Broken Blue: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  "He held the penthouse?" I say, frowning. "The man had a home in the heart of London. Why would he also wish to rent a penthouse?"

  "Because he had something to hide," Laverty says. "I could tell from the moment he walked through the door, Sir. I've got a second sense when it comes to these things. He had that air about him what many of the aristocracy have, like he was acting respectable 'cause he wanted to cover something up. He had shifty eyes".

  "I didn't notice anything shifty in his comportment," I reply.

  "Maybe you're not as attuned to such things as you might be," Laverty suggests.

  I stare at the diary. Last week, Edward Lockhart was in one of the interview rooms, telling me about some elaborate murder conspiracy that he claimed was linked to the death of Sophia Marchant and a dozen other women. The story was so complex, it was hard to keep up, but he talked about individuals with names such as Lady Red and Mr. White, and he claimed that Lady Henrietta deHavilland was involved. It all seemed rather preposterous and overwrought, and I dismissed his story as a complete fantasy, but I have to admit that this diary suggests there might have been at least some element of truth to what he said.

  "This could easily be a coincidence," I point out, intending to dampen Laverty's suspicions. "Perhaps Lockhart was having an affair with Miss Marchant, but so what? He certainly wouldn't be the first bachelor to have his way with an attractive young lady, and while such a thing is better kept quiet, it is hardly illegal".

  "Then there's this," Laverty adds, placing a second notebook on the desk. "This is the diary of a young lady named Elizabeth Cavendish. She hasn't been seen for the best part of a week, and her family are beside themselves with worry. As you can imagine, they took a look in her diary, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts". He pauses for a moment. "Anyway, one of the names in that diary -"

  "Let me guess," I say, picking up the second notebook. "Was she by any chance having a fling with Mr. Lockhart?"

  "She most certainly was," Laverty says, seeming rather proud of himself. "I've done some digging, Sir, and I've also managed to link Mr. Lockhart to a girl named Isabella Clements, what was one of the girls who disappeared late last year". He pauses for a moment. "At the very least, it's a hell of a coincidence".

  "It certainly is," I reply, sensing with a heavy heart that I am going to have to make at least a cursory attempt to investigate the matter. The last thing I want to be doing is digging through a bunch of old cases, but at the same time I suppose it wouldn't hurt to make contact with Mr. Lockhart again. After all, it's quite possible that he came and spun that ridiculous story to me in an attempt to cover his tracks. Perhaps he felt that his actions were set to come out into the open, and he wanted to sow the seeds of doubt in advance? "It seems half the young ladies in London were having an affair with this Mr. Lockhart fellow," I continue, "and they all seemed compelled to write about it in their diaries".

  "Indeed they do, Sir," Laverty says, reaching into his coat pocket and producing three more notebooks, which he sets on the table in front of me. "I did some digging, Sir. On my own time, of course. These diaries belong to three young women, named Annabelle Hitchens, Amelia Cecil and Lucy Borrell. They're entirely unconnected, apart from the fact that they've all gone missing in the past year and they all kept diaries what mention Mr. Lockhart by name".

  "I see," I reply, staring at the collection of notebooks that now sits on my desk.

  "You gonna look into it?" Laverty asks.

  "Certainly," I reply. "I can hardly ignore such a welter of coincidences, can I? I suppose a visit to Mr. Lockhart's residence would be in order. We can at least see what the fellow has to say for himself. Six missing girls is rather a large number, don't you think? At the very least, he has been somewhat unfortunate when it comes to the objects of his affection. One might almost say he has been careless in the matter".

  "These rich fellows think they can get away with murder," Laverty replies, barely able to contain the venom in his voice. "They think their power and connections will be enough to make sure that no-one can pin nothing on them. I reckon your Mr. Lockhart is all hooked up to the government, maybe even to the Prime Minister himself. Certainly a Lord or two. He probably thinks -"

  "That's fine," I say, standing up. "I'm well aware of your views on the social order in this country, and I don't require a reminder, especially given that your command of the English language leaves so much to be desired".

  "I'm just saying," he continues, clearly a little offended. "These people think they're above the law".

  "Well then we must go to extra lengths to remind them that they are not," I reply. "I shall take a trip to see Mr. Lockhart this very afternoon. I'm quite sure he'll tell me nothing of interest, but I'd be remiss in my duties were I to not at least look into these matters you have raised".

  "If you reckon he's -"

  "I'll deal with it," I say firmly, hoping to cut Laverty off before he launches into another tirade. "I know how to deal with these people. They're most certainly not above the law, but it is often better to be a little tactful when one approaches them. One mistake, and they clam up, and then here's no chance of getting anything useful out of them. Trust me, Laverty. I think I know exactly how to gain Mr. Lockhart's confidence".

  "I should like to come with you," he says.

  "I don't think that will be necessary," I explain. "I would rather make my initial inquiries on a more casual basis, in which case I hardly think it would be appropriate to turn up on Lockhart's doorstep with half the constabulary of London in tow. I can assure you, Laverty, that I shall enlist your help at the first necessary moment, but for now I would prefer to move forward slowly. After all, the last thing we want to do is scare Mr. Lockhart. If he's playing some game with us, we need to make him think that we're being lured in".

  "But I -"

  "Laverty, I need you here," I reply, keen to shake the fellow from my tail. "Perhaps you can see if you might be able to rustle up any more diaries?"

  "Very good, Sir," Laverty replies, though I can tell that he's seething with resentment. The man clearly wants to claim the scalp of a gentleman such as Mr. Lockhart, though this enthusiasm would undoubtedly be a disadvantage. I would rather go and visit Mr. Lockhart and pretend to be there purely out of curiosity. Laverty was right about one thing: Lockhart likely has powerful allies, and I would not like to be accused of unnecessarily hounding an important gentleman. It will be much better if I merely sniff around the case for a while, so as to determine whether I might have to start investigating in a more forceful way. I wrote Lockhart off at first, but now I'm starting to wonder if there might be some veracity to his story. Obviously the entirety of his claim was impossible to believe, but there might yet prove to be some nugget of truth at the heart of this curious affair.

  Three

  Today

  "I'd have hated this," my father says, whispering in my ear as I stand at the door of the crematorium. It's a dull, gray, rainy Monday lunchtime, although it's not actually raining, not quite. The air is damp and cold, and it feels like it could rain at any moment. I'm expecting actual drops at any moment, and I'm managing to quench my boredom by periodically sticking my hand out and marveling that it's still not quite wet yet.

  Maybe I'm bored?

  "You know I always hated formal occasions," my father continues after a moment. "I'd have been happier if you'd just taken my body down to the bottom of the garden and thrown me on the compost heap. The worms could have had their way with me, if you'll pardon my French".

  "I won't," I mutter under my breath.

  "You won't what?"

  "Pardon your French," I say firmly. "I won't do it".

  "I'm just saying that I'd have hated this whole set-up," he continues, sounding a little annoyed. "You'd think a man could at least enjoy his own funeral".

  "This isn't for you," I say quietly.

  "Who's it for, then?" he asks.

  I turn and look back inside, seeing my mother fussi
ng around at the front of the room. She's fiddling with the flowers, trying to make sure that everything's absolutely perfect.

  "Why don't we get out of here?" my father says. "Let's go see a movie. Remember when I used to take you to the cinema when you were a kid? What was that film with Jim Carrey and Robin Williams?"

  "I'm good, thanks," I whisper.

  He laughs. "Still too scared to take a stand, huh? You don't want to be here, but you're terrified to actually tell people what you want. Poor little Elly, letting herself be pushed around and told what to do".

  "It's not that," I say, sighing as I look up at the brooding sky. It looks like there's enough rain up there to keep the whole city soaked for days, but something's holding it back.

  "Then what is it?" he asks. "Are you hoping Mark might show up?"

  I take a deep breath, determined not to keep this conversation going.

  "He's not gonna be here," my father continues. "He's probably somewhere like Singapore or Hong Kong right now. Somewhere fun. Somewhere sophisticated. Seriously, Elly, if you were a handsome young billionaire, would you choose to come to a crappy little crematorium tucked away in a boring little London suburb?"

  "No," I say a little bitterly. "I wouldn't".

  "Of course you wouldn't, he says. "Oh well, at least we're not at a church. I made your mother promise to never hold my funeral in a church, but I always thought she'd break that promise. I thought she'd have a big church all done up, with choirboys and hymns and a priest".

  "I think you're still getting the priest," I say. "Sorry about that".

  "No big deal," he replies.

  "A woman priest," I add.

  "Ooh, controversial. Now get your dutiful daughter face on, kid. We've got company".

  I watch as a car pulls off the main road and parks nearby, and moments later a middle-aged woman comes tottering toward the crematorium, with a man close behind. The wind gently ruffles their clothes, and threatens to displace the woman's hat.

  "Hi," I say, taking a deep breath as I spot two more cars arriving in the distance. "We have an order of service printed out for you," I continue, thrusting printed A4 sheets into the arrivals' hands. "You can sit anywhere you like, except the first row is reserved".

  "Elly?" says the woman, staring at me. "Is that little Elly?"

  "Um..." I pause for a moment. "Yeah..."

  With no further provocation, the woman puts her arms around me and gives me a huge hug. "I haven't seen you for years!" she shrieks. "I swear to God, last time I saw you, you were so young!"

  "Yeah," I reply as I'm finally released from the hug.

  "You don't remember me, do you?" she says, grinning from ear to ear. "Don't worry, I'm not offended. I was a friend of your father's from the days when he used to teach at the old comprehensive. I hadn't seen him for years when I heard the dreadful news. I'm so sorry for your loss, but..." She pauses for a moment, and it looks as if there are tears in her eyes. "Oh, your father must have been so proud of you," she continues eventually. "You've clearly grown up to be such a big, intelligent girl".

  We keep the small-talk up for a little longer, before finally they head inside to speak to my mother. As more guests approach, I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. I knew people would be a little emotional, but I'm not sure I can handle it if they all want to give me a huge hug. I was watching the National Geographic channel the other day, and I saw a documentary about how rocks are eroded over millions of years by the gentle lapping of the tide; right now, I feel like I'm going to be eroded by all the hugs that are coming my way.

  "There's a lot more where she came from," my father whispers. "I was a popular guy. There's gonna be at least a hundred more like her, all wanting to give you a big cuddle and tell you what a good, big girl you are".

  "That's fine," I reply.

  "Sure it is," he says, clearly finding the whole thing to be rather amusing. "Sure it is".

  "Tell me one thing," I say. "That woman. What was her name?"

  "You know I can't tell you that," he replies. "I'm just a part of your imagination, remember? I only know the things you know".

  Smiling, I greet the next arrivals, and over the following half hour a steady stream of strangers heads into the crematorium, joined by the occasional vaguely familiar face. After a while, I get my greeting down pat, which means I can process each guest in less than a minute, even if they insist on a hug and a quick chat. I turn the whole thing into a game, and my best time is twelve seconds from greeting to dispatching. By the time it gets to one o'clock, the crematorium seems to be almost completely full, and my mother comes hurrying over.

  "Is everyone here?" she asks, clearly a little flustered.

  "I don't know," I say. "I don't exactly have an RSVP list".

  "We'll have to get started in a minute," she says. "You should probably come and get ready".

  "Yeah," I say, spotting a familiar car pulling into the car park. I immediately feel my heart leap through my chest as I realize that Mark is here. I'd assumed he was going to be a no-show, although I hadn't entirely given up hope.

  "Whoever that is," my mother says, "get them seated quickly. Okay?" With that, she heads back inside, leaving me standing in the doorway and watching as Mark gets out of his car and heads this way. As he gets closer, I realize that he's limping, and it looks like he's got cuts and bruises all over his face. Although I've been planning what I might say to him today, all my ideas go out the window as I realize he's in a really bad way. It's almost as if he's been in some kind of traffic accident.

  "What the hell happened to you?" I ask, almost shaking with nerves.

  "Never mind," he mutters, barely even making eye contact with me as he reaches out to take one of the pieces of paper from my hand. He seems pretty pissed off, and hardly in a mood to talk.

  "Are you okay?" I say.

  "I'm fine," he replies. "I just had a little incident yesterday. Are you going to let me go and sit down or not?"

  I let him have one of the sheets, and he walks through the doorway before stopping and turning to me. "Where?" he asks.

  "Anywhere you want," I reply, following him over to one of the seats near the back. "Seriously," I continue, "are you sure you're okay? You look like -"

  "What?" he replies, clearly having trouble staying calm. "What do I look like, Elly? Just in case I haven't had a chance to look at myself in a mirror over the past two days, I'd be really grateful if you could tell me what I look like".

  "You look hurt," I say. "You look like you've been through hell".

  "I told you I'm fine," he says, before forcing a fake smile for me. "Don't you have something to be doing?"

  "I have to go and..." I pause for a moment. I want to talk to him, to find out what's going on, but at the same time I'm worried that he'll just get more and more mad at me. I guess the best option might be to just back off and let him cool down. "I have to go and sit with my mother," I continue eventually, "but can you make sure you don't leave before I get a chance to talk to you later?"

  He stares straight ahead, and I realize he's not going to answer me.

  "Okay," I mutter, turning and hurrying along the aisle until I reach the front. My mother is already in her seat, and I guess I'm supposed to take the place next to her. We don't have a very big family, so there are no cousins or aunts or uncles to join us. I take a deep breath as I stand in the aisle and stare at the coffin, and my heart skips a beat as I realize that my father's body is in there. All I can think about is the fact that in a few minutes, he's going to get fed into a giant oven that'll burn him up.

  "You nervous?" my father whispers.

  "Yeah," I say quietly, barely moving my lips.

  "Hah!" he replies. "How do you think I feel?"

  "Elly!" my mother hisses. "Come and sit down!"

  "Go on," my father whispers in my ear. "Take your place. It's show-time. No point hanging around. Besides, you can talk to your boyfriend later".

  I take a seat, before glan
cing over my shoulder and seeing Mark still sat at the very back of the room. He doesn't look at me; it's almost as if he's deliberately avoiding making eye contact. I desperately want to go over and talk to him, but as the music starts up and the priest takes her place next to the coffin, I realize I need to focus on the matter at hand. Before I do anything else, I have to say goodbye to my father.

  Four

  1895

  "I'm afraid Mr. Lockhart is out of the country," says the manservant who answers the door when I call by the gentleman's home later that afternoon. "I'm afraid he is likely to be gone for quite some time".

  "Is that right?" I reply. In truth, I had expected to have little trouble tracking Mr. Lockhart down; after all, barely a week ago he was almost forcing his way into my office in order to relate his tale to me, and he seemed absolutely terrified that he was being pursued. At the time, I gave little credence to such claims, but now my curiosity is piqued.

  "He was called away on urgent business," the manservant continues. "Mr. Lockhart has various interests in the Far East, and from time to time he is required to attend to these things in person, and with very little notice. I believe there has been some trouble in one of the colonies".

  "I didn't know we had any colonies left," I say, smiling.

  "Very good, Sir," the manservant replies dourly.

  I take a deep breath. "Did Mr. Lockhart by any chance leave a message before he departed? My name is Inspector Matthews. I'm from New Scotland Yard".

  "I'm afraid Mr. Lockhart left no message for anyone of that name," the manservant replies, smiling benignly. "However, if you would like to leave a message for him, I can assure you it will receive his fullest attention upon his return".

  "And when might that be?" I ask.