by Clare Curzon
Camilla drove on tight-lipped, the car lurching again from grass on to tarmac. ‘Once we’re free of this traffic,’ she threatened, ‘next pub we come to, all out and clean up the mess.’
Farther into the left-hand path through Fordham Woods less care had been taken to disguise the track. White scars showed where undergrowth had been recently slashed back. The path widened as though here people had walked two or three abreast. It ended in a second clearing with patches of scorched earth positioned in a large circle.
‘Five stations,’ Abercorn counted. They stood silently taking it in.
‘Five,’ Anna repeated. ‘Isn’t there something sinister about a pentagram?’
‘Perhaps just the sum of those willing to take part,’ the psychologist suggested.
‘Take part in what?’ Z demanded.
There was no clue to that beyond more heavily trodden patches, and a hole six or seven inches deep inside each of the scorch marks.
Z thought of the book Beaumont had caught Anna reading, about the Manson multiple murders and his reputation as a wizard. How soon had Anna caught on to the idea of witchcraft being practised in this place? If Ben Huggett’s gossip about the wood had been the first she knew, how was it she already had the book with her, well thumbed and with her initials on the title page?
‘Where do you think this path ends?’ Abercorn wondered aloud. ‘Shall we press ahead and see?’
They hadn’t much farther to go, but without Anna’s torch sweeping from side to side of the track they would have missed the hut, so overgrown was it with brambles, and Old Man’s Beard hanging over the door like a misty curtain.
A contrived curtain, Z decided. The place was as deliberately hidden as the start of the track had been. Her curiosity quickened as Abercorn, token male of the party, tried the door and found it securely locked. ‘It’s solidly built,’ he gave as his opinion. ‘But quite old.’
‘So what is it for?’ Z asked.
‘Not is, but was,’ Anna decided. ‘The family Freddie bought the estate from used to raise their own game birds. This would be where the eggs were incubated and the chicks fed before they were loosed in the woods. There are still a lot of pheasant here but now they’re all wild. It’s several years since Freddie gave big shooting parties, although he’d take out a gun and bag a brace or two when they were in season.’
‘And still they keep it secured,’ Z reflected. ‘I’d say that lock’s been renewed in recent months.’
‘Quite shiny,’ Anna agreed.
‘Any chance we’ll find the key handily slipped under a stone nearby?’ Abercorn hoped aloud.
‘No harm in searching,’ Anna encouraged. ‘Meanwhile I’ll see if I can tickle it open.’ She delved into the satchel hung from one shoulder and after scrabbling a moment produced what Z recognised as a picklock. It seemed the lady’s skills knew no bounds.
‘Perhaps, Sergeant, you would kindly direct some light on the operation?’ Anna handed over the torch.
With such candour in acknowledging a police presence, how could Z refuse? And Anna was no novice at burglarious entry. Abercorn was still poking about in the undergrowth when the old lady’s jubilant cry came. ‘Oh look, it’s come open!’
Not only was the lock new, but the door’s hinges were oiled. It opened without the least rheumatic creaking. They filed in, located a battery-operated lantern, and at once the isolated hut was transformed into a cosy interior with two rattan sofas, a card table and several cushioned chairs. Walls and the sole window were covered by dark drapes, behind one of which they found a set of shelves holding cardboard cartons. The first, close to hand, contained wine glasses and two slender carafes; the next held a number of wire hangers holding black gowns, a box of candles, coloured chalks, masks, and at the bottom a pack of large, square Tarot cards.
On the floor under the shelves lay a bundle of broom handles, each marked with soil at the base, and at the upper end an iron sconce packed with a pungent mass of material making it resemble a medieval torch.
‘The games room,’ Anna declared sardonically.
Abercorn was in his element. ‘Not only a trysting place, but a theatre for witchcraft. So how serious did it get?’
‘At least there are no chains or thumb racks.’
But the psychologist had moved on to other boxes on the floor. ‘Plenty of ropes, though and — by George! — a rhino whip. Seen some like this in South Africa. Not so innocent after all. And a petrol can, half full. Now what’s this little lot? Animal masks in papier mâché. Wolf, ram, serpent, cat, goat, eagle. Six creatures for five places. So one of them is special. I’m afraid it’s the goat. Rather over the top, isn’t he?’
Z examined a faint powdering of white on the gaping mouth. ‘I think,’ Z said firmly, ‘we’ve interfered enough. I’m going to lock the place up and get our Scenes of Crime team in to examine it. Please don’t handle anything else. Let’s put our hands in our pockets and leave right now.’
Out again in the woods, they found the darkness deeper and the gale worsening. All round them boughs groaned and rattled.
‘Best get back sharpish,’ Anna counselled. ‘I’ll lead with the torch. Everyone keep a hold on whoever’s in front.’
It seemed to take twice as long to reach the sloping field above the Manor, and there the wind burst on them almost knocking them off their feet. Overhead, smoke-black clouds streaked low, against a sagging, felty stretch of grey. Below, the distant house was in darkness. Then a diagonal shaft of bleak light briefly escaped the sky to pick out the flame red of Virginia creeper on the rear wall. The security lamp above the kitchen door burned feeble but welcoming, drawing them in.
As they watched, stumbling downhill, a single light came on inside the house. High under the eaves Alma Pavitt’s window shone out against the premature dark. Then her arms reached up to swing the curtains closed.
At that moment the deluge began again. All three started to run and reached asylum breathless.
They shed their wet outer clothes in the gun room and went through to the drawing room where, at Anna’s request, Dr Abercorn knelt to put a flame to the kindling under piled logs in the fireplace. As he rose he saw Z’s eyes on the gold lighter. ‘No, I don’t smoke,’ he answered her unuttered question. ‘But many of my patients do. It helps them relax.’
She nodded. ‘Excuse me. I have to phone for SOCO.’ When she returned the other two had settled comfortably in armchairs by the fire.
‘Strong coffee, I think. And a drop of brandy wouldn’t come amiss.’ Anna instructed Mrs Pavitt as she came in for their orders.
‘I’ll bring a fresh bottle, madam.’
Was there a hint of something subversive in that last word? Z asked herself. And why the insistence on ‘fresh’? Was she implying that someone – Anna herself, perhaps – had been knocking it back? Or was it that the only opened bottle was in the dining-room tantalus? Coming through the hall she’d noticed that, since the cleaning firm had been in, the seals were removed from that door, which was still closed. Had the housekeeper such a strong aversion to the place where her employer had been killed? Maybe everyone would avoid it.
Would Anna, with her stoic outlook, be insisting on her grandson’s braving it soon?
They had been back barely twenty minutes when headlights swept across the uncurtained windows. They heard voices at the front door and Camilla made an entrance with Daniel trailing behind. They both looked drenched and exhausted.
‘Thought I’d better deliver him in person,’ she opened abruptly, tossing her wet hair. ‘We’ve had a perfectly bloody time and a poor apology for a meal. Got held up for ages by a car crushed by a falling oak tree. Single lane traffic to get past. Pretty bloody mess too. People still trapped inside. Danny was sick all over the place, wouldn’t join us for lunch, so eventually we had to come back. Guessing there’d still be a helluva tailback on the road round the accident, we opted for a point-to-point. Bad idea. We got stuck in a muddy field. Took just hours getting
the wheels out of a bog, so it’s been a bloody day all round, and my Dad’ll go spare if I don’t hose the car inside and out before he gets home. So must rush.’
‘How very kind of you,’ Anna murmured. ‘I’ll show you out. Daniel, don’t stand on ceremony. Hot bath and dry clothes, then join us. Mrs Pavitt shall get you some soup and toast.’
Z looked across to Abercorn who was playing the interested spectator. ‘Time we left, perhaps.’
He levered himself out of the comfortable chair. ‘If you say so, Sergeant.’ He followed her meekly to reclaim his soaking Burberry, boots and pork-pie hat.
Anna followed them to the door, and while Abercorn settled in her car, Z asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Don’t bother yourself about me. It’s Daniel who matters. If only his mind could let it all out, the way his stomach did. It’s more than time we got him to talk.’
Abercorn had picked up on it. He leaned out of the car. ‘I could try tomorrow,’ he offered. ‘Latish in the morning, if that’s convenient for you?’
‘The sooner the better,’ Anna agreed. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
Chapter Sixteen
Z finished typing her report and waited for the printouts. Reading through, she knew it was incomplete. Although containing details of all said and done on their little expedition, it was depersonalised, giving no hint of the underlying unease she felt.
And doubt had struck her before they set out, at the moment when she’d connected Anna’s eagerness to search the woods with her possession of the Manson book. Not that it had been Anna who suggested the search. That had been Z herself, and Anna had almost countered it by mentioning her intention to question the Bartons about the reputed goings-on.
But hadn’t she first brought the subject up, mentioning the woods after Abercorn’s question about Jennifer and superstition? Then, after Z suggested a search, Anna had more or less taken over. Was she, in fact, working to direct police attention, and influence the investigation?
What after all had Anna come here for? Was her consciousness of shared genes enough to justify sudden renewed interest in her grandson? Or had she a special fondness for Daniel as a person? But then, after a death vultures gathered, didn’t they?
As sole survivor the boy would surely inherit from both parents but, being a minor, required someone to control his finances. Since Freddie Hoad had never envisaged such wholesale loss of family he’d probably made no provision against it in a will. Did Anna see herself as officially filling the vacancy? If so, from what motivation? — family responsibility or avarice? She appeared comfortably off, but in Z’s experience few ever thought they had enough to live on.
She collected her three copies of the report, knocked on DCI Salmon’s door and delivered his. He barely looked up, grunted, nodded towards his in-tray and waited for her to leave. It seemed that Beaumont had been sent off on some mission more vital than any Salmon would ever task her with, and she badly needed to talk over her new misgivings about Mrs Plumley. However, by good fortune Superintendent Yeadings was in the Incident Room as she delivered her report for the office manager.
‘And one for me?’ he asked, reaching out a hand. Then, ‘I’ve sanctioned your request for Scenes of Crime to go in at first light tomorrow. Come upstairs and we’ll look through this together.’
In his office he made no move towards the coffeemaker, intent on scanning her face. ‘You’re uneasy about something, Z.’
‘Maybe you should read my report first.’
‘I will, if you won’t think me sexist in asking you to make the coffee.’
She felt colour flooding her cheeks. ‘Am I that transparent, sir? Spiky?’
‘No spikes. Just occasional ruffled feathers.’
It wasn’t a rebuke. He didn’t actually say ‘understandably’, but his tone implied it and she relaxed, spooning coffee grounds from the foil packet into the filter. Nevertheless this was her second warning of her expression revealing her thoughts. She’d need to cultivate something like Beaumont’s po-face.
At the conclusion of his first reading the Boss grunted and went through the report again. ‘So you think there’s a cocaine connection. It seems we have another element to consider which may or may not affect our case. Five participants. Or even six. How many of the Hoad family are involved, do you suppose? And are numbers made up by house guests or people from the village? I’m afraid the time has come to disregard young Danny’s sensibilities and pin him down on how life was lived at the Manor. I doubt if Mrs Plumley is sufficiently in the picture for that.’
‘Enough to have brought along her own copy of the Manson massacre account. A well-thumbed one, at that.’
Yeadings’ black caterpillar eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘Music, Mayhem, Murder. That book? Almost a police textbook of its time.’
‘You’ve read it, sir? I only sneaked a quick glance at her copy, but the mention of witchcraft …’
‘The book’s not as sensational as the title, which was probably chosen to boost sales. It makes clear that Manson was a pathetic misfit, victim of a crazed mixture of drugs and hippy culture. He’d spent most of his life in prison, just escaped the death penalty for murder when it was abolished in California; then, finally released, tried to make it as a musician and a guru collecting nubile young girls, deep into acid culture.
‘He was a punk icon dealing drugs and ingesting effluvia from the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter” theme. All before your time, Z. At certain levels America was on the boil just then: violence and bloodshed following the love-and-peace flower-child period. Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated, the war intensified in Vietnam and there were student uprisings at home. Flunking it as a musician, he found a slot as Prophet of Doom, preaching a mishmash of Armageddon and ranting against the ordered way of life, wealthy and successful people. Drawn to the glitz of Hollywood, he found ready victims near to hand.
‘Roman Polanski, then away in Europe, had directed the horror film Rosemary’s Baby about a Satanist plot to bring the Antichrist into the world. Film buffs love disaster, so it minted money. Polanski’s pregnant wife, Sharon Tate, was living ostentatiously within the cult’s reach and, fired up by drugs, the Manson sect broke in on her household, committing wholesale slaughter. He had longed for universal chaos which only his nihilist elect were to survive. The gothic rock star Marilyn Manson later thrived on the cult, but by then society had picked up the real Charles Manson. Sad it wasn’t sooner.’
‘So are we dealing with a copy cat massacre here?’
‘I devoutly hope not. It would take a very sick mind to pick on Charles Manson for a role model. But we can’t risk dismissing the set-up in Fordham Woods as simply props for kinky play-acting. That sort of thing can push unstable people over the edge. Much may depend on what forensic specialists find there. Fortunately our right to search already covers all Hoad’s property.’
He took the coffee she passed to him and stirred in a sweetener. ‘You’re still unhappy about something.’
‘Mrs Plumley bringing the book with her. I accept that the reason for it being well-thumbed could be that she’d picked it up second-hand; but doesn’t bringing it imply she already knew there was some Manson-like cult being practised at her daughter’s home? And she pretended the book wasn’t hers. According to Beaumont she claimed she’d found it on a shelf in Daniel’s bedroom.’
‘It’s possible.’ Yeadings didn’t sound convinced.
Zyczynski hesitated before pressing further. ‘We can’t be sure what her motivation is for coming to the Manor. She’s settled in, taken over thoroughly. With Daniel in such a mess, can we trust her not to bring too much influence to bear …?’
‘We haven’t a choice in this. For the present there is no one else. She’ll probably apply to become the boy’s guardian. I doubt if it’s a case for the Official Solicitor to intervene. Frederick Hoad’s will still isn’t in our hands, and it’s doubtful his wife ever had one drawn up. We must leave Daniel to
the grandmother, and any lawyer they see fit to employ.
‘Meanwhile we keep to the universal rule: believe nothing on first hearing, trust no one, check everything.’
So where does that leave me? Z asked herself silently. Was I initially too ready to trust the old lady? Am I swinging too far the other way now?
‘There is some progress in the case,’ Yeadings confided, to change the subject. ‘A widening of the investigation. I was careful to say Hoad’s will isn’t yet with us, but among the recyclable paper we’ve been examining was a rough draft Hoad made shortly before his death. It was handwritten, so probably the fair copy was as well. He wouldn’t have wanted it left on his computer, however impenetrable he considered his password. Connected with this, correspondence which our IT specialist did lift from his personal computer included a letter to a W K Stanley at a London address; who, we now find, is a retired solicitor and a member of Hoad’s Jermyn Street club. The letter, discreetly enough, spoke of “bringing things up to date”.
‘An officer from the Met known to me has called on Mr Stanley who confirms that he recently drew up a revised will for Frederick Hoad from such a draft. He sent two of his one-time clerical workers to deliver it and witness the signature on two separate copies, returning one to the new head of his old Chambers. In the continued absence of Hoad’s own copy Beaumont has gone to collect the other.’
‘So there had been a previous will as well as the new draft? And we haven’t found either.’
‘Which means Hoad was cunning in keeping certain papers under wraps, or else one or both were removed by a person unknown. In which case he was right to be wary of someone in his own household.
‘Another little gem I found from grubbing through the recyclable waste is an anonymous, computer-printed letter from a whistle-blower at Hoad’s Bristol foundry, suggesting a check on staff actually employed there. It reported sackings over several months, and fictitious names substituted on the wages lists. Fallon, as Managing Director, is accused of cooking the books to feather his nest, to thoroughly mix the metaphors.’