by M B Vincent
‘Kenya,’ smiled Jess. Her aunt always bloomed, like a papery old rose, when she talked about the early years of her marriage in Africa.
‘David would race around the compound. Round and round.’ It was obvious that Iris could see her boy tearing about in the burning Kenyan sun. ‘Giggling like a little fool. The villagers loved him. Made a mascot of him. All that bright hair. He made them laugh and then he’d laugh and then I’d laugh . . .’
‘Did he look like you?’
‘Spitting image, darling.’ Iris tapped her nose. ‘Except for this. He got the clumping Kidbury conk, I’m afraid. Didn’t spoil him. He was perfect.’
As only the dead can be.
‘David had an affinity with animals,’ Iris said. ‘There was an orphan lion cub we found. You’re supposed to leave them, let them die, but seriously, darling, how could I? Barasa, we called him. He and David were brothers.’
In lieu of the real thing. Jess had never wondered at the fact that Iris and Seb stopped at just one child, even though the Kidbury dynasty depended on their fruitfulness. It occurred to Jess that there might be another sadness buried here.
‘Barasa didn’t stay a cub. You don’t, you young ‘uns,’ said Iris. ‘You grow up and you become unruly and we really really want to hang onto you, but we mustn’t.’ She allowed herself a sigh. ‘David watched Seb reintroduce Barasa to the wild. Off he went, a young lion now, and David would not cry. Then, a year or so later, Seb took some visiting pompous ass from England out hunting, and they brought back a trophy.’
‘Not Barasa?’ Jess was invested in this lion she’d never heard of until a minute ago.
‘David mourned that lion like a person. Kept asking what gave men the right to kill animals. Didn’t like privilege, my boy.’
‘It must have been mind-bending, coming back to England after life in Kenya.’
‘David was torn out of our eccentric wooden house and sent to bloody Charterhouse. I didn’t speak up.’ Iris stopped. Bit her lip. ‘I should have. But it was the Kidbury route. Public school. House-of-fucking-Lords. Pardon my French, Jess.’
‘Swear all you fucking like, Aunty dearest.’
‘Seb thought he was doing right by David, but public school broke him. Then Seb passed, and David came into the title. Had to give up art school and come back here, try and behave like something he just wasn’t, Jess.’
‘At least he fell in love. Got married.’
‘Pamela?’ Iris looked sceptical. ‘Silly clothes horse. Pamela wasn’t curious, she didn’t notice things. Things like the way David struggled to live up to the memory of a father he didn’t really know. Because these men, Jess, they don’t know their children. It’s changing now, and I’m glad. Men are allowed to be soft. To be humble. To fear. David pretended he was fine. But wherever he went, he was a gorgeous little square peg in a round hole. David was alone, even in a crowd.’
The flames in the stove fell back, as if exhausted by the emotions charging about the room. Night leaned on the windows.
‘Like me,’ said Jess, in little more than a whisper.
‘You’re not alike.’ Iris was categorical.
‘But . . .’ Jess felt as if something comforting had been ripped from her.
‘Yes, you’re a dreamer, and God knows you love to be out of step with the world, but David didn’t have your gusto and your cleverness and your, well, your Jess-ness.’
If we weren’t alike, then how on earth did I sense what really happened? Jess didn’t believe in Abonda’s hypnotic powers; her own empathy had finally brought forth a truth she’d always half guessed at.
‘David didn’t fit into the fossilized aristocratic world he was born into. He couldn’t reject it, like you would. So it crushed him.’
‘Iris . . .’ The look on her aunt’s face wrenched her name, close to a sob, from Jess.
Iris held up a finger. A stern No! to any fuss. ‘He always got on with children. He doted on you.’
‘Me?’ Jess was startled at being flung into the narrative. ‘I have no memories of him. Not one.’
‘Don’t be silly. Don’t you remember the game? Just one rule: if you sat your plump little bottom on the floor and leaned against David’s leg, he wasn’t allowed to move. You were in charge! Happy as two peas in a pod, you were. He never cheated, even when you kept him sitting there for ages.’
‘That’s why I started doing the same thing with Dad, I suppose.’
‘With James? Can’t imagine him putting up with that.’
‘He did! I remember leaning against his leg, sitting on that gold and blue carpet in his study.’ Jess felt it now. Felt warmed, as usual, by the memory.
‘No, darling. That carpet came from the Kidbury Manor. It comforted your father to have something of David’s. Afterwards.’
As if coming to rest after a winding trail, Jess understood. ‘I do remember David.’
‘Of course you do. If David hadn’t lost his father, if he hadn’t become a Lord so young, if, if, if . . .’ Iris fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘You and he would have become the greatest of allies. But fathers die and their poor sons have to grow up overnight.’
Jess knew something, suddenly and perfectly. The something that had been missing in the investigation wasn’t missing anymore. Everything shifted, and the pattern rose out of the ether, where it had been hiding in plain sight. Jess knew everything she had to know. Everything she needed to save the Judge. ‘Iris, it’s not just fathers.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘It’s fathers and sons. It’s fathers and sons!’
‘You’ve lost me, darling.’
‘I have to . . .’ Jess tried to go both ways at once. She was jitterbugging with the exaltation of knowing. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
And she was gone, out amongst the wolves.
CHAPTER 22
THE LEAST JOLLY OF ALL THE COOKS
Still Saturday 14 November
Jess held the phone to her ear, one hand on the Morris Minor’s steering wheel. It was illegal, but so was the speed she was doing.
Jess had had to track down the number, introduce herself to the bemused man on the other end, and then justify her peculiar, intrusive questions.
She checked the battery logo on the phone. She willed it to keep going, keep gasping, until she had what she needed.
‘You’ve been unbelievably helpful,’ she said, at last. ‘And yes, of course, I’ll keep you in the loop.’
The car’s wheels barely touched the road that cut through Blackdown Woods. Fog hid the belly of the forest, and the struggling moon did little to help.
It was easy to discern faces in the trees. Faces that looked like David. Or Norris. Jess kept her eyes on the road.
She was exhilarated. The Judge was in no danger from the Kidbury Kannibal. What’s more, he never had been.
Eden. She needed Eden. Speeding past the veterinary surgery, she dialled his number.
‘Jess!’ he said. ‘There’s been a development.’
‘I’m the development! I figured out the dates. So simple you wouldn’t believe it. And nothing pagan about it from beginning to end.’
‘Jess, it’s over.’
‘Over?’ The aqua-coloured car’s suspension rattled Jess up and down.
‘We found Norris’s body. In Blackdown Woods. Heart attack, just like Abonda feared.’
‘What?’
‘Surveillance is called off at the Jolly Cook and at your home. You can relax, Jess, everything’s—’
The phone went dead.
Jess shrieked and threw it into the footwell. Eden had it all so wrong. She put her foot down. The car burped its surprise but, thanks to Mary’s tender loving care, it sped up.
There was no police car outside Harebell House. Jess’s home was no longer the eye of the storm; Norris couldn’t threaten it anymore, and the Kidbury Kannibal had no interest in it.
Quickly, quickly, Jess was through the front door. Another life, not her father’s, was in da
nger. She had to call Eden. Even Bogna’s shitty Nokia would do.
Music played. Warm cooking smells snaked through the hall. As if a spell had been lifted, the lighting seemed more pink, and when Jess heard Bogna’s laugh it was crystal chimes.
Ripping off her black jacket, Jess sniffed the air again. It didn’t smell like Bogna’s food; it was chocolatey, dark. Opening the kitchen door, Jess already knew what she was going to see.
A bottle of wine stood on the kitchen table. Three glasses, one in the Judge’s hand. With the other hand he popped a black olive into his mouth.
Bogna wore lipstick, and some awful boots.
Slicing brownies, immense knife in hand, was Nic Lasco.
‘I won, I won!’ Bogna called to Jess. ‘I won a cooking lesson with Mr Handsome and I don’t even remember entering competition!’
‘Here.’ Lasco held out a sliver of brownie on the sharp, sharp knife. ‘Try some, Jess.’
It tasted like ashes. ‘Delicious,’ she said.
He knows I know.
‘So, this is how you do it?’ she said.
‘Do what?’ Lasco, angling the knife so it flashed, stayed close to the Judge.
‘Make brownies.’
What she meant was this was how Lasco got close to his victims. He charmed them, dazzled them with the glow of celebrity. Well, you could’t charm my dad, he’s immune, but you got your foot in the door via Bogna.
The Judge said, ‘Part of the prize is to be shown around a Jolly Cook kitchen, and to watch Nic create one of his new dishes.’ He sounded underwhelmed by this bounty. ‘But, all in all, it’s been a tiring few days, so although I’m grateful, let’s call it a night.’
‘Is prize of lifetime,’ protested Bogna. ‘Will put Patricia Smalls hooter right out of joint. Come on, Jimmy! To celebrate Norris not killing us all!’
All the while, Lasco stayed between them. He held the knife up, like a toy sword.
If only the Judge or Bogna would put some space between themselves and Lasco, Jess could risk tackling him. The Kannibal was gambling with her love for the pair of them, her reluctance to start anything while they were in slashing distance.
The Judge gave in. ‘Why not, can’t hurt,’ he said.
He never had been able to read the messages in his womenfolk’s eyes. He had never decoded Harriet’s Time to go! looks at dinner parties, and now he didn’t pick up on Jess’s attempt to cram a lot of information, all of it bad, into her frantic gaze.
‘Come on Bogna, let’s get the coats,’ said Jess.
‘You get them, lazy girl.’ Bogna was drunk on wine and Lasco’s attention, but she gave in and followed Jess out to the hall.
Lasco came too. He smiled at Jess as Bogna reached into the cupboard under the stairs to unhook her own coat and hand it to Jess.
‘Hold for me,’ she said, and fossicked about for the Judge’s Barbour.
Still smiling, Lasco put his hand in the small of Bogna’s back and sent her flying down the cellar stairs.
‘Bloody hell isn’t it!’ came from the darkness.
‘And now, Jess, your phone please,’ said Lasco. He was calm, suave.
Jess, her heart pogo-ing in her chest, handed over the dead and useless lump of plastic. ‘We’re not going anywhere with you,’ she said. She tried not to look at the knife. ‘You’ll have to kill us both here, and that wouldn’t be any good, would it? It has to be at the Jolly Cook, where your dad used to take you.’
Lasco went very still.
‘They must’ve have been precious, those days after the divorce, when you and your dad would go out to an ancient site and then have a burger. Although,’ said Jess, ‘your dad preferred a full English, didn’t he?’
Lasco didn’t, or couldn’t, speak. His gaze didn’t waver. The knife stood to attention.
‘My ankle is skrecona!’ Bogna was in pain. ‘Help me, Nic!’
Lasco shut the cellar door. Turned the key.
Jess, who would have preferred an opportunity to rehearse this, said, ‘I spoke to Fred, Nic. He’s sorry. Your dad wants to make amends.’
Lasco found his voice, and it was scornful. ‘Do what you’re told. You’re just collateral damage. If I have to finish your father here, then I will. Better than nothing. Put your coat on.’
It was a quick calculation. If she shouted now, she and/or her father could die. If she waited, there might be an opening to rush Lasco, take the knife, or even run into it, if it meant saving the Judge.
Not a waiter by nature, Jess put on Bogna’s coat, a red quilted affair, and jammed her hand into the pockets.
As the Judge, scowling rather, found his car keys and was handed a cardigan in place of his Barbour, Jess said to Lasco, ‘What, bringing the knife, Nic? Why?’
He was smug as he said, ‘Oops, yes, let’s leave it here on the hall table,’ and opened his coat so that she could see the gun in the inner pocket.
J P Barreau’s gun, taken from him on the night he was killed, probably with the same glee as Lasco now tormented Jess.
‘And Bogna?’ asked the Judge, distracted, as he got into the car, and Jess and their new friend hopped into the back.
‘She remembered she had to feed her animals,’ said Lasco. ‘She’ll follow us.’
The Judge let out a puff of irritation. The veneer of his manners was wearing thin. He clearly didn’t want to leave his home, couldn’t be bothered with this telly fella, but he played nice and inched them out onto the Richleigh Road.
He was unaware of the gun pointed through the seat at the base of his spine.
Lasco gave directions. Trees flashed past. And Jess thanked God – Thor, Jesus, whoever was in charge – for Bogna’s stubborn resistance to new technology. Her fingers had encountered the compact, outdated Nokia, with its raised buttons.
Her fingers held the memory of how to use those buttons; she hoped the text she sent was legible. She repeated the message in her head, like a prayer.
killer now jolly cook jess
***
Eden could have gone home and had a good sleep.
Instead, he had stayed in the office, and made a start on the inevitable paperwork that marks the end of every case.
Just two signatures in, and he was asleep. Head back. Mouth slightly open.
The phone on the desk jangled.
Knott breached the circle made by the anglepoise. She held a cup of scented tea.
Eden jerked awake. Tried to look as if he hadn’t been asleep. ‘Wossat?’
‘Text from unknown number.’ Knott bent over the phone. She saw a mess of letters.
Likker oow jmllx bmml Jfss.
‘Someone’s messing about, sir. Probably Jess, that could be her name at the end.’
Eden took the phone, tutted at the gibberish, laid it face down. ‘I can read my own texts, Karen.’ He sipped his tea. Heard his stomach yodel.
‘Back rub, Sarge?’
‘No,’ said Eden, rather too quickly.
***
Her eye never left the gun as she talked.
She spoke softly, confident that the Judge, whistling to a Radio 3 concerto, never eavesdropped.
More than once, Lasco said, ‘I’m not interested, okay?’ But he listened.
‘I got Fred’s number from Paul Chappell. He interviewed your dad for the Kidbury Echo. Your dad was eager to help; I guess because it’s a way of getting closer to you.’
‘You don’t know him, don’t pretend you do,’ said Lasco.
‘He had to go up to his attic to find his diary from that year. Nineteen eighty-nine. He found the last four dates he saw his little boy. You. The last dates before the father/son outings fizzled out.’
‘I’ll never speak to him. Never.’ Lasco was rattled, but his grip on the gun was sure. ‘Take a right at the lights, your honour,’ he said lightheartedly to the Judge, his face grim for Jess’s benefit.
A blue light, a siren, would have been welcome. The upcoming bridge was dark and deserted. Jess didn’t have Mary�
��s streetsmarts; if she tried to disarm Nic, all that would happen was that she would die first and she wouldn’t be able to protect her father.
‘You were seven. On the thirty-first October, nineteen eighty-nine, your dad took you to look around the Fairy Barrow at Hungry Hill, then whisked you off for your favourite treat of a Jolly Cook burger. He turned up again, three days laters and bundled you up in scarf and gloves and took you off to Kidbury Henge. Fred told me you had extra fries that night. You loved dipping them in ketchup, he said.’
‘Surprised he remembers,’ murmured Lasco, who had sunk a little in his seat.
‘He remembers everything. Especially the last time he saw you, when you both trudged up Gold Hill, on the twelfth of November.’ Jess felt she was in the presence of a fractured personality. Lasco was brittle, like china. And dangerous, like dynamite. ‘All the dates of the murders,’ she said, ‘tally with those days out with your dad.’ The compass points were incidental. ‘Except this date, of course. This doesn’t fit.’
‘I’m improvising. Eddie ruined my system. He wouldn’t cooperate,’ said Lasco. ‘Why couldn’t he just play along? I did my best, but no, he wouldn’t come with me to the diner. It was as if me being famous was meaningless! I had to improvise and that went very wrong. Still. We’re on track tonight. Don’t get in my way, Jess. I’ll just go straight through you.’
In the front seat, the Judge pom pom pommed to a bombastic trumpet on the radio.
Eden, she thought. Hurry!
***
He was so tired. The office chair was so uncomfortable. But home was so bare. There was nobody waiting up for him. The dog might thud his tail, but he wouldn’t ask Eden about his extraordinary day.
Eden rubbed his eyes. Coughed. Took up his phone.
Something in the depths of his copper’s brain clicked. Jess had never sent him a gobbledygook message before. Another little click. A cog juddering into gear. ‘What if . . .’ he said.
He summoned up an onscreen image. An old phone. Each button capable of three or more possible letters. If the buttons were pressed the wrong number of times, the text would come out garbled. But there might be an order to the chaos.