Cause of Death (10 page)

Ted Eebry stood for a moment longer, listening to the rain and thinking how quiet the house sounded. Nothing except the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the fridge as the thermostat clicked on. Quiet and empty and . . .

Stacey was right, Ted thought. It was time to move on. The house had attracted a lot of interest since he'd put it on the market; he'd taken care of it over the years, maintained and decorated and done any little repairs himself, taking pride in his DIY skills. Time to move on.

Hill House always caught the brunt of the weather. The front and side were protected by the trees and shrubs sweeping around the drive, but the old conservatory that ran the length of the back of the house and looked out over lawn and sea always seemed to take the full force.

George stood beside the window and stared out. On one side of him was the cast-iron radiator that heated what Cheryl always referred to as the sun room. She had put the heating on tonight, bowing to the sudden shift from sun to storm, and George's left leg was much too hot while the rest of him felt chilled as he leaned close to the glass. Ursula had thrown herself into one of the tatty wicker chairs, her feet up on another and a cushion placed against the glass on which she laid her cheek. It was an indicator of her distress that her homework sat neglected on the cockled wooden table.

‘I hope it stops raining by morning,' George said, needing to break the silence. ‘Cheryl won't like driving in this.'

‘Another reason not to go, then.'

‘So, just don't go?'

‘I can't not go.'

George shifted her feet and flopped down in the opposite chair. He'd reached the point in the conversation – or rather the non-conversation – when his homework actually looked like a better option. He'd not seen Ursula like this in a long time and was at a loss as to what to do, but he wanted to be ‘there' for Ursula, recalling how many times she had listened to him, especially when he had first arrived at Hill House.

‘OK,' he said at last, looking for another angle. ‘We both know you've got to go and see your dad. If you don't go you'll feel bad, so you've got to do it.'

‘If I do go I'll feel bad too,' Ursula pointed out.

‘Yeah, but not
as
bad. You won't be guilting yourself for the next month.'

‘True,' she admitted reluctantly.

‘So we know you're going to have to go, so what can we do to make it, I don't know, not as crap as it could be? I mean, I'm coming with you—'

He broke off, not sure if that was a good thing to say or if it would sound like he was just doing it for brownie points.

‘Yeah, I know, and I'm grateful, I really am. And you're right, I have to go and I have to sound all bright and pleased to see him, and I'll do all that stuff but . . .'

She chewed on her lower lip and looked determinedly out of the window. George could see the tears she was trying so hard to blink away. He knew instinctively what she was trying to say, the taboo she wanted so desperately to break but was afraid to do, and he decided the best thing was to try and do it for her.

‘Sometimes I think it's easier, you know, now that she's dead. I mean it wasn't that I didn't love her and that I don't miss her, cos I did and I do. But my whole life I didn't know if she'd be OK when I came home from school. If I'd come home and she'd be . . . and then she killed herself and it was like she'd spent my whole life planning for it. I just felt so mad with her. Just so . . .' He shrugged. ‘You know?'

Ursula nodded and they let the silence fall once more. George stared at the rain and knew that was kind of what Ursula had needed to hear, and how much he wished, for both of them, that it just wasn't true.

The windscreen wipers couldn't cope even on their fastest speed. Stan peered out through the waves of water, hoping nothing was coming the other way as he'd now lost all sense of where the white line should be. He and Rina had borrowed Miriam's little car and were going up to the Palisades to watch Tim perform. The idea had been that Rina should drive, but then the storm had broken and it had seemed more sensible for her first drive to be delayed until it was actually possible to see the road.

‘How did you and Tim actually meet?' Stan asked.

Rina laughed. ‘Oh, it was one of those strange, chance things. He knocked on my door one night looking for a place to stay and so I gave him a room. Peverill Lodge is officially a B&B after all.'

‘A B&B that never has any vacancies,' Stan pointed out.

‘True, but sometimes you just have to trust your instincts, don't you think? It was late, he looked so forlorn standing there. He'd been performing at a place just along the coast – I forget exactly where – and I don't think it had gone too well. He said he couldn't face the drive home and did I have a vacancy for the night.'

‘And that was it?'

Rina nodded. ‘More or less. He joined us for breakfast and the Peters sisters fussed over him, Matthew was flattered by some comment he'd made about the home-baked bread, and when he asked if he could stay another night while he looked for more work, I said yes.'

‘And after that?' Stan caught sight of the white line once more and twitched the car back into the proper lane.

‘He stayed. That was a little over five years ago and I have to say he's been my best friend ever since. Some things are just meant to be.'

Stan shook his head. ‘But you knew nothing about him. You surely can't just take in strays without . . . without . . .'

‘Without doing a background check? Oh, Stan, life is not that black and white. I supposed in Tim we all recognized ourselves: staying in B&Bs, working wherever we could, on the road half our lives. Sometimes life throws people into your path and you have to make fast decisions.'

‘Like you did with me when I knocked on your door that night?' Stan asked her.

Rina smiled wryly. ‘Well, I admit I might have hesitated had you been alone,' she told him, ‘but something like that.'

They fell silent for a few minutes while Stan concentrated on peering through the now even heavier rain. ‘Do you think he'll actually have an audience tonight?' he asked. ‘I mean, no one will want to go out in this.'

‘Oh, you'd be surprised,' Rina said. ‘And I believe the hotel is fully booked anyway. The Palisades is getting quite a reputation for good food, and for good entertainment. The owners have done a lovely job restoring it.'

‘Good,' Stan said. ‘It's sad to see old things go to rack and ruin.'

The lights of the Palisades hotel could just be glimpsed up ahead now and Stan slowed, making sure he didn't miss the entrance to the drive. He eased the car between two pillars, illuminated by large globes, noting the old cast-iron gates fastened back on either side and the elegant sweep of drive that wound up towards the art deco building. ‘Was this always a hotel?'

‘I believe so. The original owner had a suite built in the west wing. The current owners live in one of the estate cottages. When it first opened all the serving staff and gardeners lived on site too. It must have been quite a place.'

Stan nodded. You could see this place from the sea, he thought, recalling his time in Haines's employ out on the luxury yacht he called home for part of the year. Was Haines out there now, watching?

He'd see bugger all in this squall, Stan thought, oddly satisfied with the little rhyme. He parked as close to the entrance as he could and fished the umbrella out from behind the seat. ‘Shall we?'

‘Delighted,' Rina said. ‘And if this rain lets up enough, I think I'll take the wheel on the way back.'

A few miles inland the rain had eased and Karen stood in the shelter of a shop doorway watching the pub across the road. She'd followed a group of Haines's men earlier, even popped in for a drink and a sandwich, the pub offering a good selection of baguettes that reminded her of the
café-tabac
she had frequented along the Breton coastline.

Karen had found herself a comfortable corner, eaten her food and had a second drink, asked the landlord directions to Kirby St Mary and made small talk with his wife.

‘Travelling over from Bristol. Got a bit lost, thought the pub looked nice so . . .'

Yes, they would remember her, but Karen didn't care. Chances were they would make no connection between the slightly ditzy young woman and what Karen planned to do – and if they did, well, Karen liked the game.

An hour ago she had left the pub, Haines's men still inside and drinking steadily. She had walked out past them, pausing in the doorway to fasten the belt on her deep red raincoat and then glanced back, knowing already that he had seen her but wanting to make certain that
he
knew
she
had recognized him. She held his gaze for a full ten seconds before turning and walking out of the door with a final wave to the landlord.

Now she waited.

From her vantage point, she could see the pub entrance and the open side gate that led into the delivery yard and through which she could just glimpse the rear door. Which exit would he choose? Karen guessed at the yard: the exit was just down a little hallway from the men's toilets so he could slip away and none of the others would notice his absence. She was in no doubt that he would come – or that he knew she would be waiting.

The final outcome, though, that was a very different thing. He would be expecting one thing and Karen was about to deliver quite another.

She didn't move when she saw him. Instead she waited and watched as he emerged through the rear door of the pub, glancing back as though to be sure that no one had observed his exit. He came out into the pub yard and lit a cigarette.

It wasn't dark yet, though it was late enough and wet enough for dusk to have coalesced here, in the back streets; she could still see him clearly enough, though, and now even the rain had abated to a light drizzle. She saw the tip of the cigarette brighten, watched him exhale, smoke drifting only for a moment in the wet air, and then he stepped out through the gate and looked around, catching sight of her in the doorway and smiling as he crossed the road.

Only when he was within feet of her did Karen move, slipping out of the doorway and facing him as he stepped up on to the pavement.

‘Well, will you look at you,' Dave Jenkins said. ‘All grown up.' He smiled and Karen was surprised to note that he was genuinely glad to see her.

‘What are you doing here?' he asked. ‘Last I heard—'

He didn't even see the knife. He had stepped closer, his smile warm. She saw his expression change as the knife slipped in between his ribs and she pushed it home. It was all over before he'd even hit the floor.

Karen retrieved the knife, slipped it into a carrier bag she'd kept in her raincoat pocket and then put that into her shoulder bag. She had blood on her coat but there was no one around to notice and the colour was disguise enough for casual glances. She turned into a side street and found her car, popped the boot and placed bag and raincoat into a black plastic sack she had left there, together with a second raincoat which, after checking her hands for blood and cleaning up with wet wipes, she slipped on. Then she drove away satisfied, and once she'd disposed of the knife and clothes, ready for hot chocolate and bed.

‘T
he way I see it,' Andy mused, ‘is that whoever dumped the body had to have local knowledge. I mean, everyone round here knows about the dig, but getting the back way into the site, now you've got to know what you're about.'

‘Talking to yourself?' Mac asked, sticking his head around the door to the little office.

Andy shrugged. ‘At least I get a sensible discussion. What are you doing in this morning anyway? You forgotten it's a Saturday?'

‘No, but then murderers never have been that respectful of weekends.'

‘Murderers? You mean you've got a lead on the bones?' Andy was caught between interest and faint disappointment. This was supposed to be his case . . . sort of.

Mac shook his head. ‘No, this one is a fully intact dead body. It's actually in Kendall's jurisdiction, but he wants me to take a look.'

‘Oh?' Andy was on his feet. Hopeful. ‘Mind if I tag along?'

‘Frank says you've got enough on your plate,' Mac said.

‘You mean the bones.' Andy was crestfallen.

‘That, and I think he's got his heart set on some decent coffee.' Then Mac relented and stepped into Andy's cubby hole. ‘You getting anywhere?' he asked.

‘Not really, no. I mean we've narrowed things down a bit, but, as I was saying to myself, whoever dumped the bones has to have some local knowledge. It just seems such a strange thing to do. I mean, where's the rest?'

‘Where indeed,' Mac agreed. ‘Well, I'm afraid it's all yours unless you can turn up something more substantial. Cold cases are difficult even when you know who's involved. Just gather as much information as you can and then, chances are, you're going to have to draw a line under it for the moment. Unless you get lucky, of course.'

‘Lucky?' Andy didn't think that was going to happen.

‘If you're right and the killer, or at any rate whoever sought to conceal the death, had local knowledge, then the best thing you can do is find other sources of said local knowledge. Who'd have their ear to the ground? Who would you go to if you wanted the latest gossip?'

It was a good question, Andy thought, and one he probably knew the answer to.

‘Right,' Mac said. ‘I'd best be off.'

Andy nodded. Mac was right – local gossip. And though he might not be able to do anything about that today, he had a pretty good idea of what his start point might be.

Teston was a small place, with a short high street, a single shop and a pub that serviced mostly locals and was also popular with the boating community, being only a couple of miles inshore. There was only a tiny car park and that mitigated against major holiday trade, but it did catch the odd passing tourist, as the landlord was now telling Mac and DI Kendall.