Be bold in your attempts to conquer new realms. If one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being?
“The last line is a quote from Solzhenitsyn,” Albert said. “Whoever sent it, they obviously knew I’d appreciate it.”
“Some of the notes are more personal than others,” Dan mused. “But they’ve been cleverly written.”
“How so?”
“There’s an element of wordplay. It’s as if the writer is teasing us, giving little hints. Most of the notes seem to be giving praise, but they can be interpreted in different ways. And that’s why we didn’t realise that some of you received the wrong notes.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that had happened.” Albert went to Dan’s side, squinting as he peered at the page. “Well, that note was certainly meant for me. I don’t know anyone else here who would’ve spotted the Solzhenitsyn reference.” He smiled. “Now that you’ve seen the note, what was the other problem you wanted help with?”
That’s a very swift change in subject, Dan thought. But Albert appeared to be relaxed. If he was hiding something, he was doing an excellent job of it.
“Presumably you’re well versed in the work of Charles Dickens,” Dan said.
Albert gave a half shrug. “I’m not an expert, but I know his work better than most. A Tale of Two Cities is one of my all-time favourites. Genius.”
“Did you know that Roz used the names of a lot of Dickensian characters in her books?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I don’t do it myself, but we all have our own little ways of finding names for characters. Some writers like to pick a theme and stick to it, others trawl through lists on the Internet. I believe Philip Pullman used a phone directory from Hungary or some such to find the names of his witches.”
“I also think that Roz based some of her characters on real people. People she knew well.”
Albert raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t comment.
“What would you say,” Dan went on, “if I said the name, King Hurlnot?”
“I’d say that I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell? Nothing from Dickens?”
Albert shook his head. “How are you spelling that?”
Dan spelled the name out, but Albert’s blank expression didn’t alter.
“Can I have that back?” Albert gestured to the note, and Dan couldn’t think of a reason to object, so he handed it over. Albert cast his eye over the note once, then he tossed it back into his bag. “I’ll hold on to it for a while, in case it’s needed for evidence or anything, but after that, it’s going straight into the nearest bin. If it turns out to be connected with Dominic’s death, then I certainly don’t want the damned thing.”
Before Dan could say a word, Albert snatched up a pen from the desk and began writing on a scrap of paper. “King Hurlnot,” he muttered. “I was going to say leave it with me. But now that I see it in front of me, it looks like an anagram.”
Dan silently cursed himself for not thinking of that possibility himself. But none of the other names in Roz’s book were anagrams; they’d hardly been changed at all.
Albert’s deep frown suddenly morphed into a broad grin. “Got it! It’s obvious really. Well, it would be to anyone who knew their Dickens.”
“Who is it?”
“I’ve a good mind to tell you to work it out for yourself. I could give you the title of the novel, maybe, and then we could see how long it takes you to figure it out. That might be fun. You strike me as the kind of man who enjoys a challenge.”
“Not in this case,” Dan replied. “I’d much rather have the answer, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Such impatience.” Albert chortled. “The name is Tulkinghorn. And he’s from Bleak House, by the way.”
“I don’t know it. Who, or what, is Tulkinghorn?”
Albert sucked air from between pursed lips. “A nasty piece of work. Cruel. Manipulative. Misogynistic. One of the vilest villains of all time. Ebenezer Scrooge, or your namesake, Daniel Quilp, might be better known, but to some extent, they’re cartoonish characters, larger than life. Tulkinghorn was the real deal. The Devil incarnate. Today, we’d call him a sociopath, and he’d strike fear into our quivering liberal hearts.”
“What exactly did he do?”
“He was a legal type, a solicitor, but he liked to gain control of his clients. Dickens never really explained why, and somehow that makes Tulkinghorn seem even worse.”
“And you said that he was a misogynist,” Dan prompted.
Albert nodded firmly. “That’s part of the picture. One of his clients, Sir Leicester Dedlock, had a wife, and she had a secret past. She had a child out of wedlock, and Tulkinghorn found out about it. It gave him a hold over her, and he tried to use it to control her.”
“He was a blackmailer.”
“Worse. It wasn’t about the money for him. He simply wanted to torment the lady, to persecute her and make her life a misery, just because he could.”
“My God.” Dan’s shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been lowered onto his back.
“Are you all right?” Albert asked. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for all your help, but I really have to go. Things to do.”
“Okay, but listen, take it easy. You don’t look well.”
Dan nodded, then he made for the door. Albert called something after him, but he didn’t catch it.
In the corridor, Dan headed for his room, his mind spinning.
Roz was a passionate person who launched herself into life and into her work with reckless abandon. He’d seen her throw caution to the wind when she’d marched along the crumbling cliff edge, tempting fate, defying the elements. And he’d witnessed her uncontrolled outburst when DS Firth cornered her in the hotel.
At first meeting, Roz came across as a calm and well-adjusted person. But Dan had known there was something going on beneath the surface, something out of kilter.
Now, he was certain that she’d been treated badly by someone, and it had left her struggling with an inner conflict.
Had Roz used her work as an escape valve, an outlet for her anxiety? She’d told him that no one saw the world quite so keenly as an artist. She’d also said that, as an artist, she sought to understand her subject matter. But she hadn’t been talking about woodland animals. The characters she’d created were very human, very relatable. Had she poured her personal experience into her work, portraying herself as the hapless Fox?
Dan could scarcely believe it, but the logic was inescapable. Her hidden allusion to an infamous villain had to be significant; it could not have occurred by accident.
Had Rudge been her tormentor, her Tulkinghorn? If so, how would she have reacted if he’d pushed her too far?
Dan reached his own door, but he marched past it. He stopped outside Alan’s room and hammered on the door. He needed to talk to the one person who’d listen and understand.
Alan opened the door and ushered him inside. But before Dan could speak, Alan held up his hand.
“We need to talk,” Alan said. “It’s about Roz.”
CHAPTER 26
Dan listened carefully as Alan recounted his conversation with Charlie Heath and in return he explained his theory based on Roz’s book.
“It all fits,” Dan said. “I think Rudge had some kind of hold over Roz, and he used it to bully her, to manipulate her.”
“From what we’re finding out about Rudge, that sounds plausible,” Alan replied. “Poor Roz. She didn’t stand a chance against a man like that. Now we know why she was so distraught after she met with Charlie.”
“And do you remember when Kulkarni mentioned a victim? Roz said, ‘Who’s been talking about me?’ I thought it was strange at the time, but now we can understand what she meant.”
Alan hung his head and heaved a sigh, and when he looked back up, his face was pale and drawn. “I used to wonder why Rudge arranged the retrea
t here every year, and now I know the reason. This place is on Roz’s doorstep. He came here to control her, to make her attend, to force her to dance to his tune. It’s sick. It’s psychological abuse.”
“And there’s that poor young woman. Flo. If she went to one of the schools where Rudge worked…”
“I’d like to think we could help her,” Alan said. “But I honestly don’t know what we can do. It’s been a while since my child protection training, and besides, she’s an adult and Rudge is dead. Whatever happened, she may not want to drag it up, and that’s her right. If we go looking for her, I’m not sure how she’d react. We have to respect her privacy. If she calls me, I can suggest that she seeks out some support. But other than that…”
“I’m sure you’d deal with it more sensitively than I ever could,” Dan said. “I wouldn’t know where to start, but if there’s anything I can do, tell me.”
Alan nodded. “I will. And if I think of anything we can do, I’ll give you a shout.”
“Thanks, Alan.” Dan hesitated. “Unfortunately, this doesn’t look good for Roz. We don’t know for sure what happened between her and Rudge, but it doesn’t take much to imagine a scenario where she’d like to see him dead.”
“Perhaps, but I still don’t believe she could’ve done anything so brutal. Yes, she tried to smear Rudge in the press, but that was the extent of her revenge. And Charlie said she was in no fit state to do anything once she’d offloaded her story. He told her to go for a stiff drink.”
“And did she, do you think?”
Alan shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Roz isn’t much of a drinker. She’ll have a glass of wine with a meal, but that’s her limit.”
“Remember how she looked when she came in that night? She was distinctly red around the eyes. I thought she was just cold, but she could’ve had a drink or two. And what about the way she yelled when Firth laid his hands on her?”
“I see what you’re saying,” Alan said. “The whole thing was wildly out of character. But to have a man taking hold of her like that… it must’ve been awful for her. It may have triggered all kinds of buried emotions. I’ve never heard her so much as raise her voice before.”
“Where did she meet Charlie?”
“Fistral Beach. It’s popular with surfers. There’s a statue of some dolphins, and Roz had told him to meet her there.” Alan managed a small smile. “Roz turned up on her pushbike, apparently. It must’ve been quite a scene.”
“She arrived back here at around eight, didn’t she?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And her hair was a mess,” Dan said. “It was all over the place.”
“Well, she’d been through a traumatic experience. I hardly think—”
“Don’t you see?” Dan interrupted. “Roz wears a helmet when she rides her bike, but from the state of her hair, I’d say she walked back to the hotel. And that supports the idea that she’d been somewhere for a drink. If we can find out where, we might be able to give her an alibi.”
“But she’ll have told all that to the police. They must’ve asked her to account for her whereabouts, and I can’t see why she wouldn’t want to defend herself. Surely the police will check her story. They’ll have access to CCTV and they can go knocking on doors. They’re bound to follow up every lead, aren’t they?”
“You’d think,” Dan said. “DS Firth seems like a fairly energetic character, but you never know. I think we’ll still have to do some digging ourselves.”
“No one is going to show us their CCTV footage.”
“Agreed. We need another avenue. What about having another crack at finding that typewriter?”
“Why not? Where shall we start?”
“Local shops.”
“Really?” Alan asked. “But it could’ve been bought anywhere; online, even.”
“An online purchase would need a credit card or an online account, and either way, it would leave a trail. I’d bet the murderer was careful enough to buy the machine with cash, and that means a small shop.”
“Still, there’s nothing to suggest it was bought here.”
Dan paused. “My intuition says otherwise. This killer has a certain flair. There’s a sense of melodrama about the whole affair. The antique typewriter, the ribbon around the hands, the anonymous notes, the expensive paper. They want everything to tie together neatly. And how fitting it would be if the typewriter came from the very place where the crime was to be committed. Very neat. No loose ends.”
“Fair enough,” Alan said. “I can run a search for antique shops, junk shops, flea markets. It shouldn’t be a long list. Thankfully, the town centre is fairly small.”
“Great. Let’s hit the streets. We’ll search as we go, and we’ll get some lunch while we’re out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Alan said, and he grabbed his coat.
CHAPTER 27
DC Kulkarni was not a regular visitor to the Drowned Sailor. She’d been to the bar only twice before: once, on the trail of stolen goods from a spate of burglaries at local building sites; and once to meet an informant who’d promised to give her chapter and verse on a local drug dealer.
Both visits had been utterly fruitless. The first time, she’d run into a stone wall of silence. The customers and staff had simply refused to talk to her, and she’d left frustrated and angry, certain that most of the patrons would have suspiciously heavy-duty power tools in their sheds at home. And the second visit had been no better. The so-called informant had turned out to be a drug dealer himself, trying to corner the market by informing on his opposition.
There’s no reason why today should be any better, she thought as she pushed open the door. But once inside the gloomy bar, her eyes went straight to the CCTV camera mounted near the ceiling in one corner of the room. That was more like it. And presumably the camera worked, because only a few seconds passed before a door opened at the far end of the room and Dave Bentley, the bar’s illustrious proprietor, hove into view.
Kulkarni had her warrant card ready, but Bentley didn’t even glance at it as he marched toward her, a steely glint in his eye.
“Mr Bentley, I’m Detective Constable—”
“I know who you are, love,” Bentley interrupted. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions in relation to the incident that occurred nearby on the evening of Tuesday, the eighth of December.”
Bentley lifted his chin. “Bloke got murdered. What about it?”
“The death is being treated as suspicious. And as you may have heard, it occurred just before 7 o’clock that evening. You were open at that time, yes?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t hardly worth bothering, but I was here.”
“Business a bit slow?” Kulkarni asked.
Bentley managed a reluctant shrug.
“So, it shouldn’t be too hard to recall how many customers you had at around that time.”
“There were a few. But I don’t recall any of their names, so don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Kulkarni said. “Believe it or not, Mr Bentley, but on this occasion, I’m not interested in the handful of nameless individuals who make up your customer base. I’m trying to trace a particular person, and I doubt very much whether she’s been in your bar before. I’m looking for a tall, slim woman with long red hair.”
“That’s what they all say, love.” Bentley gave her a lascivious grin. “But this is a pub, not a knocking shop.”
Kulkarni took out her phone and found the picture of Roz Hammond, then she turned it around to show Bentley. “Have you seen this woman before? Was she here on Tuesday evening?”
Bentley squinted at her phone. He kept his face impassive, but he couldn’t hide the spark of recognition in his eyes.
“Well?” Kulkarni said.
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Look again. And this time, Mr Bentley, please remember that, very soon, this case is almost certainly going to become a murder investigation. We’re going to
be seizing the CCTV footage from every camera in the area, and if we find out that you’ve withheld information…” She left her sentence unfinished, her words hanging in the air while she locked eyes with him.
“All right,” Bentley admitted. “She was in here. Satisfied?”
Kulkarni pocketed her phone and whipped out her notebook. “The woman you’ve identified is called Roz Hammond. What time did she arrive that night?”
“Sometime before seven.”
“Was she on her own?”
“Yeah,” Bentley said. “She came in by herself. She had a few drinks, and then she left.”
“And how did she seem to you? How did she behave?”
Bentley hesitated. “She didn’t do it, did she? She didn’t push that bloke off the cliff?”
“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain.” Kulkarni watched him carefully. “What makes you think that she might have been involved? Did she say anything about the incident? Did she mention being out on the coastal path?”
“No, nothing like that. But she was all pale and shaky. She didn’t really talk to anyone while she was in here. She just stood at the bar, downing her drinks. But you could tell that something was up.”
“When you say pale and shaky, do you mean that she appeared angry?”
Bentley screwed up his face. “No. I mean she was upset. More sad than anything.”
“And what time did she leave?”
“I dunno. She was here for about an hour, maybe a bit less.”
“Okay,” Kulkarni said. “I’ll need to see the CCTV footage from that night. You do still have it, don’t you?”
Bentley paused before replying. “From inside, no. Sorry, but I don’t bother recording in here.”
“Seriously? Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Yeah. That camera’s mainly so I can keep an eye on the bar when I’m out the back.”
A familiar sense of frustration crept through Kulkarni’s mind. Why did it have to be like this? Why were her efforts continually stymied by some little detail? It wasn’t like this on TV. In the crime dramas she’d watched growing up, there were always fingerprints, footprints, witnesses with sharp memories and crystal-clear vision. In real life, there were greasy smudges, shapeless mud and witnesses who would probably be incapable of recognising their own mothers at twenty paces.
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