Evil Never Dies

by S M Hardy

  Brogan went to reply, but Dan abruptly turned his back on him and stalked away, leaving the policeman red-faced and fuming.

  I acknowledged him as we passed, but I didn’t have anything to say to him either. In fact, Emma and I couldn’t talk to him about much even had we wanted to. We had both received and signed documents delivered by courier precluding us from ever speaking about what had happened at Kingsmead to anyone ever again. Emma’s comment as she signed had been that she wanted nothing more than to forget all about it and who would believe us anyway.

  It was weird when the front door opened. Maddy was waiting for us as if nothing had ever happened, though she was now dressed in the black dress of a housekeeper with the bunch of house keys dangling from her belt. The floppy-haired lad was hovering in the background and I was strangely relieved to see he’d made it through that night.

  There were quite a few hard-faced men, in black military-style uniforms, with automatic weapons wandering around the place and not another police officer to be seen. I was greeted with unexpected deference from some of them and a couple even cracked a smile of hello.

  All our belongings had been packed and sent to us, but Emma wanted to double-check our room ‘just in case’ and, while she took one last look around, I helped Laura take her suitcase upstairs.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’ I asked her as I dumped her bag next to the bed.

  Her smile was heartbreaking. ‘I have nowhere else to go,’ she said.

  ‘You can always—’

  ‘I know. You and Emma have been so kind, but I have to do this – or at least try. If I don’t – well, I’ll always have regrets of what might have been.’

  ‘If you need us, you know where we are.’

  A tear overflowed onto her cheek and she pulled me into a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured against my chest. ‘Thank you so very much.’

  I gave her an awkward hug back. She’d be all right. As I’d surmised, she was a little toughie.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d quite like to go and say goodbye to the horses,’ I said to Laura once we’d returned downstairs. Dan was in the hall chatting to a couple of the men in black, but from the sideways glances he was giving Laura it was obvious why he was hanging around.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, and I got the impression she would be glad to be rid of me for a few minutes so they could talk alone.

  The stable yard was deserted, with not even the Land Rover or motorbike anywhere to be seen or a radio playing in the background. I thought this would mean I’d be alone in the stable block, but when I went inside Donald Walters was mucking out Satan’s stall.

  He looked my way upon hearing me enter and leant the shovel he’d been using against the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. ‘Should you really be working?’ I asked.

  He managed a grimace of a smile. ‘Best I keep busy and these beasts are good company.’

  I stopped by Jericho’s stall to scratch his head and make a bit of a fuss of him. I’d miss the lad and hoped Emms and I might get the occasional invite to visit so I’d have the chance to see him again.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said.

  Another grimace. ‘I lost my wife fifteen odd years ago when Lily died. She never got over it, not really.’

  ‘And she held Tanith responsible?’

  He nodded. ‘Neither of us blamed young William and Martine for running off together. Who would? We’d have run off too, if we’d had half the chance, were going to when we’d saved enough, but then that woman …’ He sucked in a breath and shook his head. ‘Cruel bitch she was. Insisted the ceremony go ahead and as Lily was the right age …’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Tanith talked her into it. Made it sound like an honour and that she’d for ever be special. Lily said she’d do it. She didn’t realise, didn’t understand and I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t save my little girl. I was too weak. Weak and scared.’ He swiped at his eyes. ‘Then Mr Oliver found William and Martine and … you know. Oliver wanted the child, little Miss Laura, dead as well, but although Mr Edward said he’d done it, we found out later she was still alive. It wasn’t ’til a few years ago that we found out why. She was Edward’s child.’

  ‘Edward’s? But Oliver thought she was his granddaughter.’

  Walters laughed out loud. ‘No, he thought she was his daughter. They were all as bad as each other, dipping their wicks where they weren’t wanted. That’s why they ran. Martine was a nice girl, but too pretty for her own good.’

  Then I remembered what Oliver had said about Martine. It hadn’t clicked at the time. She had told William and Oliver that the child was theirs, when she wasn’t either’s. ‘Shit,’ I muttered.

  ‘When Tanith fucking Bloxborough found out she was still alive she wouldn’t let it rest. She wanted her dead and Oliver would give her anything.’

  ‘But wasn’t he married?’

  Walters looked at me as though I was simple. ‘Tanith was always there. Always. Oliver only married again to get her attention, but she didn’t care. Then Tanith crooked her little finger and the wife disappeared. He said she walked out’ – he gave a bitter smile – ‘but we guessed she’d gone somewhere she’d not be coming back from.’

  As he was in the mood for talking, I thought I’d try asking some of the questions that had been bothering me.

  ‘The effigy on the bonfire and the gunshots causing Angel to bolt – who was that down to?’

  He folded his arms. ‘Sarah couldn’t bear to see yet another young woman destroyed by the Pomeroys. We hoped the burnt effigy would do it. The morning after the ceremony I went back and stuck it on the fire and I intended for Dan to go to the clearing so it’d be found, but he was being difficult. As it turned out he ended up there anyway with you and Miss Laura. When this didn’t have the desired effect of getting her to leave, Sarah gave Angel some herbs to make her jumpy and I fired the shotgun.’

  ‘Laura could have been killed.’

  ‘Better that than what Oliver and Tanith had in store for her.’

  I supposed he was right, but they’d taken a big chance with her life. I let it go. The man had just lost his wife and, when all was said and done, Laura was alive and well and hopefully out of danger.

  I had one more question. ‘Did Edward kill Oliver’s first wife?’ I asked. ‘Is that why they put him away?’

  Walters slowly shook his head. ‘That’s what Oliver would have had everyone believe and yes, it was why the Pomeroys had their eldest son locked away, but Constance’s death wasn’t down to Edward.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners as though he was remembering. ‘Sarah was in the hall when it happened. She saw it all. The thing you have to understand about Edward is that he was like a spoilt child. If he wanted something, he had to have it. Sadly for Oliver, Edward wanted Constance. The day she died she foolishly told Oliver that the child she was carrying wasn’t his. Oliver was incandescent. They fought and he deliberately pushed her and she fell. Sarah slipped away, terrified at what she’d witnessed and too scared to tell a soul but me. If she had, her and I would have been long gone, and I don’t mean to pastures new − Oliver would have seen us dead.’

  In retrospect I wished I’d never asked. Simon’s elder brothers were both psychopaths, and in my opinion their no longer being in this world was a blessing to everyone who remained.

  I patted Jericho’s head and fed him a lump of sugar. ‘Will Laura be safe here now?’ I asked.

  He picked up the shovel. ‘Yes. There’s no one here that’ll harm her. In fact, most of us will for ever bless the day she came. Here starts a new era. One without the Order of the Blood hanging over us like an axe waiting to fall.’

  I met Emma on the way back to the house. ‘I’ve just seen Donald Walters,’ I told her.

  ‘How’s he holding up?’

  ‘Too early to say, but we had a long talk
about Edward, Oliver and Tanith.’

  She shivered. ‘Tell me about it when we get home,’ she said, linking her arm through mine. ‘I think I’ve had enough of them to be getting on with.’

  When we got back to The Grange, I took Simon’s letter out to the conservatory with a large glass of malt. When I finished reading it, I slumped back in the chair to look out onto the garden and listen to the peacocks’ mournful cries. They didn’t help my melancholy state of mind. The letter had mostly been an apology.

  He confirmed much of what Dan had told me and assumed, if I was reading the letter, he was dead and we hadn’t had the chance to speak as he’d intended. He said he was sorry for involving me and then leaving me to pick up the pieces. He was also sorry if he had put Emma and me in danger, but when he’d written to me, he had believed Oliver was dead and had genuinely only wanted my help to find out who had murdered him. When he realised he wasn’t, he hoped I’d help him protect Laura as he had, unbeknownst to her, for years.

  It was he who, upon hearing of William’s and Martine’s deaths, had arranged for Laura to be whisked away and put into the care of June Simmons, one of his former operatives and fully trained in protection duties. He’d had Laura’s name changed to Simmons and hoped he had done enough to keep her safe. He didn’t straight out say he knew who had killed his nephew and his wife, he didn’t have to. His actions spoke louder than any words.

  He then told me how a young man called Dan Foley had approached him, aggressively demanding his help in finding out what had happened to his sister. Simon was so impressed by Dan he had recruited him on the understanding that if he worked for his department he would, when the time was right, have him inserted into the staff at Kingsmead as part of an ongoing investigation into corruption in high places, sexual abuse and murder. His brief was to report back on untoward activities in the household and any high-profile visitors. While he was there if he could get any leads on his sister’s disappearance, then all well and good. And, as I read, it became quite clear that, despite what I might think about Simon’s use or misuse of his power, he had been investigating the Order of the Blood and his own family for a very long time, to try and put a stop to an obscene cult, which had many influential people within its ranks.

  The catalyst that finally put the wheels in motion for its ultimate demise came when June Simmons died leaving Laura alone and unprotected. Simon immediately arranged for the disappearance of a member of staff at Kingsmead and for Dan, by this time a seasoned and senior operative, to apply for the resultant position. He then had another of his team, a serving police officer, Sam Peters, promoted to detective sergeant and transferred to the local force.

  When Simon heard of Oliver’s alleged death in such horrific circumstances, he thought it at last signalled the end of the Order. His relief was short-lived. Upon learning of the contents of his brother’s will, alarm bells began to ring and he immediately dropped everything to return to Kingsmead; that he had been diagnosed with a debilitating heart condition bolstered his resolve to rip out the disease infecting his family home – the Order of the Blood. Then, of course, the birthday card arrived and, after speaking to Alice Barnard at Goldsmere, Simon had guessed what Oliver had done and how he was more than likely still alive. Simon had identified what he thought had been Oliver’s body and explained how it wouldn’t have been difficult for Oliver to convince him, and the world, it was his remains that had been found in the clearing. Edward and he were of a similar build, they both wore a signet ring bearing the family crest and they both had the same tattoo on their left shoulder. The clincher of course was that he thought Edward had died forty years ago. Simon realised there must have been a reason for Oliver to go to so much trouble and, knowing what he did about Laura’s parents’ deaths, he was sure Laura’s life was in real danger too.

  All this was relayed in Simon’s typical dispassionate way until he spoke of Laura. I will not let my beautiful grandniece join her parents. Protect her for me if you can. And his final message to me: Jed, I know I haven’t always been the friend I should have been or the man you wanted me to be. All I can say to you is you have always been, and always will be, my greatest friend. Never has there been a man I have respected more than I have respected you, and by coming to my aid, despite the way we parted and when you had no reason or need to, has proved to me that never has the old adage of blood being thicker than water been more untrue. As usual you put a friend’s needs before your own. With my sincere thanks for being my friend when I needed you most. Your old ‘mate’, Simon.

  His words set me to remembering how we had parted all those years ago. Reggie had warned me. ‘All that matters to Simon is the endgame,’ he’d said. ‘The people who could possibly die are just collateral damage.’

  I’d argued Simon knew what he was doing and we hadn’t had any casualties. Reggie had grunted. ‘Not yet,’ was his reply.

  Almost two years later, when what Reggie had said was inevitable happened, Simon’s and my friendship came to an abrupt end.

  We had been keeping tabs on a possible terrorist cell and had managed to infiltrate the group. We were almost ready to move in and I had argued for a young, female undercover operative to be extracted. It had been getting too dangerous and we had all of the intel we needed. Simon had disagreed. Just two days later her communications stopped. I went against Simon’s orders and took a team in to raid the place. We were too late – much too late. She had died terribly – torture and rape being the least of it. Her presence had been there waiting for me. She asked what had taken us so long. I didn’t know how to reply other than to tell her I was sorry. She slowly faded away, but her bewildered expression of betrayal stayed with me for a very long time afterwards.

  I had been beyond angry. She was one of ours and she was dead. When we got back, I’d stormed into Simon’s office and said quite a few things I probably shouldn’t have, my tirade ending with me shouting at him that I was resigning and him shouting back, ‘Good’, it would save him sacking me.

  The last time I’d seen him was when I’d handed my letter of resignation to his secretary. His door was open and he was on the phone inside his office, laughing and joking with some high-ranking caller, I imagined. I saw his eyes alight on me and the letter I was handing her. His nostrils flared and a flicker of anger crossed his face before he turned his back on me, and that was the bit that hurt. We had been friends and he’d shown how little he thought of me with that one gesture – or so I thought. I walked out of the building and never went back.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph of him, Reggie and me. The one I’d purloined from his bedroom. The picture he’d kept for all those years, while any of his two brothers he had not.

  Emma found me watching the sun go down with an empty glass and eyes full of tears. She didn’t ask – just went and brought the bottle and poured us both a large one.

  ‘To Simon,’ she said, clinking her glass against mine and raising it to the photograph perched on the table.

  As if in reply a lone peacock’s cry floated across the garden, as the first drops of rain for over two weeks pattered against the conservatory roof.

  I gazed down at the faces of the three young men in the photograph. Happy and laughing, we’d been at the beginning of our lives. Reggie had his arm around my shoulders, I was grinning at Simon, pulling back as he reached out as though to ruffle my hair. Me and my best buds in the world.

  ‘To Simon,’ I said, raising my glass, ‘and friendship,’ and I’m not sure whether it was wishful thinking, but I thought I heard a voice whisper, ‘Cheers.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I have often heard it said that being a writer is a lonely profession. Funnily enough I have never found this to be the case. I am, by nature, an introverted person and actually quite shy, but since becoming a published writer I have met a tremendous number of people, some of whom I can now call friends. Being a writer is being part of a community and a very welcoming one it is too
. So firstly I would like to say thank you to all my fellow writers who, whether online or in person, have been supportive in my endeavours. You know who you are.

  I would also like to thank my lovely agent, Heather Adams of the HMA Literary Agency. I have learnt a lot from her, and I couldn’t wish for a nicer person to work with on my novels.

  I would also like to thank the team at Allison & Busby, in particular Susie Dunlop, Lesley Crooks and my wonderful, and very patient, editor, Kelly Smith.

  And finally I really should thank the person who has to put up with me on a day-to-day basis, my husband, and best of friends, Howard. He has no real idea of what I do or why I do it, and yet he is always there to support me and give me a confidence boost should I need one. He also makes a mean cup of coffee! Cheers m’dear.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  S. M. Hardy grew up in south London and worked in banking for many years. She has now given up the day job to allegedly spend more time with her husband; he, however, has noticed that an awful lot more writing appears to be going on. She currently lives in Devon.

  smhardy.co.uk @SueTingey

  By S. M. Hardy