by Moody, Susan
I picked up my phone and dialled. ‘Quick here,’ I said, when Fliss Fairlight answered.
‘What do you want now?’
God, she sounded just like my brother. ‘Has Garside come up with any motive for Tristan Huber’s death?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. Why?’
‘Find the motive, find the man, as they say. Thing is, Fliss, I’m starting to wonder if Tristan had actually killed someone.’
‘When you say “killed”—’
‘I’m saying murdered someone.’ If the possibility had suggested such a thing to me earlier, I would have maintained it wasn’t possible, insisted Tristan wasn’t that sort of guy, wasn’t into stuff like that. Now, I couldn’t be so certain.
‘Do you mean deliberately?’ asked Fliss.
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ And I didn’t need to be an expert on Triads to know that if Tristan had killed one of their members, whether accidentally or on purpose, retribution would be swift and terrible.
‘And if he had, where would this murder have taken place? Here in our neck of the woods. Somewhere else in the country. Out in Europe or the Far East?’
‘It was a conjecture, not a statement of fact.’ A conjecture which, now I’d come up with it, was rapidly taking solid shape inside my head. Because what else could have lain behind his ugly death? On the other hand, there was the castration. Perhaps he had been guilty of no more than sleeping with someone he should not have done. Which of course added the sexual element. Jealous husbands, furious fathers, vengeful brothers had killed for the violation of their women down through the ages. Could he have seduced the mother, wife or sister of a Triad member? Of course they’d have had mothers, but do they even have wives or sisters?
‘Whatevs …’ said Fliss. ‘Like I told you, I don’t think Garside’s found out anything really concrete about the victim, let alone whether there’s a murder in his background, or what the motive for his murder might have been.’
‘Tell him to get his finger out.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that.’
Ending the call, I speculated on why I disliked Garside so much. He did, after all, get results. He ran a team of loyal and efficient officers. He wasn’t bent. He was human, like the rest of us. I’d even seen him smile. Once. Was it because he insisted on playing by the rules at all times? (Not that I believe in breaking them. They exist for a reason.) I’ve never believed in hunches and conjecture, though I’ll admit that there is sometimes a place for inspired guesswork based on very little beyond intuition. But Garside carried things to extremes, so damned cautious, in case he put a foot wrong, that it was amazing that any of his cases ever got solved. On top of that was his friendship with Jack Martin.
I made coffee and sat down at my desk with the notebooks I’d nicked from Nell Roscoe’s cottage. They were written in that childishly clear hand, somewhere between copperplate and traditional cursive, which seems to belong specifically to teachers. They were very far from diaries. More a record of things seen, done, witnessed, speculated upon. People she had met, places she’d visited. Pupils or teachers who’d done something particularly good or outstandingly bad. Observations on her garden during the changing seasons. A couple more hilarious descriptions of the Major and his topiarial efforts. I pictured her hunched over the lined page of her current notebook. Was this to be my fate too? Living bleakly alone, no family of my own, my life virtually over and only a few artistic compilations to show for it? I shuddered. Please God, no.
At first reading, I found nothing that seemed in the slightest bit germane, apart from a short entry in the first few pages of the most recent notebook – at least, I assumed it was because it had been the topmost one in Nell Roscoe’s desk – which read as follows: I don’t know why, but these days, Harkness is looking fraught and anxious. Good. Serves him right, after all he’s put Lilian through.
So Harkness was worried about something. I’d like to have known what. Was it simply the fact that he was becoming nervous at the possibility that his warehouse was being used for criminal enterprises? I needed to ring Fliss again to find out whether he had been interviewed by the police, and if he had, what, if anything, did they learn from him?
Perhaps he’d been aware of what was taking place on his premises but been powerless to prevent it. Perhaps he had been plumb ignorant and the news had come as a nasty shock. Or maybe he had known in advance – blackmailed or strong-armed into agreement what was going to take place – hence the fraught and anxious bit. I could easily get his phone number from the Major and call him direct to ask, but from what I’d heard, I had a feeling that if I did, I’d get a bloody rude response.
Still too restless to concentrate on work, and with the sun blazing down outside, I decided I needed to go in search of a coffee and some information.
The air along the front was salty and glittering. I filled my lungs, savouring it as I walked. I turned down towards the High Street and through the open door of the bookshop. Sam was at his desk, reading, the sun catching his hair, and I was struck again by the fact that for a bloke who wore specs, he was pretty much of a hunk. One of the pleasures I’d forfeited by abandoning the gym was the sight of Sam Willoughby keeping himself fit, in readiness for the day his country came calling.
He didn’t realize I was there until I snapped my fingers under his nose. He jumped back, gasping. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said, his voice higher than usual.
‘Just testing your reflexes, Willoughby,’ I said. ‘And I’m not terribly impressed, if truth be told. As a possible MI5 agent, you’re supposed to be on the alert at all times, not shrieking like a girl encountering a mouse every time someone approaches you.’
He picked up his book, which had fallen to the floor. ‘I was deep into the story,’ he said. ‘And for once, the characters are empathetic. There seems to be a growing trend these days for thrillers and crime novels which are full of people whom I intensely dislike, even if they’re the main protagonists. Anyway, can I get you a coffee?’
‘Yes, please. And then come and tell me what you discovered when you went up the hill.’
He appeared three minutes later with two mugs of coffee. ‘Loved by all,’ he said, when I questioned him further with regard to Kevin Fuller. ‘Popular, clever, fearless and kind. A thoroughly nice guy.’
‘A saint, in other words.’ Which was pretty much how Dorcas Huber-Drayton had described her son, Tristan. But then she would, wouldn’t she?
‘No, just a good human being.’
‘And everyone agreed? No dissenting voices?’
‘None whatsoever. Everyone I spoke to seemed completely shocked that anyone could have murdered the guy. One person suggested that given his known sexual orientation, it could have been a homophobic thing that got out of hand, some Christian fundamentalist nutter or someone.’
‘Presumably there are groups of them up at the uni.’
‘Yes, but I asked and everyone was adamant that they were harmless and inoffensive.’
‘Whatever your religious beliefs, murder does seem a bit extreme.’
‘Come on, Alex. That has to be one of the more brainless remarks ever made.’
‘I meant at college level, not at a biblical or even global level.’
‘Whatever …’ Sam unfolded a sheet of paper and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. ‘As well as all his sporting prowess, he was also active in student life, heading up various committees and so on. Especially when it was party time, like the Graduation Party, the Freshers’ Bash, the Founders Day Celebration etcetera, etcetera.’
‘I know about the redecoration of the student common rooms. Anything else?’
‘There’s a thriving international exchange programme. Both students and lecturers take part. You know the sort of thing … you send someone out to the University of Adelaide, and the Adelaide people send someone over here. Our man was involved in that, choosing who would get to go and where to, organizing grants and so on. And then there’s the
—’
‘Which countries were there exchanges with?’
Sam looked down at his notes again. ‘Australia, USA, Russia, China, India. Five every year.’
‘And did Kevin go himself?’
‘According to the department secretary, he went once to Russia and once to China.’
‘How long for?’
‘Russia for three semesters, China for two, at HKU, as we old China hands call it.’
‘HKU being the University of Hong Kong?’
‘Correct.’
‘Yay! I’ll just bet he was in Hong Kong at the same time as Tristan Huber.’
‘And if he was, what would that prove?’
‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure at the moment. But I just know it’s significant in some important way. Gotta be. Stands to reason.’
Sam produced another sheet of paper. A4, this time, not torn out of a lined notepad. ‘I also found this …’ He saw my raised eyebrows. ‘Summer’s not my busiest season, as far as selling books is concerned. People check out the second-hand and charity shops, since they know they’re going to be leaving the book behind once they’ve finished it. No point paying money for a new one.’ He grinned. ‘Which is why I have plenty of time for trawling the Internet, thank you.’
‘Did I say anything?’
‘Didn’t have to. I knew what you were thinking. Anyway, look at this …’
I took the page from his hand. It said:
A typical initiation ceremony takes place at a dedicated altar with incense and an animal sacrifice, usually a chicken, pig or goat. After drinking a mixture of wine and blood of the animal or the candidate, the member will pass beneath an arch of swords while reciting the triad’s oaths. The paper on which the oaths are written will be burnt on the altar to confirm the member’s obligation to perform his duties to the gods.
‘Sounds revolting,’ I said. ‘Any ideas what these oaths are?’
‘This is where we might be getting somewhere. There are about twenty of them,’ explained Sam. ‘I printed out what I considered to be the most interesting, when you look at the penalties to be inflicted if the member breaks the oath.’
I read some more.
I shall never embezzle cash or property from my sworn brothers. If I break this oath I will be killed by myriads of swords.
I will always acknowledge my sworn brothers when they identify themselves. If I ignore them I will be killed by myriads of swords.
I shall not disclose the secrets of the Triad family, not even to my parents, brothers, or wife. I shall never disclose the secrets for money. I will be killed by myriads of swords if I do so.
‘Myriads of swords.’ I frowned. ‘That sounds pretty much like what happened to Tristan.’ I swallowed, trying not to think about the knives and the cutting.
‘If the oaths and his death are connected, which oath do you think he broke?’ Sam asked.
‘The first seems most likely. Embezzlement, or theft, from someone in the Triad organization. He’s hardly likely to be divulging Triad secrets to his mother or sister, as if they’d be interested. And there’d be absolutely no reason at all for him to be dissing any of his sworn brothers if they showed up in Longbury.’
‘Except that from what you told me, his commissions came from all over the globe.’
‘Yes but think about it. He’s in Dubai or San Francisco and encounters some guy who makes with the funny handshake or whatever … why wouldn’t he just say, “Oh, hi there, let me buy you a drink”?’
‘Mind you, this is all guesswork,’ Sam said.
‘But pretty informed guesswork. At least, I think so. I’ll bet you those deeper cuts which my friend Fliss Fairlight mentioned were to make sure there was no identifying mark left on the body.’
‘Except we have absolutely no evidence which even suggests he’s been allowed to become a member of a Triad. Let alone be tattooed.’
My mobile rang. When I answered, a voice whispered hoarsely, ‘He’s here.’
‘What?’
‘He’s here,’ insisted the voice.
‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘Horrocks here. Just trying to say that Harkness is at his storage facility. Better get down here so you don’t miss him.’
‘I’m on it.’ Flipping the phone shut, I got up. ‘Gotta go, Sam. Right now.’ Before Sam could react, someone walked into the shop. The same damn woman as I’d seen last time I was in here. ‘Thanks for all your help,’ I added, ‘and have fun with your customer.’
‘He’s down there,’ the Major said, sotto voce, as though afraid he could be overheard if he spoke above a whisper. We were standing in the rustic little porch of Rattrays. He jerked his chin at the woods. ‘Don’t know what he’s up to, don’t want to, either.’
‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll walk down and see what I can find out.’
‘Want me to come along? Provide back-up for you?’
‘Well …’ I had no idea whether Harkness was a giant or a dwarf. I’d have guessed the former. Friendly or aggressive? I’d have guessed the latter.
‘Or I could just stay in the background, ready to pitch in if needed,’ whispered the Major.
‘That would be a good idea. But keep out of sight unless it proves necessary to show yourself.’
‘Roger wilco, over and out,’ said the Major. There was a warm flush to his cheeks. His moustache was eager. I guessed he was reliving his glory days in the Army. He moved carefully after me, dodging from tree trunk to tree trunk as I set off towards the shelter of the woodland.
I looked back once and could have sworn he had an oriental dagger clenched between his teeth. But I’d be the first to admit that I have an overactive imagination. I trod along the mossy track. I could see the walls of the warehouse between tree trunks, a grey smudge which could have been mistaken for a lowering sky hanging above the town beyond. Nell Roscoe must have come here on a regular basis, keeping an eye on her niece’s challenging husband when he appeared. Had she stood at the edge of the trees, or had she crept in closer to peer through the door which today was open? What did she suspect him of, other than being a domestic tyrant?
I paused to consider strategy. Should I march straight in, beard Harkness, announce who I was and what my interest might be? Or did I pretend to be an innocent passer-by, taking what I hoped was a shortcut to the shops? Or should I just play it by ear, taking my cue from whatever front Harkness presented? After all, I knew very little about the man … I’d adopted Major Horrocks’s probably prejudiced view of him without having a chance to form my own opinion. For all I knew, the man was a pussycat.
Either way, giving Harkness some warning of my approach seemed like a good idea. I didn’t want him to realize someone was there and come racing out with a gun or a knife in his hand so I kicked at stones along the path, coughed loudly, even managed a fake sneeze, while swishing the undergrowth about as noisily as possible.
Harkness must have heard me, for he appeared at the door. Only a tattered piece of police tape, still wrapped round a couple of tree trunks and flapping dismally when the breeze stirred, indicated that just a short time ago, this had been a crime scene. The SOCOs had obviously been and gone. ‘Can I help you?’ His tone was not exactly welcoming, but at least there were no visible knives or guns. He was a big man, his shirt straining across a prize-fighter’s torso, with florid cheeks and a belt hidden beneath the overhang of his belly.
‘Oh, Mr Har—it is Mr Harkness, isn’t it?’ I said. Ingenuous as hell.
‘Yes.’ His agreement was grudging, as though he wasn’t going to give up his name without a fight.
My brain felt jammed, as though a tube of superglue had been emptied into it. I could think of nothing plausible to say, either about why I knew his name or what I’d come for.
‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’ He took a step forward, clenching his fists. ‘Better not be.’ His burgundy cheeks swelled. If this guy was a pussycat, I wouldn’t be stroking him any time soon.
<
br /> ‘Absolutely not. No way.’ I stepped back and opted for the partial truth. ‘I’m sorry about what happened here recently. The murder.’
‘So am I.’
‘It’s just, the victim was a good friend of mine. I can’t help wondering how and why he was brought here, of all places, and who might have been responsible.’
‘I hope you’re not looking at me,’ he said savagely. ‘As I already told the police, I have no idea why this place should have been chosen by whichever murderous brute was to blame.’
‘You’d almost think it was someone local, wouldn’t you? I mean, who else would know about it? It’s pretty damned isolated.’
‘From what I understand, the … uh … victim lived around here. I’d imagine his killer would have scouted the location before abducting him, wouldn’t you? Cased the joint and so on, then broken into my premises. It wouldn’t be difficult. In fact …’ He beckoned me to follow him as he led the way round the side of his building, ‘… look at that!’ He pointed out the place where I had pushed my way inside some days earlier.
‘Goodness,’ I said.
‘That’s obviously where they got in. Man squeezes in, goes and opens the door, they drag the poor sod inside and set about hacking him to pieces.’
‘I wonder why now?’ It was a question I’d failed to consider before.
He shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘It must have been a shock for you to discover what had happened. Especially since you knew Tristan Huber.’
‘Knew him? What’re you talking about?’
I looked puzzled. ‘Oh. That’s odd. I was told that you two were friends, out in Hong Kong.’
His face grew dark. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Um …’ I snapped my fingers. ‘Gosh, my memory …’
‘Whoever it was, they were mistaken. I’ve never been to Hong Kong.’
Surely that wasn’t true. Especially given that silk wrap hanging in Lilian’s wardrobe. ‘Strange,’ I murmured. ‘I could have sworn …’