Guilty Waters

by Priscilla Masters

  Barker was, above all, a careful man. Murder seemed too messy a business for him. Too impulsive. Too random. It struck Joanna that Barker didn’t do random. He thought about things. He was a planner.

  Except in exceptional circumstances? Was this what had happened?

  Had they discovered his secret, stumbled upon the eye of Miss Wong and threatened him? Unprepared and acting on the spur of the moment, had this been the trigger which had turned Barker the voyeur into Barker the killer?

  On the other hand, if Annabelle and Dorothée had meant to return to Mandalay on that Sunday morning, taking a walk before breakfast, was it possible that someone or something else had prevented them returning?

  But what? An unexpected event such as sinking in the mud? An encounter with a killer?

  In which case, Barker’s behaviour was all too logical. She could picture him not knowing what to do with their luggage so hiding it – or trying to. Now that seemed in character – a stupid, panicky decision from someone with no experience of dealing with the police, one that rather than letting him off the hook pinned him firmly on it. If he was guilty, he wouldn’t have been so indecisive about getting rid of the rucksacks, surely. He’d had plenty of time.

  She heaved a big sigh.

  She wasn’t there yet and she knew it. So did Tom Fairway, apparently. He wriggled his glasses up his nose, which was always a bad sign, something he did when he wasn’t quite comfortable with the situation. Added to that, he was averting his eyes from her. She and Tom had been good friends for years. Before she and Matthew had finally got together and he had found Caro she had even escorted him to the occasional party. She liked him.

  ‘Inspector Piercy,’ he said, quite gently and formally, ‘you need to get your case together, don’t you? Does my client get bail?’

  ‘We’ll sort that out with the magistrates,’ she said crisply, standing up. In one way, Tom was right. She did need to get her case together. She needed time and she needed to tell Chief Superintendent Rush about finding the transcript – the proof that linked Barker with the text message made to Dorothée’s mother indicating that they were decamping to London: a great city to disappear in. But as they probably hadn’t vanished from London, more likely from here instead, even the wonderful Met would have a tricky job tracking them down.

  As before, Rush listened without comment before saying, ‘Looks like you’ve got a case, Piercy. Get bail set and I suggest you return to Rudyard and speak to your team.’ His pale eyes met hers. ‘Get the evidence.’ He leaned right across the desk, his eyes burning with something. A desire to bring this case to closure? Maybe. Maybe that made Gabriel Rush tick. ‘Find those bodies,’ he emphasized. ‘Find them. They’re out there somewhere.’

  She nodded, and started the process of setting bail.

  Charlotte Bingley had climbed right to the top of the Winking Man and was peering down his broken, fractured nose. This – was – awesome. She was on top of the world. The exhilaration made her scoop in a great noisy rush of delight, breathing in the air, cool even on this unusually warm October day. It was always colder up here. She made her plans. She would hike along the ridge and then drop down into Tittesworth to take lunch. She took in the panorama. Miles and miles of unspoilt countryside. Pale grass, small fields, stunted bushes and grotesque, dwarfish trees, isolated sheep and one metal-grey road carving through the emptiness, all divided by rickety stone walls that crumbled if you tried to climb over them – hence the good condition of the stiles and clear signposting of the waymarked hiking trails. A buzzard hovered over her, its harsh cry echoing right down the valley. Apart from that one discordant cry it was silent up here. There was no noise pollution because there was no noise.

  Except … one noisy motor bike thundered its way along the A53 towards Buxton. Charlotte smiled. Why did the bikes have to make so much noise? It was a perfect break – apart from the forced and irritating alteration in her accommodation. It had been a nuisance to find that she had to sort out somewhere else to stay. She’d liked Mandalay and its pale, characterless cleanliness. Liked its deliberate but not overdone association with the Kipling poem. She liked its owner, too – his soft quietness. There was, in her opinion, nothing worse than an overly chatty B&B owner over breakfast. Besides, he was a great cook, really knew how to grill bacon to perfection, serve eggs with runny yolks and fry bread so it was crisp and brown and not greasy. Yes. The fact that he had abandoned her with no more than a curt note was irritating. She would write a negative review on Expedia. The alternative accommodation she’d found had not been nearly as pleasant but charged twenty pounds more a night. Ridiculous. But that was the only thing that had gone wrong on this holiday designed to escape. She glanced at the day and date on her watch. Stan and Shona would be getting married right now. This very minute, in fact, if the bride was on time. She stopped, sat down and, leaning against a cairn, drew out her flask, poured out coffee and toasted them.

  Without knowing she was being watched.

  One of the stones was sticking into her back. She fumbled behind her and felt a small plastic box. Someone’s sandwich box. She pulled it out and opened the lid. But there were no sandwiches inside. She’d heard of letterboxes but had never actually found one. Until now. There was a book, a stamp. A list of names, people who had been here before. There was no mistaking that this was what it was.

  He felt sick. It had been found now, by accident. And he knew there was something in it that would incriminate him. Link him to them. Them. His curse. He smiled. As he had been theirs. He shouldn’t have left it on the Roaches. But something in him had felt outraged at the thought of removing it completely. It wasn’t what letterboxers did. He’d watched them. They didn’t take stuff away. They left stuff. So he’d hidden it carefully instead, thinking that would be enough. But now … He watched her drink the coffee, wondering what or who it was that she was toasting. He studied her. She was tall and strong looking. His hand grasped a rock. She was no more than ten feet away. He could cover that ground easily …

  Charlotte was sitting, drinking her coffee looking around her. Nothing, no one. And then she heard it: a stone, dislodged, rolling down the slope, dislodging another stone. She stood up, scanned the panorama. Empty. The rocky crags, grey stone, narrow crevices. She could see no one. And yet she felt a presence. The Winking Man appeared to close his one eye. He could feel it too. Someone was there.

  She scrambled down the scree faster than she should have, tearing her trouser leg in her haste.

  When she reached her car her hand was shaking so much she couldn’t press the button to unlock it. Finally, sat inside, she scolded herself. If she couldn’t cope with isolated places then she would have to stop climbing.

  Joanna returned to Barker. Bail was set. But she didn’t have to tell him – not just yet, although she knew from Tom’s direct gaze that he was perfectly aware.

  ‘OK, Mr Barker,’ she said, leaning back in her chair, aware that he was less threatened now she had the much less threatening presence of PC Beardmore beside her rather than the burly Korpanski.

  ‘Last chance to tell me exactly what happened.’

  Barker glanced at Tom. ‘But I already have,’ he protested. ‘I’ve already told you everything. The girls stayed. They went out for a walk, I suppose, early Sunday morning. I waited for them to come back for their breakfast, settle up and pick up their stuff but they never did.’

  ‘But they’d already paid.’

  Barker even had an answer ready for this. ‘I thought maybe they’d forgotten they’d given me their credit card details. People usually come and say thank you and goodbye.’ He sounded aggrieved.

  Joanna moved in. ‘Were you spying on them?’

  Barker gave a frightened glance – not at her but curiously at Tom, as though requesting his permission to speak. He nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a sliver of shame in his tone. ‘They were nice to watch. I admit I did have a little peep.’

  It sounded so innocu
ous – a little peep. Child’s talk. Nice to watch. Joanna blew out a sigh. Oh, well, let the courts put their interpretation on it.

  Barker made a misguided attempt to justify his actions. ‘They were very … attractive girls.’

  ‘I know,’ Joanna said, playing the old policeman’s trick of pretending to be on his side, faking empathy. ‘They were pretty, weren’t they?’

  Barker was nodding.

  ‘And did they find out that you’d had a little peep?’ Only Tom and Hannah Beardmore caught the sarcasm in her tone. Barker didn’t, though he managed to look shame-faced.

  ‘No,’ he said, hanging his head. ‘No. I’m pretty sure they didn’t know. They never said. They never seemed embarrassed.’

  Joanna nodded and pretended to swallow this. ‘And did they enjoy their stay?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’d bring their book down and read out their poems sitting on the terrace overlooking the lake. And sometimes they’d bring a bottle of wine and sit there and drink it. I’m not licensed, you see. It was lovely, their appreciating Kipling so much. It was something we could share. They’d studied him at their school, apparently. I was surprised …’

  Perhaps he realized he was babbling. He pulled up short. ‘I so enjoyed listening to them reading in their lovely accents. Then they’d go off for a walk. Goodness, one day they walked all the way into Leek and a very nice couple gave them a lift back. All the way back here. Dropped them at the door.’

  ‘What day was that?’

  ‘The Wednesday,’ Barker said brightly. ‘Market day in Leek. When I told them about it they were so excited. When I said there was a cattle market down the bottom of the town and the butter market in the square – well, they just had to go. I told them the way to walk along the little stream, through the nature reserve.’ He suddenly pulled himself up short. ‘I was hurt when they just left without a word.’

  ‘You didn’t think there was something odd – something a bit suspicious about it?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he began. ’Er, no. Well, there were the rucksacks. I don’t know what to say,’ he finished helplessly.

  ‘Try the truth,’ Joanna said, without sympathy, her voice steely and hostile.

  Barker’s shoulders drooped. ‘I’ve gone over this so many times I don’t know any more what is the truth.’

  Time for the kill. ‘Do you know what has happened to the girls?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  He knew this was a trap, and almost shouted his next, ‘No.’

  ‘Did you kill the girls, Annabelle Bellange and Dorothée Caron?’

  ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t have done. They were such lovely girls. I was really fond of them. I enjoyed having them at Mandalay.’

  And suddenly Joanna had a glimmer of what just might be the truth. Had he enjoyed having them so much that he couldn’t bear for them to leave? Had he felt he had to keep them there? Was that it? Such a simple explanation?

  She needed evidence. She addressed her next words to Tom. ‘Your client has been granted bail. He cannot leave the area and must give us his contact details. We must warn him he is still under caution.’ She gathered up her papers and addressed Barker. ‘If at any time,’ she said, ‘you feel you have more information to give us we would be very grateful if you would contact us.’

  Barker met her eyes for a fleeting moment before standing up. ‘Am I free to go?’

  Joanna nodded and closed down the recording machines.

  She returned to Rudyard and found the place bristling with police, detectives, a few media vans, the predictable ghouls at the feast and the inevitable sightseers. A few areas had been roped off with police Do Not Cross tape and behind them gathered the motley voyeurs.

  She located Korpanski talking to some divers, but from his expression knew nothing great had been found – yet. ‘We’re expanding the search, Jo,’ he said, ‘but so far we’ve not found a lot. We’re waiting for some environmentalists to come before we can explore the badger sets in Barker’s garden. How’s it going with him?’

  ‘He’s not cracking, if that’s what you’re asking. He still insists he has had nothing to do with the girls’ disappearance.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s go for a coffee.’

  They made their way to the café and met the bright-eyed Will Murdoch again. He took their order with a round-eyed, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re still looking for the two French girls,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Thought they’d gone to London.’

  ‘It appears that was a red herring,’ Joanna said.

  Will busied himself making the coffee with an impressive-looking espresso machine. ‘Well, if you ask me,’ he said, taking the money for the drinks, ‘whoever it was sent that text.’ His forefinger stabbed the counter. ‘It was ’im what did away with them. If that’s what’s happened,’ he added, safeguarding his opinion.

  ‘Put it like this,’ Joanna said, ‘we’re looking in to it.’

  Korpanski brushed away a wasp that was making a nuisance of itself. The autumn sunshine always brought this particular complication.

  Joanna looked up. ‘So what do you do over the winter, Will?’

  ‘A bit of this and a bit of that. Tried a college course once but it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Casual labour, then.’

  He grinned. ‘I do a bit of seasonal work. Santa Claus and all that. There’s always stuff round Christmas. The ice-cream van in summer. And of course I still open here over the weekends right through the year.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Plus,’ he said importantly, ‘I’m a carer for my ma. She has mental health problems so can’t leave the house.’

  Joanna and Mike glanced at each other. Some kids are ambitious and others, well, they either aren’t or they don’t have the opportunity to be.

  Will still hadn’t finished. He continued with his open, frank statement. ‘My dad, see. He left us a few years ago and Mum, well, she’s been like that ever since he went.’

  And Joanna wondered. What came first? Chicken or egg? Did his lack of ambition stem from a need to stay at home and care for his mother? Or was it the other way round? Had he once been ambitious and had to put it to one side because his mother had needed a carer?

  But there is always a converse to this. Some people become dependent because they can. Had she had no willing son to care for her, might her she have been less dependent?

  ‘Anyway,’ Will said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I’ve got the offer of some bar work at the Rudyard Hotel through the winter. And some chef work.’

  ‘Great,’ Joanna said brightly. They huddled together in the corner of the café, aware that they would have to have a briefing later. But as much as they tried to find a way through to a solution, they made no headway. They needed to find the girls.

  And the day wore on. At eight o’clock Joanna knew she was drained. Her mind was blank. She switched the computer off and drove back to Waterfall Cottage.

  She arrived home mentally and physically exhausted, parked the car, pushed the cottage gate open and walked towards the front door, fumbling for her key. But Matthew must have heard her car. Before she could insert the key in the lock he opened the door to her, smiled and took her hand. ‘Come,’ he said.

  Inside was warm and cosy. Lamps lit, the woodburner chucking out warmth and a merry glow. He handed her a glass of blood-warm red wine and she sank back on the sofa, luxuriating. ‘Mmm,’ she said appreciatively. ‘This is nice to come home to. Maybe it was a good thing to get married after all.’

  He bent over her, kissing her mouth.

  ‘You seem different, Matt,’ she said, sitting up.

  ‘Oh?’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘Different? In what way?’

  ‘Softer,’ she said, still puzzling. ‘More tolerant. Less angry about my working late, the bad hours, me being knackered. A bit more understanding.’

  ‘It’s called compromise,’ he said, settling beside her, back against the cushions, his
eyes still warm and friendly. ‘You’ve compromised about our having a son.’

  ‘A child,’ she corrected.

  He nodded, finger up, acknowledging the correction. ‘A child. So I accept the sacrifice you’re making.’

  She raised her eyebrows. His eyes smiled briefly but behind the smile was some sadness. ‘Oh, I know, Jo. It isn’t what you want. For you it is a sacrifice. And so I must make my contribution.’ He poured her another glass of wine. ‘And this is it.’

  In spite of the seriousness of the moment, she couldn’t resist teasing him a little. ‘And you think I can be so easily bought, Matthew Levin?’

  He laughed then kissed her wine-stained lips and answered her question. ‘I think so,’ he said.

  She nodded, pretended to consider his response then slipped her hand into his. He gripped it with strong fingers.

  That night she threw away her packet of contraceptive pills. Might as well get it over with, Piercy, she thought. There’s no going back on this one. She just hoped that Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski was right and that the minute the child was born love would spill out of her, warm as honey. But she doubted it. Not all parents bond with their offspring.

  NINETEEN

  The search was necessarily extensive. With the help of the environmental services the badgers were coaxed out of the set and the soft burrows explored with the help of fibre optic cameras and sniffer dogs. It proved unfruitful. The girls weren’t here. They widened the search. Barker’s entire grounds were examined using heat-seeking probes. Again, nothing.

  The lake was dragged. No body was found but they did bring up a soggy purse, red leather with a fifty-Euro note still inside and credit cards belonging to Dorothée Caron. DC Alan King proved to be fluent in French (an ex-girlfriend of his had been from Marseilles), and so it fell on his shoulders to keep Cécile Bellange and Renée Caron informed of the progress and tell them of this discovery. Finding the purse clinched it for Joanna. The girls were dead. They had never left this area. The text message had been a pathetic attempt by Barker to divert suspicion away from Rudyard. Joanna scanned the area and knew they were still here.