by Sam Christer
Megan doesn’t flinch. ‘He shot himself with a small hand gun.’ She can’t help but add the details: ‘A Webley Mark IV, a First World War pistol.’
‘I didn’t know he even owned a gun.’
‘It was registered in his name. He’d fired it several times at a local range.’
His shock deepens.
She moves on to the more difficult bit. ‘You can see him, if you like. We’ve had official identification from his cleaner, the lady who discovered him, so there’s no need, but if you want to, I can fix it.’
He’s not sure what to say. He certainly does not want to see what remains of his father after he put a bullet through his head. But he feels obliged to. Wouldn’t it be wrong not to? Isn’t it expected?
The DI pushes her chair back and stands. If she doesn’t take the initiative, the dead guy’s son will still have her sitting here at midnight. ‘I’m sorry, we really have to wind this up now.’
‘Forgive me. I know it’s late.’ He picks up the letter, folds it and slides it back into the spattered envelope. ‘Is it all right to take this?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
He places it gently inside his jacket. ‘Thank you. And thank you for staying so late.’
‘No problem.’ Megan produces a card with her details on it. ‘Call me in the morning. We can fix a time then.’
He takes it and follows her out of the room. She guides him through the security-locked doors and out into the dark cold of the night and now-empty streets.
As the door clacks shut behind them, Gideon feels numb.
He unlocks the old Audi and sits frozen in the driver’s seat, keys shaking in his hand.
8
TOLLARD ROYAL, CRANBORNE CHASE,
SALISBURY
The estate is set in a singularly beautiful, historic chalk plateau straddling Dorset, Hampshire and Wiltshire – not far from the palatial retreat that Guy Ritchie and Madonna once shared.
Gideon has never been here before and trying to find it in the dark has taken more than an hour and proved exhaustingly difficult. He wishes he’d thought things through a little more – booked into a hotel or asked the police to find him somewhere. Now he’s faced with nowhere to sleep unless he breaks into the house.
The fruits of his dead parent’s dubious labour are impressive. The mansion must be worth ten million pounds, maybe more. Perhaps his father’s ‘trade’ – grave-robbing, as Gideon had often called it – was one of the reasons why he had taken his life.
Gideon drives through tall metal gates into a darkened garden as foreboding as a cemetery. The driveway winds on for nearly half a mile before it sweeps around a marble centrepiece with an elaborate fountain that’s lit but not working. Soft, yellow garden lights cast a jaundiced glow through the leaves of ancient trees. He kills the engine and sits for a minute looking at the old house. It’s a shell – empty of life.
He gets out and walks a flagged path around the east wing. While he has no keys, he reasons that he’s unlikely to get into trouble for breaking into a property that’s just been left to him.
He trips another set of security lights and the intense burst of white forces him to blink. There’s a scurry of activity in hedges and undergrowth not far from the house – foxes or rabbits, he guesses.
A security box on a far off wall catches his eye. It probably isn’t primed. If you commit suicide, you don’t set the alarm. And given that the police were sloppy enough not to padlock the front gates, it’s unlikely that they’ve already phoned the company for the key code and appointed someone custodian.
He peers through the panes of a quaint orangery attached to the side of the building and can’t quite bring himself to break in. A little further down he looks inside a laundry-cum-storage room. The door is modern. Less expensive to replace than anything else he’s seen so far.
A good whack with the heel of his boot should do it. A solid boot somewhere around the lock. He takes a closer look. Best to get things right before you go hoofing away.
The door jamb around the handle looks already splintered.
He gives it a push and it opens.
‘Damn.’ Gideon curses the police. Unlocked gates and now a damaged door that should have been secured.
The air inside the house is stale and dry. Was this how the police entered? A crazy kick and rush by local plods after a call from a hysterical housekeeper?
He switches the light on and realises his last thought didn’t make sense. The cleaner who found his father most probably had a key. There would have been no reason for them to break in.
The place must have been burgled.
Or worse still – is in the process of being burgled.
9
Musca has found nothing.
He has ransacked the lounge, searched all eight bedrooms, several bathrooms and two reception rooms and so far he’s found nothing of any value to him. Sure, the old guy’s house is stacked full of fabulously expensive stuff. No doubt a regular burglar would be swinging a full swag bag over his shoulder and whistling a merry little tune as he strolled down the plush halls, but luxury goods are not what Musca came for.
Books, diaries, documentation, photographs, computer files and any form of tape recordings are what he’s hunting in the treasure hunter’s lair.
He’s already wrecked the library. Yanked down, opened up and shaken loose hundreds upon hundreds of old books. Now he’s heading into the study – the place he’s told the professor killed himself.
He walks over to the casement window and closes the thick red curtain. He shines his torch on to the desk, finds an antique brass lamp and flicks it on. In the mellow light, his eyes fall first on the revolving walnut chair, then the Victorian desk and the large dark-red map of blood spread across the cream blotter.
He shivers. The darkness of the house seems to close in on him. Tower above him.
Click.
Musca whirls towards the door. Just natural noises of an old building?
Crack.
He lunges for the lamp switch. Eases away from the desk and slides back towards the door. Leaning against the wall, he wills his heart to slow down.
All is silent.
Then again the soft creak of wood.
He knows now exactly where the sound is coming from. The rear of the house is full of old wooden floorboards, many warped and loose. As he discovered when he came in. He slips his kit bag off his shoulder and dips a hand inside. His fingers close around a small iron crowbar. Perfect for busting open a flimsy back door or a skull.
A moment passes.
Then another.
And another.
He starts to wonder if he’s alone or not. Whether someone’s come in and spotted him. Maybe even called the cops. Musca can’t stand the waiting any longer. He rummages in his trouser pockets and finds his cigarette lighter. If he can’t find anything incriminating, then the least he can do is ensure no one else does.
He pads back to the desk, gingerly slides open a drawer and finds a pack of A4 printer paper. Perfect. He tears open the cover wrapping and holds the flame to a wad of paper until it starts to smoke and catches ablaze. He carries the burning bundle to the curtains, flames flailing into the darkness, and holds the blaze beside the long cloths until they ignite.
The curtains create a roaring column of fire, a furious wash of orange and black. Musca retreats two steps. A tide of smoke rises around him.
As he turns, he sees a tall figure in the doorway.
There’s a small burst of light, like a switch being turned quickly on and off, and then the ghostly silhouette suddenly pulls the door shut. Musca drops the flaming paper and rushes to the thick mahogany door. A key in the lock clicks twice.
He’s trapped.
10
Gideon is no hero.
The first and last time he had a fight was at school – and even then it wasn’t much of a brawl. He took several punches in the face from the year bully and was left with a bloody nose and
no money for tuck shop.
He’s filled out a lot since then. Grown bigger and broader. The former is down to genes and the latter to years of rowing at Cambridge. But ever since that harrowing moment he’s developed an acute instinct for danger and an understanding that a quick brain is almost always better than a bully’s quick hands.
Gideon’s already called 999. Now he’s picking his way as silently as possible through the place just to make sure he hasn’t made a silly mistake.
The door to the study yawns open and the light from the hall shows the big, chunky key in the lock. When he sees the figure torching the curtains he makes up his mind to lock the door and keep him there until the cops come.
But now he’s thinking it over.
He’s trapped someone in a burning room and if he doesn’t let them out, they’re going to die. So what? A bit of him really asks that. So what if he dies? Will the world actually miss the kind of low-life that breaks into a dead man’s house and steals from him before he is even laid to rest?
Gideon opens the door.
There’s a roar of flames as the draught blows in. He steps back, arms up to his scorched face. Through a molten wall of orange, a black shape hurtles at him. He is slammed against the wall. His body shudders with the impact. A fist smashes into his left cheekbone. A knee thuds into his crotch. He doubles over in pain. Takes a boot full in the face.
Flat out on the floor, his breath shallow and his lips leaking blood, the last thing Gideon sees before dizziness swallows him is the giant wave of flames and smoke rolling his way.
11
Musca charges across the sprawling lawns behind the manor house, his heart flinging itself against his chest. Above the fizz of the flames he hears the siren – just one car by the sound of it. It’s way past midnight and he knows the police won’t be coming mob-handed. At best, they’ll have despatched that single squad car, with probably a couple of PCs in it.
Still, it was wise to have parked in a lane far behind the estate. The lawns are clear and open and he’s soon able to escape the glare of the lights. Problem is, the darkness is virtually total and he can’t find the exact place in the wall he climbed over – the point that will guide him back to the car.
He stumbles through a clump of thick rose branches and is almost sent sprawling by a molehill so large its owner could probably run for the governorship of California. Finally, he finds the landmark he’d made a mental note of: a greenhouse, the lower half built out of brick and the top of hard wood and double-glazed glass. He counts thirteen paces along the wall and finds the spot he has to climb.
There’s a snag.
When he’d entered the grounds, he’d climbed a small tree on the other side. Dropping ten feet hadn’t been difficult. He’s just over six foot tall, so he’d been able to sling his bag over, dangle from his fingertips and then drop the rest of the way.
Now he can’t get back.
No matter how high he jumps, or even runs and jumps, he can’t get close to the top of the wall. Musca puts the kit bag down and frantically searches for something to stand on. An old compost bin, maybe a spade or garden fork to lean against, or if he’s really lucky a ladder.
There’s nothing.
He glances across the dark lawns. Flames spilling out of the side of the house. The cops have their hands full. He calms down. There’s time enough to do this without making mistakes.
The greenhouse.
He rattles the door. Locked. Through the window he sees wooden racks full of plants. One of those would do just fine. He rushes back to his bag and realises he’s left the crowbar in the old man’s study. Never mind. Brute force will do.
Musca steps back and hammers a heel through the glass and hardwood frame. He jerks the doors open and slips inside.
He’s right, the wooden tables are perfect. He pulls one free from the soil that it’s sunk in, sending dozens of tomato plants spilling as he pulls it outside. He looks again towards the house.
Suspended in the blackness is what appears to be a bouncing ball of light. Torchlight. A cop with a flashlight is checking the grounds – moving quickly towards him.
Musca has killed and is ready to kill again if necessary. He peels away to the left of the light and heaves a heavy stone into the side of the greenhouse.
‘Stop, police!’
He smiles as the torchlight rushes towards the noise. A second later he’s behind the beam and the policeman is slumping unconscious to the ground.
Musca returns to the planting table and jams it against the garden wall.
Twenty seconds later, he’s gone.
12
Megan is listening to her four-year-old’s snuffling and laboured breathing. Every half-hour she wakes and passes a hand over the child’s head. Sammy’s on fire. For the eighth time that night she wets a flannel and gently lays it on her daughter’s forehead.
Her mobile rings. It jerks her out of a tense state of half-sleep and she grabs it before it wakes Sammy.
‘DI Baker.’
‘Inspector, it’s Jack Bentley from the control room.’
‘Hang on,’ she whispers as she climbs out of bed. ‘Give me a second.’ She works her way on to the landing. ‘Okay, go ahead.’
‘We just had an incident in Tollard Royal, the beat officer asked me to call.’
‘Bit off my patch, Jack.’ She glances down the corridor. Her mother is stood at her bedroom door, scowling.
‘I know that, ma’am. There’s been a fire in one of the big houses out there. A burglary too, according to the report. A police officer was assaulted by the offender as he fled the scene.’
‘You need to call me about this?’
‘They’ve taken a civilian to hospital. They found your business card on him.’
Megan turns away from her mother’s accusatory gaze. ‘Do you have a name? What did he look like?’
‘I don’t have a physical, but we ran a trace on a car parked there, an old Audi A4. It’s registered to a Gideon Chase from Cambridge.’
She thinks she knows the answer but still asks the question, ‘Who’s the house owned by?’
Bentley taps up the info on his computer. ‘Property is in the name of a Nathaniel Chase. He’s listed on the electoral roll as the only resident.’
‘He was. The man they’ve taken to hospital is his son. I saw him a few hours ago. He only drove down here because I had to ring him and tell him his father had died.’
‘Poor bugger. Not his night, eh?’ The penny drops with Bentley. ‘Was that the professor chap who shot himself?’
‘The same.’
‘At any rate, two officers turned out, PCs Robin Featherby and Alan Jones. Jones is getting treated for neck injuries and Featherby asked me to call and let you know. Said to say sorry for ringing late but figured best to tell you now than get shouted at tomorrow.’
‘He figured right. Thanks Jack. Have a good night.’
She turns her phone off just as her mother slips into the bedroom to check on Sammy. They’re going to have a row. She just knows they are. Rather than do that, she slopes off downstairs to make a cup of tea.
As the kettle boils, Megan recalls her brief meeting with Gideon and the strangely disturbing letter from his father. There’s no way this incident at Tollard Royal is just a burglary gone wrong.
No way on earth.
13
TUESDAY 15 JUNE
SALISBURY
When Gideon opens his eyes it’s morning and he thinks he’s back at home in his own bed. In a blink he realises how wrong he is. He’s in hospital. There’d been a fire and a burglary at his dead father’s house and the doctors at Salisbury District had insisted he’d stayed the night, ‘for observation’.
He’s straining to sit up when the matronly form of ward sister Suzie Willoughby appears. ‘You’re awake, then. How are you feeling?’
He touches his head, now throbbing in protest. ‘Sore.’
She lifts a chart off the bottom rail of the bed, glan
ces at it and inspects him more closely. ‘You got a bump on the head, a split lip and a nasty cut to your left cheek, but the X-rays say nothing’s broken.’
‘I should be thankful for small mercies.’
‘Something like that.’ She looks at his cut face. ‘It’s less angry than it was, but maybe we should put a couple of stitches in there.’
‘It’ll be okay, I’m a quick healer.’
She can see he’s squeamish. ‘They don’t hurt. Not like they used to. Have you had a recent tetanus injection?’
‘Not since I was a kid.’
‘We’ll give you one then and just check your blood for infection, better safe than sorry. How’s your throat?’
He feels as though he’s back in boarding school, being checked over by Sister to see if he’s trying to skive lessons. ‘It’s a bit rough, but I’m okay. Actually, I think I’m fine to go home, if that’s all right.’
She gives him a look that says it isn’t. ‘Doctor will be around in about twenty minutes. He’ll give you the once-over and if everything’s fine, then we’ll discharge you.’ She fusses with the thin blankets. ‘I’ll get you something for the headache and some water for the throat. Best you drink lots of water. Flush the system. The fire you got caught in gave off a lot of smoke and you sucked it down into your lungs. You’ll probably be very sore and coughy for a few days.’
He nods gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
As she waddles off, he thinks about what she said. The fire. He remembers everything now: the intruder in his father’s study, the blazing curtains, the fight in the hallway.
The nurse returns with a plastic cup of water and a couple of small tubs of pills. ‘Do you have allergy reactions to paracetamol or ibuprofen?’
‘No.’
She shakes out two paracetamol pills. ‘Take these and if they don’t work, the doctor will give you something stronger.’