by Sarah Ward
Mark took it from her and frowned. ‘I don’t like the idea of him following you. How do you know he’s connected to Lena? He might be acting by himself.’ His nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘What’s the smell?’
‘I’ve got a horrible feeling that it comes from this house. I think the blouse might once have been mine. Or perhaps Lena’s. When we were teenagers we were forever borrowing each other’s clothes. Often without asking. It would cause no end of arguments.’
‘For God’s sake, Kat. Why would she leave a rancid blouse for you to try and guess its meaning?’
‘I don’t know, but I do know where to look. Are you scared of the dark?’
He looked at her with amusement. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Why “of course”?’ she retorted.
‘I was in the army for eight years. Have you any idea what training we go through? It takes more than the dark to scare me.’
‘Come with me.’ She forced herself to resist the temptation to hold his hand. She led him upstairs, as far as her bedroom, but didn’t open the door. Instead, she pointed to the hatch in the ceiling of the landing. ‘That’s the attic. If this blouse has come from anywhere in this house, it’ll have been from up there.’
He looked at her in amusement. ‘Do you have a ladder? Or are you expecting to give me a leg-up?’
‘There’s a ladder attached to the hatch. It’s ancient and I’m not sure where to find the pole to push up the board to let it down.’
He pulled his arm away from her and looked around. Seeing the door of her bedroom, he pushed it open and came out with the wicker chair she used to throw her clothes over. He stood on the chair and pushed up the board. Then, to Kat’s astonishment, he grabbed hold of the two sides of the opening and swung himself up into the void.
‘Were you in the circus in a previous life?’ she shouted up into the now-empty space.
‘Army training,’ came a faint voice from above. ‘Is there a light up here?’
‘Yes, the switch is actually on the floor to the left of the opening. It’s not very bright but it will show you something.’
She saw the light come on.
‘Good, good. Have you any idea what’s up here? Hang on. I’m sending the steps down to you.’
A flash of steel and the ladder descended in front of her.
‘It’s coming down a lot easier than I expected.’ Mark peered at her. ‘I’m pretty sure someone’s been in this loft recently. You coming up?’
Kat stepped onto the metal gingerly, but the ladder held as she made her way up. The attic had been boarded years earlier, without any great skill, but enough to support the pile of unwanted things that their parents had hoisted up there.
Mark stood in the middle of heaps of cases, cardboard boxes and black bin bags. He had his hands on his hips and was staring around in mock despair. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’
Kat crouched down and started rifling through cardboard boxes. ‘I’m looking for photographs. Anything to give me a clue why that blouse is so familiar.’
38
‘Andrew Fisher was a big fat liar.’
Sadler, on his way through the office, stopped by Connie’s desk. ‘Why?’
She waved a sheaf of papers at him. ‘I’ve been looking at his CV. A lot of hype and one big, fat stinker of a lie. It says here that he has an MBA from Cranfield University. I’ve checked, and he has no such thing. He says he got it in 1996. I’ve gone ten years either way and there’s nothing doing. Liar.’ She slapped the papers down on the desk.
‘Do you think that’s significant?’
‘I’m not sure, but it tells us what kind of guy he was. You were at school with him. What was he like then?’
‘A rugby player. Liked drink. Girls.’
Connie’s look was sour. ‘Rugby players. You know he was the same build as our first victim. If they knew each other, do you think it might have been through rugby?’
‘Possibly. Do you have anything particular against rugby players? They’re not necessarily a bunch of louts, you know.’
‘I came up against a gang of them when I first joined the force. I was policing one of the matches. They said something about my “knockers”.’ Connie’s look had changed into a martyred air.
Sadler could hear Palmer laughing into his coffee.
Connie was looking down at her chest. ‘I don’t actually have that much to comment on. I was surprised.’
‘Fishing for compliments?’ asked Palmer.
Sadler backed away. It was probably best if he left them to it while they were in this mood. They certainly seemed on friendlier terms than they had been in the past few weeks.
*
Llewellyn’s secretary was typing rapidly and only looked up for a brief minute. ‘You can go straight in. He’s waiting for you.’
Llewellyn was reading a report. His glasses were on the tip of his nose, and he was squinting at the print, frowning in concentration. ‘Ah, Sadler. I’ve got the results from Ballistics. I’m reading the fine print and I’d like you to study it too because it makes interesting reading. Ballistics have proved that the 9mm bullets extracted from Andrew Fisher’s body were shot from the Luger that was sent to Kat Gray. Is anyone German in this case?’
‘Not that I’m aware, but I heard once that Lugers are a form of trophy gun. Lots of them were taken off captured and killed German soldiers. In both wars. And then brought back.’
Llewellyn grunted. ‘It says the same thing here. They’re pretty good guns. Got an excellent reputation.’ He put down the report. ‘My dad was a copper. Did you know?’ Sadler shook his head. ‘He never got beyond sergeant. Never wanted to. But he looked like a copper. All right, Sadler, I know I do too. He was a giant of a man. All the boys in the village were scared of him. When he was roused, he’d take the belt off his trousers, ready to strap them. Different times then.’ He glanced at Sadler. ‘Anyway. He was a man with plenty of stories. He used to keep all his family and friends entertained with them. You know what the countryside’s like. There were some strange tales, you know.’
Sadler did know. His own mother had been brought up in the adjacent village to Llewellyn’s. She too could tell some interesting tales.
‘Well, anyway. I remember him telling me about an incident in the village. It must have happened in the 1960s. A farm labourer holed himself up in one of the cottages with a rifle. Drunk, of course, and had his girlfriend and a baby inside as hostages.’
Sadler shifted in his chair. A story he hadn’t heard before.
‘So there was a bit of a stand-off, and the official police gun then was the Smith & Wesson, and only a few sergeants had been trained in their use. Which was a bit daft as it wasn’t that long after the war. All the coppers knew how to shoot. So, before going to the village, they all went to their homes and came back with the guns they kept in their houses: hunting rifles and an assortment of pistols. It was a sight to be seen apparently. There were Lugers too. My dad said it was a beautiful gun.’
‘What happened? I mean, to the hostages?’
Llewellyn shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. The reason I’m telling you this, Sadler, is that, believe me, there are a lot of old guns knocking around this place if you care to look for them. So you’ve got your work cut out for you. However, according to this report, this Luger was a First World War model. I won’t go into it now. You can read it yourself. Do you think that’s why Hale’s End was used for the killing?’
Sadler was flicking through the report. ‘I don’t know. The building was used by the Canadian regiments mainly. I can’t see any connection, apart from the war, obviously, but the fact that Kat Gray was sent the gun does have a positive side.’
Llewellyn nodded. ‘If the person who used the gun is the person who sent it to her, then that suggests that they have no further use for it.’
‘There won’t be any more deaths,’ said Sadler.
‘I should bloody well hope there won’t be. How many more bodies do we
want in Bampton?’
Sadler raised his hands. ‘I’m saying it because it means that it’s Andrew Fisher who was meant to be killed. The killer got the right person.’
‘Got the right person the second time around, you mean. Have you made any more progress on the first victim?’
Sadler shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve got so little to go on and we’ve been distracted by the body at Fearnley Mill. Although maybe that’s the wrong word. She might not be a distraction at all.’
‘You think she’s connected to all this?’
Sadler thought of the woman he had seen in the river, her resemblance to Lena and Kat, and the manner of her death. ‘Yes. I do.’
39
It was Mark who found the photo. He had looked grimly through all the old family shots. His own fractured family life must have been a huge contrast to the shots of Kat and Lena and their parents. At the beach. Having picnics.
It didn’t last, she wanted to tell him. We were close, and then we weren’t.
He’d been focused in his search. Childhood photos had been quickly passed over in favour of teenage snaps, and these he’d studied with care. It was he who had discovered the one with the mustard blouse. Lena had been wearing it.
They’d taken the box of photos down to the kitchen table and were studying the snap.
‘Don’t you remember?’ he asked. Curious.
She didn’t. Some clothes she did remember. The paisley silk shirt with the long tails that she had worn over a black pencil skirt. Perhaps because it had lasted for years, surviving numerous washes. She could still feel the softness of the material against her skin. She’d finally chucked it when the background was more grey than white.
‘She looks a lot like you.’ Mark was studying the image. ‘Except her face is a slightly different shape. You’ve hardly changed at all, Kat. Is there a painting up there that’s ageing while you stay forever young?’
Kat smiled, pleased. He was leaning in close to her, and she could smell his skin.
‘Who’s this?’ Mark was pointing to a third girl in the photo.
Kat peered at the photo. The three of them were standing inside the hall of Providence Villa, arms wrapped around each other. The picture had probably been taken before they went out. They’d often done that. Spent hours putting on their make-up and teasing their permed hair into the gelled licks that had been fashionable then. They could have been in a pop band, they were so similarly dressed. Lena had a pair of black leggings under the hateful blouse while she was wearing a scarlet top over what looked like a long, stretchy dress. The third girl had on a white blouse and a short pleated skirt. ‘It’s a friend. There were a few of us that used to go out together.’
‘Are you still in touch with her?’
Kat shrugged. ‘When I went to university, I lost touch with a lot of friends. Most of them, in fact.’
‘Can you remember who this is? She’s in this picture of Lena wearing the blouse. It may be her sending you the messages.’
‘Of course I remember. Her name was Stephanie. Stephanie Alton. She was a friend of Lena’s. Not from school though. From her Saturday job in the florist’s. Steph worked in another shop nearby, and that’s where she and Lena met.’
‘What did you say her name was?’ Mark’s voice was harsh again, the same tone she’d heard in the counselling room when she showed him the gun.
‘Steph. Stephanie Alton. What’s the matter?’
‘There’s a rumour that someone of that name’s dead. It’s all about town. Didn’t you know that a body was found down by Fearnley Mill?
‘No! It’s Steph?’ Kat sat down gingerly on a chair. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t think it’s been officially confirmed but the lads in the pub last night mentioned a name. Steph Alton. I’m sure that it was.’
‘How did she die?’
‘I don’t know. Have the police contacted you?’
Kat shook her head. ‘Thank God it’s not Lena.’
‘I suppose it’s a good thing they haven’t been to see you.’ Mark was scrutinising the photo. ‘They’re not connecting the case with you. Yet.’
‘You think someone might have killed her?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t like the fact she’s dead just after Lena disappeared. This doesn’t look good. You need to pack a bag. This boy knows where you live. I don’t want you here by yourself. I’m worried about you.’
‘But what about Charlie?’
‘Charlie?’
‘The cat.’
The look on Mark’s face was resigned. ‘Then Charlie had better come too, hadn’t he?’
40
Philip Staley’s mother lived in a dingy terrace in Macclesfield. Because of thick fog, it had taken Connie over an hour to drive over the hill known to locals as the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ because of the pub perched on top of the moor. It was a dangerous stretch of road at the best of times, but the thick fog had slowed her car to a crawl. Her drive wasn’t helped by the idiots trying to overtake her. It was with relief that she finally made her way down the hill into the town centre.
Janice Staley was around eighty, with sharp eyes in a wrinkled brown face. The house smelt of fried food and stale smoke. ‘I’ve got the chip pan on. Eric’s due home at five. He likes his tea straight away as he’s hungry by then.’
‘Eric is . . .’
‘My son. My other son. He works in the plastics factory up on the industrial estate. He likes it. Regular income and so on. On the phone you were asking about Philip.’
Her face had an impenetrable look that had Connie’s instincts on high alert. She would need to ask the right questions. By the look of things, here was a mother ready to protect her son. ‘His name’s come up in an investigation and we just wanted to ask him some questions.’
‘What kind of investigation?’ Janice demanded.
‘A woman’s body has been found. Suicide,’ Connie hastily added. ‘But we think she might have been friendly with your son.’ This was stretching the truth somewhat given that Philip Staley was supposed to have ruined Stephanie’s life.
‘When did she die?’
‘Last week.’
The woman’s face relaxed slightly. ‘Then it’s nothing to do with Philip. He emigrated to Australia.’
‘Emigrated?’
‘That’s right. He was talking about it for a while. Wanted permanent sunshine. He used to spend too long on the sunbeds, he liked having a nice tan.’
‘Do you have a picture of him, Mrs Staley?’
The woman frowned. ‘Of course I have a picture of him. He’s my son.’
Connie bit back the retort on her lips. ‘Do you have anything recent? Perhaps a photo?’
She had hit a nerve. Janice’s mouth settled into a thin line. ‘I’ve not had sight nor sound from him since he emigrated, the ungrateful little beggar.’
‘Ungrateful?’
‘I lent him five hundred quid for the ticket. Put the money straight into his bank account. He called me up. Could I lend him the money for the airfare. Five hundred pounds. I’m not rich. It was everything I had.’
‘He never said why he was leaving?’ The blood was beginning to stir in Connie.
‘The last I heard from him was when he called to say he’d received the money and he’d ring again when he got there. Ungrateful little sod. I never heard from him after that. He’ll call again some day. Probably when he wants more cash.’
‘Is that normal? I mean, not to hear from him for long periods of time?’
‘Normal? What’s normal for kids these days? The problem with Philip was that he could never settle at anything. Tried all sorts of jobs but he’d leave after six months. Get bored and then he was off. He went all over the place. Nottingham, Swansea, London.’
‘So when was it exactly that Philip emigrated?’ Could this be the breakthrough that we need? thought Connie.
‘Quite a few years ago.’
This time Connie couldn’t hide the si
gh. ‘When you say “quite a few years”, how many exactly do you mean?’
‘I can’t remember.’ The woman folded her arms.
Time for a change of tack, thought Connie. She leaned forward. ‘Mrs Staley. We’re worried about the welfare of your son. I’m extremely concerned about the fact that you’ve not heard from him for a few years. Could you tell me exactly when you last heard from him?’
‘August 2004,’ said Janice promptly.
Connie exhaled a long breath. Well, bloody hell, she thought. Bloody, bloody hell.
41
‘Why are we here?’ Kat was standing in a field in the middle of nowhere. Well, that wasn’t completely true. They were about ten minutes from the old Macclesfield road. Ten minutes on foot, that was. After depositing Charlie and her suitcase at his house, Mark had taken her out in the car up onto the Moor. When he had parked up at a lay-by, for a heart-stopping moment, Kat had felt fear. Perhaps her instincts about her client, or, rather, former client, had been wrong.
Then Mark had turned to her and said, ‘I want to show you something.’ And so they had tramped along no known path to this spot. All Kat had to distinguish the ground from the rest of the bleak landscape was the linear indentations that criss-crossed underneath her feet. ‘Where are we? What are we doing here?’
He was looking around him. ‘A mate told me about here. He’s ex-forces too. Obsessed with the First World War. He knows all about this area. Hale’s End too.’
Kat groaned. ‘Don’t mention Hale’s End to me.’
He turned to her. ‘Why not mention it? It’s where your brother-in-law was found killed.’
‘But that’s nothing to do with me, is it?’
‘But why Hale’s End?’
‘I don’t know. Why have you brought me out here to ask me all this?’
‘Because here’s somewhere neutral for us. Not my house or yours. And not the consulting room. A neutral place, but relevant. Where do you think we’re standing?’