The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1)

by Mark Dawson

  “Money,” Atticus said.

  “You think?”

  “I had a little look in his account.”

  “Should I ask how?”

  “Probably best not to.”

  “But?”

  “He had gambling debts. Quite big ones. I imagine Allegra promised that she’d pay them all off.”

  “She’s quite a piece of work,” she said.

  “She is.”

  “Boss?”

  Atticus recognised Carver’s shout. He looked back down the track and saw three more torches bouncing toward them.

  “We’re over here,” Mack called back. She reached out and took Atticus by the arm. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Just annoyed.”

  “Apart from your pride?”

  “I’m fine, thanks to you. He would’ve shot me.”

  She squeezed his bicep. “Don’t get mushy. I was just doing my job.”

  Carver reached them. He was breathing hard, out of breath. “You okay, boss?”

  “All good, Bob.”

  “Priest?”

  “Didn’t know you cared,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “What about DS Lennox?”

  Mack gestured into the darkness. “He’s over there,” Mack said. “Better call an ambulance. He’s out cold—took a bit of a bang to the head.”

  “Right you are.”

  “He had a weapon,” she said, shining her light to where the gun had fallen. “Take a picture of it in situ and make sure it gets packaged properly.”

  Mack dropped the branch to the ground. Carver and one of the other uniforms stayed with Lennox while Mack and Atticus followed their tracks back to the house. Mack delivered instructions as they walked. She spoke in a clipped and terse fashion, no wasted words, no emotion, efficient and businesslike. She called the station and had them dispatch SOCOs and a search team to both the farmhouse and to Lennox’s house. She called Beckton and quickly updated him as to what had just happened. She was organised and incisive, qualities that Atticus knew that he did not possess. He found that his legs were weak as the shock of what had nearly happened finally registered.

  “What about Allegra?” he said.

  “Patterson is with her.”

  “And Ralph?”

  “Betts.”

  “My God,” he said weakly.

  “Let’s get a coffee,” she said. “You need to warm up.”

  Part IV

  95

  The farmhouse had been turned into a crime scene for the second time in a year, and, as officers arrived to start the investigation, Mack took the decision to send Atticus to the Royal Oak in Great Wishford. Francine Patterson went with him to the car park and drove them both down the road to the village. The pub was an old building at the end of the track that had recently been done up, with a few cars in the car park and a modern floodlight on the wall that washed the snow in white. Two elderly men stood beneath the porch and watched as two police vans, their blue lights strobing, drove quickly into the woods.

  “You know what’s happening?” one of them asked as Atticus approached.

  “No idea,” he said.

  Atticus went inside. The pub was quaint despite the updated décor, the room warmed by a huge fire that blazed in the hearth. Patterson went to get them both coffees and then sat with him at a table in front of the fire, both of them slowly warming up.

  Mack arrived after thirty minutes. She shared a word with Patterson and waited as the junior officer made her way out and back to the house. She sat down at the table.

  “You had a drink yet?”

  “She got me a coffee.”

  “Well, that won’t do.”

  Mack went to the bar and returned with two whiskies. She sat down, held up her tumbler and waited for Atticus to touch it with his. They downed the shots quickly. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, but it had the desired effect.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He nodded in the direction of the farmhouse. “You under control there?”

  “We’re good,” she said. She pointed at his glass. “Another?”

  “Go on, then.”

  Mack went to the bar and Atticus got up to put another log on the fire. The wood was damp, and it hissed and spat as the flames wrapped around it. Mack returned with a coffee for herself and another shot for him.

  “Not joining me?” he said.

  “One’s enough. Busy night ahead.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said. “I used to love this kind of stuff.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The moment when you get a break in a case. You have someone who you know did it, and the only thing left to do is to get them to confess. It was fun. Getting them to lie, tying them up in knots, persuading them the only way out of the mess that they were in was to tell the truth.”

  “A battle of wits?”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  “You were good at it,” she said. “I don’t remember many who gave you much trouble.”

  “Alfred Burns,” he said.

  “He was something else,” she said.

  Atticus knew the way his mind worked, and did not want to trigger his obsession with Burns.

  Mack saw it, too, and moved the subject back to the evening’s events. “Lennox is on his way to A&E.”

  “Under guard?”

  She nodded. “I’ll question him when they give him the all-clear.”

  “It won’t be hard. He couldn’t be more guilty.”

  She sipped her coffee. “The gun—that was the other one from Hugo’s safe?”

  “Most likely,” he said. “She gave him both and he kept that one just in case. What about Allegra?”

  “They’ve just taken her back to Bourne Hill. I’ll question her tonight.”

  “You get enough to make up for the stuff that was inadmissible?”

  “I think so. I haven’t checked yet, but the device in the sitting room was working fine when they tested it this afternoon. I can’t imagine there’ll be a problem. I’ve got the CPS complex case unit coming in tomorrow morning—they can review it then.”

  “Abernathy is going to be happy.”

  “He’s a shit,” she said. “Happy to throw me under the bus when it went wrong, but I bet he’s there to take the credit now you’ve solved it.”

  “We,” he corrected.

  “Sorry?”

  “Now we’ve solved it. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  She smiled, but didn’t answer. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks.

  “What about Ralph?” Atticus asked her.

  “Victim support. He’s had a difficult year.”

  “He won’t see it yet,” Atticus said, “but he had a lucky escape. I’d test his blood.”

  “For Thallium?”

  He nodded. “I bet she started already. Probably the day he got off. She’ll have added it to his champagne.”

  “A black widow.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Eats her own husband. Actually, she’s eaten two.”

  “Nearly three.”

  They stayed there for another half an hour. Atticus ran Mack through what he believed had happened for a third time, setting out those parts of the story of which he was certain and underlining those that she would need to investigate further. He had no doubt that a full investigation into Allegra and her past would furnish more than enough additional evidence to make the case against her certain beyond any prospect of doubt, not that that was going to be relevant after what had happened. The evidence from Allegra’s own mouth, recorded by the bugs in the house and practically a confession, would be enough to damn her.

  They got up and went to the door. The snow was falling heavily now, a thick curtain that reduced visibility to just a few feet.

  “You’ll let me know when you’ve questioned Lennox?” Atticus said.

  “I will.” She drew closer and ki
ssed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  96

  Atticus parked the car in Central and walked back. The snow was falling steadily now, covering everything in a white mantle that smoothed away the edges and hid imperfections. His feet crunched through it, his toes quickly frozen in boots that weren’t intended for weather like this. The late hour and the weather conspired so that the roads were almost empty, with a solitary gritter spraying salt behind it as it made its way through the city.

  He reached the office and reached icy fingers into his pocket for his keys. He fumbled them into the lock and went inside. The temperature as he climbed the stairs was not much warmer than the street, and he was glad of the warmth from the storage heaters inside the office. He switched on the two cheap oil-filled radiators that he had purchased from Tesco to keep the worst of the chill away, and knelt down so that Bandit could come forward for an embrace.

  “It’s cold out there,” he said.

  The dog pressed his wet muzzle into the cleft between Atticus’s chin and shoulder, and Atticus rewarded him with a vigorous rub.

  “What a day,” he said as he stood and made his way into the bedroom. “You’re sleeping on the bed with me tonight. We can help each other keep warm.”

  Bandit didn’t need to be asked twice. Atticus took him out into the garden to relieve himself, and then led the way back up the stairs to the bedroom. The dog trotted behind him obediently and curled up on the bed.

  Mack tried to ring Andy’s mobile, but the call went to voicemail. She stared at the display as his familiar message played out, but pressed end before the beep. She knew that she should have called earlier, but she had been distracted by what had happened. That was reasonable, she thought, given the circumstances. She wondered whether Andy would feel the same way. She had been working too hard and coming home too late for weeks now—months—and she knew that his patience was wearing thin. That made her angry—what was she supposed to do? This was her job. So she always put off the conversation that she knew that they desperately needed to have. She put it off, too, because she knew what he would say. He would tell her that she needed to prioritise their family over her career, and that was a decision that she didn’t want to face.

  She chuckled bitterly. Who was she kidding? After the catastrophe of the Mallender case, what kind of career did she have left?

  She got up.

  “Francine?”

  DC Patterson spun her chair around. “Yes, boss?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “What about Allegra?”

  “Let her stew. I’ll do the interview in the morning. You heard anything about Lennox?”

  “They just called,” she said. “He’s concussed and they want to keep him in overnight. He’s got two blokes guarding him until he’s ready to be transferred to custody.”

  “His PACE clock hasn’t started,” Mack said. “We’ve got plenty of time, not that we’ll need it. We’ll have holding charges for both of them by the end of tomorrow.”

  “Right you are, boss.”

  “You look tired, Francine. Go to bed. I’ll need you to be fresh in the morning.”

  “I’ll log off, then.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  Mack took her jacket and bag and hurried to the exit.

  Mack stopped at the store attached to the twenty-four-hour garage on the way home to pick up a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. She suspected that Andy would already have gone to bed, but at least it would show that she was sorry for her recent inattention. Perhaps they would be able to drink the wine while they discussed the things that they needed to sort out; she would make sure that they did that tomorrow. It would be a priority, as soon as she had interviewed and charged Allegra. No excuses.

  The house was dark as she approached the front door. That wasn’t surprising, given the hour, but she had harboured the hope that perhaps Andy might have stayed up so that he was downstairs when she returned. Never mind. She unlocked the door and, as quietly as she could, stepped inside. The children were sometimes difficult to get to sleep in the evenings, and the last thing that she wanted was to disturb them now.

  She took off her jacket, hung it from the hook and dropped her keys in the bowl next to the telephone. She waited at the foot of the stairs, her eyes closed, just listening. The house was very quiet. She used her toes to press off her shoes and padded through into the kitchen. She was thirsty and wanted a drink of water, but, before she had even taken the glass to the tap, she saw the envelope that had been propped up against the microwave. It was addressed to her.

  Her stomach fell. She felt sick as she reached for the envelope, sliding a finger inside and tearing it open.

  Andy had written her a short letter. He said that he had taken the kids to his parents’ for the weekend. He thought that he and Mack should have a short time apart so that they could each consider what they wanted from their relationship. He told her that he loved her, but that he was increasingly unhappy; he concluded by saying that he needed to work out whether he would be more unhappy if they were apart than he was when they were together.

  Mack slumped down into the chair next to the kitchen table. She stared at the letter, her eyes skimming over the words without really reading them. Her mouth was dry. She laid the piece of paper on the table, went to the drawer and took out the corkscrew. She opened the bottle of wine, poured a large measure into a glass, and drank it quickly.

  Then she poured again.

  Her phone rang.

  She picked it up and put it to her ear without looking at the screen. “Andy?”

  “Sorry, no. It’s me.”

  “Atticus?”

  “Yep. Sorry it’s so late.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “That’ll be the adrenaline.”

  “I keep running what happened through my head.”

  “It’s not every day you get shot at.”

  “What about Lennox?”

  “Concussed. They’re keeping him in.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Mack gazed out of the window, absently listening to the pops of static on the line.

  “Are you still at the nick?” Atticus said.

  “No. Just got home.”

  “Oh—shit. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have picked up. I don’t want to disturb you.”

  She was about to tell him that it was fine, that she welcomed the sound of his voice, but she bit her lip. She knew where that conversation would lead and, as she looked down at Andy’s letter to her, she knew that was something that she couldn’t allow to happen. She was vulnerable now. Sad and lonely. It would be simple to fix that, but the damage that it would cause would be long lasting and would more than outweigh any short-term relief.

  “Mack? You still there?”

  “I’m tired. I’d better get to bed. You too. Get some sleep.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  “Good night, Atticus.”

  She ended the call and laid the phone down on the table, staring at the screen until the display faded and then died. She put the wine glass in the dishwasher and the wine in the fridge and made her way up the stairs to bed.

  Atticus put the phone down and lay still. He still couldn’t sleep. He doubted that was going to change.

  He found his thoughts returning to Grovely Farmhouse, and the events of almost precisely a year ago. Would Ralph ever be able to return to live in it? Atticus doubted it. He wasn’t superstitious, but it would be an impossible task to ignore the echoes that would forever sound around those rooms. It would have to be sold, or razed to the ground, or left to stand empty as a monument to the family that had been murdered within it.

  He turned over and then turned over again.

  It did no good. His mind was buzzing.

  There was no point in just lying there. He needed to distract himself and, remembering that he hadn’t checked the game that he had started with Jack_of_
Hearts, he got up and padded through into the office. He switched on the desk lamp, woke the keyboard and clicked across to the game.

  Jack had pushed his knight to f3. Atticus mirrored the development on his board on the coffee table and mulled over his possible responses, referring back to what he had read of Bobby Fischer’s travails against Spassky. He slid a pawn out to g6 and confirmed the move.

  He stared at the board and tried to picture the way that the position might play out from here when a message appeared in the chat box.

  > An interesting move, Atticus.

  Atticus stared at it for a moment. He frowned. He had only ever been known by his username, just like everyone else. His real name was hidden. He had never shared it with anyone that he had played against.

  He typed.

  > How do you know my name?

  The cursor blinked to indicate that Jack_of_Hearts was composing a reply.

  > I’m afraid I haven’t been very honest with you.

  > What does that mean?

  > I should apologise.

  > Why?

  > I know who you are. Where you live. I know about your career—the old one and the one you are pursuing now. I’ve been following your work for some time. I’m a fan.

  Atticus was on edge. This was starting to feel unpleasant, even a little threatening.

  He typed.

  > I’d like to say that I was flattered, but this feels creepy.

  > I’m sorry about that. That’s the last thing I want.

  Atticus reached for the keyboard to reply, started to type, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say.

  Another message appeared.

  > I wanted to congratulate you. I was concerned that you might believe that Robson was guilty. It was always obvious that he was a stooge. The wife and the detective sergeant were shrewd, but they panicked. Wouldn’t you agree?

  The cursor flashed. Atticus’s mouth was dry. He reached for a plastic bottle of fizzy water that he had left next to the keyboard and drank down the tepid half-inch that was left in the bottom.

  He typed.