’ve never found the third notebook, which is supposed to contain all these revelations,’ he said, still infuriatingly calm and sympathetic. ‘Have you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But …’
‘Has Max Clarke ever explicitly told you what these revelations are?’ He glanced at his watch.
When he said ‘Max Clarke’ I caught a note of disapproval, which was just subtly different enough from the stoic delicacy with which he treated me to notice.
‘As far as I know, he just told them that an ex-member was writing a memoir of her time with them in the Eighties. They worked out themselves that h
e meant my mum.’ His expression didn’t change, which nettled me. ‘Which I still think is enough to be going on with.’
‘Perhaps. But I’ve been reviewing the files on Peter Clay’s shooting, and while it’s not the most thorough investigation, I can’t see anything unusual about it. As for the rest, you could argue that Mrs Longman and Mrs DuBois showed questionable judgment at times, but while their behaviour might be personally embarrassing to them now, other than the drug use, it was never illegal.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Think about it, Sophia. Why would anyone want Tess Hotchkiss killed? Who gets anything out of it – except for one unstable woman who saw her appear at your house and recognized her as an enemy to a cult she’s involved in?’
I sat there, my mouth opening and closing, until finally I managed to say: ‘If nobody wanted her dead, then why is she dead? Why is this happening?’
‘Mr Kessler thinks—’
‘Mr Kessler,’ I snapped. ‘He’s Mr Kessler now. Oh that’s just great!’
‘Sophia, I know this is hard, but you need to hear this. Mr Kessler was approached about this book months ago and told his … followers, or whatever they are, not to speak to anyone in the press about the revelations in it. This woman, who had always been “fragile”, left the estate shortly afterwards. They reported her missing to the police in Kent months ago.’ He shrugged. ‘You may not like him, but the fact is, this man and his followers have done everything right.’
He sipped his tea, for all the world looking perfectly comfortable.
‘I don’t understand why everybody is so relaxed.’
‘We’re not relaxed, Sophia. But even though we haven’t absolutely identified who we think was breaking into your parents’ business, and why they were behaving in this way, we have different lines of inquiry now.’ He tilted his head to the side.
I only sighed.
His hand reached out and gently touched mine. ‘This has been a horrific tragedy,’ he said. ‘Karen Ince is a dangerous person and we won’t be happy until we’ve caught her. But at least we have a handle on where she’s likely to be.’
‘Do you have a handle on whether she’s got my mum’s shotgun?’ I asked bitterly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘For the record, we don’t think she does. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for the missing gun.’
I just looked at him. ‘Like what?’
‘Your father tells us that your mum was in the process of selling it.’
‘He did? When? Who to?’
‘He told us yesterday. He says that after they bought it, having the gun in the house just made your mother more anxious. We can’t find the paperwork, but the buyer may not have submitted theirs yet.’
Really?
I was torn between relief and suspicion that it wouldn’t turn out to be that easy. I would have liked to have known who the buyer was. There had been nothing about it in the Eden Gardens emails.
‘We’re watching Karen Ince’s sister’s house. A whole team of armed response officers will be waiting for her.’ He offered me a tiny smile. ‘We think this is the end, Sophia.’
I bit my lip. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. You can go home now.’
* * *
My dad was awake when I got back to the room, and to my surprise he was sitting upright in the chair I’d spent the night in.
‘Dad!’ I said. ‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’
‘Doing what?’ he asked. His voice sounded fainter, but much more like himself. ‘A fella can’t sit in bed all day.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘And there’s so much to do. Rowan’s a good lad, but I know the place will be a bloody mess.’
I sat down on the bed. ‘I think he’s been doing fine.’
‘How would you know?’ asked my dad with a slightly testy air. ‘You’ve never been interested in the business.’
‘You’ve never been interested in what I think about the business, so I stopped bringing it up.’
He leaned back in the chair. ‘Touché.’
Silence fell. The elephant in the room was enormous now, crowding us out.
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘About Mum.’
He was silent for so long that I didn’t think he was going to reply. When I glanced sideways at him, I realized with horror and grief that his eyes were wet.
My dad never cried. Never ever.
‘Dad?’
‘I’m fine. What about your mum?’ He turned and met my gaze, and his expression was almost challenging.
‘Did you really not know that she was … well, in this cult before you met her?’
‘Of course not,’ he said. He seemed almost offended that I would ask something so stupid.
He looked away then, and I knew that if I looked into his face, I would see tears again.
Out of respect for him, I pretended not to notice.
‘So,’ I said, swallowing. ‘She really killed herself?’ I tried to master myself. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t … I didn’t believe …’
He just nodded at me, his eyes cold and terrible. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
I shouldn’t be questioning him on this now, I realized. Or perhaps ever.
‘And she finished that book of hers,’ I said.
‘Yes.’ His voice was faint and he rubbed the bandages on his swollen belly, making me think of the pregnant woman downstairs. ‘She did an’ all. That was a surprise.’ He snarled then. ‘I can’t believe she did this to me. I …’
The tears leaked down his face, as his jaw clenched and teeth gritted, as if he could force them back in.
‘Dad,’ I said softly, horrified. I reached out.
‘Don’t,’ he snapped. ‘Just don’t.’
I didn’t say any more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It took the weekend to clean the house from top to bottom in time for my dad’s return. The three village girls Kayleigh sourced to help out – Lena, Jenny and Agneta – were cheerful and thorough, and it felt good to have human life in the house again, even if only for a few hours. They kept finding things – bits of jewellery and scraps of broken objects under tables and beds – which they presented for my inspection, like cats who have caught birds and mice. They found no shotgun or notebook, but then you can’t have everything.
The downstairs bathroom was converted for my dad’s use through the expedient of a tin bath we’d found upstairs and a low stool – he’d be sleeping in the dining room, which was being co-opted for his bedroom. I expected a fair amount of resistance to this, but he’d had surgery only fifteen days earlier, and it was ridiculous to expect him to go up and down stairs, and hike out to his little shed in the garden.
I had a feeling I would have to be firm on this point.
I was overseeing the reconstruction of his bed in the room downstairs on Sunday afternoon when my mobile rang.
I didn’t recognize the number – probably another journalist. I had set up the phone so numbers I didn’t recognize went straight to voicemail; I would call them back should they merit it. It was therefore no surprise when a second or two later the phone chimed to let me know there was a message.
Being in no hurry to listen to the cozening familiarity of yet more reporters, laced with the occasional threat – ‘If you don’t talk to someone soon to get your story across, Sophia, you may find it leads to unpleasant consequences down the road’ said one particularly unctuous git – it was at least another forty-five minutes before I lifted it out of my pocket and raised it to my ear.
There was a long pause, as if someone were collecting their thoughts.
‘Sophia, this is Emily Corben, the facilitator here at Morningstar. I’m calling on behalf of Aaron Kessler. He wants to meet you in person.’
Her voice was perfectly even and controlled. It would have been difficult to pick her out from an electronic, computerized voice in a line-up, except that somewhere in the background a door creaked open at her end
and her voice grew slightly fainter, as though she’d turned to glance over her shoulder at somebody.
I wondered if Aaron Kessler was in the room while this message was being delivered.
‘Mr Kessler doesn’t care to travel much and you’ll have to come to the house, so we’ll arrange a car for you. Let me know when and where you would like to be collected. You may bring anyone you like with you, if you wish, but you must come. Thank you.’
* * *
A minute later, I called Max.
‘What do I do?’
There was a businesslike yet breathtaking presumptuousness at work here – up to and including getting someone else to make the call, as presumably the Magus himself was too busy sleeping in till noon.
Everything about it assumed I would be going. It put me in mind of my mum’s notebooks and the letters she’d received. She’d flirted with not going, and yet gone.
I, at least, was not so biddable.
‘What do you mean, “what do you do”?’ asked Max. ‘You’re going to go, aren’t you?’
It took me a second or two to wrap my head around the fact that this was his response, and when I did …
‘What? Are you mad? Who’s to say I’d ever get out of the building alive?’
In the kitchen Agneta and Jenny, who were scrubbing the scaled sink and had been giggling together, went quiet.
‘How do I know that that crazy bitch Monica, or Karen or whatever her name is, isn’t hiding there?’
‘Sophia—’
‘No. No, thanks.’
Max sighed. ‘Sophia, listen to me. Aaron Kessler is far too self-interested to harm you. This is a charm offensive. The book’s going to happen, and he knows it, so this is him mitigating the fact …’
I blinked. Did I miss a meeting somewhere?
‘What do you mean, “the book’s going to happen”? The final notebook is still lost. We’ve only got the first two …’
There was a pause.
‘Now, Sophia, there’s no need to give up. We do have the first two notebooks and, you know, we might be able to get some … auxiliary writers in to finish the book. I mean, the timing now is just so perfect.’
Everything Is Lies Page 26