“Oh dear, no breakfast?”
Lavender shook her head. Sylvia didn’t argue. Harry was waiting for her at the breakfast table. “I presume you know?” he asked.
“About Iris? Yes, I do. Such a shame. Any idea where she went?”
“No.” Harry stood, ready to bring back scalding tea. “But we can search the station tonight.”
“The wretched woman will freeze to death.” Harry brought the tea, poured from the buffet bar into their own personal mugs. They both sipped the tea and breathed in the steam. “But you know the reason I went to see Kate, apart from spending a ridiculous fortune on cakes for mid-morning – and I now think you’re right.”
Harry was interested, leaning forwards over the table. “What did she say?”
“Big Brother Mark’s still here, but won’t be showing up here for a dinner invitation. Most importantly, this Wednesday, he’s going to her house to pick up Maurice and go off together. Now, why did she go into that sort of detail? I didn’t even ask.”
“And the vague but fascinating C-U.”
“Oh – more,” remembered Sylvia. “Telling us about his other house and even the original facts about his arrival.” Sylvia finished her tea, and smiled hopefully at Harry for a refill, pushing her empty mug across the table towards him. “And it’s just so obvious now. Kate is busy giving clues, even though she can’t risk telling us outright. Clearly, she doesn’t approve of Mark. Perhaps she thinks he’s a bad example for Maurice and Mia. Or perhaps she just doesn’t like him.”
Harry dutifully rose, two mugs ready for more tea. “Well, she knows full well that we’re friends with Morrison. Clearly we tell him everything.”
“Which is what we’re going to do this afternoon.”
“Well,” Harry smiled, “he’ll tell us, as usual, that chasing Mark Howard isn’t his responsibility. He’s after the Chimney Killer, and that’s that. But he’ll be secretly delighted and rush off to tell everything to the other lot who are after money launderers.”
Sylvia waited for Harry and the rest of breakfast. She wondered if Kate knew about the money laundering and disapproved, or whether she was simply naïve. No, she knew exactly what she was doing. The clues were clearly intentional. “Thanks, love.” Tea, piping hot, scrambled eggs and toast, and a small tub of garlicky mushrooms as an extra.
“Of course, we’ve never met the man. I like Maurice, but he often seems secretive. “
They shared the mushrooms. Sylvia said, mouth full, “Mark must be mixing with worldwide drug dealers, gun smugglers and top class crooks. That’s the basis for money laundering, isn’t it? So I dislike him without having to meet him. Yes, I’m more interested in finding Eve Daish, but this is important too.”
“Of course it is.” Harry ate everything and then buttered more toast. “In a way, this crime is worse. Eve’s one person. I hope she’s fine, but she might be dead. What this Mark Howard’s doing is encouraging some of the biggest criminals in the world. They could cause the death of thousands.”
“A man like that has to be ruthless. He won’t care about the end result, only his own profits.”
Sylvia finished her tea but couldn’t face the rest of the food. “He might have killed people too – in his line of work. Perhaps Kate knows and wants him caught. But she has to be careful. If Maurice finds out, he’d be angry. Twins must love each other however different their characters.”
“So we inform Morrison. But we don’t implicate anyone else. That’s all we can do.” The crunch of the toast made Sylvia shiver.
“Much obliged,” Morrison told them later that afternoon. “This is exceedingly helpful.” His delight seemed genuine. Wearing a thick grey ribbed jumper with the collar of a brilliant yellow shirt sticking out at the neck, over deep brown trousers and sturdy black boots, the senior detective looked as though he had dressed that morning exclusively from the rubbish pile. Yet above the mismatched clothes, his smile was infectious. “This is going to please the entire station.”
“Talking of stations,” said Sylvia abruptly, “I don’t suppose you ever have anything to do with down and outs? I mean, we met a really miserable old soul called Iris Little, who has a terrible gambling addiction, sleeps wherever she can, and in this weather too, and seems to survive without food. Her pension goes in the fruit machines.”
Surprised, Morrison paused, half a dozen papers still in his hands. “An abrupt change of subject, Sylvia,” he noted. “No, the name means nothing to me, and it’s certainly not my jurisdiction. If anything like that comes too close to ignore, I refer it to the Salvation Army, the local home for the elderly and mentally unstable, or the nearest psychiatrist.”
“We brought her home with us for a good feed and a warm bed,” said Sylvia. “But something upset her, and she disappeared. I’m worried. She was so sad and so lost.”
“Most kind.” Morrison narrowed his eyes. “There but for the grace of God go I?” But he smiled. “The old people’s home has a good reputation, but if someone insists on wandering off to the nearest gambling den, then they can’t forbid it. Nor will the casino agree to forbid entry. Counselling might help.”
“We thought of that.”
“Find her, and bring her to my place,” Morrison said. “Peggy will gladly feed her. She can sleep on the sofa. Then I can sort out a few other options.” They thanked him, and he smiled again. “You’re proving as helpful as last time,” he added. “The least I can do is pretend to be helpful in return.”
It was still snowing as Sylvia and Harry waited in the entrance for the police car which Darcey had arranged to take them home. It had begun to settle, a thin coat of white veneered the pavement. It floated so slowly, so tentative and so pretty that looking up into its pearlized birth seemed like watching a white tulle party.
The car tyres splashed through the first melt. “Well, at least life’s getting eccentrically busy,” Sylvia said, brushing the splashes from her long navy trench coat.
“Which reminds me,” said Harry, climbing into the back of the car, “I’d love to know what Lionel Sullivan’s up to now.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was a flash BMW and still managed to look clean and gleaming beneath the snowfall. She was glad when it stopped. A rich victim was just what she needed. The driver looked old and ugly, so easy game for bartering the usual in exchange for a good meal, a few quid, and perhaps even move into a posh house for a few days. Then she’d nick whatever she could, and get back to her mother’s B & B. In the meantime, she was just hoping for a lift to Oxford.
The man opened the front passenger window, leaned over to talk through it, and offered the help she’d hoped for. “Too cold for walking, miss,” said the man. “Where are you aiming?”
“Vilmer Road, Oxford,” replied the girl, Peering over and peeping back over the open car window “But just halfway there would be a help. Somewhere to stay the night out of the snow. Or a roadside cafe. Anything would help, mister. I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Would you now?” said the man, almost licking his lips. “Hop in, then, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”
Central locking from inside the car was one of the greatest blessings. Lionel Sullivan ensured that neither door nor window could any longer assist in escape. The girl was not yet considering escape. She sat in the front passenger seat, ensured that her coat fell open and showed her thighs, and smiled. “I’m Candy. Thanks so much for this, It’s such a help. Isn’t the weather rotten? Nearly March, and it’s as cold as January.”
It had been great good luck and a boost to Lionel’s confidence. During the days of the old shed when he had felt his success to be at its height, it had still taken days of roaming back lanes before finding any young woman who might accept a lift. But this time, his first attempt after the escape from prison, it had been easier than ever. True, he’d stolen an impressive car, and once this girl was dead he’d have to get rid of it. He couldn’t risk using the same car again, for the police would have a re
cord of the theft, and they’d be looking. But that was unimportant. Instead, he was dreaming of a week’s pleasure, the first in two years, and already his whole groin throbbed and tingled. He could hear his heartbeat pump fast and loud and imperative. Excitement was so much better than food.
And he had a shed, ready and waiting. It was less than half the size of his previous haven, but it was solid and isolated from houses. His store of equipment had gone, of course, but he had a knife, and there was an old spade and a rake in the shed along with piles of dirty old straw. He licked his lips, dreaming of the thrill to come.
“What’s your name, Love?” Candy asked.
Lionel thought a moment. Then he said, “Carlos. And I’m pleased to meet you. Let’s get somewhere warm, you must be shivering.”
“I am.” She was. “A hot cup of tea, that’s what I need.”
After a short calculation of probabilities, Lionel said, “And how about a quick cuddle or two?”
Candy giggled. “I won’t object to that.”
“How about a deal, then?” Lionel continued carefully. “I can’t take you home, because my wife’ll be waiting. But there’s a cosy little shed on my property, warm and snug. We’ll get to know each other better for a pleasant half hour or so, then I’ll drive you to a very good restaurant I know. I’ll feed you up against the cold, then I’ll drive you wherever you want. How’s that for a good deal?”
“Sounds fine to me.” It did, and Candy felt her luck was changing. She’d be back at her mother’s house in Oxford by midnight after a fabulous meal, with maybe a few quid in hand. She didn’t fancy the half hour in the shed with this bloke since he was hideously ugly, but he was polite and kind enough. She’d put up with what seemed a fair bargain.
Until she saw the shed. “Yes, a little small,” Lionel apologised. “But warm and comfy inside. Come and see.” He drove over the uncut grassy paddock and parked beside the little wooden barn.
Candy remembered something. A couple of years back there had been a maniac in the area, and he had later been known as the Ripper in the Shed. And he’d been an ugly brute with giant hands. She looked at this man’s hands on the steering wheel. “No, sorry,” she said quickly. “I’ve just remembered, I have to hurry. Sorry – I know it’s a cheek, but either drive on, or I’ll go and get another lift. I can’t stay. I – don’t like sheds.” And she grabbed the door handle beside her. It didn’t budge. The car was locked. She gulped. “Let me out.”
The driver was shaking his head. “Too late, my girl.” He unclipped the central locking, turned and grabbed Candy with both hands hard around her throat.
Niles Daish rang the bell at Rochester Manor, then waited patiently on the wide pillared doorstep as a wild confusion of snow blew onto his back and down his coat collar.
Lavender let him in and called Harry. Then she pottered back into the dining room, finding Sylvia kicking at the unresponsive fire.
“Damp logs.”
“Snow got into the woodshed,” explained Lavender. “Now there’s a young man asking for you and Harry. I saw Harry go out to the garage earlier, but I’ve called him. The young man says he’s Niles Daish.”
Once everyone had settled, she brought in a steaming teapot and a plate of biscuits. There were no cakes left over from Sylvia’s visit to Kate’s bakery the day before. The fire had finally taken pity on his roomful of chilly inmates and was blazing into fantasy fairy-tale shadows. Niles leaned back and rubbed his hands together. “They think it’s me,” he said. “I’ve been followed to work, followed home, followed to the pub and followed even to the Post Office. Tis like being stalked. I care loads for my sister. Evie’s me favourite. I don’t go killing nobody. Tis not me character.”
“Unfortunately,” said Harry, “domestic violence – well, I don’t know the statistics. But when a girl goes missing, it’s usually her father, husband or brother that killed her. So they’re jumping to conclusions. But they haven’t arrested you. So there’s hope. Well, far more than hope. But I’m afraid Sylvia and I haven’t found a single real clue as yet.”
Niles ignored the tea. “It’s the Chimney Killer, isn’t it? My lovely Evie’s dead. I reckon you know already, and you’re keeping quiet just to keep me happy.”
Both Harry and Sylvia shook their heads with emphasis. While Harry finished his tea, Sylvia took a deep breath. “Dear Niles,” she said, “there is a risk that she’s been kidnapped. Not dead perhaps, but unable to escape. We have absolutely no proof of her death, nor that she’s been taken by anyone in particular. And we haven’t stopped looking. But like you, we just don’t know where to look. The police have exhausted the search along her normal route home. We’ve gone over all the fields and farms, even along the banks of the Torr and into the next village. There’s no sign of any accident nor any burial. We haven’t stopped looking, I promise. But where to look next?”
“Is anyone,” Niles was almost frightened to say it, “still guarding the house with the chimney? She could be there, couldn’t she! I mean, locked up. Or – even worse.”
Once again both Sylvia and Harry shook their heads. “No, absolutely not,” Sylvia said, as Harry changed his shake to a nod. “As far as anyone can tell, that house hasn’t been used by anyone for several years. And the police have checked it over and over and over. They’ve been trundling around in their plastic forensic suits for weeks, pulling every corner apart. The tunnel that led to the cellar has gone. But the police still guard the house, front and back.”
Niles sniffed. “And the bodies they found? Not possible – or is it?”
“It’s not. Every single wretched thing they found had been there for years. “
It was Norman Syrett, not Sylvia’s favourite neighbour, who wandered over and interrupted. “I couldn’t help hearing,,” he said, “and it won’t be you the coppers suspect, you know It’s always the husband or the boyfriend. You wait and see. They’ll nab that fellow who was dating your sister. Can’t remember his name.”
“Brian Orbos.”
“There you are,” said Norman, and plodded off.
“We know the officer in charge of the chimney stuff,” Sylvia said quickly. “And he talks to us. He doesn’t suspect anyone yet and certainly not you.”
“And our Evie?”
Sighing, Sylvia shook her head yet again. “No sign. No clues. But they’re searching everywhere, and so are we. We’ll find her, alive and well.”
“She won’t be well, will she, my poor little Evie,” Niles said, standing with some reluctance. “Locked up for all this time? And what they done to her, then? No bugger is gonna lock up a pretty girl just to look at her.”
They both saw him to the door and asked Arthur to give him a lift home. The snow was heavier, and the wind whistled through the trees, blowing the snow crystals into bustling clouds. The pretty white cloak of hush that comes with the noiseless flight of the snow had now turned to a ferocious whine.
As Niles drove off with Arthur, Harry turned to Sylvia, shutting the door quickly against the encroaching freeze. “We haven’t tried hard enough,” he said. “So much misery. So much despair. Even that poor little woman Iris.”
“She brought it on herself,” said Lavender, head in the air as she passed them in the corridor, holding a pile of ironed table cloths.
Sylvia ignored her. “Well, we went to the station and she wasn’t there. I’m hoping she found a friend or a relative. As for Evie, where do we look, my love? Every house from here to Cheltenham, and then every house in Cheltenham too. Not to mention moving on to Gloucester.”
“Well, perhaps we should,” said Harry abruptly. “Morrison says he can’t, but that’s probably because of his budget. We don’t have a budget, and it doesn’t cost us a thing except a little petrol. Morrison probably thinks he’d offend half the county too, but we don’t care about that either. Or at least, I don’t.”
“When have I ever worried about offending people?” Sylvia flopped down on the armchair in the smaller living room
where the fire blazed without pause. “But it’s no point, is it? I mean, what do we ask? ‘Excuse me, have you got a young girl imprisoned in your cellar or attic?‘ Or just, ‘Can we search your house from top to bottom?”
“But what Niles said is true, isn’t it,” muttered Harry. “That poor girl will be raped and beaten. How long now? Three weeks? Four?”
“Five.”
“So she probably is dead by now.”
Under the white furry rug, Eve curled and hugged herself, trying not to cry. The shivering was more from cold than fear, but the insistent tears were for pain and utter hopeless misery. Master had suddenly turned more dangerous and Eve feared she might bleed to death, or he would purposefully kill her.
She had been a fool and blamed herself. They had been talking. Placid, unconcerned and even, within the boundaries Master could cope with, friendly.
“Tis a new house,” Master said. “I likes it better.”
“Is it a house you own?” Eve had asked. She didn’t care and asked only to be attentive. In fact, she was watching the spider on the ceiling. It suspected ill will and had frozen, playing dead. Eve wished she could do the same. “Is it nice upstairs?”
Master had scowled. “Why? I doesn’t see upstairs much. Wot’s it got to do with you? You won’t never see it.”
She grunted. “I just wanted to know you were – comfortable. Happy.”
He thought about this for some time. Finally he said, “None o’ your business.”
She should have kept quiet then and knew it now. But instead, she had continued, saying, “You’re my good master. I want you to be happy. Number One looks after you, doesn’t he?”
Then he had slapped her hard across the face, making her ears ring. She had shrunk back against the pillows, clamping her mouth shut. But it was too late. “Wot you know about Number One?” Master demanded.
“Nothing.” Then she had an idea. Even at the time she knew it to be stupid, but could not resist the temptation. It could – just might – be a path to release. “I do know who he is,” she said softly. “I knew him when he offered me a lift in his car. Then he made me go to sleep and I woke up here. But I wouldn’t ever have got in the car if I hadn’t known and trusted him. I liked him. I thought he was a good man.”
Ashes From Ashes Page 14
