by Liz Evans
I’d done a complete circuit of the cottage and convinced myself there was no legitimate means of entry available. So I used an illegitimate one - a half-brick.
Somebody should have told Uncle Eric about his security arrangements. Once the small square of window pane had been carefully wriggled from the crumbling putty, it was laughably easy to reach inside and disengage the latch.
I’d chosen a window facing the fields at the back, which meant that the room I dropped into was the one Kelly had described as the junk room. The butler’s sink provided a handy step from sill to floor on my way through to the sitting room.
No matter how much I wanted to, it was hard not to look at ‘that’ light fitting. It was still bulb-less. And the shiny indents left in the wooden floor by furniture that had stood in the same place for years until the clean-up squad had rearranged them leapt out at me now I was looking for them. Carter was right - people did see what they expected to see. Just add a displaced couch and a couple of bulbs and I’ll bet I’d have worked out that ‘accidental death’ scenario too - and preened myself on how fast I’d done it!
He really was a smart little cookie. By keeping it simple and making old Frosty-face Emily do just enough detective work, he’d led her by the nose. My earlier prediction to Kelly that Carter would be earning megabucks in ten years’ time probably wasn’t that far-fetched.
There was a plate and a cup drying on the draining board in the kitchen. I tested the kettle and thought I detected a faint warmness on my skin. Peter hadn’t been gone long. The hormones woke up and sniffed the flowers. I told them we weren’t picking any today and got back to business.
(Well, strictly speaking it wasn’t my business. But now I knew about that DVD - and the fact Luke had hidden it so well it had evaded our original search - I just had to find out what was in it.)
But first I had to find the damn thing. We’d looked in all the likely places. In fact, as far as I knew, we’d rooted around in all the unlikely places, and we’d come up empty-handed. So where was there left to search?
The memory of our tidy exploration of this cottage brought back memories of my own visiting burglars trashing my flat and not finding my building society books.
I examined Uncle Eric’s cooker with new interest. It was sitting in an alcove much like the one at my flat that had housed the boarding house’s old Edwardian range. Sitting on the top, I squirmed round and peered upwards. The gap above my head was almost identical to that in my flat. Kneeling up, I fished at the brickwork, feeling dust and crumbling mortar and ... hallelujah!
That missing stack-pipe must have been a common feature of early kitchen fittings. The two bricks came away easily. No shower of gritty dirt fell into my upturned eyes and mouth. They’d been moved recently - too recently for any more debris to collect along the joints. Standing at a half-crouch on Uncle Eric’s Aga, I thrust my hand in up to the forearm.
The hole was completely empty.
There were two possibilities as far as I could see. Firstly, Peter had found whatever was in there and that was the reason he’d taken off this morning. Or secondly, the only other person with access to this cottage had located that DVD before we started our search.
Carter wasn’t in the shop. His grandmother was serving a small queue at the sub-post office counter. Another group of customers were huddled near the till, their hands full of things they’d have bought if only someone would take their money. One of them saved me the trouble by asking where Carter was.
‘He went out.’ Grannie concentrated on counting out the benefit money, her fingers sweeping the ends of the notes into a blur.
The tremble in her hands was even more pronounced today. She fumbled the delivery of the cash under the grille. The coins slid off the notes and bounced to the floor. Everyone diving to collect the spinning change left Grannie and me face to face through the bars for a split second.
‘So where is Carter?’
‘I have no idea. But I don’t want you to talk to him. You’re a bad influence. Everything was so much simpler before you came.’
She took a tiny lace-edged hanky from her pocket to dab spittle from her lips. Her hand missed the pink choppers by a mile and wiped a pathway through a strawberries-and-cream cheek to reveal the network of broken thread veins underneath.
‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? I’ve hardly had three conversations with your grandson.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Carter is a different boy. He wasn’t like this before.’
I felt like telling her he was - he’d just covered up his exploits rather more carefully. Now he’d ceased to care whether she knew or not. ‘He’s growing up, kicking out; everyone does it.’
‘Carter doesn’t. We had rules and he was content to abide by them ... but now ...’
‘Now ... ?’
‘Nothing. Can you move aside, please. It’s not your turn.’
I held my position. ‘Sure you don’t know where I can find Carter?’
‘He’ll be hanging around the graveyard again,’ the owner of that pile of cash said. ‘Funny kid.’
‘Cheers.’
I escaped, conscious once more of an odd shift in her relationship with her grandson. The woman was definitely scared - but for him, or of him?
There was no sign of life in the churchyard - unless you counted trilling birdlife and the glimpsed scuts of rabbits scuttling away. I tried to check out the church but found the huge wooden doors locked and all the lower windows covered with mesh grilles.
Hitching myself on a large ornate monument to some long- dead inhabitant of St Biddy’s who’d obviously decided that if he couldn’t take it with him, he was damn well going to have most of it where he could see it, I considered my next move.
‘I could check out the pubs. He could be lurking and lusting after Kelly,’ I told the po-faced angel piously looming over Eugene Thomas Tanner - Gentleman Farmer of This Parish. One of Carter’s distant relatives had been a Tanner, I seemed to recall. And Barbra’s grandmother. It must have been hell trying to find a partner who wasn’t too close for the Church’s comfort in these small villages. I wandered through the overgrown grasses, reading the worn names etched in crumbling stones. Between them the Tanners, Coopers, Carters, Windrows, Rouses, Tillys and Turners had gone forth and multiplied until the land was full. It was fascinating tracing which family had been top dogs in which period. The larger the ego, the larger the gravestone, as far as I could see.
The Coopers had reached the peak of their pretensions about the time of Carter’s great-uncle Carter Cooper, who was planted under a large cross set on a stepped plinth. I wondered if Carter’s surname was Cooper. It must be odd to see your own name already on a tombstone. Totally freaky, in fact. Was that the ‘special connection’ Carter had meant that stretched between him and that earlier Carter? Or was there something else?
Squatting down, I peered closely at the plinth. There were four steps, each slightly smaller than the one beneath it. They were all carved from some kind of rough dark stone that had held a century and a half of dirt and moss. Except that on a quarter of the lowest step, the staining seemed slightly discoloured. Rubbing a finger on it, I found that the brownness loosened easily and left an oily deposit on my skin. It was ordinary soil mixed with some kind of grease and slapped on to hide the fact that underneath the original engrained dirt had been scraped away.
Putting both hands flat against the stone above it, I pushed hard. It wouldn’t budge. The graveyard was still deserted apart from a few lunching bunnies. Standing, I hugged the cross like it was my closest pal and twisted. This time it came with me, disclosing a cavity in the lowest step. It was plugged with plastic sheeting.
Pulling it free, I discovered several thick plastic bags wrapped around half a dozen packages. The first held magazines full of the kind of girls you didn’t take home to Grannie; the second held about forty pounds in notes and a packet of condoms; number three was wound round a pair of trainers. He’d cleaned them up,
but squinting along the tread I could still make out a few dark flecks caught up against the sole. The dvds were in the fourth packet: three unlabelled proprietary-brand discs. It was always possible, of course, that none of them was the one that Kelly had seen Luke watching that night. Maybe they were just a few more mucky mail jobs like Whiplash Wendy and her friends. There was only one way to find out.
I quickly checked the last two packages. Number five held the sunglasses, cap and the keys to the car. The sixth was full of photos. There were a few of a younger Carter with a man and woman who’d I’d guess were his parents. There was nothing in them to shock Grannie, so I assumed that Carter just needed to feel close to them somewhere away from the old girl’s influence. The other snaps were in a folder like the one Barbra had handed me at the Rock Hotel a few weeks ago. I flicked through the glossy contents. At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing.
And then I didn’t want to believe it.
38
I used the DVD player at Brick Cottage. The first disc was of Carter running through an exercise programme in this room. The camera mercilessly dwelt on the sweating rolls of lardy flesh as he bent, twisted and used a couple of cans of baked beans to pump iron. He was only wearing his underpants, giving the high-tech lens the chance to capture yards of the freckled skin with each grunt and gasp. The programme was way out of his class. By the time he finished he was practically crying.
I expected more of the same on the second disc. Which in a way it was. Vigorous physical activity certainly; but with a different end in mind, if you see what I mean. I couldn’t take more than five minutes of this one before I fast-forwarded it. Number three was more of the same.
Wrapping the discs and photos back in Carter’s plastic bag, I improvised a hiding place under the bushes at the far end of the garden before mounting up and pedalling into the village. I tackled Grannie again, this time in an empty shop.
‘I have already told you, I don’t know where Carter is.’ She sat down heavily on the stool by the till, the fingers of one plump hand splayed just below today’s floppy bow, which was electric blue. ‘I asked him where he was going. He is supposed to help me in the shop in his holidays. He told me to ... to ...’ She raised bewildered eyes. ‘We don’t use those words. Those words aren’t nice.’
‘Have you any idea at all where he went? He could be in trouble.’
The fingers clawed at her blouse. ‘What kind of trouble? Carter wouldn’t do anything bad. He’s my little Mr Manners.’
‘Actually, he’s not all that little any more. And a kid who cared for you less would probably have told you where to stick Mr Manners long ago. You do know you’re making life hell for him at school, treating him like he’s a nine-year-old stuck in some nineteen-fifties time warp?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Good manners are important.’
‘I daresay. But you have to adapt them to the situation. And Mr Manners is about the only person Carter has to hang out with at present, Mrs ... Cooper?’
‘Tilly. My daughter was Mrs Cooper.’
Good guess, then. Carter’s surname was Cooper, just like his graveyard safebox.
‘OK, Mrs Tilly. Any ideas where Carter might have gone? He’s not at the church. I checked.’
‘I truly do not know. He visits Brick Cottage. To take care of the motor car.’
Once again her voice had slipped into that old local accent that made it come out ‘Oi truly’. It gave me an idea.
‘What about the Rouses’ farm? Carter told me he used to play up there. Atch taught him how to drive in the farm truck.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know that or I’d have been Mrs Cross. It doesn’t surprise me, though. Atch Rouse was troublesome as a child. Always into where he shouldn’t be. And a devil with a catapult. He put out every window in the village. The times his dad took a strap to his backside.’
The idea of Atch as a small boy brought an unexpected lump to my throat. It was probably lucky we couldn’t see what fate had in store for us at the end.
‘I suppose Carter might have gone up there,’ Grannie conceded. ‘But I hope he hasn’t after all those nasty goings-on. Drugs, someone was saying. You don’t think Carter ... ?’
‘No. It wasn’t drugs. Anyway, I’m sure Carter’s got more sense than to turn into Mr Crackhead. I’m going to pop up there and take a look. Can you do me a favour? If I’m not back in an hour, ring the police station at Seatoun and tell a policeman called Jerry Jackson where to find me.’
It wasn’t an instruction designed to turn a worried old lady into Mrs Happy, but after my last prolonged stay on the farm, I wanted to be certain someone came calling this time.
At first glance Tyttenhall Farm was deserted. The tracks of the police vehicles that had churned up the yard that night were still visible, baked into the hardening ground. So was the discoloured stain where Harry Rouse had leaked away his life.
The house was locked up, but shouting and rattling the handles did flush out one inhabitant. The cat sped around the corner and twisted itself frantically between my legs, yowling with all the force of a cat that had got the message that it was time to move on to another mug with tin-opening skills.
‘Sorry, puss. I’m not a cat sort of person.’
Arching its back, the ginger tom spat in a way that indicated he wasn’t a people sort of puss if it came to that. But we all had to lower our standards sometimes. He gave me his best shot at an impression of terminal starvation.
‘No food.’ I spread my hands. ‘Nothing concealed up my sleeve. Go latch on to some gullible old lady, ginger.’
With a last disgusted hiss, the cat trotted away towards the barn. I followed it. Despite knowing that the police would have taken away the shotguns, I couldn’t help twisting as I walked. My eyes flicked all over the place, and my ears were straining for the sounds of anyone trying to sneak up on me.
Rather than open the doors wide, I slipped inside and let my eyes become accustomed to the gloom. There were a few of those wooden pallets that had held the seedling cauliflowers smashed on the rough floor. Apart from that, the interior appeared as deserted as it had been during my enforced stay a few weeks ago.
‘Hello? Anyone here?’
I didn’t expect such a violent reaction. A squeal that outdid the cat’s effort rose to the vaulted roof, accompanied by a rhythmic crashing.
He was tied to the last stall. Unlike me, he’d been bound by his elbows with his back against the wooden bars and a lump of sticky tape across his mouth. I peeled it off.
With a noisy rasp, Carter tried to get his breath. It wouldn’t come. You could almost hear the air stick at the back of his throat while his lungs desperately tried to draw it in. His eyes bulged with panic.
‘Take it easy and try to breathe slowly. Come on ... do it with me. In ... out ... in ... out ...’
He was struggling, but he had the sense to try to relax. I felt the taut muscles in his arms losing their rigidity as he deliberately let his body go limp. It made it easier for me to get the knots untied and for the alveoli in his lungs to receive a shot of oxygen-laden blood.
‘Good. Nice going, Carter. Now just lean back here for a minute and take it easy.’
He tried to speak and couldn’t. Turning out my jeans pockets, I unearthed one of the toffees I’d bought in his gran’s store, tangled up in the till receipt. Pushing the sweet into his mouth, I studied the receipt whilst he gulped gratefully on the returning spittle. When I judged he was able to speak, I held the receipt up.
‘Do you know, Carter, I’ve been wondering what spooked your gran. It’s the receipt, isn’t it? Or rather, the lack of one. You never rang the light bulb Luke supposedly bought on that Friday evening through the till. Well you couldn’t, of course. Those electronic tills have a memory, don’t they? It would have shown the time was long after the shop shut. Mind you, smart operator like you, I’m surprised you couldn’t fiddle the electronics or whatever it is you do.’
Carter sucked in
and swallowed before saying: ‘I could have, but I thought the police might have it checked and spot it had been tampered with. I decided it was better to say I’d pocketed the money if they asked. They expect kids to steal.’
‘Your gran doesn’t. Do you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she thinks you killed him.’
‘What?’ Carter’s eyes widened. His face was shiny with sweat, much like it had been in that very cruel DVD. ‘No kidding?’ He considered this for a second. And a slight smile tilted his thick lips. ‘Good. She’s been much easier to live with.’
‘She’s also scared. And old. Since you had the story about nicking the price of the bulb all rehearsed for the police, why not use it on Grannie instead?’
‘Might.’ Carter’s chubby chops masticated the sweet. ‘How’d you know?’
‘I had a long chat with Kelly.’
Light fired in his eyes. ‘She’s back? Her dad come round this morning looking for her. She never came home last night.’
‘That’s because she got smashed trying to work up the nerve to go confess to the police.’
‘She never did!’
‘No. She’s decided on a new tactic. If you split on her she’s going to tell the whole village what you made her do. Blackmailing someone into sex is pretty nasty, Carter.’
‘I didn’t. It wasn’t like that.’ To my horror, he suddenly burst into noisy sobs. The tears poured down his freckled cheeks whilst his asthmatic lungs pumped in and out with noisy wheezes.
‘I really love her,’ Carter managed to gulp out. ‘I know I look funny and everyone thinks I’m some kind of geek, but I thought if Kelly could see how much nicer I’d be to her than the others, then she’d love me too. And I was good to her. I did everything I thought she’d like. Those other blokes just treat her like rubbish.’ He turned a face white with misery to me. ‘She has to love me. I love her so much it hurts. All the time.’
‘I know.’ I hugged his fleshy shoulder. ‘But it doesn’t work like that, unfortunately. People you wouldn’t want to share the same planet with spend their entire time in your face, and the ones you really fancy don’t know you’re alive.’