He frowned, and his hand holding the gun seemed to shake. I closed my eyes. How stupid was it to wind up an emotionally unstable murderer with a gun pointed at you?
But he didn’t hit me, and he didn’t fire.
“That’s something else I didn’t understand.” He sounded genuinely curious. “Why did you do all that? Why go to all that trouble? At first I thought you were after some big news award or something, but even after you lost your job you carried on. It made no sense. There was nothing in it for you at all!”
“I cared. That’s all. I cared about somebody being murdered and just left hanging there like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop.”
He raised his hands in exasperation. “Yes, I get that. I get that you cared! But why? He was nothing to you! You didn’t even know him!”
“And that is exactly why I cared. Because no one should die like that, and no one should be left without a name to say over their grave and to be remembered by. No one should be uncared for.”
We looked at each other, a few feet apart in distance; light years in understanding.
“The world doesn’t care, Sandra.” He said it quietly, earnestly. Trying to convince me. Or himself. “I realized that a long time ago. Nobody really cares, everyone is out to get something, and caring is part of the scam, part of the trick, but it’s not real. The only person who cares about you is you. Everything else is illusion.”
“And that’s how you’ve lived all these years?” I asked.
“It’s the truth!” he snapped. “You just care too much!”
“Someone told me recently that you can’t care too much. I wasn’t sure then. But now I believe it. Now I have proof. My caring made a difference. It helped.”
“Your caring just got in the way!” He clenched his teeth, got control of himself. “And if it had been left to me, you would have been got out of the way! But dear old Dad didn’t have the stomach for it. Didn’t want any more bodies. And when things started going wrong, when the customers stayed away because of the publicity, and some people began hinting that they might not be able to keep on protecting us if you continued to stir things up, and when you wouldn’t damn well stop, even came right up to the Hall… Old Nigel decided to chuck in the towel. Paid off the staff, got rid of the kids…”
He saw the look of horror on my face and chuckled. Good humour restored again. “No, not like that. Not that it wasn’t an option, in my opinion, but the Old Man wouldn’t have it. Too many bodies. He was terrified of another one turning up. So we just fed them back into the system. I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t be believed if they did. Made sure they got spread round the country, different places so they couldn’t get together. Then we left. Took the money and went off abroad.”
“What about Sir Arthur? Why did he leave?”
“Oh, he came round wanting to know what was going on and why we were closing up – and what was happening to his star pupil, little Terry. So we told him. Well, I told him. The whole story. And made it clear how implicated he was. His was the name on all the official documents, he was the source of all the contacts we’d made. If we went down, he went down as well. I suggested that perhaps he should take a holiday, as it were. And sure enough, he ran just as fast as Nigel. Hard to believe that there was no blood relationship, they were so alike in that way.”
He nodded at the papers. “Finish it off. I want to know what happened to Terry.”
“Terry spent the remaining years of his childhood in various homes and institutions. The terrible things he had experienced had rendered him almost mute and I think it likely that he was considered and treated as ‘subnormal’. If so, any treatment he received was ineffectual.
“At some point, he left the system, either pushed out or escaped. I could never get a clear understanding. He made his way back here, and eventually became one of the hidden community of people living in the ruins and abandoned housing round Delford Mills. He was particularly drawn to Quondam Street: because that was where Sir Arthur had lived as a boy. There Terry felt close to the one man who had recognized his talent, who had shown him kindness and given him an identity. And as I have said, that was where I found him.
“These paintings, then, reveal a terrible and tragic story. One which still, some thirty years after the events took place, casts a shadow over Terry and any other victims of Coren Hall who still survive. One which cries out for a justice which has been so long delayed but which I hope may now be, in some measure, achieved.
“But it is also a story of a remarkable talent, something which could not be crushed, a voice that could not be silenced, and which is now revealed for you all to see. Thank you.”
I laid the last sheet of paper down. The brief silence was broken by Geraint, applauding vigorously.
“Oh, marvellous! Well done, Miss Coombe! Magnificent! What a speech!” He winked at me. “Well, it would have been if she’d ever got to give it, eh? But in any case, it turns out that she was wrong. Little Terry’s voice was silenced, and no one will ever know his sad, sad story.” He shook his head in mock grief.
“But why did you have to kill him? And Emily? What difference would it have made after all this time? You said yourself, even Terry didn’t recognize you.”
“He didn’t then, but who’s to say he wouldn’t have, given time? I wasn’t going to take that risk, now, was I? And in any case, I didn’t want the whole Coren Hall thing coming out. A great deal of my current income derives from keeping it all hush-hush.”
“Blackmail, you mean?”
“Well, I prefer to think of it as accepting a small gratuity for keeping a discreet lid on things! Of course, many of our original customers have died, but most of them had family. Families who may or may not have known what Grandad or Uncle or whoever used to do for recreation, but they’ll certainly pay a bit to make sure no one else finds out!”
He took another look at his watch, and I finally realized why he was doing that. And why he was happy to keep me talking.
“You’re expecting someone, aren’t you?” I asked, and felt my stomach clench as he smiled back at me.
“Oh, how very smart you are, Mrs Deeson! Yes, I’ve arranged for some, ah, acquaintances of mine to drop by and take you off my hands. They should be here any time now – so if you have any more questions, now is the time to ask.”
My first question would have been, “What will they do with me?” But I could guess the answer to that, and I didn’t want it confirmed. So instead I asked, “What happened that night at the library?”
He nodded. “Yes, I might as well tell you that story since I can’t tell anyone else, after all! Let me see – I already told you what happened with Terry and Miss Coombe, didn’t I? Well, that left me with something of a dilemma. One dead man, one unconscious woman, and four paintings that I had to get rid of. I needed to think fast!
“The paintings were the first thing. I took those out to my car, and as I did, I worked out a plan to make the whole thing look like a burglary gone wrong. Send the police off on the wrong track. So I went round to a place I knew of nearby – terribly seedy little pub, all sorts of villainous types hang out there! – and collected a cigarette end from the bins. My idea was to leave it inside then take the body, leaving the police with a fine puzzle! But to my annoyance, when I got back I found that the doors to the exhibition had shut and locked themselves. I had a go at prising them open, but the only tool I had was a dinky little screwdriver from the car, and it was clear that that wasn’t going to do the trick.
“So I had to think again.”
He was looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Boasting about how clever he was. I thought of Terry’s body as I’d found it. I thought of Malcolm. I thought of Emily. And the fear began to fade. Replaced by fury.
“You left the cigarette end by the exhibition doors. You took Emily; put her in your car, I suppose. You opened the windows in the toilet and smashed the alarm box. You made a bit of a mess in the library, then y
ou phoned the police.”
He looked surprised, then nodded. “Of course, I was forgetting that you’d been there. So sorry for disturbing your sleep! You’re not quite right, though. I had to get someone to get rid of Miss Coombe’s car before I could call the police. Fortunately, I have a few contacts who will do that sort of work for a price. The same people that we’re waiting for now, as it happens! After that it was mostly a matter of watching and waiting. Trying to find this place” – he waved his gun around to indicate the studio – “and keeping an eye on the police, to make sure they didn’t find it first. Had to call in a few favours, remind a few people of things that I knew about, put a bit of pressure on to make sure the investigation went the way I wanted it to. Just like old times!”
There was something hard in my jacket pocket pushing uncomfortably into my ribs. I moved a little to ease it and he raised his gun in warning.
“Please do sit still, Mrs Deeson. I would prefer not to shoot you. The preferred plan is for you to be in a fatal car accident, and a bullet would spoil that. But of course I will if I must. So the quieter you sit, the longer you’ll live.”
I should have been terrified, but I was too angry. “You’ve no conscience, have you?” I said as scathingly as I could manage.
“None at all,” he agreed. “Such a weakness, I’ve always thought.”
“Was it you who firebombed our house?”
He looked shocked. “Goodness, no! No, that was my cousin, Jonathan. He was very protective of Sir Arthur – well, he had a bit of an investment there – and perhaps the old man told him the full story about Coren Hall. In any case, he wanted to scare you off. Very clumsy business. I told him so, when I went to see my uncle.”
“You could have gone to see him any time. Why then?”
“Well, that’s true. I’d been settled back here for a while – ever since old Nigel finally kicked the bucket – when Uncle Arthur and Cousin Jonathan turned up and began renovating the old Hall. I did think of introducing myself but why stir things up? I preferred to watch and see how their project worked out. It was amusing when Jonathan made contact with me – well, with the chairman of the art club. I thought I’d been recognized, but it turned out that he wanted a way to get Arthur back in touch with the art world. The artist persona was a very useful cover, but I certainly never saw it working out in quite that way!”
“Why did you decide to kill him? Your own uncle?”
“I hadn’t intended to. I was hoping that Arthur might have a clue about where Terry’s studio was. But he’d worked it all out and knew who I was, and things got a little ugly. He was going to call the police, and Jonathan was getting aggressive, so I had to shoot him. Then, of course, I had to shoot Arthur. I don’t think he had any idea where Terry was anyway. He was still getting used to the idea that his star pupil was still alive.”
A big smile lit up his face. “But then things came together so well! With Arthur dead, I only had to get Jonathan to disappear and he takes the blame for everything! And it wasn’t even hard to arrange. I made a call, and away he went along with his car, never to be seen again. And the police will join the dots, as they do, and announce that Jonathan killed his uncle and the artist in the library and Miss Coombe. Then he tried to kill you before leaving the country.”
“The police will find him, though. They’re looking all over for him and his car. When his body turns up with the same bullets in that killed Sir Arthur, they’ll know that someone else is involved!”
“Good luck to them! Jonathan and his Porsche are at the bottom of Sheerside Quarry. Which is flooded to a depth of five hundred feet or more! They won’t even look there. No, Jonathan’s disappearance will remain a mystery, and I’ll finally be able to get on with my life.”
The hard object in my pocket was Graham’s phone, I realized. Where I’d put it, so I’d remember to give it back to him.
“So you think,” I said, without knowing what I’d say next. I didn’t have a plan. I hadn’t worked anything out. But words formed in my mouth without even seeming to go through my brain. “But the police will be here any minute now, and they’ve already heard everything. Everything you’ve said. It’s a confession, Geraint. You’ve just confessed to murder. Murders, I should say. Everything back to Coren Hall, back to the farmhouse.”
He looked shocked, then angry. Then he relaxed, and sneered at me. “Now you’re getting desperate, Mrs Deeson.”
“Am I?” I pulled Graham’s phone out of my pocket, holding it up with the back to him, so he couldn’t see that it was switched off. “This has been on the entire time. Open line to DI Macrae. He’s heard every word, Geraint. And he’s on his way here with armed officers, to arrest you.”
I smiled. Snarled, maybe.
Of course, he should have shot me then. Shot me and taken the phone and found out it was dead, and that I’d been bluffing.
But instead, he stepped towards me, holding out his hand. “Give that to me!” he shouted. “Give it me!”
Perhaps he was still wanting to avoid putting a bullet wound in me. Or perhaps he just didn’t think there was any danger in getting close to a middle-aged woman.
Dunderhead.
As he took another step forward, I tossed the phone away, into the corner of the room, and his eyes tracked it, his head turned to watch it go, and his hand with the gun in it followed.
I kicked him as hard as I could between the legs.
To be honest it wasn’t a very good kick. Sitting down like that, I couldn’t put a lot of force into it. On the other hand, there was a lot of anger and desperation involved.
And, of course, it’s a very vulnerable spot. I’ve always wondered why men act so tough when they keep their weakest area outside their body.
He screamed, a high-pitched wail that cut into my eardrums. He doubled up, and at the same time tried to bring the pistol round, but I grabbed his hand, forced it away. It went off, the noise even louder than his screams, terrifyingly close, but I still had his hand. He tried to pull back, but I held on, using his momentum to help me out of the chair and launching myself forward, clawing at his face.
He fired again, and I felt the heat from the muzzle on my hand as we staggered round the room together, crashing into easels and sending paint and canvases cascading to the floor.
He was shouting, incoherent with fury, punching me with his free hand before grabbing my collar and swinging me round, slamming me against a piece of furniture. Then he stepped away, wrenching his gun hand free.
I grabbed something from the table he’d thrown me against and hurled it into his face.
Glass shattered, brushes scattered, and the thick smell of turpentine filled the room.
He screamed again and fell back, clawing at his eyes. “YOOUUUU….” he shrieked, pointing the pistol at where I had been.
He fired as I dived aside.
His face and hair and clothing were soaked with turpentine, the air around him was saturated with the fumes. The flash and bang from the muzzle was instantly followed by a softer but no less deadly explosion and a flare of light.
Geraint’s scream became a shriek, the terrible noise of instant agony, as his face and hair and coat blazed. He staggered backwards, beating at himself with his free hand but still firing his pistol with the other, a wild fusillade of bullets smashing through canvases and ricocheting from the ancient brickwork, but none of them coming near me as I lay flat out on the floor, and each recoil sent him further backwards until he reached the unguarded stairwell and fell into it.
I knew what was coming. Part of my mind was shrieking, “No! Not again”, even as I struggled to pull my jacket up over my head to give my face and hair some sort of protection.
Geraint, blazing and screaming and shooting, crashed down to the floor below, where the petrol vapour waited. It seeped from the open tank, forced out by the pressure of its own volatility, sinking, heavier than air, to flow along the floorboards and pour down the next set of stairs like an invisible waterfa
ll.
The old floorboards heaved under me, flames shot up through every crack, and a gout of searing brilliance burst out of the stairwell, drowning out Geraint’s final screams.
It struck the ceiling and spread out in every direction, cooling to a yellow-orange incandescence. I felt my skin and hair sizzle in the heat and gasped for breath as the oxygen was sucked out of my lungs and the fire rolled down the walls. It caressed the stacked canvases and they too flared up with colours more brilliant than any the artist could have achieved.
Air was flooding in through the windows Geraint had opened. Sucked in by the combustion, feeding the flames as he’d planned, but also reaching me.
I sucked desperately at the wind, dragging life inside me, and pulling my jacket over my head as a shield against the awful heat.
The room was already filling with smoke, where it wasn’t already full of fire. But, down on the floor, I could see across the room to Emily’s desk and the little black fire extinguisher she had kept under there. Of course she had. Emily would have thought of that.
I scrambled across the floor and snatched it up. Knowing, as I did so, that it was futile. The initial fireball had died back, but paints and canvases all around the room were ablaze and the stairwell was a firepit. There was no escaping that way; the little CO2 extinguisher would barely make a dent on that conflagration.
The window then. But I was three floors up, and a jump from that height could be just as fatal as the fire.
Better that than burning, though. The pain in my exposed skin convinced me of that.
I sat up, gathering my courage to dash across the room and out through the window. Perhaps I could hang from the window frame, make it less of a drop.
I saw the ladder in the corner.
I remembered the story of Murder Row.
There was a way through the attic spaces to the other houses. And the ladder suggested that there was a way up there.
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