This is particularly true of this nuisance caller. Whoever’s doing it only rings during the day, and your mother hangs up as soon as she’s greeted by silence at the other end. In fact, she has no idea whether it’s a man or a woman as they never speak. There were some 20 calls between Monday lunchtime and yesterday p.m., but dialling 1471 doesn’t help as the caller’s number is withheld. I’ve now asked British Telecom to bar all withheld numbers, which means calls from abroad will be automatically rejected. It’s a bore in the short term, but hopefully this pest will lose interest when there’s no response.
Poor Marianne wouldn’t have mentioned the calls if she thought you would react the way you did, and now we’re concerned that you’re not coping as well as we thought. We both feel we should advance our visit. She’s asked me to talk to you about it as she thinks you’re more likely to say “yes” if I make the request. I’m not sure that’s true, C, but I will phone as soon as I’m free. In the meantime, will you call your mother? You know how she hates falling out with anyone—but particularly you.
All my love, Dad xxx
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
Fri 13/08/04 16:19
To:
[email protected]
Subject:
Keith MacKenzie
* * *
Dear Connie,
I had some difficulty understanding your email. If you re-read you will see that it’s very confused. However, there seem to be three things worrying you: 1) MacKenzie has left Iraq. 2) He’ll come looking for you. 3) Your parents have been receiving nuisance calls.
Re 1) I can’t see MacKenzie returning to the UK. His most likely course is to go back to Africa where he knows he can find work. That being said, I posted him some time ago for passport-related offences, and Glasgow has your photofit and his 2 known aliases. Ditto Customs & Excise, who will pick him up if he tries to enter the country under any of those names.
Re 2) You say he must know you accused him of serial murder because of the emails you copied to Alastair Surtees. In fact Surtees denies showing them to him because he thought your allegations were malicious. Bill Fraser doesn’t place much reliance on this but, in either event, I believe you’re worrying unnecessarily. You’re the one person who can identify MacKenzie, so he’ll stay as far away as possible from you—whether his crime is rape and murder, or merely forging passports. It is not in his interests to draw attention to himself.
Re 3) Coincidences do happen, and it would be wrong to assume the timing of these nuisance calls to your parents suggests MacKenzie is in the country. Your parents should report the problem to the police as it sounds as if someone’s casing their property, but without very good evidence that MacKenzie: a) knows their phone number; b) their location; c) is in the UK—then giving his name as a suspect will confuse the issue.
Re the clear alarm in your email. You understand that my advice/conclusions are based on the information you’ve given me. In order that neither of us is in error about that information, I have it listed as follows:
1. Following the serial murders in Freetown, John Harwood’s attack on a prostitute and my remark about “the foreign contingent,” you began to wonder if Harwood was responsible for the women’s deaths.
2. You mentioned your suspicions to some of your colleagues, who threw cold water on your ideas, and you didn’t take them any further. Shortly afterwards you left Freetown, but not before Harwood showed you an envelope with the name “Mary MacKenzie.” At that point you remembered he was calling himself Keith MacKenzie in Kinshasa.
3. Two years later, you recognized him in Baghdad but were told his name was Kenneth O’Connell. When you raised the issue with Alastair Surtees, you were dismissed as unreliable and malicious.
4. You searched the Iraqi press for similar murders to those in Freetown. You found two, attempted to raise interest among Iraqi journalists, got nowhere, so informed me and by extension Bill Fraser.
5. You copied those emails to Alastair Surtees.
6. Shortly afterwards, you were abducted on your way to the airport by an unknown group who released you three days later. You were blindfolded the entire time and were unable to give the police any useful information. Because your abduction was unlike any other, and because you’ve refused to talk about it, this has led to you being branded “a faker.”
7. On your return to the UK, you went into hiding and have never told your story. As far as I know, I am one of the few people in contact with you—certainly the only policeman as you refuse to give your email address to Bill Fraser—but you have not made me party to your address or telephone number.
8. Your mobile and laptop were stolen during your abduction. Therefore, any information stored on them—contact details of family and friends, notes/emails re the murders in Freetown and Baghdad—is available to your abductor(s).
9. You are now terrified that MacKenzie is looking for you.
At the risk of repeating myself, Connie, you know how to contact me if there’s anything you wish to add. I cannot force you to say anything. If I could, I would have done it when you returned to England.
I won’t pretend I can guarantee a positive result on a crime/crimes committed abroad but, if MacKenzie is as dangerous as you claim, there’s everything to be gained by trying. Not least for your sake. Fear of retribution is a powerful disincentive to speak out, but I hope you know by now that anything you say to me will be treated in confidence.
Kind regards as ever,
Alan
DI Alan Collins, Greater Manchester Police
10
IT WAS FRIGHTENING how quickly panic re-entered my life. My mother had thought I was angry when she asked if Jess might be her silent listener, but it was fear that made me shout at her, and asphyxia that made me slam the phone down. I knew exactly who her nuisance caller was. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so certain if Dan hadn’t told me that MacKenzie had left Iraq, but I doubt it. I’d bolstered my courage through foolish mantras, and the hope that Bill Fraser would find MacKenzie before MacKenzie found me. But I’d been deluding myself.
Looking back, I’m shocked at how Pavlovian my responses had become. How could three days in a cellar override behaviour patterns that had taken thirty-six years to develop, or negate my careful planning of the last few weeks? Why bother to locate every light switch, oil the door locks, arm myself with torches and devise exit strategies if my conditioned response to terror was to curl into a ball in the corner with my eyes closed? Just as the mutilated victims had done in Freetown.
In the end, even petrified animals move when they find themselves still alive, so I did, too. But only as far as the kitchen, where I could lock the door to the corridor as well as the one to the scullery. For some reason, I decided that sitting in the dark would be safer, even though every other light in the house was ablaze. Perhaps the blindfold had habituated me to it—I’d come to like the fact that I couldn’t see who or what was in front of me—but it did at least jolt my brain into some sort of limited reasoning.
I adopted the same siege mentality that I’d used in my car when I first arrived. As long as I stayed where I was, I was fine. If I tried to leave, I’d be in danger. I had access to food and water. I could barricade the window by laying the kitchen table over the sink, and I could use carving knives to defend myself. At no point did I think of calling for help. Peter says I’d trained myself to believe there was none available, but that doesn’t explain why, when the dawn broke and I saw the phone on the kitchen wall, I remembered there was a world beyond me and my fear of MacKenzie.
Of course it was Jess I called. Like Lily, I’d come to rely on her. She was a trusted man Friday who didn’t expect, or want, to be wined, dined and rewarded with trivial conversation. It was curiously restful once I accepted her way of doing things. If she was in a talkative mood, we talked. If she wasn’t, we didn’t. I hadn’t appreciated how conventional I was until I learnt to sit thr
ough Jess’s silences. I was the type who rushed to speak for fear of seeming boorish, and changing that habit did not come easily.
I gave up trying to work out what made Jess tick after she resumed her visits. She turned up at inconvenient times of the day, as she’d done before, but I found it less irritating the second time around because she didn’t take offence if I said I was busy. As often as not, she’d go outside to mow the semi-circle of formal lawn at the back of the house then leave without saying goodbye, but when I pointed out that I didn’t expect her to shoulder my responsibilities, she merely shrugged and said she liked doing it. “Years ago, when Lily had a gardener, he cut the grass all the way to the boundaries and the wildlife vanished. Now they live in the long grass, and you can see their tracks where they come in and out of hiding. You’ve got a weasel here, if you’re interested. He goes to the fishpond to drink.”
“What else lives here?”
“Mice, voles, squirrels. A badger’s been through recently.”
I pulled a face. “Rats?”
“Hardly any, I should think…not unless you’re leaving rubbish out. Your weasel will have their babies if it can, and there’s a colony of tawny owls in the valley who prey on them.”
“Do you have rats at the farm?”
She nodded. “All farms do. They go for the grain stores and the livestock food.”
“What do you do about them?”
“Make life as difficult as possible, keep animal feed in bins and grain stores in good structural order. They only set up home and breed if they have access to food and water, and find cavities and holes to hide in. They’re like any other animal. They thrive in conditions they can exploit.”
Like MacKenzie, I thought. “You make it sound so simple.”
Jess shrugged. “It is in a way. You only get infestations if you’re lazy or careless. It’s an open invitation to a rat to leave food and rubbish lying around. They like easy pickings, the same way people do.” She paused. “Which isn’t to say I don’t use poison from time to time, or reach for my airgun when a fat one comes nosing around. They can pass Weil’s disease and leptospirosis to humans and animals, and prevention’s a damn sight better than cure.”
This matter-of-fact approach to pest management was appealing, but I couldn’t see her being so sanguine if a plague of locusts descended on her fields. It’s one thing to monitor your own premises for vermin, quite another to look death in the face as your crop is taken by a swarm that has bred and gathered a hundred miles away. In those circumstances, you weep and pray to God for deliverance because there’s nothing on earth that can help you except the charity of foreign governments and NGOs.
When I said this, she replied rather scathingly that BSE and foot-and-mouth were no different. “I lost Dad’s whole herd to BSE when cattle over thirty months had to be incinerated—whether they had the disease or not—and it’s taken me eight years to build another herd half the size. It’s wrecked the beef and dairy industry in this country but you don’t hear much sympathy for farmers.”
“Weren’t you compensated?”
“Nowhere near what each animal was actually worth. It took Dad years to build his herd—he was always winning prizes at the shows—and none of them had BSE. I got an extra sixty quid for every animal that was killed unnecessarily when the tests post-slaughter proved negative. It was a joke…and bloody upsetting. I was pretty fond of those cows.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “You get on with it. Did your dad lose crops to locusts?”
“Only the human variety. Mugabe took his farm.”
“How long had your family been there?”
“Not long enough,” I said ironically. “Three generations—four if you count me—about the same length of time as Madeleine’s has been in Barton House.”
“How does that make it not long enough?”
“Wrong colour,” I said harshly. “If you’re black, you’ve been there for centuries…never mind you were born in Mozambique or Tanzania. If you’re white your ancestors stole the land from the indigenous people.”
“Is that what your family did?”
“No. My great-grandparents bought ours fair and square, but deeds of title don’t count for much when Zanu-PF thugs turn up on your doorstep.” I shrugged. “There are rights and wrongs on both sides, but stealing the land back again hasn’t solved anything. It’s just made it worse…turned Africa’s breadbasket into a dust-bowl. Ten years ago, the white farmers were producing enough food”—I broke off.
“Go on.”
“No,” I said with an abrupt laugh. “It makes me too angry. Like you and your dad’s herd. I wouldn’t mind so much if the farm had gone to our workers, but it’s been appropriated by one of Mugabe’s cronies and hasn’t produced anything for three years. It’s a crazy situation.”
“Will you ever go back?”
“I can’t,” I said unwarily. “I’m excluded indefinitely because of what I’ve written about Mugabe.”
There was a beat of silence before Jess changed the subject. She’d done it before when I made rash comments about myself, and I did wonder if Peter had told her I wasn’t who I said I was. It was noticeable that she never called me Marianne, preferring to wait until she caught my attention before saying anything. I had every intention of coming clean—certainly before my parents arrived, as two Mariannes in the same family would need explaining—but I kept postponing it. I wasn’t ready to talk about Baghdad—not then, not ever, perhaps—so I carried on with the pretence because it was easier.
There was no question Peter had told Jess that I knew about her relationship with Nathaniel because she made a reference to it the morning after I’d spoken to him. This left me deeply curious about Peter’s relationship with Jess. Had he been to her house the previous evening? Had he phoned to say I’d visited him? I wasn’t worried by the breach of confidence, because I hadn’t asked him to keep it to himself, but I was intrigued to know why he’d felt it necessary to inform Jess. At the very least, it implied a closer friendship than either of them was admitting to.
“It takes a crisis to show you what a person’s really like,” she said, jerking her chin at one of Nathaniel’s paintings. “He behaved like a complete tosser after my parents died.”
“What did he do?”
“Holed up in London rather than face the emotion down here. It worked out for the best in the end. I might have sold the farm if I’d listened to him. He wanted me to buy a house in Clapham with a studio upstairs.”
“For him?”
“Of course. He had visions of living in Bohemian bliss in some claustrophobic tenement.” She smiled slightly. “On my parents’ money…with him as the charismatic artist and me doing the washing-up.”
“Were you tempted?”
“Sometimes…at night. Come the mornings, I always had the sense to see it wouldn’t work. I need to be on my own with lots of space around me, and he needs an audience.” She paused. “I gave him the boot when I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a servant.”
Interesting choice of words, I thought. “Is that when he took up with Madeleine?”
“Nn-nn. He’d been sleeping with her for ages. She sprogged two months after I said I never wanted to see him again.” Jess gave one of her rare laughs at my expression. “That’s how Lily reacted. It was about the worst thing that could have happened…her only child getting pregnant by a Derbyshire cast-off. The way she carried on, you’d think Nathaniel and I were related. I thought it was pretty funny, myself.”
“Because Lily looked down on you?” It wasn’t my idea of humour.
“No. I liked the idea of Madeleine playing servant for the first time in her life.”
I’m sure it was at that point that I gave up trying to understand Jess. There were innumerable questions I wanted to ask, not least why she’d remained close to Lily, but instead I resorted to banality. “You’re well out of it.”
“I know,” she said, staring critically at
Nathaniel’s painting, “but he isn’t. I feel quite sorry for him sometimes. He comes to the farm every so often, wanting to put the clock back, but I haven’t seen him since I told him I’d shoot his dick off if he tried it on again.” There was a glint of humour in her eye.
She really did have the capacity to surprise. “Does Madeleine know?”
Jess gave an indifferent shrug. “I shouldn’t think so. They hardly speak any more, which is why she wants this house. It’s her best chance to get rid of him…and she’d have done it by now if Lily hadn’t stymied her. Lily didn’t approve of divorce.”
“Why did Madeleine tell her?”
“She didn’t. I did.”
I might have guessed that, I thought. “Not a bad revenge, then?”
“Except I didn’t do it for revenge. I did it to protect Lily. Madeleine would have killed her, or stuck her in the cheapest home she could find, if Lily hadn’t reassigned the power of attorney. The only thing that stops her shoving a cushion over Lily’s face is that a solicitor’s involved. She’ll be worth a fortune when she inherits this place…as long as she gets shot of Nathaniel and the son first.”
The Devil`s Feather Page 13
