The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  "And was there anything about your lifestyle that warranted that disapproval?"

  "My father held strong religious beliefs. I didn't share them."

  I cut him off before he could respond. I had no intention of discussing the more personal aspects of my life with the police. It was no one's business but mine.

  "I'm not sure where this is going, Sgt Lowe, but if every child murdered his or her father because of disagreements about lifestyle choices, there wouldn't be many surviving parents."

  "I suppose that depends on how strongly they disagreed."

  Wearied by this line of questioning, I fell back in my chair. "Any disagreements we had were settled twelve years ago. I left Elders Edge and never looked back."

  "Until now."

  "Until now. And you already know why that is. And let's face it, Sergeant, if I had killed my father, would it make sense to come back to the scene of the crime and draw attention to myself by trying to break down his door?"

  Lowe conceded that such an act may well be stupid but pointed out that people often did stupid things.

  The interview carried on in this vein for a while. Lowe probed into areas I preferred to avoid; details of my family life, any other close relationships. And I countered by side-stepping any issues I was uncomfortable with.

  "What about this visitor my father argued with?" I asked. "Did Wainwright give you a name?"

  "We're pursuing all lines of enquiry, Mr MacGregor. You don't need to concern yourself."

  Like hell I didn't. If he wasn't going to pass on any details, I would have to follow up on them myself. It would be easy enough to track down Wainwright. And I had no intention of sitting around while Lowe tried to make a case against me.

  After some more questioning, Lowe brought the interview to a close. He made all the usual demands about my needing to let him have contact details and where I could be reached, and making sure I was available for further questioning. As I rose to leave, I confirmed I would be staying at the Fairview for the foreseeable future.

  "Someone from Headquarters will want to talk to you," he said. "Now the case has been escalated to a murder investigation, it's being handed over to CID. Detective Chief Inspector Quarryman from Divisional Headquarters in Charwell will be heading the task force.

  Another shock. "Not Nathan Quarryman?"

  "Yes. You know him?" He grunted. "But I suppose you must. He's a local boy too. Another old friend?" His tone was sarcastic.

  The tightness in my throat was back. "Once maybe. A long time ago."

  I'd always known Nathan was following in his father's footsteps by joining the force. He was already on his probationary course while we were still together. But I had always presumed, wrongly it seems, that his life and career had eventually taken him away from the county. And now it seems I was going to have to face him after all.

  It was ironic that those choices I had made so long ago, that had taken me away from Elders Edge and all my perceived problems, had led me back here, to this time and place, forcing me to confront the very issues I had sought to avoid. Someone once told me that when your chickens come home to roost they often arrive in flocks. How right he was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Everyone knows everyone in a small town like this. And in particular, everyone knows the local trades people. So tracking down Jonas Wainwright's house was no problem. A rain-soaked postman, taking cover in a nearby bus shelter, was happy to point me in the right direction.

  The storm that had threatened for most of the morning now raged overhead. Heavy rain, driven by a howling wind, swept across the road before me in blinding sheets, reducing visibility, and hammering the roof of the Elan like the fists of a vengeful God.

  Ahead of me, other vehicles appeared like phantoms out of the storm-light and glided by on wings of water.

  The turbulent weather matched the turmoil in my mind; a roiling emotional mix of shock resentment anger anxiety and unease. Shock at discovering the violent nature of my father's death. Resentment and anger at being treated as a potential perpetrator of such a sickening act. And anxiety and unease at learning of Nathan's involvement.

  My father had never been an easy man to get along with. But for all his faults he hadn't deserved to end his days like that. I dreaded to think what it must have been like for him. To have stared into the face of his killer as he had the life slowly squeezed from him.

  And I was still angry at being thought capable of such an act, fuming at the way I had been treated back at the station. I told myself it was just routine. Nothing personal. It's not as if I hadn't witnessed many such interviews in the past but, somehow, sitting on the other side of that desk, was a whole new experience. It's hard to be objective when you're being treated as a potential murderer.

  And then there was Nathan. That had freaked me out.

  Once I'd left Elders Edge all those years ago, I'd avoided all Karen's attempts to discuss him. Deliberately put him from my mind. I think she'd secretly hoped we'd get together again. But that bridge had been well and truly burned. Once it was over, it was over, and it would have been futile not to sever all links. Why would I need reminders of happier times? Much too painful. And, because I'd deliberately avoided all discussion of Nathan, I'd always thought that maybe he too had made a fresh start somewhere else.

  However, he was unlikely to involve himself in the investigation at a local level. Charwell was twenty miles away. That meant he had a wide jurisdiction and, okay, so murder isn't exactly a minor offence but, even so, he was more likely to leave local matters to the local force and oversee the operation from the Divisional Headquarters at Charwell. So I could breathe easy again. I wasn't likely to run into him any time soon.

  By the time I reached Wainwright's place, I was more at ease.

  The house was a large detached two-storey affair at the front of The Heights, a private estate off the Charwell Road. Obviously, the down-turn in the building trade over the past few years hadn't reached this far. Or maybe Jonas Wainwright didn't have much competition. Either way, he seemed to have done well for himself.

  As impressed as I was with the house, I was less than impressed by the distance between the gate and the house itself. By the time I reached the door, I was drenched.

  The woman who answered my ring, didn't even bother to ask who I was. She took one look at me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out of the rain into a large wood-tiled hallway where I stood dripping onto the floor.

  She was a slender woman, not very tall, with an elfin face framed by short wispy blonde hair. She had a duster in one hand and behind her, in the middle of the hall, was a vacuum cleaner. I had interrupted her chores.

  "You must be mad coming out in this weather," she said. And then, narrowing her eyes, she added, "And I must be mad letting you in. I hope you're not trying to sell me anything or I'm pushing you straight back out the door."

  Faced with a look that could fell a charging rhino at ten paces, I raised my hands in mock surrender, grateful I'd had the foresight to make the right career choice. "Not guilty."

  I introduced myself and suffered the now familiar words of condolence as her expression changed to one of sympathetic concern.

  She told me what a shock it had been to learn of my father's death. The news had spread rapidly once the police had started interviewing local people.

  "To think that such a thing could happen in a place like this," she said. "And to the local priest. It doesn't bear thinking about. He was such a nice man. I always got on well with your father."

  How sincere she was about that was anyone's guess. My father wasn't someone I would describe as 'nice'. But perhaps, given the circumstances, she was being polite.

  I thanked her for her kind words and said, "I was hoping to speak to your husband if he's around."

  "My husband?" Her forehead creased. And then she smiled and relaxed again. "You mean Jonas. He's not my husband. I'm his domestic help. My name's Erin, Erin Corby." She explained that she cleaned for a n
umber of people in the town. "I worked for your father too."

  "So you would have seen him recently?"

  "I should have been there last week but he 'phoned and put me off. He wasn't feeling too well."

  "Can you remember just when that was?"

  "It was last Tuesday. I've already told the police."

  I ran over the timeline in my mind. Last Tuesday was five days ago. That would explain why Sgt Lowe wanted to know my whereabouts only over the past week; my father was still alive before then.

  It also meant that Erin Colby may have been among the last to speak to my father before he met his murderer.

  I was about to ask for Jonas Wainwright's whereabouts when I was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming above us, followed by footsteps crossing the upper floor. I looked up, reacting to the sound.

  Erin Corby followed my gaze. "That's Jonas's daughter, Laura. She's doing her homework."

  "At least she's supposed to be," she said, raising her voice and turning towards the stairs as the girl stepped down into the hall. "Shouldn't you be working young lady?"

  Laura Wainwright must have been in her early teens. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and was dressed in a pink-and-white floral-print mini dress that seemed far too sophisticated for a girl of her age. Makeup and a pair of cheap looking earrings in pierced ears completed the look. Maybe I was getting old but I'm sure when I was that age, girls were still girls and didn't try to dress as young adults. Kids were growing up too quickly these days.

  I was thinking like my father. The realisation made me shudder.

  "I'm hungry," Laura said. "I just wanted a snack."

  She disappeared through a door opposite and appeared a minute or two later with a large bag of crisps which she opened and munched from, all the while watching me with open curiosity as I talked with Erin.

  I learned from Erin that Jonas Wainwright was working on site all day. Some new development over by Tinkers Wood. Once she'd given me directions, I said my goodbyes and turned to leave.

  That's when I saw the bracelet on Laura's wrist.

  I recognised it immediately. A triple sapphire fascia set in a gold chain. There wasn't another one like it. It was a present from my father to my mother when they were first married. He'd had it made especially for her. It was unique and very valuable. Quite apart from its monetary value, it was my mother's favourite piece and, after her death, it had acquired a special sentimental value for my father. Not for one moment did I believe he would part with such a precious item.

  "That's a nice bracelet, Laura," I said. "Where did you get it?"

  She flushed. "I got it down at the market." She clasped a hand over it as if to hide it.

  Erin beamed. "She likes her jewellery does Laura. Pity she doesn't like her homework as much." She clapped her hands. "Off you go young lady."

  Laura pulled a face and made her way back up the stairs, crunching crisps.

  "Do you take Laura with you on your cleaning jobs," I asked Erin.

  "Sometimes." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and added, "You won't know but her mother died last year. Breast cancer. Laura was devastated. Thirteen is a difficult enough age without having that to deal with too. So I've been happy enough to help out and take her under my wing. She needs a lot off attention at the moment."

  "I'm sure Mr Wainwright must be grateful for your help."

  She beamed.

  I said my goodbyes again, and we parted company.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Laura had taken the bracelet during one of her visits to my father's house with Erin Corby. It was inconceivable that she would have acquired it by any other means. But I was going to have to be careful how I dealt with the problem. In the circumstances, it would have been inappropriate to confront Laura directly. Especially in light of the stressful time she'd been through. All the same, it was a problem I was going to have to deal with. I would need to talk to Erin Corby some time soon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The half-completed new development at the far side of Tinkers Wood was one of those private mock-Georgian estates that seemed to have found favour with the aspiring upper middles classes. It was called 'The Cedars', a pretentious name meant to appeal to its particular customer base.

  A tall muscular man in a hard hat was barking orders to a group of five labourers emerging from a Portakabin at the far side of the development. Jonas Wainwright, presumably. He was a big robust bear of a man with a swarthy complexion half hidden by a thick growth of beard. He looked the typical man's man. I couldn't imagine his having to raise a teenage daughter alone. It must be hard on him.

  The rain had eased to a fine drizzle and it looked as if the building crew were about to resume work after the sudden downpour. Wainwright saw my approach and walked over to me.

  He wiped a hand on his overalls and held it out. "Mr MacGregor?"

  We shook hands and he chuckled at my obvious surprise. "Erin called me," he explained. "She said you were on your way."

  "Did she tell you why?"

  "Some." He placed a hand on my back. "Come, we can talk better inside."

  He steered me over to the Portakabin. The metal and canvas chairs inside didn't look particularly comfortable, but I was grateful for the warmth given out by a fan heater by the door. I found a place by the window on one side of a long metal table that ran down the middle of the cabin, and Wainwright sat on the other side of it.

  The sound of power tools filtered through to us mixed with the shouted banter of the work crew as they resumed work. Nearby a reversing mechanical digger, in sight of the window, sounded its beeped warning.

  Wainwright offered his condolences. I was getting used to the routine by now.

  "Your father helped me through a difficult period," he said.

  "Yes, I heard you lost your wife. It can't have been an easy time."

  "It was breast cancer see. Same as your mother. He told me about that. It helped being able to talk about it with someone who'd been through it too."

  I murmured my sympathies.

  "My girl too. She was screwed up back then. Kids her age go through enough changes without having to lose their mothers into the bargain."

  I had wondered whether I should say something to Wainwright about the bracelet but thought better of it. Perhaps it would be best, after all, to speak to Erin.

  I said, "I'm sure Erin must be a great help."

  "Your father too. Laura clammed up see. Found it hard to talk about. But he got her to open up. He was good with her. She confided in him."

  Jonas was talking about the man who had disowned me all those years ago for daring to go against his values. It was hard to believe we were talking about the same person. And irrational though it was, I resented hearing of his offering comfort and concern to others when his own son, at a time of need, could have benefited from some of that same concern. But in the circumstances, such resentment seemed petty. I pushed all such thoughts aside.

  I said, "I spoke to Giles Trivett, my father's curate, earlier. He told me you visited my father recently."

  "That's right. I' d been carrying out some minor building repairs at the vicarage and he wanted to discuss some additional work that needed doing. I was always happy to do the odd job for free. It was the least I could do."

  "You never got to see him? Is that right?"

  Wainwright gripped the edge of the table. "I still can't believe what's happened. The police were round first thing asking questions. I don't suppose you've heard any more?"

  "No. The last I heard, the one lead they had was from information you gave them. You overheard him arguing with someone. They seem to think that might be significant."

  Wainwright looked uncomfortable. "That's right."

  "Could you tell me who it was?"

  He paused and then spoke again more guardedly. "I'm not sure I should. See, at the time I was certain I recognised the voice. But given what happened, well, it makes you wonder doesn't it? I'd ha
te to think I'd got it wrong and given the police the wrong name."

  "I understand your concern, but if I knew who it was, I might be able to throw some light on what it was about. It could have been about something I'd discussed with my father."

  I hadn't spoken to my father in weeks but Wainwright wasn't to know that. In fact, I wouldn't even call it speaking. It had been more of a one-sided rant about my latest marital rift.

  I continued, "It might even help whoever it was. You may have known my father well enough to realise that he could be an irascible old devil at times. It may all have been innocent and above board."

  Wainwright didn't respond immediately. The fan heater whirred and the rain pattered on the roof.

  Finally, he said, "I don't suppose it can do any harm. And you're right, it was probably nothing. It was Derek Black. He's a doctor at the local surgery. We saw a lot of him while my wife was having treatment. That's why I thought I recognised his voice. Is that of any help?"

  "I know my father wasn't in the best of health but I wasn't aware of any specific problems. He wasn't ill, was he?"

  "Not that I know of. I remember Erin said something about him not feeling too well. He put her off coming over. But I got the impression it was just a cold or something."

  "It doesn't explain the argument either. Though it wouldn't be unlike my father to contradict his doctor's advice."

  "It sounded a bit more serious than that. Quite a violent shouting match. You could hear it out in the courtyard."

  "You didn't overhear any of it?"

  "No. And I didn't stick around long enough to hear much anyway. I left them to it. I went back two days later. But I couldn't rouse him. He must have already ... you know."

  I affirmed my understanding and said, "Which means Dr Black may have been one of the last to see my father."

  Wainwright agreed. "I'm sure the police will sort it out with him as soon as they track him down."

  "Track him down? They haven't spoken to him yet?"

  "I got the impression Dr Black was out of town at the moment."

  "Well, maybe they can throw some more light on it over at the surgery."