The Plantagenet Vendetta (9 page)

Back at ground level, the son of the Duke of Clarence marched swiftly along the side of the River Thames, still riled by the recent episode. He got into a black Ford, parked discreetly some twenty metres from the nearest lamppost, and began heading east.

He looked to his right as he drove. Out of the window, the Tower dominated the view, its foreboding structure backlit by the night sky like a halo. Quietly, Thomas replayed in his mind the recent events in the facility below the ground.

Though it had been frustrating, he had unearthed one important lead.

Alone in his cell, the prisoner gazed up at the ceiling. The lights above were blinding, partially reflected by the white panels that surrounded them.

He lowered himself onto one knee and concentrated on the area where the walls met the ceiling.

“Forgive me, Father.”

Over 250 miles north, a lone figure sat quietly, his eyes on the screen in front of him. The scene he had just witnessed had been revealing. He had already seen at least twelve different men interrogate the prisoner, but this man was by far the most high profile yet.

Part one of the plan had indeed succeeded.

The royals were taking him seriously.

12

Jen was awake by 8:30 the next morning. She heard a noise coming from the corridor, possibly another guest, possibly the maid, closing a door and walking toward the stairs.

Jen rolled over in the bed, yawning. The location was charming; in truth even better than she had remembered. The room was bathed in a bright yellow hue caused by the sunlight against the colour of the curtains. The large oak tree that had occupied the site outside her window for the last five hundred years created a shadow across the far wall, even through the curtains. Outside, she could hear the chirping of birds and the flapping of wings. It had been a long time since she had woken to such a sound.

She could tell it was shaping up to be a warm day.

She sat up slowly, placing her back against the pillow. The soft, thick duvet that had wrapped itself around her snugly, creating a nice heat against her legs, loosened slightly, allowing some of the air to escape. For the briefest of moments she considered staying there, fleeting her time away within the comfort of the soft linen.

The ringing of the telephone spoilt the quietness.

She answered.

“This is your wake-up call. Your wake-up call.”

Jen smiled as she put down the receiver. The American accent of the automated voice seemed completely at odds with her present location. She wondered whether anyone had ever thought about recording a more local version: something like ‘get out of bed, you big Jessie,’ or ‘ey up, you’re gonna be late’. She laughed to herself as she considered the local candidates: Ratcliffe, Hancock…Harvey Mitchell.

Reluctantly she removed the duvet, at last coming to terms with her life outside the bed. She entered the ensuite and looked herself over in the mirror.

What she saw disgusted her, even though many would have said the opposite. Her shoulder-length, sandy-coloured hair was straight and surprisingly presentable, despite nine hours on the pillow. She had meant to get it cut last week; she had said the same thing the week before. Ever since moving to London, time always seemed to get away from her. Lack of vitamin D was another negative. Coming from Nottinghamshire, she was used to living without sunlight, but living in the capital was starting to play havoc with her fitness. Her skin was white, ghostly white to her, and added at least ten years to her in her mind.

She concentrated on her forehead: traces of acne were beginning to present themselves, more obviously visible as she wasn’t wearing make-up. She screamed to herself in a low-pitched whine as she stared incessantly at the huge volcanoes occupying the areas between her eyebrows and hair. She rubbed against them vigorously, then decided not to proceed.

Maybe one of these days she’d finally clear adolescence, she thought to herself. Maybe then she’d find herself a real boyfriend.

Rather than the muppets she seemed to be a magnet to.

Her telephone rang for the second time in five minutes. Leaving the ensuite, she answered.

“I have that address you were asking for, Miss Farrelly,” a woman began, “the one for the old school.”

Jen recognised the voice of Tara Simpson, the kind barmaid/receptionist/waitress/goodness knows what else who had shown her to her room yesterday.

“Thank you, Tara, let me just write this down.”

Jen left the inn at just after 9:30 and headed toward the high street. She exchanged banter with Harvey Mitchell on the way down, and told him of her wish to stay for another three nights. That was fine, the man said; it was evident from the quietness that the inn was hardly overbooked. Jen smiled at his compliment that she brightened up the place, and that the barflies will miss her when she goes. She was still to hear from her producer regarding a definite schedule for filming, but she knew from past experience it wouldn’t be sooner than any time in the next two days.

On the plus side, Wootton-on-the-Moor wasn’t turning out to be the worst place in the world.

Jen made her way over the bridge that led to the high street and continued left on crossing the street.

The busiest part of the village.

According to her sources, it was somewhere around here that Mrs Susan Rankin lived – and had done for most of her life. After considering the matter carefully, she had decided to visit Rankin first. She knew from her experience at the Hog that news of her arrival in the village was becoming more widely broadcast – credit in part Martha Brown – and that was bound to escalate before the day was out. She knew it was possible Rankin was now aware of Jen’s arrival, but there was nothing she could do about that. Her favourite professor at Nottingham once told her, always play the percentages: at least that way you are always guaranteed a certain amount of success. If a successful interview with Susan Rankin was possible, she figured her best chance was before the gossip column tainted her reputation.

She headed for a location called Fox Lane, a pleasant side alley off the high street flanked by red walls. Tree branches and plant life spilled over from the gardens of nearby houses, giving off a pleasant rustic vibe. The location was lonely, but not unsettling, rather like having a quiet walk in the country on a peaceful summer’s day.

The end of the pathway led to a clearing, giving Jen the choice of turning either left or right. Choosing the right, she followed the pathway for another thirty metres. There were twelve houses in total, four lots of three in a row that formed a square around a cobbled courtyard. The houses were old, stone construction, black and white terraced, and dated back to the 16th or 17th centuries.

She assumed from the exterior they were Grade II listed.

Jen double-checked the address against what she had written down and walked slowly to the middle of three houses. A small plaque on the right side of the strong wooden door confirmed the address: 8 Gallacher’s Court.

She rang the doorbell, a loud high-pitched dingdong that sounded unexpectedly modern. She waited patiently for several seconds, considering trying again, before hearing the sound of metal against metal coming from inside.

A woman appeared, aged somewhere in the mid-forties. She was about five feet six – three inches smaller than Jen – and her weight insufficient for her size, perhaps partially accounting for the gaunt expression on her face. Had Jen not known the woman’s back-story, she might have put her appearance down to illness.

But she knew in the case of this woman the reason was probably more straightforward.

“Mrs Rankin?” Jen asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Jennifer Farrelly; I’m a researcher for a TV productions company…I was wondering if you had a few minutes?”

The woman delayed her response. “I know why you’re here, Miss Farrelly. Isn’t a person in the whole village that doesn’t.”

The comment was a setback. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Rankin.”

“Martha told me all about you.”

That was another setback. “You’re good friends with Martha?”

“He was a good boy, Luke was.”

“I’d love to hear more about him.”

The woman folded her arms. “I’ve said everything I want to say.”

“Mrs Rankin, please,” Jen said as the woman sought to close the door. “I’m not here to take sides. I understand what you must be going through.”

Jen instantly regretted saying that.

“How?” Susan Rankin replied, colour returning to her cheeks. “You know nothing of my son. Nothing!”

The woman closed the door in Jen’s face and retreated hastily, her footsteps audible even outside. Jen took a step backwards and looked longingly at the exterior. She muttered the word ‘great’ under her breath and walked back toward the pathway.

She considered her options. There was no point going to the school: most of the teachers would be in class.

Lunch or after school was surely the best time to catch her.

She thought about visiting Ratcliffe, but she felt underdressed. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t be in anyway.

The best option was Lovell – the retired former head teacher at St Joseph’s, described by the barflies as something of a character. She had learned from Hancock that the man lived on the other side of the village in a grand manor house once owned by his ancestors – all twenty-three generations of them. According to the barflies, Lovell lived in the same part of the village as Ratcliffe and Catesby.

The posh side.

Even if the man was out, it was definitely the most sensible option.

If all else failed, at least it would give her the opportunity to see where the other half lived.

Susan Rankin watched from the window as the girl from south of Yorkshire retreated in the direction of Fox Lane. She waited until the girl had disappeared completely before returning to the heart of the living room.

In truth, she had lied to the poor girl. She had no idea why she was there. She had not spoken to Martha Brown for over a year – she had barely spoken to anyone for that matter. The fact that the girl had bought it confirmed her suspicions.

History repeats itself.

It certainly felt like the last time. She recalled a phone call from a few weeks back: another interview request, a different company. She guessed the two were connected. Jennifer Farrelly was certainly not the first, though she was the first for a while – at least six months had passed since the last.

Susan Rankin walked across the living room, stopping on reaching the bookcase. She picked up a photograph, a nice silver frame surrounding a colour print taken about two years earlier. She looked at it for several seconds, focusing on the lad standing beside her. He was smiling in this one – he smiled in all of them. He certainly didn’t look like a boy who had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Over a year had passed, but it seemed to her like an eternity.

She held the photo tightly to her chest and slowly started to cry.

13

The old man was standing by the doorway, looking outside. Catesby was in the usual place, doing the usual things. He looked completely different in his overalls. He could have been a farmer or a scientist, but not both.

That was almost unheard of.

The old man cleared his throat, but failed to attract Catesby’s attention. Instead he remained preoccupied with his animals, the sound of the cough overwhelmed by the consistent clucking of chickens, not to mention other birds. The old man had never seen so many in one place, even in an aviary.

He cleared his throat again.

This time Catesby noticed. He turned away from the cages, his eyes on the door that connected the back of the house to the garden.

“Ah,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”

The old man did not respond. If nothing else, it was energy badly spent. And these days he needed that just to stand. Even with the stick, walking was difficult.

He hated the wheelchair, but he hated being without it even more.

There were four people with him, three dark-haired men in their late twenties, and another who was noticeably older.

“Ey up, Rowland,” Catesby said to the eldest of the four. “Long time no see.”

The man smiled, slightly sinisterly. As usual he wore a suit, far too well dressed for the farm. He had silvery grey hair, piercing eyes, and a face that certain members of the press had often likened to that of a gopher.

“We’re not looking to disturb you long, William. We were merely wondering how’s progress.”

Catesby put the bucket of bird feed down on the concrete. “Follow me.”

He led them through the doorway of an outbuilding. There were sacks of bird food everywhere, ranging from chicken feed to old bits of bread. He crossed the floor and continued down the stairway and through another door.

The sight was confusing, particularly for the three younger men who had never seen it before.

They had entered a laboratory, visually as good as any science institution in the world.

Catesby walked toward the other side of the lab. There were cages here as well, also housing various birds. Catesby smiled at them as he opened the fridge and removed a vacuum-sealed package not obviously identifiable to an outsider.

“This is the best so far,” Catesby said. He passed two of the young men rubber gloves. “You’ll need these. Keep the meat under four degrees. Otherwise the effects won’t be the same.”

“You’ve done well, my friend,” the old man said.

Catesby lowered his head, almost a bow.

“How long for the rest?”

“Days,” Catesby said. “A week tops.”

“I want it ready in three days.”