âAh, building an impressive silence before uttering the pedestrian obvious.'
âHe did seem interested in relations between Daniel and his grandmother. I'd like to know what he made of them.'
Beaumont rolled his eyes, backside hitched on the edge of her desk. âHe'll be working on a theory they did the job together, despite the physical impossibility. Family wipe-out to swipe the Hoad millions.'
He shrugged again as she stared at him. âSalmon had me check the boy's alibi with the Ascot potman, and it holds. Also there were no dabs from Granny P found in the house before she was officially allowed in. But our DCI always susses females who throw their considerable weight about. So be warned, Z, and stay sylph-like.'
Z scraped her chair back against the wood-block floor. It covered the sound of a gentle snort. Fat or thin, all women got short shrift from Salmon. If anything, he treated her worse the harder the work she put in. She wheeled on Beaumont, forced a grin.
âI'll be thoroughly female-indexed and change my mind. Not a meal, but certainly a drink. Hang on a minute while I fetch my coat.
Â
Â
Anna Plumley put off going to bed until almost one o'clock but still she didn't sleep right through, too conscious of muffled sounds of distress from the open door across the corridor. She'd left her own ajar on purpose, then regretted it, knowing it would humiliate the boy â the young man â if she went to give him the hug that was needed.
When finally she awoke she thought it must be late because light already showed between the curtains. Crossing to the window she saw a sky clear of clouds. High white diagonals crossing the pale blue were vapour trails of jets stacking for entry at Heathrow. The rising sun struck silver on a plane's fabric and she was consumed by longing to be up there. For her the sky had always been the limit; nothing ever coming close to the sense of rightness in controlling altitude, take-off, landing. Without flying, her early life would have been as empty as â as â as her grandson's now was.
She sighed, put on her housecoat and made for the guest bathroom, passing Alma Pavitt with a tray for her early morning tea. âLovely morning,' she greeted her.
âAmazing,' said Pavitt. âBut it won't last. Do you want your tea with you or â¦'
Anna had higher hopes of the weather. âJust leave it in my room, thank you.'
Â
Anna finished soaping herself, rinsed off and lay back in the bath to do her cycling exercises, observing she still had good ankles, and straight toes untrammelled by ever wearing fashion shoes. Then, with her feet propped on the taps, relaxation. Just a couple more minutes ⦠She closed her eyes.
There was a sound outside. Someone in the corridor. Actually coming in. She hadn't thought to lock the door. It was the guest bathroom and the only guest was herself.
The door was behind her head. With her feet cocked high and her shoulders low she couldn't turn to see who had entered. The intruder moved across towards the window and she saw it was Daniel. He seemed unaware of anything amiss. Perhaps accustomed to walking in on private ablutions. Casually he
drifted past to sit side-saddle on the bath's edge.
At the feet end, facing her.
Anna's back had stiffened and she lacked the balance to move her legs down. Vulnerable ankles. He had only to grasp them and lift, then she'd be helpless, face underwater, breathless and drowning.
For a moment a flicker of some emotion crossed the boy's face. Amusement? For once free of defensiveness, he was authoritative, coolly in control. She knew he was enjoying her discomfiture.
Anna planted her elbows firmly on the bath's curved rim and forced her back upright, bent her legs and removed her feet from beside his bare thigh, where the terry robe had fallen open.
Sitting bolt upright, she flipped a hand, batting a floating island of foam to cover her genitals, aware of the unsightly bobbing of sixty-seven-year-old breasts. âDaniel, perhaps this isn't the time or place for a conversation.'
But he hadn't spoken, had he? Just looked at her. And made her afraid.
âMaybe not,' he drawled, stood tall, then leaned over and splashed a wave over her chest. âDon't take a chill.' Then he left.
Anna sat on, shivering, water drying on her skin. Was she crazy to think there was menace in his actions? He'd meant to mock, certainly. He'd succeeded in humiliating her â ugly, aged flesh exposed to youth's beauty. It was shaming.
But did that matter? It was her spiritless reaction that had betrayed her. Just two words would have sufficed: âGet out!' And she'd failed to say them. The realisation unnerved her further.
She looked in on her grandson as soon as she was dressed. He answered her knock with a groan and she found him, legs dangling from the side of his bed, hands gripping the mattress edge, shoulders stiffly hunched. His face was grey and taut, a totally different person. Stricken.
Such contrast alarmed her. She had to stay cool. âBad night?' she asked. âMe too.'
But it was more recent than that. âLook.' He held out one shaking hand. Clenched in it was his mobile phone.
Anna reached for the glasses suspended on a chain round her
neck. The text message she read was simple enough: âU NEXT.'
Warning or threat? Either way wickedly cruel.
âWho would do that?' she demanded. But then who could commit such an atrocity as his family's slaughter? She felt her heart beating high in her throat. She must let the police know at once. They could trace the call.
âI've got to get away. Disappear.'
âYou're safe enough here. If you run you're more vulnerable. We can arrange for protection.'
Even as she spoke, she questioned her own advice. This message might be a malicious hoax. But if a real threat, then the slaughter hadn't been indiscriminate. There was intention behind it, and the entire intention was still unfulfilled. Killing Daniel would complete it. Madness like that couldn't be lightly brushed aside.
âI'll phone the superintendent,' she said. âFrom downstairs.'
Â
Yeadings, an early riser, was in the garden, muffled in a polo-neck sweater and enjoying the day's brightness while confronting the still soaked ruin of his dahlias. At least the kitchen plot no longer resembled a paddy field. A few fine days and the damage of the past ten could be repaired. There'd be fresh growth.
He gazed at the clean-swept sky. It promised to be one of those stupendous golden October mornings when the sun was still warm on your face.
Nan, in dressing-gown and slippers, called to him from the porch door. âTelephone.'
He waved back, picked his way across the squelching lawn and took the call outside. Mrs Plumley, not at all happy, but resolute, wasted no words.
âIt could be an unpleasant hoax,' he offered, but she'd arrived there already.
âBut if not, we must take it seriously,' she insisted. âDaniel is for running off and getting lost. I've told him he's safer here where we can control things. I thought of hiring someone to keep an eye on him. Alternatively, I suppose he could go back to boarding-school, but a different one. It appears he was asked to
leave Stowe. Some trouble with a housemaid. In any case arrangements like that can take time.'
âWill you leave it with me, Mrs Plumley? I have an ex-constable in mind who might stand in as bodyguard.'
âEqually I could find someone ex-RAF, but he needs to be fit, not too old.'
âThe man I'm suggesting is all of that, Mrs Plumley. If he'll take it on he could be with you tomorrow. Even later today.'
She felt reassured, laid down the phone and stood thinking how she might distract Daniel from his panicky state. She'd forgiven him the bathroom intrusion. It was understandable, the boy-man resenting the way she'd taken over. He'd needed to take the wind out of her sails, reinstate his own dignity by humiliating her. She must put it behind her, look forward, plan something special, a diversion.
But he wasn't a toddler to be distracted with a candy bar or toys. And yesterday's outing with Camilla had turned into the proverbial lead balloon.
She glanced out the window again. Wet grass sparkled like gems. Hillside's dew-pearled, she thought. Snail's on the thorn; that Pippa Passes stuff. But all was not right with the world. How could she fix it?
She made a second call. âCaspar?'
âPlummie, you just caught me. I'm flying to Morocco at noon. How's everything with you and the venerable Plum?'
âPlum's gone fishing in Devon and I'm fine too, thank you. No need to ask how you are. Have you closed down for the winter here?'
âYes. I'm taking a fortnight's break, while the gear travels out by freighter. Then in mid-November we start up in Marrakech.'
âSounds wonderful. I'll wish you a good season. I had hoped you'd a week or so left here. And for once it's a glorious day.'
âIs this personal?'
âMyself and grandson.'
âYou've kept him under covers, Plummie. How old is he?'
âSixteen, but passes for older. Actually I'm temporary guardian. I was wondering if â¦'
âLook, although I'll be away myself, Jeremy's hanging on with some of the gear. Let me find out if he can get a mate to help out. Then maybe, if the weather holds. Why not? I'll get him to ring you on your mobile.'
She thanked him, sat in a patch of sunlight and waited for the return call. It came a quarter of an hour later. Satisfied with the result, she was almost purring as she joined Daniel at breakfast. âWe have a little expedition arranged for this evening,' she announced. âSomething to look forward to after your talk with Dr Abercorn. Did I tell you he'd be dropping in to ask about your mother?'
Waking was a let-down for Rosemary Zyczynski. She had dreamt they had a puppy; dark, smooth-coated and rolled into a little, soft ball, asleep. They had been Max and herself. They'd seemed to be living together.
This morning the sky was empty of clouds, deceitfully halcyon. But reality was less honeyed, with Max thousands of miles away. His apartment, across from hers, lay silent. For her it was a working day and the case showed no signs of breaking.
Get going, she told herself. Go and soak in everything available in the analysis room. Maybe lightning illumination will strike.
At Area she had to deal with Acting DCI Salmon first. He accosted her in the corridor and snarled a demand for coffee and a bacon sarnie, in his office, asap. A man who hadn't breakfasted and was in a hurry going nowhere.
She delivered the order, found he'd no other use for her. What new in that? Seating herself opposite the longer wall of the analysis room, she tried to see all the whiteboard data as new; nothing she'd been grinding over for days.
There was the Hoad family in the middle. From it lines reached out in all directions like a starburst; one towards the Bartons, physically close to the crime but fully involved with farming and their antipodean family. Or so they seemed. They'd had opportunity; could have had a key to the Hoads' back door; might have had cause to hate the man's guts. But it took a leap of the imagination to see them as mass murderers and superb actors to boot.
A second line led to Bristol and the inherited foundry from which Hoad derived his wealth. He appeared to have a detached interest in its activities, or at most a purely financial one. So was Bertie Fallon, or some other with easy access, fleecing Hoad there, and panicking when threatened with exposure? But surely wiping out the whole family, except for the absent son â that was insanely over the top?
Insane. She considered the word, which featured at the end of another line with a question mark alongside the capital letter X.
Wasn't that the solution you fell back on when logic, sweat and hard graft failed readily to turn up the true killer? â a random mass murderer who just happened along at that particular time, secure in anonymity and unconnected with his victims? No, she couldn't accept that. All crimes she'd come across so far had been subject to recognisable cause and effect. This had to be the same.
Another line on the whiteboard led to the family of the child visiting the house overnight. That she found she could accept as a random fact. How could young Monica's presence have been a factor in causing such carnage? It must be irrelevant to the overall crime.
From Jennifer Hoad's name a line ran out to the company Miradec Interiors in west London, which she'd visited herself. She recalled the two men there, the self-assured fashion-plate Justin Halliwell and the insecure Hilary Durham, proud to be called Jennifer's âIdeas Man'. Halliwell manned their European office in Paris. He was concerned with import-export. From all accounts the company was a successful one. Certainly the Knightsbridge set-up implied as much and, according to her mother, Jennifer had made a fortune for herself once Freddie had financed her start.
Crack cocaine had featured in the raves that went on in the woods, and Z suspected its source was more likely London than anywhere local. Thames Valley had its share of dealers, but drugs were less easily accessible in villages like Fordham. Jennifer, a user, might well have been supplied by contacts regularly visiting the Knightsbridge office. Or from the ultra-sophisticated Halliwell, probably a sexual â if not officially a business â partner.
He was arranging to call in auditors, to present updated accounts for Jennifer's executors. The results could take a while, but there was no reason why she shouldn't pay Miradec Interiors a visit and enquire how far things had gone.
She made for Yeadings' office but he wasn't there, so it had to be an approach to Salmon, who snarled at her, phone clamped to one ear.
âIf you don't need me, sir â¦'
He waved her away. Better leave a note for the Boss, she
decided. I could be taken by aliens and Salmon would never make a move.
Fleetingly she remembered that sour thought as, taking the steep curve down towards Halton Air Base, the brakes failed to respond. Futilely her foot pumped at the pedal. Every movement was in agonised slow motion while her brain raced. She reached for the handbrake. It held, but, skidding on the frosted road, she had a blurred vision of the Vale of Aylesbury spread wide in mist far below, and then the car was sliding sideways over the edge.
Â
âWhere's that dratted girl?' demanded the DCI.
âSergeant Zyczynski?' Yeadings enquired after a second's thought. âShe's gone to check up on something in London. Do you need her specifically?'
âLondon? Beaumont went there yesterday, to fetch Hoad's will. He could have doubled on it. Now that's two lots of expenses they'll put in for.'
âShe's gone by car. Much the same mileage as a day spent footling around our patch. My worry, anyway. Not yours, Inspector.'
âAccording to Chief Superinien â '
âYes, I know. Expenses. I still bear the scars. What did you need Z for? Use one of the DCs.'
âHave to, I suppose.' Disgruntled, Salmon took his leave.
This stalemate's getting to him, Yeadings silently observed: it has us all on edge.
Â
Upside down, with her seatbelt searing her shoulder, Z wriggled her mobile phone from one pocket. She had to beat the airbag down to get her breath before she could press out the number. It took fourteen minutes before she heard emergency vehicles and voices on the road above, and all the time she was aware of small slithering sounds as the soggy earth gave way a little more. Too much movement on her part and the car, nose down, could toboggan farther downhill on its roof. Was it water below or trees, she asked herself. This way up, it wasn't easy to work out exactly what point she'd reached.
âNo brakes,' she gasped, as soon as they'd smashed the rear window to pull her out. But the Traffic officer wasn't one to mutter âwoman driver' under his breath.
âWe'll get you sorted in two shakes of a lamb's tail, miss,' he assured her.
âSergeant,' she insisted. âI'm in the job. Regional CID. I want the car examined for tampering.'
âRight, Sergeant. Bob here'll give you a lift to A&E.'
âI don't need hospital. I want a car. Or a train to London.'
They argued, but she got her way. The aforementioned Bob delivered her to Wendover station and bought her a return ticket for Marylebone.
It was in the train that the shivers started.
I could have been killed, she told herself. Who the hell wanted that? The car had been serviced a week before and given a clean bill of health.
In the toilet at Marylebone station she examined herself. There was a livid band of red on her lower neck from the seatbelt, and a bruise was already starting to show over her left breast.
Not so serious as it might have been, she decided. She applied fresh make-up, thanked her stars that she hadn't phoned ahead to fix an appointment, and queued for a cab to take her to Knightsbridge.
Â
Two hours before the expected visit from Dr Abercorn, DS Beaumont arrived to take Daniel off for interview. A Traffic officer had come up from Ascot, one the boy hadn't met before, who proposed a charge of Death by Dangerous Driving. Police bail would be arranged at a reasonable sum which Anna could cover, and a duty solicitor appointed to the case.
Daniel appeared sulky and uncommunicative. Cover-up, Anna guessed, for the very real fear he felt at the death threat. Up until now he'd shown no hint of remorse for causing the unfortunate girl's death.
As they manoeuvred the narrow passage back to Reception they ran into a grey-haired couple being escorted in. Anna barely recognised Ben Huggett accompanied by a straight-backed
woman who could be his wife. The poacher wore a well-cut dark blue suit with hand-finished lapels, but never tailored for him. It pulled diagonally from collar to armpits over his barrel chest, and the trousers had been inexpertly shortened.
âMa'am,' he said, standing aside for Anna to pass. Best Sunday manners as well.
âMr Huggett, how are you?' She observed his wife's outrage at finding herself in a police station.
The woman eyed her sourly. âYou the lady staying at the Manor?'
âMy wife,' Huggett apologised on her behalf.
âHow d'you do, Mrs Huggett. I'm Anna Plumley, Daniel's grandmother.' She would have moved on, but the policewoman with the Huggetts was in no hurry to cut short any interesting exchange between them. Her considerable body blocked the way.
âI'll have you know,' the poacher's wife declared in high dudgeon, âthat we're respectable folk. I don't know why you should stop my husband walking in Fordham Woods. It's not trespassing, since he never did no harm there.
âJust ask our neighbours. They'll tell you. We're decent folk what pays our bills prompt, and goes to church at Easter and Christmas. And I run the jumble sales for Age Concern,' said Huggett's wife importantly.
It explained her husband's suit. A smidgen of time sacrificed to charity can repay in scooping cream off the benefits. Wifely duty, you might say, securing perks from the job.
âWell, quite,' said Anna, smiled at them both, removed the policewoman with a hard stare, and passed on.
âDid you grass on him?' Daniel demanded, nearer to cheerful than he'd been all morning.
âJust suggested he might have some information on what went on in the woods,' she said serenely. âThe police are interested in a hut up there. The old pheasant-raising place. I doubt he had any recent connection.'
âWhy?' he asked, perhaps too keenly. âI mean, why the police interest?'
âI'm not in their confidence,' she assured him. âBut it seems
they found something unexpected.'
Daniel fell silent. In the police car which returned them to the Manor he sat hunched, his face averted. âI'm going to my room,' he announced on arrival.
Anna heard him trudge upstairs, and then the slam of his door. She let herself quietly out of the gun room and stared up, flattened against the outer wall. She heard the boy unlatch his window. He leaned out, field-glasses to his eyes.
Simply curious about the police activity? Or disturbed on account of involvement with what went on in the woods? He'd be none the wiser in any case. The forensics team in their white coveralls had long gone, carrying off their trophies in black plastic sacks.
âCoffee,' she reminded herself, and went indoors to have a word with Alma Pavitt.
Â
âIt's not an interview,' Dr Abercorn insisted as he shed his coat in the hall. âMore in the nature of a medical consultation. So there isn't the need for a responsible adult to be present.'
He waited a few seconds before adding, âUnless I'm considered to be that myself.' His chuckle was practised but feeble, as if he was tiring of the well-worn joke himself.
âI'll fetch Daniel down,' she offered. âHe's been resting.'
The boy entered belligerently. âYou know my life's been threatened?' Anna heard him challenge as she closed the door between them. Go for the shrink's jugular before he picks at your brains, she thought. Demand why he's here and not a tough bodyguard.
He had a point, but there was a deal of anger dammed up inside Daniel and a whole lot of secrecy as well. She had got nowhere trying to get through to him. Maybe the professional would be more successful.
She went through to the kitchen where Anna Pavitt started lifting objects and putting them down elsewhere with unnecessary firmness. Invasion of the woman's territory, Anna admitted, but on what other ground could they meet for any sane discussion?
âMrs Pavitt, something has to be done about your wages. And free time too. We've been trading on your good nature too long already. I should like to make up what's owed you, until such time as my son-in-law's solicitor takes over.'
The other woman stiffened, with her back to Anna. Then she turned, suspicion in her eyes. âI was paid to the end of the month, so I don't need charity. But I could do with a break, if only to go and get my car back. They can't deliver, with a police guard on the entrance gates.'
âI'm sorry, I hadn't realised the difficulty. But they should certainly let your car through. It's only the press and other prying eyes they're meant to keep out.'
âWell, the garage people tried and were turned back. Now they're being shirty about it.'
âSo by all means take time off to fetch the car. Why not now? Take the rest of the day. Daniel and I will be out until quite late in any case and won't be needing a meal.'