Alex nodded. ‘I know.’
‘I persuaded him to leave it in the past,’ said her mother.
Alex looked at her mother who had lived with her father’s secret all these years. But, she thought, what’s done is done. ‘I think Dad’s in danger. Has he had any emails? Letters?’
Her mother smiled sadly. ‘If he’s had any emails, he wouldn’t have read them. He uses the computer sometimes, but mostly he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I used to read any he received out to him, but that’s about it.’
‘Did he put any letters anywhere?’
‘Like the washing machine, do you mean?’ Her mother laughed drily then shook her head. ‘I collect the post. See to it all. I really can’t trust him with any of it.’
‘Can I – may I have a look at the computer? And also perhaps where he kept any letters before he became ill?’ She was aware it was a big ask. What parent wanted their child to rifle through their private lives?
‘I don’t know.’ Her mother’s forehead creased. ‘I don’t think your father would like it.’
‘In case there’s something there. It might help solve the mystery.’
Her mother pushed the hair away from her forehead. ‘Come on then.’
The smell of her parent’s room transported Alex back twenty years. That mix of her mother’s perfume, books and clean clothes. The room was decently furnished, like the rest of the cottage. A king-size bed, two chests of drawers and a white wicker chair under the window.
‘This was the one he used for bits and pieces,’ said her mother, sliding the top drawer of the chest open.
A faux-leather passport holder. A cufflinks box with a pair of gold cufflinks nestling inside it. ‘I bought those for him for our wedding,’ said her mother. A photograph in a frame perpetuating the lives of two chickens they had once owned. Alex remembered her and Sasha giving it to their father one Christmas. Sadness washed over her. A couple of scribbled notes. ‘Return library books.’ ‘Do not forget birthday’. Three odd socks. Old credit card bills. Old credit cards.
‘Nothing mysterious, is there?’ said her mother. ‘No note saying “kill yourself or I’ll have your family”.’
Alex looked at her mother. ‘You don’t sound convinced?’
‘I’m not, my love. I believe you think something’s going on, but I don’t. I can’t see how your poor father is in any danger. And I’ve told you I don’t trust that Willem Major any further than I could throw him. Oh, I know I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard enough about him to know what I think. What happened to him was a terrible, ghastly accident. I know I should feel sorry for him, but I don’t. I can’t.’
Maybe now was the time. ‘He said he came here once. When I was little.’
‘Did he indeed? Not when I was here. I would have thrown him out.’ She sighed. ‘Though I expect that was the point. He wouldn’t come when I was here. Your father – well, Willem always cast a spell over him.’
They went back downstairs and Alex turned on the computer that sat like a plump bug in the corner of the living room. There was no password, and Alex opened up her father’s email account. Nothing. Adverts for The Times and The Economist: magazines he wouldn’t read now with any degree of enjoyment. Offers for cheap rooms at Premier Inn. Nothing that could remotely be seen as threatening.
So, what did that mean? Alex wondered as she scrolled further back in her father’s emails. Could it be that whoever was behind the deaths of Fleet, Daley, and Jen Tamsett and the deaths of Willem Major’s family didn’t know her father was involved? That didn’t seem likely, when she considered all the trouble the killer had gone to.
Then she saw it. From three months ago. An email from an account whose name was a string of letters and numbers, with the subject ‘Zoe’. Just as Laurie Cooke had said was on her father’s computer.
She opened it.
You did nothing.
That was all. A different message to the one Derek Daley had received, but a message from the killer nonetheless, of that she was certain.
She scrolled backwards and forwards, but there was nothing else. No other email.
‘Did you know he had this?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I don’t suppose he’s even seen it. And if he had he probably wouldn’t have known what it meant. Though—’ she frowned.
‘What?’
‘Long-term memory is often the last to go, so I suppose the name Zoe could have sparked something. It’s hard to know. If it had at the time, he would have forgotten by now.’
‘Okay.’ Alex was frustrated. She wasn’t getting anywhere. There were so many threads to sew together and she didn’t have the needle.
‘What happens now?’ her mother asked.
‘I don’t know.’ And not for the first time, she really, really wished Malone was around so she could bounce some ideas off him. He was always so good at cutting through the crap and seeing a way out.
But he wasn’t here. And not likely to be either. All he was good for was putting her in danger. Which, according to him, was all around her. Well, thanks very much for that, Malone. Nice of you to tell me. Something else to worry about.
‘Are you all right, Alex? You look anxious.’
Alex deliberately relaxed her face. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’
Her phone rang in her pocket. An 0845 number. A scam or PPI or a wonderful holiday she had won. Sod that. She rejected the call, then noticed the red blob that indicated she had voicemail. Of course, that would be Heath.
‘Mum – do you mind if—?’ She held up her phone.
‘You go ahead. I’ll make you a sandwich.’
She listened to the message. Heath was whispering, and it sounded as though he had his hand curved around his mouth. There was a tremor in his voice. ‘I know you don’t want to hear from me, but you’ve got to listen. I think I know who’s behind this. I know.’ There was a pause. Alex listened carefully. What could she hear in the background? Another voice? She concentrated hard but couldn’t be sure. Then Heath spoke again, desperation in his voice. ‘Ring me as soon as you get this.’
The voicemail ended.
Bloody Heath, he always enjoyed being mysterious. She was tempted to leave it, but something in his voice nagged at her. She pressed ‘call’.
The call connected, but there was silence on the other end.
‘Heath? Are you there?’
Nothing.
‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, answer me.’
‘Alex.’ His voice was flat and low.
‘You asked me to call.’
‘Your dad.’
Alex looked at the phone. ‘My Dad? What are you talking about?’
‘Your father is here, with me.’
Alex was confused. ‘He can’t be. He’s at his day care place.’
‘No. I promise you, Alex. He’s here.’
‘What are you talking about, Heath? Where are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But I’m to tell you that we’ll be at St Sebastian’s Abbey later tonight, and you’re to come if you want to see your father again.’
She laughed. ‘Stop being so melodramatic. Who’s we? What do you mean about my father? I told you, today’s the day Mum has a break.’
‘You’ve got to listen to me. Please.’ His voice was urgent. ‘Your father’s life depends on it. Come to the Abbey tonight, after dark. No police.’
The line went dead.
‘Alex?’ Her mother put the sandwich down in front of her. ‘You’re frowning. Is everything all right?’
Alex looked at the phone in her hand, then up at her mother. ‘That was Heath – my friend from the paper. He says I’ve got to go to St Sebastian’s Abbey later tonight and that Dad’s life depends on it.’
‘That’s nonsense. He’s at his day care centre,’ her mother said briskly.
‘Mum. Ring the centre, make sure Dad’s there.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Alex.’
‘Please. For me. To set my m
ind at rest.’
Her mother sighed, but picked up the phone.
Two minutes later, she put it down, placing it carefully on the table. ‘He’s not there, Alex. They said a member of his family had picked him up. It was a new volunteer who let him go without asking any questions. They’ve been rushed off their feet, apparently. But he’s gone. Someone’s taken him. Alex, what are we going to do?’
‘I’ve got to call the police.’
‘No,’ Alex shook her head. ‘No, Mum. Heath said no police. I think it’s better if we don’t call them just yet. I’ll go to the Abbey.’
Her mother’s skin was grey. ‘But Alex—’
‘I’ll get him back, Mum.’
33
There were only two ways to get to St Sebastian’s Abbey – by boat along the river or walking through farmland and marsh. Since Alex had no intention of trying to navigate a boat along a river at any time, never mind in the middle of the night, walking was the only option.
She left her car in the nearby pub car park, and began to follow the signs to the Abbey. She had been there only once before. It was a ruin, having originally been built in the ninth century and stood in the middle of a field not too far from the river. There wasn’t much to see – a gatehouse and a wind pump that was later built onto it, with grassy mounds surrounding it.
The air was still warm, and a thin mist curled up off the ground. She knew the killer wouldn’t bring Heath and her dad to the Abbey until later, but she wanted to get there first. She had to be one step ahead.
At first it was easy. By the light of her pen torch, which she’d put in her pocket before she left the house, she made her way down a narrow road, past a couple of farms, two or three bungalows and Alf’s shed that was open every day and sold the freshest produce on the whole of the Broads, according to the dozen notices nailed about the place.
She turned off the road and onto a rutted track. An owl glided and swooped by the light of the moon.
After some twenty minutes of walking she came to a five-bar gate with a roll of barbed wire along the top. More barbed wire made up the fence on either side. There was a large notice on a wooden pole. Alex shone her torch at it.
NO ENTRY it shouted.
She reached through and undid the gate. All the barbed wire in the world was of no use if no one put a padlock on the bloody thing.
The path went straight through fields and marshland. The sky was an inky black, the stars pinpricks of light, the moon still reassuringly above her. Alex stood still for a moment, listening. There was absolute silence, save for the rustling of grass nearby as some creature – a fox, perhaps – made use of the night. A hoot from the owl. The one she had seen earlier? It was reassuring, somehow. She shivered. It might be early summer, but the evenings could chill. And she was getting closer to the water, she could smell that faint muddiness. She took a deep breath, feeling she was the only person for miles around. Loneliness threatened to overwhelm her.
She shook herself. This was not about her.
Clouds scuttled across the sky and obscured the moon. The path was overgrown, rough grass brushed her ankles. Alex used the torch to light her way to avoid nettles and brambles.
‘Fuck,’ she whispered, as she stumbled over large stones in the middle of the path.
A bark in the distance made her jump. She stopped and listened. There it was again, an ethereal sound on the air. Not a dog’s bark, but that of a muntjac deer marking out its territory. Her heartbeat returned to almost normal.
At last she saw it. The moon came out from behind the cloud and the Abbey gatehouse and mill top were etched against the sky. She switched off her torch.
She walked the last hundred metres wondering if she had been seen by whoever had her father and Heath.
She stood, looking at the ruins, listening. Nothing. Not even the sound of insects or birds or water. She took a deep breath and stepped into the ruins of the gatehouse and through to the old mill. She pushed open a heavy wooden door, and the walls closed in on her. Looking up, she saw a slice of starlit sky through the round open mill top. She shone her torch around. Graffiti was scratched into the stone, an empty crisp packet and a couple of beer cans on the earth floor. There was another hoot from the owl, muffled this time by the thick brick walls. Alex’s heart was racing, almost as if she had palpitations. It smelt musty in here, and something else, something almost tangy.
There. There, against the round mill wall was a bundle of clothes. She was rooted to the spot. A body. Dad. It was her dad.
She gave a cry and hurried over to the bundle, her mouth dry. A leather bomber jacket. Mulberry scarf. Jeans. She dropped her torch and put her hand on his shoulder. Sticky. Gently, she pulled him over, dreading what she might see.
It was not her father at all.
Heath. His eyes flickering, blood oozing from some sort of wound in his shoulder, a bruise beginning to flower around his jaw. Blood stained the corner of his mouth. He groaned.
‘Heath, Heath, wake up,’ she whispered.
Nothing.
‘Heath, please.’ She felt the tears rising in her throat.
He opened his eyes slowly and blinked a few times. He was not seeing her – his eyes were unfocused. She stroked his cheek. ‘Heath, tell me what happened. Please.’
His eyes cleared, and he opened his mouth to speak, but only another groan came out.
She took off her jacket and then her cardigan, folding it up and pressing it against the wound. She had to stop the bleeding. ‘Heath.’ She picked up his other hand, tried to make him press it on the folded-up cardigan. ‘Keep your hand there, Heath. Stop the bleeding. I’ll go and get help.’ But she kept her hand on his, reluctant to leave him. Why was he involved at all?
‘Alex.’ His eyes were open, clearer. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. I don’t think he hit anything vital.’
‘Still—’
‘Alex.’ His voice was urgent. ‘You need to know—’
‘A lovely scene,’ came a voice from behind her. ‘How very touching. But he is good-looking. And I’m sorry I ruined his jacket.’
Alex whirled round.
She had to shield her eyes against the bright white head torch he was wearing.
Mickey Grainger.
What was he doing here? Then she saw the knife in his hand and understood. Homeless Mickey. Lucky to get a job Mickey. Friendly Mickey. But now who was he?
‘Why did you have to hurt him?’ She felt heavy, her bones, her organs, her skin, heavy with sadness.
Mickey shrugged. ‘He tried to run. I didn’t want that.’ He sighed. ‘It was a gamble, really, involving him, but I thought it was better he should phone you, given your dad’s a nutter. Talks bollocks most of the time. I thought pretty boy would convince you to come.’ He grinned. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ He waved the large wicked-looking knife in the air. ‘I’m not even sure he saw it coming. He might have heard the swish of the blade, of course.’ He ran his thumb along the steel. ‘Hmm.’ He sucked his finger. ‘It went straight through. It may have missed an artery. It certainly missed the bone. It could have got some muscles—’
‘Enough,’ said Alex, swallowing the bile in her throat.
Mickey shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’m upsetting you. Not what I meant to do at all. But you see, once he had lured you here – I like that word, lured, don’t you? – I was going to finish him off, but he ran and I didn’t get him where I wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘You win some, you lose some. But, there are no second chances. ‘He stepped forward, knife raised to head height.
‘No!’ Alex shouted.
Heath had slumped forward. Was he feigning it? It was hard to tell.
Mickey shrugged and lowered the knife. ‘He’ll probably die of blood loss before morning anyway. And I’ve got you and your dad.’
Alex struggled to keep her composure, but she had to, she absolutely had to. She balled her hands into fists and kept them rigidly by her sides.
‘Where is my dad?’
>
Mickey cocked his head to one side and pouted. He pointed the knife at her. ‘Not far away. He’s daft though, isn’t he? Not quite all there.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘What’s wrong with him? Has he always been like that?’
‘He’s got dementia. Early-onset,’ Alex said through gritted teeth. ‘If you’ve hurt him …’
‘Tut, tut, that’s a bit unfortunate. So, he’ll be as daft as a brush in no time. Still, gotta do it.’
‘Got to do what?’ Though she knew what he meant. ‘I’ll ask you again: where is he? What have you done with him?’
‘Do you know what?’ said Mickey, leaning back against the brick wall and folding his arms, knife still prominent. ‘I wanted to do something really special with him. Your dad.’ His voice was a sneer. ‘Put him in quicksand and watch him go slowly or bury him in the marshes and wait for the tide to roll over him.’ He smiled. ‘I like being inventive. But then I realized there is no quicksand here, and burying him in the marshes would be too much like hard work.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You see the sort of decisions I have to make? Like Jen Tamsett. Actually, that was a bit boring, bit obvious, being hit by a car; but then you do things in different ways and no one connects them, see? Boring, but not as much fun. But then she was boring, wasn’t she? Economics. I mean, who cares? Now, what was fun was telling Fleet and Daley I would kill members of their families if they didn’t top themselves. I enjoyed watching them realize I meant it. Enjoyed the tussle they had with their consciences. Fleet was right on in there, happy to do it. Daley took a bit more persuasion. But then he got cold feet.’ He raised his eyes to the sky. ‘Fucking idiot.’
‘So, you concocted those pictures, the child porn.’
‘Sort of.’ He pushed himself away from the wall. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all night.’ He waved the knife in the direction of the exit.
Dark Waters Page 24