'Only what Lasser told me.'
Michael pointed a shaking finger. 'Yeah, well he knows sod all then, doesn't he?'
'He was there when you attacked her.'
Michael rubbed at his eyes, all the frustration, all the guilt gnawing at his brain. What did this bastard know, sitting in his massive house with his big fuck-off car?
'Why don't you sit down, if you still want to go home later I'll give you a lift?'
Michael shook his head violently. 'I gotta go now.'
'Why? The police won't let you see these boys and your mother doesn't want you. So, where will you go?'
'Fuck off saying that!'
'I'm only being honest; if you'd prefer I could always lie to you. I could tell you that she's going spare wondering where you are, I could say she's combing the streets looking for you. Would that make you feel better?'
'Fuck off!' Michael screamed, the veins in his neck rigid, his throat raw as if someone had set about it with a Brillo pad.
'It's not your fault, you know.'
'What do you know, eh, come on, Mr Smart Arse, fucking tell me?'
'I know you feel responsible for what's happened.'
Michael glared for a moment, his breathing ragged and then his shoulders sagged. 'I just forgot about him, how the fuck could I do something like that?'
'You were close?'
'Yeah, but then I started college and…' he dropped his head.
Fossey ruffled the dog's ears. 'You just grew up, Michael, it isn't a crime.'
'I knew what he was doing; I used to be mates with that lot. They do smack and coke and fuck about, Billy was only fourteen, and I should have stopped him.'
'And how would you have managed that?'
'I don't know!' Fossey could hear the anguish, the sense of loss. 'But I never even tried; I was too busy trying to get some stupid sodding diploma.'
'Listen, I don't know about you or your family, but I do know that time is swallowed up. You want to change your circumstances but doing it means you have to be prepared to give up certain things. Believe me I've got qualifications up to here.' Fossey tapped a hand to his forehead. 'But I never had the time to go anywhere, the few friends I had stopped asking me because I always said no, because there was always more studying to be done.'
'But…'
'Did he look up to you?'
Michael frowned, thrown by the question.
'I suppose so,' he eventually mumbled.
'That's what younger brothers do, you smoked dope, and he followed suit?'
'Yeah, but…'
'So, sooner or later he would have started to take an interest in what you were doing at college.'
'Well, now he'll never get that chance, will he?' Michael replied bitterly.
'That's not really the point.'
'What are you talking about, I let him down, I should have been there for him.'
'You were doing the right thing, that's what really matters. The fact that your brother won't be around to follow you is tragic, but it isn't your fault.' Fossey stood up and crossed the room, Michael watched as he sat down at the computer and tapped at a few keys.
Fossey turned. 'You know I think it's a software problem, I keep trying to access the updates, but something's stopping me from downloading them.'
Michael crossed the room slowly until he was standing at Fossey's shoulder.
'You're OS is probably corrupted,' he mumbled.
'OS?' Fossey asked.
'Yeah, it means operating system.'
'So, it's broken?'
Michael sighed heavily, suddenly all the anger, all the frustration seemed to bleed out of him. 'Not necessarily,' he paused and tapped at a couple of keys. 'Give me an hour or so and I should be able to sort it.'
Fossey stood and offered Michael the chair.
'I'll get us another drink.' Fossey said.
37
Ashley sat in the huge, gloomy kitchen picking at the burnt omelette without relish.
He'd never liked this room; it always reminded him of an operating theatre twinned with an abattoir. The sink and work surfaces were heavy stainless steel, pale moonlight splashed through the window reflecting a myriad of scratches on the surface of the metal. The steel interspaced with large wooden slabs used for the cutting of meat, the walls were painted a militaristic grey colour, like the base coat of a chieftain tank. As far as he was concerned, it was just another morbid room in a depressing house. He had a vague memory of sitting here as a child while the cooks prepared food for a dinner party.
Letting the knife and fork rattle onto the plate, Ashley laughed, a bitter bark. Dinner parties, by God, the way things were going he would be eating microwave meals for one, living in a single room while the house fell down around him, a male equivalent of Miss Havisham.
Picking up the plate, he scraped the food into the bin before dropping the plate into the huge earthenware sink.
His eyes flitted to the window, a frown forming on his high forehead, in the distance, a sickly, yellow light flickered like the haze from an autumn bonfire.
The greenhouse, someone had lit the paraffin heater, used to keep the winter seedlings warm and dry.
Pulling open a drawer, he lifted out a flashlight and flicked it on and off a couple of times before heading out into the garden. Outside the air was sultry as if the world were somehow holding its breath in expectation of some momentous event, the gravel beneath his feet crunched like seashells on a beach. Ducking under the low branches of a huge elm tree, the yellow light continued to flicker in the darkness.
William Radfield had erected the greenhouses, but like everything else his father touched they were falling into disrepair, panes of glass shattered or missing altogether, paint peeled from the wrought iron frames the metal slowly rusting away beneath.
Standing at the door, he shone the torch inside; the light picking up grape vines withered and twisted that had broken free of their restraints and now lay on the floor like a nest of long dead snakes. Vegetable boxes full of weeds lay scattered on the ground; the slick smell of paraffin laced the air.
Ashley made his way inside, heading down the narrow central aisle, stepping over plant pots and bits of wood. Leaves that had drifted in through the broken windows rustled as he walked, a pane of glass cracked beneath his feet. Despite the missing windows it felt intolerably hot, he could feel beads of sweat seeping from his pores. At the far end of the structure, the paraffin heater flickered, casting small moving shadows against the grimy glass.
As he approached, the fumes became thicker; he coughed clearing his throat in an effort to dispel the stench. Light from the torch flickered and began to fade. Cursing, he gave the casing a shake; the light bloomed shortly before fading back to a sickly glow.
Reaching the heater, Ashley swivelled the switch on top, the flame popped then died, the elements pinging as they instantly began to cool.
As he turned to leave, the light swept into the corner and then moved on. Ashley stopped, an acid breath locked in his throat, his hand jittered, the beam careered around the narrow space. Taking a backward step, he collided with a tower of interlinked plant pots, the small terracotta construction crashed down; he spun around, a scream on his lips, his heart slamming like an old bilge pump.
The exit seemed to stretch away from him, an optical illusion a trick of the mind.
Get out of here, get to the house and ring the police, his rational voice screamed. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend, unable to move, his legs unresponsive. Get a grip man; you have to be sure, the thought of having the police turn up only to discover it was an old bundle of rags was too embarrassing to contemplate. Oh, he was sure that while they were here the police would be sympathetic.
'Quite understandable, sir, anyone can make a mistake.'
Yet when they left, the rumours would start. His mind conjured up a group of faceless uniformed men, discussing their day's work.
'I tell you the man's losing his marble
s, must be all that interbreeding.'
Shaking his head to dispel the distressing image, he stood erect and straightened his shoulders, military style. Then slowly he began to move the feeble light back into the corner.
His father was sitting on the floor his legs splayed out in front, the torchlight reflected off the patent leather brogues. His tan trousers stained dark at the crotch, the wax jacket thrown open as though someone had been rifling through the pockets. Head thrown back, the barrel of the shotgun clamped between his dentures, his face had been twisted out of shape by the blast that had removed the top of his head.
Ashley swallowed and forced himself to look again. The stock of the gun had been jammed into the soft earth; the twin barrels slick with blood.
Ashley grimaced, was this not what he wanted, is this not what he'd prayed for? With the old man dead, he could concentrate on moving ahead with his plans. It all made a kind of perfect sense, a twisted logic.
The torchlight wavered and died, the dark swarmed in, creating a black hole that suddenly filled Ashley's mind.
In the cloying darkness, he sensed movement. He imagined his father twitching, flexing his legs and rising, one liver-spotted hand on the windowsill, jagged glass slicing into dead flesh as he pushed himself erect. The head swaying with a wet slurping sound, like a child sucking the last of a milkshake through a narrow straw. 'Come here, boy, I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget.'
Ashley heard, or thought he heard the first shuffling footsteps of his dead father, as he moved towards his only son. 'I told you, Ashley, you don't get rid of me that easily.'
Ashley turned and ran.
38
As far as Lasser was concerned it was a waste of time, there were a dozen uniformed officers wandering around aimlessly amongst the trees, the beams from their flashlights crossing one another like some cheap light show at an illegal rave.
At the bottom of the hill, the derelict house remained lit like some evil fairy grotto. Perhaps stumbling around in the dark was his penance for leaving Cathy Harper, Simms's way of slapping him on the wrist. Lasser yawned and lit a cigarette, if that were the case then he'd count himself lucky to have escaped so lightly.
'Oh Christ!'
He turned. 'What are you moaning at, Parker?'
'I just stood in a pile of dog mess, sir.'
Lasser sighed. 'You can call it shit, Parker, I won't be offended.'
He heard sniggering in the dark and smiled to himself. God, he felt knackered, checking his watch he groaned. He had put in a request for a generator to be sent up, but he wasn't holding his breath, in fact it wouldn't surprise him if the bloody thing turned up with the sun.
Police tape had been stretched out between the trees, though he couldn't be certain that it was in the right place, there could be a dozen dead bodies littering the area and they wouldn't know.
'Sir, what are we looking for exactly?'
'Obviously you're looking for bugger all, Parker, aren't you?'
'Sorry, sir,' the light swept away from his face.
'To tell you the truth, I haven't got a clue.'
'But…'
Lasser's phone began to chime, holding up a hand to silence Parker he slapped it to his ear.
'Hello.'
'Where are you, Lasser?'
Simms again, maybe this wasn't his penance after all.
'I'm up in the woods, sir, we're making a thorough search of the area and…'
'Right, you're the nearest.'
'The nearest for what?'
'Do you know where Radfield Manor is?'
'Well…'
'I need you to get over there.'
'But what about the search?'
'Listen, you know as well as I do that you'll find nothing wandering around out there in the pitch dark.'
'Yes, sir,' Lasser gripped the phone tight, his anger bubbling away nicely.
'I'll get Hopkins to coordinate with the men you have up there, you get your backside over to the Manor House.'
'Can I ask why?'
A small chuckle floated from the handset. 'See, when you put your mind to it you can pretend you're a police officer.'
For once Lasser was glad it was dark; at least Parker couldn't see his face burning with embarrassment. The line went quiet as if the old sod was waiting for a reply to the insult. Lasser didn't intend to give him the pleasure.
'Lord Malcolm Radfield was found dead about an hour ago.'
Bloody hell they're dropping like flies. 'Right, sir.'
'Harper is at the scene, she says it looks like suicide but with the way things are going lately I don't want anything taken for granted.'
'I understand.'
'So, that means doing everything by the book, no wandering off to take some hoodie joyriding, no nicking the family silver, do you understand?'
'Yes.' Lasser didn't bother with the 'sir' he felt too annoyed.
'So off you go, lad,' the connection ended.
Lasser pushed the phone into his pocket. 'Parker!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Something's come up, I've got to go.'
'Right, sir, what do you want us to do?'
'Well, I could say I want you to carry on with the search, but I know for a fact that as soon as I'm gone you'll all be playing hide and seek, so I've a special job for you.'
'Very good, sir.' Parker replied without relish.
'I want you to go down to the farmhouse and find Hopkins, from now on he's in charge of the search and you'll receive your orders from him.'
'Hopkins.' Lasser could hear the dread in Parker's voice.
He looked at the young constable, he probably joined the force thinking it was all going to be high-speed chases and drug busts and here he was standing in the middle of a wood at half past eleven at night with dog shit on his shoes.
Sod it. 'Listen, you just play your hide and seek, let Hopkins find you if he wants to.'
He could see Parker's teeth gleaming in the dark.
'Thanks, sir.'
He grunted and began to climb his way up the hill, by the time he reached the top his calves were throbbing, his breath ragged. Climbing into the car he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and waited until his breathing returned to something like normal.
Lord Malcolm Radfield, he seemed to remember seeing a picture of him opening a local fete last summer. From what he could recall, he looked like your typical aristocrat – all tweed and no chin.
He started the car and headed off down the lane.
It took him twenty minutes to find the house, twice he took a wrong turn, the second time he found himself driving into a sheep pen. Pulling into the narrow turning that led to Radfield Manor, he made his way along the gravel drive that snaked between large Scots pines.
The headlights picked up Harper's car parked in front of the house, switching off the engine he climbed out.
The house was in darkness, either there was no one in or the knobs had forgotten to pay the electricity bill. He headed around the side of the house and almost collided with Harper as she rounded the corner, Cathy gasped and snatched at her baton.
'At ease, Rambo,' Lasser said with a grin.
'Oh, it's you, sir,' her hand slipped off the carbon steel.
'Who were you expecting – Jack the Ripper?'
'Sorry, it's just this place gives me the creeps.'
He looked up, the house loomed over them as if eyeing up a tasty morsel. 'Bet it looks lovely in the daytime.'
'I don't know about that,' she replied, unconvinced.
'Right, where's the body?'
Harper pointed towards the trees. 'Over there, sir, in the greenhouse.'
'Who found him?'
'His son, Ashley Radfield, he's waiting in the study, sir.'
'Not clutching a piece of lead pipe, I hope.'
She smiled as they made their way along the path.
'I hear Simms had you in earlier for one of his little informal chats.' Lasser asked, as he held back a b
ranch.
Cathy Harper ducked underneath. 'I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't…'
'You have nothing to apologise for, I shouldn't have left you on your own.'
'To be honest, after you'd gone a couple of reporters turned up, so they saved me the trouble of trying to hold her hand.'
'So, she actually rang the papers then?'
'It looks that way, sir.'
They reached the door of the greenhouse, Harper pulled out her flashlight.
'The body's at the far end.'
'And how did he do the dirty deed.' Lasser asked, as he made his way inside.
'Shotgun.'
'No doubt about his intentions then.'
'None at all.'
Lasser concentrated on making his way along the narrow aisle.
He could hear Harper clattering about behind him, so much for women being light on their feet.
When he reached the far end, he took a deep breath before shining his torch down onto the body.
'Doesn't look much like a Lord now does he?'
No reply, he looked over his shoulder, Cathy was standing about ten yards away, a sickly smile on her face.
Shining the beam around the small area Lasser crouched onto his haunches. 'Are SOCO on their way?'
'They should be here any minute, sir.'
It was difficult to tell how old Radfield had been; the pressure of the blast had distorted the features, the cheekbones had been forced upwards, one eye was open and glaring from a ragged socket, the other screwed shut, hidden behind a mass of black and purple. He could see the hole in the glass directly behind the head; they'd probably find what remained of Lord Radfield's brains in the rhododendron bushes.
'Yeah, that'll do it every time,' he muttered. 'Do we have any idea how the son came across the body?'
'Apparently the paraffin heater was on and he saw the light from the kitchen window, when he came to investigate this is what he found.'
Lasser riffled through the pockets of the wax jacket. 'Must have been a shock finding his old man like this?'
'It was a shock for me, I know that much.'
'Well, no obvious suicide note,' he paused as the light picked out a label stitched to the inside pocket, the name Barbour woven into the fabric in blue italics.
The Needle House Page 14
