The answer sprang to mind, but she wanted to hear it from Mary Jane – just in case she’d heard wrong.
‘I rummaged a big around the garden. Don’t worry, there was nobody around. But there were no bones at the cremation spot. None at all, which means...’
The truth hit Honey like an express train.
‘There was no body!’
‘Yes. There probably was, but the residue of the fire has been scooped up and taken away. Probably in the dead of night.’
Honey shook her head. This was all so complicated. What was the point of it? The deceased had been autopsied. Caspar had identified the body. DNA had been matched.
She voiced the nagging question. ‘What was the point?’
Mary Jane shrugged. ‘Search me. Now, I’m thinking I might hold a séance. If the atmospherics are OK we can expect a visit from your father.’
Honey looked at her in alarm. Although he’d been long dead, she didn’t particularly wish to make contact with her father. She wished him at rest.
‘I’m not your girl for attending a séance,’ she said uneasily. ‘Why not wait until you’ve got my mother on hand?’
There was a sparkle in Mary Jane’s eyes. ‘You scared, Honey?’
‘You bet I am!’
She shook her head. ‘Aw, come on. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘No way, Mary Jane. No way!’
She headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to visit the walled garden. I want confirmation.’
Mary Jane waved a bony hand. ‘OK. Have it your way. I’ll have a word with your father by myself. I’m sure he won’t mind doing without a circle.’
Honey pulled on her boots but left her coat behind. She shook her head as she made her way outside. Mary Jane was only trying to be helpful but really, contacting the other side just didn’t cut it for Honey. After having Mary Jane living in her hotel for some time, rubbing shoulders with whatever spirits she reckoned lived in the old place, Honey still refused to confront what might be. It was hard enough facing this world.
There was only ash where the fire had been, most of it trampled into the earth. Should there be bones left? It certainly seemed there should have been more ash. And if there had been more ash then there would have been a few bones. A few bones left would have been evidence of a body having been burned here. OK. She had no problem with that. Why would someone not want residual bones left behind?
The answer hit her like a jumbo jet. DNA. Bones left behind would have revealed DNA. She frowned. Surely matching DNA with Caspar discounted the need – or the suspicion that it wasn’t his brother.
Seeing as Doherty was out of bounds, she rang Cecil Street, the pathologist who’d carried out the post mortem on Tarquin St John Gervais. He was hesitant but finally confirmed that unless subjected to a very great heat, i.e. that of a cremation furnace, there would be bones left. A funeral pyre is never as hot as a furnace.
‘There are sometimes fragments left in a cremation furnace – along with the twisted metal of false hips, false teeth and the odd watch thanks to a sloppy funeral director. But a bonfire? There should be bones.
‘The ash seems to have been taken away and I presume what bones were left with it, though I can’t think why someone would do that,’ Honey stated thoughtfully.
The pathologist’s response was suitably cryptic. ‘Perhaps the gardener wanted to plant a few spring onions.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Doherty had been less than enthusiastic about enrolling on the team bonding course. For a start he reckoned he had bonded enough over the years with his colleagues, and secondly he disliked camping. He had gone on camping holidays as a child. He’d hated them then and he hated them now. More so seeing as they were not camping close to some pebble beach on the Dorset coast, but in the windswept, rain swept Brecon Beacons.
After enduring a couple of days sharing a leaky tent with his colleagues, totally isolated from civilisation, it was a welcome surprise to see a helicopter hovering over them despite the propellers adding to the wind strength.
All of them were of the opinion that the helicopter was only flying over. The last thing they’d expected was for it to set down some way from their bedraggled tent, the blades slowly coming to a halt.
Doherty narrowed his eyes. There were two men in the helicopter, the pilot and one other. It was the other man alighting from the helicopter that drew his attention.
The man’s strides were long and purposeful and he was heading Doherty’s way, his tie flying over his shoulder.
He was wearing a dark padded jacket over a charcoal grey suit. Even though the wind was playing with his hair, Doherty could see it was an expensive cut. He also noticed the man’s facial features; strong jaw, dark eyebrows, intelligent eyes. His instinct said the man had come for him and his instinct proved right.
‘Steve Doherty?’
The voice was familiar.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘The name’s Christiansen. I think we need to have a chat. Get your stuff and come with me.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Back at Torrington Towers, the gloom outside seemed to seep indoors, settling like a smog in the study. It didn’t help that the room was furnished man style, dark carpet, dark wood and lots of books, the dark decorations swallowing the light.
Honey switched on a desk light. Mary Jane sat across from her, yet another book open on her lap. She seemed absorbed in it, but somehow Honey knew she was not.
‘You were right. About the bones or lack thereof.’
‘Uhuh,’ she said without looking up.
‘I still haven’t seen Adrian Sayle. I presume he’s over in the animal houses. Lions and stuff must take some looking after.’
Mary Jane looked up. ‘I did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Held a séance. Well not quite a séance. More of a one to one. It turned out quite well. Tell me, did you know your father was a spy?’
Honey blinked. She’d totally forgotten Mary Jane’s intention, though was glad the seance had occurred while she was out in the garden.
‘He confirmed it, did he?’
‘Yep! He was a British agent. Just like James Bond. No wonder you’re such a good detective. It runs in the blood.’
Honey wasn’t so sure and the flattery unnerved her.
‘I take it he also confirmed that he was friendly with his lordship.’
Mary Jane beamed from ear to ear. ‘Better than that. They were pictured together.’
She handed Honey the book she was studying. It turned out to be a photo album. A brace of young faces looked out at her from a black and white photograph. They looked happy and confident, in the prime of their lives.
‘They’ve signed it,’ she said, pointing to the signatures all made with the same ballpoint pen.
Honey read her father’s signature, Tarquin’s – which of course took up the most room. Percy Bullington – her father’s brother. The signature that most drew her attention was that of Keith McCall. She recalled him as the park ranger before Adrian Sayle had come along, so perhaps he had merely retired.
In the old photograph he was a fresh faced young man with a shock of fair hair and intense eyes that looked at the camera as though daring it to present him as anything but handsome. He was handsome.
Honey frowned as a question popped into her mind.
‘They weren’t all spies were they?’
Mary Jane shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you everything. Your father told me where to find the book and I found it. He also told me to warn you to be careful. The sins of the fathers and all that...’
‘Sins? What sins?’
Mary Jane shrugged again in her characteristic manner, bony shoulders almost touching her ears.
Honey studied the photograph again. ‘Five young men but only four signatures.’
The fifth young man’s face was sideways on, a sweep of dark hair hiding half his features. Eit
her he was camera shy or he didn’t want to be recognised.
She felt Mary Jane’s eyes on her.
‘You’re thinking the same as I am, aren’t you Hon. That fifth man is doing his darndest to hide his face. I think that might be why your father told me where to find that photo, because that young man is the key to everything.’
Honey stared at the photograph as though she could detect the scraping signature of a pencil perhaps. There was nothing.
‘We need to find out his name.’ She reached for her bag, got out her phone and dialled Uncle Percy.
It took a few goes but eventually he answered. His voice sounded cracked like an old vinyl record that’s been scratched to distraction over the years.
After the normal niceties were exchanged she asked him about the photograph.
‘It looks as though it was taken sometime in the seventies if the bell bottom trousers and glossy locks are anything to go by.’
She outlined who was on the photograph besides himself.
‘There’s just one that we can’t identify. He looks as though he might be camera shy. Luckily for him he had plenty of hair to hide behind.’
‘Ah. Really. How interesting.’
His response answered nothing. They weren’t even platitudes, just exclamations that said nothing and went nowhere.
She went on to describe the man as best she could.
‘You must know him, Uncle Percy. After all, you were standing in a line together, looking chummy and having your picture taken. So who was he?’
‘You shouldn’t be worrying your head with all this you know.’
Honey counted to ten. Uncle Percy was young in a time when most women were still glued to the kitchen sink. He wouldn’t know he was being condescending. Or would he?
Well two could play at silly buggers!
‘But uncle! His hair is to die for. I’d love hair like that. Perhaps he could advise me where he got it cut and how he manages to keep it looking so glossy!’
A sharp silence ensued before he answered.
‘It’s not so glossy now,’ he growled.
Of course not. The man must be at least sixty. He probably didn’t have any hair.
‘I’d like to meet him.’
‘You can’t. He’s dead.’
Honey wasn’t so much taken aback as curious why her uncle had been so reluctant to tell her the man’s identity. She still wanted to know that.
‘So what was his name?’
She imagined her uncle grinding his teeth but couldn’t quite understand his reluctance.
‘Ivan. His name was Ivan.’
‘And the second name?’
‘Orlov. Ivan Orlov.’
‘Is that a Russian name?’
‘Yes. It is. We were all students together. He was the grandson of a White Russian – a dissident who came over just after the Russian Revolution.’
Her mind raced in circles once she’d disconnected. At first she’d considered it nonsense when it was suggested her father was a spy. Her mother’s response had been pretty much the same. But now there was a photo of all those young men together plus a Russian taken when they were all at Oxford University. She’d read articles on how the Russians had recruited well educated young men into their ranks from the privileged halls of residence. Had her father been one of them or had he acted for the west? And what about Orlov? Just because his grandfather had been a white Russian didn’t mean that he was.
More questions needed to be asked. Her mother knew practically nothing, her uncle was reticent and besides he probably wasn’t up to speed on the current situation. The past probably had little to do with what was going on in the present, most importantly in the death of Tarquin St John Gervais, Caspar’s brother. And now there had been another murder; Professor Lionel Collins. What had he really been doing at Torrington Towers? How did he fit into all this?
The only person who knew the truth was Dominic Christiansen. How could she possibly get him to tell her the truth? How could she possibly beguile him into imparting some of what he knew?
A single word came to mind. The obvious one. Sex. Luckily she’d brought her little black dress with her.
Never mind Honey Driver! Look out, she would look as sexy as Honey Ryder in that scene from the first James Bond film, Doctor No. All she had to do was spot him. At present he was nowhere in sight, though she had seen him with Adrian Sayle and she couldn’t find him either.
Mary Jane came looking for her, insisting they take a look at the animal pens.
‘The lions are in,’ she said with great enthusiasm.
Honey was at a loose end, her thoughts making her head feel like a spinning top that won’t quit. She was already dressed in jeans, boots and a thick sweater so let herself be manhandled out of the house, around the path at the back and out through the back gate into the animal enclosures.
At some point she wanted to find out about this ranger Keith McCall. Yet another peg in the Ouija board! One mention and Mary Jane would be attempting to make contact with him too. Not that she had any evidence that he was dead. It was just that his departure from his position at Torrington Towers had been sudden. So had Adrian Sayle’s stepping into his shoes.
Chapter Twenty-three
Nobody knew that the old sausage factory contained nothing but this well lit foyer. Behind it was an empty factory, long denuded of the stainless steel machinery once housed therein. A tunnel connected the lower level of the factory to the abattoir, also disused. It had been a long time since the tunnel had echoed to the terrified bellowing of animals on their way to being butchered.
The car park surrounding the factory was full of cars; ostensibly those who worked at the factory. The smoke curling from the sixty foot chimneys helped maintain the illusion that it still operated, though it hadn’t done for years.
Dominic Christiansen drove slowly up to the entrance. Alex Patterson was waiting for him on the steps, his hair as tousled as usual, his face pale against the black polar neck and leather jacket.
Alex waited until the car had come to a halt before descending the steps.
Dominic Christiansen wound down the window.
Alex glanced over his shoulder before leaning his arms on the car roof and talking through the gap it left. His expression said it all.
‘He gave us the slip.’
‘I heard. Where is he now?’
Alex shrugged. ‘You tell me. After all, you should know the guy better than anyone, DC. You were the guy shadowing him.’
‘He’s a professional. Damned nuisance though. I sometimes think it might be better if he really were dead and we didn’t have to go through all this melodrama!’
‘So how’s our girl?’
Dominic grimaced. ‘I hate using her as bait like this. So far she hasn’t been intruding into the supposed death of Lionel Collins, but at some point she’d going to question cause of death and even ask to see the body.’
‘And there isn’t one.’
Dominic clenched his jaw. Lord Torrington was a pain in the ass.
‘And the policeman boyfriend?’
‘I’ve had a word. Gave him the gist of things and told him to back off.’
‘Was he game?’
Dominic shrugged his broad shoulders. Even though covered by a cashmere suit, designer label of course, his muscularity was still obvious.
‘For now he’s being debriefed. He won’t be allowed to go until we’ve finished with him. The last think we want is him galloping into this like some gallant white knight and destroying all the work we’ve done, the plans we’ve laid.’
‘The Driver woman is going to feel lonely.’
Dominic smiled. ‘I think I can help there, purely for the sake of the realm of course.’
Alex, a friend for a very long time, raised his eyebrows. ‘Would that be such a chore?’
Dominic smiled. ‘Not really. As long as her policeman is kept out of the picture. I don’t think he’d be too pleased.’
‘You sound confident of success.’
A slow smile crossed the ruggedly handsome face of the well educated, ultra handsome Dominic Christiansen. He’d been working for MI5 for some time, a definite asset being that he spoke seven languages fluently. Speaking Swedish, Norwegian and Icelandic had been thanks to his Swedish father. His mother was English. He also spoke Russian, Mandarin and Portuguese.
‘I aim to pull out all the stops.’
Before parting they exchanged the knowing look of professionals familiar with the cut and thrust of a world hidden from what passed as civilisation. The underworld they worked in was savage and totally without conscience, but they were brothers in arms, dwelling in the shady world of international intelligence.
Both were instinctive. Both knew that Keith McCall was dead. It was just a case of finding the body.
They were interrupted by an electronic beeping. Dominic reached for his phone. The application sparked up a single word. Intruder. The tracker device was something all agents kept on them at all times. Each blinked with an individual ID. This one was blinking with Keith McCall’s number. Up until now they’d presumed it had been destroyed somehow. Sometimes these gadgets reacted to dampness or been deactivated by movement. Another movement must have reactivated it.
This was nothing but a stroke of luck. All he had to do was follow its low tone bleep.
‘Gotta go.’
The car throbbed into life and roared like a lion when he slid the stick shift into first.
The pulse from the reactivated tracking device kept blinking and bleeping and he followed.
It crossed his mind that someone might have found the device and activated it in order to draw him in. Under the circumstances he was willing to chance that. McCall knew so much.
The copse of deciduous trees hid the old railway line and the tunnel from the house. A Torrington ancestor back in the nineteenth century had insisted on his own private branch line terminating in the cellar beneath the place where sick animals were caged. It was pointed out to him that ventilation shafts would have to be built in a line across the verdant parkland. The view would have been ruined. The old man settled for a manually operated wagon running on rails between the house and his own private station. The copse had been planted to hide the station from the house. The copse remained. The station was boarded up – locked and barred against intruders though at one time it had been used as an artist’s studio – Tarquin’s grandfather – the ancestor in his Titian period – complete with nude models.
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