An Early Grave

by Robert McCracken

  ‘You seem to get along all right.’

  ‘Sweetheart at times, selfish bastard at others. That’s Ollie.’ Stephanie sounded neither happy nor sad with her description of her boyfriend. She walked with her head down, concentrating on her feet in blue espadrilles, kicking out at pebbles strewn on the path. Tara got the impression that Stephanie was keen enough to talk openly of her relationship, sensing also that she was looking for some advice.

  ‘Is there any reason why Ollie is particularly nervous about being here this weekend? You said that he didn’t want to come.’

  ‘Big coward, isn’t he?’ Stephanie laughed.

  ‘Understandable if you believe your life may be under threat, but do you know if Ollie has any reason to be more frightened than the rest of us?’

  ‘You mean does he have enemies among this bunch of people?’

  ‘Justin Kingsley, for instance. Has Ollie ever mentioned anything that happened between them?’

  Stephanie shook her head as they came to a halt by the water’s edge. Two scullers, having passed Cox Stone and made the turn, were now headed downstream towards the boathouse. She watched them gather speed.

  ‘He has only ever spoken about the night Kingsley disappeared,’ Stephanie replied. ‘And that’s only since we met you in London.’

  ‘They didn’t have a fight? Ollie doesn’t believe that Kingsley would hold any grudge against him?’

  Stephanie shook her head.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘What about Ollie and Anthony?’

  ‘They’re pretty close friends, although they fight all the time.’

  ‘What do they fight about?’ They remained on the spot, Tara hoping for a break to help ease the discomfort in her feet.

  ‘Money and things… Look, Tara,’ Stephanie nudged her and whispered. ‘That’s the guy who was staring at us in the pub last night.’

  To their right, thirty feet and closing, was a couple walking hand in hand. The man wasn’t tall by any means, about five-eight or nine. He had a fine complexion, delicate, as if his face might be his living, a model or an actor, perhaps. Casually dressed in brown slacks and a brown chunky-knit cardigan, his face broadened to a wide smile revealing artificially whitened teeth. His companion was taller by at least two inches, although her black ankle-boots had heels much higher than Tara’s. The girl had long brown hair, blowing around a narrow face with a rather prominent upper lip and pushed-up nose. Attractive, but Tara would not have said she was pretty. She wore tight-fitting black jeans and a half-length brown tweed coat. So many emotions flooded Tara’s head before the man spoke. She’d spent all morning searching; walking through Balliol, wondering if the man Stephanie had observed watching them the night before was her Simon. She cringed at even thinking of him now as her Simon.

  ‘Hello, Tara,’ he said sprightly as if he’d purely by accident, by a freak of time, nature and fate, bumped into her. When he added, ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she could have lashed out at the supercilious face. Deep breaths, she thought.

  ‘Hello, Simon. How are you?’ She attempted to add a smile, aimed more at his girlfriend, but she was sure it looked a snarl.

  ‘Great,’ he replied. ‘You remember Louisa? From our year?’

  ‘Hi,’ the girl said with a smile and a slight wave of her free hand.

  ‘Sorry, Louisa, I don’t think I remember you,’ she lied, proud of herself for doing so. Louisa had indeed been in their year, but not in their social circle. Evidently though she now fitted the picture for Simon, her background seemingly more agreeable than North of England middle class. ‘Very surprised to see you in Oxford, Simon. I thought student days were consigned to the past for you?’ Unfortunately, her sarcasm seemed lost on her former lover, the man she thought she’d be spending her life with, the man who had stamped on her dreams and gouged out her heart.

  ‘Louisa dragged me along. She’s really into all this reunion caper. It was either come along with her, or stay at home to look after the sprogs.’

  ‘You have children?’ Tara felt her heart sink to her feet. One shock laid upon another. Simon a father, a painful twisting knife in her gut.

  ‘Two girls, four and two,’ said Louisa, proudly. ‘My husband loves them dearly, but he’s not terribly domesticated, not when it comes to potty training.’

  Tara scoured her mind for something meaningful to say. How should she react to learning that Simon was married and a father?

  ‘I’m sorry, this is Stephanie,’ she managed. Simon and Louisa shook hands with Tara’s companion.

  Suddenly her attention shot past the couple. Twenty yards behind them, under the shade of a sycamore, a man dressed in dark trousers and leather bomber jacket stood with his shaven head bowed. She could hear Simon prattling on, networking with Stephanie about living in London, while she strained to see the man’s face. She really needed to see him close up.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, stepping around Louisa while keeping her eyes on the man beneath the tree. She didn’t think he was aware of her approach, but she’d only taken a couple of steps when he swung round. Now she felt certain. The strong jaw, serious eyes, her mind switched rapidly to the first time she’d ever seen him. The photograph in Callum’s box-file, now in her handbag. The man came towards her. She couldn’t help staring at him. But he didn’t know her. He must have been faintly aware that she had been watching him, because he looked startled as his gaze met with hers. He strolled on by, taking the path through the meadow towards Christchurch. When she turned around, Simon, Louisa and Stephanie were looking on in silence. So many things she wanted to say to him. She wanted to demonstrate that she was fine now. He’d destroyed her for a time, ruined her memories of a student life, her hopes for the future, but she was over it. Over him. She realised, too, what the previous night with Callum had been all about for her. Oh, she’d been with other men after Simon, had slept with a few, but she had never loved anyone. She hadn’t really made love to anyone until Callum. Simon laid to rest at last. Although she was dying to speak all those truths to his face, she couldn’t do it. She wanted to make him feel like she was his loss, not that he had dumped her. She wanted him to regret. But there was no time. The man in the bomber jacket was getting further away.

  ‘Sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Tara?’ Stephanie called after her.

  ‘Maybe we can meet up later, Tara?’ Simon said.

  ‘Nice talking to you,’ said Tara, sarcastically, already on the trail of the man she never believed would show up in Oxford. She’d been so terribly wrong, instead building a case in her mind against Egerton-Hyde.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tara?’ Stephanie said, jogging to catch up. Tara glanced over her shoulder; Simon and his wife watched them go. She’d abandoned him. Great to think it was poignant, but she hadn’t time. She stopped dead.

  ‘Tara?’ Stephanie, fast becoming a bystander looked confused as Tara suddenly rushed back towards Simon.

  ‘Tara? Is there something wrong?’ Simon asked. She veered to her right, under the trees, a grey squirrel hopping out of her way. Papers, news cuttings, lists and photographs rolled through her head like movie credits on a cinema screen. The question of what the man had been doing under the tree lay before her, and yet she believed somehow that she already knew the answer. Stephanie walked by her side as they moved under the sycamore to the place where she’d first noticed him.

  ‘Tara? Can I help you with something?’ Simon called out.

  ‘Fuck off, Simon. That’s all I need from you. Just fuck off.’ She never even bothered to view his reaction, her mind already lost in something else, something more important. She stood before a small rectangular plaque made from brass but pitted black from weathering, and welded to a single metal stake pushed into the earth beneath the tree. Her former lover and his wife moved away, whispering between each other, but Tara was no longer aware of their ever having been there. She had moved on, too. She read the inscription on the plaque.

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nbsp; ‘The Baby Isis?’ said Stephanie. ‘In memory of Baby Isis whose remains were discovered here. What’s this mean, Tara?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ She hurried away. ‘Come on, we have to follow him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Justin Kingsley.’

  CHAPTER 49

  The man she believed to be Kingsley was now more than a hundred yards along the path heading, she guessed, for the gateway from the Meadow into St. Aldates, or to Merton Street and beyond, or to Merton Field towards Latimer College. Terrible misjudgement to have worn heels, but this morning she never thought she’d be haring around Oxford on the trail of a murderer. Stephanie peppered her with questions as they hurried along. Some she answered, others she couldn’t and one or two, wouldn’t. Fortunately, the man didn’t alter his walking speed seemingly unaware of his pursuers. Tara realised that if he made it to St Aldates and to the streets crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers and tourists, she would lose him. All the while the one question swung to and fro before her eyes. What connected Justin Kingsley to the Baby Isis?

  The man was nearing the end of the Meadow; Tara watched carefully for the direction he chose.

  ‘You were saying that Ollie fights with Egerton-Hyde?’

  ‘They’ve had a couple of blow-outs,’ Stephanie replied.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Money, investments. All gone quiet though since Anthony got the ministry post.’

  ‘Are they business partners?’

  The man turned left. They were only forty yards behind, but they needed to reach the exit gate before he entered St. Aldates. Once there he could go left, right, straight across the road, or even hop on a bus. She broke into a run. Stephanie had no problem picking up the pace.

  ‘Ollie handled some financial deals for him; one didn’t quite go to plan; that’s all I know. Why are you asking me these questions, Tara? If the man we’re following is Justin Kingsley, surely that proves he’s the killer? He’s come to murder again.’

  ‘That’s why we need to follow him.’

  The man had reached the open gate to St Aldates, but once he passed through he stopped and gazed up and down the road. Tara and Stephanie slowed to walking pace, and twenty yards off came to a halt. She had to do something inconspicuous, while at the same time get another look at the man’s face.

  ‘Have you got your phone?’

  Stephanie pulled her mobile from the pocket of her anorak.

  ‘Call Ollie. Get him to tell Callum that I may have found Kingsley.’ The man set off again, heading up St. Aldates towards the city centre. The girls followed, maintaining a distance of forty yards behind him. Still he seemed unaware of his stalkers. His pace quickened, however, and it seemed to Tara as if he had a specific destination which was at odds with his dithering earlier by the gates to Christchurch Meadow. Tara needed Callum and Ollie to give a positive identification. All she had to go on was the ten-year-old photo that she’d just removed from her bag and periodically examined as they hurried along the street, passing by Christchurch College. She wondered where he was going. She wondered, also, what to do when she had him at a fixed location. Call the local police? To tell them what exactly? I’ve discovered a man who’s been missing for ten years wandering the streets of Oxford? He’s responsible for the deaths of five people? But sorry, I can’t place him at any of the crime scenes, and I can’t provide a motive for any of the killings. She’d be the one locked up. She worried how Callum would react if they managed to corner Kingsley at a house or flat. Listening to one side of the telephone conversation between Stephanie and Ollie, it didn’t sound pleasing.

  ‘Ollie’s coming to meet us,’ said Stephanie. ‘I’ll keep him posted as to where we’re going.’

  ‘Where’s Callum?’ said Tara, a sudden note of panic in her voice.

  ‘He’s gone off to visit some old colleagues from the lab, Ollie said.’

  ‘Shit. Why does that man think he’s here on a jolly?’

  ‘I take it you two had a row? Things seemed a bit frosty over lunch.’

  Tara couldn’t speak. She had a sudden urge to turn around and walk away. But her fear and her determination to find the truth behind this bunch of people, dead and alive, drove her forward. Thankfully, this man was proving easy to follow. Crossing High Street, he entered Cornmarket, a pedestrianised zone. His pace slowed again as he paused to browse at shop windows, and each time the girls had to stop, look the other way and pretend to be chatting.

  ‘Call Ollie again,’ said Tara. ‘Tell him to go find Callum. I need him here with me.’ They set off once more, but in a few seconds the man entered a burger bar, and they could do nothing but wait outside. Five minutes later Ollie was standing beside them.

  ‘So where is Lord Lucan then?’ he said, chortling. His bluster and lack of discretion continued to grate with Tara.

  ‘Let’s move away from here,’ she said, ushering him to the opposite side of the street to stand in the doorway of a clothes store. ‘Keep watching that burger bar. I’ll tell you when the man I think is Kingsley comes out. You tell me if it’s really him. Try not to let him see you.’ Tara stepped away from Ollie and Stephanie, thinking it best that if Kingsley did notice Ollie she would not be associated with him, and could continue to follow Kingsley when he walked off. She didn’t get the chance. Before Ollie managed a good look at the man, he was out of the shop, turning right and moving at much greater pace than before in the direction of Broad Street. Seemed likely to Tara that the man had spied Ollie through the window of the burger bar, and he’d decided that Ollie was not the person he wished to meet right now.

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’ she asked.

  Ollie shook his head.

  ‘You two go and find Callum. I’ll keep following this guy.’

  ‘But, Tara,’ Ollie protested. ‘If it is Kingsley…’

  ‘Give me your number, Stephanie, and I’ll call you if anything happens. Phone me when you find Callum, and we’ll arrange to meet.’ As soon as she’d punched Stephanie’s number into her phone she hurried off, trying desperately to pick out the man among dozens of people moving up and down the street.

  What should she do if she managed to corner him? Wait for Callum to show up? They could beat each other senseless? Questions did little to aid her chase. If she still had her eye on the right man he hadn’t slowed his pace and in fact had put greater distance between them. When he reached the corner of the Cornmarket he paused by a large bookstore, briefly inspecting the window display. Suddenly he glanced in her direction. There was nothing she could do. She had to keep going. Any sudden jink to her left or right, dropping her head, or coming to a sudden halt would look conspicuous. She fixed her gaze dead ahead and maintained her pace. At least it gave her the opportunity to look at his face, while she hoped he took little notice of her. She was almost upon him before he moved off again. Once his back was turned, she had time to pause and allow some distance to develop again between them. From the bookstore he crossed into Magdalen Street, on the same side as the Church of St. Mary Magdalen. Concentrating on crossing the road, she momentarily took her eye off her quarry. When she peered down the street he’d gone. She stopped and gazed around. He’d vanished. She hurried along by the railing of the old graveyard, scanning the pavement on the opposite side of the street, crowded with shoppers and several queues of people waiting for buses. He may have crossed the road and gone into one of the shops, she thought. Searching each of the stores was futile. Too many people. She’d lost him. Further along the street she noticed the open door into the church. He couldn’t have gone much beyond this point. She’d only taken her eyes off him for a second. It had to be. Worth a try anyway, she thought. The overhanging trees cut the light; giving the impression of dusk as she made her way to the church porch. There would be others inside, she told herself. She could get a good look at the man as he wandered around. Stepping into the wide porch, she entered the ancient church through very modern plate glass doors. The interior was dim,
rather gloomy, with a pervading smell of burning incense. Standing at the back, she gazed forwards at the sanctuary but saw no one. Cut off from the bustling street outside, there was total silence. Glass panelling behind her separated a small office and sacristy, lit by a single dim spot light, from the main church. It also was deserted. Stepping into the south aisle, she noticed a door opened slightly revealing a hallway leading to the south door. She’d lost Kingsley; he had not entered the church, or else he’d given her the slip by leaving through this door. After a last look around the church, she hurried into the hallway. She gave a yelp as a hand took firm hold of her hair, pulling her into a darkened corner. She managed a brief scream before another hand covered her mouth and nose. She felt a body behind her. Squeezing her tight. She fought for breath. Her eyes bulged, her face tightened as the hand twisted and pulled her hair backwards. Panic gripped her. She struck out with her feet, trying to stamp her heel into his shoe. Why weren’t there other people? Why couldn’t someone help her? She moaned, but the hand remained locked around her mouth. He released her hair and slung his arm around her waist, pulling her close to his body. She tried pulling away, but without breath she had no fight. Her head spun. She felt close to passing out. Then he spoke in a harsh whisper.

  ‘One scream and I’ll break your neck. Understand?’ His arm squeezed tighter into her stomach. She wanted to heave. ‘Understand?’ he repeated as he twisted her head and body to face him. His eyes drilled into hers. The hand on her face slipped downwards allowing her to breathe through her nose. He was too strong, too big. Forcing his right leg between hers he thrust his knee upwards pressing it to her crotch. She cried out, but his hand gripped ever harder to her mouth, and her head thumped against the cold stone wall of the church. Why didn’t someone come? She attempted another escape, trying to force her hands between them, to get leverage, to shove him off. She felt a stinging pain in her side, just below her ribs.

  ‘Next time I won’t stop with the knife, and you can bleed to death. Now, tell me why you’ve been following me. Scream and I’ll cut you again. Understand?’