Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  ‘So, this brother. Where can I find him?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ Freman said ingenuously.

  But Freman was a devious little shit, and probably knew more than he was letting on. Someone yelled Redwall’s name. ‘Hang around,’ he said, turning. ‘This conversation isn’t over.’

  ‘OK. I’ll just take a few pics.’

  By the time Redwall had dealt with the problem, Freman had bolted. Damn the man. He knew something. And if he damned well published anything, he should have first informed the police about, this time Redwall would have his arse in jail.

  He told Jim to trace Sarah’s family. Find her brother. And be careful, he might be a loose cannon. If her body was discovered under that pile of rubble, he’d have to inform her family she was dead. Hell, everything to do with Vanger and Sarah Thomson turned to grease under his feet.

  Chapter 37

  Freman snapped off a load of pictures, and hot-pressed the story to his paper. It was too late to print, but he already had this morning’s lower front page, and now he had the next morning’s top fold. Yeah! Was he good, or was he good? He was flavour of the month, anyway, with several possible exposés to follow. With a bit of manipulation, this story could keep him going for weeks. It would be a shame if Robin and Sarah were found under the pile, of course, but it wasn’t his fault, and would make good copy. Robin had survived the crash, rebuilt his body and his life, only to die in an unexplained gas explosion… Sarah, the modern, attractive Florence Nightingale, squashed by masonry… and Joel, the nutter who wanted to keep his sister under lock and key… Was this his doing? Whatever the scenario, even if Robin and Sarah turned up alive, there was a different story to write.

  But first, Freman had to get to Joel before Redwall did. He knew the guy was a few bricks short of a load – that had come through loud and clear. He also knew the guy was strong like Atlas. He didn’t even try to convince himself that Joel would be rational enough to accept any kind of incentive for his story. It would have to be underhand, and he was good at that. That kind of possessiveness towards one’s sibling was kind of scary. Shame this wasn’t America. He’d never really hankered after a gun, but there were times it would make a guy feel safer. If push came to shove, he was getting on, and the younger, stronger guy had the advantage, at least in the muscle department. He had a Taser under the seat in his car, though, and every intention of using it if he had to. Be prepared, he thought, amused that the old Boy Scout motto rose in his mind at this time. He’d never been a very good Scout, either. All those rules and regulations and being seen to be the perfect adult-in-training reminded him of the Nazi youth.

  Joel had been at work the day he’d sussed out Wood Hall, which had been serendipitous; if Joel had been at home, he wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to sneak around and rescue Sarah from what was clearly a purpose-built cell. And there was another bloody angle. Why on earth would a place like that have cells?

  Jesus, this was turning into some story.

  He checked out the hospital, but Joel wasn’t there, which meant he must be at that mausoleum of his. Why did they both work in a hospital in menial, underpaid roles, when they owned that place? That was just another mystery to solve. He would discover their financial situation with a little help from a friend, and no doubt there was another story behind that, too. He whistled happily. Life just got better and better.

  It was overcast when he arrived at the dilapidated mansion he now knew as Wood Hall, but the impressive old gate was open invitingly. He drove in. Take the bull by the horns, eh? He knew what he was facing, he’d already done the sneaky-creepy thing last time, got the lay of the land. Joel would probably be mad at him, it’s not everyday someone lets your prisoner escape. But by now Joel would realise Freman had the drop on him – locking up your sister was kidnapping, and that carried a pretty hefty sentence – so might be in the mood for bargaining. If not, well…

  He slipped his hand around the Taser in his pocket and strode up confidently to the massive front door. No tradesman’s entrance, this time, he decided. But when Joel didn’t respond to the pounding of a cast iron dolphin, he was forced to reconsider. He could stand there all day stroking his ego, but it was starting to rain. He shrugged further into his jacket, and began to plod around the back.

  Chapter 38

  Later in the day, Inspector Redwall walked up the path to a small house, following up Jim’s research on Sarah. The area was a confused mish-mash of cultures and aspirations. Where once the whole area would have been council-owned, most properties were now private, their origins partially disguised by fresh paint and new windows, but the effect merely served to accentuate the seediness of those hanging on to the socialist dreams of the nineteen-sixties.

  The door on which he knocked boasted the latter. It was opened by a woman who might once have been beautiful. Tall, with fine bones behind a patchwork of fine lines, she was still striking. He tried to visualise her as Sarah Thompson’s mother. It was not beyond the bounds of the imagination. Her shadowed grey eyes questioned.

  ‘Mrs Thompson?’

  Surprisingly, she had a cultured voice, middle English with a hint of faded grandeur. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  He fished for his badge, and flipped it towards her. ‘May I talk to you about your daughter?’

  ‘Catherine?’ Her breath shortened; her voice rose. ‘What’s happened? Is she all right?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Sarah and her brother. I just wondered if you would...’

  She blinked in disbelief. ‘Sarah? What brother?’

  ‘There’s nothing directly to worry about, but we feel that she might be in some sort of trouble, and I’d like to...’

  Her expression hardened. ‘If this is a joke, it’s not in very good taste.’

  Redwall put his palm against the door, as she tried to close it on him. ‘It’s no joke, Mrs Thompson. Please hear me out. It’s possible that she’s in trouble, and –’

  Her voice became clipped, brittle. ‘Leave. Now.’

  ‘But –’

  He snatched his hand back as the door was slammed violently in his face, then turned to Jim. ‘What the hell did I say?’

  Behind him Jim raised a brow. ‘I guess Sarah’s not in her mum’s good books just at the moment.’

  An old woman walked past pushing a shopping basket on wheels, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

  Jim said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Do you live on this estate?’

  She nodded furiously. ‘This past thirty years.’

  He bared his teeth in a friendly grin at her conspiratorial whisper, ‘I was just trying to speak to Mrs Thompson about her daughter, Sarah, but I think I must have touched a nerve.’

  The woman was startled into sincerity. ‘Have you finally found who did it?’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Killed her.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Run over twenty years ago. Her mum came out and found her in the road. Hit and run. Wasn’t a thing anyone could do.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said flatly, glancing instinctively where she indicated as if expecting to still see bloodstains. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. If you don’t believe me, go down to the Church in Fenn Street, and ask the vicar. He buried her.’

  ‘And what about her brother?’

  ‘Brother? Never had no brother. Not that I know of, any rate. The other daughter, Catherine, she’s a solicitor these days. In the city.’

  After a little more quizzing, they let her go, and climbed back into the car. Redwall didn’t start the motor for a long moment, then as he did, said, ‘I guess we’d better just call in at the church and confirm that.’

  ‘I suppose we should.’

  The vicar was a dour man who looked as if he’d never seen the loving side of Jesus. ‘Yes, I buried the child, and I can’t see why it’s all being dragged up now. Not unless you lot got off your backsides and found out who did it.’

  Redwall
swallowed rising ire. The public scales weighed-in heavily on the side of all the things the police didn’t achieve, instead of the many they did. ‘We just needed to confirm the death with you, that’s all.’

  As they drove away, they saw the deeply-suspicious man striding off down the road. ‘Going to stir up trouble with Mrs Thompson,’ Jim guessed.

  ‘Don’t doubt it,’ the DCI replied. ‘They’ll probably put a complaint in before morning about police brutality. Probably try to wring some money out of the system for the church.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Buggered if I know.’ He pulled out into the stream of traffic, and made his way cityward. ‘But if that nurse isn’t Sarah Thompson, who the hell is she?’

  ‘And who is this mysterious brother of hers?’

  It turned out that Sarah began working at the hospital four years ago, but the records and references that apparently came from her previous job were fake. Whoever she was, she’d slotted neatly into the dead girl’s shoes in her mid-twenties. The driving licence and passport had been issued to the address at the nurse’s lodgings, but the address prior to that had been the one they just visited, and she’d certainly never lived there.

  ‘She’s a ghost, Redwall said. ‘How the hell did she do that? I thought that kind of thing wasn’t possible these days.’

  ‘Not without someone tweaking a record or two,’ Jim said. ‘You can get just about anything if you have enough dosh.’

  ‘If she’s that rich, why is she working as a nurse?’

  ‘Maybe she’s in a witness protection program?’

  ‘How would we find that out? And, anyway, if we’ve spooked her, she might simply have disappeared because she needed to. Christ,’ Redwall swore, ‘I’d like to forget I ever saw the woman. She’s not even a case. And now Robin’s place has blown up, he’s gone to the top of the priority list, and he’s nowhere to be found.’

  ‘Unless he’s under the rubble. He might be a victim, too, from what Freman told you.’

  ‘I’ll have Freman’s balls.’ He slowed at a junction, then pulled away with an unaccustomed squeal of tyres. ‘That bloody man knows there’s something weird going on, and he’s onto it, damn him. If that gas leak doesn’t turn out to be attempted murder, I’ll be surprised. There’s someone else in the picture, and I want to find him. So maybe our strangler isn’t Robin, after all. I hope not, actually.’

  Jim’s brows raised fractionally. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘I never said that. I said he was hiding something, and whatever it is, I’d like to know. That’s not the same as not liking someone.’

  ‘Do you think Robin knows something about her, or is it just coincidence?’

  ‘I don’t know. My guess is that he never met Sarah before the accident, which would make his association with her coincidental. But...’

  Jim smiled. ‘You mistrust coincidences.’

  ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ the DCI said softly.

  Chapter 39

  At the back of the house, Freman found a black Defender, a few years old, which suggested Joel – or someone – was around, but there was no sign of anyone. He openly walked around, calling, but the property ran into several acres, including a well-established woodland, overgrown lawns; and under a tumbling riot of indiscriminate flora, the hint of what had once been formal beds. The outbuildings he found were largely disused and empty of anything save a pile of old furniture in one corner.

  He was reaching for the handle of the door to the cellar, thinking he’d just check the inner stairs, see if they opened into the house, when a soft voice behind him said. ‘You’re that reporter, aren’t you? The one who did the piece on angels.’

  Startled, Freman turned. The youth was good looking in a Greek-god kind of way, blond locks framing a classically carved face: a nose that hinted of skilled plastic surgery, startlingly amber eyes and a hard edge to his lips. But the smile was that of old experience planted on a young face, the kind of smile that had mockery written deep into its folds. How had Joel got so close without him hearing? It put the wind up him.

  ‘Joel Waterman?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s me. Shall we go in?’ Joel indicated the door, which suddenly wasn’t at all where Freman wanted to go. His hand inched towards his pocket.

  ‘Please don’t,’ Joel said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Reach for the Taser.’

  How on earth had he known that? Fear slithered through his gut. He drew himself up. ‘Is that a threat?’

  Joel’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Only if you go for the Taser.’

  Freman was fairly tall, but Joel topped him by a good six inches, and was packed with muscle. If they were auditioning for the part of Thor, he would definitely be a top contender. There was something almost surreal about him, as though he were about to sprout wings. Or horns. Robin had told him Sarah’s brother was on the low end of the IQ, but there was no hint of it in the confident young man before him. He waved his hand loosely around. ‘I just want to ask you about this place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s a story in it. A once-grand property quietly rotting in the ruin of its own glory, maybe. I don’t know the slant yet.’

  ‘It was grand, once,’ Joel conceded. ‘When I was little there were soirees and dances. I used to watch through the bannisters. The men in their dress suits, the women’s corsets cinched so tightly they could scarcely eat. There were so many candles in the ballroom it was like fairyland, and the servants, and food –’ he paused, then the mobile lips compressed in a sneer. ‘And where did they all go when my work was trashed, eh? They fell away, afraid of being contaminated by the professor’s mad ideas.’

  It wasn’t just the professor who was mad, Freman realised. Joel was talking as if he had actually been there, whenever it was. It had surely been a hundred years since women wore corsets. And he bet his bottom dollar this place hadn’t seen a party in fifty years, if that. ‘Maybe you’ve got some old photos?’

  Joel seemed to snap back to the present. ‘There are a few photographs from back then. Do you want to see them?’

  He led the way down the stone steps, and Freman found himself following. The youth might be a bit nuts, but he was providing one hell of a story – if Freman could pick the bones out of it. Inside, they went up the short flight of stairs, through a stout, functional door, and into the past. ‘Jesus wept,’ he said, eyes everywhere as he lifted his camera. ‘Jesus fucking wept. National Trust, eat your heart out.’

  They had come out at the back of what must be the main entrance hall. From the inside, the arched front door was almost churchlike, studded, with massive ironwork hinges, but it was the open space that wowed. Three storeys high, the walls were panelled into squares, between which dulling gold paint picked out scenes from the classics: Horses and carriages; gods on clouds; Hermes and his wild hunt; Pan, with his goat’s feet; and angels and devils mingled, like some massive joke. And high above, hung a huge chandelier, its crystal laced with spider’s webs and dust. It still had sconces, and what was possibly the remains of blackened wax.

  ‘It winds down to light the candles,’ Joel said. ‘There’s a handle behind the panel. I did it once, but unfortunately, I just didn’t have the strength to wind it back up. My father was not amused. He made sure I never did it again.’

  Freman smiled. ‘Gave you a bollocking, did he?’

  ‘He gave me the worse beating I’d ever had.’

  ‘Your father beat you?’

  ‘He had a leather belt hung on the back of the door in his study.’ He shrugged. ‘It was what people did back then. I survived. And I didn’t do it again. Follow me.’

  Freman was snapping away, turning around, trying to encompass the sheer scope of the place, but he knew this was out of his league. He’d have to come back with the photographer and do it properly, with the right lighting. He doubted there was another property in England this untouched by the modern world. The ballroom was s
till a vast space with a polished wooden floor and a massive stone fireplace guarded by tarnished brass dogs. The drapes were velvet, discoloured and faded around the edges. Hell and damnation, this was priceless!

  Joel led the way back out into the hall, and up three flights of stairs which edged it, onto a balustraded landing lined with five doors. The end room, presumably above the ballroom, was a living area with another huge fireplace. Here, Freman gazed in wonder at a selection of huge oil paintings – scenes and portraits – some of which were surely old masters? The room was littered with sofas, chairs, and furniture inlaid with glittering marquetry. At the other end there was a massive dining table surrounded by twelve chairs. Absolutely everything was grey with dust.

  Freman’s eyes were trying to be everywhere at once.

  In a bedroom where a four-poster bed was draped in a mouldy cover, he sneezed. ‘Damn, this place needs some work,’ he said.

  ‘The other rooms are much the same. Haven’t been used in years.’

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t turn this into a hotel. People would pay enormous sums to stay here.’

  ‘We like our privacy.’ Joel pointed up a second set of stairs that echoed the lower ones, albeit narrower. ‘Sarah and I have rooms at the top. That’s where the servants were, when I was little. And the nursery. I used to hide there to watch. I wasn’t allowed down when there were guests, but I could watch as long as I was quiet.’

  ‘And Sarah? Was she there, too?’

  ‘Sarah wasn’t around then. That was much later.’

  He would have sworn that Sarah was the older of the two, but he had a feeling Joel was amused by his confusion, and was waiting for him to ask the right questions.

  Joel lead the way back towards the lower floor. Casting a wistful glance behind him, Freman followed. This was one story that wasn’t going to get away. He wasn’t sure why Joel was being so accommodating, but if it didn’t last, he could always come back later, when Joel was at work.