“Christopher Calvert himself – Gabriel’s godfather and Ball’s nephew – and a Claire Drummond who worked at the castle at the time. Both arrived on the scene and found Martin Pine standing on a jetty at a lake on the castle grounds, a bloodied oar at his feet, showing all the signs of a struggle with two bodies found later when they floated to the surface – Ball had received a blow to the head and drowned, Laurence was throttled and then drowned. Bodies, murder weapon, guilty-looking young man . . .”
“But motive?”
“Yes. Motive. Not pleasant. Christopher Calvert himself testified that Martin Pine liked to visit Laurence’s room at night-time, if you know what I mean? Spent a lot of time alone with the kid, Calvert said that he had ‘concerns’. Evidence states that Ball caught Pine on a night-time boat trip alone with Laurence and tried to stop it, but Pine overpowered him somehow, bashed him on the head, finished him off, and then drowned the kid, presumably to ensure his silence, but he got caught in the act by Drummond and Calvert and was carted off to prison that same night.”
Martha grimaced.
“Things just went from bad to worse for Pine,” Sue went on. “He was brought back to London to be tried – that assault charge was still outstanding. And to make matters worse, all of this happened the day after his eighteenth birthday so he was tried as an adult and got two life sentences. All sounds a bit fishy to me.”
“You mean ‘sleeping-with-the-fishy’,” quipped Martha.
Sue rolled her eyes.
“Yeah. That too. Now. I am going for a well-deserved fag break and you’re going to make us some lunch. We deserve something nice. Because later on, when the boys get here, we’re going to have to go through all of this again and see if Gabriel can throw any insider knowledge on the situation. And then I, the bearer of all this news, freshly single and operating solely on the energy generated by the love for my best friend and her nutty boyfriend, am going to get absolutely steaming drunk and cry on your shoulder about my love life. Is that okay?”
Martha took a deep breath, stretched and smiled. “Sounds like a plan, Sue. Thanks, by the way. For all this . . .”
She swept her hand across the table before her, indicating the hours of work that Sue had done. And for what? To support some bonkers theory of Will’s based on information gleaned from a woman who claimed she was talking to the dead?
“No problemo,” replied Sue, pulling her cigarettes from her handbag and fishing a lighter from her pocket. “Oh – and have a glance in that green folder there.” She made toward the back door and struggled with the key.
“What delights await me there?” asked Martha, reaching toward the pile of documents.
Sue popped the cigarette between her teeth to free her hand to fight again with the lock. “Someone in there I think you should see,” she replied, the words coming through the side of her mouth. “A certain Mr Pine.”
For a split second, Martha withdrew her hand from where she was gently sliding the green folder from the pile before her. Martin Pine. The visitor. He was the one player that she hadn’t laid eyes on yet and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Presuming, of course, that she hadn’t seen it already . . .
Gently she drew the file towards her and laid it on the table, glancing at the back door which was left wide open, the faint smell of cigarette smoke wafting in from outside. With a measured hand, Martha opened it and there he was, another photocopied image but clear as day. Thin, with a shock of tousled hair. Exactly as Gabriel had described his pursuer. Martha was suddenly taken aback. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to see – what the face of a supposed double-murderer, a child molester, was supposed to look like – but she was sure that it didn’t look like this. His hands cuffed, flanked by uniformed policemen who were leading him somewhere, Martin Pine, like Claire Drummond in the earlier picture, had looked full on at the camera and Martha was stunned to see that the face, his living face, with its wide eyes, full lips and frightened expression, was barely more than that of a child’s itself.
Martha felt goose-bumps prickle all over her body that weren’t caused by the open back door. She held the picture up toward the light to get a better look, disturbing, as she did so, another sheet of paper from the file which floated gently to the ground. She bent to retrieve it, noticing as she picked it up that it was yet another photocopy of a newspaper page.
It was a short piece. “Body of Local Recluse Found” read the headline. Martha pictured it tucked away at the bottom of the left-hand page in a local newspaper. She laid the photograph of Pine to one side to peer more closely at the typed information. It was from the Hoxton Chronicle, the paper that Sue had mentioned.
“Police have identified the body found yesterday at the Mulberry Gardens flat complex as Martin Pine, 65. They were alerted when a neighbour became concerned. Sharon Todd (35) first believed that something might be wrong when she experienced a strong odour through the walls of her own home. This coincided with her son, Jayden, witnessing flies crawling on the inside of a pane of glass in Mr Pine’s door. When they were unable to gain access, Hoxton police station was notified and the residence was entered by force. It is believed that the body had been in situ for quite some time.
‘The man who lived there barely came out,’ Todd stated. ‘You’d see him occasionally but no one would have noticed if he went off the radar for a while’.
It is believed that Pine moved to the flats in the late 1980’s on his release from prison. He had no next of kin and the police are appealing for relatives to come forward although they confirmed that at this stage they feel such an occurrence is unlikely.”
Martha felt sadness wash over her as she read. She glanced again at the picture – the man-child being manhandled up the steps of a courthouse. And then to this . . . dying alone in a flat complex, neighbours so distant that they only noticed something when the stench of his body pervaded their living space. And no one to claim him. No one to love him, to take his body and bury him, to say goodbye . . .
She shook herself then. Urged herself to get a grip. The man was supposed to be a paedophile, for heaven’s sakes, she reminded herself. A killer . . .
But again she looked back at the picture of the boy. The look in his eyes. Angeline Broadhead’s words ran through her mind again: “He says he didn’t do it.” What if she was right? What if he didn’t and, having died alone, his spirit had come back prove his innocence?
Martha stared at the picture for another while, until one more thing caught her eye. The date on the piece. June. Roughly six months ago. The previous summer. The exact time that Gabriel had begun to experience strange things. “Why now?” Gabriel had asked. Was this why? Had Martin Pine’s ghost left his body and instantly come in search of Laurence’s McKenzie’s brother, she wondered. Was he so desperate for help that his first act in spirit had been to go find a link back to the boy he murdered? Unable to rest until he proved himself innocent?
Martha smiled up at Sue as she re-entered the room, rubbing her arms and stamping her feet in the cold. Then she closed the file, keeping a hand on top of it, unable to let it go. Maybe it was true, she thought. Maybe Martin Pine really didn’t do it.
CHAPTER 22
1963
Martin shoved his hand over Laurence’s mouth to stifle the noise. The child was helpless with laughter – Martin realised he shouldn’t have been clowning around, but he hadn’t allowed for the fact that the kid was such a giggler. And it was infectious too. Within seconds, he had stuffed his own oversized jumper into his own mouth because he couldn’t contain himself either. And the more they laughed, the more they wanted to laugh. Any second now and he’d wet himself and then there would really be what for. He couldn’t expect Laurence to take the rap for that from Mrs T.
Martin shone his torch in the boy’s face, causing a fresh explosion of muffled laughter, and he dissolved again at this, but soon managed to control himself. If anyone caught him – Mr Calvert, Mrs Turnbull – or worse – then he’d be on the
next train back to London and he knew what waited for him there. He burned with shame at the thought of how he’d knocked that old lady over as he tried to get out of her flat, her clock stuffed into his coat. She’d been flat out on the ground when he looked back. He hadn’t known whether she was living or dead – still didn’t. And he didn’t know why he’d broken in at all. It’s not like he needed the cash. Maybe he’d just needed the thrill, but it had been a hollow one. He could be facing a murder charge if he had to go back home. He always said that he didn’t pray, but every night he did. That the old lady was alive, that he’d be forgiven and that he wouldn’t have to face a life behind bars. He’d had a taste of borstal when he was younger and he knew that prison was much, much worse. He was a different person then. He knew better now. And he was so very, very sorry.
With one sweep of his arm, he pulled the eiderdown back from over their heads, effectively demolishing the tent they had made using two chairs to prop it up.
The boy’s face fell. “Aww, Martin!” he began, but was silenced by a finger pressed to his lips and an aggressive “Sssssh!”.
Martin couldn’t be cross with the lad for long, but he had to think about himself.
“It’s time for bed now, Lozza,” he said and Laurence giggled quietly again.
“That’s a silly name,” he observed, obediently standing to attention, the leg of his red-striped pyjamas falling to his ankle from where he had pulled it up to his knee in order to absent-mindedly pick at a scab there while Martin told his nightly tale.
“Well, if you came from where I come from, you’d be called Lozza all the time,” Martin informed him, waiting for Laurence to climb onto the iron-framed bed and turn around into a sitting position before pulling his covers back over him and turning to pick up the eiderdown with which they had made their bunker. “Or Larry. Which d’you prefer?”
Laurence raised his index finger to his chin and cocked his head to one side to show that he was thinking. “Lozza,” he said finally, a little too loudly.
“Will you shut it?” whispered Martin with a smile. “You’ll get me into all sorts of trouble – I shouldn’t be here!”
“Sorry, Martin,” whispered Laurence meekly. “But it’s not like Godfather would read me a bedtime story. And you’re brilliant ’cos you make them up yourself.”
“You forget about them stories, do you hear?” replied Martin softly, tucking the boy in. “I probably shouldn’t tell you them ones, about the ghosts an’ all. They’ll give you nightmares.”
“Uncle Jack said he might tell me a bedtime story sometime,” said Laurence as he watched the older boy smooth down the covers.
Martin froze. He felt something drop in the base of his stomach and a tremble in his legs, as though they were about to turn to jelly.
“No,” he said, aloud, the word out there before he could stop it. He wanted to tuck Laurence in and lock the door. That couldn’t happen. Not to Laurence. It was too late for Martin but not this kid. This lovely, vibrant, innocent kid. Martin hadn’t had much of a chance to be a kid but Laurence – he had a whole life in front of him. A life that was clean somehow. He raised his hands and gripped Laurence fiercely by the shoulders. “You don’t ever let Uncle Jack tell you a bedtime story, do you hear me?” he growled, squeezing the boy as he did so.
Laurence looked back at him, uncomprehending, his face beginning to fill with fear. “Martin, you’re hurting me,” he whispered.
Martin didn’t hear. He stared directly in Laurence’s eyes. This message was the most important one he could give the boy. How could he make him listen? His eyes bored deep into Laurence’s, as if somehow by doing this he could burn the message into his brain.
“Never. Do you hear me?” he said. “You don’t ever let Uncle Jack in here at night-time. Do you understand?”
He shook Laurence gently with each syllable to emphasise his point. He had to make his point, had to make him listen.
Laurence’s face turned from confusion to anger. “Get off me, Martin!” he said aloud. “Get off!”
Martin slowly released his grip and Laurence propped himself up on his elbows. Martin took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest.
“I’m sorry Lozza,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you but do you understand me? Did you hear what I said?”
Laurence scowled at him, raising one arm to rub his shoulder where he felt sure there would be a bruise. “Get out, Martin,” he said crossly. “And my name’s Laurence. Not Lozza.”
With that he turned his back dramatically and yanked the covers over his head.
The older boy stood there for a moment longer, staring at the child’s frame, his shape under the quilt. After a while he stepped toward him, laid a hand where his shoulder was and apologised again. “I’m sorry Loz–Laurence. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got carried away. You’re my mate, right? ’Ow about some fishing tomorrow if the sun’s out, wotcher think?”
There was no response – Martin hadn’t expected one – and he turned and softly padded across the room toward the door. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard the small voice behind him. “Awoight, mate.”
Martin smiled broadly. He was forgiven. Laurence wouldn’t attempt a cockney accent if he was still cross with him. What a great kid. Grinning, he turned the handle, stepped gently outside onto the mezzanine and pulled the door silently shut behind him.
Had he been three steps closer to the stairs, he’d have tumbled down them, most likely breaking his neck in the process. As it was, he was far enough back so that when the silent shape slithered through his legs, causing him to fall over, he remained safe. He hit the floor with a thump and an involuntary ‘Ow!’, recovering quickly enough however to try to make out the shape in the dark of what had tripped him. The hiss that greeted him as he leaned toward the culprit made it abundantly clear that only one creature could have done that. Bloody Tiger. And without her warning bell on tonight.
Martin froze again at the hiss. Tiger wasn’t allowed to roam the castle by herself at night. She slept in the bottom drawer of that stupid filing cabinet in Uncle Jack’s room. On top of a pink satin quilt, of all things, emerging only to pounce on the odd mouse that scampered across the ancient floorboards. So Uncle Jack said. Uncle Jack . . .
From the corner of his eye, Martin saw the hulking black shape. It looked as though it was detaching itself from the wall beside Laurence’s door. How long had he been there? Why was he there in the first place? What had been his intention? Martin felt panic fill his body, forcing him to his feet quickly, his breaths coming short.
“Well, well, well, as they say,” came the low rumble in the darkness. “If it isn’t Martin Pine, leaving the bedroom of a young boy on a summer’s night. Tut tut, young Martin Pine.”
Martin felt the voice get closer to him, felt an energy that was familiar and repulsive, and took a step back towards the balustrade behind him as Jack Ball stepped toward him and into a shaft of light from a window high over the stairs. Shaded dark blue, Martin made out the familiar features. The small eyes, the scar. The face loomed at him in the darkness, something about it more threatening than usual.
“I’m not sure my nephew is going to be happy to hear about this, Martin,” growled Ball.
Martin stayed silent, waiting for a moment. To do what, he wasn’t certain – bolt, punch, kick – give in, as usual. “The staff sneaking round to the top of the house in the middle of the night? Visiting young boys as they try to sleep? Telling ’em that they didn’t mean to ’urt ’em . . .”
He’d heard. Heard what Martin had told Laurence. Heard the warning . . .
And now he was going to take those words and twist them. Make Martin sound like him.
“No,” said Martin in a strangled whisper. “You know I didn’t do anything!”
The response came in a placatory tone. “Come on, Martin, me old pal. Me old mucker. We go back a long way you an’ me, don’t we? All the way back to Gigi’s. And Bow Street Station
. . .”
He left the implication hang in the air.
“Good times, eh, Martin?”
He leaned a little closer.
“But it wouldn’t be so good if you ’ad to go back now, would it? What with all that little-old-lady business. You were right lucky Uncle Jack was able to save your skinny little ’ide, wasn’t you? And what a lovely place ol’ Uncle Jack found for you to live, eh? If I were you, I’d be very grateful to Uncle Jack. Very grateful indeed. ’Cos if you’re grateful enough, Uncle Jack might just let you stay on after he’s finished with you. But only if you’re a very good boy.”
Martin’s stomach lurched and he felt the gorge rising in his throat. He fought it back. He had to stay strong, alert. He looked at Laurence’s door again, behind where Uncle Jack stood. There were two of them now, he suddenly understood. He had to protect the two of them.
“Now. You can start by running along. Go on – on you go – good lad. I’m just going to check if my nephew’s godson is all right after his . . . nocturnal visitation from an older boy. And once I’m sure he is, I’ll sleep very soundly. Very soundly indeed . . .”
And there it was. The giggle.
“What’s going on? Who’s there?”
Martin thought that his legs would buckle underneath him. He fought back tears of gratitude as he heard the voice come from the passage behind Jack and saw the hideous face that loomed over him withdraw from the shaft of light, frowning and then composing itself as he turned to face his nephew in the dark.
Christopher Calvert carried a small torch and the beam took in first Jack’s face and then Martin’s, pale and terrified.
The Dark Water Page 17