by JANICE FROST
“You never asked.”
“When you told me your brother lived with his partner, I just assumed . . . sorry, Peej.”
“No need to apologise. Most people would make the same assumption. I would myself if I didn’t have a gay brother.”
“Do you worry about him? I mean, with arseholes like Irons out there?”
PJ grinned. “Matt’s a six-feet-four fighting machine. The arseholes worry about him.”
“Okay. So what else have you got?”
“Not a great deal so far. PC Carr is still looking at CCTV footage from the streets around the cathedral.”
Ava nodded. Carr would be noting vehicle registration numbers and observing the comings and goings in the area. He’d look for patterns and anomalies, anything that might throw up a lead. He would also be checking for potential witnesses — a vagrant, someone returning late from work or after a night out.
“PC Hughes and PC Winters have been showing Mitchell’s photo around in the Long Hill area. They haven’t called anything in yet, so I’m assuming there’s nothing interesting to report. Tomorrow they’re going to go farther afield.”
Ava nodded. It was still early days in the investigation. There was no reason to expect results to pour in yet. The initial days of an investigation were an anxious but exciting time. The case lay wide open and you needed to be aware of all the possibilities, all the tendrils reaching back from the act of murder to the victim’s life. No aspect of Gray Mitchell’s life could be discounted. Nothing and no one, not even those who claimed to be his closest friends.
PJ had little else to offer for the time being. Ava sat down at her desk and began sifting through her paperwork.
It was past four when she looked up, head aching from close concentration and caffeine withdrawal. It was already dark outside. Ava yawned and stretched, then yelped as a sudden cramp seized her calf. “Ouch!” She jumped up and hopped around.
“Cramp?” PJ asked, unnecessarily.
“Bloody painful,” Ava said. “Think I’ll call it a day and go to the gym. I can work at home this evening.”
“Didn’t you swim this morning?”
“Only for an hour. Ollie was with me. I dropped him off at school afterwards.”
“Rather you than me. I’ll stick with my Zumba sessions twice a week.”
Ava grinned. Zumba was the latest in a long line of keep-fit activities her friend had signed up to. None of them lasted for long. Ava’s zeal for exercise bordered on fanaticism. It had nothing to do with body image and everything to do with being in control. She needed to know she could rely on her strength.
* * *
By the time she had finished at the gym, Ava was feeling energised. She contemplated leaving her car at work and jogging home, then thought of her morning routine. With her younger brother Ollie living with her, she was responsible for someone other than herself and her lazy cat, Camden. She enjoyed their chatty breakfasts and driving into town together for an early-morning swim. It was good for Ollie. He was a geeky boy who would otherwise be spending long, lonely hours studying or gaming.
Ollie had once been described as ‘borderline autistic’ by a concerned teacher. He was inclined to be reserved and solitary and a little awkward socially. Ava considered that her brother fitted somewhere near ‘normal,’ on the autistic spectrum. He was never going to be sociable or outgoing, but he would get by.
Ava’s cottage was one of a small number of others scattered in the woods on the edge of a former country estate. A wonderful, spicy aroma greeted her as she walked inside.
“Chicken curry? Smells amazing.”
Ollie was an excellent cook for a sixteen-year-old. He said he found it relaxing. Now Ava hardly cooked a single meal.
“It’s ready when you are.” Ollie looked up from his schoolwork spread out in front of him on Ava’s huge oak table.
“Give me ten,” Ava called, running upstairs to change. She was back in five.
“How was your day?” she asked Ollie as he placed his latest culinary masterpiece before her.
“Good. How was yours? Found the bad guys yet?”
“Not yet,” Ava answered, scooping some chicken curry onto a piece of naan bread.
“Any leads?”
“Nothing productive.”
“Any suspects?”
“One or two.”
“Who? His partner?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Bound to be though, isn’t it? Most people are murdered by their loved ones, aren’t they?”
“We don’t make assumptions,” Ava said. This wasn’t strictly true.
“Are you still thinking it might be a hate crime, then?”
“It’s one possibility we’re pursuing.”
“Guy in my class’s dad used to be a skinhead. Actually did time for beating up gay people,” Ollie said.
Ava stared at him. “What did you say?”
“George? You know. In my chemistry class. I told you about him last week? He’s living with his aunt because he fell out with his dad. What’s up, Ave? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“What’s George’s surname?”
“Irons. Bloody hell, Ave, is his dad a suspect?”
Ava stared at Ollie for a moment, deliberating. Was it such a whopping coincidence? Stromford wasn’t a big place, after all. Ollie was at the town’s only grammar school. She had never considered that a man like Ray Irons would have a son at a grammar school. Was she being prejudiced?
“Ava? He is, isn’t he? He’s done time for that sort of thing in the past — well not murder exactly, but he put someone in a coma once.”
“Ollie, you can’t breathe a word of this outside of here, you understand that, don’t you? Especially not to George.”
Ollie passed a finger across his lips. “I promise. George’s not like his dad. He’s really into human rights.”
Ava nodded. George Irons must be an exceptional person if he’d resisted his father’s conditioning.
“If I happen to be talking to George about his dad, would you be interested in hearing what he says about him?” Ollie asked. Ava hesitated.
“This isn’t a game, Ollie.”
“He doesn’t know you’re a cop.”
“You didn’t tell him what I do?” Ava said.
“I told him you were a civil servant.”
“Are you embarrassed about my job?”
“I wasn’t sure if people would think it cool or not. Sorry, Ave.”
“It’s okay,” Ava said. Ollie’s self-confidence was pretty low. If keeping quiet about his sister’s job helped him make friends, it was fine by her.
“So?”
“So what?” Ava said.
“George. Is there anything you want me to like, ask him?”
Ava sighed. What harm could it do?
“I’ll think it over,” she said at last. “But again, I stress, this isn’t a game and you’re not to say or do anything without my say so. Understood?”
“Yeah. You can trust me, Ave. I’ll be uber-subtle.”
“Hmm . . .” Ava ruffled her brother’s blond mop. When she took her hand away, he looked like the mad scientist he was probably destined to become.
Chapter 8
The couple sat on a bench in the grounds of the Applewhite Museum, beneath an impressive statue of Augustus Applewhite. This eminent Victorian industrialist and philanthropist was one of Stromford’s most famous sons. The grounds of the museum were beautiful at any time of year. Today, in the snow, they were enchanting. And cold.
Marcus Collins and Caitlin Forest seemed to be huddling together for warmth, rather than anything more intimate.
“Aw, come on, Caitlin. I know you don’t really want to break up with me. What’s this really about?” Marcus said.
Caitlin sighed deeply. “Please don’t make this harder, Marcus. We’ve been over it again and again. I just don’t think things are working out between us.”
“But two weeks ago you tol
d me you loved me. Nothing’s changed since then, has it?” Marcus said. “Has it, Caitlin? Are you seeing someone else? Is that it?”
“Don’t be stupid, Marcus. I wouldn’t cheat on you. If you can’t understand that, then maybe you really aren’t mature enough to be in a relationship at all. We have to stop seeing each other.” Her voice lacked conviction.
“Please, Caitiekat . . .”
“Don’t call me that. It’s stupid.”
“Is it the age thing? Are you embarrassed because I’m so much younger than you? Because . . .”
“What? No! I told you. It just doesn’t feel right anymore.”
“That’s bullshit. I know you’re lying. There has to be a proper reason. People don’t just break up over nothing.”
“I can’t take any more of this.” Caitlin stood up. Marcus grabbed hold of her arm and she stared at him.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Marcus said. “Angie. She’s jealous, isn’t she? Why do you always let her boss you around, Caitlin? You’re like her little pet. I know the two of you are best friends, but—”
“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about, Marcus. Angie’s my mate, and for your information, she doesn’t boss me about. She looks out for me. That’s what friends do. Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me!” Marcus loosened his grip. He had not realised how tightly he had been holding on.
“Read my lips,” Caitlin said. “We’re finished. Get over it.” With that, she turned and walked away.
Marcus sat for a while longer, feeling miserable. Caitlin wasn’t his first girlfriend, but she was the first woman he’d had sex with. Although he wasn’t exactly in love with her, he was enjoying the regular sex and he was genuinely fond of her. From the beginning Caitlin had said, “I’m so much older than you. We both know this isn’t for keeps. We’ll have a good time and then we’ll both move on.” It wasn’t as if she’d deceived him.
Being ditched was more of a blow to his pride than his heart. Still, a break-up was a break-up.
Marcus looked at his watch. He should have been at Laurence Brand’s house for his Latin lesson ten minutes ago. He dragged himself to his feet, brushed the snow off the back of his greatcoat and stamped his numb feet to bring them back to life. Next payday he really needed to buy a decent pair of shoes. At least there had been no more snow since the heavy fall the night of Gray’s death, but it was still cold.
Poor Gray. He hadn’t deserved to die like that. Marcus’s mood had been a bit low ever since he heard the news of Gray Mitchell’s death. He’d got to know the American through Laurence Brand. Despite the difference in their ages — Laurence and Gray were older than his dad — Marcus had taken to both men immediately. Unlike his father, whom he loved dearly, they were educated. Both were easy to talk to, but Leon Warrior was different from Gray. Marcus liked him well enough but he was less generous and more . . . affected? Was that the word, or was it vain? And he was much less approachable than Laurence.
* * *
“Sorry I’m late,” said Marcus when Maxine Brand opened the door. She always made a bit of a fuss of him and he didn’t mind. Laurence was in the kitchen, which was even warmer than the entrance hall. Maxine had been baking and the oven was still on. Marcus felt his toes and fingers begin to tingle.
“No wonder your hands are cold. Don’t you have a proper pair of gloves?” Maxine said. “Laurence, you must have a spare pair of gloves somewhere that the lad could have. I’ll look some out while you’re having your lesson.” As she talked, Maxine was slicing up a lemon drizzle cake — Marcus’s favourite. He was grateful for the hunk of cake and mug of steaming tea she handed him as he left the kitchen to follow Laurence to the study. The Brands were a bit of an odd couple. Maxine was an extrovert, big and bubbly — and sexy too, Marcus thought, thinking of skinny Caitlin. Marcus was not normally capable of seeing Caitlin as anything less than perfect, and he experienced a prick of hope. Maybe there was a cure for his lovesickness after all.
“Have you managed to pick up a copy of that primer I told you about?” Laurence asked, settling into a high-backed leather chair at his desk. Marcus sat in an armchair next to the radiator. He pulled a tattered paperback from his pocket.
“Got it on Amazon for one pence plus postage,” he said. “Not in mint condition, but it’s readable.”
“Excellent,” Laurence said. “I thought we’d take a look at the Pliny again today, then ablative absolutes. That okay with you?”
For the next half hour pupil and teacher worked at translating one of Pliny’s letters.
“Your heart’s not in it today, is it?” Laurence said. Marcus had just failed to translate a straightforward sentence for the second time.
“Sorry.”
“Is it a girl?” Laurence asked.
Marcus looked down, miserably.
“Qui tacet consentire videtur, ubi loqui debuit ac potuit (Silence means consent). Anyone I know?
“Caitlin Forest.”
“Caitlin? Pretty girl. But isn’t she a bit older than you, Marcus?”
“So? You’re ten years older than Maxine, aren’t you?”
They sat in silence for a moment. Marcus’s misery permeated the room until even the radiator felt lukewarm.
“Far be it from me to advise you, Marcus, but—”
Marcus cut him off. “It’s no good. She doesn’t want me. I wasn’t even that into her, it’s just that . . .”
Laurence understood all too well. When he first met Maxine he had fallen hopelessly in love at first sight, but Maxine had scarcely noticed him. Even now, he couldn’t believe that she had agreed to their first date, never mind a marriage that had lasted twenty years. His courtship of her had been a campaign of attrition. “A man pursues a woman until she catches him,” Maxine had said. Even now Laurence couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
“I’m truly sorry, Marcus. But you’re a good-looking young lad. Plenty of girls would love to go out with you, I’m sure. That young lass in the café for one. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
“Chloe? She’s just a kid and she’s not my type.”
“Well, she’s not as pretty as Caitlin, but she is kind of cute . . .”
“Then why don’t you ask her out?” Marcus’s impatient sweep of the hand knocked the tea tray off the table, and an angle-poise lamp went with it. Laurence stared in dismay at the mess on his Persian rug.
“I’m . . . sorry,” Marcus stammered.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t being very helpful with my comments, was I? I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing. Maybe you should speak with Maxine. She always knows the right thing to say in these situations.”
“It’s alright,” Marcus said, hastily picking up the items he’d knocked over. “I probably shouldn’t have come this evening, straight after seeing Caitlin.”
“Look, Marcus, don’t go off feeling upset. Come and have a glass of wine in the kitchen. Maxine’s made chilli. She always makes too much and you look like you could do with a good meal.”
“No, I . . . I’d rather go. Thanks, Laurence.”
Marcus stumbled into the hallway and retrieved his coat. Maxine popped her head out of the kitchen. “Has Marcus gone already?” She held up a pair of woollen gloves. “I looked these out for him; I was going to give them to him before he left.”
“I’ll drop them off at the workshop tomorrow if you leave them out, love,” said Laurence. He crossed to the kitchen door and pulled Maxine into his arms.
“What’s this for, you silly man?”
“Just wanted you to know how much I love you,” Laurence said, and ducked as Maxine flicked him with his old woollen gloves.
* * *
Marcus walked down the street from Laurence’s house, slipping and sliding on the icy pavement. He had one thought in mind — to get wasted as soon as possible. He stepped through the door of the nearest pub, intending to stay until last orders. After an hour of sitting in a lonely booth, a noisy football crowd che
ering at the wide-screen TV above the bar, he’d had enough. He gulped down his fourth pint of ‘purple’ and stumbled outside again. The alcohol had hit the spot, and the snowy world looked glittery and beautiful in the streetlights. Marcus began humming the classic Slade hit, “Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun.” Laurence was right, he thought. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy and Caitlin wasn’t the only fish in the sea. Tomorrow he’d make a new start. First, though, he’d tell Caitlin exactly what he thought of her. He took his mobile out of his pocket. Slowly, because his fingers were freezing and his mind unclear, he texted a stream of angry, hurtful words. Then he hit the send button.
On his way back to his flat he stopped at an off-licence and bought a few beers. By the time he crashed out, he no longer cared whether he would regret his actions the following day.
* * *
After breaking up with Marcus, Caitlin had intended to go home. It had been a long day and the scene at the Applewhite had been more difficult than she’d anticipated. Marcus had no idea of her real feelings. Once, a long time ago, she had done something bad. Since coming to Stromford and finding pleasure in her work, she had half-believed it might be possible to put it behind her and lead a ‘normal’ life. But there was a darkness inside her that couldn’t be ignored.
Instead of going home, Caitlin had caught a bus out of town and taken a walk over a frost-hardened field to a small parish church. She had discovered it when she was driving around the county to look at the stained glass in old churches. It reminded her of one she had visited as a teenager, attending a wedding with her parents. It had been there that Caitlin had discovered her vocation. Standing in the congregation, bored by the ceremony, she had let her eyes wander. They came to rest on a small stained-glass window. She had gazed at it for the rest of the service. She had been fascinated by the extraordinary juxtaposition of lead and light, the colour contrasting with the sombre scene it depicted.
As soon as she’d come to live in Stromford, Caitlin had visited the cathedral. She had joined a tour and listened to a nervous middle-aged man with a lisp and a red bowtie talking about one of the windows. He explained how to read it the way an illiterate person of the twelfth century might have done, seeing the stories in pictures instead of words. Caitlin immediately wanted to know more. How had the window been created? What techniques had been used? How had the whole astonishing effect been assembled piece by piece with coloured glass? From that moment, she knew that her future lay in learning those techniques. She finished art college and took up an apprenticeship at the cathedral. She had been working there for the past two years.
