by Roz Watkins
I planted my feet carefully on the floor, heaved myself into a standing position, and hobbled to the bathroom for a facial inspection. Not as bad as it felt. A slight darkening under my left eye and swelling on my cheek, but not the stuff of horror movies.
After more industrial-strength painkillers, things started loosening up a bit. I fed myself a slow breakfast and felt much better with food inside me. I’d be in pain whether I sat at home or did something useful, so I decided I might as well carry on as best I could. I put on my normal, not-in-gut-wrenching-discomfort voice, and called Jai.
*
We arrived at my car, which had survived its night out better than I had. Jai turned to me. ‘Are you going to be okay? You look like you’re about to throw.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
Jai frowned. ‘Look, I’m not sure you should be at work. You don’t seem great.’
‘Honestly, I’m better off doing something. I’ll catch up with you later.’
I clambered out into the cold morning, and gave Jai a confident wave. He watched me fake a pain-free journey into my car, and then drove slowly away.
I called the Station and sat wondering if I was actually capable of driving. I’d been so adamant I was okay, I couldn’t call Jai back. I took a deep and painful breath, wrapped my filthy windscreen rag around my bad hand, and stuck the car in gear. I drove (in meandering pensioner fashion) through the back streets to the centre of Eldercliffe, and parked on the pavement right outside Kate’s surgery. I stumbled through the reception area and leant against the wall. There was no sign of Vivian today, and the receptionist gave me a startled look. ‘Have you been hurt? Do you need a doctor?’
‘I’m fine.’ I flashed her my card. ‘I just need a quick word with Dr Webster.’
Her expression changed to panic. ‘She has patients.’ Did she fear a patient revolt if I butted in?
‘I’ll be quick.’
She hesitated, and then picked up the phone. After a brief exchange, she raised her impeccably plucked eyebrows and turned to me. ‘Okay, go through.’
I made my way to Consulting Room 4.
Kate looked up from her notes. ‘Oh, hello.’ Not unfriendly.
I sat in the patient chair, feeling less vulnerable this time, strangely since I was beaten and bruised.
Kate frowned. ‘Have you been attacked?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Did you know your husband was taking ABILIFY?’
Her eyes widened. ‘The anti-psychotic?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ She sat forward in her chair.
‘He also seems to have been taking an experimental drug one of his clients gave him.’
She breathed in sharply. She hadn’t known that.
‘I think you know more than you’ve told me.’
She looked out of the window. The view took in the practice’s tiny, steep, over-full car park (staff only) and behind that a rather fine Georgian pub. Her voice was soft. ‘I suspected he might be developing schizophrenia.’
‘Right. Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
She turned back to look at me. ‘He was such a proud man. He was ashamed. He would have hated everyone to know. I didn’t see the relevance anyway. What does it matter now?’
‘Why did you suspect schizophrenia? Doesn’t it usually develop at a younger age?’
‘Not always. He was irritable and depressed. Moody. Touchy. Obsessive. He became clumsy and his gait changed. He thought he was being watched. The list goes on. I tried to raise it with him but he wouldn’t talk about it.’
‘Is ABILIFY a schizophrenia drug?’
‘Yes it is.’ She stared out of the window again. ‘Where did he get it from? And why is this relevant? Do you know who killed him?’
‘We need all the facts. Is there anything else you haven’t told us?’
‘Are you thinking he committed suicide after all?’
‘Well, the schizophrenia makes it more likely, don’t you think? It would have been helpful to know about that.’
‘I don’t think he committed suicide. He wouldn’t have done that to me. Or to his family.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I’m kidding myself. People clearly do commit suicide and it’s horrific for the relatives.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid they do. And it is.’
But I didn’t think he’d committed suicide either. Why bother with the permanent health insurance if he was going to kill himself?
‘I think you know what happened on that roof in Cambridge,’ I said.
The breath stopped in her throat, halfway to her lungs. ‘I have patients waiting.’
‘What happened? You need to tell me. You could be in danger.’
She gave me an appraising look and slumped back in her chair. ‘I’ll be done with these in an hour. Come back and I’ll tell you.’
Chapter 29
An hour and two (non-skinny) lattes later, I sat again in the patient chair.
Kate picked up the blood-pressure stress reliever and squeezed it in and out while she talked.
‘When I first met Peter, he told me about this friend who’d died falling off a roof in Cambridge. But he claimed he and Felix weren’t there. He seemed pretty cut-up about it, but I thought that was just because he’d been good friends with the lad. But then about six months ago, he started talking about it again, saying he felt guilty and wanted to confess.’
‘So, what really happened?’
‘They were on the roof together, mucking about. Stoned. And the lad who died, George Matthews, made some comment about Olivia having slept with someone else. I’m thinking now it might have been Peter she’d slept with, but he didn’t tell me that. Felix was always jealous about Olivia, and he shouted at George and shoved him. There was a scuffle and George fell. Since I found out about the situation with Rosie, I wonder if there was a bit more to it. But basically, Felix pushed the lad off the roof and he died.’
‘My God. Didn’t they call an ambulance?’
‘He landed on spiked railings. Peter said they stood on the roof, obviously horrified, but it was clear there was no point calling an ambulance.’
I gave her a questioning look.
‘I know. If he’d been on his own, Peter would have called for help. It’s Felix. He’s not normal.’
‘So, Peter started going on about this recently?’
‘Yes. And saying he wanted to confess.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier? Don’t you realise this could be a motive for murder?’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It was all so long ago. Peter made me swear on my parents’ graves that I’d never say a word to anyone. I know it’s bloody stupid – it’s not like he cares now. But I made a promise… It felt important to keep my promise to him.’
I felt a stab of pity for this woman who’d lost so many people in her life. ‘Don’t worry. I understand.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel terrible. If this is relevant, I could be responsible for Beth being killed.’
*
My desire for Mum not to see my injuries battled with my anxiety about her and Gran. Anxiety won and I made my way over there after work.
I let myself into the house, which no longer felt safe and cosy, and hobbled down the hallway. I expected her to be in the kitchen, but as I walked past the little study on my left, I heard papers rustling and looked in to see her hunched over her desk.
‘Hello!’ I called, and she jumped so dramatically she nearly fell off her chair, arms and legs flying. She slammed her hands down on her papers.
‘Bloody hell, Mum, what are you doing?’
‘Goodness, Meg, what happened to you this time?’
‘I’m fine, honestly. What are you up to?’
‘You gave me a fright.’ She looked at her hand, and tried to casually shift the papers away from me. I couldn’t see what was on them.
‘Sorry. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘What on earth happened t
o you?’
She didn’t seem to realise there’d been another death. Thank goodness she was a techno-Luddite with no interest in social media or even the TV. I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a thud from upstairs. This time we both jumped, and looked wide-eyed at each other.
Mum leapt out of her chair and we sprinted up the stairs and into Gran’s room.
I arrived first despite my injuries. Gran lay sprawled on the floor, tangled in her duvet. She looked tiny and broken. ‘Oh Jesus, she’s fallen out of bed,’ I shouted.
I squatted on the floor. ‘Gran, are you okay?’
Mum knelt next to me. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this again. Can we lift her back in?’
I prepared my shoulder for the onslaught. ‘How is she so heavy? It’s like she’s made of uranium.’
We half dragged, half lifted her onto the bed, gasping with the effort.
Gran moaned gently as we shifted her pillows and tried to get her comfy. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she muttered. ‘I always said. Despite what they say. A good girl.’
It didn’t seem the time to ask Who said, and what did they say? I let it go. She seemed unharmed but we agreed we’d ask the doctor to check her over again.
‘Maybe the gas affected her more than they thought.’ I pushed Mum onto the chair by the window. She was panting like a greyhound after a race. ‘Sit down. I’ll get us tea.’ She complied for once, sinking onto the chair and putting her head in her hands.
I caught my breath and limped downstairs to the kitchen. The light switch sparked when I turned it on. I gave it a suspicious look. If it had done that when the gas was leaking…
I put the kettle on and indulged in some general fretting. I felt cold thinking about the light switch and the gas leak. The electrics in Mum’s house were probably ancient. And how much longer was she going to be able to cope with Gran at home? I was helping as much as I could, but with work and everything… What if she’d had the gas leak or Gran had fallen when I hadn’t been around? Guilt and helplessness gnawed at my insides. Gran had made it abundantly clear she’d rather die than go into a home, and we couldn’t afford it anyway.
I forced my thoughts away from Gran, and they landed in another unsettling place – Mum’s reaction when I’d arrived at the house. What had she been writing? There were no sounds from upstairs. I knew I shouldn’t spy on her, but I was worried.
She always kept that room locked. When I’d jokingly challenged her about it, she said she’d picked up the habit from Dad, but she hadn’t picked up his other OCD habits (apart from the occasional approved-method dishwasher stacking).
I crept through the hall towards the office, listening for movement upstairs. The door was closed – she must have pushed it shut behind us. The kettle was masking any noise I made, but it also made it hard to hear if Mum shifted. And if it boiled and flipped off, she’d hear me. I reached forward and turned the handle, pushed the door and stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me.
I saw the paper she’d been writing on – a few notes in her scrawly handwriting.
Nembutal/other barbs
Someone else take over Silk Road etc?
I stared at the scrap of paper, blinking repeatedly as if it would change the content. A floorboard creaked upstairs. I jumped towards the door. The kettle had boiled. I shot out of the office, pushing the door closed behind me, and slipped into the kitchen, just in time to avoid Mum. I made tea to the accompaniment of the click of her locking the office door, before ascending the stairs again.
My brain churned, trying to make sense of what I’d seen. The Silk Road was that Dark Web site, the one where you could buy drugs and arrange hit men. What in God’s name was my mum doing writing notes about that?
I took the tea upstairs and we sat with Gran. She seemed fine – luckily she’d landed on her bundled-up duvet – but Mum and I discussed bed bars, and whether Mum needed more help coping.
‘What were you doing in the office earlier?’ I asked. ‘You looked engrossed in something.’
‘More to the point, what on earth happened to you?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Meg, this is getting ridiculous. You’re going to get yourself killed.’
‘I’m okay. What were you doing in the office?’
‘It was for our book group. I was making some notes on this week’s book.’
I scrutinised her face. She looked completely calm except she kept blinking. The realisation that she was lying to me was like hot coals in my stomach. I kept my voice even. ‘What was the book?’
She crossed her arms and said, ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened to you?’
‘Honestly, it’s not as bad as it looks.’
‘Meg, please get yourself taken off that case. I’m worried about you.’
‘What was the book, Mum?’
A swallow tracked down her throat. ‘It was Gone Girl’.
A hollowness was opening up inside me, but I kept my tone casual as if making conversation. ‘Did you like it? What did you think of the end?’
‘I like it, but I haven’t got to the end yet. It’s for our book group on Sunday evening.’
I had actually read Gone Girl and there was nothing about Nembutal or the Silk Road in it. I had a stupid urge to cry. Mum was mixed up in something illegal, which meant she must be desperate. And she hadn’t come to me for help.
I jumped up, scraping the chair back behind me. ‘I’m going home.’
Mum looked up. ‘Meg…’
‘What?’
‘Please look after yourself.’
I hesitated. ‘Mum, if there’s anything bothering you… anything you’d like to tell me… If you need money…’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just worry about you in that job.’
I walked down the hallway and paused halfway to the front door. ‘Get that bloody light switch fixed in the kitchen. You’ll end up killing us all.’
Chapter 30
Back home, I did my room checks, grabbed my laptop and sat at the kitchen table. I was really seizing up now, and felt shaky and panicky about Mum.
I confirmed that the Silk Road was now shut down but, as I’d thought, it was an online black market best known for selling illegal drugs. It was part of the Dark Web – the illegal part of the internet you couldn’t find by normal searches – and you accessed it via TOR, a hidden service, so no one could trace you. What the hell? I raised my head and stared at my dated, orange-pine kitchen cupboards. Was my mother a drug dealer?
I stood, did a couple of agonising stretches, and put the kettle on, my mind spinning. Nembutal was a short-acting barbiturate, prescribed for insomnia. Mum had suffered from severe insomnia after Carrie died. And it was highly addictive. Could Mum be addicted to barbiturates? And be getting them illegally online? But she’d written, ‘Someone else take over Silk Road etc’. Was she part of a drugs ring?
And what about her manic attendance of the book group over the years? She didn’t read many books but she wouldn’t miss her Sunday-night meeting. Could it be a cover for some sort of drugs operation? It couldn’t be possible – not my Mum. I felt twitchy, like I wanted to pace up and down, but my body wasn’t up to it.
I made tea, accidentally dropping the spent tea bag on the floor like some kind of halfwit, and then leaving it there because I couldn’t face the journey to pick it up. I sniffed the milk.
Could any of this be relevant to Peter’s Hamilton’s death? In large doses, barbiturates could kill people, but they hadn’t killed him. It was a strange coincidence that two apparently respectable citizens were talking about the Silk Road, and what about Mum’s weird reaction to Kate Webster’s name?
I lowered myself into one of the wooden kitchen chairs that I kept meaning to paint. This case was so complicated. And now it seemed that my own mum was somehow wrapped up in it. Words drifted across my vision – Tithonus, schizophrenia, Sebastian, Henry, Felix, cyanide, Piers’s bane…
Hold on a minute. I pi
ctured Kate Webster talking about Peter’s ancestor, the Victorian who’d thrown himself into the quarry. Could he be Piers, the answer to the riddle in the casket? That would explain Piers’s bane. The drops are steep, the pools are deep. The quarry would certainly be his bane if he’d thrown himself into it.
I tried googling Piers, Victorian, mill owner, Eldercliffe, and quarry but nothing came up. I tried combining these with Henry – the solution to the first riddle and possibly Piers’s middle name – and Hamilton, in case he’d had the same name as Peter, but there was still nothing.
I texted Jai. Did you speak to the man at the bookshop about Peter’s ancestor?
A reply came straight back. There’s a diary. He’s bringing it in tomorrow morning.
*
The next day, I plastered myself with all the foundation I owned and dragged myself in early to talk to the team, allocate actions, and avoid questions about my appearance.
Finally I was free to talk to Jai. ‘Is Felix coming in? And have we got the diary from the dead Victorian?’
‘Felix is coming in this afternoon,’ he said. ‘And as for the dead Victorian, as opposed to all the living ones, I’ll go check if the diary’s here yet.’
Jai wandered off at a frustrating pace and returned a few minutes later at high speed. ‘Here it is. And what do you reckon his name was?’
‘Piers.’
‘It’s only Piers Henry bloody Hamilton.’
A flush of adrenaline shot into my stomach, cold and sharp. It was him. He was the answer to the riddle.
‘PHH,’ I said quietly. ‘So, who would know the story?’ I said. ‘I found nothing on the internet.’
‘The diary’s hand written, and the guy in the bookshop said it was never printed. Maybe it’s not well known. He hadn’t even shown it to Peter. He thought the content was too upsetting.’
‘Can I see?’
Jai passed me a leather-bound book. The cover was worn but the gold lettering on the front was still readable – Exclusive Diary. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind if you read it first. I can see you’re sweating with anticipation. You can tell me what it says.’
