by George Mann
She could tell Peter was uncomfortable with the idea, battling with the logic of it. He’d never been a man of faith, but now, faced with her story, he seemed lost, unable to fathom how to respond.
“Look, Ellie, what you’ve uncovered about Byron Miller – it’s good detective work. You’ve found a link between the victims that we weren’t aware of. But pagan rituals…?”
“I know what I saw, Peter. And you’ve got to admit, it makes sense. It fits the story of the Carrion King. And it explains why there was no DNA evidence at Patricia Graves’s murder scene.”
“Yes, but we haven’t got forensics back from the Williams’s house yet. We don’t know exactly what happened there. And Millicent Brown… you’ve only just met her. We haven’t looked into her medical history. She might have tried to do this before.”
“I’m not imagining it. I know how it sounds.”
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, but you’ve been through so much recently. The breakup, the job, finding Patricia Graves, Rose… it’s been a lot to process. And now all this with Millicent Brown.”
“Peter – I’m not imagining this. Look, forget about the mirror stuff for a minute. Just assume I’m right about Miller. It’s clear he’s connected to Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams, and might have a motive for their deaths. If nothing else, that should be enough to bring him in for questioning, shouldn’t it? And if he did kill Rebecca Williams, what are the chances he’s not connected to the death of Michael Williams, which happened on the same day, at the same location?” She paused, trying to judge his reaction. “We have to stop him before he kills someone else. There’s still The Fool.”
“Okay, let’s work it through. So far the deaths of the apostles haven’t been related to what happened to Miller – or Baker – when he was a boy. If your theory is right, Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams were killed by some other means, out of a desire for revenge. That would match the Carrion King story. The apostles are different. They’re people he’s encountered more recently, and he’s chosen them because of the role they play in his twisted story.”
“Keep going,” said Elspeth.
“Right. So we can assume he picked Rose as The Confessor because she was an agony aunt who knew other people’s secrets. Geoffrey Altman was a local gamekeeper who’d helped Michael Williams with his research, so he fit the bill for The Master of the Hunt. Miller knew Lucy Adams through the theatre, and if he’d been keeping tabs on her and Michael Williams, he might well have known about the affair. Oscar Waring certainly had his suspicions, so they couldn’t have been hiding it that well. So, she could have been seen as a ‘fallen’ woman, going behind her husband’s back with another man. And then there’s Michael Williams himself, who was killed in the manner of The Master of the Pentacle because of his knowledge of the Carrion King myths. That all fits, it’s what we’ve already assumed, but there’s no evidence to connect it to Miller.”
“Not directly, I know. But if you connect it to the deaths of Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams, it starts to build a picture that mirrors the story of the Carrion King.”
“Okay, let’s work it through to the end,” said Peter. “Who else is there? Who might Byron Miller know that fits the bill for the final apostle?”
“Someone who’d walk ignorantly into a trap, blinded by their own ego and their attitude towards Miller and his knowledge of the Carrion King myths.”
“As far as I can see it, there are three candidates. Oscar Waring, David Keel and Philip Cowper.”
“Right. And even if I’m wrong about the identity of the killer, those are the most likely three candidates, aren’t they? They’re all connected to the Carrion King, they all have a passion for the story, and they all know and respect Byron Miller… When we met Miller in Oxford he called Cowper a ‘fool’.”
Peter nodded. “Alright. I’ll call Griffiths. I’m going to get a call put out on Miller, see if they can bring him in.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I’ll tell her what you’ve found out about Miller’s past and his connection to Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams. I’m going to get cars sent out to the homes of Oscar Waring, David Keel and Philip Cowper. You’re right. They’re the most obvious candidates to be The Fool, and it’s time we took some preventative measures. Whatever’s going on here, the killer is not sitting idle, and if it is Miller and he learns we’re onto him, he might attempt to escalate things, too.”
He thumbed the screen and held the phone to his ear.
* * *
A short while later they abandoned the car in the small car park just off the marketplace in Heighton, not even bothering to stop for a ticket.
Late afternoon was sliding anxiously into evening, and the shops had all shut half an hour earlier, leaving the high street deserted, save for a handful of shop workers still closing up, or waiting for a bus home at the crowded stop outside The Old Dun Cow. Even Lenny’s had closed for the day, although the lights were still on out back, where Elspeth supposed the kitchen staff were making preparations for tomorrow’s early-morning breakfast rush. It smelled like it was going to rain again; she could feel it closing in, the weight of the coming downpour heavy in the air.
Peter had managed to get hold of Griffiths on her mobile, and had explained that new evidence had come to light suggesting Byron Miller might have played a part in the murders of Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams, that they needed to bring him straight in, and that he was to be considered dangerous.
She’d questioned him at first, but Peter had patiently explained that it looked like Miller had been a childhood friend of Rebecca Williams and a foster child under the care of a potentially abusive Patricia and James Graves, and that there was a possibility that he could also be connected to the ritual killings in the Wychwood, in that if he was involved in the aforementioned deaths, he might be attempting to recreate the entire Carrion King story.
That seemed to be enough for Griffiths to agree to pull Miller in for questioning, and she’d put a call out to Oxford CID. Peter had also told her about Cowper, Waring and Keel, and she’d despatched cars to their home addresses, with a view to offering some protection until the killer was properly identified and restrained.
Now, Peter and Elspeth were on their way to Cowper’s bookshop – their nearest port of call – in the hope of heading him off there if he wasn’t already at home. Elspeth only hoped it would be enough; that one way or another they’d get to Miller before anyone else got hurt.
They raced through Clark’s Yard and out onto Westgate. Like the high street, it was more or less deserted here, the only signs of activity coming from a lively tapas bar across the street. The light was beginning to fade beneath the brooding clouds, and as they hurried down to Westgate Books.
The shop was closed, the lights off and the sign turned around in the window.
“We’re too late. He’s gone for the night,” huffed Elspeth, catching her breath.
“Hang on,” said Peter. He tried the door, but it was locked. The bell jingled lightly as it rattled in its frame. It was dark inside, and all she could make out were the reflections of the other shop fronts in the glass. She felt spots of rain on her forearm. He knocked on the door. “Mr Cowper?”
Silence. He cupped his hands to the window and peered in.
“Alright,” he said. “It doesn’t look like he’s here.”
“Should we try the pub, or that restaurant he mentioned, Nightingale’s?”
Peter shook his head. “Let’s head back to the car. Uniform might have found him at home.”
They hurried back to the car park. She’d left her Mini in Chipping Norton, on the promise that Peter would run her back there later to collect it. He blipped the lock and she ducked inside his car to avoid more spots of rain. He clambered in beside her and thumbed the radio.
“DC Cooper?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s DS Shaw. Any word from the cars we sent out?�
�
“Yes, sir. Oscar Waring and Philip Cowper are both secure in their homes. DC Patel is with Cowper now, explaining the situation.”
“And Keel?”
“No news yet, sir.”
“Alright, I’m heading over there.” He dropped the receiver and started the engine, and they roared out of the car park, turning off towards Wilsby-under-Wychwood, and home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
David Keel flicked listlessly through endless scores of television channels, and then, feeling restless and unable to settle, tossed the remote on the sofa, prised himself out of his armchair and set about fixing himself a drink.
He’d left the TV tuned to some documentary about the fall of Constantinople, in which he supposed he might have been vaguely interested, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied.
The play was ruined. All of his work these last six months had been for nothing. Of course, he felt terrible for the girl and her family – what had happened had been appalling – but he couldn’t help but smart at his own misfortune. Why had it had to happen on opening night? The play hadn’t even been over, the second half barely begun. He supposed he was unlikely now to ever see it performed in full; there was no way the Winthorpe lot would be persuaded to carry on, and he couldn’t see any other local theatres touching it with a bargepole.
He glugged a large measure of brandy into a tumbler then took a swig, shuddering as the alcohol hit his palate. The play would become infamous, forever associated with the murders. It would colour everything, even his subsequent work. That stupid girl who’d been sniffing around all week had already posted a piece on the Heighton Observer website that was generating thousands of hits, and half the country’s news channels seemed to be running the story on a loop.
The police statement had been brief, giving away only that the murder appeared to be linked to those of Geoff Altman and Lucy Adams, but that was bad enough. There’d been so many people there that the story had leaked almost immediately, giving details about the body, how she’d been posed like one of the characters in the play. As if it were somehow his fault.
He drained the rest of his glass, and then poured himself another.
There was a rap at the door. He ignored it, knocking back another slug of brandy. Knowing his luck, it would probably be one of those bloody reporters, wanting to get his side of the story. Well, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
A moment later they rapped again. This time, though, when he didn’t answer, they pushed open the letterbox, shouting through. “David? Are you there?”
Keel frowned. He recognised the voice immediately. What was he doing here?
He placed his glass on the cabinet and hurried into the hall to the front door. “Yes, coming,” he called. He heard the letterbox snap shut as he slid the chain off the lock and opened the door. “Byron. This is unexpected.” He stood to one side, beckoning the other man in. “Come in, come in.”
Miller stepped over the threshold, a thin smile on his lips. “I hope it’s not a bad time,” he said.
“No, no, not at all,” said Keel. “In fact, I was just fixing myself a brandy. Can I tempt you?”
“Why not?” said Miller. “One won’t hurt.” He was wearing a long grey overcoat, which he slipped off, hanging it across the banister where Keel’s own was draped. Beneath, he was dressed in a smart black suit, although there was mud up the front of his trouser legs and knees.
“Everything alright?” said Keel, indicating the stains.
“Oh, yes.” Miller laughed. “Puncture on the way over. Had to put the spare on by the side of the road.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Keel. “Well, come on through. And forgive the mess. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
“I just thought I’d look in to see how you are,” said Miller, following him through to the living room. He seemed to be taking a keen interest in the serried ranks of books that lined the walls, scanning the spines as he walked. “You know, after everything that happened at the theatre.”
“Oh, don’t,” said Keel, fetching a second glass from the cabinet. “What an appalling mess.”
Miller nodded, loitering in the doorway. “Not the sort of attention you were after, I imagine. It’s a shame. It’s a story that deserves to be told. The journey of the Carrion King towards transcendence, the betrayals and the settling of scores, the rituals and magic, the vengeance… I’ve always thought it deserved wider recognition, and your script was really quite admirable.”
“Thanks,” said Keel. Coming from Miller, that was high praise indeed – as much good as it would do him now.
“So what’ll you do?”
“Write something else, I suppose. Let the noise die down a bit – if you’ll excuse the expression.” He laughed, suddenly self-conscious. “To be honest with you, I wish I’d never got started with the whole ruddy Carrion King business.” He crossed the room and handed Miller his drink. “No offence. I mean, it’s fascinating and all, but look where it’s landed me.”
“You couldn’t have known you’d get caught up in all this. I suppose you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You should remember that. These things are rarely personal.”
“Story of my life,” said Keel. “What does it take to be in the right place at the right time?” He downed the rest of his drink, and then eyed the bottle. There was no point in stopping now. And besides, he had company, which gave him an excuse. He poured another.
Miller sipped at his drink. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“We’ll have to step outside, I’m afraid. It’ll set off my asthma otherwise. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Through there?” Miller indicated the door back to the hall.
“Yeah, there’s some patio doors off the kitchen. Hang on, I’ll open them up for you.” Miller followed him back out into the hall, through the study, and into the expansive kitchen. Keel crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. He opened the door, shocked by the sudden chill coming in off the garden. It was beginning to spot with rain. He stepped out onto the patio, and Miller came out behind him, pulling the door to. He searched out his packet of cigarettes and lit one.
“I didn’t realise you lived so close to the woods,” said Miller, strolling to the bottom of the garden. “It must be nice, having them so close.”
Keel shrugged, following. “To be honest, these days I tend to wonder what’s lurking out there in the shadows. I mean, it’s pretty, and nice to take a walk in the springtime, but with everything that’s been going on…” He walked across the lawn to the low wall at the bottom of the garden, skirting the rockery. “They found Lucy Adams somewhere over there.”
“Yes, I know,” said Miller.
Keel took another swig of brandy. He was starting to appreciate its calming influence already, the warm feeling spreading through his chest, suggestive of the cosy numbness that would follow. He’d sleep well tonight, at least, even if he risked a headache in the morning. “Well, I’ve got to say, I appreciate you coming ov—” He stopped suddenly, mid turn, as a large rock, wielded in the fist of Byron Miller, collided with the side of his head.
Dazed, confused, his head pounding, he dropped to the ground. Blood was trickling down the side of his head. “Wh… wh…” He tried to look up, to ask Miller what had happened.
But then there was a second blow, and everything went black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Keel’s house, it transpired, really was only a few doors down from her mum’s.
A police car was waiting for them when they pulled up on the roadside, and two uniformed officers – a tall man with a shaved head and portly belly, and a woman with blonde hair scraped back into a tight ponytail – approached Peter almost as soon as he set foot out of the car.
“Catton. Grant. Is he inside?” said Peter.
The man shook his head. “No, sir. We can’t get a response. The TV is on in the living room, and his car is on the drive, but he’s not responding. W
e’ve been around the back via the neighbour’s garden and can see the patio doors are open.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair. “And that red car on the drive, who does that belong to?”
Catton shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir.”
“Well get on the bloody radio and run the number plate, then!” said Peter.
“Yes, sir.” He huffed away back to his car.
“Stay here,” said Peter. “Or better still, go home. I can see to this. I have backup.”
Elspeth glowered at him. “You think I’m backing out of this now?” She looked round to see PC Grant eyeing her with interest. No doubt all of this would end up in a report. Well, good. At least it would show Peter had tried to do the right thing.
“I’m going to try the front door again,” he said, heading off up the path. Elspeth followed behind.
Peter peered in through the front window. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and Elspeth could see the reflection of the TV playing in the glass.
“Anything?”
“No. Nothing. No sign of him.” He tried the front door, but it was a Yale lock and wouldn’t open. He knocked loudly, three times. “Mr Keel? It’s the police, Mr Keel. If you can hear me, open up.”
He paused, but there was no response. After a minute, Peter peered through the window again. He turned to Elspeth, and shrugged.
Elspeth heard a car door slam, and looked round to see Catton had joined Grant at the other end of the garden path. Peter hurried over.
“Well?”
“It’s registered to a Professor Byron Miller,” said Catton. “There’s a general call out for him.”
“I know,” said Peter. “I gave the ruddy order. Get on and call for backup, now!”
Catton nodded meekly and reached for his radio.
Peter strode back up the driveway. “Is there any other way to get round?”