Buckley? It was less than ten miles away. A tiny, picture-postcard village in the centre of the forest, with squat Tudor houses crowding a cobblestoned street.
“You only live down the road,” she said.
“Did I imply any different?”
“There was a huge police search - and all the time you were here?”
“Not all the time,” he said. “But you’re right. It’s funny how people never spot something right underneath their nose. My uncle gave up the funfair after Bryn disappeared. His heart was no longer in it. I returned a few years ago. I’d always loved this part of the country. I went to work for a landscape gardener and when he retired I took over his business. I now employ twenty staff, not only gardeners, and we’re doing brilliantly - otherwise I could never have bid to renovate the castle gardens at such a loss.”
“You called it Llewellyn Brothers?”
“It’s in memory of the old funfair - my da and my uncle, and of course Bryn.”
The drive to the quayside took only a few minutes. Geraint brought the truck to a rumbling halt directly opposite the entrance to her apartment block, half up on the pavement, incurring a wrathful glance from a passing pedestrian.
Natalie felt awkward. She’d spent fifteen years wondering if he’d murdered her sister, and up until two days ago he’d been a stranger. Now they had spent so much time together, somehow the boundaries of friendship had become blurred.
“Is everything OK?” he asked, when she didn’t get out.
But apparently he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
“Thank you for the lift,” she muttered, fully intending to cut and run. But her speedy getaway was foiled by the seatbelt. Even jabbing hard at the release button had no effect.
“Bloody thing!” The combination of shock and sheer tiredness had left her at breaking point.
“Here, let me,” he said gently, leaning towards her. “It can be tricky. I don’t carry passengers very often, sometimes it sticks.”
Suddenly he was very close. She pressed herself back into the seat, hoping to avoid body contact in case she gave herself away. She remembered how he’d held her when they’d been in the tunnel. How he’d protected her from the flying glass. How every time she’d been suspicious of his motives, he’d proved her wrong by his kindness.
She knew how she felt about him, but how did he feel about her?
There was a click and the seatbelt slithered across her body.
“There you are,” he said, sitting back and smiling broadly. It seemed any sexual tension was entirely on her side. “You heard the detective. Don’t go getting into any trouble!”
She scowled. “I’m sure I don’t know what kind of trouble he thinks I can get into in my own home!”
Sliding out of the cab, she slammed the door behind her.
54
Natalie unlocked the door to her apartment, letting it fall back against the interior wall, giving her a clear view down to the sitting room. It was exactly as she had left it. The polished floorboards, the hall table set at a careless angle and the telephone cable trailing along the floor. After all she’d been through, the familiarity was oddly surreal; yet why would she think anything would appear different?
She dropped her keys onto the hall table but did not bother to straighten it. She kicked the telephone lead out of the way, switched on the overhead light and let the door swing shut behind her. Without Geraint constantly at her side she felt very alone. She’d never noticed how quiet her apartment was. Simon was right; it was like being up in some ivory tower, far away from the mere mortals below. But wasn’t that why she had chosen it - the most expensive residence in Calahurst - to prove how far she’d come from being poor little Natalie Grove?
Except lately it didn’t seem that she’d come very far at all.
She took a few steps along the corridor. Despite the bare floorboards, her ballet flats made no noise. The silence was almost oppressive.
Music, that’s what she needed; something to chase away the bad energy and put her in a more positive frame of mind.
She went into her study, where she’d had a music system installed which linked to every other room in the apartment. She switched it on, waited for the reassuring hum to echo back to her, and then selected ‘shuffle’ without even bothering to check which album was loaded. The familiar piano intro of Angels filled the air. Robbie Williams again. She let it play on. It seemed appropriate somehow.
She had left the blinds drawn back, so the last of the afternoon sunshine was flooding through the windows, giving everything a rosy glow. She pressed her nose to the glass and looked down to the street. Geraint’s truck was still parked opposite. She could even see his jean-clad legs and the little glow of his cigarette.
Her very own guardian angel. She smiled, feeling reassured.
She returned to the hall and plugged the telephone back in, ordering a takeaway from the Indian Prince with delivery promised in half an hour. She wondered whether to invite Geraint in, to share it with her, but decided it would be humiliating if he turned her down. She headed off to her bathroom instead.
Like the rest of her apartment, her bathroom was decorated predominately in white. She had a huge walk-in shower but tonight she ran the bath, sitting on the edge and pouring generous quantities of Miss Dior into the water. There were rose petals in a little glass bowl beside the bath. She took a handful and sprinkled them slowly along the top of the water.
The bathroom began to fill with steam. She eased her shoes from her feet and wriggled them against the bath mat, luxuriating in its softness. There were angry red welts on her skin where the shoes had chaffed, and walking across the wet grass had caused the dye to run. It was a shame, because the shoes were her favourites, but there was no way she could wear them again. She dropped them into the bin.
It would be a relief to finally get out of these clothes too, which she’d worn for two days straight. Both her jeans and sweater were filthy, and the sweater still glittered with tiny slivers of glass. She tried picking them out, but they were well and truly snagged into the wool and she only succeeded in cutting her finger.
Another candidate for the bin.
She moved over to the basin and turned on the cold tap, placing her finger beneath the steady stream of water, washing away the blood, watching as the streaks of crimson created a ribbon patterns against the white porcelain.
Angels finished and the next song began.
Let Me Entertain You.
It was as though someone had walked over her grave.
She hadn’t listened to this track since -
No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Tonight she was going to have a long soak in a scented bath. She was going to eat her favourite chicken korma, drink some wine, watch a bit of mindless TV and go to bed and dream of nothing.
Tomorrow she would deal with reality.
Let me entertain you …
But that damned song was coming off.
She hadn’t even realised she had it in her collection. It must have been part of a compilation, or a greatest hits album she’d downloaded without realising. Her original copy of Robbie’s album, Life Thru a Lens, had been a Christmas present from Sarah. After Sarah’s death she’d never been able to listen to it again.
The basin tap was still running and the bath was threatening to overflow. She turned off all the taps, wrapped a tissue around her cut finger, placed a fresh towel on the heated rail and left the bathroom.
She’d forgotten to lock the front door and it had not closed properly. There was a gap, of about an inch, through which she could clearly see the lobby and the elevator. She leant against the door, hearing the catch ‘click’, and then deadlocked it to be on the safe side. She’d left the hall light on but there was no need to switch on the one in the study. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, in a blaze of pink and orange, but there was still enough light to see by. She couldn’t resist looking out of the window again, down to the road below. Geraint’s truck w
as still parked there but she could no longer see his outline in the cab. He must have gone to the pub.
So much for guardian angels.
She switched Robbie off, somewhat abruptly. She was tired of living in the past; it was time for something a little more 21st century. She scrolled through her music collection and selected an album of club hits she remembered from her summer in Ibiza. Hopefully that would bring back happier memories. This time she didn’t bother with ‘shuffle’, she just pressed ‘play’.
In the few seconds of silence before the first track kicked in, she heard a creak from the hall outside.
Instinctively her heart beat faster, even though she told herself not to be ridiculous. Her apartment block had security guards, CCTV and all kinds of locks and alarms. It would be impossible for anyone to break in.
Although it had happened before.
Natalie stepped out of the study and looked up and down the hall. There was no one there; of course there wasn’t. The front door had remained locked and the chain was even across the door. She was spooking herself.
Then the music started, making her jump. The thud of one of her favourite dance tracks echoed throughout the apartment. God, she really was a bag of nerves!
Cursing beneath her breath, she returned to the bathroom and closed the door. The sooner she bathed and changed, the sooner she could have that glass of wine.
Taking hold of the hem of her sweater between her fingers, she wrenched it up and over her head, catching her dishevelled reflection in the bathroom mirror as she emerged.
And also the reflection of the man who was standing behind her.
The man who, when he saw her open her mouth to scream, clamped her arms to her sides and pressed a cloth to her face, holding it tightly over her mouth and nose while she struggled.
Until she struggled no more.
55
Natalie drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to get a grip on reality.
She knew it was dark. She knew that opening and closing her eyes would make no difference. She knew, because she’d tried it before.
She lay on her side, something warm and soft against her face. Its familiar smell was reassuring. She felt stiff and cramped. Her legs were drawn up to her stomach. When she tried to stretch them out her feet hit something hard, stubbing her toe. Where were her shoes?
Her head throbbed. She could almost feel the blood pumping through it, echoing the beat of her heart. As much as she wanted to sleep it off, something in her subconscious nagged at her. She had to do something, and she had to do it now. But what?
Snatches of memory tantalised her. A man’s silhouette. The lid closing on her coffin. An angel with a starburst of yellow lights creating a halo around his head.
She knew she was hallucinating. The tiny part of her brain which still functioned told her a coffin would be far smaller, narrow and long. She hadn’t been buried beneath the cold damp earth. It was too warm. There was also that sensation of constant movement.
But it was becoming harder to breathe.
The arm she lay on had become numb. She rolled back to relieve the pressure but came up against a wall. So she raised her head - and cracked it on something hard and metallic.
The pain sharpened her senses and brought her firmly back to the present.
She remembered the man in her apartment, the cloth coming over her face, the sense of disorientation as she struggled for breath.
She remembered being thrown into the coffin and the bright lights shining out around his head. The lid slamming down. But the lights had been yellow not white.
The car park beneath her apartment block had yellow florescent lighting.
Had he thrown her into the boot of her own car?
As the first wave of panic threatened to engulf her, she heard something in the dark which chilled her even more.
The sound of someone breathing.
56
Alicia sat in the great hall.
She was sat on an occasional chair, which someone had taken from the library because the great hall didn’t have any furniture.
DCI Bloom crouched beside her, his trench coat splayed out like an opera cloak. She hoped the floor was clean. It would be a shame to spoil it.
“Mrs Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I appreciate that you’ve had a terrible shock but - ”
“She had a panic alarm,” Alicia said. “It was right beneath my father’s desk. Why didn’t she press it?”
“Lady Vyne knew her killer. She let him in; she did not even bother to rise from her chair to greet him. We need to know who that person was. Did Lady Vyne have any enemies?”
“Of course not!”
“Do you have any firearms kept on the premises? We have no record of any license for a firearm but - ”
“No, my mother hated guns - ever since my father’s accident. She got rid of all them all then, even the antique ones.”
Clare hadn’t got out of her chair. Either the murderer had caught her unaware, or DCI Bloom was right - she’d been killed by someone she knew. But who?
“What about the staff?” she asked. “Didn’t they hear anything? I know the castle walls are thick, but surely they’d have heard a gunshot?”
“I don’t know how many staff your mother employed, but most appear to have gone home for the night. The kitchen staff are still below stairs. They didn’t hear anything, they didn’t see anything. It’ll be hardly worth taking statements.”
“How about Kenzie?”
The DCI hesitated.
What did that mean? That Kenzie was a suspect, or a victim?
“I mean Robert McKenzie,” she clarified. “He was my mother’s personal assistant.” And personal everything else too, since her father had died. If only Clare had not liked being ‘Lady Vyne’ so much, maybe they would have married. “Where is he?”
“We’re not sure,” admitted the DCI. “We’ve searched everywhere but - well, Mr McKenzie appears to have vanished.”
She sat back in the chair and stared at him, trying to work out what was going on behind those black eyes. “You think Kenzie killed her, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. He’s been with my family since before I was born. If he’d wanted to kill my mother he’s had plenty of opportunities before now.” And probably plenty of provocation too.
The DCI sighed and got to his feet. “We thought at first there might have been a robbery. The safe in the library was open, you see.”
Alicia hadn’t even known there was a safe in the library but didn’t like to say so.
“I wouldn’t have thought it contained anything of value,” she said. “All paperwork pertaining to the castle is kept in the safe in the estate office. My mother’s jewellery is kept at the bank.”
The DCI beckoned towards a young PC who was hovering nearby. “In the meantime, we’ve found these old photograph albums. Three were in the safe; the others were on your mother’s desk. One was lying open on the floor, as though it had been dropped. There were even pages torn from it, quite roughly, as though the person was in a hurry.”
As the uniformed PC approached, Alicia noticed he was carrying a stack of large, leather-bound books, one of which he handed over to DCI Bloom.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to take a look?” The DCI opened the book at random and held it out to Alicia, who almost dropped it on the sandstone floor when she realised exactly what it was she was looking at.
It was an album of photographs, some colour, some black and white, all them showing women in varying states of undress. Shocked, her first instinct was to slam the book shut and hand it right back to DCI Bloom. Then one of the photographs caught her attention. The woman was little more than a teenager and had posed with her back to the camera, her body curved over a huge old desk.
She recognised that desk. It was Victorian and had probably not been moved since it had been placed in the library over a hundred and fifty years ago. It was her father’s desk. The one he always sat at, the one he always worked at, t
he one her mother had been slumped against when she’d found her lifeless body.
“Although the pages have been torn from one of the other books,” the DCI was saying, “we’ve found the negatives, stuffed into an old envelope at the back of the safe, which fortunately the thief missed. We should be able to use those to work out which photographs are missing from the albums. There are six books in all, so it’s quite a collection. We’re going to need some help identifying the women. Do you recognise any of them?”
Alicia was so embarrassed she could not even look at him. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s Jade Farrell; I was at school with her.” Jade had always seemed such a shy little thing too. Quiet, mousey - half the time you wouldn’t even know she was there. Not the sort of girl you’d imagine blatantly posing with no clothes. Although the last Alicia had heard of Jade, she’d gone off to Paris and become a huge success designing shoes.
“How about the other girls?” the DCI asked.
The others? Did he honestly want her to look at every single photograph? Alicia thought she might be sick.
“Please, Mrs Fitzpatrick? It’s important. These women are all potential witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what? Certainly not to my mother’s murder!”
“You mother was killed because someone wanted one of these photographs. It’s relevant, trust me.”
Trust me? Alicia was beginning to think she’d never trust anyone ever again. She forced herself to turn over the pages, to check the features of each upturned face. From an artistic point of view, the photographs were beautiful. More disturbingly, none of the girls seemed to be a day over eighteen. Although not all were conventionally pretty, all shared a certain innocence that was compelling.
I must have looked like that once, Alicia thought bitterly. Naïve, trusting - stupid.
“What do you need to know?” she asked.
“Do you recognise any of the women?”
“Apart from Jade, no. I didn’t go to the village school, so I didn’t see much of the local girls. I can see the photographs were all taken here at the castle, mostly in the library or the walled garden - for privacy, I suppose.”
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