Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  He turned a page or two. ‘Professor Carl Wood, recently retired senior lecturer in history. A wife, one grown kid, a number of published works – books, journals, that kind of thing. He specialises in military history, and in particular is an expert on the English Civil War. The lecture he’s giving today at the Birmingham Apollo is called, Cromwell: Hero or Villain? Right up your street, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s been invited to the conference by the National Civil War Society. They’re the ones hosting it.’

  ‘People pay to go to these things?’ said Stafford incredulously. ‘Must be as dry as a nun’s crotch.’

  Styles frowned at his bluntness. ‘History is big business,’ said Styles. ‘Other than that there’s not much more to say about Carl Wood. Roundabout coming up, sir.’

  ‘Jesus, Nobby, cut the river of instructions will you? You sound like my wife. I can see the blasted roundabout.’ He stopped at the roundabout, foot tapping the accelerator. ‘So what have you got for me on The Body in the Barn case?’

  Styles flipped more paper, one eye on the cars careering round the roundabout as Stafford waited impatiently for a suitable – or not so suitable, if he knew Stafford – gap in the flow of traffic. ‘DCI Thomas Rayne, good cop, successful career with a number of high-profile cases under his belt. Appears he was taken out with a shotgun by one of his own narks, a small-time crook called Bobby Garrick, and this finished his career. Garrick copped it eight months later in prison with a knife in the gut during an altercation with a fellow inmate. The Body in the Barn case was never resolved, according to the book. Anyhow, I searched police records and to be honest there’s not a lot of information on it. Seems details of the case were lost in a fire during the Blitz in 1940. The case did make it onto radio though. I found mention of it in old microfiche records, in a copy of the Radio Times from the 1930s. It was the last episode in a series broadcast by the BBC called, The Casebook of Inspector Rayne of the Yard. I tried to find out if any old recordings survive but drew a blank. They simply destroyed them after they’d finished with them, not like they do nowadays. Did you know they wiped a Michael Parkinson interview with John Lennon?’ He tut-tutted and shook his head.

  ‘Never liked Lennon; too clever for his own good. I’m more a Harrison man myself. Anyhow, forget Lennon. What else?’

  ‘The author of our book, True Crimes, Mr Justin Symons, acknowledges in the preface how fortunate he was to get a frank and detailed interview with Rayne, so as far as we can tell the details of the murder came straight from the horse’s mouth. But I decided to do some further digging and found out that publication of this book was stopped and any distributed copies recalled. A few obviously managed to slip through the net, like ours, but they must be as rare as hen’s teeth.’

  ‘Are you saying the book was banned?’

  ‘Effectively, yes.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say. But you’d have to think that it most likely contained something that someone didn’t want broadcasting.’

  ‘Or the book was simply crap and sales were bad.’

  Styles shrugged. ‘I also checked up on the author.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Justin Symons was found dead at his home six months later, hanging by a necktie from the banister. The coroner’s verdict was suicide. Now you could put it down to depression brought on by a creative temperament, but it all starts to look a little suspicious, don’t you think?’

  Stafford smiled. ‘Now this is where you’ve got to be careful, Nobby,’ he said. See, it’s like Tutankhamun’s curse…’

  ‘Not following you, sir.’

  ‘Death followed death followed death, all put down to a curse on those who defiled Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of Kings. But in reality there was no curse, that bit was made up; and each death was made to fit something that never existed in the first place. People see what they want to see, Nobby, remember that.’

  Styles shrugged. ‘I also checked to see if Thomas Rayne had any living relatives. Turns out he has one, his grandson Charles, who lives in Derbyshire. Might be able to help us shed more light on his grandfather and the case.’

  ‘Not bad, Nobby,’ he said. ‘Not bad for a pup.’

  Styles closed his notebook and sat back in his seat with a sigh. ‘Pedestrian crossing, sir,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Damn you, Nobby, stop that!’ Stafford snarled.

  They pulled into the car park of the conference centre, the security guard at the barriers refusing to let them through without a valid pass. Stafford flashed his ID. ‘All this fucking security for a history conference,’ he moaned, finding a spot to park the car. Rather badly, thought Styles. Stafford looked over to the large modern building, reminding him of some kind of technical college from the ‘Sixties. A crowd of people were spilling out of the twin set of revolving doors. He looked down at his watch. 4.15pm.

  As they marched across the tarmac he noticed how serious some of the faces were, and tiny knots of people had gathered in quiet conversation. Usually there was a bit more of a buzz at the end of a conference, if only to get out of the place, thought Stafford, but that’s history for you…

  He heard a siren in the distance, turned and saw the blue flashing lights of an ambulance streaking through the barriers and headed for the conference building.

  Stafford grabbed someone by the arm. ‘What’s going on?’

  The man, his conference badge still attached to his jacket, a delegate pack clutched in his hand, said, ‘It’s Professor Wood.’ He saw Stafford’s blank expression. ‘Haven’t you heard? There’s been a terrible thing happened. Professor Wood collapsed in the gent’s toilets – they say he’s had a heart attack. He was right as rain when he was up there on stage giving his lecture.’ He threw his hands up in despair. ‘One minute he was fine, the next…’

  ‘Where is he?’ Stafford asked. The man pointed, gave hurried directions, and the two officers drove through the revolving doors with the ambulance crew hot on their heels.

  They pushed through a crowd of people gathered in the corridor that led to the toilets, holding out their ID to a security guard who stood over the body of a man lying face down on the tiles by the urinals. His eyes were open, his mouth agape. A medic bent down to the stricken man. He checked for a pulse and then looked up at Stafford and Styles, shaking his head.

  ‘Too late,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  Styles searched the dead man’s jacket and unpinned a name badge with a photo on it. ‘Carl Wood,’ he said, holding up the badge. He rose to his feet and stood by Stafford’s side. ‘I reckon it’s Tutankhamun’s curse, don’t you, sir?’

  Stafford gave a grimace.

  * * * *

  28

  The Beast at His Back

  It was late when he picked up the Land Rover from the station car park back in Cardiff. He drove off into the growing night with his mind on overdrive, churning over his meeting with Lambert-Chide, feeling he’d come away with a raft of unanswered questions. That there was an ulterior motive behind the tycoon’s invitation was without doubt, but as to what the motive was remained unclear. He did appear inordinately intrigued by Erica, beyond that of a man robbed of personal possessions by a thief. He hardly disguised the fact that his interest in her eclipsed that of the soon to be returned brooch. Then the unnerving appearance of the so-called Canadian reporter, the same man that turned up at the hospital looking for Erica. A coincidence? That one was too hard to swallow.

  Tiredness began to strip Gareth Davies’ body of energy, though his mind still raced. What on earth was his next move to be in trying to locate a sister, a woman who, save for a brief incursion into his life, disappeared and looked as if she didn’t want to be found again? Why? What was all this about? Didn’t she know how much that hurt him, how painfully cruel that was?

  Night fell completely and the windscreen wipers batted away a thin film of misty rain. He wasn’t quite sure what pricked his suspicion, but he studied the headlight
s of the car behind him with interest. Was he imagining it or had it been with him for a while now?

  He shook his head as if to toss away the notion. There’d been so many weird things happen to him lately that he was becoming paranoid.

  But he checked it out the next time he drove down a lamp-lit street. A BMW Mini, in black. He entered open country again, the night swamping all detail but the car’s headlights. It kept pace with him. He deliberately slowed down; it did the same. He put his foot down; the occupant of the Mini mimicked it. He tried to convince himself that it was merely someone headed in the same direction as him. To test his hypothesis he turned off into a housing estate, feeling relief when it did not follow.

  You fool, he told himself. He returned to the main road and five minutes later the Mini was there on his tail again, some distance away but doggedly keeping pace. They now traversed the open country of Pembrokeshire, long stretches of road with only the occasional light burning from the odd-cottage or two.

  Then, surprisingly, the Mini’s headlights flashed at him. First in one or two steady bursts, then more agitatedly. He saw a sign for a lay-by ahead and he glanced around for his mobile. Couldn’t see it. Felt in his pockets. Where the hell had he put the thing? He really should call the police.

  Gareth pulled the car off the road, hoping beyond hope that the Mini would simply cruise on by and he’d be left feeling immensely foolish for allowing himself to become possessed by unfounded, irrational fears. But the Mini pulled in and came to a stop a few yards behind the Land Rover.

  The temptation to hit the accelerator and get the hell out of there was overwhelming, but he resisted. He was glad to find his mobile in the glove compartment. The growl of the Land Rover’s engine sounded curiously aggressive, like a dog sensing something was wrong. He didn’t need reminding. But he was fuming, too. Whoever it was would get a piece of his mind, he decided, and the instant he opened the door and stepped out onto the tarmac of the lay-by he regretted his bravado.

  It was pitch-black all around, the only illumination coming from both cars, and it did little to penetrate the dark. He made out the formless shapes of huge trees on both sides of the road, the breeze causing them to moan gently.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted, if only to relieve the tension. It made him feel better, bolder, to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  The Mini’s door swung open and a slim silhouette emerged. The figure moved closer, into the light. Gareth released a pent-up breath. It was the same red-haired woman he’d met at Cardiff station, her face deadpan, hands thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket, jaw still working on gum.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ burst Gareth. ‘Not you again!’ he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. ‘Right, that’s it, this has gone far enough; I’m going to call the police!’

  ‘You won’t,’ she said calmly, spitting out the gum.

  ‘Oh no? Just watch me.’ He stabbed at the keys with his thumb. ‘You’re crazy, do you know that? Crazy!’

  ‘There’s little or no reception here,’ she said. ‘Which is why I called you over at this point.’

  ‘Fuck!’ he said when he realised she was right and he began to wave the mobile in the air. ‘Damn Wales for being so – so inaccessible!’ he said.

  ‘Like waving it around is going to work,’ she said disparagingly.

  He gave up. ‘I’m going to get inside my car and I’m going to drive off. What I don’t want to see is you following me like some kind of stalker!’

  ‘You can’t go home.’

  Gareth shook his head, raised his hands in despair. ‘What is it this time? Look, lady, you really need to get help, see some kind of specialist.’

  ‘Your life is in danger.’

  He laughed, but it was devoid of humour; tended more towards the hysterical. ‘Right, of course it’s in danger, from Fairy-Cake Man! I hate to tell you this, but this isn’t a movie. You can’t go around doing these sorts of things, saying things like that. This is Wales, in Heaven’s name, not New York or Chicago. This just doesn’t happen in Wales!’

  ‘Gareth, you must not go home.’ You have to listen to me.’ She took a couple of steps forward.

  ‘Stay there, lady.’ Then he frowned. ‘You know my name? How do you know my name? Are you with the police or something; is that what all this is about? The woman in Manchester?’

  She looked back down the road. It was empty of traffic. ‘I’m not with the police, but yes, it is linked to the woman, in a way.’

  ‘So what are you? Who do you work for? I take it you have to work for someone.’

  There was reluctance written all over her face; she didn’t want to say anything, but after a moment’s thought she said, ‘Pipistrelle.’

  ‘Pipistrelle? What is that? A bat, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a he,’ she said. ‘Pipistrelle is a man. We’re searching for the same woman you took to hospital.’

  ‘Erica?’

  She gave a thin smile. ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘You mean she lied about her name?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ he said. ‘I need to find her again. Do you know where she went?’

  ‘If I did I wouldn’t be looking would I?’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Look, Gareth, it’s pissing it down, I’m getting soaked through. You can’t go back to your house because it isn’t safe for you, end of story. Which bit don’t you understand?’

  ’OK, so what’s making it unsafe? Dry rot?’ he said caustically.

  ‘This woman, Erica, that’s what. Other people want to find her too.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, give it to me straight will you? Stop this fucking beating about the bush and tell me what other people are looking for her.’

  She took out a piece of paper. ‘I’m afraid the same people who are searching for your sister are now searching for you. Believe me that will make it dangerously unsafe for you to go back. If you want to stay alive, Gareth, things have got to change. Here…’ She handed over the paper. ‘I’ve booked you into a hotel. Drive there. You’re booked in under the name David Harris. Wait there till I come to get you. We’ll have to drop the Land Rover somewhere, though; it’s a bit too conspicuous.’

  Gareth couldn’t help himself; he laughed aloud. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to believe any of this hokum, do you? David Fucking Harris? Dump my Land Rover? As if! You really are one batty young lady!’

  ‘Doradus is aware of you now. As a consequence the life you knew, who you are, who you were, all that has changed.’

  ‘Doradus? What’s that?’ He rubbed his tired eyes, stroked back his rain-soaked hair. ‘First Fairy-Cake Man, then Pipistrelle, and now Doradus. Tell you what; I’ve had enough of this.’ He tramped wearily back to the Land Rover.

  ‘Wait. What do you think you are doing?’ she called. ‘Hear me out!’

  ‘I’m going home. I’m tired, it’s been a weird few weeks. I need a shower and a good sleep and maybe when I wake up in the morning you’ll have vanished along with the rest of this damned nightmare.’ He clambered back into the cab and wound down the window. ‘Do not follow me,’ he warned. ‘I mean that.’

  Gareth thumped the gear stick into first and crashed his foot hard on the accelerator, the wheels throwing up loose wet stones as the Land Rover raced away down the road. He checked his mirrors. She did not give chase. Ten minutes later he checked again; the road behind was completely empty, the Land Rover floating in a sea of uninterrupted blackness.

  She had troubled him, not least because he’d never experienced having a stalker (were they always as in your face as this one?). He decided as soon as he got inside he’d phone the police about her. After all, she might prove a danger to someone; who knew where her unbalanced worldview would take her? Mind you, he thought, they’d love that, the police. They already viewed him as a bit of an oddball at the very least, and deeply suspicious at best. Shit, he thought, he just wante
d this rollercoaster to end, and preferably tonight with a stiff drink and something to eat; just the drink if needs be.

  He’d never been more glad to see home. The thought struck him that this marked the first time since living at Deller’s End that he’d considered it a home in the true sense of the word. His place of refuge where he could close the door on the fucked-up world outside. He’d get his head together, he thought, spend some time working out how best to pick up the threads of his sister’s trail. He was determined not to be diverted from that, not even by zany redheads on lonely country roads.

  Gareth fumbled with the house keys, unlocked and pushed open the door to the cottage, bathing in the sense of relief he found on closing the door on the dark Pembrokeshire night. He reached out for the light switch, flicked it. Nothing happened.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘That damn fuse.’ It kept tripping for no reason, even though he’d had the electrician in time after time to fix it, and each time he’d suggested a more expensive remedy than the time before. In the end he thought he’d rather put up with the niggling inconvenience.

  He stumbled blindly; without a moon or street light the room was in almost total darkness.

  But something was wrong.

  It was as if he’d picked up a signal from the very air, like a jabbing electrical shock that brought his suspicions jolting to life. Just as the urge to turn and run was being signalled from his panicked brain to his legs, his body was hit by someone bounding out of the deep shadows, forcing him backwards and sending him crashing against the wall. His instinct was to strike out with his fist, his arms flailing wildly in the dark, and he made contact with a face, eliciting a fierce growl from his attacker.

  Powerful hands now pinned his arms. He struggled, tugged himself free, stumbling and almost falling over, but his passage to the door was blocked by another man who grabbed him by the throat in an iron-hard arm lock, choking the breath from him. A fist was rammed into his unprotected stomach and he slumped down, gasping in pain.