The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  She reacted much as I had anticipated. Her chair creaked as she shifted position and raised a hand to her throat, playing with the gold chain necklace around her neck. A typical pacifying action. And then she crossed her arms in a defensive move.

  I increased the pressure. "I've been looking through your witness statement and I have to say, it makes interesting reading. Especially, in light of the reactions I've observed in this present interview." Pointing up to the camera in the corner of the room, I continued. "I've been watching your behaviour on the monitor next door."

  She gripped the chain, twisting it tight, and wrapped her feet around the legs of her chair. A freeze response. She showed all the signs of being trapped.

  So far, so good. Time to move in for the kill. I'd seen enough to know she was lying and, just as importantly, why.

  "I know how frustrating this must be, Frances. But I'm sure you must want to help as much as possible. You want us to catch this murderer, right?

  "Of course I do." She sounded indignant.

  "And you've heard about Adam Corby's arrest?"

  "Yes." She avoided my eyes.

  "Erin was a friend of yours, wasn't she? It must be very painful for you knowing her husband has been charged with her murder."

  "He didn't kill her."

  "You seem very certain of that."

  She squirmed uneasily. "He had no reason to. He's a kind docile man."

  "Maybe. But as long as he continues to lie about his whereabouts, no one is going to believe that."

  She was silent again.

  I said, "I suppose you must think that the truth will out eventually. And that Adam will be released."

  "Yes, I do." Her tone was defiant.

  "I'm afraid that's not how it works, Frances. There are just three possible outcomes here. Either Adam continues to lie and is prosecuted for Erin's murder. Or the truth will be uncovered and your relationship with Adam will be made public, exposing you to a great deal of embarrassment, and, of course, you'll be charged with wasting police time in respect of both Erin's murder and my father's. The third choice is for you to tell the truth now and save yourself from public exposure and from facing criminal charges. So which is it to be, Frances?"

  As I spoke, the look of stubborn defiance faded and her face crumpled. Her subterfuge had been exposed for what it was and she must have known she had no choice but to come clean. Close to tears, she managed to keep control of herself and, with bowed head, accepted the inevitable.

  "So where was Adam when Erin was killed?"

  "There's a place we go to. The Sea Spray boarding house on the Charwell Road. Adam books a room there."

  "And you were there when Erin was killed?"

  She sniffled and nodded.

  Did Adam Corby drive there?"

  "No. He was always worried about the car being spotted. He left the car at home and used the bus." Her voice was breaking up.

  "And when Jonas heard my father arguing with Black? You were with Adam then, weren't you? You never heard that argument."

  "No." She pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her blouse and blew her nose. "I panicked. Giles couldn't understand why I didn't recognise his voice. We know him so well. So I went along with it. Said I was there."

  I said, "Best if we take another statement from you, Frances. And let's have it like it really was this time."

  "Yes," she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I loved my early morning runs. That rush of adrenaline pumping through my muscles, the steady rhythm of my body as it pushed against its limits, the cold air against my face. It was a time to think, to work through my problems and plan my day. This morning was no different; so many things to think about.

  The pavement, slick and wet from the overnight rain, glistened and gleamed in the early morning light as I sprinted along the sea front. A pale amber sun rose from the sea, spreading its golden glow across the water.

  There were few people around so early; three or four other runners on the Esplanade and a small number of shopkeepers opening up for the day. Jack Warrinder, proprietor of Warrinder's Emporium was setting out his wares in front of the shop and waved as I passed by. I can still remember when he bought the shop as a young man after his marriage to a local beauty. Now he was well into middle-age with a paunch and a balding pate. A few suited commuters trekked by on their way to the railway station to begin another day in London city offices.

  I was on a high, invigorated, ready to tackle anything.

  Yesterday's breakthrough with Frances Trivett had confirmed what I had always suspected about her relationship with Adam Corby, vindicating my suspicions, and, although it hadn't moved the investigation forward, it had at least put it back on the right track.

  Nathan hadn't been in a mood to let them off lightly, despite my telling Frances otherwise. He intended to throw the book at them. They would both face charges for wasting police time and suffer the humiliation of exposure.

  For my part, I was more upbeat than I had been for the past few days. Nathan had been pleased with the way the interview had concluded. And was being friendly again. He'd promised to call me for a get together once the immediate pressure of work had eased off. And now I was in a better frame of mind, I saw our relationship for what it was.

  I understood why Nathan was reluctant to trust me again. Karen was right. Once bitten, twice shy. But I was sure his feelings hadn't changed. It was me who had been the problem. And if I could show him that he could depend on me, that I was around for the long haul, I knew our relationship could flourish again.

  God knows I could be difficult at times. And our past relationship hadn't always been an easy one. But I was certain that, deep down, his feelings were as strong as ever. Now that I'd realised how much I needed him, I had no intention of giving up on him. I was going to get him back, no matter what. And with that decision made, I was confident of a more certain future, sure of where I was going.

  By the time I reached home, I was in a more positive frame of mind and even the presence of a reporter on my doorstep didn't change my mood.

  He saw me approach and walked toward me, smiling, hand outstretched. A good-looking guy, about my age, short brown hair in a Caesar-style buzz cut, electric blue eyes in a clean-shaven tanned face and an open guileless expression. The clean-cut country-boy look was completed by a pair of faded denim jeans, a navy deck jacket, and a blue-stripe beach scarf wrapped twice around his neck.

  "Michael MacGregor?" He said.

  I'd done my best to keep my hideaway secret, watching out for any of the media guys and making sure I wasn't followed. But I suppose it was inevitable that they would find me eventually. Not that it would get them anywhere.

  I ignored the hand. "You're wasting your time. I'm not giving interviews."

  The smile faded. And then he beamed again and burst into laughter. "Just as well I'm not asking for one then." He offered his hand again. "The name's Brandon Barwell."

  It took a moment for it to sink in and when it did, I clasped his hand and shook it firmly. "I'm so sorry. That was so presumptuous of me. You're the last person I expected to see."

  He laughed again and said, "Not a problem. I hope it's okay me dropping by like this. There were some personal papers I needed to pick up."

  "of course I don't mind. It's your house after all."

  "I wasn't sure if you'd mind or not. Nathan said it might not be a good idea."

  "You've spoken to him today?" I dug the house keys out of my pocket and turned away to unlock the door.

  "I'm staying with him over at Charwell."

  I stiffened. Trying to keep the tension out of my voice, I said, "He never mentioned it." I was glad he couldn't see the expression on my face at that moment. My hand trembled as I turned the key to let us in.

  "I got here the other day," he said, and followed me inside.

  I headed for the kitchen table and sat down heavily. Nathan hadn't so much as hinted at Brandon Barwell's visit and to find
out like this, having it come out of the blue without warning, hit me hard. I was shaken. Given the nature of their relationship, I was in no doubt that this was more than a casual visit.

  "My stuff's upstairs," Brandon said. He was still smiling. "Just some invoices and receipts I need for my tax returns."

  "Please," I said, waving a hand towards the stairs, "don't let me stop you."

  "I'll go get them," he said and bounded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He called back down to me, "Nathan never told me he knew the famous Michael MacGregor."

  I raised my voice so he would hear me. "I wouldn't call myself exactly famous."

  As he rummaged around overhead, I tried to pull myself together, taking in some slow deep breaths to loosen the tightness in my chest.

  Myriad questions rose in my mind and I struggled to form some answers to them. How had I not suspected something? Brandon must have arrived after Nathan and I spent the night together. Is that why Nathan had cooled toward me? Because Brandon was back? Is that why he had chosen not to stay over again? And why he had used pressure of work as an excuse to avoid me?

  It now made sense. The signs had been there all along. But I'd been stupid enough to ignore them, preferring to believe instead that Nathan and I were becoming close again.

  As these thoughts tumbled around in my head, Brandon reappeared with a sheaf of papers and a book in his hand. He jumped down the last couple of steps, dropped into one of the armchairs by the fireside, and unwound his scarf. Obviously not in a hurry to leave.

  He grinned up at me and said, "Nathan knows how much I like your show. And he never said a word. Can you believe it?" He didn't stop for an answer. "You grew up together didn't you?"

  He was animated, energetic, full of enthusiasm. We were of similar ages and yet he made me feel old and jaded. When had I stopped being all the things he was now? Was it when all those early dreams and hopes had faded to nothing? When I'd stopped caring and settled for less? No wonder Nathan had taken to him. It would be hard not to be captivated.

  I forced a smile. "It was a lifetime ago. We haven't been in touch for ages."

  A hollowness opened and spread inside me and what small burgeoning hope I'd had of the future I'd planned for myself shrivelled and died. I twisted around and grabbed the towel I'd left hanging over the back of the chair and used it as an excuse to hide my face while I wiped away the sweat. I didn't want him to see how hurt I was. All that I'd hoped for had come to nothing. I'd been such a fool.

  "I guess people drift apart," Brandon said. "Still it's good to catch up with old friends. It's just a shame you had to meet again in such circumstances."

  I nodded and dropped the towel onto an adjacent chair, struggling to keep my feelings from showing. But he seemed oblivious to my mood. He was still talking ten to the dozen.

  "Look," he said, "I hope you don't mind me asking but I have your book here about reading body language." He rose from his chair and came over to the table, holding it out to me. "Would you mind signing it for me? I'd really appreciate it." He seated himself at the table.

  How could I refuse. I picked up my pen from among the papers scattered about the table, took the book from him and opened it at the flyleaf.

  I said, "Nathan says you've known each other for a few years." Writing slowly to stop my hand from shaking, I signed the book and handed it back to him.

  He took it from me and said, "Getting on for three years now. We met when I came down to finalise the purchase of this place. I was staying at the Fairview. The proprietor introduced us. Karen Dyer?" He laughed. "But of course you must know her if she's a friend of Nathan's."

  "Karen's one of my closest friends," I said.

  "I really like her," he said, enthusiastically. "I'm sure I'll get to know her better if things work out with Nathan."

  "Work out?" The emptiness inside deepened and widened.

  Oh, I'm sorry." He frowned. "You do know we're involved?"

  "Yes, I had heard."

  "I wasn't sure if you knew he was ... you know ... that we were ..."

  "Yes, I did know. But I hadn't realised how close you were."

  He grinned. "It's been a bit of a long-distance relationship so far. It's not easy when you live so far apart." The smile faded as he said this but he soon brightened again. "I think we've known each other long enough now. It's time we moved our relationship to the next level."

  "So what are your plans?" I was finding it hard to keep the tremor from my voice.

  "Obviously, Nathan's work will keep him down here. But there's no reason why I can't move." He explained, "I'm a freelance graphic designer so I can work from anywhere."

  "How very convenient," I said.

  He bounced in his chair and said, "And, of course, I want to get to know all Nathan's friends." He sounded hopeful. "I can't quite believe that Michael MacGregor stayed in my house."

  That was the moment I made my decision. I had a vision of the future. Of Nathan and Brandon setting up home together. Laughing together. Making love. Sharing all those small intimacies that lovers do. The way Nathan and I once did.

  There was no place for me here any more. It was strange how everything could change in an instant. Maybe one day Nathan would read the book I'd just signed and recognise my name. And maybe he would remember that we had once shared something special and muse on what might have been. But such a future wasn't to be and this is where the self-deception ended.

  I said, "Well, I'm happy to say you can now have your house back."

  "You're leaving?" His eyes widened. "Nathan said you'd be staying a while longer."

  No, I'm leaving."

  He said, "Nathan's spending a lot of time down here at the moment. So I suppose it would be more convenient for us to stay here. But please don't let me drive you away. I'm happy to stay where I am for the moment if you still need the place."

  "That's kind of you, thanks. But I need to get back to London."

  "If you're sure."

  "As a matter of fact, I'll need to start packing shortly. I'll be leaving tomorrow." I stood up, hoping he'd take the hint.

  He took the hint, pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you have plenty to do."

  "Oh, just one thing," he said. "Nathan asked me not to worry you. Said you didn't want to be disturbed. I was sure you wouldn't mind but Nathan can be a bit tetchy at times so if you'd mind not telling him I dropped by." Now he was embarrassed.

  I offered him a reassuring smile. "I know what he can be like. Don't worry, I won't say a word. And I'll let him know I'm leaving."

  He thanked me and I saw him out. He headed off with a confident jaunty walk.

  On a small plot of land across the road, some bulbs were showing signs of early life, small green shoots struggling towards the light, signalling the coming spring, a time of renewal and fresh hope. And for some, new beginnings.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Karen was having a hard time taking it in. "I don't get it. I spoke to him earlier And he never said a word."

  I'd just told her about Nathan's visitor. Once I'd made the decision to return to London, I'd called to let her know about my abrupt change of plans.

  I said. "What did you expect? After the other night?" He's not likely to broadcast it, is he?" I wasn't looking for reasons to defend him.

  "Are you sure about this? You could be reading it all wrong. I thought you and he might ... you know .. I thought he was trying to patch things up."

  "'Fraid not." I related the details of my conversation with Brandon that morning, and told her of my earlier one with Nathan, and even she, ever optimistic, had to concede defeat.

  "I'm so sorry, Mikey. I don't know what to say."

  "Not a lot you can say. I guess I have to accept the inevitable."

  "Does Nathan know you're leaving?"

  "Not yet. I'm driving back first thing in the morning. I'd rather leave it till the last minute before I tell him."

  "If you're
staying over, why don't you come round this evening for a drink? It would be nice to see you before you go and we can talk it through some more."

  I wasn't sure what talking about it some more would achieve but at least I would have some much-needed company so I agreed.

  "You can use the front entrance," Karen said. "I've closed the bar and restaurant for the evening so the press will have to find somewhere else to drink. Most of them have gone anyway. So we shouldn't be disturbed."

  "I won't risk it," I said. "Those media guys are a sneaky lot."

  The rest of the day passed in something of a haze. I made several phone calls, set up appointments for when I got back to London, and briefed my agent Jerry on my plans, going through the motions in a state of emotional numbness. I was determined to focus on the practicalities of getting my life back into some sort of order rather than dwelling on what might have been.

  And so, a few hours later, all my plans mapped out and settled, I was hurrying across the car park behind the Fairview on my way to see Karen.

  There was just enough light from the rear window of the main reception to guide me through the alley and at the far end, I reached for the door handle in the dark.

  And gripped thin air.

  The door was ajar.

  Intense unease welled up inside me. Something was wrong.

  I took a closer look.

  The door had been forced. The strike plate was hanging loose on one screw and the wood where it had once been set in place was splintered and broken.

  I steadied myself with one hand pressed against the cold damp wall while the hammering in my chest subsided. Karen was alone. Or at least, she should have been. And whoever had done this sure as hell wasn't paying a courtesy call.

  I checked around me, peering into the darkness, senses ready to catch the smallest movement or the slightest sound. All was quiet. Gripping the edge of the door to stop it from swinging, I opened it slowly, careful not to let it creak, and stepped into the dimly lit hall. A thin strip of light leaked out from under the door to Karen's private quarters. The passage to the left was barely illuminated by the night-light from the main reception area beyond.