No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She doesn’t turn to face me as she speaks, her gaze on her feet as she steps carefully down. ‘But don’t let that deter you. Keep searching, my dear. The truth won’t hide from you for long.’

  A part of me wants to chase after the old woman as she thumps down the stairs, but instead I let her go. My brain hasn’t really woken up properly yet, and sleeping through the day has left me feeling oddly disconnected. The conversation plays over in my head: her in-depth knowledge of my family is one puzzle, but perhaps not so surprising if she knew my grandfather, and has been friends with Aunt Felicity for almost sixty years. More worrying are her words about Izzy, and Roger DeVilliers, or rather her lack of words. I can’t help but feel I am being manipulated, although why someone would try to influence me into doing something I was going to do anyway, I can’t begin to understand.

  The strangest thing, perhaps, is that I feel I would like to spend more time with this mysterious Rose. She strikes me as the sort of person who would be fascinating to talk to at length, someone with deep historical knowledge. And, truth be told, I know little about the family history of the Fairchilds, just the biased account my father used to tell when Ben and I were still small. I learned early on that those tales were more for my brother’s benefit than mine. What was it that Rose said? That we were defenders of the common people? That doesn’t sound like the knights and chivalry I was taught.

  Staring out of the window, I see Rose finally leave the house. She’s wearing a long overcoat and carries a small leather Gladstone bag, which she puts carefully into the boot of her ridiculously beautiful car. She can’t possibly see me, but she turns, looks up and waves before opening the door and climbing in with surprising agility. The engine bursts into life, then waffles and burbles away into the distance as she leaves. Only once the quiet has reasserted itself do I finally move.

  The house has changed in the years since I was last here. Aunt Felicity must have spent a fortune on rewiring it, for one thing, and all the rooms are freshly decorated. I wander from guest bedroom to guest bedroom, sticking my nose into things in a manner I’d never have dared when I was a child. It’s all so clean and tidy, I can only assume someone comes in regularly to keep it that way. Not like my tiny flat in London with its archaeological layers of discarded clothing and general detritus. But then I could only just about afford the rent on my detective constable’s salary, so no chance of employing a cleaner. Not much chance of keeping the place at all unless I find a way to earn money soon.

  The main living room – the drawing room as my father insisted on calling it – used to be damp and dismal on those cold autumn days when the fog never lifted and the sun was just a slightly brighter patch in the grey. Now it’s been transformed. The open fireplace has been replaced by a large cast-iron stove, piles of logs and peat bricks to either side. It’s too warm to light right now, but the thought of it churning out heat when the rain is beating against the windows brings a smile to my lips.

  Through in the smaller living room, I’m surprised to find a television. I shouldn’t be, given the telephone and Wi-Fi, but it still seems out of place. Switching it on, I’m presented with the evening news, and absent-mindedly check my watch to find that it’s gone six o’clock already. I’m about to turn it off, uninterested in the endless machinations of our elected so-called representatives, when a familiar face appears on the screen behind the newsreader. The sound’s muted, but I find the volume button soon enough.

  ‘. . . inquest into the death of freelance investigative journalist Steve Benson, whose body was found floating in the Thames. Initially thought to be foul play, police now think Mr Benson may have taken his own life. CCTV footage of the journalist approaching Tower Bridge the night he died, and revelations concerning his private life, suggest he may have committed suicide.’

  I stare at the screen, hoping for more, but the report ends and the newsreader moves on to another piece about school exam results. I switch off the television, and still I can see the face in my mind. I never knew Benson alive, only spent an hour scanning his case file, but nothing about it spoke of suicide. The man had ligature marks around his wrists and heavy bruising where he’d been either punched or kicked repeatedly in the ribs. There was absolutely no doubt that it was foul play. Without thinking, I pull out my phone and thumb the screen awake, then realise that I can’t call the station to discuss what was never my case anyway.

  ‘Bloody Dan Penny.’ I speak my frustration to the empty room as I remember his gurning face. He was the one who wrote up the initial report, likely the one who dealt with all the forensic and pathology results. Unless there are two dead journalists called Steve Benson in London right now, then this is a cover-up. The question is why?

  I swing past the kitchen, pleased to find that Rose has left a well-stocked fridge and a large jar of her excellent coffee. The light outside is taking on that evening tinge, but it’s nowhere near dusk. That’s something I’d missed about Scotland, the way the summer light fades so slowly into a night that’s never truly dark. It’s maybe a bit late for coffee, tempted though I am. Instead I opt for a heavy mug of tea, and trudge back up the many flights of stairs to my tower-top lair. It’s time to get to work.

  The first thing I notice is the complete lack of emails from anyone at the station. Nothing from my fellow detectives, no messages from the HR department about my being suspended pending investigation. There isn’t even anything from Professional Standards, which surprises me. I’d thought they were more or less incorruptible and took pride in being as awkward as they possibly could.

  There is a message from Charlotte though. Much like herself it’s short and sweet and rather lacking in substance.

  Hey Connie,

  just spoken to Dad about Izzy and everything’s fine. No need to bother looking for her, she’ll be home in a week or two. Just went off with a school friend and forgot to tell anyone. Tried your phone, but it’s just taking messages. Hope everything’s OK. Benno says hi.

  Char.

  I read it through a few times, looking for any evidence of a coded message explaining her change of heart. It could be that the message isn’t from her, that Adrian or his silent friend have hacked into her email account and are just trying to reassure me. But the way she calls me ‘Connie’ and the reference to my brother by the nickname he also hates is typical Charlotte.

  There’s no way that I’m going to stop looking for Izzy though. Fairchilds never run from a fight. We’re also a cussed bunch, contrary to a fault, and the very fact that Roger doesn’t want me to look for her is enough to set me to the task. That Charlotte has fallen for her father’s lies only makes me more determined.

  Fishing around in my bag, I find the hard drive I took out of Izzy’s laptop, still in its little caddy. I plug it into my own computer and search for another of the programs I downloaded while at Aunt Felicity’s. It takes only a few moments to access all the files.

  There’s not much useful information. Mostly Izzy used her computer for writing bad poetry and homework assignments, but buried deep in the hidden folders most people don’t know much about, the archived web browser history is a bit more revealing. Izzy spent a lot of time searching for information about refuges for battered women, as well as law firms specialising in domestic abuse. I can barely read any of the handwriting in the scanned document I saw before, but I find an entire folder labelled ‘Burntwoods’ that will take a while to work my way through for clues. Of course, the whole thing could be for a school project, but having experienced her father’s attentions first hand I think there’s rather more to the story than that.

  I flick back to the poetry and things start to make a horrible sense. Sure, it’s naive and painful to read, but the words between the lines speak volumes.

  Daddy, daddy. Dearest daddy.

  Why do you say you love me

  And yet hurt me so?

  I was your
precious flower,

  Your littlest buttercup,

  Your perfect miracle.

  I used to love the way you held me,

  Your warmth, your solidity.

  Now your stench makes me sick.

  And on and on, line after line, page after page.

  I close down the files with all the poetry, and start scanning through folders in search of more tangible evidence of abuse. There are very few images in the pictures folder: a couple of school trips; some blurred photos of a party that seem to focus on one particular girl; a few pictures I recognise as Izzy herself. Looking at the dates these images and folders were created, it soon becomes obvious that a lot has been deleted. There’s nothing in the wastebasket, of course, but I’ve a few tricks up my sleeve. Nothing as sophisticated as I’d have access to if I was back at the station, and I’m sorely tempted to give Bob in the IT department a call to see if he can’t help me out. I know that any contact will get back to Bailey though. And if I’m really unlucky they’ll use it to trace me here.

  By the time I’ve downloaded a free program for recovering deleted files and set it to analyse Izzy’s hard drive, the tea is long gone. Outside, the sun has dipped below the mountains, painting the sky in blues, purples and yellows like the bruises on a week-old corpse. It’ll take the program hours to finish its analysis, possibly even overnight. I leave it chugging away and step out into the gloaming for a bit of fresh air.

  32

  There’s a stillness to the evening as I stand outside the front door. Not a gust of wind to be felt, and a silence so profound I think I might have gone deaf. Then some noisy bird screeches from the silver birches that line the boggy edge of the loch. As the London filters fade, so I begin to notice other sounds. The chattering of the burn running down the hill, the whistle of curlews and the contented munching as a flock of nearby sheep work their way through the tough grass. And then I hear a footstep on gravel, turn to see a lone figure walking down the drive from the farmyard. It takes a moment for me to realise it’s a woman, carrying something in her arms.

  ‘Would you be Mistress Constance?’ As she comes closer, I see that she’s probably about my age, although shorter and rounder. I’m tempted to say plump, but there’s a strength about her that makes me think it’s not fat that’s shaped her, but long hours of hard work.

  ‘Emily Robertson.’ She nods her head, both hands already full of what looks like a heavy casserole dish. ‘George’s wife. Miss Felicity phoned and said you’d be coming, so I made a bit of mutton stew. I kent Madame Rose was leaving, but I wasn’t sure if she’d left anything for you to eat. Thought I’d just pop it in the kitchen, but seeing as you’re here.’

  I can’t help but be reminded of old Mrs Feltham, in her flat the floor below my own back in London, cooking fiery Jamaican curries for her family and making sure there’s enough to leave a tupperware pot outside my door. The two women couldn’t be more different physically, and yet the same basic, decent hospitality links them both.

  ‘That’s very kind. You really didn’t need to.’ I reach out to take the casserole dish, then realise that Emily is wearing heavy oven gloves.

  ‘Och, it’s no trouble. Here, let me take it in for you.’

  I follow her back in through the front door and on towards the kitchen. I’ve not eaten in far too long, and the smell escaping from the casserole dish has my stomach rumbling. She puts it on the back of the stove before fetching a spoon from a drawer she’s obviously opened many a time before.

  ‘I usually cook for the hunting and fishing parties. That’s if they don’t bring their own cooks. A lot of folk do these days.’ Emily goes to a cupboard and pulls out a large plate, slipping it into the warming oven with a practised motion. ‘There’s vegetables and dumplings in the stew, but I could boil up a few potatoes if you want.’

  I realise too late that I’m being mothered. It’s a bit odd, coming from someone who’s probably not much older than me anyway. I remember George Robertson, Tam’s son, as a young man. He drove the old tractor and looked after the sheep. Sometimes in the summer I might see him out in the hay fields without a shirt on, but I never found that particularly arousing despite what all my school friends might have thought had they been here to see it for themselves. He’d have to be forty by now, but there’s no reason why his wife shouldn’t be younger, I suppose.

  ‘I . . .’ I’m about to say I’m not hungry just now, but my stomach takes the opportunity to growl loudly at that precise moment. I’m not going to get away with it that easily. ‘No. Just the stew will be fine. Thank you.’

  I pull out one of the chairs from the large kitchen table and sit down, hoping that Emily will do the same. She doesn’t, and neither does she say anything. I’m used to leaving silences for suspects under interrogation to fill, so I shouldn’t fall for it myself, but I do. ‘I’ve not been here for quite a while. How long have you and George been married?’

  Emily smiles and leans back against the stove. ‘Oh, it’s coming up on ten years now. Wee Tam Junior’s nine this Christmas, and his sister’s nearly seven.’

  Once I’ve made that initial show of interest, the floodgates open. I listen to her life history and all the things that have happened on the estate in the past decade and more. It’s an easy conversation, although a little one-sided. Emily clearly doesn’t get out much, and I suspect George isn’t the most dynamic of company. Right now, he’s either up in the mountains looking for a lost sheep or fast asleep in the front room of the old farmhouse, telly on and an empty glass of beer beside him. I listen, then listen and eat after Emily has spooned some hearty stew and dumplings onto the warm plate and set it in front of me.

  She’s not old Margaret the housekeeper who looked after me and Ben when we were children, but I like her all the same. If I’m going to be stuck here a while, at least I’ll not lack for company.

  I watch Emily walk away up the drive, back to the old farmhouse and her sleeping husband. It’s been nice to have a little company to take my mind off things, and I can’t deny her mutton stew was excellent. Looking out across the land as the darkness begins to settle, I can see the pale dots of hundreds of sheep, ranging over the moorland. Was it one of their brethren gave its life so that I could eat? Probably.

  It’s so quiet here, so still and peaceful. I can understand why Aunt Felicity suggested the place as a hideout, even if she had more nefarious purposes in mind as well. The events of the past week were threatening to overwhelm me, and even Harston Magna wasn’t safe. Up here though, and with my phone being slowly tracked through the postal system back to my London flat, I’ve the luxury of space to breathe, to collect my thoughts, to plan.

  I follow the narrow path that leads from the house down to the loch. The air is warm with the end of summer, and there’s still light enough to see. It never gets truly dark here at this time of year, but then it never gets truly light in the winter. Gazing out across the still water, I can’t help thinking there’s something missing. The jetty’s where I remember it, two wooden rowing boats tied up ready for anyone who might want to go out in search of salmon or trout. The stone boathouse with its rusty tin shed squats over the little inlet like some massive insect come down for a drink. There’ll be outboard motors, oars and other boating stuff stored in there, I suppose. We were never allowed to play on the loch, the only concession to our boredom being permission to paddle at the water’s edge, where the burn runs down from the mountain.

  Unbidden, my feet take me there. I’m glad of my stout boots over the uneven and slimy rocks. The silver birches that can be seen from my tower bedroom loom above me, reaching out over the wall and deepening the gloom, but I feel no fear in this darkness.

  ‘It’s a nice place. I’ll give you that.’

  Straining my eyes, I can just about make out the shape of a figure a few paces away, mostly hidden by the overhanging branches. Why am I not surprised that Pete�
�s ghost has followed me all this way?

  ‘I never took you for a country boy,’ I say, leaning against the drystone wall. Pete doesn’t move, but then that’s hardly surprising since he’s not really there. Just a figment of my imagination, a trick of the shadows. My conscience talking. Either that or Emily uses some very strange herbs in her mutton stew.

  ‘You’re still looking for the girl, I take it.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of, nothing.’ Pete’s tone is disparaging, and it occurs to me that if he’s just in my head then anything he says is coming from me anyway. It’s still nice to have someone to talk to about the case. And it is a case now, even if I’m not really a detective any more.

  ‘There’s something bugging me. Well, lots of things, but this one in particular.’

  ‘The assassination attempts?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, not the attempts themselves. Could do without that kind of stress, but it’s no good moaning about it. I’m more concerned about how they happened.’

  ‘How they knew where you were going to be, you mean?’

  ‘The first one, OK. I live there, so it’s fair to assume I’d be there at some point. But the other two? The only reason I was in that club was because it was close by Roger DeVilliers’ penthouse, and the two idiots who tailed me from Birmingham had to have been told I was there by whoever put that tracker on my phone.’

  ‘Adrian and his silent friend.’

  ‘That’s my best hypothesis. Can’t think how anyone else could have managed. But that’s the problem, see. Wee Jock told me the hit was put out by the same mob as did for you.’

  ‘He also said it wasn’t enough money for anyone professional to take it seriously, if I remember. I’d be a bit narked by that. It’s like saying, I want her dead, but not so much I’m prepared to pay for it.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Only something must have changed. The guy in the jazz club and the two idiots in the car must have been tipped off. Word must have got out, and it sounds a lot like the price on my head went up.’