When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

Luscombe’s eyebrows were raised. He sipped his tea and watched from the wings.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Brodie said in a quiet voice. ‘He did.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘George? Are you joining us? The guv’s asking for you.’ Bernice Swinhoe’s face was flushed as she delivered her message and waited for George’s acknowledgement.

  George looked up. The big room was empty, all hands having been summoned to the IR. ‘Two minutes. You can tell DCI Moran that I’m sending something to Charlie – it’s urgent and relevant. I’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘All right. Make it fast.’

  Bernice disappeared and George lifted another stack of papers from the trunk. He had half the contents laid out beside him on the floor. Exercise books, stationery, folders, reports, financial documents, checklists, the flotsam and jetsam of a teaching career dating back to the Sixties. So far, there was nothing to indicate that the late Mr Daintree had anything to do with Duncan Brodie, and, so far as he could see, there was no further written memorabilia regarding Eagle Court.

  The base of the trunk was visible now, just a few bits and pieces left. George’s eye was drawn to the remaining items: a long cardboard tube and a soft-backed magazine. He fished them out, placed the magazine on the carpet. On the cover was a pencil drawing of an austere, crenellated building, a coat of arms, and beneath it in typescript:

  Eagle Court School Magazine 1976

  George returned his attention to the cardboard tube. Something was rolled up inside. He prised the paper out with his forefinger and thumb, spread it on the carpet. A black and white school photograph, The same crest, name and date were printed in the centre at the bottom of the photograph: Eagle Court. 1976.

  A couple of hundred boys stared back at him, standing almost to attention, each affecting solemn expressions. A row of stern looking teachers were seated in the foreground on a long bench. Next to the central figure, whom George assumed to be the headmaster, sat a middle-aged lady in a nurses’ uniform. The school matron, probably. Next to her was a young girl, the only female in the photograph under the age of twenty, hands folded demurely in her lap.

  George examined the photograph, squinted at each earnest face. Where were they now? What had their lives become? 1976 was another era, another world, without computers, internet, mobile phones, social media. A more innocent world, perhaps? But George had heard stories about boarding school, the things that went on. He remembered the guv recounting his experiences at Charnford Abbey, stories that had only reinforced George’s opinions. Boarding schools were a world apart – especially back then – with their closed systems of rules and traditions, their own ways of dealing with misdemeanours, crimes and indiscretions, their own privileges.

  And, perhaps, their own secrets.

  George carefully photographed the image, five shots in all to cover the width of the original. He sent them all to Charlie’s mobile, then turned his attention back to the pile of papers. There was just too much; he hadn’t time to go through everything now. Reluctantly, he left the trunk and its time-capsule contents, and hurried off to the Incident Room.

  ‘It’s her.’ Charlie jabbed a finger at the last of George’s images. ‘Agreed?’

  Luscombe took the mobile, examined the image closely. ‘I’d say so. Hard to be a hundred percent, but–’

  ‘Let’s see what she says. Over to you this time.’

  Luscombe gave a brusque nod of acknowledgement and preceded Charlie into the interview room. Mrs Brodie’s shoulders were slumped. She looked defeated, tired of keeping up her no-nonsense, ‘everything’s fine’ persona. Luscombe restarted the tape, steepled his hands, gave her a long, analytical look.

  ‘I think you have something to tell us, Mrs Brodie. And I think you’ll feel better when you get it off your chest.’

  Mrs Brodie gave a weary sigh. ‘I’ve told you, I didn’t have anything to do with this woman. I can’t be accountable for her comings and goings.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Eagle Court.’

  ‘But why? Is it relevant?’

  ‘It might be,’ Luscombe said. Rain blew against the window, rattled the pane in its peeling frame.

  ‘You’ve told us that your husband attended the school. You’ve also told us that he intends to purchase the property with a view to creating another Chapelfields home.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  Luscombe leaned in close. ‘But this is all getting rather cosy, Mrs Brodie, because it wasn’t only your husband who spent time at the school, was it?’

  Mrs Brodie toyed with her wedding ring, rotated it slowly.

  ‘Or, perhaps, would it be truer and more accurate to say he ‘did time’ at the school? I wonder, did he experience difficulties there, by any chance? Bullying, or maybe abuse of some sort?’

  Mrs Brodie moistened her lips, started to form words of reply, gave up.

  ‘And you’d have known all about it, I shouldn’t wonder, because you were also there. At the time,’ Luscombe said pointedly. ‘Weren’t you, Mrs Brodie?’

  Charlie handed Luscombe her mobile. Luscombe tapped the photos app, held the screen up for Mrs Brodie’s perusal. ‘That’s you, right? In the centre, next to the nurse – or matron, is she?’

  ‘My mother,’ Mrs Brodie said quietly.

  ‘We found this photograph in the late Mr Daintree’s trunk,’ Charlie explained. ‘So that’s all three of you, living at Eagle Court together at the same time.’

  ‘Mr Daintree is murdered, having had his name down originally for Aviemore Chapelfields. And lo and behold, we now have your husband inspecting the old school buildings at Eagle Court with a view to purchase.’ Luscombe sat back and folded his arms. ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘What happened at Eagle Court, Mrs Brodie?’ Charlie prompted. Now was the time; Brodie’s defences were shaky, beginning to teeter. The manageress’ next question confirmed Charlie’s suspicions.

  ‘I’ll be happy to put you in the picture, DI Pepper, but I’d rather not answer any further questions without legal representation, if you’d be good enough to allow me a telephone call?’

  ‘Of course,’ Luscombe smiled. ‘If you’d care to follow me, you can use my desk phone.’

  Mrs Brodie’s brief arrived twenty-five minutes later, a thin, ascetic looking Scotsman in a brown pinstriped suit. He took his place in the interview room after the briefest of consultations with his client.

  The tape rolled again. Luscombe recorded the formalities and gave the floor to Mrs Brodie, who paused for a moment before she began, as though preparing her mind to revisit painful memories.

  ‘First of all, my requesting a legal representative in no way implies that I have anything to hide, or that I am guilty of any crime. I am simply protecting myself and our reputation. I hope that is clearly understood.’

  Charlie nodded her assent. ‘We understand. Go on.’

  ‘I met my husband when I was very young – when we were very young, I should say. He was just a–’ Mrs Brodie paused to blow her nose on a tissue. ‘Excuse me.’

  They waited patiently for her to continue.

  The tissue disappeared into Mrs Brodie’s handbag. ‘Just a … a schoolboy. Yes, at Eagle Court. My mother was the school matron. We lived in a cottage in the school grounds. I was sixteen at the time. My father left us when I was young, so it was just the two of us. Mother was always busy, and I was lonely.’

  ‘And you used to talk to the boys? Was that allowed?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Not really, no. But there were opportunities. The afternoons were all about sport. Rugby, cross country running, all that kind of thing. Manly stuff, to make men out of the poor, shivering wretches that they were. I was standing on the touchline one afternoon, watching the game, and the master in charge took offence at something that happened in the match. I don’t know what it was, and neither does Duncan – my husband – but it was a trigger, a flashpoint. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The man got hold of Duncan’s ear and pulled it
until he screamed in agony. This was a thirteen-year old boy, mark you. I could see blood pouring from the wound, but he was made to play on, to finish the game. After the game was over, the master called me over, told me to take Duncan to my mother because he’d injured himself in the match.’

  ‘And this would be Mr Daintree?’ Luscombe interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’

  Brodie’s brief leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and took a deep breath before carrying on.

  ‘I tried to cheer him up, but what could I say? What could I do? I had no power. I took him to Mother. She knew, I’m sure, that Duncan was lying, that he hadn’t injured himself in the game at all. But in those days…’ She shrugged, a gesture of futility. ‘What could anyone do? Most boys were there because their parents worked abroad, or were too busy to have them at home. They assumed the boys were well-cared for. Well, why would they think otherwise? The headmaster was adept at painting a rosy picture, reassuring parents that their offspring would be looked after, nurtured, brought on in their learning, prepared for public school and a future professional life. That headmaster, he was worse than Daintree. The punishments he would inflict for the merest transgression.’ Her hand went to her mouth at the memory. ‘The abuse went on in the classrooms, on the sports fields, in the dormitories. Day by day, month by month, Duncan endured it.’

  ‘And you were able to speak to him regularly, meet him in secret?’ Charlie was scandalised by Brodie’s recollections, but she couldn’t allow herself to be overly sympathetic. Her intuition told her that something deeper was about to be revealed.

  ‘Yes. We became close. I was his confidante. He was a shy, nervous boy – more so as the term went on. He only had a stepmother to look after him in the holidays, and she wasn’t that interested. He’d never had any love shown to him, you see.’

  Luscombe had been listening attentively. Now he spoke up. ‘So, you watch from a distance, comforting where you can, all the time wishing there was something more you could do to help. But then presumably Duncan Brodie leaves the school. What happened next? How did you hook up later?’

  ‘We left the school when my mother retired. I was twenty by then, and I don’t think my mother considered it safe for me to be under the same roof as a few hundred lustful adolescent boys. I took a part-time job in a hospital, just secretarial work, and then one of the consultants asked me to help him with his private practice, at a psychiatric hospital.’

  Luscombe nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, you’ve probably guessed. I was walking along the corridor one morning, and there was Duncan in his dressing gown. He looked different, I mean older. He’d aged ten years in half that time. I had coffee with him, reprised my role as chief cheerer-upper, and that was it, really. We started going out when he felt well enough. He was discharged six months later, and a year after that we were married.’

  ‘A heartwarming story, Mrs Brodie,’ Luscombe concluded. ‘I’m sure you must take a great deal of credit for your husband’s recovery and his subsequent extraordinary success.’

  ‘He’s a bright man.’ Brodie rose to her husband’s defence. ‘Very capable. A good brain, but so…’

  ‘Damaged?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Of course.’ The testiness was back. ‘You can’t go through something like that in your formative years and not be compromised in some way.’

  ‘Compromised enough to consider murder?’ Luscombe brought the investigation into sharp focus.

  ‘I can’t believe he’d stoop to that. But, oh, who can say? It’s possible, I suppose. Oh God, do you really think…?’

  ‘We need to speak to him, that’s for sure.’ Charlie said. ‘But you say he’s out of touch right now?’

  ‘I can’t get hold of him, no.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’ Luscombe asked.

  She sighed. ‘We had a bit of a tiff before he left last week. I haven’t spoken to him since.’

  Luscombe leaned forward. ‘Really? About what exactly?’

  ‘A small disagreement about finances, that’s all. Duncan can be a little impulsive.’

  ‘And you’re the Chapelfields chancellor?’ Charlie probed. ‘The brains behind the investments?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m good with numbers, Duncan less so. People are his thing.’

  ‘I’d like your husband’s mobile phone number, please, Mrs Brodie. His car registration too, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Luscombe wasn’t finished. ‘You’ve told us that your husband didn’t know Connie Chan, Mrs Brodie. Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. He’s not often here, so how would he have come into contact with her?’

  ‘Mrs Brodie.’ Charlie evoked as much gravitas as she was able. ‘Where would your husband choose to stay if he was revisiting Eagle Court, as you’ve suggested?’

  A long sigh. ‘I have no idea. Some hotel nearby, I would have thought. A nice one, mind. He likes his comfort. Now, I have cooperated in every way, and answered your questions to the best of my ability. Chapelfields doesn’t run itself. I really need to get back to work.’

  ‘All right, you may,’ Charlie told her. ‘But don’t leave the area, please.’

  ‘Interview terminated at 14:03,’ Luscombe said, and flicked the tape machine to off.

  ‘Why let her go? She’s not telling us the whole story, I can feel it,’ Luscombe said to Charlie as they headed back to the team’s office.

  ‘Probably not,’ Charlie agreed. ‘I’d like Jenny plus one to keep an eye on her, if you could arrange that? If she talks to anyone, makes any calls, takes any detours, I want to know about it. Oh, I could use a sandwich and a coffee too? I need to touch base with DCI Moran – chances are they’ve made progress we need to know about – before we decide what to do next. Back in a mo.’ Charlie headed off to the loos.

  ‘Don’t want much, do you?’ Luscombe called after her.

  ‘I’m easy to please, most of the time,’ Charlie replied over her shoulder. ‘You just have to treat me right.’

  She felt his eyes on her.

  I’d say that was dangerously close to flirting, Charlie…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Moran invited the team. ‘Update from the Reading station CCTV? DC Swinhoe?’

  ‘Yes, guv. We found her last night. A woman matching Zubaida Ungu’s description showed up the evening of Daintree’s murder, headed up the Caversham Road, by the station rear entrance. We lost her at the roundabout but she made a right turn.’

  ‘Good. And then?’

  ‘DC Delaney and myself had a look, guv. First hotel we tried, bingo.’

  Bernice Swinhoe was clearly pleased with their result. Moran felt the warm satisfaction of knowing that the team could function – and perform – well in his absence. He nodded appreciatively. ‘Good work. What did you find out?’

  ‘It’s the Star Hotel, guv. Owner remembered the POI. Called her a ‘looker’. Didn’t engage in any small talk, just gave the minimum details – Connie Chandra was the name she wrote in the book – but he did overhear a subsequent telephone conversation.’

  ‘Did he indeed.’

  ‘I got the feeling that he was, er…’ Swinhoe paused awkwardly.

  ‘Sniffing around?’ one of the male detectives suggested.

  The IR erupted in laughter. Moran let it happen. The team had been hard at it all weekend; they deserved a little light relief.

  ‘All right, all right. We get the picture.’ Moran waved his arm to quieten them and felt a surge of pain across his midriff. When he’d awoken at six after a fitful sleep and examined his injuries, he’d found that the bruise had spread further up his abdomen during the night, and had turned a bluish purple colour. He didn’t think any ribs were fractured but it was hard to tell. A&E wouldn’t do anything for ribs anyway, so he just had to get on with it. Hopefully there wasn’t any internal damage that had yet to make itself apparent.

 
; When the noise had died down, DC Swinhoe went on. ‘So, he heard her say – Mr Giles, I mean, the hotel manager – he heard her booking a room. He wasn’t sure where exactly, but there was mention of a station that sounded like Billing something.’

  ‘Billing?’

  Swinhoe made a face. ‘That’s what he said. I guess that’s all he heard.’

  ‘Dirty so-and-so probably had his ear glued to her door,’ DC Collingworth suggested. ‘Till she sussed him out and caught him at it.’

  ‘Billingsgate?’ someone suggested.

  ‘That’s a fish market,’ DC Delaney pointed out.

  More laughter. ‘Thank you,’ Moran said. ‘We’ll assume fish are off the agenda, but perhaps someone can follow that up? Can’t be too many stations beginning with ‘Billing’. Ah, DC McConnell?’

  George found an empty seat. He looked out of breath and slightly harassed. ‘Sorry, guv. DI Pepper needed some intel pronto.’

  ‘Apple for teacher,’ Collingworth stage-whispered with a smirk.

  George replied with a look that would have frozen the Gobi Desert.

  ‘Did you get anywhere with the US-based crime scene expert from the report, George?’ Moran asked.

  ‘Nope. Couldn’t reach anyone with a clear memory of the guy. Cumbria thought he might have been from New York, but they’ve just re-jigged their archives and–’ George rolled his shoulders. ‘No dice – no one remembers it. Team members’ve moved on, retired, died … it’s history now.’

  ‘Looks like we’re on our own, as per usual.’ Moran’s mobile vibrated. ‘One moment–’

  He saw who was calling and raised his hand to the room. ‘That’s it for now. Get to it and keep me posted, please.’

  As the team dispersed he accepted the call. ‘Charlie? How goes it?’ He grimaced at a sudden stab of pain as he turned to leave the IR. Bernice Swinhoe caught his expression, gave him an odd look that she modified to a concerned smile. He shook his head as if to imply that it was nothing – he was fine.