by James Becker
There were a couple of pieces of really good Georgian silver somewhere in the house that he hadn’t found yet, and a tray made by Paul Storr that he guessed would have a five-figure price tag, so being able to get inside undetected was vital.
No, he’d just have to come back tomorrow with a ladder. He had a right to Oliver’s possessions, and he was going to make damn sure they came to him, not to any museum.
14
‘Nice place,’ Chris Bronson remarked as Angela parked her Mini outside Carfax Hall the next morning.
Despite being divorced, he and Angela had remained the closest of friends, talking every day on the phone, and had come to trust and rely on each other perhaps even more than some married couples. Bronson was hoping they might get back together as man and wife, but Angela was still cautious about committing to that, the painful recollection of their separation and divorce still fresh in her memory. He was doing all he could to make her change her mind.
He had taken a couple of days’ leave and had driven up the previous evening, after Angela had told him about the possible intruder at Carfax Hall. Angela said she’d feel a lot happier having him around, and he’d agreed to come immediately. It was, he hoped, a sign that she might be about to put the past behind her.
‘I’m afraid the house is virtually falling apart. All those lumps of stone’ – she pointed – ‘have fallen off the roof and the upper walls. That’s why we can’t park any closer. The building’s losing bricks and masonry like a snake shedding its skin. We reckon it’ll be bulldozed inside a year.’
‘That’s a shame. I suppose it’s just deteriorated too much to save.’
‘That, plus the fact that the ungrateful relative who’s actually inherited the place – he’s a second cousin twice removed or something like that, according to Richard Mayhew – has already applied for planning permission to build houses in the parkland.’
The front door was locked, so Angela rang the bell. ‘This is just a precaution,’ she said, ‘until we – or, to be exact, you – tell us we’re all imagining things.’
The heavy door swung open and Richard Mayhew peered out at them, looking the image of a museum curator, Bronson thought.
‘Oh, it’s you, Angela,’ he said, testily. ‘Hello, Chris. This is completely unnecessary, you know. Angela’s reading far too much into things.’
‘If you don’t mind, Richard, I’ll be the judge of that. In my experience, Angela rarely overreacts.’
Mayhew grunted, pulled the door wide open and stepped aside to let them enter the hall.
‘Thanks,’ Angela said, leading Bronson around the base of the main staircase and down a corridor towards the back of the house. ‘Thanks for backing me up like that. Richard’s one of those annoying people who always think they’re right.’
Bronson smiled at her. ‘If you say there’s a problem, there’s a problem, and I’m here to fix it for you. Or at least I’ll try to.’
Angela pushed open the door at the end of the short corridor and stepped through into the kitchen. ‘This is where I’ve been working,’ she said, indicating the old table partially covered in assorted china and ceramics.
‘You make coffee and tea for the chaps in here, do you?’ Bronson asked.
‘In their dreams.’ Angela put her bag at the end of the table. ‘If they want drinks, they make their own. But I am prepared to make you a coffee, if you’d like one.’
Bronson nodded. ‘While you’re doing that, let me take a quick look at that window.’
Angela plugged in the kettle and pointed towards a door on one side of the kitchen. ‘Down there,’ she said. ‘That corridor runs along the back of the house. The window we found unlocked was at the far end.’
Bronson strode out of the room. He wasn’t gone for long. Angela had only just finished making two mugs of coffee when he walked back into the kitchen.
‘Did one of you jam the catch with a screw?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I did. It seemed very loose, so I thought it was a good idea.’
‘I’ve found what look like fresh scratch marks on that catch. I think they’re recent because there are a couple of flakes of paint still attached to one of the scratches. It looks to me like somebody has tried slipping the catch with something like a Slim Jim – you know, a thin length of steel?’
Angela looked alarmed.
‘Well, someone’s been using something similar to try to get that window open,’ Bronson continued. ‘He’s been sliding a steel tool between the two parts of the sash window and trying to undo the catch. The marks are quite unmistakable. The good news is that the screw you jammed into the mechanism stopped him from doing it. The bad news is that I found similar marks on the catches of all the windows along that corridor, so it was obviously a very determined attempt to break in.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, couldn’t those marks have been there for some time?’
Bronson picked up his mug of coffee. ‘Not really, no. I reckon your intruder tried really hard to open the window with the loose catch, because there are more scratches on that than any of the others. He didn’t get anywhere, because you’d jammed it, so he tried all the other windows at the back of the house, then he gave up.’
Angela shivered and rubbed her arms.
‘Come and take a look at this,’ Bronson said, moving to the kitchen window.
Like all the other ones in the property, it was a two-part sash window, single-glazed with a wooden frame. The only lock was a simple turnbuckle mounted on the top of the lower frame that locked both halves of the window together when it was rotated through ninety degrees.
Bronson pointed at three or four vertical scratches on the side of the catch.
‘That’s where he tried to slip it,’ he said, ‘and if you look down here, at the gap between the two panes, there are scratches there as well, where he forced the tool up to the catch.’
‘But he didn’t get inside the house?’
‘It’s just possible he did manage to open one of the windows, but if he did he must have secured it from the inside afterwards, and then left by one of the doors. Could he have done that?’
Angela shook her head decisively. ‘Not a chance. The rear door is bolted on the inside – in fact, we haven’t had it open since we’ve been here – and the front door’s fitted with a deadlock. I think even Richard Mayhew would have been suspicious if he’d found that open.’
‘OK,’ Bronson said, putting his arm round her shoulders. He could tell she was still nervous. ‘So apart from that first day, when it’s possible he got in through the unlatched window, or maybe even strolled in through the front door if he had the balls to do that, he can’t have got back inside.’
‘So what can we do to make sure he doesn’t get inside again? Go to the local police?’
Bronson laughed. ‘Unless the Suffolk Constabulary is very different to the one I work for in Kent, it’d be a complete waste of time. They’ll have their hands full trying to solve crimes that have already been committed. They certainly won’t have time to try to prevent a possible future crime.’
‘So what can we do?’
Bronson glanced round the room, then looked at her. His face softened. ‘As I see it, you’ve got three choices. First, do nothing. Keep all the doors and windows properly secured and hope that’ll be enough to keep this tea-leaf out. Second, stop what you’re doing here and transport the entire contents of the house straight to the British Museum and do your classifying and sorting out there. That’s probably the best option.’
Angela shook her head. ‘Most of this stuff is of no interest to the museum – we really don’t want to clutter the place up with the kind of things you can find in any provincial antique shop. We’ll cherry-pick the very best bits and most probably sell the rest through a local auction house. What’s the third option?’
Bronson grinned at her. ‘It’s obvious, really. You employ a night-watchman. Somebody to patrol the house and make sure nobody breaks in.’
&nbs
p; Angela stared at him for a few seconds. ‘We can’t afford to do that – not on our budget. Have you any idea how much it would cost?’
‘That depends who you get. Some people are a lot cheaper than others.’
‘You’ve got someone in mind, haven’t you?’
Bronson’s smile widened. ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘Me.’
15
Michael Daniel Killian stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. The pad over his left ear, which he’d only changed an hour earlier, was showing spots of red again. Carefully, he unwound the bandage from his head, then teased away the cotton pad he’d placed over his injured ear. Some of the fibres had stuck to the open wound, and he gave a grunt of pain as the pad came free and his ear started bleeding again.
He turned his head sideways and looked closely at the wound. The old bastard in England had done a pretty good job. His teeth had been strong and sharp, and his jaw muscles surprisingly powerful. His bite, and Killian’s initially futile attempts to escape his grasp, when he’d jerked away, had actually severed the upper part of the ear, and that section of it was now attached only by a narrow band of flesh close to his head.
He’d not tried to get his injury treated in England – the old man had died in the house, and any doctor he went to would remember such an unusual wound. His image might even have been recorded on the CCTV system of any hospital he visited. So he’d simply covered the injury as best he could.
He’d also been worried about the surveillance cameras he knew were all over British airports, so he’d dumped his Heathrow to LA ticket and instead had taken the Eurostar to France, then hopped a flight from Paris to New York, and then on to LA, in an attempt to muddy the waters. To anyone who asked about his bandaged head – and only two people had during his entire journey – he’d explained he had a bad ear infection, and was returning to the States for treatment.
But Killian hadn’t gone to a hospital or doctor in America because he still feared his injury would excite comment and – far worse – be remembered. Instead he’d placed pads around his ear to hold the loose part in position, hoping that it would somehow re-attach itself without the need for stitches. He could now see that this wasn’t happening.
For a couple of minutes Killian stared at his ripped ear as small rivulets of blood dripped off the lobe, splashing into the sink. He couldn’t go on without doing something about the injury.
Replacing the cotton pad, he roughly retied the bandage around his head, tightly enough to stop any more blood seeping out. Then he walked out of the bathroom and down the hall to the smallest bedroom of his modest and fairly isolated single-storey house, located in the countryside a few miles outside Monterey.
The moment he touched the door handle, a feeling of peace and contentment suffused his body. He opened the door and stepped inside.
At the far end of the room stood a tall cupboard, the doors and sides hidden behind deep purple cloth. Above it, a richly ornamented crucifix gleamed golden in the light from the candles burning on either side of it, the only illumination in the room. Directly in front of the makeshift altar was a single bare wooden pew, wide enough for only two or three people to kneel side by side. Killian had bought the pew from an antique dealer in France, and knew it was over five hundred years old.
He closed the door behind him, crossed himself and bowed his head, then walked forward slowly, reverently, to the wooden pew. He stepped into the centre of it, crossed himself again, then knelt down, clasping his hands together. For some seconds his lips moved in silent prayer, then he looked up at the crucifix.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he began. ‘I need Your guidance and Your help and Your strength to complete the sacred task You have set for me.’
Ten minutes later, Killian emerged from his chapel, bowed once towards the altar, then closed the door behind him. Then, removing his black shirt and clerical collar, he assembled the materials he would need for what he now knew he had to do.
In his bathroom, he again stared at his reflection for a few seconds, then plugged the electric soldering iron into the shaver socket and tested the tip with his finger to ensure that it was getting hot. Taking a small piece of cotton cloth, he folded it until it fitted over his entire mouth. He used one hand to hold the cloth there while he wrapped duct tape around his head to hold the material firmly in place, as a simple but efficient gag. Finally, he made sure that the scissors were close to hand.
His preparations complete, Killian unwrapped the bandage around his head and removed the pad from his ear. Once again, blood started to flow from the open wound.
Picking up the scissors, he opened the blades and positioned them over the thin band of tissue that connected the two sections of his ear. As the steel of the scissors touched his flesh, Killian jumped involuntarily, then steadied himself. He took a deep breath through his nose, and squeezed the blades together.
The pain was instant and startling as the twin blades closed together, cutting deep, and despite the gag, he screamed, the sound emerging as a muffled howl. Tears streamed down his face. For several seconds he couldn’t even see his image in the mirror, then he blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes.
The loose flap of flesh was still attached, still hanging from the rest of his ear. He knew he’d have to do it again. He took several deep breaths, then positioned the scissors once more. This time, he closed his eyes before he applied pressure to the handles.
He heard a distinct ‘crunch’ as the scissors sliced through the remaining flesh, then a faint wet slap as the top of his ear landed in the sink in front of him. He didn’t look down as he was trying very hard not to scream again, and his eyes had once more filled with tears. But, he thought, as his vision slowly cleared, at least the worst of it was over. Or perhaps not. He glanced down at the soldering iron, its tip smoking ominously.
His ear was bleeding copiously, the amputation of the remaining flap of tissue having cut through several blood vessels. Killian dabbed at it with a piece of cotton cloth, which was instantly soaked with blood, turning a deep red. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the soldering iron. As he lifted it past his face he could feel the radiant heat on his cheek. He hesitated for barely a second, then touched the tip of the implement to the top of his ear closest to his head, where the blood flow was most pronounced.
This pain was different, even worse than before, a searing, burning agony that seemed unbearable. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Suddenly Killian felt he couldn’t breathe. He reached up and tore the rough gag from his mouth, gulped in a lungful of air and screamed. After a few seconds, the pain faded and he felt more in control. He looked in the mirror again. The treatment, such as it was, did seem to be working. The blood flow had clearly diminished, at least around the fresh, straight cut he’d made with the scissors.
Gritting his teeth, Killian lifted the soldering iron again and pressed it once more to the top of his ear. And once more he screamed.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he’d managed to stop all the bleeding, though the side of his head felt as if it was on fire. The wound to the top of his ear looked appalling, a rough crust of red and black burnt flesh, where the tip of the soldering iron had done its work. He hoped it would now start to heal.
Gingerly, taking infinite care, he applied a salve to the injury. That cooled the burning sensation, at least a little, but did nothing for the pain. He took a clean cotton pad, rested it gently against his ear and cautiously wrapped a bandage around his head to hold it in place, grimacing as the pressure increased. Finally he swallowed half a dozen painkillers – three times the recommended dose, but he needed something to reduce the agony.
He walked out of the bathroom – he’d clean up the mess in the sink later, when he felt better – and stumbled down the corridor to the lounge, grabbing a bottle of whisky and a glass. He slumped into a recliner near the window, poured a generous two fingers into the glass and downed it in a couple of gulps. Th
e fiery liquid seared his throat as he swallowed it, then settled warmly, comfortingly in his stomach. He eased backwards, turning his head to avoid his torn ear touching the fabric of the chair, and lay there, glad his ordeal was over.
As the painkillers started to kick in, the throbbing ache from the side of his head began to subside. Killian thought back over the events of the last few weeks, wondering if he could have handled things differently. He shook his head, and instantly wished he hadn’t as a fresh spike of pain lanced through his head.
It had begun a couple of years earlier, with a visit from a former colleague, Father Mitchell, a deeply troubled man who’d long been aware of Killian’s encyclopedic knowledge of Church history, its doctrine and practices, and without doubt this had influenced his decision to break the sacred trust of the confessional.
Killian closed his eyes and replayed the conversation in his mind.
‘Do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’ Mitchell had asked him.
‘Of course. Anything learned in the confessional is to be kept between you, your parishioner and God.’
‘Do you think there are any circumstances when that trust can be breached? Suppose one of your parishioners confesses to murder? What then?’
‘The position of the Church is unequivocal. What’s said in the confessional is sacred. You should encourage your parishioner to surrender to the police, of course, and confess to his crime. But you yourself may not breach that trust and approach the authorities.’
Mitchell had nodded, because he had already known the orthodox answers to those questions. He’d paused and Killian had been struck by his haunted, almost terrified look.
‘Then you must be my confessor, Michael. Hear my confession. Right here, right now.’ Mitchell leaned across the table and seized his arm with a grip so firm it actually hurt.
‘Very well,’ Killian had said, reluctantly.