The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  In the corridor again, my back against the reassuring firmness of the wall, I hang my head. Beads of sweat are standing out on my brow, Tom is holding on to me. I want to shake him off, but I’m concentrating so hard on not throwing up. Eventually I have myself under control. I nod to him and he removes his arms. Immediately I slump and I realise it’s only him who’s been keeping me upright. I rub the circulation back in, knowing there will be bruises tomorrow.

  Finally I look at him. ‘Christ, Tom.’

  ‘I know, Gita, I know.’ He moves as though to take me in his arms properly. I decide to acquiesce. It does feel comforting, and I need that. But it doesn’t wipe away everything that’s gone on this weekend. Not by a long chalk. I push him away an inch or two, so that I can speak.

  ‘What are we going to do? Two people dead … I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘I know, love. I know. It’ll be OK. It’ll all be over soon. We’ve just got to stick together. We’ll get through this.’

  I look into Tom’s eyes, as I have so many times before.

  He’s right. We’re stronger together. We always have been, and always will be. Maybe I have to believe that.

  What choice do I really have?

  Chapter 46

  Tom

  Mount Tregowan, 1st November

  Poor Gita – seeing Penny is a shock. Rachel last night was bad enough. For a few seconds there, I think she’s actually going to faint. She’s reported on worse, over the years. But seeing these things in real life isn’t easy.

  It’s been a while for me, too. But you expect the unexpected in the police. I decide to move her away from it all. Our room is probably best. I put my arm round her but she’s a bit aloof. I suppose I deserve it; there have been a few revelations this weekend that I could have done without. Don’t get me started. Still, once she stumbles a couple of times on the stairs, she forgets to hold herself stiffly and I help her in and sit her down on the bed.

  ‘Head between the legs,’ I murmur. She turns to me mutely and gives me a bit of a stare. I hold my hands up and stride over to the window. God, women. One thing on their minds.

  I gaze out blindly. Then I realise what I’m seeing. Not just the massive waves and black clouds that have become almost standard. No, there’s something else moving down there. A tiny blob, far below, on the jetty. I suppose I must have leaned forward; Gita is suddenly off the bed and right beside me. ‘What? What have you spotted?’ she asks me. I realise, from her shrill voice, that she’s probably hoping for a boatload of riot police, at the very least. It’s more prosaic than that. Just a kid, little more than a teenager, alone against the might of this storm. Not going to lie, it doesn’t look like a fair contest to me. Or is that the sudden realisation that he’s my son talking? I can’t deny, I’ve always wanted a boy. And he’d be perfect – if it wasn’t for the relationship with my Tasha. We’ve got bloody Vicky to thank for that.

  Gita cranes out of the window. I point, and she follows my finger. ‘It’s Raf.’

  She gives me a look and moves a few centimetres away from me. We’re going to have to have a talk about this. But not now surely? She swallows, then says, ‘I saw him going downstairs earlier, on his way out. I can hardly see a thing out there, it’s so wild. Is that really him? Right down there? Why isn’t he moving?’

  ‘Waiting for the right moment,’ I say. Looks obvious to me.

  ‘He’s being so brave,’ she says. ‘But God, he’s so young.’

  Young and foolish. If I didn’t have so many responsibilities, I’d be down there myself, making a better job of it. Sparing the boy – my boy – from risking his life. Why is he hesitating? But as it is, I’m stuck here watching with my wife.

  ‘He’s doing the right thing. He’ll get help, then we’ll all be able to get away,’ I say to her comfortingly. She sags against me for a second. Then she seems to remember everything that’s been said and done this weekend and she stands a little straighter.

  ‘Look at the pounding that jetty is getting,’ I breathe, marvelling at the raw power of the waves, but she’s getting fidgety, craning to see, shaking her head.

  ‘You brought your binoculars, didn’t you?’ she asks. I find them on the bedside table. She holds out her hand and I pass them across. But she can’t get the hang of them at all, so I adjust them for her and hand them back. You’re welcome.

  The causeway has appeared; that much is obvious even with the naked eye. And I can see the little figure down there – hesitating, hesitating. I lean as close as I can to the pane of glass, feeling its chill against my forehand, my hands. ‘Jesus,’ I say. Gita turns to me.

  ‘He should have gone earlier. Now he needs to wait a while. It’s not safe,’ I explain. Though most of the path has emerged from the sea, freak waves are lashing across it and breaking everywhere, metres high. It’s spectacular, deadly. Anyone on it would be dashed away in a second.

  Raf is still dithering, shifting weight from leg to leg. He’s aching to take the plunge, trying to judge his moment, a sprinter more than ready for the starter’s pistol. It’s painful to watch. It must be even worse to be down there, in the wind and rain, trying to estimate the next move of something as unpredictable as the sea.

  If he goes too soon he could be drowned in a moment, but if he waits too long, the pathway will disappear again.

  ‘God, I can’t watch, I can’t,’ says Gita, and she shuts her eyes. I shout, I can’t help it, and she opens them just in time to see a tiny black figure being hit, full on, by a wave the size of a house.

  ‘Oh my God! Did you see that? Did you see? Will he, will he be OK …?’ While she jabbers, I’m straining every sinew to see him, but that little stick man has been swallowed whole. There’s no sign. It’s as though he was never standing there at all.

  Gita looks at me and gulps. Her face is flushed; she is too overwrought to cry. I turn back to the window for a second, and see another massive wave crashing over the path. No one and nothing could have stayed upright under that barrage. Shit, shit, shit. Poor kid. This feels like the universe’s revenge on me. No sooner do I learn I have a son, then he is swept away. It’s amazing how much it hurts. Bloody Vicky. Damn her, this is her fault.

  ‘He lost his footing,’ I say quietly.

  Gita can’t process it immediately. ‘He’s a great swimmer. He’ll make it, won’t he?’

  I look at her. To me, the truth is obvious. But, as so often happens, that’s not what she wants me to say. I turn back to the window. ‘If anyone can make it, he can. Don’t worry.’ I put my hand on her shoulder. When it meets no resistance, I draw her towards me. She looks numb. I wonder what she’ll say to Vicky now? I doubt any of them down there will have been watching. Too wrapped up in the Penny situation. They’re probably all clucking around Roderick.

  ‘We should get back down,’ I say.

  Gita nods. ‘There’s nothing we can do here,’ she says in a small voice. She follows me down the stairs. ‘What shall I say to Tasha?’

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ I tell her. Easier that way. ‘After all, we don’t know anything for sure,’ I say. Though I’m afraid I have few doubts.

  We’ve just witnessed another tragedy, in an already catastrophic weekend.

  Chapter 47

  Gita

  Mount Tregowan, 1st November

  Tom and I trail down the stairs together. It hits me that this is virtually the only time we’ve spent alone together as a couple all weekend. Viewing one corpse and seeing someone else probably becoming one … It could hardly be less romantic, could it?

  And I’m not looking forward to meeting Tasha’s eyes, after just seeing Raf disappearing under that tidal wave. This is one thing I don’t want to communicate with my family about.

  Abruptly, I stop Tom in his tracks. ‘Let’s sit here for a bit. I don’t think I can face them yet,’ I say. He looks at me but sits down obligingly enough on the stairs, legs wide. I perch two steps down and lean against the wall. It’s comforti
ng to feel the old bricks against my cheek. They’ve stood here through the centuries. They will have weathered storms like this before, outside the castle at least. I doubt they’ll ever have witnessed the mess inside before.

  I can’t face thinking about Raf at the moment. I need a distraction. Penny, that strange unlucky soul, will just have to do. I remember her body, distorted in death. ‘What do you think happened? With … Penny?’ I ask him.

  Tom shrugs. ‘We should keep an open mind. I mean, if it were my investigation …’

  He tails off. It’s not his investigation, is it? But I suppose his training is not to shut down any lines of inquiry too soon. And not to let anything slip to civilians – even if you’re married to them. I’ll have to work this out on my own. Luckily it all seems pretty obvious. We’ve reported on cases like this, every newspaper has. I think of that tidy pile of sick and again my own gorge rises. ‘It must have been an overdose. But why? I wonder if she really wanted to kill herself … or just, you know, make a gesture.’

  A murderer has a fit of remorse and takes their own life. It happens more than you’d think. Our usual line is that they’re escaping justice. ‘It was guilt, must have been,’ I say slowly, piecing it together, thinking out loud. ‘She was nervy enough even before. It must have been Rachel’s announcement. Maybe it caused one of those “moment of madness” things.’ We use that headline a lot too.

  Tom pauses and shrugs. ‘Rachel did have it all,’ he says heavily. Sounds like he agrees with me.

  ‘Rachel was … Rachel.’ I nod. ‘Such a force. I suppose Penny thought Rachel had taken her father away, her one remaining parent. And then, last night – the baby. That must have been devastating. She would have lost everything. Or she might have feared she would.’

  ‘Was she the resentful type? Penny, I mean?’ Tom seems tentative, but I nod vigorously.

  ‘Oh, definitely. From what I saw of her, anyway. But would that really have pushed her to the point of … stabbing? And then killing herself in remorse?’

  Tom sighs. ‘Murder’s been done for less.’ I look up at him, thanking God I don’t have to be involved in his world. Journalists just report, we’re not usually faced with the crime scene. I’m still not ready to see everyone yet, and Tom seems content to linger, too. He’s probably relieved I’m speaking to him at all, even if it’s about such grim topics.

  I cast my mind back, trying to remember what Penny was like last night, after the lights went back on. Was she distraught? Did she seem guilty? Was there anything off about her demeanour? But I was so busy, overloaded with my own horror, and worrying about the girls, that I didn’t really have any attention to spare for the others. And, of course, I was furious with the blasted woman, after the Ruby business. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to comfort her. I draw a blank. Maybe her remorse grew, as the hours went by. Until finally, in the early hours, she’d had enough.

  Wait a minute, though. There might be an easy way to clear it all up. ‘Did she leave a note? Did you find anything?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘A lot of suicides don’t, though. It’s a myth that everyone wants to get stuff off their chest. Some write a couple of words. A lot don’t put anything down on paper at all. Maybe they think the gesture is clear enough. She did leave something, though.’

  I look at him, and he continues. ‘Under her pillow. A stack of A4 posters, with numbers on.’ I’m puzzled for a moment. ‘The treasure hunt, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ It’s all coming back. ‘Poor Rachel, she was so pissed off. It was completely wrecked.’

  ‘Well, now we know who did that.’ Tom shrugs.

  I think about it. It seems to seal the case against Penny. The hunt, Ruby … then Rachel. Guilt, remorse, anger. Maybe even the sanest woman would have found that emotional cocktail overwhelming. ‘Terrible. And what did she take, to …? I mean, it looked like pills …’ I remember the stench of vomit and put a hand over my mouth. There was a little bottle on the bedside table. Funny how much you remember when you cast your mind back. Things you’ve only seen for a second, that you don’t consciously register. And yet they’re there, somewhere deep down, all the time.

  ‘Antidepressants, looks like. I mean, she was clearly a bit of a mess.’ Tom traces a corkscrew at his temple. I’m sure that wouldn’t pass the Met’s sensitivity training – if it has any. But I get what he means. She was definitely highly strung, no argument there.

  ‘And painkillers, too. I found these in her bathroom.’ Tom pulls a packet of pills from his pocket. Diazepam. Even I know that’s strong stuff. ‘Shouldn’t that be in an evidence bag or something?’ I ask.

  ‘Strangely I didn’t bring that many on our pleasant seaside weekend,’ Tom says with a lopsided smile. I sigh.

  ‘Christ. I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t believe it’s turned out like this.’ And I can’t believe I’m apologising to him. I don’t need to spend a fortune on therapy to know I’m still scarred by my parents’ divorce. And I’m desperate to keep my own marriage together, no matter what. More fool me, I suppose. But Tom seems to relax immediately.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘It’s hardly your fault.’ I can tell he’s pleased I’ve said it. And tacitly I’ve let him off the hook. Again. But everything going on around us is so dreadful. This can’t be the time to pick away at our relationship, on top of everything else.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, anyway. Can you imagine what it would be like, if the girls and I had been all alone here, with a killer?’ I shiver suddenly. I wonder if it’s the shock. The shocks.

  ‘Well, listen, don’t worry, you’re safe. Now, go back to the girls. I’ll run down to the jetty, see if I can find any sign of Raf. Hopefully he’ll be halfway to the mainland by now,’ he adds heartily. He stands up and pulls me up with him. As I move towards the library door, I glance back.

  ‘Don’t worry too much,’ he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. He says it with that smile I’ve seen for more than twenty years, the one that first reeled me in, the one that so often infuriates me. The one that, today, I have to put all my faith into.

  ‘OK,’ I say obediently.

  In truth, I’m thrilled to be getting far away, from the horror that is now poor Penny. What a thing to do. Well, both things. Killing Rachel, and then herself. I just thought she was pointlessly neurotic. Turns out she had good reason to be such a bag of nerves. All that deranged hatred, in one bony frame. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And I can’t forget that she was the one to lure my Ruby to the chapel, too. We had such a lucky escape, there. The woman had a lot on her conscience.

  But at least it means the worst is over. We just have to tough it out for a bit longer. I close my eyes on the memory of that little black stick figure disappearing under a huge wave, and I tell myself the police are going to come. Soon. And we’ll be able to leave.

  And never, ever come back.

  Chapter 48

  Tom

  Mount Tregowan, 1st November

  I’m pottering about in the admin office, just off the kitchen, going through the motions until the local boys get here and start their inquiries. There could be a miracle, you never know. Raf might just get through. If he does, I want to have things sorted. Even if he doesn’t, when this storm eventually blows itself out, the telecoms will come back up, and we’ll be able to get away at last. The others have asked me to secure the scene, and I’ve done what I can. Happy to help.

  And speaking of help, Rachel’s staff are all in the clear. They’re lodged in an outbuilding just behind the castle. The castle itself was locked up tight last night before Rachel … before the first death. She made my job easier by dismissing the lot of them for the evening, so she could make her big announcement ‘amongst friends’. The staff quarters are password-controlled and the CCTV shows no one left until they started setting up for breakfast. I’ve seen a few bodies in my time – occupational hazard of coppering – and Penny was dead well before then. Early hours of this morning, we can safely say.


  I mean, it’s not great for the Tregowan family, that’s for sure. Murder is bad enough. The knowledge that one of them committed it, and killed herself? Hard for them to accept. But to do old Ross justice, he seems to have taken it in. Shocked, but he isn’t denying the obvious. Penny’s death bears all the hallmarks of a suicide. The motive is clear, and of course explains Rachel’s death.

  Not going to lie, it’s neat. The Cornish police will want to go over every inch. Fair play. They’ll have to establish why Penny suddenly let rip. Did Roderick know that his sister was so unstable? Should Ross have got her shipped off to a treatment centre?

  Plenty of questions. Above my paygrade, guv. But I’m in little doubt that everything points one way, like a large red arrow, right above the closed bedroom door of a tragically misunderstood, overwhelmed and damaged woman. Penelope Tregowan.

  Maybe Penny didn’t seem like the violent type. But, thanks to Rachel’s theatrical choice of dessert, she had ready access to the skewer. Well, we all did – but we weren’t all teetering on the brink of a breakdown. Even her father and brother will attest to that. Fragile mental state, dating from the time of her mother’s accident. And then the added stress of Rachel erupting into the tight family circle. Add Rachel’s pregnancy, bringing Penny’s own mother right back to the forefront of her mind again. Enough to tip her over the edge.

  I’ve been listening, you see. Talk in the shadows, here on the island, and on the mainland too. About that car accident long ago. Rachel herself was pretty indiscreet about it, on our first evening here. I’m pretty sure Penny overheard what she was saying. Neither Ross nor his son want all that raked up again. That much is clear.