Michael went out of the room and down the passage. The door to Rosie’s room was ajar and he opened it further. She was under the covers, breathing deeply. The district nurse had come during the night and given her a sedative. She’d be awake soon. He had already taken Nick’s room apart and put things back so his daughter-in-law wouldn’t notice. The police were bound to go through it soon. There was no sign of a diary; as far as Rosie and Michael knew, Nick hadn’t keep one. His laptop would be taken, but Michael had already transferred all the files he could find to a memory stick and would download them to his own computer.
He went back into Nick’s room and got down on his knees. Not to pray – the residual faith he’d taken from family and school had been burned away in Bosnia, where he had seen things which proved either that there was no god or that any such being was indifferent to humanity. He put his hands under the wardrobe, feeling for anything he might have missed. All he found was a wrapper crushed around a piece of desiccated gum. The idea that it had been in his grandson’s mouth brought tears to his eyes. He put it in his pocket as carefully as if it were a holy relic.
Michael looked at the boxes that Nick had filled with his possessions. One was full of game cards, collected with devotion when he was younger; another contained pages cut from soft porn magazines; and another, programmes from rugby matches, including internationals at Murrayfield in Edinburgh – several of which they had attended together. He looked again at the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace. It was contained paperbacks ranging from Tolkien to Terry Pratchett. More recently, Nick had spent such free time as he had reading popular history – Beevor on Stalingrad, Hugh Thomas on the Spanish Civil War, Piers Brendon on the decline and fall of the British empire. Michael was glad Niall Ferguson’s more positive book about the empire wasn’t there. He’d seen the results of modern empire-making after the first Gulf War and in the Balkans, and had openly taken against it. That was why he’d been given a desk job during the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. He believed young men and women deserved better than the horrors they’d been thrown into. But none of that mattered now his grandson was gone. The only thing he wanted was justice.
The major general sat in Nick’s chair and thought about how that could be achieved. Although he didn’t much like Ruth Dickie or her black subordinate, he thought they were probably good at what they did. But what could that amount to? The people responsible for Nick’s death would slither away, he was sure of that. Only death would be ample recompense for his grandson’s life, so full of promise had it been.
Michael Etherington would act quickly and decisively. He didn’t care if that cost him his freedom or even his life. There were tried and tested former brothers in arms he could turn to. Nick would be avenged.
92
Joni was waiting for the ACC in the entrance hall of Force HQ when her mobile rang.
‘DI Pax,’ came Mrs Normal’s voice, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been called to an unscheduled meeting with the chief constable. You go on, but remember – leave the major general to me.’
It was only a fifteen-minute drive to the village. Joni prepared herself for what would be a difficult interview. The fact was, most murders were committed by family members. She had no suspicions that Rosie and Michael were guilty. On the other hand, the latter seemed to know something and to be prepared to act on it. She hoped Ruth Dickie would make him see how foolish that would be.
She pulled up behind the Jaguar, relieved to see that both it and Rosie’s Saab were there, as well as a small Citroen that was presumably the FLO’s. Michael Etherington answered her soft knock.
‘DI Pax,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I hope you’ll use more delicacy than you did when you spoke to Nick.
So it was to be like that. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that Assistant Chief Constable Ruth Dickie will shortly be arriving to interview you. In the meantime, I’ll be talking to your daughter-in-law, with the constable in attendance.’
The major general’s chest swelled. ‘Rosie isn’t up to it.’
‘These are difficult times for everyone, sir,’ Joni said, ‘but you want to help us catch the killer, don’t you?’
Michael Etherington stared at her and then took a step back. ‘Very well. But she hadn’t recovered from Alistair, my son’s, death. She’s hurting very badly now.’
Joni took a risk and put a hand on his sweater-clad forearm. ‘I know. It isn’t the first time I’ve done an interview on such occasions.’
That seemed to comfort him. He nodded and led her into the sitting room, full of floral covers and curtains. Rosie Etherington was on the sofa, a blanket around her. The FLO was holding her hand.
‘WPC Kirsty Shearer, ma’am,’ the thin middle-aged woman in civilian clothes said, rising to her feet.
Joni waved her to sit down, then turned to the major general. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, inclining her head towards the door. He went reluctantly, giving his daughter-in-law an encouraging smile. Joni pulled over a pouffe and sat on it, her head lower than Rosie’s. She hoped it made her less threatening.
‘Hello, Mrs Etherington,’ she said, in a low voice, waiting until the damp-eyed woman looked at her. ‘I’m so sorry about your son.’ Again she paused, watching as more tears were shed. WPC Shearer whispered caring words and they gradually had some effect.
‘Why … why would someone … someone do that to Nick?’ Rosie said, wiping her eyes with a bedraggled tissue. ‘He was … he was only a boy.’
Joni nodded. ‘I know, Mrs Etherington, it’s an awful thing. But that’s why I’m here. We need to find the person who did it.’
Rosie’s gaze hardened. ‘Why do you care? You didn’t even believe Nick before.’
Joni absorbed the hostility, her eyes never leaving the other woman’s. ‘Your son was a wonderful human being, Mrs Etherington. I could see that the first time I spoke to him.’
‘When you handcuffed him to the fence in front of that hellhole?’ There was more to the woman than Joni expected. She admired her spirit in adversity. It gave her hope that she might know something important.
‘All I saw at that moment was a cardboard traffic light.’ She hesitated, then decided to push harder. ‘And a pair of beautiful brown eyes.’ Rosie sobbed. ‘Beautiful, scared brown eyes.’
‘Nick … didn’t know fear. He was a fighter. You didn’t see him on the rugby pitch. He never gave up, he fought to the end of every match, no matter what the score was.’
‘I have no doubt of that, Mrs Etherington. But your son was murdered.’ She didn’t go into details of the injuries as she wasn’t sure how much the major general had passed on. ‘It’s my job to find out by whom and why. More than ever, I’m convinced that his death is linked to something he saw in Burwell Street.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. He … he didn’t tell me. You’ll have to ask his friends.’
‘We’re doing that. So how would you describe him after Sunday night?’
Rosie shot her another aggressive glance. ‘Shocked. I don’t know what you said to him.’
‘Nothing to upset him, I can assure you. I apologised for handcuffing him and I think he accepted that. Did he talk to you about the man in the doorway who had been stabbed?’
‘Not much. I don’t think it gave him nightmares. He’d seen plenty of rugby injuries, not least his own.’
‘How was he before Sunday? He must have been under pressure with A-levels coming up.’
Rosie shook her head, raising another tissue to her face.
‘Mrs Etherington?’
‘He … he was coping.’
Joni played one of her aces. ‘He told me he wanted to go to Cambridge.’
The hand holding the tissue dropped.
‘Did he?’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes, it turned out he was studying the same subjects that I did.’
The second ace broke the last of Rosie Etherington’s defences. ‘Nick … was different these last few days. Not in a bad wa
y, though he may have been distracted.’ She leaned forward. ‘I think he was in love.’
Joni disguised her interest as best she could. ‘With whom?’
‘I … I don’t know if I should say. He didn’t talk to me about it.’
Joni waited.
‘My father-in-law will tell you anyway,’ Rosie said. ‘Evie Favon. Lord and Lady Favon’s daughter. Michael drove him up to the Hall every day this week.’
Joni knew the Favons were local big shots, not least because the Force HQ building used to be in the family. She’d seen the man’s unattractive face in the local press often enough, sometimes accompanied by his much more striking wife. She wasn’t aware they had a daughter, but why would she have been?
‘He was coming back from Favon Hall last night when he … when he was attacked,’ Rosie said, as if she only just made the connection. ‘Michael drove him up and he cycled back.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You don’t think…?’
‘What?’
Rosie looked bewildered and didn’t answer.
‘I don’t think what?’ Joni nudged.
‘Nothing. You’ll be speaking to the Favons, won’t you?’
‘Of course. You know, Nick told me he didn’t think he’d make the grades for Cambridge,’ Joni said, playing her third card.
‘Evie was helping him with the English papers. She did her exams last year. She was supposed to be in Africa on her gap year, but Andrew Favon reversed into her and both her legs were broken. Apparently she’s made an amazing recovery.’
Joni scribbled notes. Heck would fill her in on the aristocrats. ‘So Nick was studying hard,’ she said, ‘but he still got dressed up for May Sunday.’
‘Yes. For some reason making that stupid traffic light engaged his interest.’
Joni considered telling her that she had rescued Nick from a backward flop into the river, but decided against it. Claiming too many links to her son might make the bereaved mother jealous. Besides, she’d just had a thought.
The conversation continued, but Rosie had little more of significance to add. Joni heard a knock at the front door and got up. She could see the ACC’s car on the street.
‘Thank you, Mrs Etherington,’ she said, getting up. ‘We’ll need a formal statement, but that can wait for a day or two. Again, my deepest condolences.’ She beckoned WPC Shearer to the door. ‘ACC Dickie’s just arrived.’
The FLO raised an eyebrow. Mrs Normal wasn’t known for getting her hands dirty, even with murder cases.
Joni went out to buttonhole the ACC before she started on the major general. She was wrestling with her memory. Had it been Nick as traffic light who had led his friends to the brothel in Burwell Street? If so, he might have had something in mind – something involving the person she was sure he had seen there.
93
Suzana had woken in the back of a vehicle that was being driven at high speed down a steep slope. She feigned unconsciousness, moving her hand against the pockets of the leather jacket, the movements disguised by the pounding of the car. Her main knives had gone. She could feel the small blue knife that she’d taken from the woman’s hut in her knickers. She’d have to conceal it better at the first opportunity. Everything had been a blur under the great metal columns. The man on the sow had leapt on her, then he had collapsed from a heavy blow. She had lost consciousness too and was aware of a lump on the side of her head, having caught a glimpse of a red vehicle before the blackness took her.
The road had flattened out and the vehicle moved even faster. Keeping her eyelids almost closed, she saw only a large building with many windows. The man at the wheel, a heavy-shouldered pig with a woollen hat pulled over his face, drove round the back and turned off the engine. After he opened the back door, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out. She couldn’t avoid a squeal of agony and he slapped her on the face, cursing her with words she had often heard. Dogs started barking and she saw two vicious creatures chained up in the back of the pickup. There were trees beyond the gravel-covered road, but she was trying to keep up with her captor by using her feet rather than be hauled along and her eyes filled with involuntary tears. Through the blur, she saw an older building made of large, weathered stones. It was tall and narrow, like the watchtowers that had dotted her country before the communists had brought them down and replaced them with concrete boxes set deep in the ground. In the mountains the clans rather than the army had used them.
There was a heavy metal door. She waited on the ground as the pig took out a key and opened up. She was dragged inside and thrown against the far wall. The door slammed shut. There was nothing in the place and the only light came through narrow slits in the walls. She saw a steep stone staircase to her left.
The man in the mask, who was wearing dirty jeans and a torn sweater, grabbed her arm and took her to the stairs. She started to walk up, his hands shoving her when she slowed at every corner. She counted four storeys, each with a single door dotted with metal studs. Then he grabbed her shoulder and unlocked the door on the fifth floor. The room was surprisingly large, but it was nearly empty – a bed in one corner, an empty table in the other and a blacked-out window. Another door was ajar, with bolts on the outside. She could see it was a bathroom that extended in a blister from the flat wall. The man nodded and she understood she was to use it. Then he started tearing at her clothes. She fought back, but she was tired and hungry, and, more important, she had to find a way of hiding her only weapon.
It didn’t take Suzana long to realise that the pig didn’t want sex. Once he’d pulled off her jacket and shirt, he ran his hands through the pockets before dropping them to the floor. She raised her arms and he gagged at the stink. That was good. He stepped away and she sat down to take off her shoes and socks. The stench grew worse and he cursed, turning away. That gave her long enough to undo her trousers and slide the plastic-covered knife into herself. Fortunately Leka had not made her shave down there, it didn’t show at all. When she was naked, she stood up. Her nipples hardened in the cold. That was good too, unless the pig preferred men. No, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them as he patted her clothes. When he was finished, he pointed to the toilet and left through the main door, closing and locking it. In the dim light Suzana saw a hatch in the bottom of the door. She looked around. The walls were white and freshly painted, while the large stones on the floor looked old. She had the distinct feeling that she was not the first prisoner to be held in this place. What had happened to the others?
The stink from her body distracted her. Feeling her way, she was surprised to find that the toilet also contained a small shower cabinet. The water was warm. She scrubbed her entire body with the rough soap that was in a holder until the water went cold. As she was drying herself, she heard a clang. Going to the hatch, she realised that fresh clothes had come through the hatch. There was also a film-wrapped sandwich.
After she’d put on the loose-fitting blue leggings, denim shirt and heavy pullover, she stood by the window in her bare feet, wolfing down the food. There was a space where the black paint had been scratched away. She saw the corner of a lake and hills in the distance. Trees and birds were moving across a feathered sky. To her right was the other building, lower but bigger. There were no people.
Suzana cursed under her breath. She had lost her freedom and her good weapons. The pig didn’t want her, at least until she was clean. She had the feeling he was only a servant, even lower in rank than Leka. She shivered. What if his master knew her countrymen? What if they were on their way to take their revenge on her? She thought about using the small retractable blade on her throat, letting her blood splash over the white walls. Or she could wait and take at least one more of the animals with her. She examined the floor and the surfaces. There was nowhere to hide the knife; besides, she wanted it close at all times.
She could hardly have it closer – in the place where she had been ruined and abused. Shame burned though her, shame and sadness. Her body had been so deadened that she
was hardly aware of the knife’s presence. Yes, she told herself, she would fight them to her last breath, slashing at them even after she’d opened her own arteries. That would be a death to be proud of. Beyond it there would be no more abuse, no pain … only peace.
94
‘Ah, DI Pax. Anything to report?’ Ruth Dickie spoke in a low voice, Michael Etherington having walked ahead of them towards the kitchen.
‘Yes, ma’am. According to Nick’s … the victim’s mother, he recently fell for Evie Favon, daughter of—’
‘Lord Andrew and Lady Victoria.’ The ACC gave one of her tight smiles. ‘I’ve met them several times at functions.’
‘The victim was cycling back from Favon Hall when he met his end.’
‘Interesting. Let’s see if Michael Etherington can cast any more light on the matter.’ Ruth Dickie gave Joni a cool look. ‘You’d better sit in on the interview, but do not intervene without permission.’
They went inside and into the kitchen, where the major general was preparing a pot of tea. The ACC asked him if he minded Joni being present and he accepted with a shrug. When Ruth Dickie told him he could ask for a male officer to be present, he laughed emptily.
‘I have no issue with women,’ he said, glancing at Joni. ‘As long as they know what they’re doing.’
‘Please accept my deepest condolences,’ Dickie said.
‘Thank you, Ruth.’ Cups, saucers and teaspoons were laid on the table with precision. ‘You know, neither I nor my daughter-in-law will ever get over this.’ He sat down suddenly.
‘I’m afraid it will be very hard.’ The ACC waited until he raised his head. ‘You’ll appreciate that we need to act as quickly as possible to catch the killer.’
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