Wychwood

by George Mann

  “It’s your natural habitat too,” countered Peter, but did as she asked. A bell trilled somewhere deep in the bowels of the shop, and the man looked up from the heap of books in his arms.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Come on in, feel free to browse. If there’s anything you’re looking for, just ask.” He turned his attention back to his books. He was an untidy-looking fellow, with unkempt grey hair, wild eyebrows, and a scratchy beard that might have just been a couple of days’ worth of growth he hadn’t dealt with. He was wearing a red sleeveless pullover, nicked with holes, and a pair of semi-circular reading glasses. He was short, but seemed taller because of his outlandish hair.

  “Actually, it’s more ‘anyone’ than ‘anything’,” said Peter. “Would it be possible to speak with Mr Philip Cowper, please?”

  The man’s demeanour shifted. His wiry eyebrows knitted into a frown. He placed the pile of books on the countertop behind him, and made a steeple with his hands, as if carefully considering his answer. “I am Philip Cowper,” he said. “And you are?”

  Peter reached for his ID and handed it to the man. “The police. I’m DS Peter Shaw, and this is Ms Elspeth Reeves.”

  Cowper was still frowning. “Well, happy to oblige, of course, but I haven’t reported any crimes. Nor,” he added hastily, “have I knowingly committed any.” The man’s voice had an annoying clipped quality, and he made a point of enunciating every syllable. He was the sort of man, Elspeth decided, who was going to respond to flattery.

  “We’re hoping to make use of your expertise,” she said. “We understand you’re something of an authority on local mythology.”

  Cowper seemed momentarily taken aback. Then a broad grin spread across his face, and he puffed out his chest like a prize cock. “Well, it’s a very broad subject, of course, but I certainly have some insight I could share. I wrote a book, you know…?”

  “On the legend of the Carrion King, yes,” said Elspeth. “I’d like to buy a copy if I may.”

  “Well, yes. Yes, indeed!” said Cowper. “There’s a display of them over here. These are all books that I’ve published.” He waved at a table piled high with five or six different titles, and then took a slim volume from the pile and handed it to her. The garish cover showed a photograph of a crow in flight, superimposed over a shot of local woodland. She smiled. “He’s a fascinating figure. Our own Merlin, if you like, although with something of a darker temperament.”

  “Do you believe he was real?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Cowper. “Without question. I don’t believe for one minute that his occult practices had any legitimacy – that he was, for want of a better word, a magician – but there’s no question in my mind that he existed, and that he gathered a cohort of followers in the woodland nearby. He was a great orator, and people were taken in by his promises.” He looked wistful, as if remembering better times. “So, what precisely can I help you with?”

  “Well, I’d also like a copy of your book, and it would help a great deal with my enquiries if you could tell us where you were the night of the twenty-third?” Peter said.

  Cowper narrowed his eyes. “Is this about those murders? I can assure you, they have nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that, sir, but I assure you, this is just a routine enquiry.”

  “I, well, that was three days ago, wasn’t it?” Cowper mumbled. “I was here until closing – that’s six o’clock – and then I called in at The Old Dun Cow for a quick pint, before heading to Gerald’s for dinner.”

  “Gerald?” pressed Peter.

  “Gerald Soames. He’s my partner. I can give you his details if you need to speak with him to confirm anything. I’ve nothing to hide. I spent the night there and came straight to the shop in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cowper. It’s just a formality. I’m sure you understand.” Peter offered him a reassuring smile, and he seemed to relax a little. “How about the twelfth? Can you recall what you might have been doing that evening?”

  Cowper tapped his chin. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I know precisely what I was doing. Here,” he went to the counter and opened a cupboard, extracting a small display board, which he handed to Peter. Peter turned it so Elspeth could see. It showed a picture of a smiling woman in her sixties, along with an array of colourful book covers, all pastels and smiling women in nineteen-forties dress.

  “I was hosting a signing event and talk at the shop, by Blythe Pettifer. She’s a wonderful author from Oxford. She writes wartime sagas, and she’s terribly underrated. All the bookshops over there are all too snobby to support her, of course, but we love her in Heighton. It’s the third time she’s visited, and she always commands a good audience.”

  “What time did your event finish, Mr Cowper?”

  “Around eight thirty. Then we met up with Gerald and went on for dinner and drinks at Nightingale’s, just up the street. We were there until gone eleven.”

  “Perfect,” said Peter. He took out his notebook and jotted down the details. “I’m almost done with the questions, Mr Cowper. If you could just tell me whether you recognise either of these people?” He slid two photographs from inside his jacket and held them out for Cowper to see. “Geoffrey Altman, and Lucy Adams.”

  Cowper shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t recognise either of them. They certainly weren’t regulars at the shop.”

  Peter slipped the photographs back into his pocket. “Now, it would help us a great deal if you could think of anyone else who’s shown a recent interest in the legend? Perhaps a customer who has wanted to talk to you about your book?”

  “Well, there’s plenty of those, DS Shaw,” said Cowper. “I’ve sold nearly thirty copies since it launched in November.”

  “Do you keep records of who’s bought them?”

  “I fear not.” He gestured to the counter. “As you can see, we prefer to do things the old-fashioned way here. I barely turn the computer on, except for answering emails or processing any orders we’ve received through the website.”

  “So no one in particular springs to mind?”

  “Well, you might want to talk to Michael Williams. He’s a novelist who lives locally. Writes garish thrillers with short chapters and lots of sex. You know the sort of thing.”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Peter.

  “Well, he’s been in a few times. Even bought me a drink so he could ‘pick my brains’. He’s working on a new novel. His ‘magnum opus’, apparently. It’s based on the legend of the Carrion King, and I know he’s been reading a great deal around the subject.”

  Peter flipped open his notebook and jotted down the name. “Anyone else?”

  Cowper tapped his bottom lip while he considered. “David Keel. He’s the writer behind the new play they’re debuting this week at Winthorpe.”

  “Yes, we’ve already spoken to Mr Keel,” said Peter.

  “Then that leaves Byron Miller,” said Cowper. “He’d be the other expert in the region. He’s an academic, a professor at the university. He lectures on ancient paganism and the occult, and the transition of history to legend through the passing of time. He gave a talk here last year, to a packed crowd. Fascinating stuff, actually.” Cowper coughed. “Although I hope you’ll find everything you need in my own modest tome.”

  Peter reached over and picked up a copy. “I’ll take both copies, then, please,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

  “Oh, no, please,” said Cowper, holding up a hand. “On me.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cowper. Very kind.”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Your discretion on the subject would be most appreciated, Mr Cowper,” said Peter. “For the time being, at least. Now, if I could trouble you for Gerald’s contact details?”

  “Of course!” Cowper grabbed a scrap of paper from the counter, upon which he wrote out an address in neat print, along with a telephone number. He handed it to Peter, who folded it and slipped it into his not
ebook. “Do let him know not to worry, Detective. He gets awfully worked up.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Peter.

  “Good hunting,” said Cowper. He waved cheerily as they left the shop, each clutching a copy of his book.

  “What now?” said Elspeth.

  “I’ll head back to the station to make some enquiries about these other names, see if I can track down the relevant addresses.” He grinned. “Don’t you have a woman to see about a photograph?”

  Elspeth rolled her eyes. “I suppose I do,” she said.

  “Alright then, I’ll call you later.” He touched her arm, and then turned and ambled off down the street. Elspeth watched him go, and then checked her watch. There was just enough time to steel herself with some lunch before the big interview.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Patricia Graves lived on Windsom Road, about fifteen minutes’ walk from the centre of Heighton. It was a bright, clear afternoon, so after grabbing a quick sandwich at Lenny’s, Elspeth decided to leave the car in town, using her phone’s GPS to help her navigate the maze of unfamiliar residential streets.

  It was an odd sensation, rekindling her association with the place. She wondered if she was just feeling a little morose, the result of her own situation, the fact she’d had to return like this, to the stomping ground of her youth. In many ways it felt as if she were taking a backwards step, returning not only to her parental home, but to a more naive time in her life, an era filled with teenage embarrassment, growing pains and childish missteps. While there was a certain comfort to be had, swaddling herself in the familiar, there were memories here she’d rather forget, too – mistakes she’d made, people she’d forgotten. To her, that’s what life was supposed to be about – constant forward momentum. What she couldn’t yet see with any clarity was whether she’d encountered a momentary bump in that road, or whether she’d been forced into making a U-turn.

  Had London really all been for nothing? That was the question that kept going through her mind. Had she really wasted all that time she’d dedicated to Andrew and their future?

  She cast the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time. She was on her way to interview an elderly lady about winning an amateur photography competition, and she needed to remain upbeat, if only to put the woman at ease.

  Meredith’s receptionist, Carl, had forwarded Mrs Graves’s address, along with a short, surprisingly formal note informing her that Mrs Graves was expecting her at one o’clock. Apparently the woman’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be, so she’d told Carl she’d leave the door on the latch, and that Elspeth should let herself in if she didn’t get an answer after a couple of knocks.

  She’d taken a few moments to look up the competition on the Heighton Observer’s website and located the photograph in question – a hedgehog snuffling around amongst some plant pots in the woman’s back garden. It was sweet enough, but it was hardly going to win wildlife photo of the year. Still, it was money, and another credit with the paper. It would help to tide her over while she looked for other things.

  Elspeth found the house easily enough. It was on a sweeping Victorian terrace, with a small but neat front yard, and bay windows on both the upper and lower floors. The door had been painted a bright pillar-box red, and the white gloss on the outer frames of the windows was starting to flake and peel.

  She walked up the short path to the house and rapped loudly on the door. She listened for any sounds from within, expecting to hear the shuffling of the older woman’s footsteps in the hall. Nothing. She tried again, this time using the brass knocker, in the shape of a leaping fish.

  She waited a few moments. Still nothing. With a shrug, she tried the handle. It turned, and the door opened after a slight shove.

  “Hello? Mrs Graves? It’s Elspeth Reeves from the Heighton Observer. I’m here about your interview.”

  She stepped inside, avoiding a slew of post, which must have been pushed through the letterbox earlier that morning and not yet been collected. Elspeth shut the door behind her, then stooped and picked them up, shuffling the envelopes and flyers into a neat pile and placing them on the telephone table in the narrow hall.

  Inside, the house had the air of a home that had not been truly lived in for some time. It was too quiet, too solemn and sterile. Mrs Graves evidently kept the place in good order – it was clean and tidy, and the hall and stair carpet had been recently vacuumed. It was just that there was no sense of joy about the place. It lacked that aura of homeliness, that cosy feeling when you walked into a home and knew instantly that people laughed and loved and truly lived there, rather than simply existing.

  That was the real story of this place, she decided – what had been lost, and what had become of the people left behind.

  Elspeth shook her head. She wasn’t here for that. This was meant to be a jolly, uplifting piece about a hedgehog and local woman who’d achieved something.

  “Mrs Graves?” she called. “Are you home?” Elspeth supposed she had to be around somewhere – she’d left the door open as per the instructions. Feeling a little like a trespasser, Elspeth walked down the hall and into the dining room, wondering whether she should have taken her shoes off first. The room was empty and unused; a thin patina of dust covered the glass surface of the dining table, and the only sound came from the ticking of a small carriage clock on the mantel over the fireplace. The fire itself had long been removed from the cavity, replaced with a vase of dry flowers. In one of the recesses, crockery was displayed inside a wooden sideboard with glass-fronted doors, while the other contained a bookcase filled to bursting with cheap romance titles and puzzle books. Another door led through to the kitchen.

  Like many of these Victorian terraces, the house had been extended to accommodate a narrow, flat-roofed gallery kitchen, with a small bathroom at the far end. This, too, was empty.

  She wandered back through to the hallway, calling out again. She’d walked right past the living-room door – if the woman was in there, then she really was hard of hearing. Elspeth popped her head around the door. A sofa, two wingback leather armchairs, a small television set and a clutter of photographs in mismatched frames upon a dresser. But no Mrs Graves.

  Elspeth was beginning to grow concerned. Was it a windup? Was this Meredith Stokes’s way of testing her – sending her out to get an impossible interview to see how she coped? It didn’t seem likely.

  Elspeth walked to the bottom of the stairs. She couldn’t hear anyone moving about up there. “Hello? Mrs Graves?”

  Feeling more like an intruder than ever, Elspeth climbed the stairs. There was a small landing at the top, leading to an empty bathroom. She turned the corner and continued up the short flight of stairs to the upper landing. Here there were three further doors, leading to the bedrooms. Elspeth tried each of them in turn, knocking first to ensure she wasn’t about to cause any embarrassment. The first was stacked high with boxes and assorted junk – the single bed was inaccessible for the maze of old television sets, books, clothes and – bizarrely – an old-fashioned rocking horse. It smelled of musty abandonment.

  The second was the master bedroom, and light was streaming in through the bay window, picking out in extraordinary detail the vision of horror that awaited Elspeth as she entered: the horrifying, mutilated corpse of an elderly woman. Blood was everywhere, in dark crimson splashes – matted in her hair, sprayed up her face, drenching the front of her floral-patterned dress. It had spattered the walls and full-length mirror, stained the carpet in dark swathes.

  The woman herself lay slumped on her side, her bloody fingers still clutching at the stainless steel handles of a pair of scissors. The blades were buried deep in her chest, but Elspeth could see where they’d been used to gouge her throat, her wrists; puncture her belly, slash her thighs. It had been a brutal and prolonged attack, and the woman had clearly suffered unimaginable pain.

  There was a single, bloodied handprint on the surface of the mirror, as if she’d tried to lean against it for suppor
t in the moments before she’d collapsed and died.

  Elspeth took a deep breath, steadying herself against the doorframe. The rich iron tang of the blood lodged in the back of her throat. She gagged, but managed to prevent herself from throwing up. There was no point checking for signs of life – it was obvious she was far too late for that. She staggered back onto the landing, her hands trembling. She felt suddenly cold and alone.

  She grabbed hold of the banister and stood there for a moment, catching her breath. She wondered for a minute if there was a chance the killer was still in the house, but dismissed the idea. She’d been in every room on her way around. She would have discovered him before now if he were still lurking.

  She swallowed, and then searched her bag for her phone. She almost dropped it as she thumbed the button, and then dialled 999.

  “There’s been a murder,” she said, blankly. “Come quickly.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Tell me again, Miss Reeves, why you were trespassing in the house of the victim?”

  DCI Griffiths sat across from Elspeth, her expression unreadable. They were back at the station in Heighton, inside a small interview room. Elspeth had been brought over in a police car, once the scene had been secured and the SOCOs had descended, and was ostensibly there to give a statement, although Griffiths appeared to be treating it more as an interrogation.

  “Like I said, I was there to interview her for the Heighton Observer. She’d won a photography competition, and the paper was supposed to be running a profile.”

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain what you were doing in her bedroom,” said Griffiths. She leaned forward, her hands on the table. She was wearing a gold wedding band, and she was tapping it unconsciously – or impatiently – upon the tabletop.

  “I showed your constable the email instructions I’d been sent by the office. Mrs Graves was partially deaf, and I’d been told that if she didn’t answer the door when I knocked, I should let myself in.”