by Nick Brown
But she hadn’t time to brood; the Chief was about to speak. Despite all this, as he started she found herself thinking ‘this is where he belongs, this is where he’s happiest, leading a small team solving crimes’. With an open beer bottle in one hand, hefty arms bulging out of a short-sleeved shirt, he reminded her more of a bus driver at the end of a long shift than the new breed of bureaucratic chief constable.
“I’m not going to interrupt you for long, just a few words to tell you how bloody relieved I am that you’ve cracked it, that you lifted the web of fear from our city.”
He paused for the applause, took a swig from the bottle, then said:
“When they first sent us DI Campbell I thought to meself aye, aye, here’s another bloody graduate from bloody London to teach us how it’s done. But the buggers got it wrong, didn’t they? She’s not from bloody London, she’s from Oldham, she’s one of us and she’s cracked it for us. So raise your glasses to your guvnor, DI Campbell.”
Now they were cheering her; it was like a dream. Viv could see Jimmy leading the cheering as she walked across to the Chief to say her piece. She said a few words, echoing her boss. There were things she’d learnt from him, it appeared.
When it was over and the Chief had told them that single-handed they’d more or less saved Christmas, Viv followed him to his room wondering where Theodrakis was; it was bad form for him not to be present, not that anybody missed him.
Once ensconced behind the desk in his office, the mood changed.
“Don’t give me that look, Viv, I’m as iffy about all this as you, but unless the whole lab system has been contaminated then we’ve all the evidence we need to close the Skendleby case, which has worked out well for our political masters.”
“What do you mean, worked out well?”
“Final planning meeting for Carver’s Skendleby development this evening. No ongoing police activity knocks down any arguments for a delay. Bad news for your archaeologist friend, though.”
A few days ago she’d have protested about the use of the adjective friend, now she wasn’t so sure. Instead she asked:
“Surely it can’t all be wrapped up so quickly. There’s no motive for either of the perpetrators and now they’re both dead they can’t give their side of things. It’s all too convenient.”
While she was speaking, Theodrakis’s words in the Greek restaurant came back to her, it had gone exactly as he’d predicted. But now the Chief was speaking.
“If the lab results hadn’t got muddled up first time round we’d have got here sooner and, to be fair, it does make some sort of sense.”
“Like what? What sense does it make?”
“Well, Trescothic must have paid Gifford to harass the women at the house. When it went too far and Gifford killed Kelly Ellsworth, Trescothic must have threatened him with talking to us, so he killed him too - plenty of logic there.”
“And the girl at Skendleby Hall, why kill her?”
“Gifford had violent tastes, he abused his wife, knocked about the sex workers he used. He just went too far.”
“She wasn’t a sex worker.”
“Maybe Gifford mistook her for one. He had the opportunity, he worked for Carver at the Hall.”
“Ok, even if I buy that then what possible connection could he have had with Marcus Fox? And why would he go out there on the Welsh borders?.”
“I don’t know, I’m not bloody Stephan Fry. But whatever the reason, his DNA was all over Fox, clear as day, prima facie.”
“And then he goes for a run on Lindow Common, stuffs his mouth with crow feathers and has a heart attack. Very probable.”
“Look, Gifford had people after him, he owed money, he had enemies, maybe he was desperate. And you need to be careful talking about those last details, the press don’t know about the feathers.”
“Like they didn’t know the details of the attacks last year. Are we supposed to believe that Gifford was responsible for those as well? I just don’t buy it.”
“Listen, we’ve got a dead villain with lots of previous and rock solid forensic evidence. What have you got, Viv?”
She hadn’t anything other than a horrible realisation that Theodrakis was right and that she was walking through Hell.
“Are you listening?”
She hadn’t been, her thoughts had taken her elsewhere.
“Sorry, Chief?”
“I was telling you about some news, good news.”
Despite the positive words she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“Seems we’re going to be working together for a bit longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been a request from up high that you stay in Manchester, and London’s agreed. Congratulations, your rank’s been made substantive and if you continue like this the next step’s divisional commander. Congratulations, lass.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Viv heard a door slam shut.
*******
Flakes of snow were driven into the taxi window by the wind, but peering out Theodrakis saw, to his surprise, that the gates guarding the driveway of Skendleby Hall were open. Asking the driver to wait for him he got out, shutting the door behind him. The driver obviously didn’t want to wait in the dark in a place with Skendleby’s reputation and the taxi roared off into the night.
Outside in the murky light, Theodrakis gingerly picked his way down the drive. He felt the landscape was watching him; it seemed alive and his nostrils filled with an odour he couldn’t quite place, which was coming off the fields. It tasted, as much as smelt, like a compound of iron and blood.
Gazing across the fields it came to him that this landscape was as ancient and troubled as his Greek homeland, and that beneath its layers lay buried the same secrets and tragedies. It had a life of its own, unknowable and brooding, enduring and remembered.
The wind died and a sudden hush fell: Skendleby Hall was a desolate place. It was darker than in the fields around. Across the estate wall, Theodrakis saw the tall spire of the church and for a moment considered heading for whatever slight protection it might offer. But figuring that you can’t dodge what is coming for you he trudged on towards the sepulchral silence that hung over the Hall.
Few of the windows were lit; whatever life the Hall possessed seemed long gone. He was aware of slight movement along the estate wall to his left, something was watching him. The further he walked the greater the sense of dread in his heart grew. He’d never see Samos again; whatever the future had in store for him it would find him here. Find him now.
There was a rustling from the woods, wings maybe? An owl hooted, the cold intensified. Visibility was poor but as he stared into the gathering dark he thought he saw a slice of the darkness by the wall detach itself from the beech trees and move towards him, beginning to shift violently in focus as it drew closer. He considered running; but where to and for what purpose?
Whatever it was coming for him was hastening its approach, ‘Quis est iste qui venit’. A phrase from a ghost story he’d read as a student came to him. He stopped; the patch of darkness was clearer now, had stopped moving in gravity defying jerks and settled into a slow running speed. In the last few yards of its progression he felt an element of recognition.
“Been waitin’ for you, took your time, innit.”
He took the ice cold hand that was proffered him.
“Betta come into the Hall, freezin’ out here.”
Chapter 38: Northern Powerhouse
Giles saw that all the ‘big guns’ were present as soon as he entered the committee room and knew he was wasting his time. They’d left nothing to chance. So, tonight, Carver’s Skendleby proposals would receive the go ahead with the council blessing.
There were very few protesters present; perhaps they also knew it was a lost cause, certainly not one worth turning out for on such a raw night. He shuffled into his seat at the table and a name plate was set in front of him by the clerk to the planning committee. A coupl
e of the protesters nodded at him but from the ranks of the bureaucrats, politicians and marketing types, there was no gesture of recognition. Even his colleagues averted their eyes, not wanting careers jeopardised by association with a man bent on opposing the collective will.
The meeting had been scheduled in the town hall; it was more convenient for those with influence who wanted the venture to proceed. Giles was just in time, the independent chair, representing the ‘Powerhouse Partnership’, cut through the murmur of conversation and opened up with his introductory remarks.
“This shouldn’t take us too long, most of the ground has been covered so I’ll be grateful if all contributions can be brief and to the point. The weather is deteriorating and I’m sure that, like me, you’ll want to get home tonight. I’m told that Mr Carver will be joining us in a few moments so in the meantime I invite Bruce Mont-Giraud of Dream Solutions to update us on progress since the last meeting.”
There followed a flashy presentation painting the picture of a socially responsible, eco-friendly New Jerusalem that would not only enhance Skendleby but drive forward the local economy. The (in Giles’s opinion) slippery and unctuous Mont-Giraud had reached the climax of his peroration and said:
“The hard working citizens of ‘The Northern Powerhouse’ deserve amenities that provide them with…”
He was cut off by two simultaneous arrivals: the scowling, red-faced Si Carver, and a pale and strained Sir Nigel Davenport. Neither showed any awareness of the presence of the other. Carver was greeted with a series of smiles and nods, Davenport was ignored.
The meeting was moved swiftly on to a summary of the council’s backing for the project, delivered by a senior officer from planning. This proved to be a longer and duller presentation during which time Giles began to wonder where the women from the house were. Claire had told him she’d ensure they were there to support his objections.
When the meeting finally reached the stage where questioning of the project was permitted, Giles commenced his lengthy report on the potential damage to the historic landscape. The independent chair stopped him.
“Sorry, Dr Glover, we’ve heard all this before, have you any new and pertinent objections?”
“No, not new, I’m restating the integrity of the original objections.”
“Which we’ve heard several times and taken due note of. That being the case we may properly move to a decision.”
While the chair was making this pronouncement, Giles saw a smirk cross Carver’s features and Davenport sunk his head into his hands. It was the latter that made Giles try one last time.
“Listen to this then. That land shouldn’t be built on because it frightens people, just look at what the police have found there. Think about why no one ever built on it before, think why…”
The chair was about to silence him but it was Carver who delivered the ‘coup de grace’, shouting:
“You talk about thinking, then think about this. How much public and private money has been sunk into this project? How many people will benefit from the starter homes? How many people’s health will the leisure centre improve? How many jobs will be created? All you have to put up in opposition is a silly fairy tale.”
Carver didn’t have to say more, everyone in a seat of office round the table was nodding and smiling. Giles slumped back into his chair and listened as the committee voted the project through. As the chair began his concluding remarks there was a hiatus among the onlookers. Davenport was on his feet, shouting:
“You’ll live to regret this and no one more so than you, Carver.”
He opened his mouth to say more but his hands grasped at his chest and he collapsed, clutching the area around his heart. Giles and several others rushed to him and a doctor was summoned. By the time he’d been helped onto a chair and subsequently into an ambulance, the chamber had emptied. The Skendleby project was reality.
Davenport rallied and refused the ambulance so Giles sent him home in a taxi. He tried Claire’s mobile again, still no answer, he wasn’t surprised - she was difficult to contact these days, almost as if she’d tired of him. He couldn’t face her empty cottage or his empty house and he didn’t want to get drunk, so he trudged through the cold dark streets to the archaeology unit deep in the basement of the 19th Century heart of the university.
It was empty and unwelcoming, so it suited his mood. Avoiding the strip lighting he turned on his desk lamp and sat musing in the crepuscular half light listening to the creaks and squeaks of the deserted building. After an indeterminate period of time he reached for the free copy of the evening’s Journal that had been thrust into his hand by one of the numerous distributors in town.
If there was anything that could have lowered his downer any further it was the headline.
“Police crack South Manchester terror crime spree.”
Half the front page was taken up with a picture of the police public briefing, while the scant text opined that the spate of attacks that had terrorised the fifteen miles stretching from the city centre to Skendleby for two years was finally over. He hadn’t the stomach to read the quote from the senior investigating office, DI Campbell. Everything was stitched up.
On an impulse he rang the police, and to his surprise after a brief wait he was put through to Viv. All she said was:
“I’ll ring you back on my mobile.”
She did, instantly.
“I need to talk but not over the phone. Can you meet me?”
They fixed on a pub near her Didsbury flat in an hour. He was there before her and was nursing a pint when she walked in. Outside of the police context she seemed strikingly different; certainly striking. She was taller than most of the drinkers at the bar and he noticed eyes following as she walked across to him. Some probably recognised her from the paper and local TV news, but it was more than that.
“You’ve not solved it, have you?”
After buying her a drink these were the first words he said. He didn’t get an answer, he suspected she was playing for time.
“Where’s your partner, Ms Vanarvi?”
“I think Claire’s lost interest in me.”
There was a pause, then Giles tried again.
“You don’t believe it’s over, do you?”
Still no answer, he tried another tack.
“Is Theodrakis going to join us?”
“No, I need you to talk to me, tell me the things I’m missing.”
“Dunno where to start, it all just like happened, and I don’t know why. I’m an archaeologist, I don’t believe in all this hippy woo stuff. I used to be like that pleased with himself scientist whose always on TV. But…”
She smiled at him, a warm smile, he liked it. She asked:
“But what?”
“But I’ve seen things and what I experience and what I believe aren’t the same. The experience feels more real; whatever reality is, if it exists.”
“Not particularly helpful.”
“Actually it is and it’s the best advice I can give you. I’ll tell you something else, something that you wouldn’t have believed a couple of weeks ago.”
She looked close to the edge and he knew she’d believe him now.
“You know that whatever you fed to the press isn’t the truth? Talk to Theodrakis; it was the same on Samos: no leads, no ideas. And then out of nowhere people confess, the DNA confirms it and they mysteriously die. Very convenient, just like here, it’s all wrapped up. Yeah? Sound familiar? And believe me, the attacks will diminish in intensity and then fade altogether. Whatever local demon was engaged to perpetrate them will be stood down. It has what it wants, it’s moving on.”
“That makes no sense but it feels right. I feel haunted, even here in Didsbury. But I can’t go back to London, I’d be scared it would follow, that it would contaminate my family. I’m trapped.”
She looked so vulnerable and without thinking Giles reached out and took one of her hands in his. They sat like that for a period then she gently disengaged hi
s hand, saying, almost beneath her breath:
“No, it’s too early for that.”
*******
They sat in a huge, gleaming kitchen that seemed to have walked complete and unused from the pages of a brochure. Lit only by spots directed at the work surfaces, it felt distant and unreal, particularly where the light reflected off polished metal. They drank green tea and their voices, although muted, rang round the vast kitchen to peter out as echoes in the empty silence of the dark corners.
“What brought you here from Greece, must have been powerful?”
“Yes it was, very powerful”
Theodrakis was playing for time. He knew that the heavily made up woman with the tied-back hair and show pony running gear was no more real than the things that had destabilised him on Samos. And yet?
She was still talking.
“No need to worry about Si, he won’t be coming back tonight. He’ll stay and celebrate then sleep it off in one of the apartments he owns in town, where he keeps his little friends.”
This was said without any trace of bitterness, in fact, she sounded relieved. Also, the pronounced accent and language she normally affected had diminished to just a trace. But what she said next shocked him out of his observational reticence.
“Better now you’re finally here, over the months I got tired of waiting.”
“What do you mean? How could you have known I was coming? I didn’t know myself until a short time ago.”
“That’s the way they work, isn’t it?”
There was no answer to that, not that he had one and even if there had been, what she said next would have rendered it inadequate.
“Better get used to it, cos like me you’ll not be leaving.”
Chapter 39: Assemblage
Ed picked up the scattered pieces of the crib scene, wondering who would do a thing like this, who could have done it? The church had been locked overnight and there’d been no evidence of a break in when he’d opened up that morning. Except of course from the systematic destruction of the crib.