by Alice Castle
Grimacing, she fished in her bag and had a quick look at the screen. Oh no. She didn’t believe it. Finally, they’d decided to answer her? After twenty-four hours of silence. It was maddening. But it could be her biggest – possibly only – way of solving the Smeaton case. ‘Meet me on the Rye. You know where. 15 minutes.’
Beth stared at the message in despair. She couldn’t. Could she? She’d never have time to get there and back before Ben got out… and she couldn’t let him go in alone. To the biggest ordeal he’d yet faced. Could she?
***
It wasn’t until they were at home later that Beth realised how near she’d come to disaster. If Ben had been green around the gills this morning, then he’d been deathly pale when he came out of Dr Grover’s office. For once, Beth cursed her employer – one of the most popular men in Dulwich and someone she’d always admired. She’d definitely have words with Janice, she really would. She didn’t even want to imagine how upset Ben would have been if he’d come out of the Head’s study and found an empty seat in the waiting room where she should have been. If she hadn’t been there to jolly him along, then she really would have failed her little boy as a mother. And she never wanted to have to reproach herself with that.
All this time, she’d been kidding herself that Ben hadn’t realised how serious the interviews were, and just what a difference those twenty minutes could make to his future. But it looked as though she hadn’t reckoned with how fast he was growing up. He was no longer a little boy, oblivious to the world around him. And kids talked at school, of course they did – especially Billy MacKenzie. Beth had been naïve.
He’d known all along what an ordeal was facing him, and he’d gone in uncomplaining and done his best. The fact that it took him half the walk home to regain his usual colour probably told her all she needed to know about how well it had gone. She decided that she wouldn’t press him for details. He’d tell her about it in his own good time – and knowing her lovely boy, that might well be never. For now, she was just so glad that she’d failed to heed that blasted text message and had realised where her priorities lay. She was shocked, in fact, that she’d dithered for even one minute. Ben came first, before everything – especially before a mystery that was none of her business in the first place.
Beth was so over the whole thing that later that night she let down her guard and confided in Harry that she’d had a brief wobble about what course of action to take. She was only telling him in order to reinforce, to him as well as to herself, the knowledge that she’d made the right decision in not going to the rendezvous. But to her surprise, he didn’t tell her how well she’d done, but just fulminated, yet again, about the way she got involved in stuff that was none of her concern. She was seriously worried that he was going to wind himself up to Bursar-style volumes, and wake up Ben as well, when her phone pinged.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. She’d thought all chance of resolution had been thrown away, but now she was being offered a second bite at the cherry. It was too good an offer to refuse – especially as she already had a babysitter in the house. She took a long, steady look at Harry, sitting there like a fixture on the other half of the sofa, his salt-and-pepper hair ruffled this way and that, his shoulders broad in a big cuddly jumper, his long legs splayed in front of him. A pair of reading glasses was perched halfway down his nose. Though he insisted he hardly needed them, she’d noticed him reaching for them more and more recently. He was deep in The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey. Feeling her scrutiny, he looked up, his eyes crinkling into a loving smile. Then he saw her serious face and sat up straight. Beth sighed, and started talking.
***
It was very cold on the Rye at this time of night, even with every button done up and a huge scarf swathed around her neck. The sky was inky velvet, with darker blotches representing the little copse of trees up ahead which had become such a familiar, and grisly, sight even in the daytime. It was a whole lot worse in the dark. There were streetlights, yes, but they were all positioned round the outer perimeter where the cars still poured past despite the late hour. There was nothing here, near the deserted middle, where it was so sorely needed.
It was so typical – all the emphasis was on stopping wealthy mothers clipping the bumpers of their BMWs. There was no thought for those who had to be out at this hour. What about clandestine walkers? What about insomniacs? What about people with incontinent dogs that had to be taken out last thing? What about reckless private eyes risking everything on a hunch? Didn’t anyone ever think about them? If she got out of this alive, she was definitely going to email the council and complain, Beth thought. People sneaking about in the middle of the night paid their council tax too, she fumed. Or, at least, she did.
There was a moon, but it hid its face behind the scudding clouds, like a shy child. The wind was biting and there was a suspicion of rain in each gust that blew. If Beth could have had her pick of weather for a midnight showdown with a potential murderer, this would have been the last combination she would have chosen.
She looked around the windswept Rye and thought for the thousandth time what an absolutely terrible idea this was. Just when she had resolved never to put herself in danger again, here she was, standing in the middle of a common which might look deserted, but was probably bristling with rapists, muggers and worse, behind every bush. Plus, of course, the person who’d lured her here with that damned text.
Oh well, it was too late now to do much more than curse her insatiable curiosity, stamp her freezing feet in her little boots, and hope that she wasn’t going to die of cold before someone even had the chance to kill her.
The minutes ticked past, each one lasting at least a year, and her ears caught the buzz of traffic, sounding like a far-off box of bees being shaken up by an unseen hand. It was some slight comfort to think that there were still motorists ringing the Rye, and if anything bad happened, all she needed to do was shout loudly enough.
But just then, a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth.
Chapter Eighteen
Instantly, Beth jumped in terror. Somehow, through the force of sheer blind panic, her leap turned out to be much higher than anyone could have reasonably expected for someone of her stature. Like an Olympic dressage pony pulling off a gold-medal winning performance, she even managed to whip round in mid-air – wrenching free of her assailant in the process. She landed, somewhat heavily it was true, but still upright, unscathed, and out of the attacker’s grasp. Every vein in her body was now pumping what felt like pure adrenalin. She was facing the dark figure head-on.
It wasn’t much fun, she thought, her breath coming fast and shallow from shock, knowing she was now confronting the person who’d left Mark Smeaton as a crumpled heap, breathing his last on the Rye. But at least she was still all in one piece.
Just as she had the thought, the moon peeped out from behind the clouds and glanced off something being waved in front of her. It was the wickedly sharp blade of what looked like a Stanley knife. Only an inch or so long, admittedly, but surely quite enough to do substantial damage? Immediately, one part of her brain detached itself from the scene playing out in front of her, and she wondered whether you could actually stab someone deeply enough with something like that to cause death.
Harry, blast him, hadn’t thought to share any of the post mortem details with her. She’d seen Smeaton’s wounds for herself, and the fact that he was extremely dead suggested that the knife had been up to the job, but this still didn’t look nearly as fearsome as half the knives in her kitchen. Despite herself, despite every inner voice warning she needed to tread carefully, she couldn’t help relaxing a little.
‘You wanted to talk?’ she said, and although her voice came out as a bit of a squeak, she let herself off. Being capable of any kind of speech wasn’t bad going in this sort of situation, she reckoned.
‘Well, I said that. But now we’re here, it’s pretty chilly. I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t just finish you off and have done wi
th it,’ said John Grey, before lunging towards her with the blade.
Beth’s brief moment of relaxation was definitely over. She staggered backwards for a few very quick steps, feeling wildly behind her to make sure she didn’t come up against a tree in the dark. ‘It’s not just me, though, is it? What about the police? What about, erm, your mum? I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s onto you,’ said Beth wildly.
‘Mum might have her suspicions, but she’s never going to turn me in,’ said Grey, proving to Beth she’d struck lucky with her guess that Rebecca Grey was more than ambivalent about her boy. ‘And the police, well, they’ll be happy enough to let the whole thing drop. Just another unsolved case. There are enough of those in London.’
Privately, Beth knew Grey wasn’t far off the cold reality of crime in the capital. Harry wouldn’t bat an eyelid, and nor would any of his colleagues. They’d seen it all before so many times. Even a murder, and a high-profile one like this, could be dropped and left to gather dust without anything more than a bit of hand-wringing from the press. But this was definitely not the moment to admit that.
‘I have a partner, someone I’ve been investigating with, and she knows everything, too,’ Beth faltered, then realised with horror what she was saying. The last thing she wanted to do was make poor Katie a target as well.
She decided to widen the net. If Grey thought that loads of people, not just her and Katie but everyone else in Dulwich was in the know, then surely he’d decide killing them all was too much like hard work? ‘Um, it’s not just my friend, it’s, you know, everybody. The people at Wyatt’s… And my mother… The bridge club…’ This was getting worse and worse, Beth thought. She was now pointing a killer towards her entire community.
But she needn’t have worried. Grey reacted with amused contempt.
‘Well, I’m terrified now. If a whole bunch of Dulwich mums and bridge players know, then that’s it, I might as well give up. Perhaps you’d like to make a citizen’s arrest?’
From the way Grey was advancing towards her with the knife extended, Beth rather thought that this was his idea of a joke. She was pretty sure, under the circumstances, that she could be excused for not joining in with a merry laugh.
‘Look, Mark Smeaton was famous. I hear what you’re saying about the police, yes, sometimes they just let things drop, but he wasn’t just another random person, was he? He was a celebrity.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Grey through gritted teeth, the knife waving at her again as he advanced. ‘That bastard.’
‘Why did you hate him so much? I thought you were supposed to be such great friends,’ Beth said, her curiosity outweighing even her terror. She’d finally hit on the right thing to say. Grey halted, and snorted bitterly.
‘Friends! That’s hilarious. Smeaton didn’t know what real friendship was. He was a thief, had been for years.’
‘A thief? I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘All his inspiration, even his signature… the very idea of doing graffiti in the first place. It was all stolen. Every single bit of it.’
‘Where from? How can you steal graffiti?’
‘You don’t have a clue, do you? Who Smeaton really was. What he was.’
‘Tell me. Make me understand. It’s true, I don’t know anything…’ Beth said, falling over the words a little.
‘Ha, you’re just playing for time, aren’t you? Hoping someone will come and rescue you? Well, take a look around. There’s no-one here. No-one but us. We’re alone. Or I will be soon. You – you’ll be gone,’ said John Grey, his teeth flashing briefly in the moonlight as he smiled with every appearance of cheerful anticipation.
Beth shivered and looked around wildly. Even if she’d been able to see properly in the gathering gloom, he was right. There was nothing else stirring on the Rye except the bitter wind, which whipped up the edges of her scarf and ran its impatient fingers through her fringe. What if she made a dash for it? Could she get as far as the road, the safety of the traffic? But it was so far away and flowing more slowly now. Even in London, people stopped driving and went home to bed eventually. And she didn’t have to think about sprinting off for longer than a second before she’d dismissed it as hopeless. With his long legs, John Grey could outrun her and stab her in a moment. She’d do better just standing her ground and, as he put it, playing for time.
Unfortunately, Grey had other ideas. ‘Come on, we’re too visible here. Even if no-one’s coming to save you, we’d be better off hidden. Let’s make for where I stabbed Mark. It’s nice and secluded there. Plenty of atmosphere.’
Again, there was that flash from his teeth as he bared them in a smile, but Beth wasn’t enjoying his sense of humour at all. She braced her little legs in the grass, but he waved the knife in her face again and she thought better of her token opposition. Keep him sweet, go along with everything. And, most important of all, keep him talking. Didn’t they say that was the way to survive a hostage situation? She hardly dared hope that this would last long enough to merit that description, but she owed it to Ben, Magpie, and even Colin, to try and drag things out, create some sort of rapport with Grey. Though she was seriously beginning to doubt whether that was possible. He seemed quite definitely unhinged.
Grey grabbed her by the arm and they started to walk. He was taking great strides, hurrying them under cover. Beth was trotting along to keep up, the knife waved in front of her nose if she stumbled or slowed down. She was out of breath by the time they reached the first of the trees that marked the copse where Mark Smeaton had died.
‘Look, can I just take a breath?’ Beth said, putting an arm out to steady herself on a tree. Instantly, the blade flashed out and she felt a sting. She whipped her arm back, and saw a slash in her jacket, the shiny lining beginning to puff out. Under it, her arm started to throb. She wasn’t sure if she’d been cut or just scraped by the blade. And now, perhaps, was not the moment to find out.
Grey laughed, the sound bouncing off the trees. Almost immediately, it started to rain. Oh great, thought Beth. I’m going to get killed, but of course I’m going to get drenched first. And I washed my hair this morning as well. Just my luck.
‘What did you mean, about Smeaton being a thief?’ she asked desperately, wiping her damp hair out of her face with her free hand, trying to re-establish some conversation. Being led to her doom was no fun at all; she had to slow things down if she could. To her immense relief, Grey stopped walking and turned his face up to the heavens, seeming to enjoy the patter of drops on his face.
‘Mark would have loved this. He was out here, rain or shine. With that mutt of his. Yes, he was a thief. But why should I tell you about all that?’
‘I’ve heard some of it. From my brother, Josh. He was in your class.’
‘Josh? Oh yes, that short-arse. I remember.’
Beth, fuming, nearly remonstrated with Grey. Josh wasn’t short. He towered above her. This man was definitely deranged! Then she remembered who was holding the knife. She bit down her anger and carried on.
‘It was the three of you…’
‘Me, Mark, and Simon. Yes. The three little pigs. But Mark turned out to be the big bad wolf. He blew Simon’s house down.’
‘You mean, he killed him somehow?’
‘No, you silly little thing. He was as shocked as I was about what happened that night at Loughborough Junction. Well, he was as shocked as I pretended to be. He didn’t see me. I only meant to trip Simon, teach him a lesson. I didn’t realise how fast the train was coming. Mark was a bit behind us. He was always a dreamer. By the time he caught up, it was all over. Splat. Poor old Simon. Boo-hoo.’
Beth was suddenly chilled. She hadn’t expected this. After speaking to Josh, she’d known Grey had to be responsible for Mark’s death. And after that chance encounter on the street just afterwards, while walking Colin, she also knew that neither Kuragin nor Benson, shifty and untrustworthy though they were, had been anywhere near the Rye at the time of his death. The Bursar,
who she could have sworn she’d caught sight of that day, had no motive and seemed to know nothing about either art or Smeaton. But she’d never guessed that Grey had another death on his conscience as well.
Grey was still talking, his voice taking on a sing-song quality, as though he was reciting a familiar tale. ‘But that didn’t stop him from pinching Simon’s ideas, did it? Simon was the leader, the graffiti fan, the one who was always pushing us to tag. He was the creative mind. Mark just copied stuff, and I, well, I was much better with my hands, the practical stuff, than either of them. Mum always said so.’
‘You mean…’
‘Yes. Mark just stole all Simon’s ideas, once he was safely in the ground. Mark made a fortune on the back of it. Sure, he tried his own work, and it had a bit of success – his first show was a sell-out. But he never seemed to be able to repeat it, and then he chickened out, just fell back on the graffiti – and that went global.’
‘But all the satire, the images, the dog… all that was his own work, surely? Simon couldn’t have created everything before he died at what, fifteen?’
‘The dog was Simon’s, yes, but Mark embellished it, took the ideas, embroidered them. He improved it, made it all sharper. But the whole operation, everything he did, was based on the original, stolen idea. He wasn’t creative, like Simon was. He was just good – very good, if you like – at copying. He didn’t have a truly original thought in his head, and he knew it. That’s why he dried up after one show. Then he nicked Simon’s concept. Oh, he felt guilty about it, I’ll give him that. Every day, he tried to atone. Living alone, working like a madman. But he was a bastard, too. Using the poodle signature, that was a dig at me.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘Oh, he resented having to pay.’
‘Pay?’
‘Well, of course he had to make amends. I was the one who knew where he’d got his ideas from. I’d always known. So, when the money started flooding in, it was only right that he shared it.’