‘You don’t get to be where he is by leaving anything to chance. I dare say he knows what we all have for breakfast. Including the chief.’
‘How did that go?’ I asked, remembering Clarke’s expression as she’d gone to speak to Sir Stephen.
‘Oh, I’d call it a draw. Diplomacy isn’t her strong point, but not even Sir Stephen’s lawyers can argue away hard evidence.’
I’d had time to think about that as I’d driven back to the mortuary from Leo Villiers’ house. However I looked at it, Sir Stephen’s entire attitude seemed out of kilter. Not so much the lack of emotion: people displayed grief in different ways, not all of them publicly. But his insistence that his son was dead seemed perverse. I’d known people who were in denial, who refused to accept a loved one’s death, but never the other way around.
‘Why do you think he’s so insistent it’s his son’s body? He must realize the DNA results will prove it one way or the other, so what’s the point?’
I heard Lundy let out a long breath. ‘Maybe it’s wishful thinking. He knows full well that if the body isn’t Leo’s, that puts his son in the frame for murder. This isn’t like it was with Emma Derby: this time we’ve a dead victim and evidence pointing directly to Leo Villiers. That’s not going to do his reputation any favours at all. Could be Sir Stephen would rather have a dead son than a live embarrassment.’
That seemed incomprehensible to me. Whatever Leo Villiers’ flaws, however bad he’d turned out, I couldn’t conceive how a father could feel that way about his own flesh and blood. But remembering the cold, immaculately dressed man I’d met earlier, I thought Lundy could be right.
‘You still there, Dr Hunter?’
‘Yes.’ I brought my mind back to the here and now. ‘Did you find anything else at the house?’
‘Not really. The grave only had the dog in it, and the house might as well have been sterilized. Wardrobes nice and orderly, no dirty laundry left in the basket. The only thing that did emerge was that there might be another shotgun missing as well as the Mowbry.’
‘Might?’
‘We’re still trying to get to the bottom of it. The Mowbry had its own locker in Villiers’ study. His housekeeper said that was open and empty when she reported him missing, so we knew straight away it was gone. But when he had the house remodelled last year he changed the gun room into a gym. The original gun cabinet was moved into the cellar with other stuff he didn’t want.’
‘Villiers had his own gun room?’ I’d thought he hadn’t liked shooting.
‘It came with the house. Sir Stephen was a keen shot by all accounts, used to have shooting parties when the family came to stay here. Except for the Mowbry, all the guns there were old ones dating from then. The cabinet should hold six of them, but there are only five there now. No one we’ve spoken to seems to know when or why one went missing. Or if they do they’re not saying.’
‘Was the cabinet locked?’
I heard a rustling, and when Lundy spoke I could hear him chomping what I guessed was another of his antacids. ‘It was. Far as we know only Leo Villiers and his father had keys. His housekeeper told us there was a spare one in his desk drawer, but that’s still there.’
‘So what do you think happened to the other shotgun?’
‘Good question.’ There was a pause while he chewed and swallowed. ‘Might be nothing, so until it turns up we’ll just have to keep an open mind. Anyway, how’ve you been getting on? Any more clues about who we found in the estuary?’
‘Everything I’ve seen confirms he was in his mid-twenties. No obvious congenital bone defects, very little wear of any kind to the joints. The skeleton’s exceptionally well proportioned, too. Wide clavicles and scapulae, well-formed ribs, narrow hips. I can’t say for certain that he was athletic, but he had a classic V-shaped upper body. And he’d probably have had a good musculature to support the bones.’
‘So he was well built?’
A good bone structure didn’t always translate to a good physique. An individual could have an athlete’s skeleton and still be obese or unfit, and the body we’d brought back from the estuary had been too decomposed and bloated to say either way. But he was only a young man, and therefore more likely to be active. And from the size of the clothes he was wearing he didn’t appear to have been overweight.
‘I think he would have been, yes,’ I said. ‘The only skeletal deformity was the hammertoes, but in someone his age I’m starting to think they could be down to some sort of repetitive injury. Or even badly fitting shoes when he was younger, although it seems severe for that.’
I could almost hear Lundy thinking. ‘You said there was a chance the victim was mixed race. Do you still think so?’
‘I only know what I told you before, and that was only based on the eye orbits and nasal bridge. It isn’t something I can say with any certainty one way or the other.’ I recalled Lundy had also picked up on the possibility the dead man was of mixed race at Leo Villiers’ house, though he hadn’t said why. ‘Do you have an idea who it could be?’
‘Not really. It’s probably nothing, but it put me in mind of the prowler the gardener reported seeing outside the house before Villiers disappeared. He only got a glimpse but he said it was a male, youngish and dark-skinned. “Like a migrant or refugee” was how he put it. Got me thinking how there isn’t much of an immigrant population in the immediate area. No jobs, no housing, and if you’re looking to illegally land a boat there’re a lot better places further along the coast. So what would a refugee be doing here?’
‘You’re thinking it might have been someone mixed race?’
‘It’s not impossible. The tabloids have got everybody stirred up about migrants, and Cruckhaven’s not exactly what you’d call multi-racial. Maybe the gardener just leapt to conclusions about the refugee part.’
Remembering the desperate town I’d visited the day before, with its closed shops and feral-looking teenagers, I thought Lundy might have a point. Still, it seemed like a long shot. ‘It doesn’t mean this is the same person. Or explain what he was doing at Leo Villiers’ house.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ he agreed. ‘There’d been a spate of burglaries at isolated houses not long before, so the assumption was it was probably someone checking the place out. He had a decent alarm system and there weren’t any more break-ins reported, so it didn’t seem relevant at the time. Not when we thought Villiers had killed himself. But I’m starting to wonder now if there might be more to it.’
So was I, though I’d no idea what. But Lundy had reminded me of something else. ‘Rachel told me they were burgled as well. Not long after her sister disappeared.’
‘That’s right, they were,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That was pretty much the first one, now you mention it.’
‘Do you think there’s a connection?’
There was a pause. A rustling noise came down the phone: I thought it was a bad connection until I realized he was rubbing his moustache. ‘Hard to see how, but it’s starting to seem like there’s an awful lot of coincidences.’
It was. I could sense that Lundy was ready to wind up, but there was one more thing he needed to know.
‘I spoke to Sir Stephen’s driver at the house earlier,’ I told him, and outlined the conversation I’d had. ‘He didn’t come right out and say how he knew about a second body, but he made out it was something he’d overheard.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ Lundy said sourly. ‘Given the names Sir Stephen must have in his address book it wouldn’t surprise me if he knows what’s going on before we do. Could his driver just have been nosy, or was he trying to pump you for information?’
‘I don’t know, but I didn’t tell him anything. You think he was hoping to report back to Sir Stephen?’
There was a snort. ‘Let’s say I can’t see anyone working for the Villiers if they don’t know which side their bread’s buttered on.’
‘So why did he badmouth Leo Villiers?’ I couldn’t imagine Sir Stephen being happ
y about an employee talking about his son like that.
‘Dunno. You’re right, seems odd.’ I could almost hear Lundy frowning on the other end. ‘OK, leave it with me.’
Before he ended the call he told me Clarke wanted me to examine the remains from the barbed wire as well. He hadn’t spoken to Frears and so didn’t know the post-mortem findings, but promised to email me the report as soon as he could. As I hung up I reflected that only the day before I’d thought I was off the investigation for good.
I didn’t intend to mess up a second time.
It was dusk by the time I pulled up outside the boathouse. I switched the engine off and sat for a moment, savouring the quiet. The old stone building on the creek’s bank looked as much a part of the landscape as the dunes and marsh grass. This was my favourite time of day, the long moment when the day is paused between afternoon and evening. I felt tired, but it was the sort that came from a good day’s work rather than illness.
Climbing out of the car, I stretched, then went to get my things out of the car boot. I’d called into a supermarket for groceries on the way: if I was going to be here for a few more days I’d need more than toast and eggs. Lifting out the carrier bags, I stepped back to close the boot and was almost hit by a car as it sped past.
‘Jesus!’
I staggered, buffeted by its slipstream. The car was an old white hatchback with a red racing stripe. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s blond hair and then it was gone, the yellow glow of its headlights swallowed up by the tunnel of hawthorns that formed an arch above the road. Christ! I stared after it, shaken by the near miss but not so much that I hadn’t recognized Stacey Coker. I don’t think she’d even noticed I was there, and as my heart rate subsided I realized she’d been coming from the direction of Trask’s house.
That might explain the way she’d been driving.
Letting myself into the boathouse, I unpacked the groceries and put the kettle on to boil. Kicking off my shoes, I went across to the sofa where I’d left my overnight bag and swore as I stubbed my foot on the trapdoor handle under the rug again. Belatedly remembering Rachel’s warning, I rubbed my toes and swore some more, then threw back the rug to take a look.
A heavy iron ring was set into the wooden trapdoor. It was partly recessed, but still raised enough to trip over. It was obviously a loading hatch for the small dock below, back when this must have been a working boathouse rather than a bijou holiday flat. I tried lifting it but it caught with a rattle, locked or bolted on the underside. The ring stubbornly refused to lie flat, and I considered dragging the heavy pine trunk that doubled as a coffee table on top of it. But the ring protruded too far to stand anything on, so in the end I gave up and covered it over again with the rug.
The kettle had boiled. Checking the time, I went to make myself a mug of tea before I changed for dinner.
I parked on the gravelled area just off the track leading to Creek House. Out here, away from the light pollution of any towns, the darkness seemed to have a physical weight. The glow from an external light was visible through the copse of silver birch, but this far away it only served to enhance the blackness all around. I used the torch on my phone to guide me along the footpath through the trees, until I was close enough to the house not to need it. I turned it off as I emerged from the copse, and as I did Jamie appeared around the corner of the house. He seemed miles away, a distracted frown on his face. I stepped out of the shadows.
‘Hi,’ I said.
He flinched back, head jerking towards me in surprise. ‘Fuck!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘Yeah, no, I was just …’ He looked flustered and embarrassed.
‘Your dad invited me for dinner …?’
‘Oh. Well, he’s in the house.’
He started walking past. ‘Before you go, I’ve not had a chance to thank you for repairing my car,’ I said. ‘You did a really good job.’
He shrugged, uncomfortable again. ‘That’s OK.’
He obviously didn’t want to talk, so I took the envelope from my pocket containing the money I’d withdrawn for him earlier. I held it out.
‘Here. I hope that’s enough to cover it.’
Jamie frowned down at the envelope without touching it. ‘What’s that?’
‘What I owe you.’
‘I don’t want paying.’
‘It’s only what a garage would charge. Probably less,’ I added, thinking of Coker. ‘If you’re going to university later this year you’ll probably need it.’
His mouth set in a firm line. Even in the dim glow from the light above the front door, the resemblance to his father was unmistakable. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I thought …’ I stopped myself from saying I’d heard it from both Rachel and his father. Evidently there was some dispute over his future, but that was one argument I wasn’t going to get involved in. ‘Well, I must have got it wrong. Put it towards a gap year, then.’
‘I’m not taking a gap year either. I’m not going anywhere, not when—’
He broke off, looking away. I was still holding out the envelope, wondering how trying to pay someone could have become so complicated. ‘OK, well, take it anyway. It’s not a lot, but—’
‘I told you, I don’t want paying,’ he said, his voice suddenly harsh, and before I could say anything else he walked away towards the cars.
I lowered the envelope, regretting inadvertently touching a raw nerve. A lot of teenagers would have been glad to get away after what had happened, but Rachel had told me how protective Jamie was. Still, throwing away his own future wouldn’t help anyone.
As I put the money away – I’d have to give it to either Rachel or Trask for him – I was tempted to go back to my car and leave. But it was too late to back out now. Taking a deep breath, I went up the steps to knock on the door.
Trask opened it. He stared blankly, and I guessed he’d forgotten inviting me.
‘I’m not too early, am I?’ I said, giving him a hint.
‘No. No, of course not. Come in.’ He closed the door when I stepped inside. The hallway was unlit, but light spilled down the stairs from the kitchen. ‘I’m just finishing something off, but Rachel’s upstairs. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
He headed off down the hallway towards a partly open door, through which I could see a drawing board picked out by lamplight. Wondering if coming here was a mistake after all, I started up the stairs. The smell of cooking became stronger, a casserole scent of cooked meat that brought unwelcome associations with the vat of simmering bones at the mortuary.
Rachel was busy at the cooker while Fay sat on a bar stool at the granite-topped island, desultorily stirring something in a bowl with a long spoon. Her dog lay at her feet, looking sorry for itself. Large patches of its fur had been shaved away to reveal islands of bare skin and dressings, and there was a protective cone around its head to keep it from gnawing them.
It lifted its head when it saw me, briefly thumping its tail on the floor before slumping back down again with a tragic sigh. Rachel turned from the bubbling pans and gave me a determinedly bright smile.
‘Hi. I didn’t hear the door. Dinner’ll be about fifteen minutes.’
‘Can I do anything?’
She blew a strand of hair from her face, looking hot and bothered. ‘No, thanks. Just make yourself comfortable.’
I looked over at Trask’s daughter. She was pale, with shadows under her eyes. There were adhesive dressings on her hands and wrists, and I could see the outline of bulkier dressings underneath her long-sleeved top.
‘Hi, Fay. How are you feeling?’
She hitched a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. ‘OK.’
‘OK, thank you,’ Rachel told her, and received a deadpan stare. ‘We tried to get the doctors to put a collar like Cassie’s on her as well. But they said no, for some reason.’
Fay favoured her with a withering look before going back to stirring the bowl. Rachel looked at me over the
girl’s head and raised her eyes skyward. I held up the bottle of wine I’d brought. It was the white Bordeaux I’d planned to take to Jason and Anja’s, still chilled from the boathouse fridge.
‘Shall I open this?’
‘Yes, please.’ She silently mouthed Thank God.
‘Dad doesn’t drink wine,’ Fay said without looking up.
‘No, but I do,’ Rachel said. ‘And Dr Hunter might like a glass as well.’
Her niece gave her an arch look. ‘Why? It’s not a special occasion.’
‘It doesn’t have to be. Sometimes people like to drink wine with their food.’
‘Alcoholics, you mean?’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ Rachel said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Come on, Fay, don’t start.’
‘Start what?’
‘You know what.’
‘No I don’t.’
The girl stared back at her with calculated insolence. Rachel shook her head, exasperated. ‘OK, fine. Can you leave the dog food cake for now and set the table?’
‘I’m tired,’ Fay said, unceremoniously dumping the bowl down on the island and stomping downstairs.
Rachel gave a sigh as the girl’s footsteps receded. ‘And she isn’t even a teenager.’
‘She’s bound to be upset after yesterday.’
‘Oh, I know. But the little-madam routine is nothing new, she just knows she can get away with more at the minute.’ She gave a grim smile. ‘Glad you came?’
I had been when I saw her, but this was seeming more and more like a bad idea. Invitation or not, there was enough tension in the house already without my presence adding to it.
‘I forgot to bring the jacket back you lent me,’ I said, deciding to move on to safer ground.
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s only an old one. Just leave it at the boathouse.’ She nodded pointedly at the bottle of wine. ‘Corkscrew’s in the top drawer.’
‘You don’t have to open it on my account.’
‘I’m not. Don’t pay any attention to Fay, she’s just … being Fay. Andrew doesn’t drink any more, but he doesn’t mind anyone else doing it. Emma certainly did, and I’d really, really like a glass.’ She winced. ‘God, now I do sound like an alcoholic. But it’s been one of those days.’
The Restless Dead Page 21
