‘No footprints,’ Boyd observed.
‘It’s been snowing steadily,’ she said.
Walking carefully across metal pallets placed by the SOCOs, they reached the area from where it was likely Fiona had taken her last steps.
Boyd crouched down and swept away flakes of damp snow. ‘What time was the body discovered?’
‘The witness says it was after three when he parked his car,’ she said.
‘That’s over an hour ago. And as you say, it’s been snowing constantly.’
She glanced at the SOCOs. ‘Any footprints?’
Both shook their heads. One said, ‘If there were, they’ve been obliterated by the snow.’
She caught Boyd glancing at his watch as she moved to the edge of the parapet. Inching sideways until she was lined up with the scene below, she looked over the area then drew her eyes back to the ground around her. Hopefully SOCOs would find something.
‘Are all the staff and visitors accounted for?’ she asked Boyd.
‘They’re being interviewed in the canteen.’ He was edging back towards the door.
‘And the patients?’ God, but he was being a pain in the arse.
‘Most are confined to bed. Uniforms are checking each person against the register. I think it’s all a waste of time. It’s obvious she jumped.’
‘I don’t think she did. She was getting married tomorrow.’
‘I rest my case,’ Boyd said.
Lottie cringed at the sarcasm lacing his voice. She was so cold she was unable to come up with a smart reply. Instead she said, ‘Fiona is the second person found dead clothed in a wedding dress in the space of a few hours. It’s suspicious, Boyd.’
Across the vista, towards the horizon, she thought she saw a light moving through the trees. ‘What about the outdoor staff?’
‘What do you mean?’
She kept her eyes fixed, ignoring the blizzard tearing through her jacket. ‘Gardeners? Site maintenance? I thought I saw someone. Among the trees. What’s over there?’
‘I’ll have to check.’
‘If my memory serves me correctly, there are life-sized statues depicting the stations of the cross, and further on there are allotments or vegetable gardens. A river runs through the land at the edge of the forest.’ She recalled, somewhere from the dregs of a memory, her mother bringing her out here when she was a child, to pray and light candles in the chapel for her missing brother.
‘What are you thinking, Lottie?’
She could feel the warmth of Boyd’s breath on the side of her face as he spoke. ‘I’m thinking there’s someone out there looking up at us. Come on.’ She turned on her heel.
Boyd remained where he was. ‘Are you not staying here to look around for possible evidence?’
‘SOCOs have it in hand, and anyway, the snow will preserve it – if there is anything here. Find me someone who knows the layout of the land around here.’
‘After that, I have to leave. I’m sorry, but it’s important to me … to my mother.’
‘Go, then.’ She wanted to say more, to talk to him, to find out what was going on, but now was not the time. Later. Tomorrow. Yes, definitely tomorrow.
With one last glance towards the area where she’d seen the light, Lottie rushed through the door and down the stairs, all the while feeling like a shadow had been cast over her.
While Boyd organised uniformed officers before he headed off, Lottie fetched a large torch from the boot of the car. She inched along a narrow footpath that cut a snow-covered lawn in half. Her brain was telling her she was wasting her time, but her gut was telling her Fiona Heffernan had not committed suicide. The blood on the locker room floor, and the wedding dress. They’d found two dead women dressed in wedding gowns, and that added up to highly suspicious circumstances. Cara and Fiona had both been murdered; she just had to prove it.
She reached the end of the path where it split into a V. Moving to the left, she crossed a stone bridge. The water below flowed furiously, moving too quickly to freeze over. On the other side, the path veered right. She thought she saw a light flicker through the trees. Ducking down, she forged on, with branches snagging her hair and her boots sinking in the deep snow. The torch cast a beam ahead of her and she was sure there were no footprints other than the trail she’d left behind. After a few moments, she found the source of the light.
Among the stations of the cross statues, a crucified Jesus hanging on a large wooden cross loomed before her, lit by a spotlight on the plinth. She stepped forward. This must be the light she’d seen. Then again, the spotlight was static, and she’d been sure the light had been moving. The wind?
As she turned to head back, the trees rustled and snow pelted down. She pulled her hood tight, heading along a path she had yet to walk, and as she made a right towards the abbey, her eyes followed the direction of the river. The land was flat where the snow laden-trees broke ranks. Beyond them lay a house and a farmyard. At the perimeter hedge, a man stood with a lamp in his hand. Lottie waved her torch in greeting, though he was fifty paces away from her. He didn’t acknowledge her; just stepped backwards, turned and walked away. Slow, determined steps. Then he was gone.
She felt as if an icicle had slipped down inside her clothes. Making her way quickly, she hoped McGlynn would have news for her, because she sure as hell wasn’t wasting any more time out in this no-man’s-land if she wasn’t dealing with a murder.
Christy Clarke wiped a trickle of water from his eye as he walked carefully back to his house. The yard was like an ice rink and his wellington boots were not doing him any favours. It wasn’t tears of emotion, he told himself. Just the cold.
In the kitchen, he tried the tap again. The pipes clanked. A gush of brown water spluttered onto the mugs in the sink and splashed up on his green waxed jacket. He waited. Looked out of the window. The water drained to a dribble and stopped. He took the wrench out of his pocket and went back outside.
The water pump was in a barn beside the pig shed. He’d already spent the best part of the day trying to fix it, and he’d been sure it was working when he’d finished. But the dirty dribble of water told him otherwise. Now, with his hands in fingerless gloves, he set to work again, hoping that this time he’d get it right.
A car skidded into the yard. He heard its door open and shut.
‘What are you doing in there?’ Beth said.
He didn’t turn around. She reminded him too much of her mother when her voice slit through his soul with that tone.
‘What does it look like?’ He tightened the wrench around a bolt.
‘Have you not got the water fixed yet? God, Dad, I wanted to have a bloody shower.’
‘Spray on some of that fancy deodorant for now. I’m doing my best.’
‘Right!’ Indignation laced her voice. ‘A coffee might warm me up. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘There’s no fucking water,’ Christy said. He looked over his shoulder, but his daughter had already stomped into the house.
The wrench slipped and nipped the top of his index finger. He stuck it in his mouth to stem the flow of blood and wondered how he was ever going to make things right again. Without warning, a sob belched from his throat and the anxiety that had been gathering like a fluff ball in his chest erupted in a fit of shakes. He leaned against the cold concrete wall of the pump house and succumbed to the racking sobs that tore from his lungs.
‘Dad!’ Beth shouted from the back door. ‘I can’t make coffee. There’s no water!’
Christy sniffed away the last of his tears and bent over the pump without answering his daughter. He could do no more here. The problem must be inside.
‘Out of the way, lass.’ He opened the cupboard door under the sink.
‘It took me ages to get through the village. I couldn’t even stop to buy bottled water. Is there something going on at the abbey?’ Beth was rooting in the bread bin.
‘Must be getting ready for the wedding tomorrow.’
‘Fiona and
Ryan’s wedding? No way. They’re just having a small affair. I was only invited to the meal, that’s how small it is. I doubt that much activity is warranted. I’ll head over to have a look.’ She stood with her empty mug in one hand and a slice of bread in the other as her father fiddled with the tap under the sink.
‘God damn it to hell,’ he said as water flowed freely into the sink. ‘It was the inside pipe that was frozen all along, not the pump.’
Beth put her mug on the counter. ‘I’ll have a cuppa when I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I told you. To the abbey, for a snoop.’
He saw the wince curl her face inwards and her teeth grit before he realised he had gripped her arm so tightly his fingers had turned white.
‘Stay and drink your tea with me. I’ve been on my own all day.’
‘Let go of my arm, Dad.’ A flush of red had spread across her deathly pale skin.
He dropped his hand and took a step backwards. ‘Sorry, darling. Don’t know my own strength half the time.’ He filled the kettle, making a fuss of taking her mug and his own over to the table.
Eventually she relented, hanging up her coat and sitting down.
‘What’s wrong? Is it the VAT returns? I’ll put them on a spreadsheet for you.’
He kept his back to her. Stared out at the snow falling diagonally like spikes across the yard and wished his only child wouldn’t be so curious. It was bound to lead her into trouble. And Christy Clarke knew all about trouble.
Chapter Twelve
When he had finished the dance routine, Trevor pointed his finger. ‘You, you and you, up here. Quickly.’
As he waited for the two youngest girls and one of the teenagers to join him on the stage, he cast his eyes upwards. The front row of the balcony was empty. He shrugged away the nervy feeling of having been watched. It was probably Giles, the theatre manager, who was apt to prowl around in the darkness, keeping a wily eye on proceedings or on the young girls. But Trevor wasn’t at all certain that was who he’d seen. The show was sold out, so Giles had no need to worry about opening night. It could bomb and he’d still make a profit. If it hadn’t been the manager up there, who had it been?
‘It’s nearly time to finish. What do you want us to do now?’
He was awakened from his daydream by the voice of one of his charges. Jasmina, Tasmania? Her name escaped him. He stared at the perfect eyelashes, the purple shadow sparkling on the lids and the flawless make-up. A dash of jealousy streaked through his veins and his fingers involuntarily slid along his chin, bumping over acne that had forgotten he was no longer a teenager.
Another voice boomed out. ‘Trevor, come down here!’
‘I’m busy, Giles. I haven’t time to be—’
‘Now! This is important. Outside.’
Trevor watched Giles turn on his heel quicker than a ballerina and march out the door.
‘Go on,’ Shelly said. ‘I’ll run through the routine with the girls once more. The session is almost finished anyway.’
‘Thank you.’ Trevor jumped off the stage, picked up his towel and wound it around his neck to soak up the sweat pooled at the base of his throat.
The theatre bar was eerily quiet. The smell of stale beer clutched the peeling paint to the walls. He made his way to the smoking area. The heavy fire door resisted his push before it swung open with such force that he found himself propelled outside, where a high stool blocked his fall.
‘Bloody hell.’ He brushed down his knees and came face to face with his employer.
‘Sit,’ Giles said, pointing to the stool.
The Perspex roof dipped with the weight of snow, and when a bout of shivers shook his body, Trevor realised he should have put on his cardigan before venturing out in the sub-zero temperatures. ‘I haven’t time for games. What do you want?’
‘I said sit.’ A dark shadow crossed Giles’s eyes, so Trevor did as he was bid.
Once he was seated, he knotted his feet around the rung on the stool and waited in the cold. Giles balled his hands into fists and bit down on his lip. His belt had an extra notch bored into it, over which his stomach flopped. Trevor couldn’t stop himself staring as the manager’s belly visibly inflated, the strain manifested on his face. The dark eyes widened and the flabby pink lips opened.
‘What have you been up to?’
Trevor’s body tensed and he scrunched up his face in confusion. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been rehearsing night and day.’
Moving around the stool, Giles wheezed, remaining otherwise silent.
Feeling a little braver, Trevor said, ‘You’d better tell me what you think I’ve been doing wrong, because the suspense is killing me.’
The slap caught him on the back of the neck. He almost fell off the stool. Instead, he jumped up, his feet dancing to a silent tune. ‘What the hell was that for? You can’t go around hitting people. I’ll report you for bullying!’
The hand that caught his arm was firm. The breath assaulting him was minty with the hint of an illicit cigarette. Giles would have you believe he didn’t smoke, but Trevor knew otherwise. Trevor knew a lot of things about his boss that very few others knew.
‘You won’t report me for anything!’ Giles gave him a push. ‘Sit down and listen to me, like a good little man.’
Ready to argue, Trevor tensed his muscles, but he decided to let curiosity get the better of him. He sat. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘A little birdie told me something … What’s the word I’m looking for?’ Giles seemed to be consulting an invisible dictionary in his mind. ‘Let’s say I heard something salacious about you. If you don’t want anyone else to know, you will keep your mouth shut about you know what.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s good. You can’t tell tales out of school then,’ Giles laughed.
‘I really have no idea what you mean.’ Trevor held his breath as Giles continued to walk around him.
‘You can do what you like outside of dance school, but in here, you need to keep your dirty little paws off Shelly.’
‘Shelly?’ A strangled laugh escaped from Trevor’s lips. ‘I think you’ve got it all wrong there.’
‘Perhaps, but I know things. I watch you all the time. Even when you don’t know I’m around. Remember that.’
‘Okay. Can I leave now?’ Trevor wondered again if it had been Giles watching him from the balcony. Probably, though the fecker was never around when he was supposed to be. You never knew when he was likely to creep up on you. Slimy bastard. His skin crawled.
After another slow circle around the stool, Giles came to a sudden stop. Trevor held his breath. A sigh of cold air snaked down his back. He spied a magpie pecking at the snow on the wall at the edge of the smoking hut, its black wings stark in contrast to its white chest and the snow. That wasn’t good. Not good at all.
‘I want you to do something for me,’ Giles said.
Ryan Slevin dropped his camera bag on the hall table.
‘Is that you, Ryan?’ His sister’s voice screeched from the kitchen above the din of his three young nephews fighting over something or other. He smelled garlic. A lot of garlic. He blamed all those cookery shows. While her boys were in school, Zoe spent most of the day in front of the television soaking up exotic recipes. He knew MasterChef Australia was her favourite. Hence fish for dinner every second day, interspersed with crackling pork belly. And, of course, spices and garlic. Always garlic.
He hung his dripping-wet coat on the crowded hook, untied his boots and shoved them underneath, on the floor.
‘What did you cook today?’ He kissed his sister’s forehead, noticing that it was slick with sweat. The kitchen looked as if thirty MasterChef contestants had spent the day there, trying to concoct a dish that had yet to be invented.
‘Something new,’ she said. ‘Fish basted with fresh garlic sauce. I made it myself. The sauce, not the fish.’
‘Sounds great,’ Ryan lied. ‘Where are the boys?’
Zoe nodded to the table. He lifted up the edge of the cloth and spied his nephews sitting cross-legged on the floor.
‘What are you three up to then?’
‘Hiding,’ five-year-old Tommy said.
‘Playing,’ added four-year-old Josh.
‘Seek,’ said two-year-old Zack.
‘Well, I found you. Scoot into the sitting room. I bet Fireman Sam is on.’
The three of them crawled out between Ryan’s legs and at last the kitchen fell into silence.
‘I collected your suit from the cleaner’s,’ Zoe said. ‘It’s hanging on the front of your wardrobe.’ She sniffed back a tear. Tendrils of once-blonde hair fell across her eyes and she brushed them away with her elbow. Both hands were covered in flour.
‘Why are you sad?’ he said.
‘Oh, you know.’ She turned back to the stove. ‘Tomorrow is your happy day. How exciting for you and Fiona. But at the same time, I can’t stop thinking of our parents’ disastrous marriage, and you know my own is not …’ She sniffed again. ‘We spoke about it before, but now I honestly think Giles is having an affair. Ever since Zack was born, he’s never home. Not for a minute do I believe he’s needed at the theatre twenty-four-seven.’ She wiped the flour from her hands onto her apron and hunched her shoulders.
Ryan felt his heart break a little for his younger sister, but he couldn’t quell the rise of anger.
‘Zoe, I intend to make my marriage work. Me and Fiona are older than you were when you got married. And wiser, I hope.’
‘I know, but you have to be one hundred per cent sure of her.’
‘Where is this coming from? You never said anything like this before.’
‘It’s just … Fiona is very possessive and strong-minded. You’re not. You’re a big softie, especially where she’s concerned. You’ve never even met her family.’
‘She has a sister in Australia. There’s no mystery there, so stop trying to find one.’
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 6
