by JANICE FROST
Laurence stirred. “Maxine, is that you?”
“It’s me, Marcus. I’ve come to see how you are.”
Laurence pulled himself up. He was wearing striped pyjamas and had a tasselled dressing gown around his shoulders. His thinning grey hair was sticking out at all angles.
“You look like Einstein,” Marcus said, grinning.
“I look a bloody mess and I’m the meds they’ve given me. But at least I’ve lost the impulse to chuck a brick at Leon Warrior, so I suppose that means they’re working.”
“I didn’t know . . .”
“That I’m a nutter?” Laurence said. “Certifiable lunatic. Shouldn’t be allowed out. I could have killed Leon.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. By the time the police arrived I was coming to my senses. A brick to the side of the head will do that to you.”
“Was it just the brick?”
“You mean, was I in control? Not when I threw the brick, but I don’t think I would have caused Warrior any further harm.”
“Why . . ?”
“I got all worked up after seeing Warrior with that boy and thinking he’d cheated on Gray. It kind of escalated to convincing myself that Leon killed him. I meant to confront Leon and get him to admit the truth. I didn’t mean to harm him.”
“I believe you.”
“And I believe you had nothing whatsoever to do with Caitlin Forest’s death. All we need to do now is convince the police that we’re telling the truth.”
“Easier said than done,” Marcus said. “Does it hurt?” He pointed to the dressing on the side of Laurence’s head.
“Not as much as my pride, and not as much as I deserve. So, Marcus, where did you go after leaving here that evening?”
Marcus explained. Laurence shook his head when Marcus told him about the message.
“Mobile phones are a blessing and a curse. Alcohol and texting are a toxic mix.”
“I wish I could take it back. Not because it makes me look guilty, but because of what happened to poor Caitlin.” Marcus choked.
“Errare humanum est (to err is human),” Laurence said softly. Wearily.
“We know we aren’t killers,” Marcus said fiercely. “So we need to help the police find the real killers. But how?”
Laurence squinted at his pupil. “Promise me you won’t go getting yourself into trouble, lad. Let the police do their job.” Laurence’s words were slurred now. His head was nodding and his eyelids were beginning to droop.
Marcus sighed. He went downstairs. Through the half-open door to the kitchen, he could hear Maxine and Helen talking. Not wishing to disturb them, Marcus pulled his jacket from the coat stand and let himself out.
The more Marcus thought about his last meeting with Caitlin, the more he became convinced that she had not, in fact, grown tired of him. She couldn’t have just switched off her feeling for him that abruptly, unless she had been pretending all along. He and Caitlin had been together for only a few months. Even if it was simply sexual attraction, she should have wanted him for longer than that.
Okay, there was the age gap, but Caitlin hadn’t cared about that. Relatives and friends had always commented that Marcus was older than his years. Look how well he got on with Laurence Brand and Gray Mitchell. He had always preferred the company of older people. Girls his own age had always seemed silly and immature — all that giggling and shrieking.
He had fancied Caitlin for weeks before he’d plucked up the courage to ask her out. Then he had asked so quietly that she had had to ask him to repeat his words. He had almost lost his nerve. And she knew very well what he had said. It was the only time he could remember her being cruel, until she had broken up with him in the gardens of the Applewhite.
Now that she was dead, Marcus felt that he had betrayed her. It wasn’t just because he sent that cruel text message. He had allowed Laurence to convince him that he should accept the situation and move on. Now he felt that if he had gone to Caitlin, pleaded with her to tell him the real reason why she wanted to end their relationship, she would still be alive. Marcus was convinced of this.
Marcus tried to think of reasons why Caitlin would want to finish with him. He thought about it until his head hurt. In the end, he decided to draw up a list: Either Caitlin had never fancied him (unlikely). Or she really had tired of him that quickly (again, unlikely). Or he had done something to put her off him (nothing he could think of). Or — and this was the most plausible explanation — some unknown person or thing had come between them.
What then? The age difference? Another man or woman? Fear? Was she trying to protect him? This one intrigued him. Who would he need protecting from? Someone Caitlin knew would be the obvious choice. But who?
How well had he known Caitlin, really? She disliked speaking about her past and never mentioned her childhood. If Marcus pressed her for details, she would talk about her schooldays in a vague way, as though they had taken place in another country.
“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” It was a favourite quote of Laurence’s. Marcus wasn’t sure he understood it completely, but it seemed to resonate with Caitlin’s accounts of her childhood. When he asked her about school she would say something like, “Oh, I don’t remember anything except the cold. It always seemed to be snowing then.”
Marcus couldn’t remember that much snow when he was a child. When he was five years old, Caitlin would have been twelve. Marcus had received a toboggan that Christmas and it seemed like there was hardly ever enough snow to use it. To hear Caitlin, you’d think it had snowed for months on end every year of her childhood.
Still, memory was shaky and unreliable. Marcus knew this from talking with Laurence and Gray, Vincent and his other older friends. How many times had he listened to Laurence and Vincent Bone argue about when a certain song had been ‘top of the pops’ (whatever that was). When Marcus googled the facts on his smartphone he had proven both of them wrong.
Marcus began to think he might be catching some of Caius’s anger. He resented being considered a suspect. If the police weren’t going to act, maybe he should do some investigating of his own.
* * *
The downstairs window of Leon Warrior’s house had been repaired. Maxine had asked him to send the bill to her but Leon had paid cash. Maxine had visited him in hospital, full of apologies and explanations and excuses for her husband’s behaviour. Leon had reassured her that he did not intend to press charges. He said that he was sympathetic to Laurence’s condition, having lived with a man who suffered from bipolar disorder. He had known, of course, about Laurence’s illness. Unlike Gray, Laurence had not been open about his illness. Gray had suspected that he was ashamed of it. He had been counselling Laurence to be more accepting of his condition. Gray had dealt with his own illness in the same way as he acknowledged his sexuality. It was simply a part of who he was. Bless him, he had never complained, Leon thought. He looked at the beautiful boy sleeping beside him. One day, probably quite soon, the boy would find someone younger and more attractive.
Leon had been shocked to hear that Gray had been seen in the company of a young man. The thought that his lover might have been unfaithful was more painful than he could ever have imagined. Leon had often been unfaithful over the years. Only now did he understand what it felt like to be betrayed. With a start, Leon realised that he had never loved anyone the way he had loved Gray. That beautiful, gentle man had truly been the love of his life.
Leon wished he could ask for forgiveness. His young lover stirred and rolled onto his back. He looked at Leon’s tears, reached out and touched his cheek, then slowly, seductively, licked his wet, salty fingers. He placed his other hand on Leon’s thigh.
A sudden rage took hold of Leon. “Get out!” he screamed.
The young man withdrew his hand and looked at him.
“Get. Out.” Leon turned away so that he would not see Godfrey slipping, naked, out of his bed and gathering his discar
ded clothes from the floor. He did not want his resolve to weaken.
Leon stayed in bed until he heard the door slam shut downstairs and the garden gate squeak once on its rusted hinges — the young man did not bother to close it behind him. Leon hauled himself up and took a long, hot, purging shower.
All morning Leon skirted around the drinks cabinet in his living room. After all these years, he was discovering the truth that an alcoholic was never really cured. Then, just as he was about to grab the bottle, he changed his mind. He needed to find out more about Gray’s mystery man.
The police had searched his house thoroughly in the days following Gray’s death. They had found nothing. It occurred to Leon that he was much better placed than the police to uncover any signs of Gray’s secret life. He let go of the scotch bottle.
Leon went upstairs and began a systematic search of Gray’s possessions, beginning with his clothes. By the time he was finished, their walk-in closet resembled the aftermath of an upmarket rummage sale. All he had discovered were a few Hershey bar wrappers in the pocket of a jacket Gray hadn’t worn since they left California.
He turned his attention to credit card receipts and bills, all of which the police had already examined meticulously. The police had informed him that Gray had met with his mystery man at the Barley Inn. If so, he must have paid with cash and thrown away the receipts. All Leon managed to come up with was a ticket stub for a play at the Tithe Barn. This was puzzling, but not damning.
After a couple of hours of fruitless rifling, Leon was ready to give up. At least his rummaging had kept him away from the bottle. As he reached once more for the scotch, the doorbell sounded. He sidestepped around the furniture, holding close to the wall in case another brick came crashing through the window. He didn’t dare approach the window in the hallway either, so the unwelcome sight of Gray’s sister, Carrie Howard, floored him completely.
“Carrie. What a surprise . . . Er, come in.”
“Hello, Leon. I’ve told at least three people I’m coming here and they all have instructions to call the police if I’m not back at my hotel by two o’clock this afternoon. So don’t go thinking you can just go bumping me off like you did my brother.” Carrie stomped into the hallway.
“What on God’s earth are you talking about, Carrie?”
“And you can quit with the toffee-nosed English accent, Leon. It never worked on me. You’re no more upper class than I am.”
“What do you want, Carrie?”
“Drink would be nice,” Carrie answered. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“I don’t . . .”
“I can smell it on you, Leon. Besides, it takes one to know one.” She tapped her nose.
Wordlessly, Leon led her into the living room and poured them both a scotch.
“So?” Carrie demanded.
Leon raised his eyebrows.
“Why’d you do it?”
“If by ‘it,’ you’re insinuating that I killed Gray, then you’re even wackier than Gray said.”
“You’re full of shit, Leon Warrior. I know Gray would never bad mouth me. Too full of the milk of human kindness or whatever bullshit he used to come out with when he was rehearsing his lines.” She downed her drink and held out her glass.
“Same old Carrie.”
“You betchagoddamlife I am! A leopard don’t change its spots.” She stared pointedly at Leon.
“I didn’t kill Gray.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
“Believe what you like, Carrie. Why the hell would I kill the person I loved more than anything in this world?”
Carrie laughed. “You haven’t lost the person you love more than anything in this world, Leon. He’s standing right in front of me.”
“I’ll ask you again, Carrie. What do you want?”
Carrie reached into her handbag and extracted a white envelope addressed to her.
Leon recognised Gray’s writing instantly. “What’s this?” he asked, resisting the urge to snatch the envelope from her. He didn’t need to. Carrie handed it over.
“You might want to sit down before you read it.”
Leon ignored this. He saw from the date on the envelope that Gray had posted the letter two weeks before his death — just before Leon had taken his trip to London.
“Surprised he kept in touch with me, are you? I never approved of Gray’s sexual leanings, but he was still my brother and I loved him. It was natural he’d turn to me in his hour of need and, as a good Christian I couldn’t turn my back on him.”
Leon’s legs began to quiver and the paper shook in his hand. Leon understood immediately why Gray had chosen to communicate via snail mail rather than email. Gray had not been so trusting after all. After a couple of paragraphs of news, Gray revealed the true purpose of his letter:
For reasons I do not intend to go into now, I have decided to leave Leon and return to the States. I recently received an invitation from my old acting friend, Melissa Carter, to join her travelling theatre company as assistant director and actor and . . . I have a favour to ask of you . . . buying land . . . transferring the payment to your account . . .
Leon could scarcely believe what he was reading. Only the sight of Carrie Howard’s sneering face stopped him from sinking to the floor and burying his head in his hands. It took every scrap of his acting ability to try and conceal his feelings. Even so, he could not control the physical signs. A slow smile was overtaking the sneer on Carrie’s face.
“I can see you weren’t expecting that.” She held out her a hand for the letter. “Gray finally came to his senses and saw you for the phoney rat you are.”
For the second time that day, Leon yelled, “Get out!”
But Carrie Howard wasn’t finished. “This house, all your savings, everything. It’s all going to be mine when you’re arrested for murdering my brother.” She had moved close to Leon. Instead of throttling her, he repeated his order to get out. She stuffed the letter back in her bag and turned on her heel.
Leon watched her lumbering down the pathway to the still-open gate. She didn’t close it behind her either. Leon ran outside and slammed it shut so violently that the whole fence shuddered.
* * *
Neal and Ava drew up outside Ray Irons’ house for the second time in as many days. This time the snow had all but disappeared and the path to his doorway was less treacherous.
Irons answered his door sporting a festive jumper with a picture of a red-arsed Santa pissing against a Christmas tree.
“Classy jumper,” Ava whispered to Neal.
Ripper was barking from the kitchen and Irons asked if they minded if he let the dog in. He assured them his pet wouldn’t hurt a fly. The dog was surprisingly well-trained. After some initial tail chasing and a couple of attempts to sniff Ava’s crotch, he followed Irons into the living room and settled down at his feet. Uninvited, Neal and Ava also sat down.
“What can I do you for this time?” Irons asked, stroking the dog’s muzzle.
“Why did you not tell us that Leon Warrior once dated your sister, Mr Irons?” Ava said.
Irons shrugged. If the question made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “Never thought it was relevant.”
“We’ve seen the reports of the accident Tara and Warrior were involved in. Mr Irons, did you blame Leon Warrior for what happened to Tara?”
“You’re kidding me, ain’t you? Who else would I blame?”
On the journey to Irons’ house, Ava had wondered why Irons had taken no action against Leon Warrior. He had not been charged with threatening or assaulting Warrior. He had also failed to make a statement at the hearing into Tara Smythe’s death. There had to be a reason. Irons wasn’t the sort of person to let something like that go.
“Why didn’t you confront Warrior about your sister’s death? You already hated him for going out with her. I can’t believe you would just let Leon off the hook if you believed he was responsible for Tara’s death.”
“My sergeant�
��s right, Mr Irons,” said Neal.
“What did Leon Warrior have on you?” Ava said.
“What are you getting at? That poofter had nothing on me.”
Ava saw that now Irons seemed more afraid than angry. All of a sudden she thought she knew the reason.
“We can always ask Leon, Mr Irons. He’s completely at ease with his sexuality.”
Ava could see Neal’s astonishment. She didn’t blame him. It had only just occurred to her. Irons’ obvious discomfort convinced Ava that she was on the right track. Ray Irons was deeply in denial about his own sexuality. She had heard that homophobes are often repressed homosexuals, in deep denial about their own sexuality.
“Leon Warrior knew, didn’t he? I bet he used that knowledge to his advantage at school when he realised that you weren’t able to cope with your feelings for other boys. Leon told people that he was bullied. He told Gray that you had bullied him because of his sexuality, and maybe that was true, but I suspect Leon was a bit of a bully himself. Am I right, Mr Irons?”
Irons just stared at her.
Neal threw in something else. “Did he catch you engaging in some kind of sexual act with another boy? Or did you and Leon—?”
Neal never finished his sentence. Irons was out of his chair in a flash. Ripper gave a yelp of pain as his master stood on one of his paws. It was only Irons’ concern for his pet that prevented him moving on Neal before he could dodge out of the way. As it was, Irons landed on the sofa beside Neal and lunged in his direction. Ava winced as Neal deflected a punch with his forearm. He yelled at Irons to back off. All the while, Ripper was growling and tugging at the leg of Neal’s trousers.
“Can we have a bit of calm here!” Neal said.
“Ripper. Here.” Irons commanded. The dog quieted immediately and sat by its master. “Good dog.” Irons stroked the little terrier until it calmed and lay down at his feet. It was almost touching.
“Want me to cuff him, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant. As long as Mr Irons restrains himself and keeps his dog under control.”
