Kelly whistled and wondered if Brian Walker or Dominic Cairns knew about the posthumous gift. She also wanted to know why the housekeeper was worth so much to the earl.
‘Did he have that much to leave?’ she asked.
‘He was cash-poor but asset-rich; there’s stacks of it squirrelled away in bonds and accounts. The solicitor reckons he’s worth over a million.’
‘The house is in a shit state.’
‘My grandad’s the same,’ Emma said.
‘What?’
‘He’s loaded but wears the same trousers all week.’
‘Did the solicitor mention anything about valuables left in the house? Old people do that all the time, don’t they?’ Kelly was thinking about the safe and who knew it was there.
‘He said that there were some discrepancies and he did suspect that the earl kept cash on site.’
‘Thanks, Emma.’
Kelly hung up and looked around. She could take her time to a certain extent. The initial inquiry had left the study sterile but untidy, and she wondered where to begin. She took off her jacket and laid it across the back of a chair, then walked to a large sash window and struggled to get it open. Once in the fibres of a place, the smell of death was difficult to rub out. A waft of lake-rich air drifted in, making the atmosphere a little more bearable. She looked at the large stain on the floor; it saddened her that a nineteen-year-old boy had been the one to discover the body. Unless he was the one who’d strung his grandfather up in the first place. A million quid was now firmly on the table and up for grabs. Zachary Fitzgerald was made for life.
Along one wall, glass-fronted oak cabinets displayed stuffed animals, and Kelly peered at them. A squirrel stared back at her with surprised eyes, and she screwed her face up. It reminded her of school trips to Holker Hall as a child, and walking round museums full of butterflies pinned mercilessly to cloths. It was both charming and repulsive. She wondered why the earl had never opened his house to the public, like many noble families in need of income, but she already knew the answer: he had been an intensely private man.
Another wall contained books, floor to ceiling, and against a third sat a huge oak partner desk. It might once have been used by two people, but not any more, as it was pushed right up to the wall, concealing one side. Kelly tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. Upon closer inspection, the drawers on the room side were all unlocked and contained various papers, which she rifled through. There were newspaper cuttings from the 1950s, housekeeping notes, and some guest books.
An old photo in a silver frame sat on the mantelpiece. The processing, hue and fashion of the subjects placed it in the seventies. It was of the earl and a much younger woman. She was seated on what looked like a bar stool, and he stood close behind her with one arm draped casually around her shoulders. They smiled comfortably into the camera. Kelly undid the frame at the back and slid the photo out. On the back it read: Xav and Boo, Cannes, 1978. A ring found on the earl’s hand had been released by the coroner’s office and Kelly had it in her pocket. Perhaps now was the time to show it to Linda. She popped the photo in an envelope, along with several documents, and went back downstairs.
She found Linda and Brian in the kitchen, much as before. Not much gardening or housekeeping seemed to be happening today, and she wondered how much the pair were paid for doing nothing. They were drinking tea and eating fruit cake, and looked so comfortable one could be forgiven for thinking the kitchen theirs. The dogs lay under the table, now used to their new visitor. Kelly coughed.
‘Sorry to disturb you both again,’ she said. They stiffened. ‘I wonder if one of you could clarify something for me. The earl was wearing this ring when he died.’ She reached into her pocket and held it up, watching the couple closely. They glanced at one another. ‘Could either of you tell me who Boo is?’ She thought she already knew the answer. What used to take investigations weeks to find out was now available on Wikipedia in one swipe.
Brian spoke first.
‘The love of the earl’s life. Mother of his children, Oliver and Trinity. Grandmother to Zachary. The only ones who ever loved him, and who won’t see a penny of all of this.’ He waved his hand in the air, impassioned.
Linda threw him a look of fury. Kelly was surprised by his response, which was unexpectedly lyrical from the man she’d got to know so far. It made her think he was either a bullshitter or overcome with grief.
‘Name?’ she asked.
‘Delilah Mailer.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Kelly, though again she already knew the answer. Brian tutted quietly, almost imperceptibly. Almost. Kelly was satisfied; every reaction from the odd couple now could be useful to compare later, and she stored it.
‘Dead.’
‘Oliver and Trinity?’
Again it was Brian who spoke. He seemed to be enjoying the limelight.
‘Dead.’
A picture of a family history marred by tragedy was emerging. Kelly had read into the small hours of the legacy that undoubtedly sat heavily on the shoulders of young Zachary.
‘I’m aware that Trinity was Zachary’s mother. So who is his father?’
Linda and Brian looked at one another. Again it was Brian who spoke first. Linda looked away.
‘I’m afraid Trinity kept that to herself, Inspector. I don’t even know if the earl knew. Zachary’s the only one left.’
Kelly noted that Brian had suddenly become the fount of all knowledge, and articulate with it. He hadn’t moved from his feet-up position on his employer’s chair.
‘With respect, by all means come back, but I think we’ve had enough for today,’ he added.
It was a curious statement.
‘With respect, Mr Walker, this is an affair for the family. Does Zachary possess a mobile phone?’
Brian’s face reddened. ‘Aye. It’ll be switched off.’ He reverted back to a harmless member of staff and took his feet off the chair.
‘I’d like to see your shed, Brian.’
He nodded, then got up, pulled on his boots and left by the back door, not saying a word. Kelly followed. He led her across a pretty courtyard and down a long path to a large gate. Beyond it, she could see the lake, and beautifully tended gardens: perhaps Brian was a valued employee after all. He took her past vegetable and fruit plots and finally to a large outbuilding. Kelly followed him inside.
The place was well ordered and the equipment clean and tidy, and as Linda had said, he had many projects up and running. In the middle of the floor at one end stood a complete weights bench. But what she noticed most of all was the various hanging animals. It was the end of the season. She saw plenty of game birds there, but a large deer caught her attention. It looked sorrowful and helpless.
‘Good hunting?’
‘The earl’s lands are plentiful. He was a fan of game pies and Linda is a great cook.’
‘Is that yours?’ Kelly asked, nodding at the bench.
‘I like to keep fit. I’m not getting any younger.’ Kelly saw the first signs of warmth at the corners of his eyes; she could have been wrong, but his expression seemed flirtatious. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up.
‘Thank you, I think I’m done for now,’ she said.
‘After you.’ He gestured to the door.
On the way back to the house, Kelly felt Brian’s eyes on her back. She was thoughtful. The weights on the end of the bar set up on the bench had totalled sixty kilograms on both sides; that was an impressive lift.
‘How long have you lived with Linda Cairns, Mr Walker?’ she asked. She turned round; his face had dropped.
‘Few years now.’
‘And you get on all right with her son, Dominic?’
‘He’s not a bother. I look after his mother, that’s all. Lad’s got a temper on him; he comes and goes.’ Brian was cagey; it was obviously a touchy subject.
‘Children of your own?’
‘No.’
Back in the kitchen, Kelly found Linda stirring something
on the Aga.
‘Please get Zachary to contact me as a matter of urgency,’ she said to the pair. They nodded. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
She left via the back door and walked into the garden, where she paused and looked back up to the house. The earl’s study was easily visible, and it was clear that a scream would carry down here to the garden. There was also only one way out. Would a young man shouting over the dead body of his grandfather really be drowned out by music?
Chapter 17
‘I don’t like her.’ Brian paced up and down with the dogs following him, trying to work out if he was about to fetch the treat tin.
‘You were too cocky,’ Linda said.
‘She’s got no business here.’
‘Of course she has! She’s the police.’
‘Nothing better to do. You saw him, Linda, he killed himself. I’m surprised he didn’t do it years ago.’
‘Stop it! He was tortured to death, God rest his soul.’
‘Oh stop your talk about God. The earl didn’t believe in him and neither do I.’
‘What did you know of Xavier? I’ll tell you what: nothing. Now go and do what you’re paid to do, unless you’ve given that up as well?’
‘You’re not the lady of the manor yet, Linda.’
They glared at one another, until the familiar chug of a knackered Land Rover broke the attrition.
‘That’ll be Zachary. Get your dirty boots out of here.’
‘Never bothered you before, m’lady.’ Brian gathered his jumper and the packet of sandwiches that Linda had prepared and walked out, slamming the door.
Linda wrung her hands and sat down heavily at the table. The chair creaked and she closed her eyes, reminiscing with affection about how Xavier refused to buy new ones, despite her asking him for years to do so. The huge kitchen table was made of ancient oak and it would last another lifetime should it need to. She placed her hand on it and it felt warm. The patina was dated and beautiful from years of welcoming guests through the back door. It had been there as long as the house. Dirt clung to the supports and spiders hung from beneath the wooden bolts.
She didn’t need to keep her hand there for long before the memory came back, as it always did. Her skirt up around her waist, her feet supporting her weight on a couple of chairs – they were creaky even then – and Xavier heaving on top of her. He smelled of booze, as he did each time her came to her, and cigarettes.
She’d wanted it. She’d wanted him.
She’d known all along that he didn’t love her, but it didn’t matter. Brian didn’t love her either and that was the way of this world. Men took what they wanted and women gave it.
She forgave him, as she always did. He begged her to hate him, but she couldn’t, and she’d never told a soul. She had thought that Xavier had kept their dirty secret to himself too, but no, he couldn’t even do that.
She blushed as she thought of how many people had sat at this table, tucking into one of her hotpots. An expert would have said that the sheen on top was from the provenance of the thing: its age and history. It was its history all right, but not the history one might think. Years of her arse sliding back and forth, Xavier grunting his need into the night, was a provenance not usually advertised at the auction house. It wouldn’t fetch much of a price anyway, not even if people knew the truth; especially if people knew the truth.
The memory vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. He came to her no more and all she had left was this table and what she’d done on it. Her hand moved around in a circle, caressing the soft wood. It felt more like silk than oak. She knew that Brian had guessed. That was why he stayed around. The lure of something so palatable to an earl, no less; that and the money. He knew it was coming. It could be explained away right enough: she’d been a loyal servant for close to thirty years.
The door banged open and she jumped. Zac plonked three huge fish on the table, blood oozing from their gills, leaking over the place where she’d gently rested her hand.
‘Zachary!’
He laughed. ‘What do you think?’ He was proud of his catch.
‘I’m sure you’re pleased with yourself, and they’ll make good eating, but I’ve just cleaned the tabletop. Now look!’
Her indignation didn’t concern the young man; he laughed and took off his boots, leaving the beasts where they lay. He loved to get a reaction from Linda and she willingly took on the role of grumpy aunt. She tutted and removed the fish, leaving a trail of blood between the table and the sink.
‘We’ve had a visitor, Zachary.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘A detective. She wants to speak to you. She wouldn’t tell us what it was about; all very shifty if you ask me. I think it’s to do with the safe.’
‘Why do they need a detective to find a safe? That’s a bit grand. What if Grandpa got rid of it before he …’
Zac stopped what he was doing. His head lowered and he sighed.
‘When is she coming back?’ he asked.
‘She wants you to call her.’
Chapter 18
Sergeant Steve McKellan had dived with Cumbria’s Police Underwater Search Team for eight years. Jobs in the Lakes soothed him, and it beat grubby canals or abandoned mines any day. Visibility was usually good, and there was relatively little hazardous rubbish compared to what they might find in an urban waterway. Hypodermics, glass and toxic chemicals made those dives both perilous and unattractive. However, no one could predict the amount of silt and mud stirred up at the bottom of a lake, and it still called for prudence.
Crowds gathered on the shores of Lake Ullswater; his team always caused a stir if the dive went ahead in daylight. Police dive searches caught the public imagination, and everybody knew about the missing girls. Tourists and locals alike had pieced together the link between the dive team’s presence and the news. Two national crews had got as close as possible to their entry point, and no doubt they’d have the latest ultra-zoom cameras. Steve turned away from them, busying himself with his kit, not wanting to appear on the evening bulletin.
It was a warm day and he let his drysuit hang around his waist until after the brief. Three divers would enter the lake, linked together by a guide rope held by another officer on shore. Four more divers would patrol the surface; two on board the RIB. Thirty years ago, divers went in without radios or guide ropes and Steve held his predecessors in high esteem.
The brief concentrated on the search area. The lake had a bottom of fifty-one metres and this would be the most dangerous part of the dive. Every diver knew that once twenty metres was passed, everything became more complicated and dangerous. They weren’t in open water but the safety brief was the same. Their biggest enemy was the cold and the dark. Beneath ten metres, they’d need torches, and it was unlikely that the temperature on the surface was much above four degrees Celsius; that would get colder with depth.
Steve wore leggings and a jumper under his drysuit. It would be a long dive. The grid they worked on was in a square formation, and each square had to be picked through by hand. He’d got used to feeling his way rather than expecting to see stuff, although today he might be pleasantly surprised; the lake looked inviting and clear. They all knew they were looking for bodies. He’d seen the photos. The girls were the same age as his daughter.
Nothing gave Steve more satisfaction than finding a deceased. It gave the family closure and occasionally solved a homicide. They were also looking for personal items: rucksacks, clothes, phones, wallets and the like. They carried torches, but light had very little to do with visibility. If the silt stirred up, he’d have to use instinct instead.
Steve wore his wife’s wedding ring on a chain around his neck, and he kissed it as he always did before a dive. He believed she protected him and kept him safe, as she had done when she was alive. He was prepared mentally for what they might discover, and his determination built as they finalised their strategy.
* * *
Kelly parked her car and put on her su
nglasses. Things were beginning to move; they had to catch a break soon. She finished the last of the sorry excuse for a sandwich, bought in haste from a shop in town, and made her way over to the dive team. She’d worked with these teams before, and she knew that if there was anything down there, they’d find it.
A ripple of excitement flowed through her as she approached the team leader. He was broad and fit and had a wide smile. She extended her hand and he shook it, introducing himself as Steve McKellan.
‘Nice day for it,’ he said.
‘You received my notes?’ she asked. Steve nodded.
‘We’re working off a standard grid. Visibility should be good today,’ he said.
‘Good luck,’ said Kelly. ‘I’ll be on the shore.’
‘You can stay in radio contact over there,’ he told her, pointing to several people surrounded by equipment and aerials.
‘You’ve got quite an audience,’ she commented, nodding to the crowd.
‘Usual,’ he said. ‘At least we’re out of the way.’
It was true: the beach they’d chosen had been closed off, and no one could reach them. Kelly knew that it was different in a city canal, where the press could bribe apartment owners for the best line of sight around the intended dive. The last thing they wanted was to bring up a body and for a family member to see it on the evening news.
The team checked fins, buoyancy, weight belts and pressure, then spat into their masks to test their head gear. They were using full masks today, equipped with radios. The divers looked clumsy on land, but Kelly knew that as they entered the murky gloom of the lake, they’d become weightless and lithe. The line was checked by all three officers, and they signed the ‘OK’ signal. The divers submerged.
Kelly went to the communications team and introduced herself. She was given a headset. Steve checked in with the other divers on his radio.
‘Karen, John, good comms?’
‘Roger, Steve.’
They were starting from the Howtown side and planned to work towards the middle this morning. This afternoon, they’d go west.
Dead End Page 9