‘You know you can call me anytime, buddy,’ I reassured him.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’ Sean’s tone was serious.
‘Fire away.’
It took him a while before he finally said, ‘I’ve got a nixer for ya. A personal matter, that I want handled.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to check on Cathie for me.’
‘Check on her?’
‘You know, follow her around for a bit; where she goes, what she does, who she meets.’
I suspected as much but I didn’t say anything more than, ‘Sure.’
‘I didn’t want anybody else to investigate this matter. I know that I can trust you. Will you do this for me, Freddy?’
‘Consider it done,’ I promised him.
‘Cheers, Freddy. I knew I could rely on ya. How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’ll send you my address. I’ve gotta go, board meeting. Thanks again, mate.’
I scrolled through my personal mobile and saw I had three WhatsApp messages, one from a cute twink I’d fucked about a week ago. It was generic “how are you?” signed with a kiss, and two from Ameera, asking if I was free tonight. I’d told the twink that I was going away on holiday, so I could uphold the lie and he could wait without getting upset, and Ameera, who was just upstairs, wasn’t going anywhere, so opted to dismiss the messages by not bothering to open the app, which brought me some more time until I felt horny enough to reply, to either one, dependent upon my inclination at the time.
I received Sean’s address and instantly forwarded it across to my work mobile before I forgot to do it. I did feel sorry for the poor sod, but I’d seen this coming the moment I laid eyes on Catherine at the wedding. What I hadn’t expected was that she’d be so indiscreet as to rouse Sean’s suspicions enough for him to take action, particularly so soon after their nuptials.
I gave a deep sigh, created from exhaustion of the day, mainly due to travel, residue sensation of pain to the back of my head, and partly for my friend’s predicament. I turned off and discarded both mobiles on my desk, and went straight to my kitchenette, which was a corner of the flat, and fixed myself a microwavable dinner in three minutes.
After I’d eaten, I sat back down at my desk, turned on my computer, lit a cigarette and typed the words “Combe Martin” into Google. It did not take me long to discover that Combe Martin was a small, coastal village in North Devon.
So that’s where Grahame has gone with his girlfriend, the petite blonde, I.A., I deduced. So who was Cassandra Goad?
I typed the name into Google, expecting to trawl through endless Cassandra Goad Facebook profiles on the off chance of finding a photo of Cassandra with Grahame, but the first website that came up was for a jewellery store in Knightsbridge.
I clicked on the website and began looking through the various pieces of beautiful, high-end jewellery, when I came across one item that made me curious.
It was a ring called the Mia Sapphire Ring, an 18ct white gold ring set with a faceted sapphire and encircled with diamonds.
What captured my attention, despite its beauty, was the price of the ring, £5,220.
Grahame had recently purchased a ring. Was he going to propose to I.A.? Had he taken her on a holiday down to the coast to propose?
I called Rachel to give her a progress report.
She answered after the fourth ring, ‘Hello.’
‘It’s Fred. I’ve just come back from Grahame’s flat and...’
Rachel interrupted, ‘One moment.’ Even though it was slightly muffled, I heard her saying, ‘Excuse me, I need to take this call.’ There were sounds of movement and of a door closing. Rachel said in a quiet voice, ‘Have you found him, Fred?’
‘Do you know of a place called Combe Martin?’
‘I’m sorry, did you say Combe Martin?’
‘Yes. It’s a village down in Devon.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What has this to do with Grahame? Is he down in Devon?’
‘Possibly, it’s a lead that I’m going to follow up.’ I explained. ‘Also, I wanted to ask, do you know anyone with the initials I. A.?’ There was a long silence on the line. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m trying to think,’ Rachel snapped irritably.
‘She would also know Grahame.’
‘Well, that narrows the field considerably.’ There was a brief pause. ‘No, I cannot think of anybody with those initials who is acquainted with Grahame, and I don’t recall him ever mentioning anyone with those initials either. Why? Who is I.A.?’
‘I believe that Grahame went with this I.A. person to Combe Martin over the weekend. There’s a chance they may still be there. I’m going to drive down to the village and investigate. I’ll keep you updated.’
‘Please do.’ Rachel cleared the line.
Chapter 8
The moment had come that I had been dreading, sitting behind the wheel of my car, about to embark upon the journey down to Devon. According to the sat-nav, it was going to be a solid four hour drive on the motorways to the picturesque coastal county, not including stopping off at one of the services for the compulsory fast food binge and necessary caffeine injection to complete the trip without completely losing my mind to the endless stretches of monotonous roads.
I reached Combe Martin around half-past ten in the evening, drove along the longest high street in England and parked in the Pack O’ Cards Inn car park.
The Pack O’ Cards Inn was rather eccentric, Grade II listed building with whitewashed walls and peaked rooftops of black slate. The unusual-looking hotel consisted of four tiers stacked on top of one another in a rather higgledy-piggledy fashion with a superfluous number of windows and chimneys featuring predominantly.
I felt ambivalent about the place but I was too exhausted, physically and mentally, to go searching for somewhere else to stay, so I decided it would be fine for the night and headed inside.
I flirted with the cute receptionist, who giggled in all the right places, and checked me in to a room on the second floor called the “Rose Room”.
It was a simple room, appropriately decorated, given its name, with rose patterned wallpaper and a couple of framed pictures of roses.
I threw my backpack on the bed and then went straight back downstairs in desperate need of a stiff drink. I took a stance at the wooden bar and ate complimentary salted nuts from a small, plastic dish whilst I patiently waited for the bartender to finish trading jokes with the three guys gathered in a huddle at the opposite end of the bar. From what I overheard the bartender’s name was Steve.
I felt my personal mobile vibrating. Why did I take this with me? I asked myself. Oh yeah, in case Sean got in touch, should’ve given him my business number. I slid it out my jean pocket and found I had another message from Ameera. It read, ‘Tomo night? X’ I was tempted to say yes but I didn’t know how long I would be down here, working on the case.
I was about to reply to her message when there was a lull in their rowdy conversation and Steve deigned to come over to where I was standing.
He was a large, skinhead, who had a sleeve of tattoos running up his right arm, and a face that looked like someone had repeatedly slammed it into a brick wall for kicks. He wore tight, black leather trousers, black boots, and a black leather waist coat, worn open, over a plain, white t-shirt. Despite his appearance he was quite sociable, probably a result of his job.
Steve, now standing in front of me, placed both of his massive hands flat on the bar and asked, ‘What’ll it be, mate?’
‘Gimme a pint,’ I ordered. ‘Guinness.’
‘Comin’ right up.’ As the bartender pulled the pump, he casually enquired, ‘You staying at the hotel?’ I nodded. ‘Did ya know, this ‘ere hotel is a bit of a tourist attraction, d’ya know why?’ I didn’t know, and really didn’t want to know why, but I knew regardless of whatever I said I had a gut feeling that I was going to be told one way or th
e other whether I liked it or not, so I indulged him and listened attentively. ‘It was built by a gambler called George Ley with all of his winnings from the card tables, y’see. The four floors represent the four suits of cards, each floor has 13 doors matching the number of cards in a suit, and there are 52 windows to equal the number of cards in a single pack. Clever, ain’t it? We were even on TV, that magic show, back in the day, on ITV, with the old guy and his blonde babe. Y’know the one, wasshisname?’ He continually clicked his fingers, trying to recall the name.
‘Paul Daniels?’ I ventured.
‘That’s the one!’ He beamed at me. ‘In town on business, mate?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’ I judged that Steve, being a bartender in a village, would be a reliable source of local knowledge and could prove potentially useful to my investigation, so I dropped any pretences and told him outright, ‘I’m a private investigator.’ I presented him with my business card. ‘I’m looking for someone. I believe that they came down here this weekend.’
‘Hmmm…Go on, try me, fella. Most folks pass through ‘ere, like.’
I took out the photo Rachel had given me of Grahame, placed it on the bar for Steve to see and tapped his face with my forefinger. ‘Maybe you’d know him then. His name is Grahame Kingsley.’
Steve laughed. ‘Grahame, yeah, of course, I know him. Known him ever since he was a little ‘un. Grew up in this neck of the woods. Everyone down in these parts knows him. He’s the Lord of Huxleys now.’
‘Huxleys?’ I questioned.
Steve let out a belly laugh, finding my ignorance extremely amusing. ‘You’re really not from around these parts are you, mate?’ I shook my head. ‘Huxleys, it’s one of those huge, country estates. It’s been in the Kingsley family for generations and generations, passed down like. They used to hold the village fetes on the grounds but that all stopped during the Colonel’s reign. After the old bugger kicked the bucket the place has been unlived in. It’s a pity, is what it is.’
‘The Colonel?’
‘Grahame’s Father, the Honourable Thomas Kingsley. Honourable, my arse! Proper wanker, he was, through and through, with a military background to boot, and all the pomp and ceremony that came with his rank. Liked to hunt and shoot animals for sport and any trespassers dumb enough to step on his land. They didn’t get along, him and Grahame - never did. So after the snooty Lady Evelyn, his Mother, died, he packed Grahame off to somewhere up north, one of those all-boy boarding schools. Poor sod.’
‘Tell me, what’s Grahame like?’ I was keen to get an unbiased opinion on the missing man from this straight-talking, open man.
‘Grahame?’ The bartender shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Dunno, suppose, he’s a decent sort of geezer, not like his Pa. A bit soft, sensitive like, took more after his mother like that. Last I heard, he lives somewhere in London…’ Steve trailed off and I could tell from his dumb expression that something had occurred to him. ‘Well bugger me, now that you come to mention it, he was actually here, on Saturday afternoon.’
‘Grahame was here?’
‘Yeah, he was, I remember now, came in with a new bird on his arm. They ordered two steak and ale pies and sat over there.’ He nodded his bald head in the direction of the brightly lit conservatory with tables. ‘Away from everyone, keeping themselves to themselves, holding hands, all lovey-dovey like.’
Could this new bird be I.A.?
‘The woman he was with, can you describe her?’
‘Sure, hmm...She was a petite blonde, pretty, about this tall,’ Steve said, levelling his hand off at half his height. ‘For a toff he’s got good taste in chicks, I’ll give him that.’
I raised my pint to him and said, ‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘No problem, mate. That’ll be £3.50.’
I left the bar and passed through Reception where the redhead was on duty. I put my arms on the desk and waited for her to finish her call. When she did, she looked up and saw me, and blushed again.
‘Excuse me,’ I started.
‘Hello. How can I help, sir?’
‘It’s a rather strange request.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a big country estate here, called Huxleys, do you know where it is?’
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Huxley House. It used to a National Trust site.’ She whipped out a blown-up map of Combe Martin from the desk drawer and circled the location. ‘You’ll find it here, sir. It’s not clearly signposted, so keep an eye out for a series of white stone markers along the roadside as you approach.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Is there anything else I can do you for you, sir?’
‘That’ll be all for now.’ I winked at her and she turned crimson.
Chapter 9
After an uneventful night’s sleep, I woke to the annoying caws of seagulls perched outside my window. I groaned and got up, pulled aside the chintz curtains, unlatched the window, and frightened the flock of birds away.
I saw that the clear, blue sky had been invaded by dark storm clouds.
So much for the UK’s week long heatwave, I thought, looks like the weatherman got it wrong again. Typical.
After breathing in a lungful of clean, sea air, I found myself hankering for a cigarette. As I smoked my first fag of the day, I became entranced by the view from my window. I found watching the grey-blue sea gently lapping a small strip of beach strangely captivating. My newfound fascination with nature lapsed the same time I extinguished my cigarette.
I got showered, changed and headed downstairs for a hot breakfast. After I had devoured a full English breakfast, of two fried eggs, two slices of brown toast, three rashers of crispy bacon and a healthy serving of baked beans, and downed a cup of black coffee, I decided I’d check out the Kingsley family’s “famous” stately pile.
It was a short trip from the hotel. When I spotted the white markers on the roadside, the turning for Huxleys came into view. I was driving down a straight, tree-lined country road for a while but it was not until I had rounded a gradual bend that the house finally appeared.
It was a grand building but not as grand as I had imagined it to be. The Medieval, red brick structure was relatively small in size but it still possessed an imposing presence. It was completely isolated with nobody for miles. The gardens surrounding it had long been neglected and had surrendered to Mother Nature’s powerful will.
As I approached, the house began to look strangely familiar to me but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
I pulled up and parked behind a white Fiat Punto - the colour, make and model matched the description of Grahame’s car.
I got out of my car, keeping my driving gloves on, I peered inside the Punto, and saw a sat-nav suckered to the windscreen. It was a reasonable conclusion to make that if his car was here that Grahame was also here.
I walked up the stone steps to the massive, solid oak Cathedral door, guarded either side by black, stone statues of standing lions, and banged the bronze knocker, which sounded out an impressive resonance within, but, after waiting, no answer came. Faced with no other alternative, I would have to find another way inside.
I ventured around to the right side of the house. As I turned the corner, the vista gave me an unsettling feeling of déjà vu. I took out the photograph I’d found at Grahame’s flat, unfolded it and held it up. The image matched, even Huxleys was recognisable in the background.
So this was where the photograph was taken, I determined. Rachel had been here. She knew of Huxley House but had failed to mention anything about it, even when I mentioned the location. I didn’t believe for a second she would’ve forgotten this place.
I couldn’t help wondering why Rachel would hold out on me.
I ventured around the side of the house. All of the windows on the ground floor were shut tight and had curtains drawn across with the exception of one at the rear of the house, which had been smashed and left wide open, banging in the wind. I swallowed. This was not a good
sign.
I climbed through the open window and heard the crunch of glass underneath my shoes as I stepped into the room.
The spacious room had a high ceiling, parquet floor and wooden panelled walls. The only things to notice in the room were oddly shaped pieces of furniture concealed under dust cloths, and a large rock, a few feet away from where I was standing, which must have been used to smash the window. As I moved about the room, my curiosity got the better of me - as it usually did - and I peeked beneath one of the sheets and discovered that it was covering a harp. I was in the music room.
There were two doors leading off the music room. I went through the nearest one to me. I entered a darkened room. It was too dark to see anything inside but there was a distinct smell emanating out of the darkness. The pungent odour was one that I had to come to recognise over the years as only one thing. It was the foul stench of death. It sent a cold shiver down my spine. I ran my hand up the wall just inside the doorway and felt for the light switch. I found it, flipped it on and, with the room illuminated, what I had been dreading to find was revealed.
There was a body lying, twisted, on the floor in a pool of dried blood. I crossed the room to the large, stone fireplace where the corpse lay. As I crouched down, I got a strong whiff of urine. Even though the nose had been broken and the face was badly bruised and partially stained with blood, I was able to make a positive identification.
So this is what has become of Grahame Kingsley, I thought.
Grahame had clearly been involved in a violent confrontation before his assailant had taken a blunt instrument and opened up his head. The brutality of his injuries seemed excessive, bordering on overkill. On that basis alone, I ruled out the possibility of a robbery gone sideways. Whoever the murderer was, he or she, clearly had it in for the guy.
Someone must’ve had a personal vendetta against him. Who could hate Grahame enough to beat him so savagely and then execute him in such a brutal fashion?
I deftly used my fingers to close Grahame’s eyes.
The fireplace, where the body lay, had a poker set, which was missing one poker. I figured, this had been used as the murder weapon. If this was the weapon, had the killer come here with the intention to kill? I wondered. It was looking to me like a crime of passion rather than a premeditated murder. Scanning the room, I couldn’t see a discarded, blood-stained poker.
The Hollow Woman Page 5
