by LJ Ross
“Thank you again for the tea, Mrs Mackie,” she said, setting her mug on a nearby coaster.
As a rule, she seldom drank the teas and coffees she was offered during an investigation, but she found they worked as a good ice-breaker, giving a nervous or elderly witness the chance to settle themselves by performing a humdrum task like boiling the kettle.
Alice Mackie sank down onto one of the over-stuffed chairs in her sitting room and smiled at them both. As a widow of over fifteen years, she kept herself as busy as she could with her friends and did all she could for those less able in the little coastal village. But once the front door to her cottage shut behind her, the walls seemed to close in. Consequently, she’d been glad to find two friendly faces on her doorstep, even if they were investigating a murder.
“No trouble at all, pet,” she replied. “Can I get you anything else? What about a nice cheese scone?”
Phillips’ head popped up like a meerkat, but one stern look from Denise silenced him.
“You’ve been more than kind, Mrs Mackie,” she said, pointedly. “If it’s alright with you, we’d be grateful if you could answer one or two questions for us?”
Alice folded her hands and leaned back.
“O’ course,” she said. “What would you like to know?”
“Can you tell me how long you’ve lived here, Mrs Mackie?”
“Oh, well, now. When we first got married, Dougie and I—that’s my late husband—we lived in Berwick for a while, because he had a job up there. He was a dentist, you know. Anyhow, a partnership came up at the surgery here in Warkworth…gosh, it must have been back in 1982. No!” she corrected herself. “It must have been ’83, because that was the year before our Paul was born.”
MacKenzie nodded politely.
“Have you lived in this house since 1983, then?”
“No, love,” the other woman chuckled, as if it were obvious. “We lived in a much bigger house attached to the surgery but, after Dougie died and the kids moved on, it was too large for me. I moved into this little place about ten years ago.”
“Right,” MacKenzie murmured, wondering how the answer to a simple warm-up question could have become so convoluted. “And how long had Edward Charon been your neighbour?”
“Eeh, I still can’t believe he’s dead,” Alice said, in a dramatic whisper. “He seemed so full of life. He must have been fit as a fiddle, doing all that rowing, as well.”
Phillips caught MacKenzie’s eye and picked up the thread of conversation without a hitch.
“Had he lived in the area long?”
“No, not long at all,” she replied. “Must’ve been last March when he moved in, so that’s nearly a year ago now. As far as I know, he was new to the area.”
“Friendly, was he?”
She pursed her lips, considering how much she should say.
“Well, he wasn’t unfriendly,” she said. “But he kept to himself, mostly, and didn’t have many visitors, either.”
“No?”
She shook her head and took a sip of tea, cradling the mug in her hands to warm them.
“No. In fact, I never saw anybody visiting him, unless you count Jehovah’s Witnesses and the young man who helped him home a couple of weeks ago.”
MacKenzie looked up from her notepad with interest.
“When was this?”
“Must have been a week last Friday,” Alice replied. “I remember, because I had my ladies around for some dinner and a natter. Moira was leaving for home at around half past ten or quarter-to-eleven and saw them both trying to get the front door open.”
“Was Eddie a bit worse for wear?” Phillips asked.
“Aye, he was,” she said, not wishing to speak ill of the dead. “The lad was helping him indoors.”
“Did you recognise him? The lad, I mean.”
Alice nodded.
“It was Matthew Finch. He’s Barbara’s grandson,” she told them, although they had no idea who Barbara might be. “Always was such a helpful boy. He works up at the castle, too, you know.”
They nodded politely, choosing not to disclose the fact it had been Matthew who found Edward’s body.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Eddie?”
Alice leaned down to rub her ankle while she thought back.
“Must have been a couple of days ago, on Tuesday,” she decided. “I heard him come in from work at around twenty-past-five and I went around to knock on his door. I needed to ask him a favour,” she said, and flushed a bit at the lie she’d told.
Reading the situation correctly, Phillips cleared his throat.
“And, did he come over for dinner, then?”
She smoothed a hand over the material of her skirt and lifted her chin a bit.
“He didn’t,” she said, in dignified tones. “I only asked him to be neighbourly. The poor man seemed so lonely; never having anybody over, hardly speaking to a soul. I thought it might do him good to have some company.”
It might have done them both good, she added silently, then pushed the thought away. There was another soul lost to the world.
“Does he have any family?” she asked softly. “I’d like to send them a card.”
MacKenzie didn’t answer directly.
“We haven’t found Edward’s next-of-kin, yet, Mrs Mackie. He didn’t happen to mention anybody, did he?”
Her brow furrowed.
“No, he didn’t mention a soul,” she replied. “And I don’t just mean family. He never mentioned friends or even talked about anybody from work. Come to think of it, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
MacKenzie smiled slightly.
“Yes, Mrs Mackie, you could say that.”
* * *
When Phillips and MacKenzie stepped outside thirty minutes later, night had fallen. The air temperature was well below zero and seeped through the layers of their clothing to penetrate the bones beneath. But the sky above was peppered with stars, so many they lit up the heavens like fairy lights on a Christmas tree.
They took a moment to appreciate the view and then headed off towards their car, which was still parked at the castle.
“Can’t make out the bloke’s character, can you?” Phillips thought aloud.
“Mm? No, no. Not much.”
“All people seem to agree on is that Charon liked his own company, but he liked a drink even more.”
“Mm hmm.”
MacKenzie could hardly muster the strength to give him more than single-syllable answers. It had been a long day, filled with procedure and red tape, and her leg was so painful she was almost hobbling.
“Hey,” Phillips murmured, taking her arm in a gentle grip. “Is your leg hurting you, love?”
She bit off the angry, defensive response that sprang to her lips and drew in a shaking breath instead.
“It’s a bit sore,” she admitted. “It must be all the cold weather.”
Phillips battled against the powerful wave of anger which coursed through his body as he thought of how she’d come by her injuries. Most days, he tried to forget the anguish and focus on the here and now, reminding himself to be grateful that she’d been returned to him alive and not hacked to pieces, as had been the case with some of The Hacker’s less fortunate victims. Still, he’d rather she had never been hurt at all.
“Here,” he said gruffly. “Let me give you a carry.”
“Frank,” she tried to slap his hands away, fearful of who might see, but could only be grateful when he scooped her up into his burly arms and allowed her to lean on him. Phillips had been a keen amateur boxer for years, but it was easy to forget the layer of muscle that lay hidden beneath what she affectionately called his ‘custard cream layer’.
“Just this once, mind,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what people would think, if they saw—”
He looked across at her pale face and gave a roguish smile.
“They’d think I was a better-lookin’ version of Prince Charming, carrying you off to the castle,�
� he said, and then pretended to drop her, which elicited a squeal of panic.
“Frank! Put me down, y’ old fool!”
“Not a chance,” he said, hitching her a bit higher against his chest. “If I have a heart attack, I’ll die happy.”
But when he spied the car, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. A minute later, he deposited her on the passenger side and insisted on driving home.
“You’re not insured on this car,” she said, worriedly. “What if anything were to happen?”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said, snatching up the keys. “I know a few officers in the traffic team who’ll put in a good word for me.”
MacKenzie was about to argue further, when another spasm of pain shot up her leg, causing her to buckle.
“Alright,” she capitulated, gritting her teeth. “I suppose the chances of you getting caught speeding are pretty low, anyway.”
He shot her an affronted look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She strapped on her seat-belt and leaned back with a grateful sigh.
“Frank, being in the car with you is less like The Fast and the Furious and more like Driving Miss Daisy.”
“Slow and steady wins the race,” he said.
* * *
After what seemed like an endless journey to re-join the dual carriageway, Phillips picked up their conversation once they were heading back towards the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, thirty miles further south.
“What do you make of what Alice Mackie had to say? Seemed like the old boy was a bit of a loner.”
MacKenzie agreed.
“I’ve asked Yates to pull together a file on Charon,” she said, referring to the trainee detective constable in their team. “So far, she’s having trouble finding any next-of-kin, or anything dating back to more than a year ago.”
“Changed his name?” Phillips queried. “Or could be witness protection.”
“That’s what I wondered, so I’ve asked her to look into both. Might take a while yet.”
Phillips reduced his speed, careful not to go above sixty.
“What about the castle? Didn’t they check his references?”
“We can speak to them about that,” she said. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t, which means it’s possible he may have provided false ones if he went by a previous name.”
She paused, trying not to notice that they’d been stuck behind the same slow-moving lorry for the past three miles.
“Alice Mackie says he only moved into the house next door last March,” Phillips said, blissfully unaware that anything was amiss, despite seven or eight cars in a row having overtaken them. “We couldn’t see anything much when we had a nosy around his house earlier, but we could have a proper check tomorrow when the CSIs go in. Maybe we’ll find some documents, or the house deeds. That should tell us how he paid for it.”
“If not, we’ll request it from the Land Registry,” MacKenzie said. “The man we know as ‘Edward Charon’ has a clean sheet as far as previous convictions go, but doesn’t even own a car. He couldn’t have been more than sixty-five.”
“Maybe he couldn’t drive,” Phillips suggested.
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
They fell into a comfortable silence while MacKenzie found herself reading a variety of lewd stickers that had been fixed to the back of the lorry in front of them.
“Why would a man in his sixties move to a remote coastal town and take up a job as a ferryman, Frank?”
“Maybe he liked the quiet life.”
“Aye, or maybe he was running from something.”
Phillips made a low sound in his throat.
“You’re thinking he’s linked to one of the firms?” he asked, and thought of the various organised crime syndicates operating in the North East. “Could have got himself in a bit of hot water and tried to start again. It was brutal, the way he died, so it wouldn’t be outside the realms of possibility.”
“True, but we usually see punishment killings with knives or guns, not with bits of rock, and some mafia stooge wouldn’t bother to wait for him in the hermitage; they’d go ’round to his house or take him down some back alley.”
“Aye, there weren’t any markers on him that I could see.”
Sometimes, they found a victim’s tongue had been cut out, if one of the families thought the unfortunate soul had spoken to the police. However, Edward Charon’s tongue and extremities had all been intact.
Phillips drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel in a cheerful rhythm.
“Nothing I like more than a challenge,” he declared.
“D’ you know what I like, Frank?” MacKenzie said, sweetly. “I like to get home before the early hours of the morning. For pity’s sake, overtake this lorry before you drive me demented.”
“Now, now,” he teased. “Nobody likes a backseat driver.”
He laughed when the air turned blue inside the little black Honda.
CHAPTER 9
Friday, 23rd February
The new day brought with it a layer of mist which curled over the rooftops and spires of Florence, weaving through the streets like long fingers as it spread through the city. Ryan leaned against one of the terrace doors to watch it, lifting an espresso to his lips. Having been unable to sleep for more than a few hours, he’d wiled away the long hours of the night researching his quarry. It hadn’t taken more than a few Google searches to find out that Florence was the last stop on Nathan Armstrong’s world tour and that it had been chosen to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the publication of his worldwide bestseller, Il Mostro.
Like many people, Ryan had seen the film that had been made a few years after the book was released, back in the early noughties. He remembered thinking it was overly gory, which was not to his taste. In his business, he hardly needed to seek out further evidence of the damage that one human being could do to another, let alone pay for the privilege. Further internet searches had supplemented his basic knowledge of the book’s storyline, which relied heavily on the real-life events surrounding the infamous serial murders attributed to Il Mostro di Firenze, the ‘Monster of Florence’, which remained unsolved. Several books had been written on the subject, but Armstrong’s thriller had surpassed them all, selling millions of copies around the world and setting him up for life.
It made for difficult reading when Ryan discovered that the book had not only been a commercial hit, but had been critically acclaimed by industry pundits and reviewers alike. Given Armstrong’s character, it would have been preferable to find that his literary efforts had been met with a lukewarm reception, but the opposite had been true. Accolades and awards had been rained upon the author by a variety of dubious publishing entities, which was enough to turn Ryan’s stomach.
“Sycophants,” he muttered, scrolling past another nauseating write-up from somebody with a triple-barrelled name.
By the time Anna awakened, Ryan had read two-thirds of Il Mostro, which he’d downloaded onto an e-reader, to find out for himself what all the fuss was about. Having already subjected himself to one of Armstrong’s later works of fiction, Ryan hadn’t held out much hope, but found himself pleasantly surprised by the higher standard of the man’s earlier effort.
Apparently, Nathan Armstrong had grown lazy sometime during the intervening years.
“What time is it?” she yawned, searching for her smartphone to check the time.
“Just after eight,” Ryan replied, stepping away from the open doorway. “Go back to sleep, if you like.”
Anna stretched and shook her head, focusing on him properly.
“You’re showered and dressed already—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I’ve been catching up on some reading.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you said this wasn’t a holiday?”
He laughed shortly.
“Trust me, it isn’t. I’ve been reading Il Mostro, by our illustrious friend.”
Anna wrapped her arms around her knees, eyeing the shadows beneath his eyes with concern.
“Any good?”
He opened his mouth to say something scathing but, since he prided himself on being an honest man, thought better of it.
“It’s not bad,” he admitted. “Well researched, for one thing. Though it pains me to say it, I can understand why it did so well. Small wonder Armstrong has an ego the size of a small planet.”
Anna laughed at the look of derision marring his handsome face.
“He’s still a killer,” she reminded him.
Ryan polished off the last of his coffee, then moved across to the machine in the corner of the bedroom to pour a cup for his wife.
“They do say you should write about what you know, in which case Armstrong ought to be well placed to write a serial killer thriller.”
“He’d be no good at writing a self-help book,” she quipped.
Ryan handed her a steaming cup and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and thought privately that it was small, seemingly insignificant gestures such as a cup of coffee in the morning that made up the fabric of her love for him. It cost him very little, but meant so much.
“What else did you find out?” she asked.
“We already know Armstrong’s in Florence for a special event,” he replied. “His Italian publisher is throwing him a big, swanky party at the Uffizi Gallery on Saturday to celebrate twenty years of him being a demi-God. That means he has today and most of tomorrow to maraud around the city, enjoying himself.”
“You think he’ll hurt someone?”
Ryan’s eyes turned flat.
“People have gone missing from the major cities he visited on his tour,” he said quietly. “People who had come into contact with him, at one stage or another. There may even be more that we haven’t found yet. That tells me he’s good at planning and execution—so good that he leaves no evidence trail—but he isn’t so good at delaying his own gratification.”
Ryan stood up to pace around a bit, working off some of his frustration.
