An Early Grave

by Robert McCracken

  When Callum returned her phone, she noticed there had been a flurry of activity: three missed calls and four texts. On the tube to Leicester Square she scrolled through the text messages. The first was from Aisling, having heard from Kate that she, Tara, had gone off with that strange bloke from Treadwater. ‘RU Ok?’ Was the main thrust of the message. The second one also came from Aisling. ‘WAYN? WAYD? Where are you now? What are you doing? The third text was Kate to say that she’d told Aisling, and Aisling wasn’t pleased. Tara smiled at their wit. The fourth message reminded her exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it. It came from DS Murray. The owner of the house rented to the Lithuanian girls on Stanley Road, including Audra Bagdonas, was none other than Teodor Sokolowski. She wondered still why Callum had a note of the man’s name in his box-file.

  She replied to all of her messages, telling Aisling that she was fine and strolling around London. The missed calls she ignored; they too, were from Aisling.

  Ollie Rutherford was tall and very sure of himself. He looked Tara up and down with something akin to lurid mischief in his grey eyes.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Tara,’ he said, or rather shouted above the din of the pub, crammed with Friday evening revellers, either on their way home or on their way out for the evening.

  ‘Glad to see old Callum’s got back on the bike, so-to-speak.’

  First impressions. Tara didn’t like him. He was cocky, arrogant in the way he looked at people, her in particular, and the kind of man she most despised. He reminded her of someone she knew at Oxford, and it hadn’t ended well.

  Callum and Ollie went off to force their way to the bar, while Tara sat with Ollie’s girlfriend, Stephanie. A brunette, close-cropped hair, slim in a short black dress revealing much of bleach-white skin and who seemed content to browse her phone and ignore her company. Tara hoped that Callum still realised the purpose of the meeting and had managed to put his rehearsed list of questions to Rutherford.

  ‘Callum tells me you’re looking into the deaths of our old mates,’ said Rutherford, setting a glass of white wine and a bottle of Budweiser on their small round table.’

  By his remark she wasn’t sure if Callum had let slip about her being a police officer.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that three young people, all graduates of Latimer College, have died in tragic circumstances?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He took a long drink from the bottle of beer. Callum returned with a sparkling water for Tara and his pint of Guinness. Rutherford maintained a smile, aiming it directly at Tara. He was good-looking, she had to admit, fair hair combed back on his head, although there were signs of a receding tide-mark. She already knew him to have been a rower, and it appeared he had continued with some form of physical pursuit. No signs of any spread. She imagined a well-developed six-pack beneath his white shirt and red tie with yellow pin-stripe.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t know the Asian chap, what’s his name? But Ramsey, silly sod, went to school with Hyde and me. Absolutely tragic.’ Stephanie seemed to exist only in parallel to her partner, such was the draw of Facebook, Twitter or whatever forum she was currently engrossed.

  ‘Have you ever set eyes on Justin Kingsley since the night he disappeared?’ Callum asked.

  ‘Dead surely?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain.’

  ‘What did Georgina say? Her fault he scarpered in the first place. Strange chap anyway, don’t you think?’

  ‘We were a strange bunch,’ Callum replied. ‘We weren’t all mates together; more like we were just connected one with another.’

  ‘You mean like that actor chap, Kevin Bacon, six degrees of separation?’

  Tara took to her water. Some minutes back she was already wishing it was a pint of vodka. This guy irritated the heck out of her.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Callum.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why Justin would want to kill someone?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Same as the rest of us,’ said Rutherford, putting the bottle to his lips. ‘Rebellion,’ he added after a swig. ‘We all have something we’d like to put right, don’t we?’

  ‘We do not all commit murder,’ she replied.

  ‘True. But Kingsley had a lot going on in his head by the time he took his leave. Maybe now he feels he can change things that are wrong in his life by bumping people off.’

  ‘I don’t see a motive in what you say. What did he have going on when he disappeared?’

  ‘His split with Georgina. I only heard about that after he had gone, because Georgina was so upset.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘His beef with his old man. Since he was a kid Justin was destined for the law. It’s what his father did, his mother and grandfather. Wouldn’t be surprised if old granny had a slot in the Bailey, too.’

  ‘You think that Justin felt pressured into becoming a lawyer? Did he have something else in mind?’

  ‘Rowing, certainly. That’s where I first met him, on the river. Interested in sailing, too. Not much of an academic when you think about it?’

  ‘Why murder Tilly?’ Tara asked.

  Ollie Rutherford’s face paled; his mouth fell open.

  ‘Tilly?’ He looked in horror at Callum. ‘You think she was murdered? It was an accident surely? Is that why you’re doing this, Callum?’

  Callum told him about the card he’d received on the day Tilly died. Ollie looked sick.

  ‘And you think Kingsley is the murderer?’

  ‘He’s a suspect,’ said Tara.

  ‘You sound like a copper,’ said Rutherford. Tara didn’t respond. ‘If Justin murdered someone as sweet as Tilly, he would have no qualms about killing any one of us. Thanks, Callum, hell of a reunion.’

  They took their leave of Ollie Rutherford, and his less talkative friend, and made their way to Covent Garden. It didn’t take long to track down the brasserie in King Street, where they were, hopefully, to meet with the Tory junior minister at the Department of Health, Anthony Egerton-Hyde. When they stepped inside the restaurant the maitre’d asked if they had a reservation. Easy to see that they had little chance of getting a table. Callum explained to the fraught looking man, Italian by the sound of him, that they were intending to meet with Anthony Egerton-Hyde. He disappeared into the dining room and a few moments later returned and briefly addressed them.

  ‘He is coming,’ he said, his attention already switching to another couple waiting beside them.

  Tara noticed a tall man in a dark suit and cream shirt without a tie, his sandy hair thinning on top, weaving his way through the tables towards them. She spotted Georgina at the back of the restaurant, chatting with five others, three women and two men, seated around a large circular table. Her appearance had changed since their meeting earlier in the day, the white top replaced with an expensive black and silver affair and long sparkling earrings. Suddenly, Georgina appeared to gaze sternly at Tara. It wasn’t entirely hostile, but Tara got the feeling that if they were to meet again alone, Georgina might not be the jovial host she portrayed when they’d first met. The two women stared at each other until Tara heard the man speaking.

  ‘Callum, so good to see you. Must be two years since we last met.’

  ‘Three,’ Callum replied, shaking the politician’s hand keenly. ‘This is Tara, a friend of mine.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Tara. Sorry it has to be brief, but I hope Georgie explained? Really a business dinner with a few friends, all for a charity we support.’

  ‘It’s OK, we understand,’ said Callum. ‘Thanks for sparing the time.’

  ‘Georgie tells me you have a theory about the deaths of our old chums?’

  Like any government minister, he had been briefed prior to his meeting. Georgina, Tara thought, had probably told him to play down the conspiracy theories.

  She let Callum tell his story, while she watched Egerton-Hyde’s reactions. They stepped outside, it being much quieter in the street than the incessant chatter and laugh
ter within the restaurant. Tara could see the attraction for Georgina in this man. Tall, matching her height, well-spoken and supremely confident. She’d read somewhere in the last few days that he was tipped for high office. Already, he was one of the youngest men in the present government. A junior minister at thirty-one. A highly rated pair, Georgina and Anthony. She watched him, while Callum explained his concern about the re-emergence of Justin Kingsley. At first Anthony showed little emotion in his fine features, but he did appear to take seriously what Callum was saying. His response, however, was much the same as they’d heard from Georgina and Ollie Rutherford.

  ‘But why would Justin want to harm any of them, Callum? They were his friends, except for the Chinese chap. None of us knew him that well.’

  ‘I can’t explain it either,’ said Callum. ‘But Latimer College and his disappearance are the only things that connect all of the killings.

  ‘Ollie Rutherford suggested that Justin may be aggrieved from his break-up with Georgina,’ said Tara, past caring whether any of these people felt she was poking her nose in where it didn’t belong.

  ‘Really? If that’s the case then maybe he’s out to get me? After all, I married Georgina. But that’s ridiculous; we didn’t get together until after we left Oxford. That was ages after Justin disappeared.’

  ‘The deaths are connected in some way, Anthony. I can feel it. Justin is the only one shrouded in mystery.’

  ‘Bit unfair though. The guy’s not around to defend himself. He may well be dead.’

  ‘If we can prove that he is dead then we’ll have to look elsewhere for our murderer.’

  Anthony looked quite shaken by this remark. His rather fixed smile ebbed away; they’d given him something other than the affairs of government to think about. Tara wondered how much of the subject he had discussed with his wife. They were about to spend an entire weekend together, according to Georgina, when they could talk all about it.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to cut this short, and unfortunately Georgina and I are heading to the country for a few days or else we could have met up again. What are you going to do now, Callum? Have you a plan of action to find Justin?’

  ‘Nothing much beyond meeting up with you guys,’ Callum replied. ‘We’re going down to Canterbury tomorrow to see where Peter was killed; hopefully we can speak with some of his colleagues. And I want to visit Charlotte on Sunday.’

  ‘Charlotte? Do you think she’ll be able to help?’ Tara sensed some alarm in Egerton-Hyde’s voice.

  ‘She’s the only surviving person we have yet to see,’ Callum replied.

  ‘What do you mean, the only surviving person?’

  ‘If Justin is responsible for all of this, I think it has something to do with the people who were together on the ski trip to Austria in our final year. Apart from Georgina, Ollie, you and me, with Peter, Jian and Tilly gone, that leaves only Charlotte. If Justin is the killer, one of us, or perhaps all of us, have wronged him in some way.’

  ‘Or else he’s completely lost his mind,’ said Anthony.

  They paused on that thought for a moment. Then Anthony turned his attention towards Tara.

  ‘Georgie tells me that Callum has found himself a girl at last. She didn’t say she was a raving beauty.’

  Tara realised she was supposed to blush, maybe curtsey, too, at the charm of Egerton-Hyde, but her thoughts were with Georgina and the reason behind her cold stare a few minutes earlier. She was faintly aware of shaking the hand of Egerton-Hyde before he retraced his steps into the restaurant. She wondered what Aisling would make of the likes of him. Of course, she would revel in the company of a staggeringly upper-class man, but would she be taken in by such brazen charm? She smiled at the thought that Aisling probably would. She, however, was not convinced by the man’s sincerity. He and Georgina seemed an odd pairing.

  CHAPTER 27

  Neither one felt like saying much after Egerton-Hyde had departed. They found a pizzeria further along King Street and had a quick bite to eat, Tara opting for some pasta while Callum ordered a large meat-feast. Tara was bemused by her companion. It was getting late, they were seated in a restaurant in the centre of London, her car parked at Heathrow, and he had yet to ask where they would spend the night. It seemed to be a case of ‘she’s paying; she can decide where we go.’ Of course, she knew exactly what they were going to do, and if he was quietly wondering about where he would sleep, she wouldn’t put him at ease by telling him.

  It was close to ten when they began making their way back to Heathrow. After collecting her car, she drove a short distance then pulled into the car park of a Holiday Inn. A day earlier, while at work in St. Anne Street Station, she had booked two rooms on-line. She was amazed that even as she checked them both in at the hotel reception, he never once said, thank you or well done. It was like he expected it. He would probably argue that it was her idea to come to London anyway. She bid him goodnight, leaving him with instructions to meet her at nine for breakfast.

  *

  He was excited at seeing his friends, particularly Georgina, after such a long time. He hadn’t set eyes on any of them since the funeral. In the year that followed Georgina and Charlotte had kept in contact by telephone and by writing letters, but once he’d returned to Liverpool the contact amounted to Christmas cards and a brief note close to the anniversary of Tilly and Emily’s passing. His fault entirely. He’d shut himself off from the rest of the world in his home on Treadwater Estate. People soon gave up on you once you stopped returning calls, answering letters and repeatedly turning down invitations.

  He lay on his back in the dark, the double bed feeling great after a long day of driving, walking, jumping on and off the tube, the whole time having to think about Justin Kingsley and whether his old friends really believed what he’d told them. They hadn’t gained much, although Tara now seemed convinced that he was right about Justin. He got the impression also that she harboured suspicions of Ollie, Georgina, Charlotte and Anthony. Keeping her options open, he supposed, was part of a detective’s training.

  He’d enjoyed spending the day with her. She’d taken charge of all the travel arrangements and dictated exactly the questions he had to ask his friends. He liked her taking control. So like Tilly. Bossing him around, although Tara was much more serious with it. Intense. Apart from hair colour she bore some resemblance to Tilly. Her height, or lack of it, her childishly young face, large eyes and peeved expressions. Despite those similarities, he had yet to see her laugh. Tilly had an infectious laugh. But isn’t that what they say? You choose your next lover because they remind you of the one you’ve just lost.

  *

  She lay on the double bed, her head resting on three pillows, the first novel by Tilly Reason open in her right hand. Tilly’s widower was one floor below and several rooms away. The First Form Time-Traveller’s Club was written for children, made for light reading. She hoped it might distract her thinking from all those people she’d met today and the others she had discussed. Foolishly, she wondered if she might discover a clue to the identity of the killer concealed in the narrative, a secret code or hidden meaning tucked away in the plot. Just as quickly she realised that life was never that simple. The solution to this mystery would not be handed to her on a plate. She felt exhausted but, oddly, not at all drowsy. The television on the wall above the dresser showed the BBC News Channel, but she had long since muted the sound in the hope of dozing off. Much too late to phone Kate, especially if she had to rise for an early shift at the Royal. She sent her a text stating that she was in her room, alone, and things had gone well during the day. She repeated the same to Aisling, who called within seconds of receiving it.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Aisling, really. I’ve discovered that Callum is at least bearable as long as you tell him exactly what to do.’

  ‘Isn’t that true of all men?’

  ‘So what are you up to?’ Tara asked, hearing a cacophony of voices and rattling crockery.<
br />
  ‘Up at Anfield, big do with City Councillors, sport’s people, investors and the usual bloody hangers-on. Dead boring. I’m ready for me bed.’

  ‘Sure you mean your own bed?’

  ‘Definitely. Not one decent piece of muscle here. You’d think some of these footballers would be tempting.’

  ‘You must be getting old.’

  ‘No, just choosey. Have to go. I’m supposed to hand out the party bags. Honestly, total waste of money. Bloody iPads for each of them. You take care, and don’t do anything you’ll regret in the morning.’

  ‘Aisling, don’t talk nonsense.’ Ending the call, she tossed her phone on the bed, setting the novel to the side and picking up the heavy volume Georgina had given her. Live Your Life, the title in huge gold letters, both Ls in uppercase, standing out from the other lettering. The photo of Georgina, or rather a collage of photos, highlighted the lifestyle choices to be discussed within. The tag line below the title read, ‘A template for the modern woman.’ Tara leafed through it briefly then settled on the contents page. Each chapter was devoted to lifestyle choices: in fashion, health and fitness, work-life balance, marriage, family commitments, friendships, everything a thirty-something woman needs to feel fulfilled, including sex tips. Continuing to browse, she noticed the chapters were liberally sprinkled with biographical information on the author. She read about Georgina’s childhood: daughter of a wealthy business man and a 1970s fashion model and raised in Hampshire with her younger brother and two older sisters. Further on she found a graduation photograph, taken on the lawn outside Latimer Chapel. Tara had one exactly like it. There were references to her marriage to the up and coming Anthony Egerton-Hyde, Tory MP and heir to the Egerton-Hyde seat in Norfolk. Georgina explained how she juggled a frantic business career with love and devotion to her husband, although, Tara noted, the sex tips did not appear in this section. With greater interest, she read Georgina’s views on raising a family. The author expressed the desire to have children at some point in the next few years. This formed part of a discussion on when it is best for a professional woman to have children, regurgitating, Tara thought, the well-worn debate on women who leave such matters too late, only to discover that fertility treatment is required. Tara found herself in agreement with some of Georgina’s views. Having just met her that afternoon, she wouldn’t have thought it possible. Georgina believed a mother, even one with a busy career, should set aside time to be with her young children. New-born babies deserved to have their mother around in those early years. ‘Taking time out from a career is a must,’ she wrote, continuing, ‘If you can’t provide this level of care then you should reconsider becoming a parent at all.’ Tara considered the very strong words, pondering her own circumstances, her job and her hopes for a husband and a family. She wondered, too, about Callum and what he had lost.