Roots of Evil

by K. C. Wells

  “In London?” Mike snorted.

  “—or an Airbnb for the weekend,” Jonathon continued. “Then we spend a couple of nights just… having a good time.”

  It was a tempting thought. “I used to love Friday nights in Soho,” Mike confessed. “There was always something going on. You never knew what would happen from one weekend to the next.”

  “Or who you’d meet.” Jonathon nudged him with his elbow. “Look. That booth in the far corner.”

  Mike followed his gaze, squinting. “Who? The guy sitting on his own? Do you know—?” The rest of his sentence died in his throat. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Grant Spencer, Merrychurch planning officer,” Jonathon whispered, barely audible above the music.

  Grant didn’t appear happy to be there. He was staring into his pint, his shoulders hunched.

  “What is he doing here?” Mike gazed at Grant in consternation. “I had no idea he was gay.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines that he’s bi, seeing as he’s married.”

  Mike blinked. “Oh.” Then he froze as a guy emerged from the toilets and joined Grant, sitting beside him. “Well, now. The plot has truly thickened.” The two men appeared to be in deep discussion about something, and judging from their expressions, it wasn’t good.

  “Who is that? Do you know him?”

  Mike sighed. “That is Brian Calder.” He turned to face Jonathon. “Oh boy.”

  “Oh my.” Jonathon frowned. “Why do you—?” His mouth fell open, and Mike jerked his head to see what he was missing.

  Brian and Grant were apparently on very good terms, judging by the way Brian had his arm around Grant’s shoulders. The kiss they shared spoke even louder, however.

  “I think I’m moving those two to the top of the list,” Jonathon murmured.

  “Ben didn’t see either of them near the cottage,” Mike reminded him.

  “And Ben himself admitted he didn’t see everyone that morning.” Jonathon seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the couple. “He did, however, mention a pair of walkers with their hoods up. That could have been those two. I mean, look at them. They’re obviously upset about something. What if one of them committed the murder and the other found out?” He sagged against the padded back of the seat. “Think about it. They both have a lot to lose. Naomi could have been blackmailing them about the deal they pulled over on the housing development, or the fact that they’re having an affair—because I think it’s a pretty safe bet Grant’s wife is clueless.”

  “There’s another possibility. What if one of them decided to go ahead with the second development because she’s dead, and the other thinks it’s too soon? Or maybe hates the idea?” Mike watched the couple, noting how Grant had relaxed, with Brian’s arm still around him. “This is not a new occurrence. Those two have been together for a while.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Mike smiled at him. “Experience. But right now, I’m thinking we should get out of here before they spot us.”

  “Agreed.” Jonathon drained the rest of his cocktail and stood.

  Mike left what remained of his pint and joined him, casting a final glance toward the corner—

  And met Grant’s stricken gaze as he walked toward the bar.

  Shit.

  Mike put his arm around Jonathon’s back and guided him out of the bar. “Oh, well. We’ll deal with those two when we go home. Right now, I’m taking you to dinner.”

  Where I’ll try my hardest not to think about what this all means.

  JONATHON CLOSED his eyes and lost himself to his senses: the silky feel of the water against his skin; his head resting on Mike’s shoulder; Mike’s chest against his back, solid and comforting; and Mike’s hand as he languidly rubbed a washcloth over Jonathon’s belly and chest, the scent of lavender invading his nostrils.

  “This is bliss,” he murmured. “We need one of these at the manor.”

  Mike chuckled, and it reverberated through him. “We’d never get out of it.”

  “It’s the perfect place for thinking.”

  “Oh, is that what we’re doing? Thinking?” Mike kissed his temple. “Funny. I thought we were—”

  “Hush. That comes later. Right now, I’m thinking.” Jonathon was trying to work out what was eluding him. Because something was niggling away at him, the feeling that he’d missed something….

  Something important.

  But whatever it was remained annoyingly out of reach.

  Jonathon sighed. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  “It’s your birthday, so whatever you wish. The only fixed point is the theater in the evening. Apart from that, you have a whole day in London.” Mike’s arms surrounded him, a cage of comforting flesh. “Is there anything you’d like to do? Some place you’d like to go?”

  “Well….” Jonathon twisted to look at Mike. “There is the Photography Centre at the V&A Museum. I haven’t been there for ages, and it’s one of my favorite places. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want.” Jonathon knew from past experience how long he could spend wandering from exhibit to exhibit.

  “Did you see there’s an exhibition of Wim Wender’s polaroids, at the Photographers’ Gallery in Soho?” When Jonathon stared at him in surprise, Mike flushed. “I took a look online a few days ago to see what was on that might interest you.”

  The fact that he’d done that only confirmed what Jonathon knew with all his heart. “I love you,” he said softly.

  Mike cupped his cheek and kissed him, languidly and thoroughly, as they moved together, shifting positions, water spilling over the sides onto the tiled floor.

  No more thinking.

  Saturday, November 18

  “WELL? DID you guess who the murderer was?” Jonathon demanded as they left the theater, the people around them discussing the play’s ending. When Mike said nothing, Jonathon speared him with a look. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Mike laughed. “I hate to disillusion you, but I have a theory about that play. You know how they always ask you not to reveal the ending? I think that’s because virtually every single one of them could be the murderer and they have several scripts to work with. Who it is depends on which performance you watch.” Mike smirked. “Oh, come on. It’s been running continuously since 1952. Do you really think every theatergoer who’s ever seen the play has kept quiet about the murderer? Because if so, your faith in human nature is amazing.”

  “Well, my guess was totally wrong. Not that I’m surprised. You had that collection of people, all with evidence pointing against them, most with good motives….” Jonathon sighed. “Rather like what we have. Except the only motive I can see so far is that she was blackmailing them.”

  “How about we go grab a bite to eat and read through your notebook to see what we do have so far?” Mike’s eyes sparkled. “You did bring it with you, didn’t you?”

  Jonathon bit his lip. “It’s at the hotel. I brought it just in case.”

  “What—just in case we had a spare moment with nothing to do?” Mike chuckled. “Then here’s Plan B. We go back to the hotel, order something from room service, and take it from there?”

  Jonathon narrowed his gaze. “There’s only one part of Plan B that worries me—the take-it-from-there part. Because I think we both know where that might lead.”

  They reached the main road, and Mike stuck out his hand to hail a taxi. “I tell you what. I promise not to start anything until we’re in bed with the lights out.”

  Jonathon laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  A taxi pulled up to the curb, and they climbed in the back. Mike called out their destination, then settled against the leather seat and snickered. “Besides, that’ll be quite novel for us. We’ve already christened the shower, the bath, the couch….”

  Jonathon smacked him on the leg before sneaking a glance at the taxi driver in the rearview mirror. Fortunately he was concentrating on the traffic.

  And Jonathon was
thinking about that list of suspects.

  JONATHON TOOK a sip of champagne. “This was a lovely idea,” he confessed.

  “We couldn’t let your birthday pass without having a glass or two.” Mike topped up his champagne flute, then held up his own. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  Jonathon clinked their glasses. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever had such an enjoyable birthday.”

  Mike replaced the bottle in the ice bucket. “Now… where did we get up to?”

  Jonathon leaned back against the mound of pillows and scanned his notes in his lap. “Of the five people Ben recalls seeing near the cottage, three of them have a possible motive. Well, maybe two. I really can’t see Nathan killing her.”

  “That doesn’t mean we discount him.”

  Jonathon jerked his head up. “We discounted Rachel.”

  “Yeah, because… she’s Rachel.”

  He had to admit, Mike had a point. Rachel had no motive, and more to the point, they knew her. “George Tyrell doesn’t have a motive, but we can’t cross him off the list. Of all the dogs we’ve encountered, Max comes closest to those paw prints.”

  “That leaves Debra Barton and either her husband or Josh Brent.” Mike grinned. “You know what I’m thinking. Your father’s face if it was Brent….”

  Jonathon sighed. “Wishful thinking does not mean he did it. And his dog, Toby, has little paws, so the prints weren’t his. But if Naomi was blackmailing them, that’s a good motive for seeing her off. And don’t forget what Jason said. The day after Naomi died, his mother was talking on the phone to someone, saying how it was a great weight off them. Plus that ‘Ding, dong, the witch is dead’ comment.”

  “Of course. That does sound like the reaction of someone whose blackmailer just died. And then there’s the whole matter of whoever she was speaking to. That leaves Brian Calder and Grant Spencer, with more than one strong motive—but neither was sighted near the cottage, except if they turn out to be our mystery walkers.”

  “Not to mention that all those who were there deny going inside.”

  “Well, somebody did.” Jonathon tapped his notes. “There are fingerprints, DNA, and residue. All we have to do is find out who they belong to.” He huffed. “There must be something that shows one of our suspects went into that cottage. Having said that, even if they did go inside, it doesn’t prove they killed her.”

  Mike chuckled. “Think again. They all denied doing that. Someone is lying.”

  Jonathon fell silent, mentally seeing the inside of the cottage. What am I missing? He closed his eyes and tried to picture the room exactly as it had been that morning.

  He jumped when Mike gently touched his hand. “Bloody hell!” Jonathon opened his eyes and gave him a mock glare. “That could have been nasty. I might have spilled my champagne.”

  Mike snickered. “Heaven forbid. I only wanted to ask what you’d like to do tomorrow morning. We don’t have to leave right after breakfast, and there are trains running frequently.”

  Jonathon had been thinking about this. “Would you mind if we checked out after breakfast?”

  Mike smiled. “You want to go home and do a little investigating, don’t you?”

  “Am I that transparent?” Jonathon’s chest tightened. It felt wrong, especially after Mike had gone to all the trouble of arranging the weekend.

  Mike leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “Nope. You’re adorable.” He took Jonathon’s notebook and placed it on the bedside cabinet.

  “Are we done for the night?” Jonathon couldn’t take his eyes off Mike’s broad chest as he knelt up on the bed, casually unbuttoning his black shirt.

  Mike dropped the shirt to the floor. “Sleuthing, yes. As for what’s left of the night, it can last as long as we want.” He shifted on the bed to straddle Jonathon as he undressed him.

  A happy sigh slid from Jonathon’s lips. “We can sleep on the train.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sunday, November 19

  “BUT… YOU’RE not here. You’re in London!” Abi stared at them, ignoring the pint she was pulling.

  Mike laughed. “In that case, I’m a hologram, and you’re about to pour most of Seth’s pint down the drain.”

  “What? Shit.” She let go of the pump and glared at the overflowing glass.

  “Hey, it’s fine.” Seth held out his hand and took the glass.

  Abi wiped her hands before folding her arms. “What are you guys doing here? I didn’t expect you until this evening.” She reached behind her to remove a Post-it from the wall. “You had a call from Constable Billings. He said he didn’t want to disturb you while you were… away, but to tell you the daughter is arriving Monday. If that makes any sense.”

  “Naomi’s daughter,” Jonathon murmured from beside him.

  “I suppose you’ll want to get behind here now.” Abi didn’t look all that happy about the prospect.

  Suddenly Mike realized he wasn’t happy about it either.

  “Well, to be honest, I was gonna ask you if you could carry on—”

  “Sure, sure.” Abi beamed. “I could do with the money, to be frank.”

  “Then you carry on, while I go and make us some lunch.” Mike headed for the kitchen, with Jonathon following. Once inside, he closed the door behind them and went to the fridge. “There’s some macaroni and cheese left over from yesterday, if you fancy that. I can shove it in the microwave.”

  “Sounds good.” Jonathon sat at the table, his hands clasped. “Her poor daughter. A day of traveling to get here, and we still can’t tell her who murdered her mother. After two weeks.”

  “Which means Graham will be getting it in the neck from the DI,” Mike added gloomily as he placed the white earthenware dish into the microwave, after covering it with wrap.

  The door opened and Abi stuck her head around it. “Er, Mike? Someone out here wants to talk to you. I told him you’re not working today, but he’s really insistent.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Grant Spencer.”

  Mike flashed Jonathon a glance. “Tell him to come in here.” When she frowned, he nodded reassuringly. “It’ll be okay just this once. Let’s not make a habit of it, all right?”

  “Sure.” Abi withdrew.

  Mike didn’t sit but waited, his body tense. He’d known Grant would be along at some point, but they’d barely been in the pub five minutes. He must have been waiting for us to show up.

  A quiet knock at the door and Grant entered, his face pale. “Hey, Mike. Jonathon. Have you got a minute?”

  Mike gestured to an empty chair. “Take a seat. I’m in the middle of rustling up some lunch. I don’t need to ask why you’re here, do I?”

  Grant dropped into the chair, not meeting their gazes. “Not really. Got the shock of my life when I saw you in that bar. I… I came to ask you not to tell anyone.” His breathing grew slightly erratic. “No one can know about this.”

  “How long has it been going on? You and Brian?”

  Grant swallowed. “About four years. My… my wife has no idea.”

  “And which came first?” Jonathon asked. “The affair, or the deal where you agreed to approve the planning permission for Turnbull Lane, in spite of public feeling on the issue?”

  There was no mistaking Grant’s reaction. His face whitened. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mike snorted. “Give it up, Grant. That approval has dodgy written all over it. That’s why you don’t want anyone to know about it. Yes, your marriage might be over, but people might also start to wonder about a development that no one ever believed would gain approval but which did, by some miracle. Now, if it turned out that the developer and the planning officer were in bed together—literally—questions would be asked.” He shook his head. “It was just bad luck us seeing you both last night. Wasn’t it? You’d managed to keep it under wraps this long. You must have thought you’d gotten away with it when Naomi Teedle died.”

  “What?” G
rant’s eyes widened.

  “So how did she find out? More importantly, which secret was she blackmailing you for?” Mike leaned on the table, looking Grant in the eye. “Or was it both?”

  “Blackmail?” Grant croaked.

  Mike nodded. “We know you were paying her every month. Cash deposits, paid into her bank account.” He glanced at Jonathon. “What date were Grant’s payments due on?”

  Jonathon pulled his notebook from his jacket and consulted it. “The twenty-fifth.”

  Grant sagged into the chair. “How the hell did you know that? She… she didn’t write it down anywhere, did she?”

  “Only in code.” Jonathon put the notebook on the table. “Suppose you tell us how this all got started.”

  Mike took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then placed it in front of Grant. “I think you might need this.”

  Grant huffed. “A whiskey is what I need.” Nevertheless, he drank half of it. “You were right. We’d been… together about a year, when Brian came up with the idea. There was nothing wrong with the plans, nothing that would get them rejected. It was just that…”

  “People didn’t think they were quite… Merrychurch,” Jonathon suggested.

  “Exactly.” Grant’s expression grew gloomy. “There had already been a lot of objections. So… I agreed to approve them. When people started kicking up a fuss, I got a mate of mine at county level to look over the plans. He said he couldn’t see any reason why county wouldn’t approve them too, if it came to an appeal. It wasn’t exactly an official statement, but I put the word around that an appeal would be a waste of time, and the development went ahead. We thought we’d gotten away with it. And then….” He took another drink of water. “Brian got a letter from Naomi Teedle. Saying she wanted to meet with him, and how it would be inadvisable to ignore her. So, he went to the cottage. Turns out, she’d been in London one weekend, shopping for her daughter’s birthday present, and….”