by George Mann
“I like that idea,” said Elspeth. “That stories are living things that change and evolve with the passing of the seasons.”
“You should write that down,” said Rose. “You can use that line in your review.”
They all laughed. “So have you had much to do with Michael Williams, then? I gather he’s writing a novel about the Carrion King and the Wychwood, too,” said Elspeth.
David nodded. “Yeah, Mick’s been another supporter. He doesn’t have quite the same insight as Byron, but he’s definitely helped to give the thing shape via email. I’m looking forward to his book. Whenever he manages to finish the bloody thing!” He took a long swig from his pint.
“So, Elizabeth – you’re making a new costume for Alice, I presume?”
Elizabeth looked more than a little uncomfortable at the sudden change of topic. “Yes, yes. Bit of a rushed job, I’m afraid. But needs must.”
“You don’t really think that Vanessa took it, do you?” said Rose. This was clearly a thread from an earlier conversation Elspeth had missed.
Elizabeth was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Well, how does it look? She’s the only one who didn’t come to the pub that night – which is strange enough, given how much she likes a drink. Especially after losing her cool like that with Lucy.”
That was new. Neither Peter nor Vanessa had mentioned anything about a row. Vanessa had explained things between her and Lucy had been strained, but there’d been no talk of a recent row.
“But why would she sabotage her own play like that?” said Rose. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “Why does anyone do anything? But she’s the only one who could have. We were all here, weren’t we? And the costume was there when we left. I hung it up myself.”
“Yes, but that could be nothing more than coincidence,” said Rose. “Next you’ll be saying she’s the one who murdered Lucy.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Elizabeth haughtily. “Although God knows Lucy gave her cause enough.”
“This is Vanessa we’re talking about,” said Rose. “And besides, she was at the theatre all night, preparing for opening night.”
“Well, not all night,” said Oscar, leaning in. He had an unlit cigarette between his fingers, as if he were just about to head out for a smoke.
“What are you on about, Oscar?” said Keel.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying she didn’t stay at the theatre all night like she said.”
“How do you know? You were here with us,” said Keel.
“No, you left early, didn’t you?” said Rose. “That’s right. You went out for a smoke and didn’t come back. I’d forgotten all about that. By the time someone noticed, you’d gone.”
“Oscar?” pressed Keel.
“It was nothing. I’d forgotten my lighter. Left it back in the dressing room, so I went back to fetch it, that’s all. The place was shut up and the lights were off. There was no sign of Vanessa.”
“Have you told the police?” said Elspeth.
“I’d forgotten about it, to be honest. It was late on, and I was drunk, so I’d walked there. It’s probably nothing. She’ll have finished up and gone home, that’s all. I can’t even be sure of the time. I only thought of it when you said she’d been there all night.” He straightened up and placed the end of his cigarette between his lips. “Back in a mo.”
Elspeth watched as he walked nonchalantly towards the front door and stepped out, as if completely ignorant of the bombshell he’d just dropped. Her mind was whirring. So Vanessa had argued with Lucy on the evening of Lucy’s death, and hadn’t mentioned it to the police. And there was a witness who could prove she wasn’t where she said she’d been.
She had to talk to Peter.
She took a swig from her drink. Around her, the others had grown quiet.
Valiantly, Rose attempted to restart the conversation. “So when’s your article going to run, Ellie? The one about the play.”
“Umm, well, not sure yet,” she said. “I’ll probably tie it up with a review, if I can persuade my editor.”
“So you’re coming, for opening night?”
“If I can still get tickets,” said Elspeth.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Rose. “Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with Vanessa.”
“Great. Thanks.” Elspeth downed the rest of her drink. “Look, thanks for inviting me along tonight, but I’m going to head off. I’ve got a deadline and an early start in the morning.”
“Alright. Sure,” said Rose. She looked a little crestfallen.
“Maybe we can do this again,” said Elspeth.
“You’re on,” said Rose.
“Nice getting to know you,” she said to Keel and Elizabeth as she got to her feet. All she could think about was calling Peter. “See you again.”
She made a beeline for the door.
Outside, Oscar was pacing back and forth, sucking determinedly on his cigarette. “You off?” he said, when he saw her leaving the pub.
“Yeah. Work to do.”
“They’re alright, you know. That lot,” he gestured towards the pub with a nod of his head. “They’re like a family. Always bickering, but none of them would do anything to hurt the others. Not really.”
Elspeth smiled. “That’s exactly what Rose said.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. She was just about to turn and walk away, when he spoke again. “So, do you want to go on somewhere? Grab something to eat, maybe? Get another drink? We could head into Heighton, or Oxford…”
Elspeth grinned. A few years ago she would have jumped at the chance for a wild night out with a man like him. But now… after everything that had happened recently, she just felt tired. She couldn’t afford to make any more of a mess of her life, no matter how tempted she felt. And besides, she had no idea at all whether he could be trusted. “Sorry, deadlines. But I reckon there’ll be plenty more willing victims in there.”
“Nah. Family, remember.” He grinned, backing away towards the pub entrance. “See you round, Ellie Reeves.”
Shaking her head, Elspeth hurried back to her car. As soon as she’d fired up the engine and pulled away from the kerb, she thumbed the voice control on her steering wheel and waited for the beep.
“Call Peter Shaw,” she said. Duly, the phone began to trill over the speakerphone. Peter answered after only three rings.
“Ellie? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. But I’ve just been for a drink with the theatre lot, and we really need to talk.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He came here often to be alone with his memories.
It was a peaceful place, unmolested by modernity, by the encroachment of houses and parks and cycle routes, by people walking their dogs, drinking cheap cider and abandoning cigarette ends in the undergrowth. It seemed to him as if it hadn’t changed for centuries, a place captured in a single moment of time – one of the few truly wild places left around Heighton. He treasured it as a safe harbour, and for what resided here, hidden from the world.
Much of the ancient Wychwood had gone now, cut back over the centuries. What was left of it formed a few precious havens, like these small woods at the back of Heighton – left to grow wild because no one knew what else to do with them, and the council wouldn’t allow the developers to move in.
That was the true beauty of the Wychwood – it was everywhere around them, always. No matter how much of it had been cleared away, it still exerted its influence. It was a wild place, imbued with wild magic. He’d known that as a child, sensed it as he gambolled around out here with Thomas, trying to forget about the rest of the world, to allow himself to be transported somewhere else.
To him, it had always been like stepping through the back of the wardrobe, entering this resplendent place, this relic of the ancient world. Here, he was invincible. Here he was at his best. If only Thomas could see him now. See how free he was, how unencu
mbered.
He sighed. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too much longer.
Up ahead, he could see the tree that marked his destination. He trod carefully through the bed of moss and leaves towards it, unable to avoid crunching a fallen branch underfoot and startling a pigeon, which took off from the spindly upper branches of the nearest tree in a sudden excited flurry. He watched it go, sailing away over the treetops and out of view, back towards the real world. He continued on his way.
He liked the silence out here. He was only a few hundred yards from the nearest road, from the back gardens of the old Georgian terraces, and yet he could hear no cars, no squawking children. Just the slow tread of his own boots as he made his way to the hallowed place.
He reached the foot of the tree. It was a massive gnarled oak, its fat boughs sagging with the weight of centuries. Its bark formed a thick, brittle crust, broken in places where moss and beaks had worked their way into the cracks, prising it away from the softer wood beneath. Around it, leaves formed a soft, mouldering carpet.
He stood for a moment in its presence, listening to the gentle soughing of the breeze through its upper branches. Then, with a deep breath, he dropped to his knees, and reached for the small hollow at its base.
It was a small space, an aperture formed by the twisted roots, and as he reached in, he felt a shudder of anticipation. Carefully, he extracted a small bundle of filthy towels. He placed them on the ground before him. Then, with a quick glance around to ensure he wasn’t being observed – for no one could know the secret of what was hidden here – he carefully unfolded the uppermost layer and sat back, peering down at the treasure he’d revealed.
It was the bones of a small child, bundled into a tidy heap. Slowly, his hands trembling, he reached down for the skull, cupping it in his palms, lifting it so that it was level with his own face.
“Soon. I promise. I’m coming for you. Just a little longer.”
He stared at the hollow eye sockets for a few moments, as if anticipating a response, and then, silently, he returned the skull to the bundle, wrapped it carefully, and placed it back in its secret resting place.
Then, dusting his hands, he made his way back down the ancient track towards town. He had work to do, and Thomas was growing impatient.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Peter was waiting for her when she emerged from the house at eight thirty the next morning, bleary-eyed and in dire need of more caffeine.
They’d made the arrangement the previous night on the phone, when Elspeth had outlined the conversations she’d heard in the pub. She’d then driven home, posted a quick update to the story on the Heighton Observer’s website, and then flopped onto her bed with her iPad to read more about the Carrion King and the other characters in his mythos. So far, everything appeared to tally with what Byron Miller had told them. She was particularly intrigued, though, by the end of the story, in which the Carrion King himself disappeared altogether from the Wychwood, having reached some kind of obscene transcendence following the death of all his apostles. She’d made a note to return to it that evening and do a bit more digging.
Peter was sitting behind the wheel of his car, tapping at the screen of his mobile. He looked up when he heard the front door close behind her, and then leaned over and opened the passenger door. She circled the car, climbed in, and pushed her handbag into the footwell between her feet. The car smelled of deodorant and stale takeaway.
“Morning.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” he mumbled. He’d returned to punching rapidly at the screen of his phone with both thumbs.
“Is that a game you’re playing?” said Elspeth, trying to sound inquisitive rather than judgmental. This was something that had become a real bone of contention between her and Andrew towards the end – that he’d become addicted to some stupid game on his phone involving birds and gems, and spent hours with his face buried in it, grunting monosyllabic answers to her questions and refusing to engage in conversation. She realised now that he’d been purposefully disengaging, burying his head in the sand and avoiding her, but at the time it had just seemed like some infuriating new obsession.
“Emails,” said Peter, without looking up. They sat in silence for a moment. Elspeth put her seatbelt on. A minute later he finished and tossed his phone into a plastic alcove in the dashboard. He shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry. All this is keeping me much busier than usual. Reports, statements, forensics…” He started the engine.
“Anything interesting?” she said.
“Nothing as interesting as what you told me last night.” He slipped the car into gear and they started to crawl towards the end of the drive. “So let’s just go over it again. One of the theatre lot invited you out for a drink last night.”
“Yes, that’s right. Rose Macauley, the stage manager. She works as an agony aunt at the Heighton Observer too, and I got chatting with her yesterday in the office archives. In fact, there’s something I want to ask you later, about an old case I’m looking into related to the Patricia Graves murder.”
Peter nodded. “Alright. We can talk about that later. I need to be crystal clear on what was said last night first. So while you were there, Oscar Waring told you he’d left the pub early on Thursday night to go and collect his lighter from the theatre, and when he got there, there was no sign of Vanessa?”
“Yeah. He just sort of announced it. He said all the lights were off and everything was locked up.”
“But he still managed to retrieve his lighter?” said Peter.
Elspeth paused. “He didn’t say.”
Peter nodded. “And there was talk of a confrontation.”
“Yes. That was something everyone seemed to agree on. There’d been a blow-up between Lucy Adams and Vanessa earlier that afternoon.”
“Blow-up as in violent?”
“I can’t be certain, but it sounded more like a stand-up row.”
“Did they say what it was about?”
Elspeth sighed. Perhaps she should have done a bit more digging while she’d had the chance. Everything had just moved so quickly, though. “No. Sorry. But I got the impression they’d never really got along.”
“Vanessa said as much. But then she told us she’d been at the theatre until late, too, which was already a dubious alibi. So the question is: why is she lying to us?” Peter reached the junction at the end of the street and turned towards Heighton.
“Do you really think she could have done it?” said Elspeth.
“Do you?” deflected Peter.
“I…” she hesitated. What did she think? “Well, it sounds as if things were tense between them. And if what Oscar says is true, she’s not told us everything about where she was that night. It’s possible, I suppose. But I still think you’re right – if she is involved, she can’t have done it alone. A woman of her build couldn’t have hoisted Lucy Adams’s corpse like that on her own, let alone Geoff Altman.”
“I think it’s time we got to the bottom of what she was doing for all of that night,” said Peter.
“So where are we going?” said Elspeth.
“The theatre. I’ve already called ahead, and Vanessa is working there all day. Time for a little chat.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Me coming along, I mean.” It was one thing accompanying him to discuss the Carrion King mythology with a handful of experts, but interviewing an actual suspect…
Peter sighed. “Probably not. But I want you there. She might try to talk her way out of it, and you were the one who heard what the others were saying in the pub last night. Something might strike a chord.”
“Alright,” said Elspeth. “If you’re sure.”
They drove on through country lanes lined by bristling hedgerows and listing rows of trees, which seemed to crowd the car, leaning in to form a long, snaking tunnel through which only a scarce few shafts of morning sunlight were able to penetrate. Elspeth couldn’t shake the impression that the trees were somehow conspiring, whispering to one another across the smoo
th river of tarmac that cut through their ancient heartland. She wondered what they were plotting.
They skirted Heighton, and fifteen minutes later were pulling up in the car park of Winthorpe Theatre. Elspeth wondered what Rose and the theatre lot would make of it when they heard she’d gone straight to Peter, and then worse – accompanied him to confront Vanessa. She somehow doubted she’d be invited out for drinks again.
Peter had been uncharacteristically quiet during the drive, both hands affixed to the wheel, eyes unwavering from the road. She guessed he must have been turning everything over in his mind, trying to extract sense and meaning from the new bits of data she’d presented him with. She knew he suspected Vanessa of hiding something – he’d said as much after his first interview with the woman – but there were troubling issues with her candidacy for the murderer, not least the fact they had no forensic evidence to link her to the murder scene, or the fact there was no apparent motive for why she might have killed Geoff Altman, or even if she knew him. Yet there remained that niggling doubt.
They climbed out of the car. It was a bracing morning, and out here, on the edge of the Winthorpe estate, they were exposed to the elements. She wished she’d brought more than a light jacket over her blouse.
“I’m going to leave this to you,” she said.
Peter nodded, preoccupied, as he led the way down towards the auditorium.
It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, and the grass was still damp and dewy. She kept to the path, following behind Peter as he hurried down the auditorium steps and around behind the stage area, towards the small office and dressing rooms. He was clearly anxious to get this over with.