The English Boys

by Julia Thomas

  The taxi pulled up in front of the theatre. Handing the cabman a note, he went inside, where he found it as dreary on the inside as it was from the street. It had a musty, humid smell. A hundred years old or more, it was everything he hated about old theatres: flat, faded velvet chairs, torn curtains, creaky furnishings that hadn’t seen the light of day in decades, seats too small for luxury-seeking twenty-first-century human beings. It was poorly lit, with fading wallpaper peeling back at the corners of the wall. Everything about the place was depressing, but in an effort to be fair, he tried to see it through fresh eyes. It certainly had the space for them to vent their creativity upon the—albeit minor—masses. The stage was large and made of good solid oak, and though it could use a good polishing, it provided ample room for set design and staging. He wandered down an aisle in the empty chamber and opened a door leading into the back rooms. There, each space was small and cluttered in comparison. A few people were working on various projects: a seamstress stitching a threadbare gown; a girl, dressed in tight jeans and a hoodie, emptying bins while listening to her iPod; a young couple in the corner talking in low tones, obviously having a personal discussion rather than a professional one. He opted to speak to the woman who was sewing and walked up to her.

  “Is Dylan Cole here?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened in recognition. “He’s through there,” she said, nodding in the direction of a closed door to the right. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No thank you,” he said, avoiding her eyes and wondering what she might have meant. He knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  “Good god! If it isn’t Daniel Richardson!” Cole said, putting down a pen. He appeared to be writing some kind of letter, which he covered with a script. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not sure I know,” Daniel admitted. He was rather relieved to find him alone.

  Cole hesitated, but then lifted a stack of manuscripts from a battered old stage chair.

  “Sit down. Do you have any news about what happened yet?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It’s maddening. Listen, I know it’s rude, but may I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “What, you’re an amateur detective now?”

  Daniel shrugged. “I’ve been making inquiries, trying to establish some sort of context. Were you in regular contact with Tamsyn before the wedding?”

  “Define ‘regular,’” Cole said bitterly. “We were inseparable before she met Ashley-Hunt, but she didn’t entirely break contact with us afterward. She and Lucy were close. They emailed a lot when she was making the film. And she called to let us know about the wedding.”

  “How did you feel about it?”

  “How did anyone feel about it? They were a mismatched pair if I ever saw one. I only hoped the blighter loved her and wouldn’t break her heart.”

  Daniel felt a tightening in his chest. If he was honest, he had to admit he had felt exactly the same way. “How is Lucy holding up?”

  “She’s miserable. Luce isn’t usually a crier, but this has really torn her up. She told me she feels that if she’d talked Tamsyn out of it, she’d be alive today. How is Ashley-Hunt?”

  “Same as any man who lost his bride right before the wedding. Shattered, of course. Where did you usually meet Tamsyn?”

  “She came here, sometimes. Once in a while, she’d turn up at the flat.”

  “Did she talk about anything in particular, that you recall?”

  Cole frowned. “It wasn’t what she said, exactly. It was what she didn’t say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she never talked about her life, if you know what I mean. She didn’t wax on about Ashley-Hunt, or talk about the film she had made, or mention any of her new friends. When she was around, it was all old times, as if the present didn’t even exist.”

  “For example … ?”

  “You know, she and Luce talked about vintage clothes, jumble sales, ordinary stuff. It’s not like we didn’t know she had money now, but she didn’t mention it. She preferred her old life, I’m sure of it. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so keen to write off the new one. I’ve seen plenty of people who’ve made it, and they can’t wait to tell you all about it. Not Tamsyn, though. I don’t think she was happy with her new life.”

  Just then, the iPod girl stuck her head in the doorway. “Dylan, Roger needs to talk to you. Something about the set.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “I think he broke something.”

  He hesitated for a minute, frowning. “I’ll be right back.” He stood and pulled the letter he’d been writing from under the script, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

  The moment he was out of the door, Daniel walked over to the desk. He pulled out the drawer and ran his hands over the contents. Bills, mostly, and notices of other plays, both past and present. He opened one of the lower drawers of the desk and then froze when he saw the photo on top. His heart gave a lurch. Tamsyn’s smiling face stared up at him from the top of a stack of papers. He lifted the photo to get a closer look. She was younger, by at least four or five years. It was a publicity portrait, probably taken for some play. She looked uncomplicated and happy, just as she had been until some bastard had taken her life.

  He set the photo on the desk and looked with surprise at the clippings beneath it, which had been cut from various newspapers. Most of them he had never seen before, apart from the more recent ones. One, whose headline read Actress to Star in Hodges’s Film, jumped out at him. By the look of the stack in front of him, Cole had followed every mention of Tamsyn Burke since Daniel had known her. What was he doing with these clippings? Was he obsessed with Tamsyn? Angry that she had dropped the two of them when she’d made it into a feature film? He could only imagine the jealousy that they must have felt to see her get everything she wanted without any trouble at all.

  He heard footsteps in the hall and stuffed everything back into the drawer just before Cole walked in. The clippings were odd, but without anything else to go on, they didn’t explicitly implicate Cole in her murder.

  “Thanks for talking to me,” Daniel said.

  “If you find out something, I would appreciate it if you let me and Lucy know. It’s killing her.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Cole stood and opened the door to his office, then walked Daniel through the theater, no doubt to make sure everyone saw them together. At the front entrance, Daniel shook his hand. He hurried outside and dialed Carey’s number.

  “Meet me at the corner of Broadway and Dacre Street in fifteen minutes. There’s something we need to do.”

  Daniel took a cab to Broadway and waited another ten minutes until Carey came into view. It had only been a few hours since he’d seen her, and he watched her approach, a bewildered look crossing her face when she realized where they were.

  “What are we doing here?” Carey asked. “This is Scotland Yard.”

  “We have to talk to Murray. I went to have a chat with Dylan Cole, and we’re getting nowhere. I’m starting to think we’ve done everything we can for now, and I’m hoping we can get some information from him.”

  Carey turned toward him, an angry look on her face. “You’re giving up. And I don’t think he’ll tell us anything.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  He led the way into the building, where they were stopped by security before being allowed to proceed further. Cleared for entry, Daniel headed for the desk.

  “We’d like to see Detective Chief Inspector Murray,” he announced.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” the sergeant behind the counter asked.

  “I’m afraid we don’t.”

  “Your names, please?”

  “Daniel Richardson and Carey Burke.”

  “Reason for your visit?”

  Carey spoke this t
ime. “We’re here about the murder inquiry into the death of Tamsyn Burke. She was my sister.”

  The sergeant jotted something on the paper and jerked his head to the side. “Have a seat. Could be a long wait.”

  They found two chairs apart from the crowd. Daniel spied a coffee machine and stood. “Want something to drink?”

  Carey rubbed her temples. “Will it really be a long wait?”

  “Probably. Might as well relieve the boredom with a cup of industrial police coffee.”

  He took his time getting the cups, then poured the scalding brew and went back to where Carey was sitting. He handed her one of the cups.

  “Maybe he’s too busy to see us,” she said.

  “Maybe he’s not.”

  “Why haven’t they done something? Every day that goes by means a smaller chance of catching whoever did this.”

  “I’m starting to think we should trust them. Murray looked like the kind of man who didn’t let things go.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “We have to. There’s no other way.”

  Daniel leaned forward in his chair and laced his fingers. He was losing hope that they would ever find out who killed Tamsyn, though it would be the greatest waste in the world to have lost her and spend the rest of his life having no idea why.

  “Excuse me,” the sergeant said, having come around from his desk to stand in front of them. “Chief Inspector Murray will see you now.”

  They followed the directions and soon stood in front of Murray’s door. Carey gave Daniel a look, and he reached over and squeezed her hand before taking a deep breath and knocking on the door.

  “Come in.”

  He turned the knob and gestured for Carey to enter, closing the door behind them.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” the inspector said, rising from his chair.

  “Thank you,” Carey answered.

  The room was plainer than Daniel had expected: a few books on the shelves and files on the desk. Nothing flashy like some of the police offices he had seen on the telly or on a film set.

  “Inspector, with all due respect, we don’t understand why so many days have passed without the police making an arrest in the case,” he began. “There must be some lead that you’re not telling us about.”

  “The police do not report to family and friends while things are in the investigative stage,” Murray answered. “I’m sure you understand that this case is being taken quite seriously. You’re not attempting to involve yourself in some way, are you?”

  “No,” Daniel answered. “But it’s torture to wait endlessly and read the speculation in the newspapers. Who killed Tamsyn, Inspector? Was it really one of the people there at the wedding? Couldn’t someone have been waiting inside the church who left the scene before she was found?”

  Murray sat back in his worn leather chair and tapped a pencil on the desk. “There is, of course, that possibility, I’ll admit. But I think it very unlikely.”

  “Why?” Carey asked, clutching her bag.

  “There were people outside. If someone had left suddenly, through a window or door, it would have attracted attention. And, in fact, the Ashley-Hunts had a small security detail outside to make certain that only invited guests were allowed inside, not to mention the press.”

  “Surely there were fingerprints in the room. Or some madman let out of the bin the day before, something like that.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Mr. Richardson. Unfortunately, it’s not. For one thing, there is a complete lack of DNA evidence in the case. Of the dozen or so fingerprints found in the room, the only ones we’ve identified so far belong to the two of you and Hugh Ashley-Hunt, and I hardly think you’d be persevering toward the end of finding a murderer if it were in fact one of you. Another difficulty is the murder weapon. It’s a common knife sold by thousands all across the country. There’s no way to track down where it was purchased or by whom. I will say that I have my eye on one or two suspicious persons. At this point, I’m still sifting through information and watching everyone very closely. One must be patient in these matters.”

  “Who are the suspects?” Carey asked, leaning forward.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” Murray replied. “I could, of course, be wrong about my assumptions, and there’s not enough evidence yet to make an arrest. Only time will tell.”

  “I don’t understand,” Daniel said, standing. “Friends and family were in that church, not people who hated her.”

  “On the contrary, that’s precisely who killed her,” Murray said. He turned to Carey before continuing. “You see, Miss Burke, this wasn’t a random act at all. Whoever killed your sister was someone who had a deeply personal reason for wanting her dead.”

  Twenty-Four

  The tea had grown cold, but Carey took a swallow of it anyway. The pot had been weak and tasted only of the sugar, which she had added too liberally. The saucer had a chip along the edge, and she walked back into the kitchen to toss it in the bin. She had hardly slept in the two days since she and Daniel had spoken with Inspector Murray, and she had heard nothing from either of them. It was over. There was nothing more to do. Whoever had killed Tamsyn had destroyed their lives and walked away. In spite of herself, she imagined it sometimes: the killer pulling out a knife and stabbing Tamsyn, face to face. Then he would have stashed it in the plastic bag before joining them all in the room of family and friends when the police arrived. She tried to remember if anyone had been breathing hard or seemed agitated, but nothing stood out in her memory, nothing at all.

  Sighing, she picked up her mobile and looked at the blank screen. Nick still wasn’t answering her texts. She thought about sending him an email, but decided against it. She would speak to him the next time she went home. He was sensitive and easily hurt, but as much as she wanted to rectify the situation, she couldn’t do it long distance. She didn’t have the strength.

  There was no one to talk to about Tamsyn now that Daniel had given up. Carey threw herself onto the bed and lay down on her side, pulling the duvet over her shoulder. She longed, suddenly, to be home, in her old room at her parents’ house. They had kept it intact, down to the last peeling Coldplay poster, for weekends and holidays when she came to stay. In fact, if she could have studied medicine in Llandudno, she would be there still, filling her sister’s shoes as best she could. On her rare visits home, Tamsyn had refused to stay over, opting instead to stay with friends. Her parents had long since given up that battle.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She thought of her room in Llandudno, with the quilt made by her grandmother and the small desk tucked in a corner, littered with favorite objects from trips with friends. She enumerated them now, like counting sheep: the mug from Cardiff Castle, full of colored pencils; a stack of drawing pads, half full of dreamy sketches of flowers and birds from walks taken with Nick; a recorder from a local festival; pennants from school; a trinket jar with a ring inside, a pretty, if modest, band with a pair of intertwined diamond chips from her first boyfriend, Evan Davies, who’d refused to take it back when she broke up with him; and various scarves and hats she sometimes still wore. It was a room resplendent with the hopes and dreams of a young girl, the girl that in some ways she still was. She pictured the ring, imagining where Evan Davies was now, and wondered if he remembered the summer they went out together.

  She thought of him fondly, but without regret. Sometimes she pondered the future and had difficulty imagining herself with anyone at all. Medicine was a difficult life and there would be loans to repay and conferences to attend and articles to write, if one were to be truly successful. Even thinking about it required more energy than she could summon.

  She fell asleep, waking several hours later. It had grown dark, and she lingered a few moments before sitting up and looking for her alarm clock, which had fallen off the bedside table. Eleven
o’clock, she thought, frowning. She would never get back to sleep now. She threw back the comforter and put a kettle on the stove. The silence of her flat, which had never bothered her before, seemed almost suffocating. It was time to go home. She would pack a bag and take the train tomorrow.

  While she waited for the water to boil, she snatched her phone from the seat of a nearby chair. She would text Daniel and let him know. After all, it would be unfair if he tried to contact her and discovered she’d left London without a word.

  I’m going to my parents’ for a while. Text if you hear anything.

  Carey waited a few minutes for a reply, which didn’t come. For some reason, she felt hurt. It’s his fault, she thought. He’d agreed to get involved and then dropped it the second it got complicated. Then she shook herself. She was oversensitive after all she had gone through. She had relied on him, and that had to stop. He wasn’t family. He wasn’t even a friend, really. She set about making tea and then crawled back into bed, perching her laptop on her knees. She would order a ticket online and save herself the bother in the morning. The earliest train left Euston Station at 8:10 a.m., and she’d have to take the Tube from Charing Cross even earlier. The trip took three and a half hours, but she never minded that. It gave her time to think. After she bought her ticket, her mobile buzzed. She picked it up and saw that Daniel had texted.

  When?

  “Seriously?” she murmured aloud. She texted him back.

  In the morning.

  That’s it? she thought. He isn’t even going to call? Perhaps they had said everything that needed to be said. Inspector Murray had been vague, and everything looked hopeless. She tried to calm her temper. It wasn’t Daniel’s fault that they couldn’t make heads or tails of the case, any more than it was hers. They didn’t know how to start a proper investigation. Evidently, Scotland Yard didn’t either. Sighing, she threw a few things into a bag, wishing she could leave tonight. She didn’t relish a long night of tossing and turning.