by L. J. Ross
Anna enveloped Denise in a warm hug.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” she said, feeling the sharp edges of her ribs through the thick cotton pyjamas.
MacKenzie let herself be held and enjoyed the scent of fresh flowers Anna had brought with her.
“Come in,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”
Once inside, Anna dutifully went to the bathroom, allowing MacKenzie a few precious minutes to run a brush through her hair and clear away the breakfast paraphernalia she still hadn’t managed to tidy away.
She was staring at the washing-up liquid when Anna stepped back into the kitchen and summed up the situation at once.
“You need to get out of the house,” she said, gently.
MacKenzie turned to her with wild green eyes that were suddenly spitting with anger.
“How would you know what I need?” she snarled, letting the washing-up bottle slip from her fingers into the sink. “You have no idea how I feel, cooped up in here all day…or how I feel when I’m out there. You waltz in here, with your perfect life—”
“That’s enough.”
Anna’s voice cracked like a whip and MacKenzie was taken aback by the hard tone, so seldom used.
“I know all about loss, about suffering,” Anna bit out. “I lost my entire family, or did you forget?”
She moved further into the kitchen until she stood in front of her friend, eye-to-eye.
“I remember the fear I felt when Steven Walker drugged me, tied me up and sat above me with a dagger in his hands. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes, the madness.”
Anna thought back to that night two years ago and felt a shudder rack her entire body. Yes, she knew about fear, the kind that dug deep into the bones of a person and took root there.
“Denise, you’re surrounded by people who understand what you’re going through—Phillips, Ryan, even Jack. But me? I don’t just understand, I empathise, because I’ve been there myself. That night, when I lay there… I thought my life was over. I thought I wasn’t coming back.”
MacKenzie’s throat was so tight she couldn’t have said a word.
“I’m not standing here pretending I know what it feels like to have gone through what you went through in that farmhouse. Only you know that. But I can tell you that I remember what it felt like to make my peace with God, like you must have done.”
That brought a measure of surprise, which momentarily replaced the sadness in MacKenzie’s eyes.
Anna nodded, self-deprecatingly.
“Oh yes, even though I say all the time I don’t believe in a god, I don’t mind telling you I made my peace with him, or her, or whatever the hell it is, just in case. I said my ‘goodbyes’ and wondered if God would consider I’d been a decent person when the time of reckoning came.”
Anna’s voice quietened, almost to a whisper.
“I still don’t know the answer to that. I only know I’ve never felt such relief, and such guilt, for being alive when others weren’t so lucky.”
“Yes,” MacKenzie choked out, thinking of The Hacker’s many victims who hadn’t managed to escape. Their faces filled her mind, images of them alive and dead, until she could barely sleep at night.
Anna reached out for MacKenzie’s limp hands, clasping them tightly.
“It’s time to come back, Denise. You aren’t responsible for their deaths. Do you hear me? You aren’t responsible. Only one person is answerable for that and he’s paid the ultimate price now. Don’t let The Hacker win, not after you fought so hard to beat him.”
There was a short silence as the words began to penetrate.
“You’re right,” MacKenzie whispered and moved into Anna’s open arms, holding on tightly. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” came the reply. “But it’s time to bury the past. Somebody said once that living well is the best revenge.”
“They were right.”
There was a contented silence while the women held onto each other by the sink in Phillips’ kitchen, punctuated only by the sound of the refrigerator humming. When they pulled apart, MacKenzie’s eyes were clear again.
“I never said ‘thank you’ for the part you played in finishing it.”
Shock frittered over Anna’s face and she took half a step back, unconsciously defensive.
“I don’t know what you—”
“I think you do,” MacKenzie reached out for Anna’s hand again. “That man was a monster. If you hadn’t acted, Ryan might have been the one lying dead at the foot of a waterfall, not the other way around.”
Anna didn’t deny it. Four months ago, Ryan had fought a killer who was more animal than human, who would have stopped at nothing.
“The official inquest found no evidence of a bullet wound in his body,” she said carefully, referring to the post-mortem that had been conducted shortly after The Hacker’s death. “His injuries were so extensive after being battered about on the rocks, if a bullet was fired, it must have passed through him as a flesh wound.”
As a light rain began to fall outside, MacKenzie smiled beautifully for the first time in four months.
“A flesh wound was enough to distract him and the water did the rest. I had a rifle aimed but I was too slow to use it. Phillips says he had his firearm with him but the angle was so bad he couldn’t get a clear shot. The tactical teams were three or four minutes behind us. There was only one other person who was in position and who had the ability to take a shot. I believe that person was you.”
Anna said nothing at first, turning her face to look out the kitchen window into the small back garden with its big terracotta plant pots.
“I took Ryan’s firearm from his lock-box at home,” she said quietly. “It could cause trouble for him, if he knew.”
Anna hugged her arms around her body, feeling a chill at the thought of it.
“He’s adamant he heard a shot being fired and he thinks the CSIs must have missed something, or else the pathologist. He can’t understand why nobody will admit to discharging a weapon and I don’t want to keep lying to him.”
“Is it such a bad thing for him to know you helped him?”
“No, but he might feel compelled to report it, officially, which could affect his professional standing. Even if the outcome was the best for everyone, that’s not necessarily how the Independent Police Complaints Commission will see it. I’m a civilian and I had access to his authorised firearm. They’d make out it was negligence on his part.”
MacKenzie acknowledged that was a possibility.
“I think the past should stay buried.”
Anna looked back at that, with a smile that held no mirth.
“Oh, but it never does.”
CHAPTER 7
Unlike the stately architecture that constituted most of the small town of Rothbury, Victor Swann’s home was unremarkable at first glance. The bungalow formed part of a sheltered housing estate with an on-site caretaker, gardener and automatic membership of the Neighbourhood Watch. There were six identical bungalows arranged in a semi-circle around a central flower bed that was in full, glorious bloom and, of the six, only one had a bright red front door.
Ryan headed directly for it.
The curtains were closed and a quick inspection of the front door told him it was still securely locked. A wooden gate gave access to a paved pathway leading to the rear of the house and, as soon as he rounded the corner, Ryan spotted the tell-tale fragments of broken glass indicating there had been a break-in. The back door was standard white UPVC and it had been an easy job for someone to smash the panelling and let themselves in. A garden shovel was propped against the wall beside it and he’d bet the heavy metal handle had been used to drive through the glass.
Ryan took a moment to slip on some plastic shoe coverings and a pair of nitrile gloves before stepping inside.
The back door led directly into a small kitchen with top-of-the-range appliances. There was a fancy-looking breakfast table with
a polished glass top and seating for four, in the centre of which was a ceramic fruit bowl containing a few bananas on the turn. A couple of the cupboard doors stood open with their contents spilling like entrails onto the tiled floor. The fridge hadn’t been closed properly and a nasty smell of raw meat permeated the air, which did nothing to alleviate the overall impression that the house had been disembowelled.
Ryan made his way through to the sitting room, where he found a hoard of treasures. Fine quality paintings hung in brass frames on the walls and objets d’art had been meticulously arranged across every available surface and inside a glass-fronted corner unit. An expensive wall-mounted television took up one wall and a soft brown leather sofa was set out with matching armchairs around an antique chest, on top of which a pile of heavy books on Renaissance art and contemporary photography had been arranged in a fan shape.
Everything else was in total disarray.
The contents of every drawer and cupboard had been strewn onto the thick-pile carpet, even the DVDs, which seemed to consist mostly of the complete collection of Dad’s Army and Monty Python.
At least he’d had a sense of humour.
The single cupboard in the hallway had been ransacked, with shoes and coats left in a heap on the floor. Turning to the master bedroom, Ryan found three wardrobes full of menswear for all occasions. Shirts had fallen from their hangers as the intruder had thrust them aside during their frantic search. The room was decorated lavishly, with pearl grey silk wallpaper and a top-quality bedspread that had been swept onto the floor. The mattress had been dislodged from the base unit and one of the side tables lay upturned on the floor.
Apart from the bathroom, the only remaining room in the single-level house was a box bedroom which Victor appeared to have used as a reading room. There were more paintings on the walls and another pricey-looking armchair but there was also a substantial bookcase filled with tomes on art, music and local history. A slimline antique bureau in elm wood had been systematically broken apart and its elegant curved legs were scattered on the floor alongside a drawer full of receipts and paperwork.
Ryan stood for a moment looking at the destruction and thought that the unknown intruder could not have been clearer in his message.
Victor had something specific that you wanted, didn’t he?
Just then, he heard shuffling footsteps near the back door and Ryan moved quickly through the house to intercept them.
“Stop right there!”
A young man of around twenty stood outside the back door wielding a garden rake and Ryan assumed he must be the resident caretaker.
“I’ve—I’ve called the police! There’s no use making a run for it!”
Ryan couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for a criminal and he wondered if he looked like a reprobate.
He reached for his warrant card and held it out for inspection.
“Here—satisfied?”
“That could be a forgery!”
Ryan had to give the man points for enthusiasm but he didn’t have time for any more games.
“You’ve been watching too many episodes of Law & Order. Now, put that bloody rake down, before you take somebody’s eye out with it.”
* * *
Phillips told himself to concentrate on the road ahead and not on the fact he hadn’t heard from Denise in over four hours. He’d tried calling her several times without success and he was starting to worry. What if she’d hurt herself or had another panic attack? He could make a quick detour, just to check…
“Frank?”
From his position in the passenger seat of Phillips’ Volvo, Lowerson realised the man hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Sorry, I was miles away.”
“I was just saying, I don’t have a date lined up for Ryan’s wedding. Does Anna have any single friends?”
Phillips looked across to where Lowerson was patting his quiff back into place and shook his head. The lad was constantly thinking with his glands.
“What happened with that lass from the estate agents?”
“She met a gym instructor,” came the surly reply. “His biceps are bigger than my entire body.”
Phillips smiled.
“Take it from me, lad—it’s not all about brawn. Women like a man who can make them laugh, who appreciates them. Doesn’t hurt if you can dance, either.”
Lowerson turned to him with disbelief writ large on his cleanly-shaven face.
“You must be kidding—I’ve seen the way they fall over themselves with Ryan. I’d hate him, if he wasn’t such a decent bloke.”
Phillips snorted out a laugh.
“Aye, well, I never said they were struck blind, did I? But you need more than looks to win the day. Take me,” he jerked a thumb toward his own chest. “Did you ever think, in a million years, that Denise would look twice in my direction?”
Lowerson considered the question. Phillips was an intelligent man with a unique capacity to put even the frostiest witness at their ease. He was universally liked around CID and, despite being a bit rough around the edges, he was known for being a gentleman. He might not have the body of an Adonis, but what he lacked in physique he made up for in charm and humour.
“Maybe you’re right,” Lowerson conceded and let his hand fall away from his hair.
Phillips smiled to himself and made the turn for Cragside.
“You know, I hear Melanie Yates has come on board to help out with the legwork,” he added, casual as you like.
Lowerson’s ears pricked.
“Oh?”
“Mm-hmm. Nice lass, that one.”
When Phillips glanced back across, Lowerson was checking his hair again in the vanity mirror. He let out a muffled laugh which petered out as he thought of MacKenzie, alone and frightened inside the four walls of his house in Kingston Park.
* * *
MacKenzie swore softly when she realised she’d forgotten to bring her mobile phone. Forgetfulness was becoming a problem these days. The ‘self-help’ books Phillips had subtly left around the house told her that memory loss was a common side-effect following severe trauma. Over time, she hoped her skills would improve and return to normal, as would her sleep patterns, so long as she continued with the cognitive behavioural therapy she’d been trying to do a little of every day. All the same, it was frustrating.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Anna walked beside her as they made their way along a woodland path toward the main house at Cragside. It was a fair question to ask, considering the last time MacKenzie had been inside a forest she’d been running for her life.
She looked deeply into the shadows of the trees, imagining who or what might be lurking in the undergrowth. Then, she looked firmly away, concentrating on the path ahead.
“I’m fine,” she said shortly.
A light sweat trickled down her back but she told herself that was to be expected on a warm afternoon in August. The air was close and heavy with rain that would surely fall later in the day but, for now, sun flooded through the trees and cast long hazy beams to guide their way. Insects buzzed somewhere in the brush and butterflies seemed to float on the air, moving from one patch to the next.
Whenever she heard MacKenzie utter a sharp intake of breath or sensed that panic wanted to take a stranglehold, Anna paused, ostensibly to point out a flower or bird. She chattered about the wedding that was fast approaching or about current affairs, anything to distract her friend from the horrors of the past.
Her kindness was almost MacKenzie’s undoing.
“Strange there aren’t more visitors,” Anna remarked, suddenly realising they hadn’t come across a single visitor or estate worker on their travels.
They stopped and peered through the trees, looking for the usual groups of families going on a bear hunt or collecting pine cones.
A twig snapped somewhere behind them and both women spun around in reflex, but there was nobody there.
* * *
“Sorry, ma’am, I almost didn’t recognise you.”
MacKenzie chose not to be offended but it stung nonetheless.
Had she changed so much?
They paused to cover their shoes in elasticated plastic, then made their way inside the house. To their right, they could see the CSIs already hard at work sweeping the staff room and they headed upstairs to the drawing room, where they found Ryan setting out the sequence of last night’s events for Yates’ benefit.
“There are two entrances to this room, one at the north end and one at the south end, which leads you through the billiards room and back around in a loop to the main corridor off the gallery,” he was saying. “Including Cassandra Gilbert, there were twenty-two people gathered in this room last night. Some seated around the dining table, others grouped together chatting, accounting for eight who had already gone home by the time Swann died.”
“Thirty guests in total, twenty-two remaining by the time Swann died,” Yates repeated, making a swift note in her book. “Does that include Lionel Gilbert?”
“No, that would make thirty-one.”
“Ah-ha,” Yates amended the note. “And, it was too dark to tell who might, or might not, have been absent while Swann made his way down to the fuse box?”
Ryan gave a brisk nod.
“We’ll re-interview everyone over the next couple of days while it’s fresh in their minds but I can tell you it was like a cave. You could barely see more than a few metres in front of your own hand, let alone be able to tell who might have slipped out of a room this size. I can start by listing who was in my immediate vicinity and we can ask the other guests what they can remember but that’s the best we’ve got.”