I was contrite. It was part of Jerry's job to manage my public image and I'd put him in an awkward position. I shouldn't wind him up like this.
"I'm sorry, Jerry. It was all going to come out anyway. The best I could do was try to manage it. But it was never going to do my image much good whichever way I played it."
There was a long audible sigh from the other end of the phone. "Look, I don't give a damn what you do in your private life. I really don't. But unfortunately, the douche bags of the Press do. So I'll tell you how we'll play this. The public always like someone who faces up to their faults. The bad boy looking for redemption. It's a Brit thing. So we'll go with that. Really push it home. And for the moment, I'll hold fire on renegotiating your contract with the BBC. Wait till the dust has settled. Okay?"
"Okay." There was a lump in my throat. "Seriously, Jerry, I do appreciate everything you do for me. You know that."
"Yeah, well you sure do make me earn my fees. Just leave it to me. And look after yourself, you hear? And try to stay out of more trouble. Ciao."
The phone clicked. And rang again. It was a colleague in London. I turned off my mobile. I wasn't in the mood for more calls. Or anything else for that matter.
After Jerry's call, I found it difficult to relax again. I was restless.
Nathan had given the all clear for access to my father's vicarage and right then seemed as good a time as any to go over there, take a look around and maybe make a start on sorting through his papers. On the way, I could drop by the Fairview and let Karen know I had moved out.
The rain was holding off, so I walked over, taking the long route around to the rear of the building, and let myself in through the back door.
Karen was in her private sitting room. She'd been reading through the evening paper when I interrupted her.
"Any of our wonderful boys from the Fourth Estate still around?" I asked.
"In the bar as usual." She held the paper out to me, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it was contaminated. "Have you seen this?"
"I've heard about it. My agent called. You can hold back on the details for the moment. I'm not in the mood."
"Probably for the best," she said, dropping it onto the couch, a look of disgust on her face.
I said, "I called in to let you know I've moved my stuff out. Nathan found me a bolt hole to hide away in."
"Yes, he told me. Brandon Barwell's place."
"You know him?"
"He was a regular guest here till he bought his own place. And I've seen him and Nathan around together since then."
My heart jumped. "Are they an item?"
Karen held out a hand, rocked it from side to side. "It's an on-off sort of thing as far as I know. Nothing serious."
I was relieved. Not that I had any right to be. It wasn' t my concern after all. "Well, I'm grateful to him whatever he is. He's done me a favour."
"I'll drive over and pick you up in the morning on the way to the vicarage. Probably best if we take my car."
I agreed. "I'm on my way over there now. Might as well take a look around and see what needs doing."
As I was leaving, I said, "No Sgt Lowe tonight?"
"He's on duty again." She sounded peeved.
"Oh well, the course of true love never did run smooth."
The screwed-up newspaper hit me in the back as I left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My father's study seemed so much smaller than I remembered it. The room was windowless and airless, and the walls and furnishings already bore the stale musty odour of neglect.
A large mahogany desk dominated the room. I sat in the swivel chair behind it, trying it out for size, and switched on the metal cantilever lamp at its side.
I hated this room. Always had. It had been the scene of too many unpleasant confrontations. My father would be seated behind this desk, face florid with anger, and rail at me for my many failings, and I would stand before him, head bowed, but defiant, and dream of the day I could get away from his oppressive control.
The room had seemed larger then, intimidating. But now it was just another room, shrunk back to normal size.
The desk drawers were locked. I tried each of the keys Trivett had given me until I found the one that fitted the central locking system, and opened all the drawers. The smaller drawers on the left contained various items of stationery; boxes of rubber bands, staples, a computer memory stick, and various bills, receipts and credit card statements. I emptied these into one of the plastic carriers bags I'd brought with me before turning my attention to the two larger drawers on the right. This is where my father kept his more important documents. I searched through them until I found the one I was looking for and put the others into another carrier, intending to look through them later. There was a large old-fashioned Remington typewriter on the desk and I pushed it to one side and spread the document out on the desk before me. It was my father's will.
When he had learned of my relationship with Nathan, one of my father's more immediate reactions was to threaten to disinherit me and I'd often wondered how serious he was. I opened up the document and read through it.
My spirits sank. True to his word, he had made no provision for me. Giles Trivett and a local solicitor were to be appointed his executors, and what assets he had were to be sold and the proceeds to be divided amongst a number of charities. There was no mention of me.
I sat back in the chair and let it sink in. I was saddened. It wasn't the thought of not benefiting financially - God knows, I had ample enough means of my own - but that he had still chosen to judge me so harshly, even after all these years, even after trying for so long to please him, to conform to his perception of the son he'd wanted me to be. All for nothing.
After dropping the document into the second bag with the other papers, I carried both bags into the hall, left them by the outer door, and toured the house.
Worn floorboards creaked and groaned underfoot as I passed over them. The old grandfather clock in the hall ticked patiently, and the complaining wind howled and rattled the windows and doors.
I wandered aimlessly through the rooms, reliving the past, each room conjuring up images and events from my youth. There were no happy memories here.
In the living room, I stared down at the chair where the body had been found. My father's favourite armchair. He would sit here in the evenings, at the end of his working day and either read or listen to the radio. This too is where my mother would keep him company, seated in the matching armchair on the other side of the fireplace. Sometimes, it would be one of his parishioners. Someone in need of advice or help.
Is that what had happened here that day? Had someone been seated in this other chair, in conversation with my father? What was it that had so roused them to anger they were moved to kill him in such a brutal way?
I stood there for a while, staring long and hard, as if the very act would conjure up an image of the events that had led to his death.
I shuddered and left the room, grabbed the bags from beside the door, and left the house, eager to be free of both it and the memories it stirred up.
The skies were clear. A full moon shone down, bleaching the surrounding landscape with its silvery glow. Across the road, beyond the ashen trees and behind a low stone wall, Black's house loomed out of the half-light like a squat grey beast.
On a whim, after dropping my bags into the boot of the Elan, I fished a flashlight out of the toolbox, and made my way over there, crunching half-frozen puddles underfoot. It couldn't do any harm to have a quick look around, see if I could spot anything unusual. And despite what Nathan might think, I wasn't exactly interfering. It's not like I was interviewing witnesses or anything. Just observing.
I circled the house and checked the door and windows for any signs of forced entry. Nothing. Next, I checked the garage. The door was secure but there was a side window. Inside the garage was a Ford Mondeo.
I scanned the surrounding area. There was a small iron gate behin
d the house which opened into the woods beyond. It would be an ideal access point for anyone wishing to avoid being seen on the road.
Again, I circled the house, this time shining my torch through each of the lower windows in turn. I was struck by how precisely everything was arranged in each room. In the kitchen, a magnetic wall rack held a set of knives, evenly and accurately spaced, carefully aligned and placed in order of length. A set of saucepans were laid out in a perfect line, all their handles pointing out at the same angle. So too, in the study. A laptop computer sat square and centred on the desk, a row of pens on one side of it and a paper knife and stapler on the other, all precisely aligned. It was the same in all the rooms; ornaments and furnishings carefully arranged and ordered.
The exception was the living room. A used coffee mug sat on a side table by the settee. The pages of a newspaper lay strewn around the floor with a crumpled cushion nearby. In any other setting, such minor disorder would have seemed normal. But in a house where neatness was carried to such an extreme, it seemed out of place, as if Black had left in a hurry and not had time to clear up after himself. If I'd been asked to assess Black's behaviour on what I'd seen here, I would be inclined to suspect him of having a compulsive obsessive disorder.
Satisfied that I had seen enough, I made my way back around the house. As I turned the corner to the front, I heard the clang of the gate. The unexpected sound startled me. I stopped and listened. The wind soughed through the trees and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. All else was silent.
I turned back and, keeping the wall close to my right, crept around to the rear of the building, to within sight of the gate. It was open. I was sure it had been closed when I first saw it. I flashed the torch around the yard, checking out the deeper shadows and then turned the beam to the woods beyond the gate. Shadows danced and leapt around the trees as I moved the beam, making any possibility of seeing independent movement difficult. I turned off the torch and stood for a few moments until my eyes adjusted to the change of light and, by the glow of the moon, scanned the woods again.
Nothing seemed out of place. And yet I had the strangest sensation of being watched.
And something else. Right on the edge of awareness. A sound? I strained to hear. And there it was. A squelching. Slow and steady and repetitive. Like the sound of mud underfoot. Moving toward me.
A stray cloud crossed in front of the moon and the shadows around me shifted and deepened. I stepped back, seeking the darker shadows, and caught my elbow on the wall. My hand spasmed and the torch dropped from my grasp, clattering onto the stone flags. The sound reverberated around the courtyard, harsh and metallic, drowning out the natural night sounds.
The squelching stopped.
I held my breath.
Out in the darkness, someone or something was listening.
With a thudding heart and a hand pressed against the damp wall behind me, I slowly lowered myself to a crouch and felt around the ground. The stone flags were cold and clammy against my searching fingers. My hand brushed against something rough and hard. A large stone. I picked it up and groped around with my free hand. I found the torch, pocketed it, and rose to my feet. Taking a firm stand, I raised my hand high and hurled the stone towards the woods. It landed with a splatter on the far side of the wall.
Something squelched towards it.
That was my cue. I beat a hasty retreat, raced around the corner, and headed away from the house. Maybe I was being over-imaginative. Maybe I'd just interrupted some prowling night creature. But I wasn't going to stick around to find out. Clutching my coat collar, I leaned into the wind, head down, and hurried towards the road.
I looked up momentarily. Something moved. Ahead of me, a shape, darker than the rest, detached itself from the background and closed in. Straight towards me. I cried out, stopped and froze where I stood, muscles tensed. Fists clenched, I braced myself ready for action.
"What are you doing here?" It was Lowe.
"Jeez, man." I relaxed and dropped my fists. "I was about to thump you."
A short sharp laugh. "I wouldn't advise it. That way lies a whole heap of trouble."
"I was over at the vicarage. Thought I might take a look around as I was here."
"I saw your torch beam. What were you looking for?"
"Nothing in particular. Anything that seemed unusual."
"And of course, we've not thought of that. We needed you to do our job for us."
A well-deserved rebuke. "Sorry. I didn't mean to tread on any toes. I felt I should be doing something."
His tone lightened. "I know how frustrating it must be. But we're on top of it. We're keeping an eye on the place. I was on my usual patrol when I spotted you."
I gestured toward the far side of the courtyard. "Well you might want to check out the grounds behind the house. Maybe I'm being paranoid but I thought I heard someone moving around and use the gate a few minutes ago."
"Let's go see."
I followed him across the courtyard, side-stepping the puddles.
Lowe swung the gate back and forth a few times. "It's heavy but it's also loose and the catch is rusted so it won't lock in place. Are you sure it wasn't just the wind? There are some strong gusts tonight."
"I guess it could be. Maybe I was spooked."
"I'll check the doors just in case."
"I've already done that. And the windows. They're all secure."
Lowe looked at me askance as if about to criticise me again for interfering. Instead he said, "I'll walk you back to the road. There's nothing more we can do here."
On the way, he said, "I know it must seem like nothing is happening but there's a lot going on behind the scenes."
"I know that. Nathan has been keeping me up to date." We reached the road and I said, "I hear you've been checking out some CCTV footage. Anything useful there?"
"We've identified most of the vehicles using Vicarage Lane over the past few days. Almost all of them are accounted for. We're still trying to trace a white Fiat Punto. We didn't get a registration but we're checking the DLVA records to see if anyone locally owns one."
"Good luck with that," I said.
It was after we'd parted company and I was walking back home that I remembered I'd seen a white Fiat Punto recently. I checked my watch. Too late to take it any further now but I would call in at the station in the morning to see Lowe and pass on what I knew. Maybe we were getting somewhere at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I wrapped my hands around a mug of hot steaming coffee, enjoying its rich aroma. A warm glow spread through my fingers.
The following day had dawned colder than ever and I was slowly thawing out. It was still early morning and Lowe and I were sat at his desk in front of a monitor screen watching footage of traffic moving back and forth between the end of the High Street and Vicarage Lane. A fan heater on the wall above the desk warmed us. Karen had dropped me off on the way to the vicarage and I'd arranged to meet her there later.
"Jeez, is police work always this exciting?" I said.
Lowe sniffed. "Welcome to the real world. It's not all car chases and shootouts. In fact, it almost never is."
He sounded disappointed.
"How many of these have you had to sit through?" I said.
"Just two. There are ten all together, the last a couple of days ago, but my team have been sharing the task." He pointed at the screen. "This is the second one. It's when the Punto first appears."
We watched the screen and I sipped my coffee. The fan heater hummed in the background and the faint sound of a clattering keyboard filtered through from the room next door.
A grey Renault Megane appeared on the screen. "Who's that?" I said.
"Giles Trivett. He was on his way to a conference. The Fiat shows up about an hour later." He leaned over and hit the fast-forward button on the disc player. The Fiat appeared on the screen and he hit the play button. "There it is."
I leaned closer and peered at the image on the screen. "Y
es, I have seen it before. That orange sticker in the back window. I remember it. It belongs to Adam Corby. He was working on it when I went to see Erin Corby."
"Corby. That rings a bell." Lowe reached across the desk and pulled a manila file towards him He flipped it open, and scanned through the pages. "Here it is. He and his wife are on the interview list. You know them?"
"I met them recently. Erin Corby was my father's cleaner."
He checked his file again. "Yes, I have a record of that. Could she have been on her way to the vicarage?"
"I doubt it. My father called her that week to put her off. He wasn't feeling too well." I drank some more of my coffee.
Lowe was still looking through the file. "We interviewed them both and have details of their movements over the last few days. There's no record of any visits to Vicarage Lane." He ran his finger down the page. "And the car shows up several times over the next few days."
"Erin cleaned for my father just once a week. So she wouldn't be visiting him anyway. At least not to work."
Lowe said, "You'd be surprised how often people miss out the more mundane details of their regular daily routines. It's a blind spot. They take them for granted and think them insignificant, not worth mentioning." He turned off the player. "It might be nothing but I'll follow it up this morning."
On the screen, the Corbys' car reappeared, on its way back to the High Street, passing a Transit Van going in the opposite direction. "Wait," I said and put a restraining hand on Lowe's arm. "Who's that?"
"That's Jonas Wainwright's van. He was on his way to visit your father. That was the day he heard your father arguing with his visitor."
I leaned back and folded my arms. "So all the vehicles are now accounted for?"
"Yes. All here." He tapped the manila folder in front of him. "I've been looking through the report complied from my team's observations. And it makes for some very interesting reading."
"You got some useful info from it?"
"Very much so. There's not a lot of activity, Vicarage Lane being a cul-de-sac. Jonas' van shows up again a couple of days later as well as Trivett returning from his conference. Apart from a child's bike and some delivery vans, all of which have been accounted for and the drivers interviewed, that's it."
The Slow Road to Hell Page 10