by Sarah Rayne
‘How do I know you aren’t a copper?’
‘You don’t know that either. But suit yourself,’ said Donna, and turned to walk away. She had taken four steps before he said, ‘How would you get rid of it?’
‘I’d take it to one of the jewellers in London who deals in secondhand stuff.’
‘Wouldn’t he guess it’s nicked?’
He was so small-time, so naïve, Donna wanted to laugh. She said, ‘For God’s sake, look at me! I’m the ultimate in respectability.’ And so she was that day, wearing a plain suit, with her hair combed back behind her ears. ‘I simply say it was my grandmother’s jewellery or china–no, I’ll make that great-grandmother–and that I need the money. And believe it or not, that’s perfectly true. I’m flat broke. That’s why I went to Quire House today.’
‘To see what you could nick?’
‘Yes. It’s a good scam,’ said Donna, mentally reading from the script she had prepared for herself. ‘I go round museums and smaller stately homes–places like Quire. But I only take small things–things that I can pocket. No one ever suspects me, because I don’t look like a thief. Then I sell what I’ve picked up. I use a different jeweller each time, of course.’
The suspicious eyes assessed her for a moment. Donna’s heart thumped. Had she sounded convincing? Most of her expressions had come from crime books and might be wildly off the mark, but she did not think Greg Foster was likely to know the real jargon.
‘All right,’ he said at last.
‘You’ll do it?’
‘Yeah, why not? Nothing to lose, is there? If you grass on me, I can deny it. Or say you approached me and I told you to sod off. I’ll get the stuff and meet you here.’
‘No,’ said Donna. ‘I’ve already seen that you haven’t the least idea of what’s valuable and what isn’t. So I’ll be the one deciding what we take and what we leave.’ She frowned, as if thinking hard. ‘Quire House doesn’t have any electronic alarms or anything like that, does it?’
‘No. Dr Toy locks the doors when we’ve all gone and that’s it.’
‘Good.’ Very good indeed; this had been one of her real worries. She reviewed the time-scale of her plan, and said, ‘We’ll make it the day after tomorrow. You let me in after the place has closed. I don’t suppose you’ve got a key, have you? No, I thought you wouldn’t have. In that case you’d better pretend to go home at the usual time and sneak back to hide somewhere. A loo or a cupboard or something like that. At a quarter to seven I’ll come to the main door and you’ll let me in. Be there on time, Greg, or I really will grass you up.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘We’ll choose what we take, and be gone by seven–quarter past at the latest.’
Donna thought he had been half over-awed and half-afraid, but whichever it was he had played his part. He had let her into Quire shortly before seven and they had gone like two shadows into the music room. Once there Donna swung the sandbag at his head. It had been child’s play fashioning that; a stocking filled with actual sand and she had worn a jacket with deep pockets so that it was quickly accessible.
Greg Foster had gone down like a pole-axed bull, and Donna bent over him and took the knife from her other pocket, and thrust it into his heart. Straight in between the fourth and fifth ribs. You did not need to be a surgeon to find out the required information to stab someone, and you did not need very much strength behind the thrust, either. Killing Richard Weston had already taught Donna that.
She waited just long enough to be sure he was definitely dead, arranged the Caprice sheet music on the floor nearby, then slipped out and went through the park to Charity Cottage. The portable CD-player with the Paganini disc was slung around her neck, Donna had not risked leaving it hidden in the grounds for anyone to find.
She had been slightly out of breath as she went through the bushes towards the cottage, but not unduly so because killing Greg had not been especially exciting. There had not been much emotion involved; it had simply been a matter of needing a newly killed body for Weston to find, that was all, and of arranging it to reflect those two other deaths–Richard Weston’s and Don’s. She thought she had done that well: the scene was almost an exact mirror-image of that other night, right down to the music and the glossy piano nearby.
And once again Weston had reacted almost exactly as Donna had predicted. She followed the music, of course, and went into Quire House and found the boy’s body. Donna had been careful to leave the door ajar; she did not think Dr Toy or Professor Remus would be likely to come downstairs once they had gone up to their respective flats, and so it proved.
Antonia had screamed–oh really, Dr Weston, how boringly predictable of you!–and then had run into the main hall to call for help. By that time Donna had slipped through the French windows, and was watching through a chink with Paganini’s music switched off, so that Weston should think her enemy was out of range.
But once Weston yelled for help, Donna left. The next part of the plan was not especially tricky, but if she was not very careful this was the part where she might be caught. It would be necessary to keep her wits about her for the next few hours.
She sprinted around the side of the house going as quietly as she could. The police would be called at once, and they would spend some time interviewing Weston and Dr Toy and Professor Remus. They would search the grounds, of course, and the place would be crawling with scene-of-crime officers for most of the night. But would they search Charity Cottage? Donna thought it highly unlikely, but as she went across the parkland, careful to remain in the shadows, she was keeping the possibility in mind.
The cottage was in darkness as she let herself in, and she made a quick check of all the rooms. They were all empty because Weston was at Quire House, and unlikely to be back for some time, but Donna was taking no chances. She locked the door again, pocketed the keys, and then carried a bathroom stool onto the landing, positioning it directly beneath the attic trapdoor. Under her anorak was the rope ladder she had bought months earlier. It had taken a great deal of searching before she finally found a suitable one in a marine supply shop. The ladder was the kind people used on the sides of boats; it had steel hooks at one end, which allowed it to be secured almost anywhere. Donna had tried it out a number of times while she was living here, and it hooked very firmly and very satisfactorily onto the rim of the attic trapdoor opening and hung almost to the ground.
She stood on the stool, reached up to dislodge the trapdoor, sliding it to one side, and then hooked the ladder in place. The hooks bit into the timber, and the rope unravelled. So far so good. She took the stool back because nothing must seem out of place when Weston returned making sure she had left no footprints anywhere.
It was quite difficult to actually ascend the rope ladder; it was very light and swung back and forth. It was made harder by the close-fitting balaclava helmet and the long gloves, but Donna was still being painstaking about leaving any DNA. In the end she managed it, and clambered over the edge of the trapdoor into the attic. She peered down at the stairs and the landing, shining the large torch which she had slung around her neck. Had she left any telltale signs anywhere? Any flurries of dust on the floor? No, there was nothing. She knelt on the edge of the attic opening, pulled the rope up, and then pushed the trapdoor back into position. She was as sure as she could be that it would seem undisturbed from below.
The attic was cramped and hot and it was going to be uncomfortable up here for several hours, but Donna did not care. It was fairly dusty but it was not as dusty as it might have been, because she had cleaned it out herself while she was staying here. Before she gave up the tenancy she had been careful to leave a couple of old travelling rugs up here, some cushions, and a couple of old packing cases. Even if the attic were later to be searched, it was not very likely that these things would strike anyone as suspicious. She spread the rug out behind a packing case, switched off the torch to save the battery, and settled down to wait.
It gave her a deep p
leasure to think of the agonies Antonia would be enduring–of how finding Greg’s body with the knife sticking out of his chest and the Caprice music lying alongside it, would have taken her another step nearer to the mental disintegration that Donna was aiming for. Might she even now be questioning her own sanity? At the very least, she would know that the peace of Amberwood and the anonymity she had sought had been destroyed, and that would be agony in itself.
It was all working out exactly as Donna had intended. For the next few hours she would have to be very alert indeed in case the police searched the cottage, but there would be no signs that anyone had got up through the trapdoor, and even if they did get up here, they would probably only take a cursory look. In that situation Donna would have plenty of warning and she would huddle under the travelling rug. She was fairly confident she would not be seen.
It would be all right. Every detail was worked out; she had covered every eventuality, and she was prepared for the unexpected.
She had not been prepared for the unexpected on the day, five years ago, when she had first driven out to Twygrist. Weston had just started her prison sentence and Donna’s plan had still been in its early, tentative stage.
Her mind had already focused on the dark squat silhouette of the old Amberwood mill where her parents had died. Twygrist. There would be a certain justice if Twygrist could play a part in Antonia Weston’s final downfall. Donna thought she could at least drive up and take a look round. There was no one to wonder where she was going, or ask questions, not any longer.
Twygrist, seen by a dull autumn light, was as forbidding and as secret as she remembered. She parked her car at a distance so as not to draw attention to her presence, and walked up the slope to the derelict oak door. It creaked as she pushed it inwards. The stench of the place hit her like a solid wall, but Donna knew at once that this was where Antonia Weston must eventually die. The kiln room again? There were at least eight years to wait before Weston was freed, and Maria and Jim Robards’ death would surely be forgotten by then. In any case, everyone had believed their deaths to have been a tragic accident. She would see if the steel doors were still in place; she had brought a torch with her.
But first she walked round the main floor, liking the way the machinery seemed to watch her, liking the feeling of its latent energy. Into her mind slid a new thought, like a questing serpent, How easy would it be to open the sluice gates, and to force Twygrist into life again?
An immense stillness seemed to fall over everything, as if the dark core of the old mill had heard and was listening. It’s alive, thought Donna. It’s been decaying and idle for years–decades–but there’s still something here that’s living. And that something has heard my thoughts, and it’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
How did the sluice gates work? Donna had a distant memory of her father saying something about a pivot wheel that would have to be turned with a splined key. The same principle you used when you opened a tin of sardines or corned beef, he said, and Donna’s mother had instantly said that if he was going to use analogies, please would he use ones they could understand, because she had never opened a tin of corned beef in her life. Donna’s father had laughed, and said, all right, then, a horizontal wheel, with a grooved shaft at the centre; you slotted the key down into that shaft, and then turned the key.
Donna saw the wheel almost at once. It had black spokes and jutted up about a foot from the floor. It was quite near the door leading underground. What looked like the spline key was lying nearby.
She walked slowly forwards, her eyes fixed on it. It would not work, of course: the mechanism would long since have seized up. And even if, by some slight chance, it did work, the culvert would have rotted away years ago. She glanced overhead. Yes, there was the culvert, just as she remembered from that last summer here. The clay had broken away from most of it, but it might be still be watertight.
She picked up the spline. It felt cold against her fingers and the surface was pitted with age. Presumably you slotted it down into the wheel’s centre, as her father had said, and then turned it using the t-shaped handle. The splines would force the wheel’s mechanism to rotate. It really did look as if it worked on the corned-beef-tin principle.
The wheel was about two feet across. Donna leaned down and tried the key in the centre. It slid home obediently, and she grasped the t-handle. Just a tiny pressure, just to see if the wheel was still capable of rotating. She turned it slightly to the right, encountered resistance, and then tried it the other way. This time the whole shaft of the key seemed to engage, and the wheel moved to the left. Only a little–barely the distance of one of the spokes–but Donna instantly felt an answering tremor. Like thunder growling far away. And had the oak floor shivered briefly at the same time, or had that been her imagination?
Her hand was still on the key. She was not going to take this much further, but if she could just know how workable the mechanism was…
The wheel turned a little further, and this time there was no doubt about it; an unmistakeable tremor went through the floor, like the accounts you read of the start of an earthquake. At the same time a breath of something stagnant and cold seemed to brush against Donna’s skin.
If the sluice gates were raised, hundreds of tons of water would tumble down into Twygrist from the reservoir, and the waterwheels would begin to turn.
The light shifted suddenly, and there was a new sound behind her–a sound that had nothing to do with the struggling old mechanism. Donna spun round, and in the centre of the floor, watching her with puzzled eyes, was a woman of thirty or so, with shoulder-length fair hair.
After a moment the woman said, ‘I didn’t realize anyone was here.’ But her eyes were on Donna’s hands, still grasping the sluice wheel. ‘That’s awfully old machinery,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s probably a bit dangerous to be too close to it.’
‘Yes,’ said Donna straightening up. ‘Yes, it is dangerous.’ She removed the spline key from the sluice wheel, and held it between her hands thoughtfully.
There are moments in life when your body thinks ahead of your mind, and when sheer instinct takes over. Donna knew this woman had seen her rotate the sluice wheel, and she also knew that the woman was not going to forget it. She would talk about it, telling people about seeing Donna here. Not necessarily accusingly, but mentioning it as a curious incident. And people would remember, they would remember…
On the crest of this thought, Donna moved towards the woman, slowly, keeping the heavy iron shaft of the key in her hands.
As if trying to smooth over an awkward moment, the woman said, ‘It’s a macabre old place, isn’t it? I haven’t lived here very long–my husband’s come up here to work–he’s one of the curators at Quire House, and they’re thinking of taking on some of the other old buildings in the area. So I thought I’d take a look at Twygrist for him. I didn’t expect to find anyone in here, though.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Donna, and bounded forward.
The old mill worked with her again, exactly as it had done years before, and the woman fell backwards in a surprised tumble. Donna felt a shiver go through the oak floor and saw the woman fling up a defensive hand across her eyes. Too late, of course. The sluice-wheel key was heavy and powerful; it swung up over Donna’s head and then came smashing down. There was a crunch of bone, and the woman fell forward. Dead? Oh, who cared, she would be dead very soon. Donna dragged her across to the half-rotted tank enclosing the lower waterwheel, and by dint of pushing and lifting, finally tipped her over.
She fell down inside the tank, hitting the giant cogs of the waterwheel as she did so. There was a faint menacing thrum from the old iron and oak, and then a shallow muddy splash. The stench of the sour water rose up, and the old rotting timbers groaned, and splintered slightly at the bottom. Donna, one hand over her mouth to shut out the sour breath of the splashing water, waited to see what happened next, but the only sound was from the wheel, still vibrating slightly from the impact. The so
und stayed on the air for what seemed to be a very long time, but eventually it died away, and Twygrist sank back into its brooding silence.
Donna stood on tiptoe to peer down into the tank, to make sure that even if the woman was not dead, she would not be able to get out. She was reassured. Nobody–and certainly nobody who had been given such a crunching blow to the head–could possibly get out of there.
Later that night, reviewing what she had done, she was glad to know she had been able to deal quickly and efficiently with getting rid of the unknown woman who might have spoiled the whole beautiful plan. Also–and this was the important thing–she had done it without getting caught.
She had not been caught when she killed Greg Foster earlier tonight, either.
Curled into the dark attic, Donna speculated on what would be happening at Quire House. It was not likely that Weston would be actually suspected of the boy’s death–she would have no connection with him, and the police would find that out very quickly. It was probable that the killing would be put down to a burglar; it was a safe bet that Dr Toy and Professor Remus would have reported the missing items which Greg had taken. It was also possible that some drug connection might be found; so many teenagers were into drugs these days, and Greg had looked just the sulky ill-mannered type who would think it was cool to be part of a drugs-ring. But Donna did not really care what conclusion they reached.
If by some outside chance Weston was suspected–if she was found guilty and sent to prison again–it would not be disastrous; it would simply delay the reckoning. Time meant nothing in all this. Donna would wait for twenty years if she had to.
She flicked on the torch to check her watch. Nine o’clock. She settled down to wait for Antonia to return to the cottage, and for night to fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
After Inspector Curran had left, Charity Cottage felt oddly unfriendly. Antonia stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him walk across the park, then closed and locked the door. He had not seemed to think the murderer would return tonight but she had not needed his final reminder to lock the doors. After she had done this she went systematically round the house, placing chairs and stools directly in front of the doors and the downstairs windows. If Greg Foster’s killer–who was presumably the same person as Antonia’s intruder–did try to get in, he would trip over the chairs and the noise would alert her. If that happened she could shut herself into the bathroom with the mobile phone and summon help; Curran and his officers were only across the park at Quire. And if the killer sustained a viciously painful injury trying to get in–a pulled hamstring or a chair-leg jabbed into the groin–it would be no less than the bastard deserved.