Devil's Garden

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hammond said. ‘We’ll be getting back to the station. We can’t put everything else on hold, unfortunately, and I don’t see what else we can be doing at the moment.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Strang said grimly. ‘Oh, by the way, did Jason Jackson get in touch with you about where he’s staying? I wanted to have another little chat with him.’

  Murray looked sharply at Wilson, and saw him twitch. Hammond, though, seemed perfectly calm as he said, ‘No. Should he have?’

  ‘Yes, he certainly should,’ Strang said tartly. ‘Can you find out for me and let me know?’

  ‘Of course, sir. We’ll chase him up.’

  But as they left, Murray did think that if Jason Jackson had gone to ground, it might be very convenient for anyone who had reason to be nervous about what he might say if pressed.

  The kitchen at the Hub had only a skeleton staff this morning, though it was hard to think of Chrissie in quite those terms. With her younger, slimmer colleague Joanne she had struggled up from the town with the morning rolls and she was in a complaining mood.

  ‘Took me all my time to get up that hill,’ she muttered. ‘And how are we going to get down again, I’d like to know?’

  Joanne giggled. ‘Just sit on our bums and slide.’

  ‘All right for you,’ Chrissie said darkly. ‘You’re two stone lighter and twenty years younger. And we’re going to be on our own by the looks of things. Can’t see that Gil Paton struggling in to help.’

  ‘Not a great walker, our Gil, you’d have to say.’

  Chrissie snorted. ‘Thinks the Good Lord equipped him with wheels instead of feet.’

  Still, they had the breakfast ready by the time the first of the writers appeared – Marion Hutton, who brightened when she saw them.

  ‘Oh, well done, ladies! I thought it was going to be do-it-yourself this morning. We’d be fine with coffee and toast, of course, but rolls are an unexpected bonus! Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘That’s real nice of you,’ Chrissie said, ‘but we’ll warsle through. There’ll be no problem now that guy that was aye moaning about something’s gone.’

  Elena Jankowski arrived, said a polite good morning, took an apple and a cup of coffee and went back upstairs. Marion sat down to her own breakfast, looking guilty. If she was a real writer she too would be hurrying back to her desk, instead of lingering in the hope of something to distract her. Fortunately, Mick McNab appeared and was happy to sit and exclaim about the Beast from the East, which was making a start on living up to its media billing.

  It was much later when Sascha came downstairs. They’d cleared away the breakfast and the others were back at their desks by the time she appeared, and Marion jumped up in concern.

  ‘Oh dear! Joanne has just cleared away, but I’m sure—’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Sascha said curtly. ‘Coffee’s fine.’

  Marion withdrew, hurt. Mick looked up. ‘Dearie me, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’

  Saschia sent him a withering look. She wasn’t looking at her best today, as if she hadn’t slept well. With her coffee mug in hand, she looked round about her.

  ‘Where’s Gil?’ she demanded of no one in particular.

  ‘He isn’t in yet,’ Marion said.

  ‘You may not have noticed – there’s a bit of that weather stuff out there,’ Mick added.

  Sascha turned on him. ‘Yes, I had noticed, funnily enough. What I want to know is, what does this mean for us? Will Anna Harper use this as an excuse for not doing her masterclass? That was the whole point of coming here – I’ll be absolutely furious if it’s cancelled. I’ve taken a week off work for this.’

  Mick shrugged and went back to his work. Marion said soothingly, ‘I’m sure she’ll try, Sascha, but it’s getting worse all the time.’

  Sascha scowled. ‘Gil should be here, keeping us in the picture. What’s his phone number?’

  Marion was looking blank when Gil himself appeared along the corridor from the Foundation reception hall. He was wearing a cagoule and leaving puddles on the floor as he stamped the snow off his boots.

  ‘About time!’ Sascha said aggressively. ‘We all feel entitled to know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Well, not all,’ Marion bleated, while Gil gave Sascha a dirty look.

  ‘Do you have the slightest idea what it’s like out there? It took me half an hour to dig out the car and then it wasn’t keen to start. You’re lucky I’ve got a four-wheel drive or I wouldn’t be here by now.’

  ‘So what about Anna’s masterclass?’

  Gil shrugged. ‘Have to see what the weather’s doing by then, I suppose.’

  Sascha had just embarked on her argument for getting Anna to do it whatever the weather, when Gil’s phone buzzed.

  ‘OK, I’ll be right there.’ He turned and said over his shoulder, ‘That’s the police back again,’ as he went towards the corridor.

  Cassie Trentham had no idea what time it was. Her head hurt, she still felt sick when she sat up and she had drifted to and fro between sleep and waking for what seemed like forever. She had no watch and the unvarying light of a light bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling gave her no clue.

  The room, a bedroom perhaps, had been ruthlessly stripped down – bare, damp-stained white walls and its window blocked by hardwood panels. There was nothing in it apart from the metal-framed fold-up bed she was lying on, a chemical toilet in the far corner, a small wooden table with a big bottle of water on it and a couple of rickety chairs.

  Cassie tried to work out what that meant, but somehow with her poor sore head she couldn’t think clearly. She eased herself to her feet and stood waiting for the dizziness to pass before she went to try the door – locked, of course. She went to the window and tried to get some purchase on the hardboard, but it was nailed down all round. There was nothing at all in the room that she could use as a lever. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and she tipped up the bottle to drink from it, wincing as icy water splashed down her neck

  She listened, straining her ears, but could hear nothing; it was deathly still. And it was bitterly, bitterly cold. At least there was a thick duvet on the bed and it was still warm from her body so she crept back under it and pulled it up over her head as she was swept by waves of panic.

  She only realised she had gone to sleep again when the sound of the door opening woke her with a start. He was there, shutting the door behind him as she struggled to sit up. There was snow melting on his jacket.

  She could almost smell his tension and his voice was rough as he said, ‘That’s better, Cassie. Now we can talk business. I’m in a hurry, so just get on with it. What’s the new code for Highfield?’

  She ignored that. ‘Why have you kidnapped me? What are you going to do to me?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘We’ll talk about that later. Code, Cassie.’

  She didn’t know it. She could remember Marta telling her, remember scribbling it somewhere – her pocket diary, probably? – reckoning she probably wouldn’t need it anyway, not being in the habit of making unannounced visits. Should she tell him that, or lie? If only her head didn’t feel so muzzy, she might be able to work out which was best. Then it came to her: if she said she knew but wouldn’t tell him he would most likely hit her, and she didn’t think she could bear that at the moment.

  ‘Come on! I haven’t time to waste.’ He was getting angry. ‘Code?’

  ‘I-I can’t remember just now,’ Cassie said, putting a hand to her head. ‘Maybe I might, later, when I’m feeling better.’

  His eyes were as cold as stones but again she could sense his anxiety. ‘You’ve one more chance. Keep thinking. I’ll come back and you can tell me then. Or else.’

  ‘Or else – what? And what do you want it for, anyway?’ As if she didn’t know!

  He made no attempt to answer, just turned his back and walked out. A gust of cold air swept in as the door was shut, and she heard the key turned
in the lock and then the sound of a car driving away.

  Cassie huddled into a ball under the duvet, too deeply scared even for tears. He was going to kill her, either before or after he killed her mother, depending on whether or not he could get into Highfield, and there was nothing she could do.

  Surely they must be looking for her by now? Davy would have raised the alarm first thing – only when was that? Had she been here a day? Two days – more? And she kept drifting off, so she didn’t even know now how long it was since he left.

  DCI Strang and DC Murray were waiting by the desk where Cassie Trentham’s secretary Jess was acting as receptionist. ‘It’s just me today – none of the other staff has managed to get in, except a couple of ladies in the kitchen,’ she explained. ‘But Gil Paton’s just made it, so I’ve buzzed him – oh, here he is.’

  Observing him approach, Strang could see the defensive set of his shoulders even before the man reached them.

  ‘So,’ he said belligerently, ‘what are you wanting this time?’

  ‘Just one or two questions, sir, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if I do, does it?’

  Was this carrying the fight to the enemy before war had been declared? ‘I suppose not, sir. But I’ll be wanting to speak to everyone anyway,’ Strang said. ‘Have either of you spoken to Ms Trentham since last night?’

  Jess had been looking embarrassed by Gil’s behaviour and she was quick to say, ‘No, I haven’t. We spoke before she left last night and she did say she might have to stay at Highfield tonight if it was getting any worse, but she certainly intended to be in this morning.’

  ‘Haven’t seen her since yesterday morning,’ Gil said. ‘Why – can’t you find her?’

  ‘She isn’t at her house and we’re anxious to trace her whereabouts,’ Strang said carefully.

  Gil seemed unmoved. ‘Well, she’s not here. As you can see. And being told what her plans are isn’t for the likes of me. Her mother probably knows. Or Marta – she knows everything.’

  Jess looked astonished at the bitterness in Gil’s tone. ‘Do you mean that she’s actually missing?’ she said.

  Strang was just saying, ‘We’re not prepared to assume that at this stage but it would be helpful if anyone had any information they could help us with,’ when he heard the tap-tap of heels and Sascha came hurrying along the corridor from the Hub. His heart sank; if his suspicions were correct, this was a story that was going to break any minute now. Caught up in the morning’s problems he hadn’t contacted JB and she had to be forewarned. The sooner they got out of here the better.

  ‘Constable, please could you take Mr Paton over there just to run through his movements last night and today,’ he said to Murray. ‘Good morning, Ms Silverton.’

  Sascha’s eyes were gleaming. ‘Did you say “missing”, Jess? Is someone missing, Inspector?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish the present whereabouts of Ms Trentham. Have you had any contact with her since last night?’

  She brushed the question aside. ‘Me? No. But Inspector, I have some questions I want to ask you about what has happened. Do you believe she has been abducted? I’m a journalist.’

  ‘That isn’t a surprise,’ he said drily. ‘But you’re only a journalist if you have a press card.’

  Sascha’s face flushed. ‘Well, I’ll get one when I break this story.’

  ‘If you say so. Until then, you’re a member of the public, not the press. What did you do last night and this morning?’

  Her big brown eyes filled with tears. ‘I need this story! All I want is—’

  ‘Ms Silverton – last night?’

  For a moment she looked as if she was going to ignore him. Then she said sulkily, ‘I walked into town to see if I could persuade Richard Sansom to have supper with me. I’m sure he knows a lot more about Anna Harper than he’s told me so far and I’m sure I could have got more out of him if I’d another chance. But he wasn’t there and now it looks as if Anna Harper won’t do her masterclass either, and I’ve wasted time and money to come here …’ She brought out a tissue and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘Got up, about twenty minutes ago. That’s it.’

  Jess said coldly, ‘It’s been something of an abuse of hospitality, hasn’t it, Sascha? Odd that you didn’t mention your plans when you applied. If it’s helpful, Chief Inspector, yesterday evening I went home to my family and left them this morning to come in here. Is … is Cassie in trouble?’

  ‘We hope not,’ Strang said. ‘Thank you for that. The other writers – in the Hub? Right.’

  Her eyes narrowed, Sascha stared after him as he went through and Murray joined him, leaving Gil sitting on one of the cream leather sofas. ‘Swears he drove home last night, drove here this morning,’ she muttered. ‘Doesn’t seem much bothered about Cassie.’

  He paused. ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t know. So full of his own grievances it would be hard to say.’

  Mick McNab was cooperative but unhelpful. Given the free food and booze, along with the weather, he hadn’t left the Hub since he arrived. Marion Hutton was the same, though she laid less emphasis on the booze and more on the worry about Cassie. Elena Jankowski, whose first novel Strang had seen reviewed but hadn’t read, was patently disconnected from the world outside the four walls of her room.

  Even in that short time the snow was noticeably deeper when they came out of the Foundation, but there was still enough traffic to keep the road passable.

  ‘I’ll have to call the boss,’ Strang said. ‘I’d like to have had some minor progress to report before I broke the news to her, but the wretched Silverton is going to bring the roof in.’

  Murray fully shared in the general police antipathy to the ladies and gentlemen of the media, but she said, ‘I was a bit sorry for her, mind. She’d obviously pinned a lot on this. I’d guess she’s pretty skint.’

  Strang gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t waste your sympathy! She’ll be on the phone to the Scottish Sun this very minute. Look, I’m going back to the station. I want to put pressure on Hammond to find Jackson – he’s a niggle at the back of my mind. I’ll let you off at the White Hart and you can check up on Richard Sansom. OK?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  He pulled up and she got out, leaving him to drive on composing in his head the best way to present a very unpalatable report to Detective Chief Superintendent Jane Borthwick.

  Richard Sansom wasn’t at the White Hart. The woman behind the bar acted as receptionist as well and she was able to tell Murray that though she wasn’t sure when he’d left the day before, he’d asked for his room to be kept for him.

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ Murray asked.

  ‘No, he’s been to and fro a lot. Nice gentleman – well set-up, you know? He said he had bookshops to visit and he’d some other contacts to see as well – all this Anna Harper stuff, I suppose. He said he’d be back tonight but with all this snow I can’t see it.’

  ‘Right,’ Murray said thoughtfully. ‘Don’t have his phone number, do you?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘When he gets back, ask him to call this number.’ Murray gave her a card, then paused on her way out. It was going to be a long walk along the snowy street to get to the police station and she was entitled to a break. ‘Could you do me a cappuccino? And a biscuit or something?’

  ‘Sure. Doughnut?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ The word she was looking for was ‘No’ but somehow it didn’t come out that way. She took a table by the window and sat deep in thought.

  She’d been really gratified that Strang had left her to interview Gil Paton, who had after all been in pole position as chief suspect when they arrived. He was treating her seriously at last and she was determined to prove her worth.

  Gil, in her estimation, wasn’t a starter. He was just too feeble, whinging and bleating away about unfairness, and quite frankly she couldn’t see him having the guts to kidnap Cassie –
plunging a knife into her and running away possibly, but not this. She hadn’t met Richard Sansom yet, but ‘well set-up’ sounded more plausible.

  And if you were planning to snatch Cassie, you’d have to prepare somewhere to put her. So what had Sansom been doing, these past few days? Unspecific visits were a perfect excuse. And, of course, Cassie would have had no hesitation in opening the door when she looked through her peephole. He was shaping up into a very promising suspect.

  Strang had said something about Jackson too, but she didn’t really go for that. He’d had his chance when he got into the house and he hadn’t taken it, so why would he be a threat now?

  No, there was definitely more mileage in Richard Sansom. Of course, Anna Harper must have his number – and now she thought about it, she had the Highfield number on her own phone. But when she dialled it and asked to speak to Ms Harper or Ms Morelli, a woman took her name and request, then came back and said they didn’t have it. Foiled. The doughnut was delicious, though.

  She’d better make the trek back to the station and get on to Anna Harper’s publishers for the phone number and background checks. Strang would be busy sorting out the press statement with DCS Borthwick so she’d have time to build up a really professional case to present to him.

  Strang was dead against looking for a motive before you got in the evidence, but with a kidnapping it was pretty obvious – money. No one would be more aware of the extent of the Harper fortune than Sansom. Not only that, he was in a good position to find out about Anna’s backstory.

  Yes, Murray was pretty sure she was on the right track as she licked the sugar off her lips and set out along the pavement, a muddy mess of slush. There weren’t a lot of people about and the snow was still falling, infuriating fluffy flakes that kept clinging to her eyelashes. And her nose, come to that. Her favourite things – not!

  Now she could definitely feel a breeze – just a slight one. So far. They’d been forecasting wind and if it really got up, there would be chaos.