But Sylvia changed the subject anyway. Pulling away slightly, she watched Harry’s eyes spelling sex, and said softly, “Aren’t we supposed to be at Morrison’s in about fifteen minutes? We’ll be late.”
Harry groaned and rolled aside, swinging his legs to the rug. “And there was me starting to feel young again. Now I’m reminded of the arthritic hip and the pain in my neck and the frozen left shoulder and the stiff back.”
“I have all that and more,” Sylvia told him. “Let’s see who wins on the self-pity scale. And now I have to brush all the knots out of my hair and find my contact lenses.”
“We’ll be late anyway.” Harry stood, both hands to his back. “And Morrison won’t mind. Nor will Peggy. Their house is always in chaos.”
“It just looks that way,” Sylvia nodded. “But it’s organised chaos.And I want to know where we’re up to with that fluffy rug and the saffron-prop.”
“It’s an acro-prop.”
“I don’t care if it’s a Ring of Mordor. I just want to talk to Morrison about where we’re up to.”
Over the dinner table, Darcey Morrison carved the roast pork and snapped the crackling into eight large steaming pieces. He gave the largest to Harry. “Where I know it’ll be appreciated.”
Dempsey, the eldest child, watched the food bypass his own plate. “Hardly fair.”
“He’s a Pooky-Muncher,” complained Atticus. The two youngest, Jackson and Primrose, had already been put to bed.
“I shall remember that name, and use it to start a new FaceBook page,” Harry told Atticus, then turned to Morrison. “Are we close? Very, very close? What about the acro-prop?”
“Sadly it can’t be traced,’ Morrison said, passing the plates. “Nor can the rug. But the description fits the threads found in two separate cases. We’ve tried to question the teacher’s wife.”
“But Kate’s still missing?” asked Sylvia.
“And the teacher’s gone too. Says he’s not well,” Atticusrelated, acting the detective.
Peggy suddenly remembered he was still there. “Atticus, it’s half an hour since you finished your dinner. Haven’t I already told you to go upstairs, read the end of that book whatever it was, and go to bed.”
“Bannister’s Muster, book four.” He pushed back his chair with a sulky expression.
“Read till the end of the chapter,” his mother frowned, “and then bed. No eavesdropping at the top of the stairs. You wouldn’t understand anyway. And that goes for you too, Dempsy. You know you can’t be here when your father talks business.”
With faint grumbles drifting into the perfumed air, the boys disappeared. Harry crunched his pork crackling.”
“The evidence is circumstantial, but their disappearance brings more suspicion. Maurice Howard certainly isn’t in hospital, and the headmaster admitted he’d spoken of ill health simply because the man had gone missing without excuse. The cake shop’s closed as you know, and whether Mark Howard is still in the country, we have no idea. There’s no other address listed for any of them except the house behind the cake shop, and it’s empty. No bank withdrawals or credit card transactions have been made by any of the three Howards, and the daughter Mia is also absent from school without explanation. Eve Daish, of course, has not been found either.”
“So all that exciting information, and it hasn’t really helped at all?”
“It’s helped a great deal,” Morrison said. He heaped a large cut of meat and roast potato onto his fork but rested it on the plate without eating. “What I need,” he said, “is something – anything – that might lead to an address. Mark Howard was already Number One on the Wanted list and his photo plasters almost every wall in every police station. But we had no information connecting him to murder, multiple or otherwise, until you brought us the link between him, his family, and that infamous white fur rug. The acro-prop is merely circumstantial, but it adds logic.”
“Does your forensic lab,” asked Sylvia tentatively, “say anything about marks from a machine? Bodies forced into tight places, for instance?”
He smiled. Talking to those who had no idea of police procedures was always slightly challenging. “Yes,” he said, “to some small extent. But remember these bodies are in a terrible state of decomposition, and fires have been lit below. For the moment, we don’t have enough on Maurice or Kate Howard to arrest them, but we certainly do on the money laundering and enough on the other two to pull them in for questioning.”
“But you questioned Arthur Simms and his son,” Sylvia pointed out. “Did you get anything else important from them?”
“The son kept saying his father was a good man.”
Harry smiled. “He’s autistic. He used to say the opposite. I suppose he was nervous of being in a police station.”
“But the father was helpful. Answered everything. Then had no more information to give.”
“And the third triplet?” Sylvia was intrigued. “Do you believe that story?”
“The difficulty,” said Morrison, “is knowing whether the third son survived. Oh yes, I believe it alright, and there are three male infants born within the one day to the same mother according to the birth certificates. Mark. That’s our money launderer. Maurice. The teacher. And Milton. Who may or may not have died with his mother.” Morrison finally stuffed his fork into his mouth and leaned back, chewing.
“And which one is the murderer?” Sylvia had finished eating and was leaning forward, but knew she’d be unlikely to get a straight answer.
“Humph,” Morrison said somewhat predictably. “It could be any one of them. But is the youngest living? Was the eldest even in this country when the crimes were committed? Does that leave the middle son as the most likely suspect? Circumstantial as yet – so none of us know.” Morrison was still chewing, his morose expression of disappointment paling into the pleasure of food when the phone rang in his pocket. He mumbled an apology, grabbed the phone, pushed back his chair and disappeared into the passageway outside the dining room. Peggy refilled Harry’s glass and waved the bottle towards Sylvia.
“No thanks,” Sylvia said. “And Harry shouldn’t have anymore either. He’s got to drive home.” Harry obediently pushed his glass away. “I presume that was work?” Sylvia asked Peggy.
“Oh yes,” Peggy sipped at her own refilled glass, “He only ever answers the work phone. He turns the home number off when we have visitors. And,” she began to collect the empty plates, “it must have been important for them to have called him at this hour.”
It was only a few moments before Morrison marched back in. “I have to be going, I’m afraid,” he said, eyeing his half-full plate with reluctance. “Some woman just phoned the station. Says some lump of a stranger tried to get her into his clutches. Her words. The D.C. assumes this was the Chimney Killer, but by the woman’s description, it sounds more like Lionel Sullivan.” He had already grabbed his mackintosh and car keys from the chair beside the front door. “Not my case, as you know. But I’m interested, and there’s no other senior in the station at this time of night. The last victim, still in hospital, sprayed the man’s face with special dye. Now this new sighting mentions a purple stain. Most convincing, I’d say.”
“I suppose it would be pointless me asking if I could come along?” asked Harry, half standing.”
“Ludicrously pointless,” said the detective. “I shouldn’t even be going myself. But it’s Inspector Ellis’s case, and she’s a friend of mine. She’ll be grateful since I happen to know she’s on a blind date.”
“Hopefully not with Lionel Sullivan,” smiled Sylvia.
Peggy smiled too. “Rita’s a friend. And she can be a bit daft in her private life. But not that daft.”
Darcey Morrison turned once as he shrugged on his coat. “No actual address. But a sighting’s still important. The best for some time.”
From the top of the stairs, a young boy’s voice called down, “It’s Father Christmas who climbs up chimneys. Perhaps it was him. If he brings a stoc
king, but the others are naughty.”
“That’s Primrose,” Peggy sighed. “I’ll see to her.”
“Then we’d best be going,” Sylvia said, waving to everyone and thanking the empty space for a fascinating evening.”
Back at the manor, the usual roaring fires brought the ease of homely comfort, but Ruby was waiting for their news, and they had very little to give. During a long evening of boredom in spite of a Cumberbatch film on television, Ruby had concocted a hot spiced punch, and served this in tumblers, ladled from a glass bowl.
“I should have added fireworks.”
They sipped. It was too hot and spicy to gulp. “It’s delicious,” said Harry. Although it wasn’t. Too much pepper and not enough ginger.
“I talked some more to Arthur,” said Ruby, “and David too. David may have problems, but he’s really not stupid. He said he was at his father’s side when the couple drove up and stopped at their sale. She really liked the rug and said it felt like Alpaca, although David said it was Ally Spak. And she was really friendly and chatted to him about her husband being a teacher. But then she saw the acro-prop leaning against the fence, and she just called across to her husband, and he said they’d better take that too. Then Arthur had smiled and asked why they needed it. And she’d changed and had gone all frosty and said that it wasn’t for her, it was for someone else, and they bought it and just left. Then it was the teacher who picked it up and carried it away.”
“My dearest Bluebell,” Sylvia said, putting down the glass of punch, “I find that extremely interesting. It means that Kate knew all about everything from the start. She wasn’t ever innocent. She knew. And perhaps she even helped. So maybe it was her husband after all, and she loved him enough to help a sick murderer.”
“Possibly,” Harry added, “that’s why he likes kids and became a teacher.”
“But he teaches eight, nine, ten year olds. He kills seventeen, eighteen, nineteen year olds.”
Milton crouched on the rug and stared up at his brother. “I’s happy wiv my lady,” he said, with the hint of a sulk. “I likes her better than the last one. Why can’t I keeps her?”
“Because in spite of the drug, she remembers too much. Now she knows who Maurice is,” Mark said. “We cannot keep anyone alive who knows our identities.” He smiled down at Milton, a rare softness filling the empty black tunnels with warmth. “You must know that by now, my dearest brother. You never use our names when you speak to your ladies, do you?” Milton nodded. “And you know I’ll always do whatever you want, my little one. And I shall find you another lady after I take this one away.”
“You’s gonna kill my Evie?”
Mark sat again at the dining table where the remainder of their meal was strewn, Mark’s plate almost untouched, and Milton’s a spilt chaos of fish scraps and half-chewed chips. Another plate neatly scraped clean, its knife and fork side by side across the empty china, sat at the other side.
Leaning back in his chair, Mark leaned out and stroked Milton’s knotted black twists of hair. “Listen, my sweet,” he said softly, “for many years I’ve brought you back girls to play with. Then if you play too hard, I get rid of the bodies and find you another girl. Sometimes when you dislike them, or get bored or irritated by their habits, then I remove them and dispose of them for you. I’ve always done exactly as you ask. Sadly, you don’t get a lot of freedom, and I apologise for that. But I take you out when I can, and you had a nice holiday in the Scottish Highlands last year. You were able to run and hide, and we all played games together even though I admit it was a little chilly.”
Nodding eagerly, Milton remembered his holiday. “And I didn’t have no lady but there was Kate, and I doesn’t see her much. But she were there, and it were nice. Can we do it again?”
“One day. Yes indeed. But you must allow me to take this girl away and find you another lady.”
Milton stared down at his bare toes and wriggled them, half delighted but half unswayed. “She got nice titties and I likes biting on them.”
“Most females have similar proportions.” Mark watched his brother’s sigh of acceptance and leaned forwards again. “Have you eaten enough, little one? Do you want cake?”
“I wanna give some of what’s left to my lady,” Milton looked up. “I don’t reckon she’s ate fer four or five days.” His small twisted legs shaking, Milton scrambled up. “I gotta take her sommint. Then yeah, I wants cake.”
“It might,” Mark considered, “be easier to let the bitch die of starvation. Take her nothing. I shall fetch the cake.”
“She might like cake an’all.”
“The cake,” said Mark, “is only for you, my dearest.” He stood but was interrupted by the door smashing open, and the hurried entrance of Maurice, who strode to the table and sank immediately to one of the chairs.
“Damned nuisance,” he said. “I thought she’d make life easier. But not at all. Damnation, I’ve warned her often enough.”
“What have you done with her?” Mark asked.
Maurice said, “Gave her a good hiding and locked her in the attic. I’ve fed her, and she got a good share. I gave her a plastic fork and no knife, but she even tried to stick the bloody fork in me. It broke, so I told her to eat with her fingers.”
“You wanna get rid o’ your lady too?” asked Milton. “But I likes Kate. And Number One, he wants to get rid o’ my lady an’all, but I likes my Evie too.”
“You don’t understand,” Maurice told him.
“And you gotta bub,” Milton persisted. “Kate, she done told me once. She done had a bub, and I remembers all about it, ‘cos she called it Mia. You can’t put Mia’s mum in a hole.”
The brothers looked silently at each other. “You’ve never met Mia,” Maurice said eventually. “You know nothing about her, and she’s not a baby anymore. While we all went to Scotland on holiday, Mia was on a different holiday with her Kindergarten. She’s in boarding school now, over in Switzerland. She won’t be hurt, whether or not her mother survives.”
Milton thought a moment. “Can I plays wiv Mia then?” he asked.Maurice looked away, disgust twisting his mouth.
Mark smiled at Milton and said, “She’s not the playing kind, my dear. She can’t ever be your lady, and I doubt you’ll ever meet her. Switzerland is a long way away. Nor will she ever be permitted to know the secrets of our lives.”
“I could have anovver holiday.”
“No,” Maurice spoke loudly.
“Kate then.”
“No.” Maurice banged his fist on the table and Milton looked startled.
“You ain’t angry wiv me, is you?”
Mark patted his hand. “My dearest boy, we are family. Neither of us are ever angry with you, and never will be. But Kate has been a bad girl and you must have good girls to play with. We have been through many long troubles together, and perhaps this is another of them. But, as you know, we are more intelligent than the police, or the fools in authority. We will look after you forever and ever, and you’ll never be alone again.” He turned to Maurice, who was sitting stiff-backed. “Don’t trouble our baby brother, my dear. We shall work it all out over the next two days before I leave.” Voice lowered, he added, I thought you’d fixed Kate years ago. You swore she had no options.“
„For years, yes. I was a kid’s teacher and a good one. Domestic bliss, wife, daughter, and only a teacher’s salary. Because I’d threatened Kate so often, she knew the words off by heart. She’d lose Mia forever, and if she attempted to spill the truth a second time, I’d kill her. And she knew it was the simple truth.“
„Have I kept you so poor?“
“Well, I certainly hope there’s more money?” Maurice asked, “in case we have to make a quick escape and kill the girl off first?”
Mark was laughing. “Money? My dear Moss, there’s a small fortune in the account. You have access. Take whatever you want. As soon as I’m back in Dubai, there’ll be more coming in.” He paused, then said, “But there’s something
else. Earlier this morning when I went out to the car, I noticed movement. You know there’s a small shed higher up the valley halfway to the road. We can’t see the shed from the house, but I had parked the car further along the drive, and I saw the shed door open, and someone standing there before going in.”
“Let them steal the straw,” Maurice snorted. “Who cares?”
“But he saw me.”
“Shit.” Maurice was glaring now. “So Milton’s bitch knows who I am, and now some total stranger has seen you. There’s photos of you in every police station, you know. You could be caught.”
“I was too far away to be recognised.” Mark shook his head. “But I might go up there tomorrow and take a look. In the meantime, I believe we should all move anyway. Get rid of Kate, and I’ll get rid of Milly’s plaything. Then we make a swift drive up to Yorkshire and stay in the cottage there until my flight leaves.”
“Can’t I take my lady?” asked Milton once more.
Shaking his head, Mark smiled but said, “No. I’m sorry but no. I intend getting rid of her this evening. Oh well, perhaps I’ll leave it until tomorrow morning. I will probably just strangle the bitch as usual, or do you want me to do something interesting while you watch? Or just do it quickly while you have breakfast? But you can have the rest of today with her and do whatever you like.”
“Maybe just cuddles if she’s gotta go.”
Maurice laughed. “Whatever you want, my boy,” he said. “Whatever you feel like.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was many years since Iris had talked about herself, and many years since Joyce had spoken much at all. Ruby had always chatted and had friends to chat to, but usually she preferred to speak about her husband.
“He sounds boring,” Joyce decided. “And never at home. Now my husband was rarely at home either, but thank the lord. He was a pig. No – more – a monster.”
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