Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  Michael gave an emphatic nod. “I was tired of being apart,” he said. “On the drive back from Exeter, I decided I had a right to be a part of whatever you’re going through.” He paused, wine bottle in hand. “I do, don’t I?”

  Rarely did I see a soft spot in his hard shell of confidence. I slipped my arms round his waist from behind and rested my head on his back. “Of course you do.”

  The door buzzed, announcing the pizza’s arrival, and we got to it, sitting at the kitchen table—so small that our plates had to be set off center in order to fit on its surface. We didn’t bother with conversation, only throwing each other a look now and then. Michael always said he enjoyed watching me eat pizza—I did it as my American mum had and used my hands. He said it showed the hedonistic side of me, and that suited him just fine.

  I’d started in on my third piece, peeling off a long strip of prosciutto and dangling it over my open mouth. I’d taken the edge off my hunger—time to catch up.

  “Peg didn’t mean it to sound as if she was implicating you,” I explained, beginning the story of our week apart. “She only told the police what she saw—that you’d turned into the drive. But the pub was heaving that afternoon, and she went straight back in, so she didn’t see you leave. And anyway, Tess knows you weren’t involved. She knows it’s only those journos making things up.”

  “Tess, is it?” Michael asked. “How far you’ve come with the Sudbury constabulary.”

  “When she isn’t being such a prig, she can be quite nice.” I thought about the more personable side of Callow, and my spirits sagged. “She and Chloe broke up, and that’s too bad. And Stephen and Clive aren’t together any longer, either. That worried me—for us. It all looked so bleak.”

  Michael leaned over the table, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me hard. He tasted of wine and cheese and garlic and cured meat—as did I. Mmm.

  I proceeded to fill Michael in on everything I could think of. About Vesta and Willow leaving and how I visited the summerhouse and saw where Nick died, the brambles pushed away from the window like the curtain on a stage. I explained about Kathleen. I told him about Terry and Sam and the AIL, Gregory and Stephen being on a stakeout. That raised an eyebrow.

  “Alfie knew all along that Gregory was the right sort,” I explained.

  “Alfie is a bird, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a rook.”

  “Ah, well.”

  Michael refilled our wineglasses, and I thought we were in the right place for me to tell him the rest—about the knife in my cottage door and the broken window in my Fiat.

  The storm clouds arrived and settled directly on his brow. “You should’ve moved out on the spot,” he said, clattering our plates as he stacked them.

  “I didn’t need to—the police are all over the village. Linus has a string of people visiting to keep an eye on me. I’ve been perfectly safe.”

  “Going to visit those two alone?” Michael’s eyes sparked like flint. “Without telling anyone?”

  “In a pub in the middle of Cambridge—what could happen to me?”

  Poor choice of words, as the back window of my car had been smashed on the way home that evening.

  “And what good was I all this time?” His voice trembled with rage. “I thought it would be easier for you if I stayed away, but I left you in the middle of it.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t have done any of that—gone to Cambridge, talked with Peg, looked at the summerhouse?”

  He caught my hand and held it tightly. “I’m saying you shouldn’t have done it without me.” He exhaled, which seemed to blow away his anger, and leaned back in his chair.

  “Too right,” I said. “Time to put an end to that.”

  He grinned and toyed with my fingers.

  My phone dinged. I’d set it on the counter behind me, and when I leaned back to look, I could see I had a message from Gregory. I grabbed it, smearing tomato sauce across the screen.

  “I’d say we found them,” he wrote. The accompanying photo showed Terry Fisk and Sam Redman at a table, empty pint glasses in front of them. The photo had been taken from a slight angle, but that didn’t mask their expressions—wide eyes and slack jaws. They looked gobsmacked. Caught!

  I let out a whoop and turned the phone to Michael, who glanced at it and then held my hand still for another, closer examination.

  “I know him,” Michael said, frowning. “I know the one with the ponytail.”

  I paused in my celebration. “But how can you know him?”

  “He came up to me in Cambridge on that Friday—we’d had to postpone the grants meeting, and I’d stopped in The Eagle for a sandwich. He looked surprised to see me, but then he kept watching—and next thing I knew he came up behind me in at the bar.”

  “Do you think he followed you?” I asked, ignoring the next ding on my phone.

  “Or he took advantage of the moment, because he recognized me from the foundation website. He spoke to me—said he wanted to talk about his grant. I put a stop to it right there—I told him if he’d read the guidelines, he knew there should be no contact after the application goes in. I won’t let it look as if we’re playing favorites.”

  “My God.” I felt the heat rise in me, forcing me out of my chair like a rocket launch. “He wasn’t supposed to be there that day—he told the police he’d been in Southampton. And even now he’s lying. He told Tess that he left Cambridge after the other night. I knew it wasn’t true. The both of them had told me they would stick it out, to show how dedicated they are to getting the grant.”

  “Dedicated enough to kill for it,” Michael said quietly. We both jumped when my phone rang.

  “Gregory? This is amazing—well done, you. Stephen, too.”

  “Julia, did you see the second photo I sent? Did you see who it was they were looking at?”

  “Did they spot you?”

  “No, not me. Look for yourself.”

  “Hang on”—I shifted the phone and switched to messages. Up popped a second text from Gregory, also with an accompanying snapshot. This one aimed at the doorway that led from another, larger room at the pub, and showed a woman with auburn hair—half-wedge, half-cropped—and a smirk on her face.

  I sank back into my chair as all blood left my brain. Michael retrieved my phone just before it slid to the floor.

  “Kitten woman,” I whispered to him.

  Chapter 24

  “It’s one of those journos—Olive Carboys,” Michael said. “What did you call her?”

  “Her recorder that first day, I thought she was holding a kitten,” I explained, but in a voice so weak Michael had to lean in to hear. “And she had scratches.”

  “She gave me a start, I can tell you that,” Gregory said. “But she didn’t see me. I was in that nook at the back. When I spotted her, I snapped the photo and ducked in here to the loo.”

  “Where’s Stephen?”

  “I left him out in the pub—he’s keeping an eye on the lot of them. Wait, I’ll take a look.” By now I’d turned the phone on speaker, and Michael and I hovered over it, holding our breath and listening as first one door, then another, squeaked. “I think they’re gone,” Gregory whispered. “Yes,” he said with confidence, “Stephen’s giving me the nod.”

  The background noise increased to the usual pub level—clanking glasses and layers of conversation.

  “She went over to them,” we heard Stephen say. “They were talking, and I got up and moved closer to try to listen in.”

  “Stephen, you are not to do anything dangerous,” I warned.

  “It’s a pub, Jools, what are they going to do in a crowd? And it didn’t matter, I couldn’t hear a thing. She left, and after a minute, they did, too.”

  “Good work, the both of you,” I said with pride.

  “What’s next?” Gregory said. “Should we try to follow them?”

  “No,” Michael said.

  “Michael’s right,” I said. “We’ll take care of this now.”
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  “Mr. Sedgwick?” Gregory asked, his voice turning timid again. “Please let me apologize to you directly for any pain and suffering I’ve caused you this last week. It was never my intention to—”

  “Julia’s explained it all—apology accepted. Don’t think any more of it.”

  We both heard his sigh of relief.

  “The pints are on us, you two,” I said. “Have a lovely evening.”

  —

  “Proof—she can’t deny this is direct proof of their guilt.” I tapped my fork on the rim of my plate for emphasis.

  Michael and I had decided to talk through what we’d learned before we contacted Tess. I had retrieved the chocolate cake from the boot of Vesta’s car, and we settled on the sofa, each of us leaning against an end with our bare feet playing round in the middle.

  “Kitten woman,” I said—“Olive,” Michael corrected—“has got something on Terry and Sam. It’s obvious. She must have direct evidence that they killed Nick. She might be blackmailing them or something. The looks on their faces when she showed up at the pub! I’d say kitten woman better watch her step—if they killed Nick over the grant, why wouldn’t they kill her, too, to keep it quiet?”

  “We don’t know how she got that information,” Michael said in a speculative manner. “But if—” He stopped himself. “No, we don’t care how she got it. The best thing for us to do is to hand this all over to the police—let them run with it.”

  I sucked the fudge icing off my fork without answering. But I knew he was right—I had no desire to chase down that lot with a load of accusations. Far too dangerous. I picked up my phone.

  “Now?” Michael asked. “You don’t think it’s a bit late?”

  I glanced at the time—just gone eleven.

  “Remember the last time we said we’d wait to hand over evidence?”

  He nodded to my phone. “Have at it.”

  I called before sending the photos. I wanted to know they would arrive fresh and would be seen immediately. DI Callow answered on the second ring.

  “Julia, are you all right? Where are you?” Her tone was one of wide-awake impatience, as if I had broken my curfew and she stood tapping her toe at the front door.

  “I’m fine. I’m in Haverhill with Michael.”

  “Yes, all right. What is it?”

  “I’m sending you two photos—taken this evening at The Eagle pub in Cambridge.” Off the snapshots went. I waited and Michael watched me wait. To the ensuing silence, I added, “They lied to you about leaving. And not only that, Terry lied to you about last Friday.”

  Michael’s turn—he filled her in on his own sighting. “He never identified himself, and I didn’t ask. When you questioned us about Nick, my first thought was that it had been him.”

  The blurred image of that Sunday afternoon when the two of us sat across the interrogation table at the Sudbury constabulary seemed eons ago—and yet, it had been exactly a week.

  “So you see—Cambridge to Smeaton on that Friday afternoon, it’s quite doable. An hour and he’d be there.”

  “Right, we’ll get the pub’s CCTV. Michael, you were looking into those journos. What have you found?” Tess asked.

  “Well, the little weasel—”

  “Gregory,” I corrected.

  “Is harmless. He’s the one who took those photos.”

  “And just how did that come about—that he was in the right pub and knew to look for those two?” I heard the suspicion in her voice, but I held my head high and owned up to it.

  “As it happens,” I said, “he’s a friend of a friend, and when I realized that he might do a bit of…” I held up just in time. Probably not a good idea to use the word “surveillance” or point out that if the DI could have an informant—that fellow I’d met at The Den in Foxearth—then so could I. “You see, Terry and Sam would’ve recognized me—and Michael. This seemed like a good plan. We needed proof to show you.”

  “How do you know you can trust the photographer? After all, he was one of those stalking you?”

  Because Alfie approved?

  “Because my friend trusts him, that’s why. Surely that means something.”

  “Michael, what have you found out about the other journos?” Tess asked.

  “The big one’s been sued for libel once before,” he replied, “so I’d say he’s stepping carefully. But those two from The People’s News—their site’s been up, taken down, and gone up again. They seem able to dodge any complaints, and they’re probably full of themselves. I’d say they’ve got nothing to lose—they might try anything.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Olive Carboys. I couldn’t find her working anywhere before this. Her website, Sightings, is new. Apart from what she’d posted about us, it’s mostly filled with links that lead to royal gossip sites.” Michael held up his phone so that I could see the screen and the headline splashed across it: MURDER PLOT WIDENS—DID EX-WIFE AND BOYFRIEND PLAN THE KILLING WITH VICTIM’S CO-WORKERS?

  In the span of a week, I had grown inured to these smear tactics, but not so inured that I didn’t mutter “Cow” under my breath. Still, I kept to the issue at hand. “Will you pick them up now, Tess? Will you arrest Terry and Sam?”

  “We will find them and question them—and we’ll also question those who confirmed their alibis. But how was it the woman found those two?”

  “I suppose,” I said in a small voice, “she could’ve followed me.”

  We were all three silent. I thought about what that meant—if Olive the kitten woman had followed me to Cambridge on Friday when I’d gone to meet Terry and Sam, she could’ve followed me to the roadside service, where the back window of my car had been smashed.

  “But why would she do that?” I asked, as if we’d discussed the topic aloud.

  “These hacks can get desperate enough to make their own news,” Michael said.

  “Are you staying there tonight, Julia?” Tess asked, and I knew she wasn’t being a nosy parker.

  “Yes. And tomorrow, I’m off to Minsmere for a location shoot, so I’ll be well away from the village.”

  “Michael?”

  “I’ll be back at the cottage by tomorrow evening,” he replied.

  My heart was full. I leaned over for a swift kiss. What a lovely moment—apart from being on a three-way phone call with a detective inspector.

  “I’ve some business to wrap up in Cambridge,” Michael said, “but perhaps I should go with you to Minsmere?”

  “No,” I said, “there’s no reason. I’ll be far away listening for bitterns and waiting for the sand martins to return. I’ll be back by late afternoon—and I’ll see you at the cottage.”

  Tess cleared her throat, and I blushed.

  “And we will stay out of the case, Inspector Callow.” Michael directed his voice to the phone, but his attention was all on me. I nodded briskly.

  We ended the call, and Michael set his phone on the floor. As he did, a second, smaller, headline on Sightings caught my eye: WHERE WILL VICTIM’S REMAINS REST? “He wanted to return to his true love,” says associate.

  Associate? Did Terry Fisk say that? Was kitten woman quoting him? Nick’s true love was St. Kilda—would Terry take him back there? Would he like to drop by the TIC and collect the Grecian urn before winging his way to that extreme point off the coast of Britain to return Nick to the spot he longed to stay? I very much doubted it.

  “What a load of rubbish.” I kicked the phone with my toe and watched it slide away.

  —

  “Give my love to Miles,” I said as I slung my bag over my shoulder and slipped on my shoes. That was a joke, of course, because Michael’s older brother and I didn’t quite get along—the first time we met, I had threatened him with bodily harm. Miles ran the family PR business and he had resented Michael’s original departure from the fold and somehow blamed me. We’d yet to sort that out.

  Michael, still in his pajama bottoms, held a mug of tea and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Look,” he said, “Miles knew it was only temporary, this bit of work for him. No need to make a show of leaving—why don’t I just give him a ring and then I can go with you?”

  “Don’t you think it’s best to make a clean break with him face-to-face? Then you’ll be fresh and ready to take back all your responsibilities with Rupert. And you are welcome to them.” I glanced out the window, saw the rain coming down in sheets, and thought about my trip to the coast.

  “I’ll have to make a dash for it.” I gave Michael a kiss and lingered for a second one. “I’ll stop at the TIC, but only for my mackintosh, and then it’s straight to the coast.” Nose to nose, I said, “I’ll see you later.”

  I rang ahead to Basil—good that he had everything in hand, and I wouldn’t be needed until later, when Rupert arrived and I’d coordinate the filming of his segments. I took the turnoff to Smeaton and switched the wipers to high. They swept the rain off in waves, but helped not a bit. We’d have to stay indoors if it was like this at the coast. But that wouldn’t matter—there was a lovely spot in the Minsmere café with windows all round and bird feeders on the patio just outside. Rupert could talk, and over his shoulder viewers would see a host of greenfinches and goldfinches and all manner of finches feasting on sunflower seeds. And any brave souls who happened out to the reserve in the gale and took refuge in the café for a coffee would be rewarded with a ringside seat to watch Rupert film A Bird in the Hand.

  When I sprinted from the car to the TIC and unlocked the door, I was met with the sight of the Grecian urn on the back table, and my second, although unconscious, reason for stopping in the village floated to the surface of my mind. Dutifully, Michael and I had left the evidence we’d gathered in the hands of the police, but it had been only after the phone conversation with Tess that I’d seen that second headline, the one about Nick’s remains. What was kitten woman doing dredging up that business? Why had she ever even thought to mention his remains?

  Perhaps she’d been chatting with someone about her circumstances—a family member in the village seeing to the business of death.

  Each morning since Kathleen had arrived, she’d vacated her room above the Stoat and Hare for Gwen to clean it. She walked up Church Lane and, according to both Gwen and Kathleen, talked with the vicar. But it wasn’t St. Swithun’s male vicar. It was a woman—someone with an unusual look about her, Gwen had said.