Lin. Who was she? Where had she said her brother was? Craighill, that was it. Had she ever given her brother a name? She thought hard.
Bobby. So, it would be Bobby Meadows.
She turned to Google and found the number of the Craighill mental health unit. She rang the number for reception.
‘I’d like to book a visit with one of your patients, please. My name is Alex Devlin.’
‘And who is it that you’re hoping to visit?’ the friendly voice on the other end of the phone asked.
‘Bobby Meadows.’
‘Bobby Meadows. Just one moment.’
There was a pause. Alex’s heart beat faster.
‘Hello? Ms Devlin? Are you sure you have the right place? We don’t have a Bobby Meadows here.’
‘Could he have been discharged recently?’
‘There doesn’t seem to have been anyone with that name here at Craighill in the recent past anyway. Could you have got the wrong mental health unit?’
So. No Bobby Meadows at Craighill. Had Lin got the name of the place wrong? Or was she lying to her? But Lin was her friend, wasn’t she? Someone she had confided in. They’d shared gossip and laughter and secrets …
An email pinged into her inbox. It was from Father Paul at Goldhay College.
Dear Alex
I know you will appreciate that because of data protection I can’t give you any private details about Roger Fleet. What I can say is that I have spoken to two or three people who knew him while he was here. They all said he was a gentle soul but obviously had a troubled mind and heart. They surmised that something had happened in his past that weighed heavily on him. He was, by all accounts, a very dedicated and learned teacher. If you do write about him, please let your readers know that.
God bless.
With best wishes
Father Paul
At least Father Paul had done what he said he would do, even if it didn’t take her much further.
Alex jumped as the sound of a loud knock on the door reverberated through the house.
She went downstairs, for once thinking to put the safety chain on before she opened the door.
‘Hello.’ Laurie Cooke looked at Alex, tension in her hunched shoulders and in her eyes that darted here and there.
‘Laurie.’ Alex was surprised to see Derek’s daughter.
‘Sorry … I … sorry …’ she trailed off, swallowing nervously. She looked thinner and more grey than she had when Alex had seen her last.
‘No, it’s no problem. Come inside. Please.’ She took the safety chain off.
Alex led Laurie through to the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Can I get you anything?’
Laurie shook her head. Then nodded. ‘Coffee would be nice, and I hope I’m not disturbing you but I felt I had to—’
‘Hey, hey, it’s okay,’ said Alex, while she spooned coffee into the cafetière. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
‘I had to get out of the house. Those four walls. And Mum was driving me mad. Crying and beating her breast, metaphorically speaking.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘And all she can do is talk about Dad and how he’s betrayed her and how is she going to face her bridge club and the book club. As if they mattered.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And I’m thinking what am I going to tell the children about their grandfather and his liking for kids not much older than them, and then there are the letters and emails I found. Nasty, vicious emails and—’
Alex put her hand on Laurie’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay. Slow down.’ She put a cup of coffee in front of Laurie. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
She sat, motionless. Alex let her gather her thoughts.
‘I found an old iPad of his.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I used to spy on him when I was little, and I knew he used to hide things and where he used to hide them. He had a secret drawer in his desk. And the desk came with us to Glory Farm. Anyway, I found it. And some letters.’ Her voice was steady. She didn’t look at Alex. ‘On the iPad were three emails saying basically the same thing.’
‘Which was?’ Alex prompted.
‘Do as I say. If you love your family. The subject line said “Do it”.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. Those said the same thing.’
‘And the sender?’
‘The address was a string of letters and numbers. That’s all. I’m frightened, Alex. What does it all mean?’
‘You said there were letters?’
‘Yes. Again, they all said the same thing. “Do as I say”.’
‘Hmm. “Do as I say”. What had the writer said? What could they have told your dad to do?’
‘I’ve no idea. I asked Mum if there had been any funny phone calls for Dad in the last few weeks, but she didn’t know. I can’t say I’m surprised, I think Dad had about three mobile phones. I couldn’t find any of them.’
‘Could the police have taken them?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘You said “those said the same thing” – the emails on the iPad. Was there another email?’
‘One. From the same sender. It said he – or she – had sent some encouragement.’
Alex thought for a moment. ‘Could that “encouragement” have been the photos and the accusation of paedophilia, do you think? Did the person send them to you and tell the police to make your dad do whatever it was he was supposed to do?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I’m trying to remember the dates. I think that last message came about a week before he died.’
‘Hmm.’ Alex thought for a minute. ‘But he and Roger Fleet had already booked the boat. Maybe he was having second thoughts about killing himself, so whoever is behind all this sent the photos to make him do it.’
‘What do you mean “whoever’s behind all this”?’ Laurie looked bewildered.
‘I think there’s more to your father’s and Roger Fleet’s deaths than simple suicides.’
Laurie looked up towards the ceiling – Alex knew that tactic, it helped stop the tears. She crouched down in front of Laurie. ‘Look, I am not going to stop until I find out the truth.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Oh, it was a rash promise to make, and she didn’t know where it was going to lead her, but for her own sanity, she needed to get to the bottom of what was going on.
Laurie picked up her bag. ‘I’d better get back to Mum.’
‘Try to remember your father as he was, before all these accusations. Before he died. Look for the good memories and hug them to yourself.’
‘How can I?’ said Laurie as she went out of the door.
28
Poor Laurie Cooke, thought Alex, as she drove along the road towards Lapford and Roger Fleet’s home, the misery surrounding her father had only just begun. The tabloids were bound to dissect his life with a scalpel. That was why she had to find out what had been happening so she could try and protect her own family somehow. They would all need shielding if her father was caught up with the deaths in any way. At the very least, all the stuff with Sasha would be dragged up. She could see the headlines: ‘Father of child-killer involved in death of well-known magazine editor’. And that would be one of the kinder ones.
When would it hit the papers, though? How many days’ grace did she have? Not too many; they’d want to get it out there as soon as anything – any little thing – was verified by the police.
She pulled up by the five-bar gate that led to Roger Fleet’s smallholding. She had set off for the village without thinking through what she was going to do. Late morning, so there could be someone around, but it was unlikely, surely? She couldn’t smell the pigs or hear the clucking of chickens, so livestock must have been taken away.
There was no police tape across the front door anymore. Good. Walking round to the back of the bungalow she found upturned buckets on the ground, with the remnants of feed spilling out. The whole place had an abandoned air. So soon, she thought. I
t didn’t take long before the life went out of a place. It was as if the very bricks and mortar sensed there was no one coming back. Even the birdsong was muted.
All at once there was a flurry of barking, and a chocolate Labrador came hurtling around the corner, skidding to a halt just in front of Alex. A pair of soft brown eyes looked up at her, a pink tongue lolling out of the dog’s mouth. It looked as though it was smiling.
Alex bent down to stroke it. ‘Are you Bramble or Cotton?’ she asked it.
‘That there’s Bramble,’ said Mrs Archer, as she came panting around the corner. ‘And I don’t know what business it is of – oh it’s you. The journalist.’
Alex straightened up. ‘That’s right. Mrs Archer, isn’t it?’ Same muddy skirt. Same tee shirt. Same flowery cardigan.
‘Aye, that’s right.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And what is it you wanted?’
‘Are you looking after the dogs now, Mrs Archer? And I see all the animals have gone.’
‘Yes. They went to market. I expect the chickens will be plucked and trussed and eaten b’now. She wanted to put the dogs down, you know. The sister. Said she couldn’t keep them.’ She sniffed. ‘Didn’t want no reminders of her poor brother, more like.’
Alex smiled down at Bramble, who was now sniffing at the ground around her feet. ‘I suppose grief can take us in different ways. Did she go into the house?’
‘Oh yes. And took most of the nice stuff, I shouldn’t wonder. I know there was a lovely grandfather clock and some other bits and pieces. Couldn’t wait to get her hands on it. He’s not even buried yet. Anyway, you should know. Being a journalist and all that. Did he really kill himself? I mean, I know that’s what the papers say. They say he did it with a famous magazine editor or summat. Can’t say I’d ever heard of him. Don’t have time to read magazines anyway. But why would Roger choose him to go to the Lord with?’
‘Mrs Archer, did Mr Fleet ever talk about Derek Daley?’
‘That the magazine editor? No, never talked about him. He came here once, though.’
Alex’s ears pricked up. ‘Here? To the smallholding?’
‘Yes. Funny little man. I was here helping Roger with the animals – one of the pigs was farrowing – and he di’n’t say a word to me. Not one word. And then Roger and him went inside. Roger was as meek as a lamb he was. Meek as a lamb.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
‘They didn’t ask, did they? Just told me he’d topped himself and that was that.’
‘Mrs Archer,’ Alex began carefully.
‘You want to go and look inside the house, don’t you?’
‘Well—’
Mrs Archer nodded with satisfaction. ‘I’ve seen it on the telly. That’s what happens in crime programmes and the like.’ She took a rusty key out of her skirt pocket. ‘Here. It’s the spare one from the flowerpot.’
She pressed it into Alex’s palm.
Roger Fleet’s bungalow smelt musty and damp. There was an overtone of animal, too. Alex thought it must have been built in the sixties, and hadn’t been changed much. Stained Formica worktops in the kitchen, woodchip wallpaper in what Alex took to be the dining room, which also had a coal fire at one end, the ash grey and dismal. There were brighter squares on the wall, presumably where pictures had hung for years but were now gone. A long hallway. Could have been where the grandfather clock had stood. Three doors. She opened the first one. A junk room. Nothing but boxes and old chairs. An ironing board. A couple of framed pictures. A filing cabinet. Was it worth a look? Maybe.
The second door opened onto Roger Fleet’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but were so thin that plenty of light came through. There was a single bed with a grey quilt. A picture of Madonna with Christ above the bed. A table at the side of the bed with a rosary, a glass of water, and a book face down. Alex went over to have a look. The Imitation of Christ. Blimey, he really was getting his faith back. Against one wall was a dressing table covered with a fine layer of dust, a brush and comb on its top. That was it. It was all very austere.
She opened one of the dressing table drawers. There were socks, neatly rolled into balls. She tried to push the drawer back in, but something was caught at the back. She pulled it right out and peered into the gap. A piece of paper. She scrabbled about and eventually it came out into her hand. She read it.
Remember Zoe, Roger. Do as I say.
Zoe? She frowned. Who the hell was she?
There was something else caught too. A blurry photo of Margaret Winwood in a supermarket with her head blacked out by felt-tip pen. The threat was obvious. Do as he was told or your sister gets it.
How must he have felt when he got this?
A car door slammed.
Alex froze. She had been so intent on creeping round Roger Fleet’s bungalow, she hadn’t been listening out for possible visitors.
‘Mrs Winwood, isn’t it?’ She heard Mrs Archer call out in a particularly loud voice.
‘Mrs—’
‘Archer. I’ve been trying to keep Roger’s veg going, but it’s a losing battle.’
Alex smiled as she wondered what Margaret Winwood thought of Mrs Archer’s shouting. More immediately, what the hell was she going to do? She looked around.
‘Well I wouldn’t worry yourself, Mrs Archer. I’m putting the bungalow and the land up for sale.’
‘Really? It would be a shame if developers got hold of it. Throw up a whole lot of boxy houses.’
‘Has to be done, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go in and check there’s nothing valuable that I’ve left. The estate agent will be around tomorrow.’
Roger’s sister certainly wasn’t hanging around.
‘Are you going through the front door or the patio door? In the sitting room?’
Bless you, Mrs Archer, thought Alex, as she stuffed the bit of paper and the photo into her pocket and made her way as fast and as silently as she could to the sitting room and the patio door.
Thank God, the key was in the lock.
She slipped out of the door and went to the corner of the bungalow, carefully peering round, hoping her loudly beating heart wouldn’t give her away. Margaret Winwood was on the front step, frowning. Alex guessed she was wondering why the door was unlocked. There was nothing she could do about that now.
As soon as Margaret Winwood had stepped inside, Alex hurried down the drive, hoping the woman wouldn’t look out of a window and see her. She waved to Mrs Archer, who gave her a thumbs up in reply.
Alex got into her car and breathed a sigh of relief.
She’d made it.
29
Was she in the right place? Standing by her car in the lay-by, Alex squinted at the piece of paper in her hand on which she had written Willem Major’s address.
‘He didn’t want to be found,’ Honey had told her when she rang to thank the hacker for her help. ‘That’s for sure. And he has the money to cover his tracks. It was a bit of a task, I can tell you – harder than I thought it would be. I think he must have had professional help along the way.’
‘From someone like you?’
‘From someone like me.’ Alex heard the rare smile in Honey’s voice. ‘I guess after that tragedy – losing his family and all – he wanted to be somewhere where nobody knew him. Now, like I said, no more contact, right?’
Not only where no one knew him, but also in a place where no one would visit by accident. On the north Norfolk coast, down a long track through the marshes and reed beds, across the sand and on a spit of land that stretched out into the sluggish grey sea, was a solid brick house. She squinted through her binoculars. Four windows, a door, and a chimney, like a children’s drawing. All it lacked was smoke curling into the air. Could he really be there? There was no movement and no sign of a car. And there was no way she was going to be able to approach the house without being seen.
Gulls cried and wheeled in the blue sky. At least it was reasonably warm: the east wind wasn’t knifing through her and in the
distance she could see walkers in shirtsleeves with rucksacks on their backs. She squinted through the binoculars at the house again. There was nothing else for it, she was going to have to go up there and see if he was in.
She drove the car onto a narrow sandy track running across the marsh and between its myriad of water inlets, trying to avoid the worst of the ruts and potholes.
The track ended at the house. The sea was only a few metres away, behind a sandbank, and as she got out of the car, she could hear it pulling and sucking on the shore, the only sound on the air. Even the gulls were too far away to hear. She stood still to test how she was feeling, what she was feeling. Somehow she knew that Willem Major had a pivotal part to play in all of this. He was connected to Derek Daley and Roger Fleet. And Jen Tamsett. He was connected to her father. Her father had known him at Cambridge – and not merely as a passing acquaintance – there was more to it than that. Something had happened all those years ago.
And then there was the mysterious Zoe, who Roger was supposed to remember.
The front door was blocked by a stone trough of dead and dying pansies, so Alex made her way around to the back. She could detect no movement, nor hear any human noise. There was, however, a motorbike parked on the shingle that had been out of sight when she’d scoped the house with her binoculars.
She lifted her hand to knock at the door when it was flung open.
A man stood there, thick white-blond hair framing his face and curling over his collar. His face was tanned and weathered, with several days of greying stubble. He had a patrician’s nose and an air of arrogance. His blue eyes, sharp and piercing, were full of pain. And he held a baseball bat in his raised hand.
Alex acted instinctively. She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Willem Major? I’ve been looking for you.’
‘So have a lot of people for a long time.’ He looked at the bat in his hand then back at Alex. He smiled wryly. ‘Not needed?’
‘Not needed,’ Alex agreed.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You’d better come in. I’ve been expecting you.’ He put the bat down in the corner by the door and led Alex into the little kitchen.
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