by James Oswald
I drain the last of my coffee, regretting it as I feel the rough texture of the limescale from the kettle. Before I can get up and leave, Margo reaches out with a wiry hand to grab my arm. For a moment I think she’s going to say something important, but she’s transfixed by the tattoo circling my wrist, revealed as she inadvertently pushed up the sleeve of my jacket.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ She pushes the sleeve further up my arm, twisting it around to see patterns inked into my skin. I haven’t the heart to tell her there’s more, but instead gently pull my arm away and roll the sleeve back down.
‘Charlotte’s got my number, Mrs DeVee.’ I stand up and push the chair back under the table. It scrapes on the flagstone floor with a loud squeal until I remember the technique beaten into me as a child. ‘Give me a call if you want to talk, OK? I’ll see myself out.’
She doesn’t say anything as I leave, and by the time I reach the car, I can see her through the window still sitting where I left her. Poor woman, I almost feel sorry for her, but I can understand why Izzy might have wanted to run away.
My phone beeps as I leave the house: two missed calls, both from Detective Superintendent Bailey. I should probably check in, but right now I can’t face up to speaking to him. Cat looks up at me from her cage on the passenger’s seat as I climb into the car. The clock on the dashboard tells me it’s almost four in the afternoon and I finally have to face up to the dilemma that I’ve been avoiding ever since I fled London this morning. I need somewhere to stay, but there’s no way in hell I’m going home. I don’t even consider Harston Magna Hall my home any more, but sooner or later Margo DeVilliers is going to speak to my mother or father. Or someone else will let slip I was in the village and didn’t stop by. This is precisely why I didn’t want to get involved.
‘Come on, then,’ I say as I reluctantly start the engine. ‘Looks like we’re going to introduce you to my aunt.’
It’s not until I’m half a mile away from the Glebe House that I remember I’ve still got Izzy’s trunk in the back of the car.
18
Unlike the Glebe House, or Harston Magna Hall itself, Folds Cottage is exactly what my idea of an English country house should be. Ramshackle and a little the worse for wear, its rattly wooden sash windows need paint and someone should cut back the wisteria before it starts to pull the roof off. It’s set away from the bulk of the village too, in a small clearing surrounded by mature oak woods. I used to walk here on my own as a child, and as my relationship with my father deteriorated I’d spend more and more time here. Perhaps the only reason I’m hesitant to come back is the small matter of the blazing row I had with the woman who lives here, that day I left home for good. My father’s older sister, Aunt Felicity.
I cringe every time I think about it. If anyone in my family deserves unconditional love and thanks it’s Aunt Flick. In my defence, I had a lot to be angry about back then, but in hers she’d been a far better parent than either of mine.
It’s been almost five years and I’ve never dared come back. Not after the things I said. We’ve spoken on the telephone and exchanged the obligatory annual Christmas and birthday cards, but there’s always been a nagging sense of shame that’s kept me away. And perhaps some of my father’s stubbornness too. We don’t back down, us Fairchilds. Not easily.
An elderly black Labrador is asleep on the doorstep, and barely moves as I park a few paces away. He only deigns to lift his head when I climb out of the car, raising his nose a little to test my scent on the air. Only then does he start to thump his heavy tail against the ground. He still doesn’t get up though.
‘Surprised you’re still with us, Treacle.’ I crouch down and ruffle his greying head as he looks up at me through cloudy eyes. I remember him as a puppy, then as a young dog racing through the woods to greet me. Seeing him like this brings a slight lump to my throat. Five years is a long time for the likes of him.
The front door opens while I’m still crouching down, fussing Treacle’s ears the way he always loved. From this angle it’s hard to read Aunt Felicity’s expression as she stands there, flour-dusted apron around her middle and what looks like a half-kneaded loaf in one hand.
‘Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite niece.’
It’s an old joke, since I’m her only niece, but the fact she’s made it sets me at least partially at ease. Treacle complains a bit as I stand up, then lets rip with an unapologetic fart, wafted around by his tail. We can’t help but laugh, and all the tension is gone.
‘Seriously, Con. Why didn’t you call? If I’d known you were coming I’d have had this done hours ago.’ Aunt Felicity waves the ball of dough around as we walk through to the kitchen.
‘It’s been a long day.’ I hear the words too late to stop them. ‘Sorry, that’s a crap excuse. I think I’ve just been trying to hide from reality. Stick my head in the sand and hope that all the problems go away.’
‘Sounds like the Constance I know.’ She slaps the dough down on the table, sending a cloud of flour in all directions, and then starts to knead at it industriously. ‘Stick the kettle on, dear. Make us both a cup of tea and tell your aunt all about it.’
I’ve just had a mug of unpleasant coffee with Margo DeVilliers, but I do as I’m told. The familiar routine settles my nerves almost as well as the dog farting, and, as if on cue, Treacle shuffles into the kitchen as the water comes to the boil.
‘He’s grown old,’ I say as I make the tea in a pot that takes me right back to my childhood.
‘He’s not the only one, dear.’ Aunt Felicity thumps the dough down one more time, places it in a bowl and pulls cling film across the top. ‘What’s it been? Three years? Four?’
‘Five, actually. I’ve not been back to Harston Magna since . . . Well, you know.’
She says nothing while she places the bowl with its rising dough on a shelf above the range, then fetches a cloth and wipes down the table. Only once all is cleaned and squared away, the tea poured and the tin with the biscuits in it prised open does Aunt Felicity answer my unspoken question.
‘We were both angry that day, Con. And we both had good reason. The same reason, I think. Best let bygones be bygones, eh?’
I take a sip of proper tea, a bite from a home-baked biscuit that is better than anything I’ve tasted in years. Unlike the rest of my family, Aunt Felicity calls me by the name I prefer. Not Constance, like my mother, or Girl, like my father. And certainly not the horrible Connie that almost everyone else uses. I’ve always been Con, and she knows that it’s important to me.
‘I couldn’t beg a bed for the night, could I? No way I’m going back to the hall, and the only hotel round here’s a dive.’
‘Actually it burned down a couple of years ago. Council’s still debating over a plan to build two hundred and fifty houses on the site. Guess whoever set the fire didn’t grease the right palms.’ Aunt Felicity’s humour is infectious. ‘Course you can stay. And I won’t speak a word of it to your father.’
‘Thanks. I really appreciate it. Just need a little time to work out what to do next.’
She reaches out with a hand much thinner, more wrinkled and liver-spotted than I remember, pats me gently on the arm. ‘It’s no problem, really. I’ll get some supper on the go and then we can crack open a bottle of wine. A problem shared’s a problem halved, that’s what I always say.’
Her smile is so genuine and welcoming I almost burst into tears, and that’s when I realise just how tense I’ve been since everything went to hell in London. It also reminds me of something else.
‘There is one thing,’ I say, unsurprised when she raises a single eyebrow.
‘Yes?’
‘I seem to have acquired a cat.’
‘Why are you not at home, Fairchild?’
I’m surprised there’s a mobile signal at Folds Cottage, but I guess that’s progress for you. The spare room up in the ea
ves even gets half-decent 4G. The downside is a slew of emails from work I spent the best part of an hour dealing with, and now a call from Detective Superintendent Bailey I can’t ignore.
‘I told you I was heading out of London for a few days, sir. Remember?’ It was only this morning, after all.
The drawn-out silence suggest that he’s forgotten our conversation earlier. Hardly atypical behaviour for most of the senior officers I’ve worked with, but it’s annoying all the same.
‘It’s no matter. I want you back as soon as possible. There’s been a development.’
‘A development?’ I suppress the urge to add ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ My aunt frowns upon cussing.
‘Yes. Forensics have matched the bullet that killed Pete Copperthwaite to the two found under your bed. They were fired from the same gun. So you’ll understand why we need you back here urgently.’
I had been standing at the window, staring out across the clearing towards the woods, painted in that orangey-green you only get as the sun sets on a fine summer’s day. Now somehow I’m sitting on my bed, back against the headboard, knees drawn up to my chest. I don’t remember moving.
‘Not meaning to be funny, sir, but wouldn’t it be safer if I kept well away?’ I want to tell him what I heard from Wee Jock, about the price someone’s put on my head, but something stops me. The fear of his inevitable ridicule, perhaps.
‘It wasn’t a suggestion, Detective Constable.’ Bailey pauses, as if using my rank wasn’t hint enough that he expects me to obey his orders, however unreasonable. ‘And, besides, Professional Standards aren’t done with their investigation yet. You can’t expect them to come to you.’
Given that I’m the one whose life is under threat, it doesn’t seem that unreasonable to me at all. I don’t really want to leave this house right now, let alone drive back down to London. Not if there’s someone out there trying to kill me.
Then another thought occurs to me that’s almost as bad as being hunted down by a professional hitman. ‘Hang on, you asked me why I wasn’t at home, right? You didn’t mean the flat, did you?’
‘No, not there. Your folks’ place, like you told me you were going to this morning.’
‘You phoned my parents?’ I don’t even ask how he got the number. It’s my own fault for ignoring the missed calls.
‘Naturally. Spent fifteen minutes talking to your mother, as it happens. She was very surprised to hear your name. Said the two of you hadn’t spoken in years. Had no idea you were coming home.’
So much for getting in and out of the village without the wrong people finding out. And if Mother knows I’m here, it can’t be long before Father does too. Going back to London and a potential hitman suddenly feels like the lesser of two evils. They’re still both evil though, and Bailey’s sudden interest in me doesn’t sit right.
‘Is tomorrow morning early enough for you, sir? Only, if I leave now it’ll be well after eight before I can get to the station.’
Another long pause, and the line goes so quiet I think Bailey’s hung up. Then it occurs to me he might have put me on mute while he talks to someone else. Straining to hear what’s going on a hundred miles away is daft, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.
‘My office. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock sharp.’ The detective superintendent’s voice comes back so suddenly I almost drop the phone. It wouldn’t have mattered if I did. He’s hung up before I can say anything else.
19
I don’t know how long I sit there on the bed, staring at nothing and with the phone hanging loosely between my fingers. At some point Cat comes in and leaps up, nudging at me before curling into a ball at the end of the duvet and starting to purr. It was light when I first came in, but now the evening shadows begin to darken the room.
‘You can’t go back, you know.’
The voice doesn’t startle me the way it perhaps should. There’s an old armchair sitting in the far corner, my jacket thrown over the back, and now it’s dark I can imagine a man sitting there. Almost smell the reek of charcoal and burnt carpet.
‘I can’t not go back, Pete. That would mean disobeying a direct order from a senior officer. Given all that’s happened recently, they’d sack me on the spot.’
‘And would that be so bad? Thought you were going to resign anyway.’
I lean back against the headboard, drop the phone and stare at the ceiling. ‘I thought I was as well, but that sounds too much like quitting when the going gets tough to me. And, besides, what would I do? I can’t come crawling back here.’
Pete says nothing, but I can imagine him tilting his head slightly to indicate that I appear to have done just that.
‘It’s not the same. This is about tracking down Izzy.’
‘And what are you going to do when you find her?’
I notice he doesn’t say if I find her, and I’m grateful for that. ‘I’m not sure. I need to see what kind of state she’s in. Who she’s with, whether she’s being held against her will, brainwashed, that kind of thing. She’s phoned her mum and sister, so it doesn’t look like she’s been abducted. Can’t rule out some kind of cult though. Or maybe she’s been groomed online. It’d be much easier if I had access to her computer.’
It’s only as I speak the words out loud that I remember the trunk still sitting in the back of my car. I should probably have tried harder to leave it at Margo’s, but I don’t much fancy going back there. If I’m really unlucky, her husband will be home from the City or wherever it is he works these days. Dealing with a gin-soaked middle-aged woman is one thing; dealing with the man whose arm I nearly broke the last time he groped me at a dinner party is quite another.
‘You never told me that story,’ Pete says, as if he can hear my thoughts. As if he’s actually here. ‘What stopped you?’
‘I don’t know. Some last vestige of self-preservation, I guess. Roger DeVilliers is obscenely wealthy and used to getting his own way. He could have made life very difficult for me if he’d wanted to.’
‘You going to look in the trunk, then? Start acting like a detective instead of moping around up here like a teenager? There’s better ways of wasting your time than picking at old memories like they’re scabs.’
I know that chiding tone well enough. Pete always was good at getting to the heart of the problem. ‘OK. OK. I’ll go look in the trunk.’
My legs are stiff from sitting cross-legged, and Cat complains when my ungainly movements disturb her. I pause for a moment, head a bit light from standing up. Pete says nothing, and when I flick the light switch by the door he’s gone. Just an empty chair with my jacket draped over the back of it.
‘There’s casserole in the oven if you’re interested.’ Aunt Felicity is too polite to shout, but she has a way of making her voice carry so it can be heard from a distance. I reckon she’d have been good on the stage, if the very thought of acting wouldn’t have sent my grandparents to an even earlier grave.
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ My yell is less ladylike, but then that’s to be expected. Outside, the evening air has cooled enough to be pleasant. My car’s where I left it, illuminated by a bright floodlight that comes on as I trip a sensor by the front door. I open the back to reveal Izzy’s trunk where old Mr Bradshaw left it. Two leather straps and an unlocked brass hasp are all that keep me from the contents inside.
Opening the trunk is yet another reminder of school days. Everything is tidily folded, neatly arranged to make best use of the space. I find it hard to believe that a sixteen-year-old girl’s entire school possessions could take up so little room, but everything is here. I’m hesitant to start unpacking the top layer, unsure now whether I’ll be able to get everything back in again once I’ve disrupted whatever arcane magic has been used to pack it.
‘Looking for something in particular, dear?’
I stand up too swiftly and almost brai
n myself against the tailgate. Either I’m out of practice or Aunt Felicity is very stealthy. I should have heard her feet on the gravel at the very least.
‘It’s Izzy’s trunk. I picked it up from Saint Bert’s this morning.’
‘And she’s fine with you going through her things?’
There’s a chiding in her words, but when I look at her face I can see my aunt is smiling. There’s a glint in her eyes that’s more than the reflection of the spotlight overhead. Something mischievous.
‘Probably a waste of time. This will have been packed by one of the matrons, most likely. If they’d found anything useful they’d have told me.’
Aunt Felicity shoulders past me, closes down the lid of the trunk. For a moment I think I’m being scolded, but then she reaches for one of the handles and drags it from the back of the car. ‘You’ll not find anything out here in the cold and dark. Come on. Let’s get it inside where we can see properly.’
Between the two of us, we manage to carry the trunk to the front room and drop it on the floor in front of the sofa. I’m about to suggest that I go through the contents, since I’ve been trained in investigation, but before I get the chance Aunt Felicity has begun taking out neatly folded clothes. She inspects them one by one before placing each carefully down on the coffee table. There’s nothing unusual about Izzy’s uniform; every girl at Saint Humbert’s has to wear the same. Her casual clothes, for visits to the town, show a liking for black that I can sympathise with, and her shoes are eminently sensible.
‘Not one for sports,’ Aunt Felicity says as she unfolds a lacrosse skirt that has clearly never been worn. The price tag still hangs on a little bit of string from the hem.
