He strode away from the winding lanes and the cottages, climbing into hill country where the gentle roll of rocky slopes, weed shortened grass and sheep droppings gradually melted into fast running streams and sudden dips into green valleys. Up higher puddles of snow still sat sheltered beneath stone and bush, while thorny scrub sat frost fingered and brittle.
Still sucking on the lump of breast in his mouth, Lionel curled beneath one of the solitary trees – a short-bristled fur with a long abandoned crow’s nest high amongst its scarecrow leaves.
He slept and he dreamed. A failure with one girl did not mean he would never find another, and another would surely come past one day. In the meantime, he was recognisable and needed a disguise. He grew no facial hair. Therefore a beard would be impossible, but in this weather it was logical enough to wear a hood, covering most of the head, also zipped up below the eyes. He was already adept at stealing and would soon find another car.
But his dream was all about catching his wife. She was the great hope at present, and he knew exactly what he was going to do to her.
50
Ruby was dyeing her hair, dripping red ooze into the wash basin and staring into the mirror directly in front of her. What she saw disgusted her. The jowls of her cheeks sagged into her neck, dragging down each side of her mouth as though she was furious with everyone. But she was not angry. She pitied herself, stupid old woman, now regretting lost youth and remembering her handsome and famous husband. Not that he had ever been faithful to her. Not that he had ever sought her company. Not that he had loved her.
Now, just as stupidly, she hated the wrinkles and the grey drooping skin, the lower eyelids flopping pink into her cheeks, the lips shrunk beyond the hope of wearing lipstick, and the hair grizzled greyish white, receding, and without any flicker of sheen.
The mirror showed a woman twice the age that Ruby knew herself to be inside. Not inside as far as a failing bowel, a weak corked bladder, dried up joints and a miserably high blood pressure counted, but that magic place inside that neither mirrors nor doctors could discover. She was, she decided, really thirty-five years of age inside the bubbling brain she knew to be her real self. Peering at the mirror over the wash basin, she muttered, “Silly old lady. Who do you think you are? Go away and let the real Ruby slip back in.” Red dye dripped. That mixed with the tears.
Ruby felt desperately sorry for herself, despised that self-pity, and pitied that too. Having stained the nice white towel she was using, Ruby threw it in the dirty linen shoot. She washed her own underwear. Everything else went down to the huge laundry, organised by Arthur, sometimes Lavender, and now frequently David. David liked washing things, though he frequently forgot which bin they had come from and tended to return pretty silk blouses to Derek instead of Yvonne.
Sitting on the edge of the bath, Ruby once again burst into tears.
It was David who heard her and knocked timidly on her door. She blew her nose on her nightdress and opened the door. “You was crying, miss. I hear you.”
Ruby was embarrassed. “No, I wasn’t,” she said. Then, “Yes, I was. I was being silly. Take no notice, David dear. And don’t tell anyone else.”
“Surely won’t, miss,” David said. He handed her a pile of large white handkerchiefs with the initial P embroidered in one corner of each. Ruby sighed.
“These are Percival’s, David dear. Women don’t use these horrid things. Never mind, I’ll pass them on to him. Thanks very much, David.”
He left and passed the word on to his father. “Tis Ruby, Dad. Crying all the time, she is. Reckon she’s done in.”
“I’ll sort it, lad,” said Arthur. He went to Lavender first, and then to Sylvia.
“I used to cry,” David told Sylvia. “I doesn’t remember why. Were I sad too?” Sylvia smiled and avoided the question. “But Miss Ruby ain’t got no reason neither,” David added. “Is a rich lady and got good friends, ain’t she?”
“Dinner tonight,” Sylvia told Ruby. “We’re going to the Hobby Horse in Cheltenham. Our treat. Coming?”
“That’s expensive,” Ruby frowned.
“Good,” said Sylvia. “What’s the point inviting someone out for dinner and taking them to McDonalds?”
The frown grew. “Why are you taking me out? It’s definitely not my birthday. Besides, I’m not having any more of those boring things. I’m already a hundred and fifty.”
“In that case, you look remarkably good for your age.”
“I don’t,” Ruby said, flipping down onto the couch in the smaller living room. “I look dreadful. I look like the old hag I am, and I feel rotten too. I ache in places I didn’t know I had. Rod used to say I was so pretty. Now I look like a smudge that no one bothered to wipe off.”
“You’ve done your hair again,” Sylvia noted. “It looks wildly gorgeous. So why all the dismal old age stuff? I’m older than you. So are half the other residents here. And you’re one of the most popular. So cheer up and come out to dinner.”
“Am I really one of the most popular?” She doubted it, but they were nice words. “And yes, I’ll come this evening. Very sweet of you.”
“Just wanting the pleasure of your company.”
“Have you - ,” wondered Ruby, “been talking to young David about me?”
Harry, who hadn’t said a word to David, was standing next to Sylvia. “No, why?” he said with a shrug. “I haven’t spoken to the boy for days. Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen him since Sunday last. Why? He’s not ill, is he?”
“Oh no.” Ruby smiled. “I just wondered. See you tonight.”
It was just after midnight, Sylvia and Harry slept cuddled to each other, and Ruby slept in the small apartment next door when the surveillance team staked out the area. Most in cars, windows tinted, and others in flats nearby, keeping their watch from the windows, Cramble’s men were waiting for Mark Howard’s arrival at the house above the cake shop where his brother lived. “We’ll take this seriously,” the Detective Chief Inspector told his squad. “But I don’t expect success. Around midday, we’ll disband and quietly return to the station. I’m quite confident that this information has been pure trickery, but unfortunately, we can’t take a chance. However, I shall be extremely surprised should the man turn up.”
“But it was DCI Morrison that gave us the word,” said DC Crabb. “And he’s not one to fall for tricks, nor pass on anything that might be untrue. He took that info dead serious.”
“DCI Morrison is not infallible,” said Cramble. “And I most certainly intend to keep watch, just in case. I won’t miss such an opportunity. But come on, Crabb. Can you believe that the wife herself passed on this obvious clue, which she must have known would involve her brother-in-law’s arrest? No, of course not. As I shall inform Morrison later when the surveillance fails.”
Crabb couldn’t resist continuing. “T’was talking to the younger twin that gave the leak,” he said between his teeth. “But after that, and all you said to the man yesterday, Howard ain’t gonna risk turning up today, is he? You told his brother how you know he’s in England, and how you know he must visit sometimes. That’s it, ain’t it, so now Mark Howard’s gone into hiding.”
“Be careful what you say, Crabb,” Cramble told him, glaring. “You’re approaching insubordination.”
“Sorry Boss.”
They piled into the van and set off through the slush and down the main road to the small cake shop. It was a starless night and clouds covered everything down to the horizon. It was a good cover for the various men and women settling into their places to watch for the possible but unlikely arrival of Mark Howard at the home of Maurice Howard.
But the cake shop did not open, no one left the small house, and no one arrived at the door. Nothing happened at all.
Cold, disgruntled and bored, the team hurried back to the station by early afternoon, passed back their bullet-proof vests and a handful of Glock 17 weapons, and gathered in the canteen.
In the house which both backed on
to the small cake and tea shop, and topped it with two levels of bedrooms and bathrooms, Kate was baking wholemeal panne di casa, while Mark and Maurice talked quietly together in the cramped attic flat. They had watched, unseen behind dark one-way blinds, the arrival of the police, some in unmarked cars, others on foot, and had chuckled. When they left, both men had raised their glasses.
“It should be champagne,” said Maurice.
They were drinking light beer, unchilled, and lounged on the two daybeds stretched there in soft black cushions. “Just as well you warned me, Moz” Mark raised his glass again. “I have just a few days left, and wouldn’t appreciate spending them in gaol.”
“It was plain enough,” Maurice said. His eyes remained cold until he looked at his brother. The warmth that had seemed hidden peeped out when the two men smiled at each other. “First I hear my fool of a wife telling those two dithering old folk from the Manor that you’re coming, and when. They may be virtually senile, but they’re friends with the police chief down the road. Morrison of homicide. No doubt they tell him everything.”
“And then your cosy little brush with the other branch yesterday. Do you know, dear sir, that your twin brother is a criminal maniac? The greatest money launderer and drug importer in the whole pretty world?”
“That’s more or less what was said.” Maurice yawned. “I gave Kate a slap, but she doesn’t understand so I can’t blame her too strongly. But now she’s got the point. She won’t pass on any private business again.”
“I’m not much concerned,” Mark said, emptying his glass. Maurice offered more, but he shook his head. “No. I’ll sleep for a couple of hours since I won’t be sleeping much tonight. I’m off to the old house to sort the last details with Milton. Then I’m off to Scotland for the flight back home.”
“I’ll come with you to see Milton.”
“You’re welcome.” Mark stood, aiming for the quilted bed in one shadowed corner. “He’ll be glad to see you. I imagine I’ll leave around one o’clock. The house is less than two hours away. I’ll stay an hour, maybe more, then head off. It’s been a successful trip, Moz. You’ll find your bank account has more than doubled. But don’t let that damn wife of yours find out.”
“She’s a token as you know, Mark. A sweet little primary school teacher needs a sweet little cake-baking wife. She’s a good stooge.”
“As long as she keeps her stupid mouth shut.” Mark stripped off his trousers and light blue jumper, lying on the bed beneath the quilt. “Turn the light off, Moz. Go and sleep yourself if you intend coming with me tonight.”
The door splintered as he punched against the lock, and a dog began to bark with furious deliberation. Inside the tiny shed the hens, heads beneath their wings were placidly asleep. The dog bounded from the open gate in the distance and raced towards him. Lionel jumped back inside the old car he had stolen and started the engine back into its droning buzz. This was clearly not the place he needed. Back on the road, he turned the car in the opposite direction and headed off west.
Mark and Maurice Howard, mirror reflections of each other except for their clothes, arrived at the grand old house on the Welsh border, parked Mark’s mahogany Bentley in the open garage, and unlocked the back door, entering through the curtained shadows.
“Three thirty,” Maurice said with a quick glance at his watch. “Milton’s probably asleep. I need a drink.”
Mark pointed to a glass-fronted cabinet. “Help yourself and pour me a Talisker, if you will. If you want ice, there should be plenty. No ice for me though.”
The house remained dark, and only one small table lamp was lit. The twins sat comfortably, sipping whisky and smiling. “Two days here, then,” Maurice said. “I’ve already phoned in sick.” He sunk his head into the soft rolled neck of his woollen jumper. “I’m tempted never to go back.”
“There’s three million in your Swiss bank account, Moz. Why bother working?”
“As a cover. You know that.” Maurice drained his glass. The Scotch swirled in rich golden tinged darkness, perfumed and mellow.
“Come back to Dubai with me,” murmured Mark. “Leave the woman with the shop and some sort of untraceable allowance and come over to help me expand the business over there. You’d be a great help. A great partner.”
Looking up, Maurice seemed surprised. “I arrange the importation over here. Who does that, if I leave. Kate wouldn’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t trust her anyway. But we both know a couple of possibilities.” He rose slowly, wandered over to the cupboard of gleaming bottles behind glass. “Another?”
“Not yet. I want to see Milton safe before I sleep.”
Mark refilled his own glass and sat again, stretching out his legs. The small light from the dark wooden lamp lit only the underside of cheekbones, the flash of polished glass, the rise of a staircase across the other side of the room, and the golden frame of a painting over the empty fireplace. The heating had already chugged into sweet warmth. Outside there was the strange unreality of utter silence.
“No. Forget about Milton.”
“I never forget about Milton.”
“He sleeps like some half-starved puppy on cold nights. I won’t interrupt him until well into the morning. In the meantime, you need to make a decision, Moz. We know the police have us on the list now. Fairly high on the list, I imagine. I can always keep one step in front, but it’s a damn nuisance running away all the time like some damned naughty child. I can afford to set you up as my partner in Dubai and have someone else run the English side. Sting Hanson, for instance.”
“So you want me to give up the cover altogether? No more school, no more Kate. That’s all easy enough. But I won’t give up Milton.”
The frown turned Mark’s face sinister. “Don’t insult me, Moz. Do you still know me so little? Milton’s never going to be overlooked. We’ll take him with us. I’ll arrange some special hostelry. He’ll feel safer and more comfortable in every damned way. It’s the perfect solution, Moz.”
“Perhaps.” Maurice bit his lip. “And what about the girl?”
“No problem at all,” Mark replied, draining his third glass of Scotch. “The obvious solution.”
51
“I’m making a list,” said Sylvia. “No. Actually, I’m making three lists.” She looked up, waving a note pad. “Forget everything I said. I have to make four lists.”
“What you want for Christmas? What you don’t want for Christmas?”
“Oh Harry, it’s still February.”
“So it’s what I do wrong? What I do better? What I have to stop doing immediately?”
“No. I’ll have to make that list afterwards,’ said Sylvia. “This is Finding Eve – Finding Lionel – Finding Mark Howard – and finding who murdered the bodies in the chimney.” She bit the end of her pen. “But I’m not getting very far. On the chimney murders I’ve written Rohypnol, but we haven’t been able to trace anyone buying it online. Then on the Mark Howard list, I’ve written visiting Kate and Maurice Howard today – and hopefully by this evening, something will have happened. Morrison won’t tell us immediately, but I think he will once it’s all successful.”
“But,” Harry reminded her, “it’s that creep Cramble who came down from the Met to deal with the Howard affair. Morrison won’t know it all.” Harry paused, smiling. “Hopefully he’ll murder Cramble and stuff him up a chimney, and every single copper will cover up for him.”
“That’s not funny, dear,” said Sylvia.
They sat over the breakfast table, the room in a total hush except for an occasional clank as Doreen collected the last of the used breakfast plates where certain of the residents declined to stack and return their used dishes to the trolley.
“I thought it hilarious.”
Sylvia continued to chew on the end of her pen. “Harry, my love, you’re weird. Anyway, we know Eve was picked up when she walked home from that party. It was almost certainly someone she knew, who lived in that vicinity. And if they live m
ore or less nearby, then we could find them.”
“Wildly optimistic, my love.”
“I want to go back to that shed where that monster Lionel was,” said Sylvia suddenly. “I know it’s been dismantled and I know it’s been scoured and dug over and all that stuff. But it’s Lionel’s cave, isn’t it? Wasn’t it? Who knows?”
“Who knows what, dearest?”
“Or maybe his house. That’s empty now because Joyce is in a safe-house. We might find clues.”
Harry shook his head. “The cops have examined every corner, you know they have.”
“Alright.” Sylvia leaned back. “We have very few genuine clues. No evidence, in other words. But we don’t have to arrange any actual trials – so let’s just do what half the police do anyway. Wild conjecture. Guess then it works, or it doesn’t. Jump to stupid conclusions. Make our own decisions based on our own logic and experience.”
“We don’t have any experience,” grinned Harry, “but never mind. We can’t leave all your lists totally empty. So start with the chimney killer. He’s totally crackers, but he’s quite handy with an acro-prop or something similar. So there may be two of them. Partners. Man and woman perhaps. That’s happened often enough before.”
“Maurice and Kate Howard?” But Sylvia crossed out what she had written. “No, that’s silly. Neither of them are the type, and besides, the brother’s a money launderer in Kuwait or something. They can’t be everything. I imagine there are another thousand male-female partnerships out in cosy Gloucestershire.”
“We have to chase a friend who would have been out on that same road when Eve was trekking home in the pouring rain. The old boyfriend certainly could be it. And she’d dumped him before, so he’d have a reason to kidnap and kill her. It’s a common enough motive. They talk about the spurned woman, but the creepy male spurned can be far worse.” She grinned. “I promise I’ll never spurn you, my love.”
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