When Stars Grow Dark

by Scott Hunter

  ‘I don’t feel particularly lucky,’ Charlie replied. ‘In fact I can’t feel much at all. Whatever they gave me is coating everything in woolly sugar.’

  They were sitting in a Triage A&E cubicle in Crawley General Hospital. The bustle of a busy emergency department contrasted starkly with the sinister silence of Eagle Court. Despite traffic and weather conditions they’d made a fast transfer from the school grounds, thanks to Moran’s flying associates.

  ‘How’s Brodie doing?’ Charlie grimaced as she shifted to a more comfortable position, propped herself up on the institutionally hard pillow.

  ‘Still in ICU, so we won’t know for a while. Same with Chan. Severe concussion, they tell me. Suspected fractured skull. I don’t know what you hit her with, Charlie, but it sure knocked the stuffing out of her.’

  ‘My head.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I hit her with my head.’

  Moran bent forward to inspect Charlie’s skull. Sure enough, his searching fingers found a bump the size of a small egg. ‘Good God.’

  ‘No underlying damage, apparently.’ Charlie sighed. ‘My skull is clearly thicker than hers.’

  Moran chuckled. ‘Skull thickness is no reflection of brain power. Although I might question your decision to wade in,’ Moran said, a touch playfully, ‘especially given my explicit instructions to wait for backup.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, guv. The action came to me, not vice versa.’

  ‘Sure. Well, you can save it for the report. All in good time.’

  ‘Please tell me there’s not going to be another enquiry?’ Charlie made bunny ears with her fingers and winced as her shoulder complained. ‘I don’t think I could cope with that. I mean–’ She started to well up. ‘I’m sorry, guv, it’s just that, last time, you know…’

  ‘I know. It’s all right, Charlie. I’ll deal with it.’ He put his arm on her good shoulder. ‘It’s a clear case of self defence.’

  ‘Her word against mine, though. Like last time.’

  ‘Brodie saw what happened. He’ll back you up.’

  ‘Sure, if he survives.’

  ‘Look.’ Moran sat down on the ICU examination bed. ‘Don’t worry about it now. We still have a lot of unanswered questions. And as far as tonight is concerned, I’m going to recommend you for a commendation, not an enquiry.’

  Charlie chewed her lip. ‘Thanks, guv. You don’t have to–’

  Moran held his hand up. ‘Enough for now. Drink some water, rest.’

  ‘All right. You win.’ Her head flopped back. ‘One thing I don’t understand, though.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘Why did Chan attack Brodie? They were in partnership, right?’

  Moran stood to one side as a nurse materialised from behind the curtain, deftly took Charlie’s temperature, made a note, departed.

  ‘Jury’s out on that for now,’ Moran told her. ‘Your friend Luscombe is paying Mrs Brodie a visit even as we speak. I suspect we’ll get the full story via that channel in due course.’

  On his way out, Moran wrestled with Charlie’s question. Did Brodie and Chan have a falling out? What was Chan’s motive for harming Brodie? They were staying at the Swan, in Petworth, he recalled. It wasn’t that far. Might be worth a visit, a few questions to the right staff members. Moran found his mobile and called a taxi. Damn the expense. He’d lived with too many puzzles of late and as sure as eggs were eggs, he wasn’t going let this one add to his tally of sleep-deprived hours.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was a pin-sharp morning, the sort of morning that makes arriving at work less of a chore than usual. Charlie blinked in the strong sunlight as she emerged from the underground car park and headed for the lift.

  Her shoulder was still aching but it wasn’t stopping her from carrying on as normal.

  What’s normal, Charlie? Fighting a deranged knifewoman; all part of the service, ma’am…

  She pushed through the doors into the open plan.

  Applause. Loud applause.

  Her colleagues had formed a semicircle, and there was George at the front, goading the team on like a wild-haired conductor, exhorting them to louder demonstrations of congratulation.

  Charlie didn’t know what to do. It was embarrassing. She held up her good arm to quieten them but this only made their clapping even more enthusiastic.

  As the noise gradually died down, she addressed the sea of grins. ‘Thanks, you lot. It’s good to be back. No big deal. Just did my job.’

  As the crowd dispersed, Moran beckoned from his office door. Charlie moved self-consciously through the room, through liberal smatterings of ‘well done, ma’am’ and ‘great job, boss’ asides, several pats on the back, and, worst of all, admiring looks from two of the younger team members, until she gratefully entered Moran’s inner sanctum and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Have a seat, Charlie. How’s the shoulder?’

  She plumped herself down. ‘I can cope. They only kept me in overnight, thank God – I’ve had a gutful of hospitals.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  She smiled a sheepish smile. ’I’ll see if I can stay clear of the medical profession for the next twelve months. So, what’s the latest? How’s Brodie doing? He’d been discharged from ICU by the time I left.’

  ‘Surgeon is confident he’ll make a complete recovery – that’s just come through, Bola took the call.’

  ‘And Chan?’

  ‘Conscious. Not saying much. Sussex have an armed guard on her side ward.’

  ‘But she’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ve been assured that she hasn’t suffered any permanent damage. So, you be assured too, Charlie.’

  Charlie looked over Moran’s shoulder to the window where a rectangular frame of azure sky was bisected by a thin contrail from some intercontinental airliner moving at what seemed to be, from her perspective, a snail’s pace. ‘I’m glad. No, relieved.’

  ‘We have quite a bit more on Chan – or Zubaida Ungu, to use her real name. George has been digging – turns out she has rather a sad history.’ Moran let out a weary sigh before continuing. ‘When I found her, Charlie, – at Eagle Court, I mean – she was just a frightened girl. That knock on the head seemed to regress her, transport her back to her childhood.’

  Charlie nodded. She wanted to understand the woman. ‘She’ll be thoroughly assessed, won’t she? Whatever persona she’s adopted, she sure is one very disturbed individual, take my word for it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Moran said. ‘I’m not suggesting she’s an innocent. It was just unexpected, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re lucky she didn’t try to carve you up, too.’ Charlie tried to smile, but Moran didn’t look as though he’d been fooled.

  ‘She’s safely in custody, Charlie. You did a great job.’

  ‘Did I? She got the better of me.’ Charlie felt herself welling up, put a hand to her mouth. ‘She could have killed Brodie, and I just–’

  ‘Enough.’ Moran raised his forefinger, mock-sternly. ‘Take it easy for a few days, that’s my advice. You’ve done the team proud, DI Pepper – you’ve just witnessed their reaction first-hand. George told me he’s chuffed to work for such an inspiring boss. And coming from George,’ Moran spread his hands, ‘that’s pretty impressive stuff.’

  Charlie grimaced. ‘Bloody creep.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘George and me are overdue a catchup, anyway,’ Charlie said. ‘But how long before we get to speak to Duncan Brodie?’

  ‘A day or so. But we have to tread cautiously – or politically, I should say. We need agreement on who’s taking the lead on this. Higginson’s on the case. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘So, it could all be handled by Police Scotland?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Moran conceded.

  ‘Guv, I have to say that I take a personal inter–’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s not signed and sealed yet, Charlie. Let’s be patient for now. Oh, by the way, I ma
de an interesting discovery concerning Brodie and Chan’s relationship.’

  Charlie tried to calm herself. She wasn’t prepared to let the case walk all the way back to Scotland without her involvement. ‘Oh yes? Go on.’

  ‘According to the maître d’ of the Swan in Petworth, Brodie and Chan only met while Brodie was staying at the hotel. She approached him one evening while he was eating. It was a setup on Chan’s part, by the look of things.’

  ‘She lured him to the school to kill him? But why?’

  Moran joined his hands together. ‘All will become clear when we can speak to them both, I’m sure.’

  ‘Take a look.’ George proffered a document with a black and white photograph clipped to the top corner.

  Charlie inspected the photograph. It showed a young girl, aged around twelve or thirteen, Charlie estimated, seated outdoors at a plastic white table. She was looking at the camera, but her eyes were looking right through it. There was a crudely manufactured doll lying on the table, and the girl had thrown a half-hearted arm across it, perhaps at the instigation of the photographer. The setting was a garden in which a number of exotic plants and trees formed a leafy backdrop against a whitewashed wall. The girl’s expression wasn’t hard to decipher; her mouth was a silent pout of indifference, or perhaps unhappiness, and her eyes were devoid of emotion.

  Someone had inscribed a name in black ballpoint in the top right hand corner of the photograph:

  Zubaida Binti Ungu

  ‘All from the original case files,’ George said. ‘I’ll leave you to have a read.’

  Charlie read the summary document. It was a bleak story. Zubaida was the daughter of a wealthy Malaysian businessman. The first seven years of her life had been idyllic; the family had lived in an exclusive suburb of Kuala Lumpur. Servants, pool, chauffeur-driven car, the lot.

  This had all come to a tragic end one night as her parents returned from a company dinner. Their car was hit by a drunk driver; it left the carriageway, turned over, burst into flames. No survivors.

  Zubaida was adopted by an uncle, and until his wife died suddenly from some unspecified ailment, all was well. Then the abuse began. Zubaida must have confided in the mother of a school friend, because there was an archive report expressing concern. Nothing was ever followed up, or at least no documentation could be unearthed to suggest that the complaint had ever been taken seriously. The uncle’s reputation for inappropriate behaviour in relation to members of the opposite sex was, if not documented, then certainly hinted at.

  When Zubaida was sixteen her uncle was found in his bed, apparently asphyxiated, and Zubaida simply disappeared. The murder had been carefully planned; no forensic evidence could been found to implicate the teenager, although she remained the prime suspect. Malaysian police suspected that she had fled to a boyfriend somewhere in the city, persuaded him to put her up for a while, obtained a passport at some later point, and left the country. The uncle’s bank account had been cleared out.

  Charlie exhaled, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, briefly saw stars, and continued reading.

  Zubaida popped up again two years later in France in connection with an unsolved case – an elderly man’s suspicious demise. Zubaida had been working as an au pair with a family in Canet Plage, and the elderly man was a family friend. He had taken a special shine to Zubaida, although the family didn’t know her by that name. To them, she was Zazu, reliable, kind to the children, fun-loving. After the family friend’s mysterious death, Zazu handed in her notice, much to the family’s chagrin, and was neither seen nor heard from again.

  The family friend had been something of an eccentric, his house a veritable museum of valuable antiques and antiquities. It was all uncatalogued, so the gendarmes had no idea what, if anything, might have been missing from the collection. Six months later, a rare sixteenth century bracelet appeared in a Paris auction, and achieved a record sale price in a tensely fought bidding war. Such was the interest generated that its provenance was methodically traced back to Canet Plage, and eventually to the eccentric collector. The auctioneer remembered the vendor well – a strikingly pretty Malaysian woman. young, very well spoken.

  Next sighting, England, UK…

  Charlie had read enough. She paper-clipped the photo to the summary document, slid it into the folder. It was time to tell Luscombe what she’d found, or rather not found, at Crawley General Hospital.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Luscombe nodded to Fiona Brodie’s brief, received a blank expression in return.

  OK, pal. We all know what your job is…

  Fiona Brodie herself seemed composed, if a little irritated by DC Jenny Armitage’s earlier summons. Luscombe kicked off with the customary caution, then handed over to Jenny.

  ‘Do you have any idea why we’ve asked to speak to you this morning, Mrs Brodie?’

  ‘Something to do with my husband, I expect. You’re aware that he has been hospitalised?’

  ‘We are, Mrs Brodie. You’ll be anxious to visit, I’m sure, but this won’t take long.’

  Mrs Brodie sighed. ‘I’m not rushing down to Crawley, if that’s what you mean. I have a home to run, and by all accounts Duncan is stable and out of danger.’

  Jenny frowned. ‘You don’t seem that concerned. It was a particularly violent attack. He could have lost his life.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t, and for that I’m grateful. Can we get on, please?’

  The brief shot his client a sideways glance which Luscombe interpreted as less than empathetic.

  ‘Of course. You’re a busy woman, as you say.’ Jenny smiled sweetly.

  Sugar before the castor oil, Luscombe chuckled to himself. That’s my Jenny…

  ‘So, can I start by going back to something you mentioned a wee while ago, in our previous interview?’

  ‘Yes, if you think it’s at all relevant.’ Mrs Brodie looked at her watch.

  ‘The psychiatric hospital, where you caught up with Duncan after leaving Eagle Court? That would be the Hawkhurst Infirmary, correct?’

  ‘I don’t recall the name of the place precisely – it was a very long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Jenny agreed. ‘But you gave us the name of the consultant, a Mr Frederick Marsh? And the only hospital of that discipline he would have been involved with at that time was the Hawkhurst.’

  ‘Very well, then. There’s your answer.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Jenny tapped her pencil on her cheek, ‘I didn’t find a Duncan Brodie on the in-patient records for the year you specified.’

  ‘Wrong year, probably,’ Fiona Brodie said. ‘Try the one after. My memory…’ another shrug. ‘You know how it is when you get older.’

  ‘I expect I will do, when the time comes.’ Jenny reprised her smile.

  Luscombe covered his mouth to hide his expression.

  ‘Well, as it happens, Mrs Brodie, we did check the next year, and the one after that. In fact, we checked the records over an entire ten-year period. And we still couldn’t find Duncan Brodie.’

  ‘An oversight, I expect. It takes a certain discipline to keep an accurate records system.’

  ‘That would be one of your top skills, Mrs Brodie?’

  The brief leaned forward, ‘Is this strictly relevant? My client’s skills regarding record-keeping are neither here nor there.’

  ‘We’ll move on,’ Jenny said.

  The brief sat back in his chair, satisfied.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we did find, though, Mrs Brodie.’

  A resigned sigh. ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘We found your name in the records for 1979. Miss Fiona Campbell. Campbell is your maiden name, is that correct?’

  Mrs Brodie’s brow furrowed. She turned to her brief but received only an impartial expression in return.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, please, Mrs Brodie?’

  ‘Yes. That is my maiden name.’

  ‘And what would your name be doing on the in-patient list, I wonder
?’

  ‘Just an error, a stupid clerical error. They probably confused the visitors’ book with the in-patients register. Or something. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s the case, Mrs Brodie, because I spoke to Mr Marsh, your consultant.’

  ‘My–’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Mrs Brodie, your consultant. He’s long retired now, of course, but we had a nice wee chat on the phone. He remembers you very well. Sends his best wishes, and hopes you’ve made great progress since your stay in Hawkhurst.’

  Mrs Brodie examined the tabletop, ran a manicured finger across a fine crack in the varnish.

  Jenny pressed on. ‘You were the in-patient, Mrs Brodie, not Duncan.’

  ‘I don’t see what on earth this has to do with anything. May I ask what point you’re trying to make?’

  ‘My point is, Mrs Brodie, that you were the one who suffered abuse at Eagle Court, not Duncan. He might have had a rough time, sure – it was no picnic for the pupils, by all accounts. But what happened to you was of a different order, wasn’t it? I mean, there you were, a young, vulnerable female living in a predominantly male environment–’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Mrs Brodie interrupted. ‘Totally irrelevant.’

  ‘But I have to disagree, Mrs Brodie,’ Luscombe broke in. ‘It’s highly pertinent. If you’d be kind enough to continue to answer DS Armitage’s questions, I’d be grateful.’

  Mrs Brodie glared at her brief, a silent instruction to challenge Luscombe’s interjection, but the solicitor was busy scribbling something on his pad and her entreaty went unnoticed.

  Jenny continued. ‘You were friendly with some of the boys, of course. That’s only to be expected. I imagine they rather enjoyed having an attractive young girl living among them.’

  ‘We had our own accommodation,’ Mrs Brodie said, stiffly. ‘The school cottage. It was called ‘Old House’. We were entirely separate from the boarders. There was nothing inappropriate about our situation or location.’