by Rachel Green
“Yes, I know.” She waited for the paramedic to come down the stairs before stepping over the body and going up. She gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“I’ve been better. He tried to strangle me.” He rubbed at a livid red mark on his throat. “I’d never have believed it of him. I’d never have believed him capable of murder, let alone me.”
“We’ll finish this off later, sir.” The police officer closed his notebook. “When you’ve had a bit of a chance to pull your self together.” He nodded to Meinwen and made his way downstairs, stepping over the body at the bottom.
“Right. Thanks.” Richard turned away and went into the bathroom. “Of course, what he means is he’ll ask me all the same questions tomorrow and see if I say the same thing.” He switched on the tap and held his hands beneath it, letting the cold water run across his palms and through his fingers. Eventually he splashed some across his face as well.
“They have to be thorough. You can’t begrudge them their jobs.” Confidant he didn’t intend to do anything more intimate, Meinwen crossed the intervening space and gave him another hug. “What happened?”
“Peter happened. He told me knew who the murderer was and could I drive him somewhere. Of course, I said yes because of his bloody leg. We came here and he got the key from the shed. This was John’s house.”
“Yes, you said.”
“Did I? Sorry. Anyway, I help him upstairs and he says ‘We need to get in the loft’ so up we go. Him first so I can help give him a boost and then I’m halfway through the bloody hatch when I feel this rope go around my neck. It was too dark to see who it was so naturally I thought it was the murderer so I struggle like hell. Lucky for me I’m far enough through he can’t push me backward and hang me so I swing my legs over and roll onto my knees. Meanwhile he’s trying to keep the rope tight and push me back through. And all the while I’m gasping for breath and expecting Peter to come to my rescue.” He stared at his reflection in the mirror and examined the mark.
“And then?”
“Then I realize there’s nobody else there and it’s Peter who’s trying to strangle me.” He picked up the towel and buried his face in it for several long breaths. Eventually he pulled it away and wiped his face and hands. “I nearly lost it, I don’t mind telling you. I came this close to just giving up and letting him kill me.” He held up his thumb and forefinger with a hair’s breadth of gap between them. “Then I thought ‘No, goddamn it. I won’t let John have gone for nothing.’ So I fought back and since I was still kneeling I whacked him as hard as I could with the loft hatch. Right on his crossbow wound, too.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Aye.” He replaced the towel and walked back out onto the landing. “He collapsed. He fell through the loft hatch and hit the banister there.” He pointed at a smear of blood. “And went head over heels down the stairs. Bump bump bump.”
“Then you climbed down again?”
“Yes.” Richard sank to the floor at the top of the stairs, staring down at Peter. One of the police officers had draped a painting cloth over the body but it had settled to reveal a distinct outline. It was obvious from the angle he’d broken his neck in the fall. “Actually no, I couldn’t. The steps were gone. I had to call the police to come and rescue me.”
Meinwen sat next to him and gave him a one-arm hug.
“I don’t understand.” Richard blinked back tears. “I’ve known Peter since I was twelve. He’s always been so good to me. He loved my stepfather, and I would have bet anything he loved me too. I loved him.”
“He did love you. That was the problem. You didn’t love him the same way.”
“How could I? He was like a big brother or an uncle. I could play with him but not actually fall in love with him. I thought he loved Mary, anyway?”
“Being with Mary was his way of being near you. He wanted to see you happy.”
“I was happy though. With Catherine and then with John as well.” He put his head in his hands, the thumb and forefinger of one pressing against his eyeballs. “Oh God. Was it that simple? He was fine while I was straight but a gay relationship pushed him over the edge?”
“If he couldn’t have you...”
“Poor John.” He lifted his head, tears streaming. “He kept coughing after one of our breath-play sessions and Peter took him up to the hospital. Or said he did. That was the day he supposedly committed suicide. Peter told me he’d been checked over at Pity’s and sent home. Peter dropped him at his house. I didn’t think much of it at the time but Peter must have killed him instead of taking him to the hospital and spent the time removing all the evidence of our relationship. Poor John. If he hadn’t loved me, he’d still be alive.”
“You can’t blame yourself for loving someone.”
“Can’t I? What about poor Kevin? That was supposed to be a bit of fun. Even Catherine was enjoying having him around. She used to say it was like having two husbands. I wasn’t in love with him, though, so why did Peter kill him?”
“After losing John you went back to Catherine. Peter wasn’t expecting that. He expected you to turn to the other man in your life for support. You crushed his heart so his love for you turned to hatred and you had to die. He devised the whole anonymous buyer for Robert’s work because he knew you wanted a quick injection of cash for that French flat. The trouble was you’d left your jacket at the Luminaria, so when he called you on a ruse to meet him in the cemetery, Kevin turned up instead. Peter chatted to him to find out how much he knew and killed him to stop him revealing the anonymous purchaser was a fake.”
“So Kevin died because he thought he was doing me a favor.” Richard wiped his wet cheeks. “But who fired the crossbow at Peter?”
“No one. There was no blood spatter on the car. Peter lay on the floor and drove the bolt into his own leg. It was a stupid move that made me suspect him for everything. I mean, who cleans a car inside a garage?”
“He was just doing the windscreen, he said, before he took it outside.”
“But it wasn’t wet. The sponge was dry.”
“So it was all to divert attention then?”
“Yes, but it did the opposite. Why did you come here?”
“He told me he knew who the killer was. There was evidence in the loft, he said. Evidence the police didn’t notice at the time. Of course, we had to take my car. He was in no fit state to drive.” He shook his head. “I trusted him, you see. Always have, so when he helped me into the loft I didn’t suspect a thing. Not until that rope went around my neck, anyway. If I hadn’t had my wits about me...”
“You’d have been John’s inconsolable lover, topping himself the same way.”
“Hmm. A romantic tragedy in three acts. Move over, Shakespeare.”
Meinwen gave a snort of laughter, which earned her a glare from the police officer at the bottom of the stairs. She sobered quickly. “At least it’s over now.”
“Is it? Is it ever really over? I’ve lost my lover and my best friend. How will I ever get over this?”
“There’s the Paris apartment. It’d do you good to get away for a while.”
“No. I was banking on the sale of my stepfather’s work to finance that. Without that money the Paris getaway is a Paris goneaway.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “No, I’ve got to stay here, recoup my losses, get on with my work and find something else to be passionate about.”
“What about Catherine?”
“Ah, she’ll come around. I do love her, you know. I just can’t be exclusive.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Of course, when we were first together. It was easier then. It was all so new.”
“What made it stale?”
“I got bored of being the dominant.” He gave a rueful grin. “Everyone needs a little bit of give and take in a relationship. That’s what first attracted me to John. He was beautiful in submission but there was a fire to him, you know? You had to bend him just the right way or he’d fi
ght you with every ounce of strength, and he was a strong man.”
“I’ve seen the pictures.”
“There you go then. He was beautiful. I wish I’d taken more photographs. He was a sculptor’s dream.”
“Wet dream.”
“God, yes.” He chuckled. “Remember you asked me about the fight in the hotel?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I’ve never been so turned on. My cock was hard as a cannon.”
Meinwen couldn’t help looking down and this time Richard laughed, earning them another dirty look from the female officer.
“Excuse me, madam, sir.”
They moved to allow a pair of white-suited coroner’s assistants move Peter’s body into a body bag, zip it up and move it onto a trolley. Blue lights strobed across the hall as one of the officers jimmied open the front door to give them an easier egress. The cold night air blew in, making Meinwen shiver and pull her shawl more closely about her shoulders. The door closed again and the officer rubbed his hands together. “Of course, Catherine’s come into her own as a dominant now.”
“Do you think so? I see her in her outfits and I think she looks like a little girl playing dress up.”
Meinwen fell silent for a moment. “You could do worse. She’s a strong woman. Look at what she’s gone through.”
“You might be right. It’s worth a go, isn’t it?”
“Always.”
“Besides...” Richard stood, walked a couple of steps down and turned again. His face was level with Meinwen’s and he leaned forward to whisper. “It would cost me a fortune if we divorced.”
Chapter 39
Meinwen winced as she turned to watch another police vehicle pull up in the cemetery car park. Her minor cuts and bruises had healed since her attack a fortnight ago but her ribs were still extremely tender. “What’s going on, do you think?”
“How would I know?” Dafydd sniffed and moved the umbrella closer to cover her. “Do these have to be planted today?”
“Yes.” She looked down where the ground was becoming increasingly muddy at the three small holly bushes she’d bought from the market the day before. “No, not really. They’ll keep for a day or two.”
“Thank goodness for that. Can we go back in, then? I’m gasping for a tea.”
Meinwen only vaguely heard him but guessed the intent. She waved a hand as if shooing him back to the house. “You go inside if you like. I’m going to see what’s going on in the cemetery.”
“Perhaps they’ve found another body.” Dafydd laughed at his own joke. “No, hang on. I’m coming with you. Do you want to lock up?”
“No. We’ll only be over there. Besides, it’s broad daylight, in the rain and a witch’s house. Who’s going to steal from it, eh?”
“Anyone who sees you leave, I would have thought.” He hurried to keep up with her.
It wasn’t that she was walking quickly, more that she walked economically in a direct line between her and her target. Only if she was examining the flora and fauna around her was her locomotion slower but in either case her gaze was sharp as a pruning knife.
She avoided the car park and instead turned to the right, entering the cemetery through the postern gate by the groundsman’s shed and compost bins. Rain spattered her face as threaded through the graves, closing in on the fluorescent jackets and yellow tape of uniformed officers marking off another crime site. Dafydd caught up with her as she paused to look for a face she recognized. She could have done without him here, to be honest. The rainbow umbrella he held over her was a bit conspicuous.
“Stay here. I’m going over.”
“Shouldn’t I come with you?”
“Best not. They’re more likely to talk to me on my own.” Without a backward glance she headed over to the officer most likely to give her information. “DS Wilde?”
The plainclothes officer frowned, shielding her eyes from the rain. “Ms. Jones? Why does it always rain when I see you? You shouldn’t be here. This is a crime scene.”
“Not another body, surely?”
“I’m afraid so. A couple of weeks old, though, so not pretty.”
“Oh dear.” Meinwen glanced past her. “That’s the Markhew plot, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Richard Godwin’s grave, to be precise, or what would have been his grave if the whole lookalike mess hadn’t been sorted out. Thanks for your help in that, by the way. I don’t know if DI White got as far as thanking you.”
“He mentioned it in passing. More to the point, the driving charge against my friend was dropped and I suspect words were had in certain ears, for which I’m very grateful.”
“Community policing at work, eh?”
“Something like that.” Meinwen huddled closer. “You said Richard Godwin’s grave?”
“Yes. It was filled in when the body we thought was Godwin’s turned out to be the missing kid, but a visitor to the graveyard spotted a gold necklace sticking out of the soil and came to the station to hand it in as lost property. When she said where she’d found it we sent an officer to have a look and he uncovered a body.”
“Why didn’t anyone spot it before?”
“Well, it’s a grave isn’t it? Who looks for a dead body in a grave? The funny thing is, nobody knows who filled it in. The groundsman thought it was the family, the family though it was the verger and the verger thought it was the groundsman.” She shook her head, drops of water flying from the tips of her hair. “And now it looks like this was Peter Numan’s last victim.”
“Peter Numan? Why? He’s dead.”
“Not before killing this poor chap. It was his necklace poking out of the soil, you see. It was one of these foreign yin-yang-yong symbols but DI White recognized the engraving on the back. He tootled up the The Larches and matched it to one Mary Markhew gave to Peter Numan when they got...you know...together.”
“I think you’re looking for the phrase ‘formalized their relationship.’” Meinwen frowned. “I’m not trying to be funny but the symbol is a yin-yang, not a yin-yang-yong? I think you’d find that would be quite offensive if you said it to the wrong person.”
“I know what yin and yang is.” Anna Wilde dragged Meinwen to one side of the crime scene where an old yew tree offered a small amount of shelter from the rain. This had three of the symbols inside the circle. I hadn’t see a three-way before. What is it called then?”
“A triskelion.” Meinwen drew the symbol on the sergeant’s palm with her finger. “Three interlocking spirals. It dates back six thousand years in Ireland and Mycenae.”
“As old as that?”
“Not as old as yin-yang. So whose body have you dug up?”
“A bloke called Derek Blake. Fifty-four, married father of three. No connection to the Markhews as far as we can see.”
“What did he do?”
“Delivery driver for a firm in Salisbury. Reported missing sixteen days ago and they found his truck in Taunton. Go figure.”
“How odd. Can I see him?”
“Best not. He’s been down there a fortnight. Not a pretty sight, if you get my drift.”
“I see, right.” Meinwen clapped her on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help.”
“No problem. We should have a drink sometime.”
Meinwen turned, walking backward for a moment. “We should. I’d like that.” She waved and tuned back to where Dafydd was waiting with the umbrella. “Right. Home again. I need to look something up on the internet.”
She threaded her way back through the graves and across the road, pausing as DI White drove past. She waved when he stared at her. There was no point in pretending she hadn’t been in the cemetery, DS Wilde would soon tell him.
She slowed to allow Dafydd to catch up and opened the gate for him to go through first. They linked arms along the relative privacy of her garden path and she led him around the house to the conservatory. It was a better place to take off wet boots and coats than the sitting room.
“You put the kettle on
and make the drinks while I look something up.”
“Right you are.” Dafydd laughed. “Permission to change my socks first, though?”
Meinwen looked at his feet. They couldn’t have been much wetter if he’d dipped them in the frog pond. “Have you got holes in your shoes?”
“Just a bit. I usually pad them with cardboard but the rain took me unawares today.”
“Have you got no other shoes? You should have said. I could easily have got you some in town. There are loads of secondhand shops and a couple of discount shoe places too.”
“No. I’m fine. I’ve got another pair.”
“Why didn’t you wear them then?”
“These are two hundred quid in the shops.”
“If they were new, maybe. What’s the point of wearing shoes with holes in?”
“Because they’re two hundred quid shoes. Besides, it doesn’t rain all the time.”
“That’s true, I suppose.” Meinwen looked from his dainty footwear to her heavy duty, military-surplus boots. It highlighted the actual gulf of ideologies separating them. “You, go and put dry clothes on first, then, and make the drinks when you come down. I’ll put the kettle on as I go past.”
“Fantastic.” He headed out of the other door which was nearer the stairs.
“And take those wet socks off before you soak the carpets.” Too late, she heard him thunder up the stairs. She shook her head, going into the kitchen to fill the kettle then through to the sitting room. She was well enough to sit up at her small computer desk and logged on. Despite living alone she kept her system passworded in case of hacking. In case of nosy visitors too, although anyone she trusted enough to let into her house she generally trusted enough not to hack her computer.
She opened a browser and typed in “Derek Blake.” Over twenty-three million hits–everyone from a Welsh councilor to a tattoo artist in Birmingham. She was suddenly glad she had no desire for a tattoo. She tried to refine the search by adding “Laverstone” and “driver.” One hundred and forty hits.
She added “death” and the search engine opened a single page, a newspaper article from the Laverstone Times dated twenty-three years ago.