“OK. But isn’t it dangerous for you to talk so long? This call could be traced.” Kate was smiling and playing with her tablet, looking up her bank account.
“No. Everything’s in code over here, and it’s not traceable. And you can’t phone me back. I’m chucking this phone in the river as soon as I’ve finished talking to you. And now, just before I go, when is the trial?”
“Oh, um,” said Kate, hiccupping. Well, never, you twit, since Milton is dead. But that was not what she said. Instead she said simply, “No date yet naturally. Probably well into next year. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.” Sometime, later, never.
“Alright. I’m going. Give Milton and Mia my love.”
The line went dead. The tablet told its own story. Her private bank account held the sum of nearly one and a half million pounds. And it needed spending. If the police discovered she had that much, they’d be onto her with the rattle of prison bars. So it would be a great little restaurant. “The kitchen will be large and as modern as you can get. I’ll employ a chef – not just me slaving away morning till midnight. And maybe I’ll hang an original Van Gogh on the wall.” Iris was staring at her. Kate hadn’t even realised she was speaking aloud. “Sorry love.” Kate hugged her friend. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, and I still love your cakes, but don’t worry about business. We already have it made.”
“You didn’t tell your husband that poor little Milton is dead, did you?” Iris sat down in a hurry.
“No I didn’t and don’t intend to. Well, not yet anyway. It would only upset him.” Not that this was the reason, but lying had become something of a habit. “And he’s not my husband anymore. You know that.” And that was true enough. “I send half the last money to Eve Daish’s family in secret. Anonymous and so on. Maurice never knew about that either. Half a million pounds straight to Mr and Mrs Daish. Maybe they guessed where it came from, but they’ve moved away so they must be OK now.”
“I doubt that poor little girl will never ever be alright again,’ murmured Iris.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Kate dully, “but I’ve done what I could to help. I’ll never be the same again either. And I don’t suppose you will.”
“I’ve been lucky,” said Iris. “And the horrible things in my life were my own fault. Nothing was Eve’s fault. And I don’t think anything was your fault either.”
“Well,” Kate sighed, “plenty was Maurice’s fault, and he’s living a great multi-millionaire life somewhere. I don’t think life ever does the fair’s fair bit, does it.”
“I don’t believe he’s dead,” said Morrison. “We’ve checked every damned hospital for miles around in all directions, and there’s no bodies attracting the crows in any field either. Somehow or other, on his own or with help, he’s got away.”
“Well,” said Rita, “it fits with the car, doesn’t it. That was found on the By-Pass, and smeared with blood. DNA says some of Sullivan’s blood but mostly Piper Hamilton’s.”
“Yes,” Morrison answered her. “But we’ve no way of knowing whether that blood was from some past accident or attack, or from the gunshots. We certainly know it’s the car the killer himself stole. Now taken into evidence, and damned important, the best find for months. Full of the Hamilton girl’s fingerprints too. But where’s Sullivan?”
“Crawled away and not dead at all. Piper Hamilton’s kidding herself. Wants to be a hero.”
“Even the eternal escapist Sullivan surely can’t run off with his face smashed in by a close quarters bullet.”
“Houdini?” Rita was laughing.
“There’s two of them. I’m sure of it.” Morrison was leaning on the railing, overlooking the main road out of town. It was a small top floor balcony near the chief’s office, and the perfect place for private conversation. “Some of the body parts we’ve recovered are smothered with Sullivan’s DNA. Others are carefully cleaned, and not a trace of the killer remains. So – different methodology. Oh yes – I have a list on paper, another copy of it on the computer, and the same list embedded in my brain.”
“I don’t think Sullivan killed Tammy. Never did. Too clean.” Rita shook her head. “Is your list dependant on area? Nottingham region down to someone else? Gloucestershire still Sullivan’s work?”
“Not entirely.” Morrison, hair in his eyes from the high wind, thought a moment while staring out to the hills way beyond the rooftops. A family of starlings were wheeling just over his head. “Actually my list is divided in three. There’s Sullivan’s crimes – has to be him – too recognisable and swamped in DNA. Then there’s Mister X. It’s one man and he’s not Sullivan. But then there’s a short list including Tammy, where I’m not sure. Sullivan had reason to kill Tammy – quick, clean and decisive. Otherwise he’d have been caught and back to the nick. I can’t decide on the third list.”
Rita stepped back as the wind began to whistle. “Perhaps we have three killers.”
“Then heaven help us. But I don’t think so.” Morrison turned and wandered back inside. The room which had once been used by DC Cramble was now empty of all but a long desk, three somewhat moth-eaten swivel chairs, and a whiteboard holding pictures of Mark and Maurice Howard with a couple of lists of flight times to Dubai. Next door was the chief’s office, with echoes of the computer keyboard and the phone ringing endlessly.
“Oh shit,’ muttered Rita. “Must we go back to searching for bloody sheds in the bloody woods?”
“I have three roadblocks still up,” Morrison nodded, opening the door to the stairs.
“But we know he lost the car. It’s in our custody.”
“He hasn’t walked from Wales with two bullets in him,’ growled Morrison, beginning to stomp downstairs. “Either he’s dead in a ditch, he’s staggering across the fields further north and somehow not been seen, or he’s stolen another car.”
“And we know what cars have been stolen within the past two days in that probable area?”
“Crabb finished the list an hour ago.” Morrison fluttered a large piece of paper. “There’s a blue Kia GT, a black Mazda CT, a silver Ford, somewhat battered and eight years old, a white Hyundai Santa Fe, brand new, and another white car, which seems to be a Toyota though I can’t read Crabb’s writing.” He stopped halfway down the stairs and passed the paper to Rita. “They’re all on a special watch already. No sightings. But it’s been less than an hour.”
The white Hyundai Santa Fe had provided a comfortable ride home and now stood beneath a canopy of interwoven ivy, birch leaves, broken dead branches and stuffed leaf litter. It was invisible from the road, invisible from above, and almost invisible from just two steps away. Only a tiny hint of shining metal sneaked its way through the greenery and brown rubbish. Across the pebbled ground from hidden car to hidden cottage was a tiny trail of blood spots.
“Don’t you worry, Dad,’ the girl told him. “I’ll rake that up. It’ll be gone in two minutes.”
The veil of disguise across the cottage and all around had always been thick and sufficient, disguising the little hut within the greenery. But now it was more wall than veil and more fence than curtain. A young beech had been broken and bent, branches falling, over the tattered roof and a conglomeration of leave and vine covered each crag and crack. To enter needed patience, a knowledge of the exact position of the hidden door within,, and head bent almost to the undergrowth.
Lionel found it difficult to bend. His nose was broken and bloody, one ear was now missing, and its explosive disappearance had left deep cuts. The bullet to his face had sliced sideways and never entered the head, but it had left one eye half blind as well as the damage to the ear and nose. The bullet to the hip, however, remained within the body and Lionel found this increasingly agonising with each step.
The bed was neither clean nor comfortable, but Lionel collapsed immediately, rolled at once to his back, groaning, one huge fingered hand across the pain in his face. “Help me, girl,” he demanded. “I’m fucking dying.”
�
��You’re not,’ said Tracy, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him. “Now, Dad, you know bloody well you’re not. But I bet it hurts like hell. I can dig out the bullet in your arse, but I ain’t no doctor. And all you’ve got is a bottle of Scotch, so it’ll hurt even more than it does now. As for your face, well, I don’t think I can do a sodding thing to help except wash it all. I can’t make a decent job of stitching up the rip in my shirt, let alone your ear.”
“The ear doesn’t matter,” Lionel muttered. “The nose does. There’s nothing left, is there? Not one shitting bit of bone?”
“There’s no bone in noses anyway,” said Tracy. “But there’s no flesh and no skin either. You never were a pretty boy, Dad. You’ll just have to accept looking a bit worse.”
“And feeling fucking worse.”
Tracy nodded. “Well, you always did like a bit of gore and nastiness. You once told me blood tastes like gravy. You like it, and you give plenty to others. So put up with it now.”
There was a muffled chuckle beneath the bloody ooze. “You’re as much a bitch as your damned mother was.”
“Still is.”
“Go get some water, and be careful. They’ll be even more on the lookout after this shambles. I’ll bet that slut told her story in fucking detail.”
“Who was she anyway?”
“How should I know?” Lionel’s voice was gruff with pain and distorted by the crush of his nasal passages. No nostrils remained and the septum was partially destroyed. He tried to blink the blood from his eye. “But she had a gun, the slut, and knew how to use it. I wish I’d taken my own gun with me. Never occurred to me. Not used to guns.”
“You’ve had it a few months now,” Tracy pointed out. “But don’t worry about that now. Lie still. I’ll get water.”
She brought back a heavy bucket brimming with water and algae from the stream, used one of the cloths they’d found neatly folded in the car they’d stolen, and Tracy began tentatively washing her father’s face. He grunted but said nothing. She told him to shut up when one splash of cold water slapped into his eye.
“Maybe scratched,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Looks OK to me,” Tracy said. “Now keep quiet and keep still.”
She had made herself another small straw and leaf littler bed in the opposite corner where the tent leaned back against the cottage wall, stone solidity fortifying the waterproof canvas within. Although not as large as her father’s bed, she found it cosy and acceptable and now curled there, the bucket of water blood filled beside the doorway, and the chamois cloth entirely ruined and stained sticky dark red. Lionel lay still, breathing hard.
“Better?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then rest,” Tracy said. “Try and sleep. I certainly want to. I’m worn out.”
Lionel managed a frown. “Stupid bitch, you never got a pissing scratch.”
“It’s two days I’ve been dashing around after you,” she told him. “From London to here, thinking this was where you were waiting. Pinched what I could, and nearly got caught nicking the car. Then got your phone call and had to drive all the way to bloody Wales of all places. Then dragging you to the car and piling you into the boot for the drive back here. Now this. I’m knackered. Why the fuck did you have to go all that way anyway? Pissing searching for victims?”
“No.” Lionel grunted, paused, and admitted, “I wanted to chuck Joyce’s bits and pieces a long way from here. Well, they must have known it was me when I dug her up. That part was easy. And I kept her here some time. Had my fun. But she stank, and I wanted rid of her. So how stupid could it be to chuck her on my own doorstep? It had to be some distance. Which is what I did. It was on the way back the whole fucking thing went wrong.”
“Because of picking up another stupid bitch for playing?”
“Of course. Now go to bloody sleep.”
It was the second Hyundai which was traced first, and then the Toyota. Then the break-throughs stopped.
Lionel snored and continued to sleep. The bottle of Scotch lay three quarters empty on the ground at his side. Deeply intoxicated, almost comatose and badly injured, he slept more deeply than usual.
It was dark when Tracy awoke. She crept quietly from the cottage and stood breathing frosty fresh air outside. The stench of blood and death from within cleared instantly once Tracy stood on thick grass, peering up between the treetops at the star sprinkled sky. The moon hung, just a bite short of full, directly over the hidden cottage, as if guiding those who searched for the monsters of the forest.
There was a scuffle in the bracken, badger or vole, mouse or rat. Tracy didn’t care. At least she now had full assurance her father wouldn’t be grabbing her into his bed. He was too damned sick and in horrible pain. Pain was his aphrodisiac, but not this much pain. He could barely move his head, his left leg was partially paralysed, and he saw only from one eye. It would be some time before he might continue his favourite games. The little slut who shot him had actually done them both a favour.
A low call sounded more like an owl than a bird up past his bedtime, and Tracy smiled. She never heard the birds in London, except some scavenging crows and the endless seagulls up the river. Not marching the dark wet streets on the job, but here in the semi-wilderness and enjoying total freedom, Tracy loved to walk. And she knew the forest well. Many years ago when she’d been little more than a kid, her father had brought her here and introduced her to the games he enjoyed. She had quickly appreciated the intrigue and the pleasure and had helped with some of his earlier pastimes. But the playground had become a sewer, and they had both left. She had returned to the streets and her mother.
But she had come back on more than one occasion and knew the place well.
Even to the police she always claimed that her mother was worse than her father. Well – that was how she felt, and the facts were clear enough. Better or worse depended on priorities, and how much you enjoyed one hobby rather than another. Slowly slaughtering some little blonde bitch, big innocent blue eyes bursting with terror – the good girl getting the punishment for a change instead of folk wanting to punish the whore – felt satisfying. And she’d been satisfied a few times.
Wandering back into the ruined cottage, she discovered her father awake. His head was pounding with injury and hang over both. Tracy fished some paracetamol from her pocket, and Lionel took them, washing them down with whiskey. “I feel – foul.”
“You look it.” Tracy climbed back into her bed and curled her knees to her waist. “Cuddle up with Olga, and go back to sleep.”
Her father grunted. “Bin times I thought you were Olga yerself. Always ready to criticise.”
“Always ready to help, you mean. Who washed your wounds? Who dug out the bullet? Who had booze and the sandwiches? And who nicked the bloody car? Olga?”
Lionel snorted. “True. All my little sainted daughter. Go to kip, brat.”
It started to drizzle in the night. The tiny drops of blood still apparent outside now slithered into the grass and disappeared. The stream at the bottom of the slope gurgled, cheerfully greeting the wetter weather. The cottage roof dripped both within and out, and a small puddle began to trickle from the middle of the floor by Lionel’s bed, but did not yet reach him. He slept on.
Sylvia and Harry took Daisy Curzon to dinner that evening, choosing the local pub where the menu was limited but well cooked with speedy service. They were just a little disappointed when Daisy decided to book in and spend the night, ready to speak with them again the next morning.
“There’s nothing can be done for my dearest George any more,” she said softly, drinking her cider and wondering if her hosts were going to offer her cake for afters. “Nor for aunty, nor for those poor girls who were murdered. But for my Dean, something can certainly be done. How can an intelligent young boy disappear like this?”
“We have no answers,” Sylvia said into her wine glass. “I’d love to click my fingers and make the world a better place, but unfortunatel
y I can’t even click my fingers anymore. Arthritis.”
Harry leaned back and asked, “Pudding, Daisy? Not for me, I’m full. And Sylvia’s gone off cake since her best friend loves it. But have something., I’m getting another beer. Wine, Sylvia dearest?”
She nodded. “And since you’re staying here the night, Mrs Curzon, you might like to pop over to the manor and have breakfast with us. We usually stagnate in the breakfast room for a couple of hours every morning unless we’re busy.”
“You have a special room for every meal?” Daisy already thought Rochester Manor a palace of unbelievable luxury.
“Not quite that bad,’ said Harry. “We have one large dining room for lunch and dinner and special celebrations. But some of us stay late, so it’s still in a mess most mornings. We use a much smaller room next to the kitchens for breakfast.”
“Well, I’ll have chocolate cake,” Daisy decided. “But the thought of my little Dean out there starving while I eat so much – well – it’s cruel.”
“Dean seemed a very nice boy,” Daisy nodded. “And of course any mother would be dreadfully upset by her child’s disappearance. But he’s not a baby, Mrs Curzon. And he seems to be a very clever boy too. I’m sure he just wanted some privacy to recover from all the sadness.”
“I do wish you’d call me Daisy,” she said with a sigh. “And that’s the trouble you know – sadness. Dean was distraught after dearest George died. And to be honest, it was so unexpected. He was safe in hospital. The Gastro-Enteritis was still bad – but no worse. And all those drugs the doctors have, well surely they should have cured him. And with the memories of Dean’s aunty, and even his friend at school – so much death and misery. I’m scared that Dean’s run off somewhere and got lost.”
“But you say he used to go and stay a few days quite often with a school friend?” Harry asked. “So he’s used to looking after himself.”
Daisy shook her head. “I know I’m a rather over-protective mother. Dean used to tell me that a few years ago. So I made sure to let him go and stay with his friend whenever he wished. But he was obviously well fed by the parents over there. I mean, I didn’t tie my darling Dean up or anything. But I never just left him alone to look after himself. He can’t cook, and he has no money.”
Daisy Chains Page 23