by Thorne Moore
Jo grinned, hugely amused. ‘Yeah. Can’t have smelly gippos littering up the countryside. But that was before they spent a day rifling through his laptop – company stats, interviews, all that correspondence with HRH. Not to mention the OBE; that’s always a killer.’
‘What OBE?’
‘Officially it’s for the drug rehabilitation stuff, but it did come very quickly after the Windsor job.’
‘Windsor?’
‘Yeah. Come on. Wasn’t that why you called in Taverner Restorations for this place?’
‘We called Al in to knock a hole in a kitchen wall,’ I said, sourly, realising that Al Taverner, OBE, of Taverner Restorations by Royal Appointment, had taken on our little lodge solely because he wanted our land for his experimental round house. We were the poor suckers of his dreams. ‘He doesn’t really live in a yurt, does he?’
Jo giggled. ‘Not full time. We’ve got a place in Hampshire, when he can sit still for more than five minutes at a time. The company makes the yurts, as a sideline, you know, and Al reckons that using them when he’s out on projects is good advertising. Besides, he’s always enjoyed being eccentric.’
‘Lucky him.’
She raised her eyes. ‘He’s a terrible poseur, you must know that.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Isn’t he.’
*
The rain set in, running off in torrents and overflowing the drains. I was lying on my bed, with a damp towel over my throbbing eyes, listening to the tattoo beating on the window, when I heard tyres on the gravel and the merciless clang of the front door bell. I staggered down and found DC Phillips and a policewoman standing on the slate step, framed by a grey veil of rain.
‘May I speak to Mrs Callister?’ said DC Phillips, quite politely.
‘Does she need a solicitor?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am. We’d just like a word, about her son.’
I stepped back. ‘I’ll fetch her. Come in.’
Sylvia was in the boot room with Michael, stringing up the laundry they’d hauled in quickly when the rain had started to tip down.
‘The police are here again. They want to speak to you, Sylvia.’
‘Oh.’ Her hand was at her throat. ‘Is there news?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Michael took a sheet from her and dropped it back into the wicker basket. ‘I’ll come with you.’ I could see him steeling himself as he took her hand. Let this at least be an end to the doubt, I thought, as they followed me back to the drawing room.
‘Good afternoon.’ Sylvia was fighting to compose herself, waiting for the bombshell.
‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m hoping you can confirm some details about your son’s car?’
It caught us by surprise, but Sylvia quickly got a grip on the subject. ‘It’s red.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Phillips suppressed a smile. ‘A Lotus, I think you told us? Do you recall the model?’
‘Elan.’ Michael was on edge. ‘SE Turbo. Convertible. Two door.’
‘Good.’ Phillips made notes. ‘You don’t recall the registration?’
Sylvia shook her head helplessly. She couldn’t remember her own registration number.
Michael shook his head. ‘I should have made a note of it.’
‘Something E L,’ I said. Something other than H. I remembered seeing it and thinking that HEL would be more appropriate for Christian.
The police officers nodded at each other.
‘Can’t you check with Swansea?’ asked Michael.
Phillips shut his little book. ‘There’s no car registered to Christian Callister. However, we have found a red Lotus Elan—’
‘You’ve found it?’ Sylvia gasped her relief. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t yet located Mr Callister himself. The car was found abandoned at the side of a road out towards Rhayader. Mid Wales,’ he added, as we stared uncomprehending.
‘But what was he doing up there?’ asked Sylvia.
‘You don’t have any idea?’
‘He drove away,’ I said. ‘We assumed he’d be going back to London, but he could have been heading anywhere. He has contacts, unpleasant ones, but we don’t know who they are.’
‘But his car,’ said Sylvia. ‘Why would he abandon it? What’s happened to him?’
‘It would appear he ran out of petrol, ma’am,’ said Phillips.
‘And then?’
‘Maybe he hitched a lift?’
‘But surely he’d have come back for it by now?’
‘Probably not if it wasn’t really his,’ I suggested, watching Sylvia’s face cloud with anxiety. ‘Was there any sign of Hannah Quigley?’
‘She wasn’t in the car,’ Phillips conceded. ‘Nor any of her clothing or possessions. Forensics are investigating.’
Michael, who had listened in silence, walked over to the window, leaned on the sill, then turned back to face the officers. ‘Didn’t you find anything in it?’
‘No luggage. Whatever he had, he took with him.’
‘Drugs. You found no drugs?’ insisted Michael. ‘Nothing? I know I’d confiscated most of what he had, but maybe… Anything?’
The officers were noncommittal. ‘There may have been possible traces. Too early to be sure. Again, it’s something for forensic examination to reveal.’
‘Oh this waiting!’ Sylvia paced the room, her eyes brimming. ‘Please find him.’
‘We intend to, ma’am.’
‘Tell him, whatever he’s done, he’s got to face up to it, but I’ll stand by him.’
‘Oh Sylvia,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘Maybe he’s done something too terrible even to think about, but I’m still his mother. Nothing can alter that. I’m his mother and I’ll be there if he needs me.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Phillips, sounding almost human.
*
‘That is so like him,’ said Tamsin. ‘All that fuss about being low on petrol and then he forgot to fill up. And it was a crap car anyway. He thought it was great, all that noise it made, but I think the exhaust was just about to fall off.’
‘That sounds like Christian,’ I agreed. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have been heading?’
She shrugged. ‘You know Chris. All that boasting about business deals. I bet it’s all drugs really. Mike nicked all his stuff, so maybe he was looking to get some more. He talks about having contacts all over the place. He had something to do once in Manchester. And Hull. I don’t know. Who cares, as long as he isn’t here.’
‘But we need to know what happened to Hannah.’
‘Yes, of course. Though nobody liked her, you know.’
‘Even so!’
‘But she was a pain, wasn’t she? Yes I know it would still be horrible if she’s been murdered. Chris is so stupid. I mean, why bother murdering her? Even if she’d gone to the police, they wouldn’t have taken any notice of her, would they? She’s the sort of person no one wants to listen to.’
Tamsin was right of course. I watched her making herself an elaborate sandwich. It involved peanut butter, Thai green curry paste and a banana. I decided not to look closer. ‘Shall I tell you something awful?’ She licked smears from her fingers.
‘Go on.’
‘I sometimes think it would be better if Chris died.’
‘Oh Tammy.’
‘No, seriously. I told you it was awful, but it’s true. He just makes everyone’s life a misery and it’s not as if he’s happy himself. I think he’s really unhappy, don’t you? Like deep down, he’s afraid. And he’s so horrible to Mum.’
I swallowed, shell-shocked by her brutal honesty. ‘But imagine how she’d feel if she discovered anything had happened to him?’
‘But that’s it, you see. It’s like she’s been expecting it for years. With the drugs and his horrible friends and the stupid things he does, like he can’t help himself. That’s why she’s always so worried about him. Expecting the worst. If he just got on with i
t, she wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. Oh, I know she’d be heartbroken. We all would. But she’d get over it. Don’t you think?’
What did I think? I didn’t dare to analyse my thoughts. One way or another, things were going to be bad for Sylvia, but Tamsin was right; it was the endless waiting, the not knowing that made everything a hundred times worse. Me and my unique “gift,” my ability to tune into death; what had I ever achieved by it? Al, Peter, Tamsin, Michael, they’d all suggested that surely I could use my magical powers to uncover the truth, and I’d brushed them aside, irritated by their lack of understanding, but perhaps they were right. Could I do more? I could at least try. If anyone could find a body, surely I could.
*
I drove. For two hours, my migraine still nagging, I drove. Phillips had grudgingly agreed to show me on a map where Christian’s abandoned car had been discovered, so I was able to find the spot at last, an empty verge of an empty forest road, police tape still tacked to the trees although the Lotus had been carted away for inspection. It was a road going nowhere, from nowhere, in the middle of nowhere. I parked, got out, looked around, into fathomless, sepia depths of regimented firs. What on earth had Christian been doing here? Where had he been, to put him in this empty wilderness? Standing in the silence, I knew the answer. He was here because he was lost. Utterly lost. He’d been lost for a long, long time.
I covered my eyes, remembering our recent encounters, his child’s terror, so palpable, even while he threatened me. Had he really intended to kill Hannah? She hadn’t died when they’d collided on the road outside Llys y Garn, I knew that. It had been hours later when I’d felt death. Maybe he’d kidnapped her to teach her a lesson, and she’d just died on him. Or maybe he’d brought her this far, to the point where his car failed him, and then, in sheer malicious aggravation, he’d killed her because he had to punish someone. Either way, here he had been, stuck with a dead body and nowhere to go, no friends to turn to: this was as lost as he could get.
What could he have done with her? Tumble her straight into the nearest trees? I stepped over the police tape, searching in the dimming light. It was impossible to go far. Low branches, lifeless and brown, stabbed and scratched at every step, except where the police had thrashed them down. They’d already searched this spot. Hannah wasn’t here.
I returned to the road. So he’d carried her. Not uphill. I followed the road down, as it wound round a steep hillside. Down and round and on forever, with nothing but trees, closing in, suffocating.
Hannah, tell me where you are.
Why wouldn’t her body speak to me? I tuned into death when I would give anything to avoid it, but now that I needed the gift, I was empty.
I had walked along the road half a mile, in misty, pattering rain, when I came to a gate, an overgrown track that led down into the unrelenting plantation. A ruined stone shed stood by it, slate roof sagging, and though the interior had been claimed by nettles and brambles, the great stone lintel of its doorway offered me a margin of shelter from the drizzle, while I considered my options. I could go tramping on along the darkening road for ever, or I could turn down that track into the muffling comfort of the woods.
Either choice was utterly hopeless. I was deluding myself. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by miserable weariness, a desperate longing to be home, to be back with all the petty trials and tribulations whose tedious certainty offered the only comfort there could be. I wanted to sleep, to be out of it.
All I had discovered was a confirmation of my own futility. Christian might have dumped Hannah’s body long before he’d reached this place. Nothing spoke to me, one way or another. Silence. Pointless.
It would be night soon. The light was fading, the darkness of the forest seeping out onto the narrow deserted road. I left the derelict hut and trailed back to the car, steeling myself for the long drive back to Llys y Garn. We would wait, and wait and wait, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter 24
The physical search of our neighbourhood revealed no further clue to Hannah’s whereabouts. Police enquiries continued, leaflets went out, posters appeared in shops, hotels and guesthouses were contacted. An appeal was made on local radio. Nothing. There was talk of a mention on Crimewatch.
The press ran with the story, but Hannah wasn’t a sympathetic subject. They couldn’t engineer any glowing quotes about her popularity, her personality, or her promise, there were no tearful relatives to be besieged, and Jo warned them that portrayal of Llys y Garn as an opium den would result in a libel action.
It didn’t stop the rumours though, among the customers at the Cemaes Arms, who came to swap tall tales of our diabolical ways: we were cooking crystal meth in the out-buildings; we’d killed Hannah and stashed her away so we could ‘discover’ yet another body for publicity; we’d silenced her because she’d discovered The Truth about one or other of us – and doubtless more. All we could hope was that people would soon find a new titillating scandal and move on.
Sylvia still wouldn’t accept that her son could be a cold-blooded murderer.
‘I can’t believe he meant to do it. He’s not a mindless killer. He loses his temper and just – yes, I know. Whether he meant to kill her or not, it was unforgivable. I’m not running away from it, and he can’t either. He must face the consequences. But I have to be there for him, whatever happens.’
Michael put his arms round her, to give her a hug, and I saw the agony in his eyes.
Then it happened.
I was in the walled garden, picking mint at Sylvia’s request, when the gate from the orchard swung open and the professor peered through. Many of his students had been summoned home by anxious parents, but he lingered on, ever hopeful. He saw me and advanced portentously. Vicky followed, waving furiously. Something was up and my heart sank.
‘Ah,’ said Ronnie. ‘Good. I thought you would want to know – and it’s all totally inexplicable, can’t understand it, but I knew you’d—’
‘She’s alive!’ interrupted Vicky. She paused just long enough for me to blink, before rushing on with her explanation. ‘She went to a friend and the friend heard the police appeal this morning, and got in touch. Well, apparently…’
She talked, and my mind was spinning, until it plunged into the black hole opening for it. Hannah was alive. And yet I’d felt death. There were times when I no longer knew what I was feeling about anything, but I had that one certainty: I had felt a death.
Not Hannah.
Christian.
It was just as I had first supposed, that long night, as I’d lain, riddled with guilt about my murderous thoughts. My demonic powers seemed a self-obsessed fantasy now. Something far more tangible that my evil thoughts must have finished him. Something like a knife. A Ray Mears knife. Wielded by someone who’d kill Christian without compunction. Someone who’d been out on the roads north of here when it had happened.
My eyes turned automatically to the Great Hall, where I could hear the clatter of work continuing.
‘Anyway,’ Vicky was bubbling with happiness, ‘we knew you’d want to hear at once.’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you. It’s wonderful news. I’ll go and tell Sylvia now. She’ll be so relieved.’
Sylvia and Michael were in the kitchen, brooding over the ingredients for a dinner none of us really wanted. She looked up as I entered and gasped at the sight of my face. ‘Kate! What is it?’
‘Hannah is alive,’ I said.
For a moment there was stunned silence.
‘She’s alive,’ I repeated. ‘She wasn’t attacked.’
‘Ah! Ah!’ Sylvia’s shrieks were a mixture of laughter, shock and hysteria, as she grabbed the table for support. ‘He didn’t kill her. I knew it. I knew it!’
Michael lowered her into a chair before she collapsed, still in a daze himself.
I tried to talk calmly, rationally, explaining for his sake, because I doubted that Sylvia was taking in a word of it. ‘When she ran off, her shoe broke and then she
cut her foot on a broken bottle, and sat down to cry by the side of the road. That’s where a couple found her. Tourists. Just moving on to the Brecon Beacons. They gave her a lift somewhere. Carmarthen, I think Vicky said. Nobody seems to know precisely how she got there, but she finished up at the house of an old school friend in Northampton.’ I resolutely talked on, as Sylvia rocked, hands over her mouth, and Michael stared, blankly. ‘She was gibbering that everyone hated her and was trying to poison her and steal her toothbrush. So, for the last few days she’d been in hospital, receiving psychiatric evaluation and tetanus injections.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. Sylvia was groping blindly for his hand.
‘Vicky can explain more. I think she’s going to come here if she can persuade Ronnie to get back to his students.’ I looked at the two of them, adrift in shock and confusion. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk. I’ll be upstairs.’
I would be upstairs because I needed the privacy of my own room, time and space to face up to a new horror.
Why couldn’t it have been Hannah?
What was I thinking? Poor girl, it had been obvious all along that she was having a breakdown. She’d arrived already in its throes and the summer school had merely exacerbated it. None of us had thought to help her, because she was just an unwelcome nuisance, impinging on our far more interesting lives. No one had bothered to ask what traumas had sparked her collapse. If we had, that might have been all the therapy she’d needed, but nobody cared to listen. She’d been left to drown in our contemptuous indifference. I’d even laughed when she was exiled from her prized place at the professor’s side. That must have doubled her sense of exclusion. Christian’s malicious presence would have been more than enough to unleash her most paranoid ravings.
She was a sad, pathetic creature and I felt rightly guilty. I should have felt pity too, but it was no good. I could only wish Hannah at the bottom of the ocean.
I stood at my window, watching the wind running through the long grass of the meadow, watching the trees bend and shiver. I had once thought, triumphantly, Al could kill Christian and I wouldn’t blame him.
