Yes, he thought, that’s Daddy, all right.
* * *
HOOD PARKED BY THE side of a dirt road, one that ran perpendicular to the public path, and told Parker they’d have to walk the rest of the way. Hood wouldn’t traverse the moors in his Land Rover without good reason, he said, because of the damage it caused to the ground, but neither did he wish to get stuck in mud, not in the dark, and not so near the Familist site. He didn’t seem to regard walking over the moors as a much more appealing option, but at least some light remained in the sky for the present, although clouds were already gathering, and rain would soon start to fall.
“It won’t matter,” said Parker. “We’ll be done by then.”
Hood took a small spade from the bed of the Land Rover and handed it to Parker. He kept Jess on her leash because he didn’t want her taking off, although she showed no inclination to do so, and kept careful pace with the two men.
Eventually they reached the incline, and stared into the hollow. It was now almost entirely filled with weeds. They seemed to Hood to be moving slightly, even though the wind had died down.
“That’s not possible,” he said. “They can’t have grown so fast.”
Parker didn’t reply, but descended, trampling the weeds as he went. Hood remained where he was, because Jess had gone as far as she was willing. She lay on the ground, her head between her front paws, and watched silently as Parker used his right foot to clear a space of greenery before beginning to dig. Hood felt the impact of the spade through the soles of his feet, and the sound it made was closer to a blade cleaving flesh than steel on soil.
Parker struck a second time, and Hood noticed a black substance bubbling like oil from the gash. It smelled sharply of decay. Parker continued to work until he had cut a single sod, which he then set aside. Finally, he removed an object from around his neck. Hood saw that it was an old cross on a piece of leather cord. Gently, reverently, Parker placed the cross in the hole, restored the sod, and tamped the ground to hide any evidence of interference, just as the first drops of rain arrived. He then picked up the spade and rejoined Hood. Jess rose to her feet to greet him, her tail wagging.
“That was a cross you put in the hole,” said Hood.
“Byzantine,” Parker said. “An old cross for an old place.”
“Was it precious?”
“It was to me.”
Hood almost asked him why he had buried it in the ground if this was so, but stopped himself just in time. The preciousness was the point. This, too, was a sacrifice, but of a different ilk from Romana Moon’s.
Parker walked on, the spade over his right shoulder. Hood remained standing where he was, beside that damned hollow. Beyond it lay the Familist settlement on the hill. Someone should have razed it long ago, and filled in the hollow as well. Once Hood was certain the police were finished with this place, he would talk with some folk to see what might be done—but quietly, mind: he didn’t want Historic England or the Ancient Monuments Society to catch wind of it. It would be better for all if the ruins just vanished quietly overnight.
Jess tugged at the leash, and Hood freed her. He was no longer concerned for her, and felt no jealousy as she joined the other man, this stranger, walking beside him in mute escort. They reached the Land Rover, the rain descending steady yet unheeded upon them, and Jess barked her farewell when they returned Parker at last to his own vehicle and watched him drive away.
He would not return, Hood knew, but the land could rest quietly now.
CHAPTER XCVII
Sisterson autopsied Gary Holmby’s body that same evening, while Lerner took care of the younger brother, Karl. The tree surgeon had proved to be as good as his word, managing to pare back the interior of the yew with minimal damage to Karl’s corpse, and none whatsoever to the living parts of the tree. He had also refused to invoice the police for his services. He said he wasn’t inclined to profit from a boy’s death.
The Gary Holmby autopsy produced a surprise. He’d been shot at close range with a 9 mm bullet that lodged in the wall of the apartment after exiting his brain, but he also had a fractured right ankle, and the injury was very recent. It might have been a coincidence, but that seemed unlikely.
Karl Holmby’s examination was more challenging. In common with Romana Moon, he had received stab wounds to the torso in addition to having his throat cut, although with a different knife. Sisterson had estimated that a blade of about eight inches in length was used in the Moon killing, while Lerner found that Karl had been stabbed with a shorter weapon. More important, Lerner opined that Holmby’s stab wounds were both pre- and post-mortem, while Moon’s had all been inflicted prior to her death. The Holmby incisions were also more precise, and none were suggestive of hesitation wounds.
“What’s your conclusion?” Priestman asked, as she spoke with Lerner over the phone.
“Whoever killed Karl Holmby was making a token effort to replicate the Moon killing, but not with any great exactitude.”
“Almost as though they didn’t much care whether we decided it was the work of the same person.”
“That’s not for me to say, but I can tell you that having checked Dr. Sisterson’s notes, and consulted with him, Romana Moon and Karl Holmby did not die by the same hand. They both died on their knees, but the angle of the wounds alone would suggest that Romana Moon’s killer was six inches taller than Karl Holmby’s.”
Priestman resisted the urge to place her forehead on her desk and close her eyes for a while, maybe for the rest of the day, or even her life. Two killers: one for Romana Moon, and the other for the Holmbys? Could the Holmby murders have been committed in revenge for Romana Moon’s death? Karl Holmby had told Ryan Clifton that he and Romana Moon were intimate, and Clifton had been indiscreet enough to communicate this information to Elspeth Calley, and possibly others as well. But Karl had an alibi for the night of Romana’s murder, and neither of the brothers had been named as a suspect in her killing, so there was nothing to point an avenger in their direction.
Neither of the brothers. Karl might have had an alibi, but what of Gary? Romana had told her sister that she’d begun seeing someone, but declined to share further details while the relationship remained in its early stages. Could Gary Holmby have been Romana Moon’s new boyfriend before possibly becoming her killer? But if Romana had rejected the younger sibling’s advances, why accept those of the older, unless she was deliberately trying to complicate her life, or wound the already slighted Karl still further.
Priestman was jumping ahead. They needed to trawl the Holmbys’ lives, and particularly their electronic communications, but so far their phones and laptops remained missing, presumably taken by whomever was responsible for their deaths. And if they had been killed because of what happened to Romana, then the Moon family, and their associates, could be under suspicion, although how they might have come to consider the Holmbys complicit in their daughter’s murder remained unclear.
Priestman was anxious to secure the toxicology report on Karl Holmby. The report on Romana Moon had been fast-tracked, so they now knew Romana had been dosed with benzodiazepine in order to keep her acquiescent as she was led to the moors. Karl Holmby was a tall, healthy young man. If his killer had managed to transport him from his brother’s apartment to Beltingham, then either that individual had an accomplice, or Karl was rendered unconscious or semi-conscious for the journey. Priestman guessed the latter, just to save someone the trouble of carrying him, which would risk drawing unwanted attention. Give him just enough sedative, and Karl could have been walked to his death with a modicum of support. If Karl was also found to have benzodiazepine in his system, well—
She thanked Lerner, hung up, and tried to think.
* * *
HYNES WAS BACK AT Gary Holmby’s apartment building, figuring out the stages of a journey that had taken Karl Holmby from his college in Middlesbrough to a yew tree in Beltingham. There was no camera in the building’s lift, but the surveillance footage from the
garage revealed Gary Holmby’s BMW being driven out shortly before 11 p.m. Unfortunately, the camera pointed toward the street, not into the garage, so they could only see the back of the driver’s head, which was also concealed by a cap. Hynes thought it looked like the kind that might be worn by a pizza delivery driver. If so, where was the driver’s own vehicle, because they also had footage of a similarly becapped individual holding pizza boxes while using the buzzer to gain access to Gary Holmby’s apartment about an hour earlier. The caller had kept his—or her—head down while entering, the clothing being sufficiently baggy and nondescript to leave the gender to guesswork.
That was the word used by the building’s supervisor—“nondescript”—as he showed the camera footage to Hynes. When Hynes remarked upon it, the supervisor admitted he was studying for a BA in English literature with the Open University because he didn’t want to be a glorified caretaker all his life. Hynes reckoned the supervisor was in his sixties, and while applauding his drive to improve himself, was concerned that he might have left it a little late to be contemplating a new career. But Hynes hoped he was wrong, because right now he was wondering about a change of career himself, given the state of his current one, and the associated mushrooming of bodies that he found depressing in the extreme. If Hynes had to retrain, he’d be in sight of sixty before he was properly equipped to do anything else. It struck him as just too much effort, and therefore he should stick with the law in the hope that, somewhere down the line, he might become proficient in it. He chose not to share these thoughts with Priestman as he updated her on the situation. He knew she had enough on her plate. At least he’d managed to sleep in his own bed the night before, if not for very long. He’d advised his wife to take a picture of him before he left, just so she’d have something to remember him by.
“We’ve contacted every restaurant and takeaway offering pizza deliveries in the area,” Hynes told Priestman, “along with Deliveroo and the other delivery services, but no luck. I think those boxes were empty when they arrived, which means that was no delivery driver. We found blood and vomit in the trunk of the BMW, and I’m guessing it’s Karl Holmby’s. The blood type matches, but we should know for certain by tomorrow.”
Priestman asked one or two more questions, thanked him, and hung up. Hynes knew that his report was just one of dozens Priestman was collating, adding them to the overall picture in the hope that, if they filled in enough gaps, they’d at last have some idea of what they were looking at.
He checked his watch. He’d promised to represent Priestman later that morning, when Kevin Moon came to collect his daughter’s remains, and city traffic could be tricky. He was about to press the call button for the lift when one of the CSI team summoned him from the doorway of the apartment.
“What is it?” said Hynes.
“Got something,” said the investigator.
In his right hand he held a bag.
And in the bag was a knife.
CHAPTER XCVIII
Kevin Moon sat alone in the waiting room of the mortuary. He’d been given a cup of tea, and a nice woman from the bereavement service had dropped by to make sure he was comfortable and had everything he needed. The Anglican chaplain had also offered to sit with him, but Kevin didn’t want to be around strangers. If he couldn’t be with his family, he’d rather be alone.
His wife should have been here beside him, but he’d come down to breakfast that morning to find Doreen still in her dressing gown, crying on the kitchen floor with one of their dogs in her arms. She wasn’t hysterical. She wasn’t even sobbing. She just seemed to be shedding an endless stream of tears, and was incapable of speech, as though she’d lapsed into some form of catatonia. Kevin managed to get her into a chair before calling the local doctor. Like most GPs these days, he didn’t usually offer house calls, but he made an exception in their case. Doreen was suffering from an acute stress response, the doctor said—delayed shock, although Kevin could have diagnosed that himself, for fuck’s sake, and he hadn’t spent seven years in medical school. The doctor told him that the attack could last anywhere from a few minutes to a couple of days, and the best thing was to get Doreen back to bed, and make sure someone kept an eye on her. He gave her a shot to help her rest, and wrote out a prescription for a course of sedatives.
“How strong are they?” Kevin asked.
“They’ll just take some of the edge off.”
“She’ll know what’s happening, though, won’t she? She won’t be a zombie?”
“No, she’ll be lucid.”
“Because she wouldn’t want it all to be a blank. She’ll want to remember saying goodbye to Romana.”
The doctor made sympathetic noises and went on his way. A neighbor arrived to stay with Doreen, and said she’d arrange for a steady stream of friends to keep her company while Kevin was gone. They’d have been there for her anyway, she said, and would be for as long as Doreen needed them. Kevin doubted that—eventually they’d drift away whether his wife needed them or not, because life went on, didn’t it?—but he nodded politely. What could he do?
A couple of Kevin’s friends had offered to accompany him to the mortuary, but he turned them down. He drove to Newcastle in solitude, in a silent car. He thought about Romana all the way, but didn’t cry. He’d never been what you’d call the emotional kind. He wished that he were, because he could feel it building up inside him, this great flood of pain and grief. He felt the urge to pull over by the side of the road, find a quiet spot, and scream until he tasted blood in his mouth.
But he didn’t, of course, because what good would it do, a grown man shouting at the sky while his daughter lay alone on a gurney, waiting for her dad to join the undertakers in order to bring her home for the last time? Instead he drove on, and tried to recall as much about Romana as he could, carefully storing away each memory so he’d be able to find it again in the awful years to come.
Eventually he arrived in Newcastle, and the GPS directed him to the mortuary because he couldn’t remember the route from the last visit, when he’d been forced to look down on a bloodless face and tell the police that yes, this was his daughter, even though it wasn’t really, not any longer. Now here he was, back in the waiting room, with the obligatory cup of tea, and the absence, and the yearning that would stay with him always and never be sated, not until he was himself put in the ground and could start searching for his little girl on the other side.
Kevin’s older daughter, Hayley, lived in Hartlepool, south of Newcastle. She’d promised to be with him by noon, but there’d been some problem with one of the kids, and then the car wouldn’t start. What with one thing and another, she now wouldn’t arrive until close to one, long after the two undertakers. They wouldn’t mind waiting, though; they had the awful patience of those who routinely dealt with the bereaved and their dead.
Kevin grew tired of watching his tea grow cold, and stepped outside to stretch his legs. He envied those who smoked: it gave them something to do with their hands, and an excuse to hang around the entrances to buildings. Someone standing by a door for any length of time without a cigarette just looked awkward, odd, or up to no good. Not wishing to appear any of these things, he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode slowly forward and back, forward and back, going nowhere in particular, to no end, with nothing to see.
A man was walking toward the entrance to the mortuary. He wore a short black overcoat, and Kevin sensed his interest. He had something of the policeman about his aspect. It was in the bearing, and the eyes.
“Mr. Moon?” he said.
“That’s right. Do I know you?”
“We haven’t met. My name is Parker.”
He didn’t offer a handshake. Even if he had, Kevin wouldn’t have been close enough to accept it. Parker remained standing by the door, giving Kevin whatever space he might require.
“Are you with the police?” Kevin asked, even as he picked up the accent. He doubted Northumbria Police recruited from the Americas.
&nbs
p; “No. I’m a detective, but not that kind. Private.”
Kevin had been advised to be wary of propositions from outside agencies, although he hadn’t expected one to materialize so soon. Hynes, the big DS, had told him to expect mediums, psychics, diviners, and God knows what other kinds of charlatans to offer their assistance in the search for his daughter’s killer. Many wouldn’t ask for money, Hynes said; they just wanted to be involved. Some might even be sincere, but that wouldn’t make them any saner. Hynes had also mentioned private investigators, and stressed the family should keep its distance from them, and be especially wary of those that made direct approaches. If any of them did raise their heads, Hynes said, the Moons should give him a call, and he’d take care of it.
“The police are looking after things,” said Kevin. “We don’t need anyone else.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” said Parker.
“If you’ve come to offer your sympathies, I appreciate it, honest I do, but I’m waiting to bring my daughter’s remains back home. It’s difficult, and private. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Parker. “I apologize for intruding on your grief.”
He had already begun to turn away when Kevin Moon spoke again.
“Wait,” he said. It had taken him a moment to realize that he’d looked into this man Parker’s eyes and recognized them, because they so resembled his own. “Who did you lose?”
“A wife. And a daughter.”
“How old was she, your daughter?”
“Four.”
Kevin swallowed. “Was it—?”
“Murder? Yes.”
“Did they find the one responsible?”
“No, I found him.”
“What did you do to him?”
“I killed him. He left me no choice.”
A Book of Bones Page 48