Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  A dark cloud passed over both their faces.

  “Dreary, desolate place,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Terry and I stayed an extra month the first year, but couldn’t make a go of it.”

  “Isolation doesn’t suit us,” Terry said. “Nick lived like a monk up there.”

  “Not lately, he didn’t.” An impish smile popped up on Sam’s face. “Not with Daft Doris as his shadow.”

  Terry chuckled, glanced up at me, and swallowed it, grabbing for his pint. Did they think it inappropriate news to reveal to the ex-wife? Think again, boys.

  “So, Nick had a girlfriend on St. Kilda. That’s good, I’m glad.”

  “Daft Doris, a girlfriend? I might not go that far,” Terry said. “There’s a small canteen on the island for the ones who live there, and she came up to cook last summer. But she set her cap for Nick, and decided to stay the winter, too.”

  “Set her cap?” Sam asked his friend with his nose wrinkled. “You sound like my granddad.” Terry ignored him. “Mind you,” Sam continued, “I wouldn’t have minded if she had worn a cap—that massive amount of hair she has. I was forever pulling a long, dark strand out of my food.” Both men shuddered.

  I took a swallow of my bitter, and found I’d managed to finish half of it. At the tables round us, servers set down plates of haddock pie and sausage and mash. My tummy growled, but I ignored it. I had yet to learn anything of substance apart from the fact that Nick had a girlfriend. Hope she enjoyed the sex, because I was pretty sure that was all she’d got from him.

  “Why isn’t Nick’s name on the grant application?”

  Both men stared at me for a moment, and then shifted their gaze, their eyes darting about like damselflies. Terry looked at Sam. Sam looked at Terry. At last, Terry shifted in his seat and jabbed his finger on the table.

  “We wanted to include him on this. We tried to tell him it would be for the best to move, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “We’ve an amazing opportunity in Kent,” Sam cut in, “a good space shared with the Kent Ornithological Society, all the support we could ask for. Think of the data we could amass—it would really make a difference. Not only for vagrant species, but also to record the fallout during autumn migration. It’s fantastic.”

  “Nick said, go if we wanted to.” Terry thrust his chin out. “And so we did.”

  “Nick is the one who created AIL, wasn’t he? Wasn’t it his money that carried you through?”

  “It was not.” Sam slammed his glass on the table. “At least, it was at first, but that ran out. Terry and I—we spent our own money on it. We’re the ones who carried Nick through these last few years.”

  And so these two thought they owned the institute—and why wouldn’t they think that if they paid for it all?

  “But still, Nick started it all. Didn’t he mind you taking the name—AIL—with you when you left?”

  A millisecond of silence split the air; it echoed in my ears.

  “What was he going to do with it?” Sam asked.

  “And we’ve published under that name; it has some cachet attached to it. That’s important for continuity.”

  “When did you have this discussion with Nick—about moving house?” I asked.

  “Over the winter,” Sam said. “Email.”

  “Why was he here?”

  Terry kept his eyes on the table, and Sam stuck his hands in his lap.

  “Dunno,” Sam mumbled.

  “We didn’t have any idea he’d come down.” But Terry looked over my shoulder as he spoke, and Sam’s glasses were so thick, I couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Did he want the grant money for himself—to fund the St. Kilda work?”

  They didn’t answer. I moved not a muscle, except shifting my glance slowly from one to the other. Not even a minute passed before they broke.

  Terry crossed his arms over his chest. “Nick said that you…Rupert would never…the foundation wouldn’t give us the grant. He was sure of it.”

  “He said, go ahead and apply,” Sam added. “See for ourselves.”

  And in that moment, I could see it all. Nick had spent all his own money and had let these two fund AIL for years. They wanted to move the institute to suit themselves, but to Nick, it felt like thievery. He had left his precious, isolated existence—isolated apart from Daft Doris apparently—to come down here and tell both Michael and me that AIL, his true love, was being hijacked and that he wanted the grant for himself. He had confronted Terry and Sam and they had stopped him. They had followed him to Smeaton and down the drive of Hoggin Hall to the summerhouse and they had…

  I needed to get out of this pub. I needed to phone the police. I finished off my pint in one long drink and grabbed for my bag. “The awarding of the grant has been delayed. The announcement won’t be made for another fortnight. I’m sure the committee will be in touch with you as soon as possible. Good luck to you both.”

  I stood, and they both shot up out of their chairs.

  “But aren’t you on the committee?” Sam asked.

  “I represent the interests of the Rupert Lanchester Foundation,” I said, looking down my nose at them. “The administrator, Michael Sedgwick, oversees selection.” Did Terry blink at Michael’s name? “And of course Rupert himself.”

  “Naturally,” Sam said under his breath.

  Before they could ask me why I was sticking my nose into their grant application, I pushed off through the crowd. Out on the pavement, I was hit by a thick mist that swirled round, slapping me in the face, landing heavily in my hair, and settling on the shoulders of my cardigan. I rushed down the street, but kept glancing behind. I felt the beer slosh around in my empty stomach as I dug out my phone on the way.

  I got connected with DI Callow’s voicemail.

  “Tess, it’s Julia Lanchester. I found them—I found the two fellows who worked with Nick in the AIL.” My excitement, my speed, and dodging the Friday evening crowds caused my voice to quaver. I rounded the corner of the Corn Exchange and took the concrete staircase to the car park entrance.

  “I think they were squeezing him out of the group, and he must’ve put up a fight and came down here to blow the whistle on them and they found out and…Well, look, I’ll explain more when you ring back.”

  As I reached the top step of the outside landing, Terry caught up with me.

  “Wait, Ms. Lanchester,” he wheezed as he caught me by the elbow. I pulled away and backed up against the concrete wall. Rivulets ran down my face, mist mingling with a fearful sweat.

  “Get away from me.” I pointed my phone at him. “Don’t touch me or I’ll scream.”

  He held his hands up in surrender and shook his head violently. “No, no, I’m sorry, I only wanted to…” He stopped to cough and catch his breath. While he did so, I peered over the barrier. The mist grew heavier, but streetlamps illuminated the road below, and I could still see plenty of people rushing about their business. Surely he wouldn’t try anything here.

  “We’ve put a lot into this application,” Terry said. “We’re counting on this new start. We just don’t want anything to…you know, get in the way of being considered.”

  “Are you saying Nick got in your way?”

  Terry slapped a palm on the concrete barrier. “Look, I have no idea who would want to do this to him.”

  “Apart from you, you mean?”

  God, Julia, can’t you just keep your mouth shut?

  “We would never…we didn’t even know what happened to him until…”

  Until they’d seen it online. Or—they murdered Nick and then started feeding information to those journos to take any spotlight off themselves. There had to be a connection between these two and the jackals—Tess would find it.

  “We’re sorry about what happened to Nick, but it had nothing to do with us.”

  “Did Nick know you were going ahead with this?”

  “He—” Terry broke off. He looked past me and down to the street, squinting. “Who is that?” he
asked and leaned over the balustrade. “No.” He shook his head. “No, that’s crazy.”

  A childish attempt to divert my attention—did he think I would look, too?

  “You’d better go, Terry. Any further contact could jeopardize your application.”

  “We’ll wait it out. We know you…the committee will give us serious consideration. Have you seen our website?” he asked weakly. “Sam did that. We’ve put a lot into this—we’d like a chance to work at what we love. Is that so bad?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but left, shuffling down the concrete stairs. I watched as he stopped for a moment and gazed in the direction where he’d claimed to see something or someone. I kept my eyes on him until he’d given up and left, walking off toward The Eagle. I didn’t move until he was out of sight.

  —

  I pulled in at the roadside service off the A1307, too buzzed to drive—and not from the weak beer. I’d done it. I’d found Nick’s coworkers, and at the same time, I’d found his murderers. High spirits crashed round inside me like waves during a storm, carrying with them an undercurrent of fear. Also, I was starving. Tess had returned my call, but I had been driving and didn’t answer. I circled round the car park looking for an empty spot and finally found one in the back overflow area—really just a grassy place against a hedgerow. I dashed from my car through a steady rain, longing for my mackintosh, which still hung at the TIC.

  Sadly, my food choices at this service stop were limited to Little Chef. I stood back from the order line and watched as people with indiscriminate palates carried trays of food off to plastic tables with plastic chairs bolted to them. I eyed the burgers—dismal when I thought of what Fred could create. I ordered chips, doused them with vinegar, and took possession of my own plastic chair and table. I stuffed a few chips in my mouth as I readied myself to ring Tess back, but she beat me to it.

  I chewed quickly and wiped the grease from my fingers on a paper napkin that dissolved into nothing at first touch.

  “Hello, yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  From the tone of her voice, I’d say we were back on Inspector Callow and Ms. Lanchester terms.

  “At a Little Chef.”

  “I’m standing outside your cottage door, where I’ve met the patrol whose assignment it was to assure your safety. They say they have not laid eyes on you since you closed the TIC. There was no sign of you at your cottage, and so they rang me. Their call came in just after I received your message. I rang you back—or tried. You’re meant to stay in touch.”

  “Am I under house arrest?” My throat constricted, and my voice jumped. “Am I to report my every move? You might as well force me to wear an ankle bracelet like every other criminal let loose on the unsuspecting public.” At the table next to me, a couple picked up their trays and their toddler and moved off.

  “Your safety is the concern of the police, Ms. Lanchester.”

  See—I knew it. DI Callow on the case.

  “Do you want to hear what I’ve learned?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her words were clipped.

  “Why don’t I meet you at the station in Sudbury? Or”—perhaps this would put her in a better mood—“or we could meet at The Den?”

  “No need,” Callow said with ice in her voice. “You may as well come back here to your cottage. We’ll be waiting.”

  “You won’t leave the panda car outside my door, will you? It’s so obvious.” I rushed on, afraid I’d pushed it too far. “Right, I’m on my way back now. No need to worry—I’m in no danger.”

  Standing over the rubbish bin, I crammed a few more chips in my mouth before dumping the rest and sprinting through the rain to the far reaches of the car park, where it was too dark for me to see the deep puddle until I was up to my ankles in it. Inside the car, I took my shoes off and tossed them in the back, fired up the engine, and set the heater on full blast, hoping to dry off before I arrived back in Smeaton.

  I put the car in reverse and checked the mirror, but I couldn’t see out the back window—it had been transformed into a silvery spiderweb. I whirled round to take a look full-on and realized it wasn’t a spiderweb—it was the back window itself, smashed, yet holding together. It had cracked into a million tiny pieces, emanating from a single starburst—a round hole as big as a fist at the top corner.

  Chapter 18

  “I might be in a bit of danger after all.”

  It hadn’t taken much more than those words on the phone to Callow to result in a swarm of panda cars pulling into the car park, blue lights flashing. The DI had called on Cambridgeshire police, who arrived first—in fifteen minutes—with the Sudbury contingent showing up in thirty.

  I stood just inside the building watching it all and talking to the relevant parties, telling my short tale over and over. Sergeant Glossop had brought me my shoes and my bag. I hadn’t given them a thought when I’d bolted from the car, running into the grass and tripping on a stone curb, which landed me smack in the middle of the brambles. The thorns pulled at my cardigan, tore my tights, and scratched my hands and neck. I just barely kept my face out of it as I shouted and struggled. My calls for help had gone unanswered, and I’d at last extricated myself, saw no one—which was a relief—and ran straight back into the Little Chef, stopping short of the dining crowd. I’d had to ask a cleaner for a phone to use—she didn’t speak English well, but she understood my mime.

  “Polis?” she had repeated when I’d finished the call. “Come sit?” I had shaken my head. I’d desperately wanted a cup of tea, but punished myself for my stupidity by standing and waiting like a brave soldier—wet, cold, and in tatters.

  —

  I knew I was in for a scolding, the way Callow marched in the door of the Little Chef. I felt just as I had at school on the rare occasions I’d been in trouble and was called to the headmistress’s office. Possibly not so rare as I remembered.

  The first question the DI asked was “Are you all right?” although that was followed quickly by “You look dreadful, sit down.” Once I was seated, the barrage began.

  “Did you see anyone follow you out of Cambridge? Do you know where these men are staying? Does the grant application list their home addresses? Did you feel threatened at all by them? Do you have anything one or both of them touched? Did you take a photo of them?”

  Callow shot questions at me, and so I returned fire with my answers, pausing only when PC Flynn appeared at my shoulder with a cup of tea.

  “Oh, thank you, Moira.” I held it with both hands for a moment, letting the steam rise into my face. I’d at least got warm after the PC had draped a crinkly silver blanket over my shoulders. We sat off in the corner of the large room—business had tapered off, but my alien garb still drew attention from departing customers.

  “How did you get those?” Callow asked, nodding to my scratches.

  Right, I could hear Tess’s voice again—I wondered did she know she had a split personality? I glanced down at the thin lines of blood, now smeared over my wrists and hands, and at the red blotches on the tissue I’d used to dab my neck.

  “When I ran out of the car, I tripped and fell into the brambles.” I caught my reflection in the window, my hair standing on end. My God, I looked like a madwoman.

  “I don’t see how they could’ve followed me,” I said. “Terry didn’t see what sort of car I was driving, and they wouldn’t have had time to catch me—I watched him head back toward the pub.”

  “Still, we will need to talk with them—about many things.” I waited while her brain whirled along. “Sergeant Glossop and PC Flynn will take you home.”

  “But my car—”

  “We’ll take it back to the village for you. You won’t want to be going anywhere tomorrow, regardless.”

  “I’ll be going to work,” I said, but added meekly, “of course I don’t need my car for that.”

  I saw a challenge in her eyes, but she must’ve decided better of it. “Right” was her only reply.


  “Could you have them put my car in my lockup? It isn’t a great advert for the estate to see a vandalized car on the high street, is it?” A thought lifted me ever so slightly. “Because it could be only vandals, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly vandals,” Tess said. I had parked too far out for the building’s CCTV to capture anything useful, but she didn’t need to add the rest of her thought—all those cars in the lot, and mine was chosen to have its back window smashed—the day after a knife was found in my door?

  “About the knife,” I said, as if she had spoken those thoughts aloud.

  “We found no fingerprints, but yes, the blood on the blade is Mr. Hawkins’s.”

  —

  Saturday morning began nonstop. Between visitors and triple-checking Rupert’s schedule—I’d have no more accidental double-booking—I couldn’t catch my breath or make a second cup of tea. But I would rather that than be alone with too much time to think. Even so, events of the past two days made regular appearances—images of knives and smashed windows popping up in the middle of offering leaflets and suggesting footpaths to the steady stream of visitors.

  It had been past eleven o’clock when we’d arrived back at my cottage the previous night—driven by DS Glossop and PC Flynn, who had stopped at a petrol station market and bought milk for me. Once home, I’d received another scolding—albeit a mild one—from the PC, who had noticed right off that I’d neglected to replace the security bar on the French doors. After the sergeant had left us, I’d had a shower—the water stinging the scratches on my arms and neck—and a mug of cocoa and had gone straight to bed. Moira had camped out on my sofa and I’d cooked porridge for our breakfast. I’d felt better initially, but as the morning wore on, my anxiety grew. I watched the foot patrol stroll by on a regular basis and waited for Callow to ring to tell me Terry and Sam had been apprehended. Wouldn’t that be the polite thing to do?

  Now the morning sun streamed through the window of the TIC, throwing a spotlight on the dust motes that swirled into mini dust devils each time the door opened. When was the last time I’d cleaned? I should at least run a cloth over the counter and windowsill. But I didn’t move. A group of ramblers had only just left, chatting about the bluebells in the wood and how if the fine weather kept up, the cow parsley would bloom early, and I stood near the window, my face to the sun and my eyes closed for a blessedly quiet moment. In my heart I followed those ramblers out the door.