A Poison Tree

by J. E. Mayhew

  “You going to arrest me now?”

  “We’ll take you down to the station. Make sure you’re okay. Then we’ll assess the situation. Do you want DS Chinn to phone Julie and tell her that you’re safe? She’s worried sick about you.”

  Ken thought for a moment and then nodded. Blake glanced over to Chinn who nodded back and led Thompson out of the building to the car. Nurses and other staff hurried to reassure the other patients and check they were alright.

  Blake stood at Hunt’s bedside and the old man looked groggily at him. “He knows, then?” he said and gave a faint, humourless smile.

  “Looks that way, Mr Hunt,” Blake said.

  “She caused so much trouble,” Hunt croaked. “If only I’d acted sooner. Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess…” He closed his eyes and Blake was jostled out of the way by a team of nurses.

  On his way out of the hospice, Blake phoned Kinnear. “We need to find Marcus Hunt as quickly as possible. He was in the area on Friday. We met him at the house.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be there now, sir. It was gutted of furniture, remember?” Kinnear said. “I’ll get a check of local hotels done. I’ll try the classier ones first. Hunt didn’t strike me as a man who liked slumming it. Is there any way his father can help us?”

  “No,” Blake said. “I don’t think the nursing staff would appreciate me trying to question him right now. It turns out that Rebecca and Marcus shared the same father, Victor Hunt…”

  “You’re thinking that maybe Marcus killed Rebecca because of any inheritance there might be when the old man died, sir?” Kinnear said.

  “It’s as strong a motive as any. We know Marcus is eager to get his hands on the family fortune; he’s sold the contents of the family home with indecent haste. Maybe Marcus found out about Rebecca and just lost it. He’s ex-military, a trained killer and has quite a temper on him. Look at the way he threatened us with the shotgun. We need to find him, quick.”

  “I’ll get onto it, sir. Want me to check airports too?”

  “If you can, thanks.” Blake pocketed his mobile. The light was fading fast. He wanted to go home, open a large bottle of red and watch a mindless film. Anything to block the memories that his conversation with Ken Thompson had unearthed. He felt drained by the encounter and he hadn’t missed the curious look Vikki Chinn had given him.

  He didn’t talk about his past life. There were rumours, he knew that, but he clamped down hard on any speculative questions about family. It was in the past and it was nobody’s business. His stomach rumbled and it dawned on him that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Hunt wasn’t going to miraculously appear overnight and if he had absconded, then he’d be long gone by now. Blake started the Manta. Or at least tried to. The engine gave a grating cough and remained silent. “Bugger,” Blake muttered.

  ◆◆◆

  A blue Hyundai sat on the side of the road outside Blake’s house. As he paid the taxi driver, Laura Vexley got out and gave him a wave.

  “Laura. What brings you out here?”

  “I thought you said to meet today. As I left.”

  Blake frowned. “I don’t think I did…”

  “Well, I’m here now, so I may as well have a look at Serafina.” Laura said, with a shrug and a grin.

  Blake grunted and turned to the front door. “I haven’t been in all day, so I don’t know what to expect.”

  The air smelt clean as Blake flicked the light on. Everything was in its place, ornaments, Jeffrey’s picture, still minus the glass. He’d replace it. One day. They went into the living room and Serafina sat on his mother’s armchair, curled up and purring.

  “She looks happy enough right now.”

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. It makes me suspicious, to be honest. I’m beginning to wonder what she’s up to.” He scanned the room but it all looked unmolested.

  “Can I?” Laura said, pointing at the sofa.

  Blake nodded. “Sure.” Then he wondered why he always seemed to be saying, ‘yes,’ to this woman. “Look, I appreciate your concern about the cat but I can’t help wondering how much all this is going to cost…”

  “Well, that depends on how successful we are,” Laura said. Serafina jumped down from her armchair and up onto Laura’s lap. “Hello, princess,” Laura cooed and tickled the cat under the chin.

  “She certainly trusts you,” Blake said.

  “Which means she’s a terrible judge of character,"Laura said, with a laugh. “Is she using the litter trays?”

  Blake nodded. “Yes. I only got them on Sunday. So early days yet.”

  “Good. And how about you?”

  “No, I don’t use the litter trays,” Blake said, suppressing a smile. "D'you think I should? Set a good example?"

  Laura tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean how are you? How do you feel?”

  For a second, Blake froze. It had been so long since anyone had asked that question and really meant it. The Super might ask him, but that was more of a ‘can you get the job done’ kind of question more than a genuine enquiry as to his well-being. “I’m fine.”

  “We’re all fine, Mr Blake…”

  “Will, call me Will,” Blake said, feeling himself blush. “No, I mean, I slept well last night. The cat still demanding food and going for me occasionally, but I feel good. Yeah. I feel more relaxed at home.”

  “That’s good, Will,” Laura said, gently. Blake stared deep into her green eyes for a moment, then blinked and looked away.

  “Anyway,” he said. “The cat. What next?”

  “I think you should spend more time with her. Be around.”

  “I can’t. I’m in the middle of a serious case.” For a fleeting moment, he imagined standing in front of the Super announcing his need to spend more time with the cat.

  Laura shrugged. “Quality time then? Play with her. Does she chase things? Bits of string? Stuff like that?”

  Blake looked at her in horror. “Play with her?”

  “You’re in a vicious cycle at the moment. You come in tired, restrict her food. She lashes out at you. You yell or whatever. Just be around her. Be calm. Be fun.” Blake noticed the quirk in her lips as she gave a faint smile. “You can do ‘fun’ can’t you?”

  Blake frowned. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

  “Maybe we need to work on that, too,” she said, giving him a knowing grin. “But I’ll have to go. Call me, soon.”

  Tuesday October 29th

  CHAPTER 28

  Blake slept soundly and woke to find the cat curled up at his feet. He tried to hurry but somehow found himself lingering to watch Serafina eat. Laura Vexley hadn’t stayed long at the house but she’d been in his dreams. He blushed at the memory. The kitchen units looked dated and tired. He needed to move things on. Maybe the Manta needed to go too. He’d arranged for a garage to pick it up and have a look but, for now, he was relying on taxis and other people’s cars.

  When he got in, the Operations Room was in full swing. There was a note to call in on Superintendent Martin. Blake heaved a long breath. Better get it over with, then.

  Superintendent Martin ran his fingers through his hair and dropped his biro on the desk in front of him as Blake entered the office. “What is going on, Blake? An old man in a wheelchair hospitalised, a hostage situation in a hospice. Do you go out looking for headlines or do they just fall into your lap? Hoping to resurrect Searchlight, or something?”

  “No, sir,” Blake said, his heart sinking; if only he’d refused to go on that bloody programme all those years ago. “With respect, sir, we’ve closed down a major cannabis farm as a result of our investigations…”

  “And got nowhere with the case. You’re also ruffling feathers higher up the tree, Blake, with your investigation of the Hunt family.”

  “Really, sir? Who might that be?”

  “Let’s just say Victor Hunt has some very influential but concerned friends within local business and the Authority. Word has got back to them that
you’ve been interviewing him at his bedside. It looks like harassment, Blake.”

  “I can’t help that, sir and Victor Hunt has been fairly cooperative despite his illness,” Blake said, looking over Martin’s head; the less eye contact the better. “We think there may be some connection between Rebecca Thompson’s death and previous cold cases. It appears that Marcus Hunt and Thompson were half siblings and were communicating with each other…”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “It’s suspicious, sir, when Marcus Hunt is suggesting they meet clandestinely. And he may have good reason to murder another possible beneficiary of Victor Hunt’s will.”

  Martin slumped down in his seat again, mollified.

  “Very well. But don’t let this descend into chaos, Blake. All the kids on the Wirral are up in arms about this ‘Clocky’ nonsense and the time of year doesn’t help. We’ve had gangs of so-called trick or treaters terrorising young children and pretending to be Cameron Lock’s ghost. I’ve lost count of the number of callouts we’ve had from hysterical children claiming to have been attacked by him. Fireworks are being set off right, left and centre. It’s getting out of hand.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Do it, then. Because if you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”

  Blake nodded and left the room, his knuckles white and his teeth cracking in his jaw. When he found Marcus Hunt, innocent or guilty, he was going to make sure the bastard realised the trouble he’d caused, one way or another.

  “Kinnear struck lucky last night, sir,” Manikas said, as Blake returned to the Incident Room. “Hunt is staying at the Grosvenor Hotel and as far as they know, he hasn’t checked out yet. All his belongings are still in the wardrobe and his credit card is still open at Reception. He didn’t have any food or drink in the hotel last night and none of the staff have seen him for a couple of days. He hasn’t reported to any local station to show his gun licence either.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “I phoned around the local barracks, just to see if anyone remembered him. There’s a TA Captain out at Burton Point who said he’d be happy to talk to us, sir.”

  “Good work, Alex,” Blake said. “Fancy a drive out? I know I do. I’m afraid the Manta’s out of action but we can use your car…”

  ◆◆◆

  The TA building out on Burton Marshes looked like a small village hall. It had a carpark and inside, a large assembly area with some offices and a kitchen at one end. The similarities ended there because the hall adjoined several hundred acres of firing range. Blake could hear the distant pop of gunfire as he showed his warrant card to the guard on duty at the gate. It was a bleak place, ramps of grassed over earth formed barricades from the shooting practice but beyond that, the muted colours of the marsh faded into a distant grey. Blake could see the Welsh hills beyond and remembered that this was where Drucilla’s body had been found.

  Captain Harrison was a tall man, near retirement with short-cropped, grey hair and an easy manner. He wore camouflage trousers and a green jumper and leaned against his desk, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Yes, I know Marcus Hunt of old,” he said in answer to Blake’s question. “We served in Afghanistan together. I didn’t get on with him, to be honest. I always thought of him as something of a bully. Of course subsequent events proved me right…”

  Blake frowned. “I’m sorry. What events, sir?”

  “It’s a matter of public record,” Harrison said, raising his eyebrows. “A number of new recruits left training and accused Hunt of picking on them. One even accused him of making sexual advances to her. There was a full inquiry and Hunt was dismissed. It’s a wonder there weren’t criminal proceedings, to be honest. I think certain parties were paid off.”

  “I see,” Blake replied.

  “There was also the matter in Afghanistan. Rumours more than anything and never substantiated. There were stories about him using excessive force against prisoners, that sort of thing but, as I say, nothing ever came of it. Marcus Hunt, it seemed, was coated in Teflon.”

  Blake made a note. “Do you think he was capable of such violence?”

  Captain Harrison shrugged. “Maybe we all are in the right circumstances, Mr Blake, but I’d say Hunt relished conflict and he was more than capable. Of course that’s just my opinion.”

  “We’re trying to get hold of him but he isn’t at his hotel. Would you have any idea where we might find him?”

  “I’m sorry,” Harrison said. “I decided to keep away from Marcus Hunt a long time ago. I don’t really know where he might be, these days.”

  Blake nodded and thanked the Captain for his time. He returned to the car with Manikas. “That was interesting but not unexpected,” he said. “Where else might he be?”

  They checked in on the hospice but Marcus hadn’t visited since Saturday afternoon. Victor Hunt was sedated and so unable to help them further.

  “We could check out the Hunt residence, sir,” Manikas said. “You never know.”

  Blake nodded. “I can’t think of anywhere else he might be, Alex, let’s go and see, shall we?”

  The skies were darkening and threatening rain by the time Blake and Manikas pulled up in front of the Priest House. The branches hung down over the narrow drive, giving the place an eerie feeling. They were less than a couple of miles from the busy centre of Bromborough and yet it was so still and silent here. Blake felt as if he was driving into another, darker world.

  “That’s Hunt’s car,” Manikas said as the house swung into view. The green Range Rover sat by the front door which hung open.

  They climbed out of the car and approached the house. “The front window is broken,” Blake said, keeping his voice low. His heart thumped. This didn’t feel right. He pushed the door wider gently and led the way as they stepped into the hallway.

  “Hello?” Blake yelled. No answer. He gripped the thick bannisters and stared up the grand staircase that had faced them as they entered. “Mr Hunt? Police! Are you there?”

  Even empty of chairs and tables, the house gave off an air of opulence and grandeur as they stalked around it; oak panelled walls surrounded them, the sheen of the wood brighter where pictures had once hung. The wooden floorboards looked almost brand new, testament to the thickness and quality of the carpets that had covered and protected them over the generations. The place had a stillness to it. As if it was waiting for something to happen.

  “There wouldn’t be much to steal,” Manikas said, his voice echoing in the cavernous living room. A huge empty fireplace stood on the inner wall of the room, its gaping mouth making the place feel somehow colder. A few packing boxes lay on their sides as if thrown around. “I bet whoever broke in was disappointed,” he called as Blake stepped into the dining room.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured and pointed to the body that lay on the floor, face down in a pool of congealed blood. “I think they got just what they came for. Marcus Hunt.”

  ◆◆◆

  The rain that had threatened held off but the low cloud created a gloom that made the inside of Priest House so dark that the Crime Scene Investigators set up arc lights inside. Jack Kenning squatted beside the body but Blake could see the vicious entry wound in the back of Marcus Hunt’s head. It made him think of Thompson’s ice pick.

  “Struck from behind?” Blake said. “Sharp implement?”

  Kenning looked up at Blake and slid his glasses down his nose. “You should qualify, Will,” he said. “You’re a natural. Yes. Taken completely by surprise, I’d say, judging from the spatter pattern. He was hit and fell like a tree. Never saw it coming. The assailant followed up with a second blow. Bit of a frenzied attack; there are a number of other wounds around the shoulders and back but look where the weapon has punctured the floorboards. I’d say they were misses but made after the fatal blow. If he’d had a body blow first, he probably would have rolled over to defend himself. I’m pretty sure these body blows came after
death.”

  “And where would the attacker have been standing?”

  “First of all, over here, behind the curtains, I’d have said.”

  “A surprise attack from behind, then.”

  “He was a big lad, Blake. I don’t think many people would have wanted to take him on in a fair fight.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  Kenning shrugged. “A small pick axe. Something with a long wooden handle and a sharp point. Old, I’d say. Rusted slightly at the tips.”

  “You can tell all that from the entry wound?” Blake said, screwing his face up.

  “No, Will, it’s over there behind the curtain, leaning up against the window ledge,” Kenning said, with a brief smile. “The killer left it behind. We might be able to get something from it.”

  Blake knelt down by the pick. It was old, with a worn handle. If it hadn’t been covered with blood and bits of Hunt’s brain, Blake would have thought it quite beautiful; a symbol of labourers of the past, hewing rock and earth to tame the land. “Do you think it came from here?”

  “Quite possible,” Kenning said. “I’m no expert but that looks like an antique. The handle’s well-used and there’s no branding on it of any kind.”

  “Premeditated,” Blake said. “Somebody must have known he was coming, possibly even lured him into the house and then killed him. Any sign of his phone?”

  “Not here on the scene. Unless it’s been dropped somewhere. A fingertip search of the place might find it. Bit of a bind, eh? I hear he was your main suspect.”

  Blake stood, hands on hips surveying the carnage. “He was, Jack, he was.”

  “So, back to square one, then?”

  “Not quite.”

  ◆◆◆

  Blake looked unhappy as he paced the Incident Room. Cryer, Chinn, Kinnear and Manikas all sat, their faces reflecting Blake’s frustration back at him. He stopped, rubbed his face and let out a huge breath.