To Kill a Man - Maggie Costello Series 05 (2020)

by Bourne, Sam

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. One last thing.’ She went to the table to retrieve her phone, came back and took three pictures of the man trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in her hallway. ‘Just in case Voltacity are not sure if I’m telling the truth.’

  She then moved forward, cut the rope at his ankles and, knife still in her hand, said quietly: ‘Get out. Now.’

  He struggled to his feet and she repeated, louder this time, ‘Get out!’

  Once he was standing, his face adopted a sheepish expression she found simultaneously ridiculous and loathsome. ‘OUT!’

  He raised his hands, a supplication to be untied.

  ‘Deal with that yourself, you pathetic bastard,’ she said. And, with a final shove, she pushed him out the front door. He could wander the streets like that, for all she cared.

  She closed the door behind her, went to the bathroom to close the window, then contemplated her apartment. She didn’t want to lie on her bed, because lying down was now associated with the scumbag who had been here just a moment ago; it was associated with what he had wanted to do to her. She didn’t want to sit on the couch, because to sit in comfort felt wrong: nothing about her felt comfortable. She looked at her kitchen, where four drawers and cupboard doors were still open, and she could think only of her panicked search – how long ago was it?

  So she sat instead on a simple, hard chair. She looked at her fingers, which were cut and scratched and trembling. She heard her own breathing. She wondered if crying would make her feel better. Or screaming or drinking. But she chose sitting and staring.

  And slowly, in the silence, a resolve formed. To get out of this apartment, to get as far away as possible from it. And to find the person who might unlock at least one part of the riddle that was Natasha Winthrop.

  FRIDAY

  Chapter 31

  Portland, Maine

  Back in her campaign days, Maggie Costello was one of the few people on the team who actually enjoyed the endless hours on the road. And, by ‘on the road’, she did not mean generic travel but specifically being in a car, ideally at the wheel, gobbling up mile after mile of asphalt, watching it get swallowed up in the hood as she crossed the great, wide continent. She assumed it was because she was an outsider, because she had grown up on a small island in the Atlantic, that motoring across the surface of vast America enthralled her while the native-born barely glanced out of the window. For her, to touch the face of this new world was a wonder.

  She was glad the thrill hadn’t left her. The flight to Portland did the job, ninety minutes in the sky a good antidote to staying in an apartment that had been soiled by the intrusion of that man. Up in the air, she had felt the shudder of it still lingering on her skin. But renting the car and hitting the road, she at last felt it recede. She wound down the windows, forgiving the autumn chill, hoping the frigid air would prove too inhospitable for those memories to survive.

  This part of the country was new to her. She had driven into every corner of New Hampshire of course but rarely ventured further east. The road from Portland offered the familiar pleasures of New England, the place names that alternated between the old country – as she powered along I-295 and then I-95 she saw signs for Durham, Bath, Wales and Manchester – and the world that had come to America to start anew: Lisbon, Poland, Dresden. So much of it was empty: immense tracts of farmland broken up by stretches of trees turning to myriad shades of gold, russet and auburn, interrupted by the odd hamlet, river or town.

  Maggie kept the radio on. At the start of the journey, she could still catch the New Hampshire stations – she heard one ad for Harrison half a dozen times – but the signal soon petered out, giving way to the usual mix of Christian, country and talk. She found a public radio station playing classical music and let it drift over her.

  Fresh listing. The phrase appalled her, but it was also useful. It meant whoever had unleashed the fantasy rapist on her had only just done it. Which meant there was a good chance that whatever had provoked them into action had only just happened. As she drove, she went back through the preceding hours, focusing on her visit to Natasha’s office and the files she had rummaged through. Had someone been aware of her snooping? Had she stumbled on an unseen electronic tripwire, causing such alarm that her invisible adversary had decided to set her up for a violent sexual assault?

  She’d been driving nearly an hour when she saw it, a road sign that reminded her why she was here and who she was dealing with. A few miles before the turn-off for Route 3, the road offered a turning in the other direction, west on the 202 to a place called Winthrop. A reminder that Natasha was the descendant of the New England aristocracy. If she had the confidence of a woman raised to believe her family owned the place, that’s because, around here, they did.

  But Maggie was not going to Winthrop, tempted though she was to look around. She was heading further east, past Liberty and on towards Belfast, to where the great land mass of America began to run into the Atlantic, dipping its toes into the vast, cold ocean. The coastline became jagged, all spits and spurs and peninsulas that would eventually be marked by a Canadian flag before giving way to the cold, endless water. The last stretch took her around a natural bay named for her destination. She had reached Penobscot Bay.

  She pulled out her phone and looked again at the text Liz had sent her, giving her the name and address of V Winthrop. Nearly twelve hours had passed since that night-time call to her sister, waking her as she slept. Maggie had got an earful, but she hadn’t been treated to the usual diatribe. Why the fuck can’t you keep regular hours, like a normal person? Why can’t you live a regular life like a normal person? Why don’t you marry Uri, have kids and stop trying to save the world? In some ways, she almost regretted that the fusillade hadn’t come. It had been the backbeat of their relationship for so many years, she’d grown used to it. In a way, she found it a comfort. She still mattered enough to Liz to infuriate her.

  Maggie thought of Uri, filming on the other side of the world. He hadn’t given up on her either. And yet what Liz hadn’t said this time – hadn’t needed to say because she’d said it before and Maggie always knew what her sister was thinking – gnawed at her all the same. She loved Uri, and he loved her. They had been through so much together. And yet they were not sleeping in the same bed or even living in the same city. They were apart and Liz’s voice in her head was clear as to the reason why: Because you want it that way, Maggie. Don’t give me that bullshit about ‘We like it’ or ‘It works’. It works for you, Mags. For you. That poor man would marry you tomorrow if you’d let him. But you just keep pushing him away.

  Her phone said her destination was still a few miles off, and yet the signs had welcomed her to the town of Penobscot, incorporated in 1787. She drove for a bit longer, waiting for a cluster of houses or shops or even a stop light, just to confirm she had arrived. She came across a sign directing her to the town hall and eventually approached what appeared to be a home, built in the old colonial style: white clapboard, three storeys, perfectly symmetrical with a front door in the middle and a single window on each side. It might have been made from gingerbread. Above the door hung a simple, handpainted sign whose font suggested the 1930s: ‘Penobscot Municipal Building’.

  Maggie parked outside, grateful for the chance to breathe real air and to stretch. She approached the door and saw that, though there was a light on, a handwritten sign had been taped to the window:

  Back soon!

  Sally

  The notepaper confirmed that Sally was the town clerk.

  Maggie put her hands on her hips and looked around. A couple more houses, signposts for the fire department and an elementary school. There was a mini-market down the 175, at least according to her phone. She didn’t fancy cold-calling on V Winthrop, at least not right away. Sounding out the locals seemed like a smart idea, or at least a bit of displa
cement activity she could tell herself was legitimate.

  She jumped back in the car and drove the short distance to the spot on the map. The phone had got it wrong. This was no mini-market, but a fishmonger-cum-takeout-stand, a wooden hut with a Pepsi sign on the roof that suggested the 1950s and three window counters, offering lobster in sea water, stuffed clams and smoked mussels, root beer and milk shakes and your body weight in fries. As Maggie got out, a fleeting picture drifted into her head unbidden: she saw herself here on a summer’s evening, sitting at one of the picnic tables with Uri, looking out over the water. She enjoyed the image and let it linger. To her surprise, it expanded, as if the camera lens was pulling out, and now she could see there were children at the table. They must be Liz’s boys, she thought. But there was no sign of her sister. And then, as if to shatter the illusion, another uninvited image floated behind her eyes: of the man in the ski mask, coming through her bathroom window.

  Maggie approached the counter, peering at the chalkboards like a diner studying the menu.

  Eventually a woman – middle-aged, wearing glasses that might have been ironically chic on a twenty-year-old but which were clearly worn in earnest – emerged clad in an apron and took up her place at the first window, so that Maggie had to move over to her, even though no one else was there.

  ‘What’s better today, the smoked haddock pâté or the crabmeat?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Depends what you like.’

  ‘I like both! What’s freshest?’

  ‘Everything’s fresh here.’ The woman looked over Maggie’s shoulder, as if she were pressed for time.

  ‘Well, why don’t I take both. And I’ll have a root beer while I’m at it.’ Maggie smiled and looked for change. ‘Guess it’s all pretty quiet here just now?’

  The woman nodded and said, ‘Locals keep us busy enough.’

  ‘Oh, I bet,’ Maggie said, smiling wider still. She’d known so many women like this in Ireland: hard to crack at first, but once you broke through, they’d chat to you like a favourite auntie. ‘They must be here all the time, reputation like yours.’

  ‘You heard about us then, did you?’

  ‘Just drove a few hundred miles from Portland to come see you.’

  ‘You serious? Just to come here?’

  ‘Reviews are incredible for this place. You’ve got a following!’

  ‘Well, we do our best.’

  ‘Truth is, I was happy to come by. I’m visiting someone out on Pierce Pond Road. Not too far from here, is it?’

  ‘No, you’re almost there. Who is it you’re visiting with?’

  Maggie had anticipated this question but had not come up with an answer she was happy with. The problem was one of gender. She did not know if V Winthrop was a man or a woman. So she answered, ‘Oh, the Winthrop place,’ and then immediately asked for more detail on the chowder recipe, asking if it was true that the clams were better in Maine than in Massachusetts.

  The woman seemed to buy it too, resting her hands, one on top of the other, on her belly, as if settling in for a chat, before deciding this most complex of questions could only be settled by giving Maggie a taste. She found a small styrofoam cup and ladled in an espresso’s worth, handing it to Maggie for approval.

  The broth was warm and soothing, and, as Maggie turned around to gaze at the ocean, she felt a sensation to match the image she’d had before. She could taste a vacation in this place, wandering around with Uri at her side. Sharper still was the taste of the very idea of vacation, of relaxation, of being somewhere without pressure, where the only decision was what you might eat that evening, and where you could actually be interested in the difference between the clams of Massachusetts and Maine, rather than using feigned interest as a ruse to win someone’s trust. She couldn’t remember the last time she had lived like that. She knew Uri wanted to, but she could barely imagine it.

  She turned around to see that the counter was empty, the woman gone. Perhaps she was collecting the pâté from a storage fridge round the back. Maggie peered in and could hear the woman’s voice, coming from what was surely some sort of office area. And then she heard it.

  Not the words, those were indecipherable, but the tone. Instantly recognizable, it was the sound of a voice lowered, a furtive phone call. Instantly, Maggie understood.

  She rushed to her car, switching on the engine and screeching off in a matter of seconds. The phone said Pierce Pond Road was just two minutes away. For someone committed to making a getaway, two minutes would be plenty. Maggie kept her eyes on the oncoming traffic: any car that swept past her could be V Winthrop, making a dash for it.

  Maggie replayed the encounter with the woman at the seafood place. It was the mention of the ‘Winthrop place’ that had triggered the change. That was when she had become friendlier, readier to chat. If Maggie had been in her shoes, that was exactly what she would have done. Hide your reaction, stall for time and then, when the moment presented itself, make a quick call to the Winthrop residence, and tip off V Winthrop that someone was onto him or her.

  As Maggie powered along the road, with its view to her left of what the signs told her was Hutchins Cove, she worked through what that had to mean. That either this V Winthrop was a recluse, whom the locals knew to alert should his or her privacy ever be at risk or, more simply, that Winthrop had something to hide, and had won the collusion of the locals in keeping his or her secret.

  An SUV sped by, driving almost as fast as she was. There was barely a moment to take it in, but Maggie registered a youngish white man at the wheel. She thought about wheeling around and giving chase, but instinct told her to keep driving forward. It had only been ninety seconds; there was a chance that V Winthrop was still there, at the house.

  Maggie turned right onto Pierce Pond Road, instantly slowing down. She didn’t want to announce her arrival any more than she had to. There were no more than a few houses, hundreds of yards apart. She glanced down at the note she had made in Natasha’s office, checking the house number. She drove a bit further, worried that she was now going suspiciously slow. She imagined V Winthrop watching her from a hiding place, waiting for her car to pass, then stealing away unnoticed.

  Finally, she was near enough to pull over and stop. She closed the car door quietly.

  The house was old and wide, made of white timbers and grey painted shutters. There was a gentle smell of lavender on the breeze, a last gasp before the fall. Crawling and gnarling around the windows was a wisteria, thinning in the cold.

  Maggie knocked on the front door. She noticed an old plate on the left-hand post, with a space where the name should be. It was blank. Though when she looked closer, she could see scratch marks and the trace of an outline where it had once been. The name had been removed.

  She knocked again, more firmly this time. Still nothing. She leaned rightward, to look into the window. The curtains were drawn. The room to her left was not obscured, but it was dark and empty.

  Had she really driven all this way, only to be foiled at the last moment? She was furious with herself. She should have come here straight away, using her only advantage: surprise. Instead, she had surrendered that, blabbing away to the first local she met. Such a basic error. And to think Winthrop was in that car, already steaming west on Route 1 by now. She hadn’t even got a plate number. Who was he, Maggie wondered. An ex-husband of Natasha’s perhaps? Even a current one who, for whatever reason, had to be kept quiet? Maybe if—

  There was a noise from inside. Maggie looked upward, girding herself against attack. Reflexively, she took a step back, away from the door. Another noise. Then another, then a footstep, then another, each one getting nearer. Until, at last, the door opened and Maggie came face to face with a ghost.

  Chapter 32

  Penobscot, Maine

  She was tall, elegant and with eyes so blue they seemed to pierce the air. If Maggie had to guess, she’d have
said mid-seventies, though as she held her gaze, she wondered if this woman was, in fact, as much as a decade older. Truth was, it was hard to tell. Maggie had talked about it with Liz often enough: growing up where they did, hardly anyone lived to be really old. Even their nan had barely seen seventy. Maybe it was the drink, as it was for their ma, or the diet or something. Whatever the explanation, Maggie had not grown up meeting many people over eighty.

  And the ones she had certainly didn’t look like this. This woman’s back was so straight, she looked positively aristocratic, if not regal. Put a tiara on her and she could have walked out of one of those British costume dramas that Liz lapped up.

  Her hair was white and her cheeks had a blush of colour, hinting at bracing morning walks and fresh air. Her eyes carried a sparkle that was whimsical and somehow curious and which reminded Maggie immediately of Natasha.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Maggie paused, unsure what to say, unprepared for this moment, despite hours of flying and driving and endless time to think. Only then did she notice that the woman at the door was wearing a coat. ‘Are you going somewhere? Could we perhaps walk together?’

  The woman smiled, a tight, steely smile. ‘I don’t think so.’ And she now pushed past Maggie, towards the car – a battered station wagon, with fake timber panels.

  Maggie could hardly get in the car with her. What was she going to do? Start pursuing her in her own car? She could hear Uri’s voice. ‘You got into a high-speed chase with an octogenarian? Seriously?’

  She would have to make her move right now. She caught up with the woman as she was unlocking the driver’s side door. Maggie called out: ‘Natasha sent me here.’

  The woman ignored her. Maggie could see, from the angle of the car door, that she had time to utter perhaps five more words before this woman would be gone.

  ‘I work for Natasha Winthrop.’ She paused. Maggie approached, until she was just a yard or two away. The old woman was in her seat, but hadn’t closed the door. She was holding the belt, about to click it into place.