‘And when did all this happen?’
Georgie helped herself to another biscuit and ruffled the spikes of her hair as she tried to remember. ‘He got his cheque around two months ago, and the book’s due out in the spring of next year.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes, I have. He was very secretive about it until his contract was signed and sealed. But after that he was happy to show a copy of his manuscript to anyone who was interested.’
‘And what did you think of it?’
She grinned. ‘It’s one of those quirky, murky, foxy-poxy tales – full of sex, cute phraseology, snappy one-liners and a heap of improbabilities.’
‘You wish you’d written it yourself?’
‘Hah, don’t I just? If he’s lucky he’ll make a packet.’ She paused. ‘Oh hell, he’s dead.’
There was a short respectful pause. Swift broke the silence. ‘So, despite a number of setbacks along the way, during his last months Christian appeared positive about his life. He was looking forward to the future, to the publication of his book and maybe a new career as a novelist.’
‘Hang on there,’ Georgie said. ‘I should point out that nearly all journalists and writers are plagued with insecurity. If you do a dud piece you feel like crawling away into a hole. And if you do a fantastic piece, you have a nice gloat for a day or two and then the uncertainty comes rolling in. You can’t quite believe that your masterpiece wasn’t just a flash in the pan, you have a sneaky feeling that you’ll never do another piece that equals it, and you can even get to a point where it’s really hard to believe you did it at all.’
‘You’re telling me Christian could have been overcome by chronic insecurity?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And thrown himself off the side of a crag as a result.’
Georgie wrinkled her nose. ‘Nah, I don’t really believe that. I was just letting you into some trade secrets.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Ooh! Isn’t that the standard sleuth’s question on eyeing up a suspect and smelling a rat?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
She held up her hands. ‘It wasn’t me, gov.’ He received another slicing glance. ‘I’m not really a suspect, am I?’ she asked, shaking her head in mock despair.
‘I’m not smelling any rats just at this moment.’
‘Phew.’ She reached out towards the biscuits again, thought better of it and smacked the reaching hand away with her other hand.
‘So when did you last see him?’
She frowned. ‘Just remind me of the date he died?’
‘Tuesday last. Three days ago.’
She leaned back, considering. ‘It was the weekend before last, ten days ago. We were both on late afternoon shifts on the Saturday. He was really looking forward to the next week. He was taking a fortnight’s leave. He was planning to go down to London to have meetings with his editor and his literary agent. Maybe take in one or two parties. Possibly spend a few days in Cornwall – he often went there to relax and do a bit of photography. He was due back at work Monday of next week.’ She fell silent.
‘So, no one would have been likely to worry about his not being around?’ he suggested. ‘No family, girlfriend, or colleagues.’
‘That’s right. He was always a bit of a free spirit, as I mentioned before. He used to follow his instincts of the moment. I suppose he was quite an impulsive sort of guy.’
‘Do you know if he had contacts in Cornwall? Did he stay at any particular place there?’
‘No idea,’ Georgie said. ‘He just liked it there for the light and views.’
‘For his photography?’
‘Yep. He just did it for his own pleasure, but he was pretty good. The paper occasionally used some of his pictures.’
‘Quite a talented guy, all round.’
‘Yep.’
‘Any enemies?’
‘Not that I know of. He was pretty well liked.’
‘Do you know anything about his family?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, can’t help you there. But I can ring down to personnel to give you details of his address, contact numbers and so on.’ She eyed him from below her long black mascara-laden eyelashes. ‘This is all too good to keep to myself. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’
He pointed a warning finger at her. ‘No. You’ll have to hold on until we’ve informed next of kin.’
She nodded. He heard a murmured, ‘OK.’
‘I mean it,’ he told her, his tone uncompromising. ‘That includes all your colleagues as well.’
‘OK. Scout’s honour,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone your press officer tomorrow, see what’s what.’
‘Are you familiar with the geography of the crag?’ he asked her. ‘Any places where a person could fall and kill themselves? I speak hypothetically, of course.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re joking. Do I look like one of the world’s outdoor girls?’
‘There are one or two danger spots,’ he told her. ‘And a lot of people walk there, including little children and pet dogs. Apparently there have been appeals to the council to put up barriers or warning signs, but …’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘But, no response?’
He gave a nod in the affirmative.
A smile curved Georgie’s burgundy-tinted lips. ‘Leave it with me. A bit of snapping at the heels of council officials is just my cup of tea. I can do a nice little piece on that.’
‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever let it be said that I don’t offer you some juicy little bones to chew on from time to time.’
Back in his office he rang Cat Fallon on her mobile. It was now going on for 6 p.m. He wondered if she was at home yet, going on to imagine her in her little cottage, maybe pouring a glass of wine, or soaking in the bath. Getting ready to go out with Jeremy Howard.
She answered on the second ring. ‘Cat Fallon.’ Her voice somehow managed to sound both brisk and warm.
‘It’s Ed. It’s work, is that OK?’
‘Hi there. What have you got for me? I thought I didn’t start until Monday.’ She sounded perfectly unfazed, ready for anything.
‘No, you don’t … and there’s no pressure. Has Ravi Stratton sent you a copy of the initial notes on our murder case?’
‘Yes, I’m up to speed.’
‘I’ve got an ID. And I want to inform the next-of-kin as soon as possible. Maybe attend an identification at the morgue. I think it would be good to have a woman’s touch on this one.’
‘Right. You’d like me to come now then?’
‘Yes. But if you have other arrangements….’ He heard himself as hesitant and almost as shy as he had been as a teenager asking a girl out on a date for the first time. He reminded himself that this was a work assignment, and that his hesitant and shy days were long behind him.
‘No problem. Nothing I can’t get out of. Where shall I meet you?’
He gave her the address he had found in the personnel file at the Echo. He hung up and sat very still for a whole five minutes, hearing Cat’s low voice resounding in his ears.
An hour later the two of them were standing outside the house where they were about to break their grim news. It was a crumbling villa set in a large rampant garden. Virginia creeper smothered most of the frontage of the house and there were one or two blue slates lying on the ground close to the front of the house, no doubt the results of the damage visited on untended old roofs by the recent gales.
The name Old School House 1898 was painted on a wooden block just beside the front door, the lettering so faded by the weather that it was barely legible. As Swift pressed the brass bell a silvery tinkle sounded from the depths of the house.
‘It’s like something out of Dickens,’ Cat said, looking up at the dark bulk of the house from which no sign of light or life emanated.
Swift thought that was an apt description. At the same time it struck him that this sudden and unplanned initiation of Cat into
his team had been something of a bonus. The seriousness of the job of informing relatives of a death pushed aside such considerations as awkwardness and suppression of feelings regarding Cat, which might have bothered him at the more formal meeting planned for Monday. When they met she had offered him her hand and shaken it warmly as she joined him at the front door of the house, and her smile had been direct and frank as had always been the case in the past.
Swift had given her the brief details from Christian Hartwell’s personnel file. And now they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, absorbed in the anticipation of the painful task ahead of them.
There was a long pause, the sound of a dog’s bark, and then the glow of a bulb coming on in the hallway. ‘I won’t be long,’ a voice reassured them. The door was thrown open to reveal an elderly woman with a mass of wiry silver hair which had been drawn up and piled into a loosely twisted knot.
On seeing the two officers, her face darkened with a sense of foreboding, although she barely glanced at their warrant cards. ‘You don’t look as though you’re bringing good news,’ she commented. ‘But, please come in.’
She led them down a wide, dark hallway into a large, square kitchen. In contrast to the coolness of the hallway the kitchen was throbbing with warmth pulsing from a wood-burning stove which looked to Swift as if it had been manufactured in the 1950s. A small dog got up from its bed and greeted the officers with tail wags and kindly looks. It had a serious limp on one of its back legs and ears which didn’t quite seem to match, one sticking up, the other curled over.
‘That’s Tamsin,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’s lovely with people, terrible with other dogs. Please sit down,’ she continued, gesturing to the assortment of ancient wooden chairs surrounding a large oak table.
Swift introduced himself and his colleague and then gestured to Cat to speak first.
‘Are you Mrs Ruth Hartwell?’ she asked, keeping her voice steady and gentle.
‘Yes.’ Ruth Hartwell sat down, placing herself behind a mound of books and a large lined writing pad with a pencil resting on it.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ Cat went on.
Ruth Hartwell raised her head and stared the officer straight in the eye. ‘Just tell me what you have come to say.’
‘A body was found this morning at Fellbeck Crag,’ Cat said.
Ruth nodded. A picture of the crag came into her mind. It was the kind of healthy outdoors paradise currently recommended by government health advisors to counteract sloth and obesity. Ruth had walked there quite often in past years, but recently her worsening arthritis had made it more of a labour than a pleasure to walk over such rough and steep terrain. She looked across at the two officers who were watching her with grave, concerned expressions. ‘Go on.’
There was a pause. ‘We believe the body is that of Christian Hartwell – your son.’
Ruth froze, her eyes glazed and wide with shock. From a distance she heard the female officer offering soft words of regret. She noticed that through their obviously genuine concern they were watching her, assessing her reaction. She got up slowly from her chair and moved to the sink; a strange-looking figure swathed in long scarves over a thick wool sweater, beneath which was a flowing skirt which looked as though it might have been manufactured in the 1970s. She leaned over the sink, letting out a long moan.
Cat got up, and stood beside the stricken woman.
‘Give me a minute; I shall be all right,’ Ruth said.
‘Would you like a drink of water?’ Cat said. ‘Or I could make some tea.’
‘No, no. I’m not ill.’ She straightened up and ran her hands over her unruly grey waves. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making her way back to her chair and staring down at the notebook on her table. ‘How did it happen?’
‘We think he fell from a high point on the crag,’ Swift said. ‘Some time last Tuesday.’
She nodded. ‘I see.’
‘We’re sorry for the delay in telling you,’ he went on. ‘We’ve only just been able to identify him.’
She was sitting up very straight. ‘I’d like some details, please. Don’t be afraid to simply tell me the worst.’
Swift made a quick revision of the gentler, shorter description he had planned to give as a start off, guessing that this woman would not be satisfied. ‘The body was concealed for some time amongst dense foliage and was eventually discovered by a dog.’
There was a silence. Cat and Swift watched her with concern. They were both aware that they had not yet completed the unenviable task they had come to do. Moreover, there was a lonely and stoical mournfulness about the bereaved mother which made it hard to proceed.
Cat took in a breath and leaned forward. ‘Mrs Hartwell, would you feel able to identify your son’s body?’
‘Oh!’ Her face took on a look of horror and distress which was painful to witness. ‘But I am not his mother’ she said, quietly.
Swift and Cat exchanged a glance. ‘He had you down as next of kin in the personnel documents we were able to look at in his place of work,’ Swift said, ‘which is why we were able to find you at this address.’
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘He had me down as next of kin.’ She considered for a few moments. ‘Yes, I can understand why he did that.’
The two detectives were temporarily at a loss.
‘Perhaps you could explain the situation to us,’ Swift said.
‘Christian lived with us from the age of nine,’ Ruth said. ‘His mother used to be a friend of mine. She was a single parent, and she never told anyone who the father was. She used to bring him to stay with us in the school holidays, and on one of those occasions she left without him and didn’t come back. And after that he lived with us.’ She paused, looking reflective. ‘I’d rather not say any more than that at present,’ she stated.
Swift and Cat resisted the impulse for another glance, and allowed Ruth time to reflect on what had been said so far.
‘Do you want me to come now?’ Ruth asked. ‘To look at him?’
‘That would be very helpful, if you feel able to do it,’ Cat said kindly. ‘We’ll take you and bring you back, of course.’
Ruth passed a hand over her forehead. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is there anyone you can contact to come with you?’ Cat asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow and I don’t want to disturb and upset my daughter.’ She took some deep breaths to steady herself. ‘Perhaps Tamsin could come with me,’ she said.
It took a few moments for the penny to drop. ‘Your dog?’ Swift enquired.
‘Yes. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ It struck him that Ruth Hartwell was a very lonely woman if the only creature she felt able to call on to accompany her to an ID was her dog.
Swift took the wheel, whilst Cat sat with Ruth Hartwell and her pet in the back seat. As they came into the town they slowed down to a halt at traffic lights. Ruth saw a rush of people crossing the road in front of the car. They were laughing and carefree, full of youth and hope. She recalled herself at that age, remembered the excitement about becoming an adult, the optimism of treading the path that lay ahead. And then her thoughts veered back instantly to Christian, reflecting on the loneliness of his early childhood. His mother had not been a cruel woman, simply not very interested in her child. And after all those troubled years of his early childhood, now his adulthood had been tragically cut short.
She held herself erect against the back of the car seat, her hand lightly resting on her dog’s neck. She seemed to be shut into some parallel world, looking down on herself, as she wandered through her thoughts, seeing the dark world pass in front of her eyes beyond the car windows, but feeling very little at all.
She hardly registered the arrival at the morgue, the long walk down a cold corridor, the moment she was confronted with a table on which a body lay covered by a white cloth.
And yes, it was him, her Christian. She felt a rush of love and
affection for him. And then, suddenly the lights above her were blinding her, making her unsteady. Salt water rushed into her mouth. She raised her gaze to connect with the pathologist as had been advised, but it seemed to slide away from the young woman’s face and skidded up to the ceiling. Her legs were trembling and useless, ready to fall. There was an edge of darkness around her vision.
No, NO, I will not permit it, she told herself fiercely. I will not lose control, lose my dignity in front of these strangers. Dredging up every ounce of her will she lowered her head and thrust it as far down between her knees as she could. The woman officer was there instantly, placing a supporting arm around her waist. She wanted to bat it away, but her strength was required elsewhere, in the fight against black oblivion. Pulling all her reserves together she willed herself to return to a state of full awareness. Consciousness brought pain, but pain had to be felt in order to be defeated. Pain was preferable to the soft controlling pillow of darkness which would strip away every vestige of personal power and decision-making.
She straightened up and gently pushed away the woman detective’s protective arm. She turned to the pathologist and the two officers who were looking on, quietly concerned. ‘That is Christian,’ she said. ‘Known as Hartwell. And now, I want to go home, please.’
The two officers stood aside deferentially as she turned her back on the body and started to move towards the door. She supposed there were more questions that she should ask, but she was too drained and exhausted to think what. And what did it matter; Christian was dead, no amount of questions would bring him back.
The Killing Club Page 5