‘What were you looking for?’ Mac had asked.
‘Your laptop, for one thing. Andy brought me that, says you hardly ever take it home anyway. And kitchen knives,’ Kendal said. ‘Wildman wanted us to look for a specific type, but all we found were the two old ones you keep in the drawer. I’ve had to take them, so I hope you don’t want to chop anything tonight.’
Mac thanked him, noting that Miriam was avoiding his gaze and Rina suddenly showing great interest in the view from the side window, despite the fact it was now too dark to see a whole lot.
He said nothing until they reached Frantham Old Town and the familiar shape loomed out of the shadows at the top of the old slipway.
Mac let them in, switching on lights, looking round to see what Kendal’s people had disturbed. It was such a minimal space, Mac thought, they’d have been in and out in less than half an hour, surely. It still felt intrusive and unpleasant, though, knowing that someone had rifled through his things and examined his personal possessions, maybe discussed his taste in music or his lack of a big-screen television or . . . Impatiently, he shoved such random thoughts aside, watched as Miriam paced the perimeter of the living room, as though establishing her territory, and then went through to the bedroom and stripped the sheets from the bed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Changing the sheets, doing the washing. I don’t know.’
He reached for the sheets, threw them into the bathroom hamper, then took both her hands and kissed them, rubbing his thumbs across the sore and broken skin of her wrists, the bruises now fading from black to purple, on their way to green.
She pulled away. ‘I need a shower, I need to get clean. I need to be in my own clothes.’
‘I need to know why my knife block is missing.’
She froze, half-turned towards the shower room.
‘Miriam?’
‘I don’t know where it is,’ she told him truthfully.
‘You asked Rina to remove evidence?’
‘Not Rina, no. Mac, leave it, please. I did what I had to do, that’s all, and those who love you helped out.’
‘And if anyone finds that out?’
‘Why should they? Mac, I did what I had to do, same as you did. Maybe we both got it wrong, but we did our best. I’m alive, you’re back here.’
‘I nearly got you killed, and I may be back here but I’m still suspended, still under investigation.’
‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Thomas Peel nearly got me killed. You did what you thought you had to do. You came for me, Mac; that’s all I need to know. And I had the knife block disappeared; that’s all you need to know.’
It wasn’t. He slumped down on the bed, wondering exactly what she’d done. Who had come here, if not Rina? Tim, then; he’d have to have used Rina’s key. Joy too? Could any of this be traced? Suddenly it was all too much. In the morning he might try and make sense of it, but now all he wanted was, like Miriam, to get clean, to eat, to sleep with her beside him, to forget about the world and all of its problems.
He could hear the shower running and he went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and see if there was anything in the fridge that he could use to produce a decent supper. Preferably, something that required no sharp knife to prepare.
He looked at that place on the counter where his knife block had stood and remembered the beach and Thomas Peel dead. He had brought the flashlight from the car, gone through Peel’s pockets to find the key to the handcuffs he had used on Miriam, and then he had seen the black, polymer handle protruding from the dead man’s side, and he had known. His knife, from his block, in his kitchen.
Karen, he thought now. She had been here, she had taken it, she had used it.
He heard Miriam turn off the shower and the cubicle door open and then close. He crept back down the stairs, half-ashamed of the fear that now gripped him, knowing that fear is an infectious thing and not wanting Miriam to be infected. For the first time since he had moved into the boathouse, he shot the bolt on the outer door and used the deadbolt to lock it fast.
Fitch had driven from Rina’s straight for a meeting with Abe Jackson. They met in a little pub Abe had found that served good food and at which Abe had now become a regular. Fitch tucked into beef and ale pie and some very good mashed potato, while Abe brought him up to speed on what he had discovered so far.
Billy Tigh, the young man who had killed Philip Rains in prison, had not been one of Rains’s victims, but there was evidence that his brother had been.
‘The parents separated. Billy went with his dad, and his brother, Terry, with his mum. Same mother, different fathers, which might explain it, I suppose. Anyway, the mother took up with a man called Brian Curtis, who, it turns out, was a friend of Philip Rains.’
‘Curtis?’ Fitch frowned, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘Why does that ring a bell?’
‘Because Sara Curtis was a prison visitor. She went to see Rains on several occasions. Brian is her brother. Peel implicated him, but there was no evidence and it was passed off as vindictiveness on Peel’s part. Sara had, of course, gone through all the necessary checks when she became a prison visitor; it was just assumed that Peel was trying to make trouble for a pillar of the local community.’
Fitch rolled his eyes. ‘And do we know different?’
‘About Sara Curtis? Not yet. About her brother, yes. Terry killed himself a year ago. He left a long and very rambling letter in which he implicated Brian Curtis, said that while Curtis was seeing their mother, Brian regularly abused him – and we know there was a strong connection between Brian Curtis and Philip Rains.’
‘And Peel knew about this, presumably. Maybe told Billy Tigh that Rains was guilty too. No, wait. Mac said he told Peel that Rains was dead, and Peel seemed surprised, very surprised that Billy Tigh was involved. If Peel didn’t tell Billy about Rains . . .’
‘Maybe Karen did.’
‘Why would Karen take an interest in Terry or Billy Tigh?’
‘Because her dad also knew Rains, did time with him when Parker was in for armed robbery. Rains had been a driver on a couple of bank jobs, and like attracted like, presumably. No one knew about his other proclivities then, but . . .’
‘But it all links together one way or another. Karen looks set to get her own back on anyone she thinks might deserve it. I mean, apart from any financial advantage she may be getting out of all of this, she seems set on getting rid of anyone who came within a whisker of harming her brother.’
‘Or of failing to protect, in Mac’s case,’ Abe pointed out. ‘She blames him for letting their dad take George away. Karen’s logic isn’t what you might call objective.’
Fitch shovelled mashed potato, thinking hard. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Sara Curtis may have carried a message from her brother or from Peel to Rains, kept him in the loop. Miriam said there were pictures of kids on the wall in the basement. Do we know where Peel’s been hiding out?’
‘Not yet. He seems to have moved about a lot. No one actually wanted his company for long. I know he was being protected, and I have some idea of who and why, but until I firm it up I’d rather not add to that speculation.’
‘And the gallery Karen told young George about?’
‘Interesting. Particularly as there is already an art dealer in the mix. Our Igor Vaschinsky. We know he has a legitimate business and we also know his brother deals in stolen artworks.’
‘And launders some of his money through his brother’s legitimate galleries.’ Fitch nodded. ‘So . . .’
‘So we get a list of his holdings and business interests; see if there’s a gallery coming up for sale in the New Year.’
Rina had retreated with Tim and Joy to the peace and quiet of her front room. The family had been ecstatic at their return and effusive in their welcome. It had been a while before Rina could escape without them feeling slighted.
‘So,’ she said, ‘the priority is to find Karen Parker. Abe and Fitch are doing their part; what can
we do?’
‘Fitch can use my dad’s old associates,’ Joy said. ‘Mum still has plenty of clout in that direction; plenty of people owe her favours.’
‘And Abe has contacts in some really odd places,’ Tim added.
‘So that leaves us.’ Rina was aware that they looked expectantly at her.
‘Karen worries me,’ she said. ‘Where is she, what is she planning, what will she do when she learns that Mac is back here? She planned to hurt him, inflict the maximum pain; I’m certain of that. She enlisted Thomas Peel, and when she did, I think she knew he’d want to replay that night on the beach when little Cara Evans died. I think she expected him to kill Miriam; that maybe she got there too soon. I don’t know.’
‘What if it wasn’t her on the beach?’ Tim said. ‘I mean, a lot of people wanted Peel dead. Maybe someone else was following him or . . . something.’
‘Or something?’
Tim shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s just a thought, Rina, but what if Mac did kill him? Miriam wouldn’t rat him out, would she? And I mean, no one could blame him if he did.’
‘Well, I think the law might,’ Joy said.
‘I suppose so, but hopefully we’ve taken care of that side of things. I mean, no one that matters.’ He looked hopefully at Rina.
She shook her head. ‘Tim, I believe Mac; Miriam too. There was a third person on that beach and I’d bet my life that person was Karen Parker. She’s killed once that I know about. I suspect Abe and Fitch are not telling me that she’s upped her score since then. Karen is a very angry, very able and very destructive young woman, more than capable of manipulating a situation to her own ends – and, I suspect, a lot cleverer than Peel gave her credit for. He thought he was manipulating her for his own ends, and I don’t suppose anyone could have been more shocked than he was to find out he was wrong. But we should take note: those who underestimate or cross Karen Parker tend to end up dead or in very deep trouble. We’ve already done the second of those things. I think we should be very careful indeed not to do the first as well.’
Up in Hill House, Ursula had crept into George’s room and they sat together on his bed, staring out of his window across the ink-black sea.
‘What do you think is going to happen?’
George shrugged. ‘Karen will find out that Mac is home and then she’ll be mad. She’ll come back here, or wherever he is. She doesn’t let up once she’s made up her mind to do something.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘There’s only one thing she wants more than Mac and that’s me.’
‘George, you can’t.’
‘I’m not going to go with her. I told her, I told everyone: I want to stay here, with our friends, with you.’ He glanced anxiously at her. The light was out and her face was pale in the starlight. He knew that both he and Ursula were a bit slow about doing things. Some things. There were plenty of kids in his class who had . . . well, who claimed to have . . . though George didn’t believe most of them. He swallowed nervously, leaned forward and kissed Ursula rather clumsily on the mouth.
She stared at him, and he thought for one awful moment that he had offended her. Then she kissed him back and he was relieved to find that she was about as bad at it as he was.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in deep trouble if Cheryl catches us.’
Deep trouble, George thought as she closed the door very softly behind her. It seemed ironic that they should worry about such an ordinary thing as being caught in one another’s rooms so late at night, what with all the big stuff there was to worry about. Stuff like having a psycho sister and knowing, despite everything, that he still loved her very much and wanted her to be all right. Knowing too that he was probably going to have to be the one to stop her before she put ‘being all right’ way beyond the reach of any of them.
THIRTY
Wednesday morning and the breakfast news was full of it. The child killer, Thomas Peel, had been found dead on a remote beach the morning before, and the media, annoyed at being so behind the times, were going into overdrive in their efforts to catch up.
Mac had described to Rina just how remote Rowleigh Bay was, and, watching the helicopter circle now, she realized just how right he was.
She watched intently, taking in the tiny village with houses huddled between church and pub, narrow road leading in and even narrower track leading out, both now crowded with vans and people and the paraphernalia of the modern media. The helicopter was turning now, the commentary explaining that Rowleigh Bay was popular with walkers in the summer, that the cliff path dropped down on to the beach and many took refuge in the village pub either for lunch or to spend the night before continuing on. It looked as though it would be a pretty place in summer, Rina thought, but it was her experience that just about anywhere along the north-east coast looked bleak from October through till March.
‘And it was to seek refuge in the Cross Keys pub that a man and a woman came the evening before last,’ the reporter intoned. ‘The landlord described them as being wet and cold and very frightened. They asked to use the phone because their mobile, as many of us have found today, couldn’t get a signal here. And then they left again. Not long after that, the police and ambulance arrived, although it seems likely now that the ambulance was too late to be of any help; Thomas Peel was already dead.’
Helicopter transmission handed over to their man on the ground and Rina listened on. ‘Details are sketchy. The landlord of the Cross Keys said he’d noticed a car passing his pub about an hour before with one person inside. I think viewers have got to understand, this is such a small village that any vehicle passing through at this time of year is going to draw attention. I’m told there’s a little pull-in up on the headland, just before the cliff path descends on to Rowleigh beach, and that police have been up there since yesterday morning. The locals tell me that, although it would have been dangerous and difficult in the dark and with thick fog swirling, visibility minimal, it may be possible that either the couple or Thomas Peel came down that way. The car the landlord saw pass his pub was taken away by the police yesterday afternoon. It is believed to be an estate, dark blue, maybe a Volvo.’
‘Boy, are they scrabbling round for something to say,’ Tim commented.
‘You’re up early.’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Too much going on in my head.’
‘And Joy?’
Tim actually blushed. Rina tried not to laugh.
‘Sleeping. It’s all been a tad exciting.’ He turned his attention back to the screen.
‘Police have said that no one is being held in connection with Thomas Peel’s death and that a formal statement will be issued later this morning. There are rumours that the woman had previously been a hostage taken by Peel, but these have not been verified. It was thought, briefly, that she might even have been Peel’s daughter, Emily. We do know that, a few days ago, Thomas Peel went to the house that his daughter shared with her boyfriend, Calum Heaney, armed with a shotgun, and that he attempted to kill both his daughter and her boyfriend and succeeded in wounding a neighbour who went to their assistance.’
The report then turned back to speculation about the shooting and ‘our woman on the spot’ standing outside Emily’s damaged house.
‘Don’t know much, do they?’ Tim helped himself to tea from Rina’s pot.
‘No, they don’t, and I get the feeling that they’re annoyed the breaking news, as they’re calling it, didn’t break until twenty-four hours after the event.’
‘Slow up north?’ Tim suggested.
‘From what Mac told me, you have to know the place exists in order to find it. The Cross Keys pub became the command centre up there, so I imagine everything was wrapped up pretty tight, and maybe the locals were slow to welcome that kind of media invasion. If it happens here, you can be sure the inhabitants of Frantham Old Town won’t be rolling out the red carpet. The new town might put up with it for a while, if it brings some extra winter income but . . .’
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‘You think that likely to happen?’
She shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see what comes out in the media statement. One thing’s for sure, though: Karen will now know that Mac isn’t being held as a suspect.’
Tim nodded. ‘That isn’t good,’ he said. ‘Not good at all.’
George and Ursula had managed to sneak a few minutes of news, standing in the TV room with plates of toast and hoping, in the morning chaos of Hill House, that their presence would not be missed. They weren’t supposed to watch the television first thing in the morning. All the kids had their bags to get ready, breakfast to eat and small chores to do, and the prevailing and understandable sentiment among their carers was that early-morning television interfered with that process.
They watched with the sound turned down and subtitles on, one ear straining to hear what was going on in the kitchen and hall as Cheryl dealt with lost PE kits and homework that hadn’t been done and a mountain of breakfast that, thankfully, it was not their turn to help prepare.
It did not take long for Ursula to reach the same conclusion as Tim and Rina.
‘Karen’s going to be mad as hell,’ she said. ‘Do you think she’ll come after Mac?’
George shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he said.
Down the hall they could hear Cheryl calling them and Ursula killed the TV.
‘Did you get your history done?’ Ursula asked as they raced for the front door, grabbing backpacks as they went.
‘Yeah, but I think I’ve screwed it up.’
‘Sure you’ve not, but, anyway, you’ve got Mrs Peace for history, don’t you? She’ll give you an extension if you ask. She likes you.’
George nodded and climbed aboard the minibus, wondering again at a world that seemed to place history homework almost on a par in their lives with the fact of a friend nearly getting killed and his own sister roaming around the countryside knifing people in the back.
He was finding it hard to focus on the school stuff, finding comfort in the normality of it at the same time.
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