by Scott Hunter
“I appreciate that it’s a little delicate, sir,” Moran replied, mildly encouraged by the ‘Brendan’. “But there was always the risk that we would put them both to flight by acting hastily. And Pashkov may live, in which case we’re only talking assault with intent.”
Higginson gave him a knowing look. “Far be it from me to accuse you of hastiness, Brendan.”
“On the other hand, if Pashkov dies, then whichever way you look at it it’s a kind of justice,” Moran said, running a hand wearily through his hair. “Maybe not the one we’ve signed up to, but a kind of justice, nevertheless.”
“I wouldn’t want to think that it meets with your approval, Brendan,” Higginson said pointedly. “Nor that any delay on your part could be construed as an encouragement to allow the kind of justice you refer to to prevail.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Good. Now, Devon, if you please.”
Moran scratched his cheek. The stubble rasped under his nail. “I’ve provided a comprehensive statement. I’ve also undertaken to assist the Devon constabulary in whatever manner they see fit concerning recent events in Cernham. In doing so I’m sure that the mystery will be solved and the matter brought to a speedy conclusion.”
“OK, that’s fine for the record. Now tell me what you really think.”
Moran allowed himself a half-smile. Higginson might turn out to be a half-decent appointment after all. “I think Devon have a very resourceful and troubled fugitive on their hands.”
“You don’t buy this denial stuff from the family?”
“No, I don’t. I saw Rufus de Courcy in the flesh. I know what I saw.”
“I’m sure,” Higginson nodded, sounding anything but. “Anyway, I’m happy to release you for a couple of days to keep them sweet.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Good. That’ll be all.”
Moran wearily got to his feet.
“And Brendan?”
“Sir?”
“Take a few days off afterwards, would you? Somewhere sensible, where nothing happens. Get my drift?”
Moran wordlessly closed the door behind him.
Chapter 40
As Moran passed the cottage he felt an unexpected chill run down his spine. The feeling of helplessness he had experienced as de Courcy bundled Celine into his car, shotgun cradled under his arm, came back to him like a stinging rebuke. But de Courcy’s actions had saved Moran’s life, only to cost him his own.
Justice. Of a kind…
Moreover, Celine was all right. Shaken, naturally, but well enough to have been discharged after twenty-four hours under obs.
The pub was still closed. Moran presumed that Terl’s beneficiaries would be wading through the tedious and expensive procedure of probate before they could claim the business and reopen. If anyone still wanted to drink there, that is. But that wasn’t Moran’s problem. It was up to the residents of Cernham how they wanted to move forward after recent events. A stark choice, Moran thought as he walked briskly past the churchyard: move on, or move out.
It was late morning and Moran found that the simmering anticipation he had felt as his journey drew to a close had not diminished with his arrival. If anything it was stronger. Perhaps it was more than anticipation. Perhaps it was nervous excitement? He allowed himself a rueful grin. Well, why shouldn’t he feel a little excited? Maybe this was the beginning of something he had given up hope of ever experiencing again – and maybe, just maybe, it was also the end of the long, anguished, empty years since Janice’s murder at the hands of the IRA. With a small shock he realised that his eyes were dry following the articulation of her name. He couldn’t recall a time when that had ever been the case.
Healing. After all these years, healing…
His thoughts were curtailed by the sight of DS Wilmot approaching from the direction of the Manor, several uniformed policemen in tow. The sergeant waved a half-hearted gesture of greeting and Moran could tell even at a distance of fifteen metres that Wilmot was intensely preoccupied.
“DCI Moran. You’re here. Good.”
No small talk, then, which suited Moran well enough. “So, what’s the latest?” he enquired. “Have you found him?” Pointless question. The answer was written all over the sergeant’s face.
“Have I hell,” Wilmot said miserably. “We’ve combed the bloody woods for miles and there’s not a sign. We found your American, though. All six pieces of her.”
Moran’s stomach yawed. “Where?”
“Harrison’s garden. Under the woodpile.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t take your report more seriously,” Wilmot said, avoiding eye contact.
“It’s done now,” Moran said tersely. “Hopefully a lesson learned. But your immediate concern should be Rufus de Courcy’s whereabouts. What about the Manor itself?”
Wilmot shook his head and the two accompanying uniforms adopted appropriately regretful expressions. “No. Nothing.”
“There could be hidden rooms, perhaps even secret passages connecting the Manor to its outbuildings and gardens. It’s old. Some parts date back to the eleventh century,” Moran said. “Have you pumped Lady Cernham for information?”
Wilmot made a gesture of exasperation. “Her? We’ve not got anything useful from her, nor Harrison. She’s lost it completely, and he’s suicidal. Can’t leave him alone.”
“I’m not surprised,” Moran said. And he wasn’t. Harrison had been in a no-win situation since birth. Neither was his quality of life likely to improve in the near future. Maybe prison would serve as some kind of release for him – it was hard to predict. “Well,” he continued, trying to sound optimistic, “I’m sure you’ve worked out a way of moving things on even without their co-operation.”
Wilmot rubbed his temple. “You’re the key right now. We’ll go over the whole thing again until it makes sense. You might remember something new, something that seemed irrelevant before. I don’t know.” Wilmot shrugged.
He looked very young in his misery and Moran imagined the weight bearing down on his shoulders from his seniors. The DCI was still off sick, apparently, and Wilmot was senior most suitable. It wasn’t so much a short straw as a stick of dynamite. The press were literally camped around the village’s perimeter like modern-day Greenham Common protesters. Milling film crews, gabbling reporters and pushy newspaper hacks desperate for the first shot at a headline had homed in from all points of the compass like migrating geese. It had taken Moran fifteen minutes to negotiate the media circus, and he had only managed to break through without being mobbed because of the timely intervention of a squad car.
He nodded sympathetically. “I’ll do my best, but I’m not at all sure there’s much I can add. There’s Celine as well. Ms… Mrs…” Moran realised that he had no idea what Celine’s surname was.
“Mrs Keene, sir,” one of the uniforms said, trying to be helpful. “Keene by name only though,” he added.
Wilmot gave him a withering look before turning his attention back to Moran. “Mrs Keene is up at the Manor. In fact, one of my officers is talking to her right now, but she doesn’t remember much about what happened except that you carried her back to the village. Everything else is a ‘blur’.” Wilmot did the standard ‘rabbit ears’ impression to indicate apostrophisation, which Moran invariably found irritating.
“It’s a bit of a blur to me as well.” Moran gave a short humourless laugh; his nightmare incarceration in the ice house was still a hazy but strangely vivid memory. Something else was bothering him, though: the name, Keene. That rang a bell. Moran frowned. She’d never told him her surname, so why did it sound so familiar?
“Listen,” Wilmot said. “I have to make a report. I’ll meet you at the Manor in half an hour.” He looked at his watch. “No, make that an hour. There’s tea and coffee, some bits to eat. Make yourself at home.”
“Fine,” Moran replied. “I’ll see you there.” He was in no hurry, and although the prospect
of returning to the site of his recent trials was less than enticing, the knowledge that he was soon to be reunited with Celine was compensation enough to bring a smile to his lips. He began to walk towards the de Courcys’ ancestral home, marvelling at how, over so many years, the family had been able to exercise such murderous control over the village and its environs.
It was a beautiful spring day and the only sound to break the silence as Moran made his way along the lane was a final barked instruction from Wilmot to his constables as the sergeant prepared to file an empty return to his superiors.
As Moran made his way up the drive he noticed two uniformed officers guarding the entrance to the ice house. How many unwary souls had shared his experience of imprisonment? More than a handful, he speculated. Perhaps they’d never know the full tally unless the bog could be completely drained, and he had no idea if such a mammoth task could ever be accomplished. It seemed unlikely. Moran’s feet crunched on gravel as he made his way towards the front entrance, his approach monitored indifferently by yet another uniformed policeman standing in the time-honoured attitude adopted by all police officers called to perform the solitary and dull duty of guardsman. Moran introduced himself and the constable stepped to one side and ushered him in.
“Quite a place, sir. Never seen anything like it.”
“I know,” Moran said. “I’ve been here before.”
His footsteps echoed in the hall’s empty expanse. He half-expected to hear Rufus’ muffled threats and shouts booming once again from the long room, but the only sound as he pushed open the salon door was the tinkle of china upon china as Celine reacquainted her cup with its delicate saucer and rose to greet him.
“Brendan. It’s good to see you.”
She looked stunning, dressed simply in a Laura Ashley style cotton skirt and top, her hair loose upon her shoulders and her mouth smiling a greeting which promised warmth, companionship, and maybe something else too. Her eyes sparkled with delight.
“Good to see you, too.” They embraced briefly. “How’s the neck?”
“On the mend.” She shrugged. “I’ll heal just fine, so the medics tell me. Come and sit down. They’ve just brought tea.”
Before he could ask who ‘they’ were, Celine explained. “A few ladies from the village are helping out. The police are using this as a base. Of course, we’ve had forensic teams in and out like a TV crime drama. It’s all happening here.”
“And they still haven’t found him.”
“No. They haven’t.” Celine reached for the teapot and Moran took a seat on the sofa beside her – the same sofa Lady Cernham had occupied as she had unburdened herself of her chequered family history. That night seemed a long time ago, but, Moran reflected, it could never be far enough away for comfort.
“I hope they’re not giving you a hard time,” he said, accepting a cup and saucer of such intricate delicacy he was almost afraid to touch it. “Thanks.”
“Pleasure.” She smiled again and Moran’s world lit up. “No, just the usual questions, you know.”
“Oh yes, I know,” he nodded, then looked up, surprised. “What?”
Celine was laughing. “Nothing. Just the way you said it. You sounded like a jaded old detective who’s seen it all.”
“That’s a pretty accurate description.”
They both laughed.
“Tell me,” Moran said, “Mrs Keene. How do I know your name when you’ve never disclosed your surname to me?”
“Probably because you rented my cottage last week.”
The penny dropped. “Really? Why didn’t you say? You never mentioned you were the owner.”
“You never asked.”
Now or never, Moran. He had to know. “And the Mrs?”
“An anachronism. He died years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was young, so was he. We probably wouldn’t have stayed together anyway. He got sick. Cancer.”
Moran nodded sombrely, but inside the elation was building.
“Shall we take a walk while you’re waiting for our friend, Wilmot?” she suggested.
“Why not?” He finished his tea and they went out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. The lawn rippled in the light breeze, but it was a breeze carrying with it a breath of summer. Celine linked her arm in his and they went down the steps, following the line of the balustrade towards the maze.
“Not the maze, I think,” Moran said. In any case the entrance was barred by chequered police tape.
“No. What an experience.” Celine shivered. “That old couple. Horrifying.”
“They were archaeologists, apparently,” Moran said. “Wilmot’s theory is that they found a body rather more contemporary than they were expecting to find.”
“Oh God,” she said in a low voice. “Another of his–”
Moran nodded. “And their remains show injuries commensurate with serious trauma. A car accident is the favourite.”
“But not an accident.” Celine’s mouth twisted in distaste.
“I don’t know that they’ll ever prove anything, but for my money I’d guess they were run off the road by a Land Rover or similar, belonging in all probability to Richard de Courcy.”
Celine shook her head slowly. Moran was enjoying the way the sun danced in her hair as she moved. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she said. “How they got away with it for so long.”
“And how do you feel now that it’s nearly over?” Moran asked gently. “Your sister can rest in peace. You must tell me about her – if you can bear to?” he added quickly.
“Of course. I’d like to.”
“You must have suffered, suspecting – knowing – the truth, and being with de Courcy must have–”
“I can’t speak of him,” Celine interrupted. “An evil man, that’s all. An evil man who got his just desserts.”
“Of course. In your own time, perhaps. We can take things at your own pace. That’s fine.”
“Is it?” She stopped and turned to face him. “Is it fine, Brendan?”
Moran heard a scrunch of tyres on the drive. More forensic activity, no doubt. Or maybe Wilmot had finally tired of tramping up and down from the village to the Manor.
“What do you mean?” Moran felt the first flutter of anxiety. He had been too heavy-handed. Idiot.
“Can you live with the truth, Brendan?”
“I’d prefer to live with the truth than with a lie,” Moran replied, frowning. What was she getting at? “What do you mean?”
“They’ll not find him, Brendan.”
Her voice carried such certainty and conviction that Moran felt as though he had been forcibly struck. He took a step back, shaking his head.
“Oh no. Tell me you didn’t–”
“Do you think that I’ve lived the last fifteen years of my life for nothing, Brendan? That I’ve made the sacrifices I’ve made just to let it all go, as if it didn’t matter what the de Courcys have done? As if my big sister hadn’t been murdered?”
Moran stood a small distance away, hands by his sides, almost speechless. Eventually he managed one word. “How?”
“You told me yourself I was a resourceful woman, Brendan. And I told you when I came to you in the ice house that it was going to end. That I was going to put a stop to it once and for all. I wasn’t spinning you a yarn. I wasn’t makin’ it up.”
The Irish lilt grew more pronounced as she went on. Moran could only listen, aghast.
“I used a tracker. It’s small. You can get them online these days. I fixed it on his clothes when he cut me. And you finished it off for me, crippling the bastard so I could go after him. And that’s exactly what I did. He’ll not be troublin’ anyone again.”
“Where’s the body? I have to tell them, Celine.” Moran’s day had turned to night. There was a hard lump in his throat and he had difficulty speaking normally. “You know I have to.”
“Do you? Do you, Brendan?”
Now he could see the moistness in her eyes. She bl
inked a tear away angrily, folded her arms. “I could be happy with a man like you, Brendan. And you with me. I know it. I can feel it.”
“Yes,” Moran said simply. “Yes, I know.”
“I saved your life.”
“Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Your choice. Do your duty if you have to. Throw it all away, why don’t you?”
She turned then and walked away, arms still folded, retracing their steps, leaving Moran alone by the gently fluttering police tape.
“So.” Wilmot’s weariness was barely camouflaged now. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a dark line of fatigue beneath each told the story of the pressure he was under. “So, you want to revise your statement.”
They were sitting in Wilmot’s car, an old Rover 75 which smelt of oil, paper and sweat. The sergeant’s mobile office. Moran sat next to him in the passenger seat watching a robin flit from one branch to another in the apple tree which leaned into the lane from above the adjoining hedgerow. He cleared his throat before replying, not trusting his voice.
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Let’s have it, then.”
Moran heard himself speaking but it was as though he were listening to some detached third-party recording. Wilmot prompted and sought clarification where necessary, allowed Moran to collect his thoughts without interrupting, and gave him his head when the words came quickly and without hesitation. When he had finished Wilmot clicked off the recorder and exhaled deeply.
“They gave you quite a dose, apparently, so I’m not particularly surprised.”
“No,” Moran agreed.
“As you say, it was probably a combination of the drug, the setting and your understandable anxiety concerning Mrs Keene’s safety which prevented you from recognising Richard de Courcy as the primary antagonist.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs Keene has also confirmed that to be the case. Funny the way the mind can play tricks, especially under duress.” Wilmot turned to gauge Moran’s response.
“Yes, I’d have to agree.”
“Oh well,” Wilmot said, trying not to let the relief spill into his tone too much, “at least we can stop chasing ghosts, eh?”
