Cause of Death (11 page)

‘We had a few in last night. A couple meeting their friends here. Said they'd called in last season and liked the food. A young woman got herself lost, came in for directions and stopped for a bite. An old man and his niece and nephew, I think he said they were. They asked if we'd got rooms and we don't so I sent them on to The Oak, it's about three miles along the road. They had a drink and used the facilities and then left just after eight.'

‘And the dead man?'

‘I told you, yes, he was here with another four. Came in about half past seven and left a bit after nine. It was getting busy here by then so I can't be exact.'

‘And the rest of the crowd in here were local?'

‘A skittle match,' the landlord told them. ‘Through in the back there.' He pointed to the area at the side of the bar, a larger, squarer room than the snug in which they were presently talking. ‘The wife did the catering for it. Every two weeks we have it for the local league, so the place was heaving by nine.'

‘And the dead man, you'd seen him before?' Mac confirmed.

‘I told you, he and the rest, they'd been in a half-dozen times this last month or so. Never any trouble, they drank their drinks and played darts and occasionally got a bit noisy, but they quietened down if you told them.'

‘And there were no arguments last night. No tension that you could see?'

The head shake was emphatic. Nothing. The evening had been peaceful and busy and he'd not seen exactly when they left.

Mac followed Kendall past the toilets and small store room and then out into the back yard. ‘He must have come out this way and then crossed the road.'

‘So, most likely he went to the gents, or said that's where he was going, and then came outside. That implies he didn't want the others to know, which maybe implies that he was meeting someone he didn't want them to know about.'

Kendall nodded. ‘Didn't want them to know about – why?'

‘Because his friends wouldn't approve? Because he was trying to hide something?'

‘Then why come here to have a meeting with four others in tow? Why not just arrange a quiet conflab somewhere else? Somewhere private.'

‘Maybe it wasn't planned. He saw someone he knew?'

Mac wandered out into the street and glanced both ways. The shop across the road was a general store, shut up after five thirty in the evening. The owners didn't live on the premises and the upper floor was apparently a holiday let, currently unoccupied, though a couple was due to arrive that afternoon. Mac had been constantly surprised since moving down here at just how many rather unlikely places were let out to holidaymakers. Though looking round he could sort of see the appeal. It was a pretty village with a pub across the road and only a couple of miles to drive to the sea, and Kendall had told him there was a garden behind the shop that residents could use.

He watched as the CSI took their final pictures and got ready to move the body. Kendall beckoned him over.

‘Single stab wound,' he said. ‘Whoever killed him got in close and knew what they were doing, I'd say.'

Mac crouched down beside the body. There was something familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He knew he'd seen this man before. But where?

‘No ID on him?'

Kendall shook his head. ‘No wallet, no phone, no keys. It looks like whoever killed him cleaned out his pockets too.'

‘Maybe,' Mac said.

‘Maybe?'

‘I don't know,' Mac said. ‘Just a feeling I've seen him somewhere. I just wonder if his friends found him and maybe they were the ones that took the wallet.'

‘Any reason for thinking that?' Kendall asked.

Mac shrugged, suddenly embarrassed that he might be seen as fanciful.

Kendall led the way back into the pub. ‘Not a lot more you can do,' he said. ‘I just wanted you in the loop.'

Mac thanked him, his mind still nagging at the sense of familiarity, but the association just wouldn't come. ‘I'd like to see the statements,' he said.

‘Sure. And I'll be getting a police artist over here,' Kendall said. ‘I'll send the pictures over.'

Mac nodded. ‘Do that,' he said. ‘I'm bloody sure I know him, I just can't place where from.'

Karen was paying what she knew would be the last visit to her solicitor. She read each document carefully before she signed, asked detailed questions she knew surprised him, and finally affixed her signature to the last page.

‘And you are sure about the executor of this?' he asked. ‘It's normal for us to meet with the executor of any trust, just to make sure they understand their role, you know.'

Karen fixed him with a look. ‘It will all be fine,' she said. ‘You just do your job. I trust Mrs Martin to do hers.'

‘Right,' he said, and she could feel him quail inwardly.

‘You're going away then?' he asked brightly as Karen rose to take her leave.

Karen smiled. ‘You'll be relieved to know that I will be, yes,' she said. ‘I've left your fee with your secretary as usual and the retainer will be transferred as arranged, just in case George or Mrs Martin should need to consult with you about anything. I expect Mrs Martin will call. She likes to be thorough.'

He nodded enthusiastically.

Karen paused in the doorway. ‘I just want to ask again,' she said. ‘You can see no problem with any of this? No reason that George might not get the money? No legal impediment, as you put it?'

The solicitor did his best to look affronted, but somehow she had this way of undermining his best attempts. ‘You can rest assured. I'm good at my job,' he said eventually.

‘I hope so,' Karen told him. ‘Because I am really good at mine.'

The Brecon Wing was a secure unit, but it had a transitional area for those patients the hospital hoped would soon be well enough to be returned to the general hospital population. This, George discovered, was called Amesbury House and had a visitor's room where people could see family they'd probably had little contact with for quite some time.

Cheryl had elected to wait out in the lobby, but Ursula had begged George to go in with her and the administrator had agreed. A nurse would be on standby, sitting discreetly in the corner.

‘And I'll be just outside the door,' Cheryl said again. ‘If it gets too much, you just come out here and find me and we'll drive home.'

Ursula nodded. She grasped George's hand tightly and they went inside.

George had never even seen a picture of Ursula's dad, so didn't know what to expect. At least this place didn't smell, he thought, and it was actually more like a house than a hospital ward. Wooden floors were covered with rugs, and wood panels had been hung with pictures of the outside world: calm and comforting scenes of woodland and little cottages. George could almost have believed this was not a hospital, had it not been for the heavy dose of institutional green slapped carelessly over the walls of the reception.

Just why did they do that? It was a colour he couldn't stand – Rina had said it was a bit like eau de nil or something and he'd been told it was meant to be restful, but all George knew was that it was the colour of sickness, of self-harm, of his mother.

A nurse dressed in ordinary clothes sat down just inside the door and the two teenagers, hand in hand, approached a man sitting beside the fire. He was thin and drawn, but he smiled when Ursula came close.

‘Hello, Dad,' she said. ‘I've brought a friend. Is . . . is that OK?'

George gripped her hand tighter. He'd never felt Ursula less certain of herself.

The man got up. ‘Any friend of yours . . .' he said, and tried to laugh. ‘Sit down, sit down. Look, we've got tea and biscuits.'

Ursula let go of George's hand and went over to her father. She hugged him and, very hesitantly, he hugged her back, some deeply rooted remembrance of social skills kicking back in, but George could see in his face that he didn't know what to do. He began to suspect that Ursula's dad had not in fact requested this meeting; perhaps some well meaning but, in George's view, imbecilic doctor or social worker had thought it would be good for him.

He sat down next to his friend and opposite this sad, stretched man. George recognized the fragility. He'd seen it on his mother's face so many times. Karen had tried to keep him out of the hospitals, visiting alone whenever there was anyone reliable to leave George with, and later on, when they'd had to keep moving on and his mum had been looked after most of the time just by the two of them and the fear that their mum would be hospitalized again and they'd be separated – again – because Karen wasn't considered old enough to be his carer had been nearly as great as the fear that their dad would come back . . .

Ironically, once they'd moved to Frantham their mum had been
almost
well, even able to hold down a little cleaning job provided she could go home and sleep afterwards and Karen managed everything else.

George fought those memories valiantly, but they were still there in his dreams and his quiet times and they returned with full force now.

Ursula's dad was trying to make conversation. How was school? What was Hill House like?

Ursula's responses were brief and monosyllabic and it occurred to George suddenly that even though this may be her dad, she didn't really know him. Not at all.

George took a deep breath and dived into the silence. ‘Ursula's brilliant,' he said. ‘She gets As all the time and the college reckons she could take ten GCSEs no problem at all and she's started to play the piano and this summer when we all played football on the back lawn Ursula played in goal. She was brilliant at that too. And I'm sorry but I don't know your name.'

Three pairs of eyes turned upon him: Ursula, her father and the nurse beside the door.

‘Arthur,' Ursula's father said. ‘My name is Arthur.' He smiled a little wistfully. ‘It's a little old fashioned, I suppose.'

George shrugged. ‘So is George. I mean, who calls their kid George these days? I used to hate it.'

‘And now?' There was a spark of interest in Arthur's eyes and George fed on that. There was no pressure in this silly conversation. No having to think about the right thing to say.

‘Now I don't mind,' he said. ‘And I can always change it by deed poll if I want to.'

‘I suppose you could.' Arthur smiled and George caught a glimpse of the man he may once have been. ‘So, um, what subjects are you both taking? GCSEs – isn't that like O levels used to be? Are you old enough to be taking exams?'

‘I'm fifteen this month, Dad,' Ursula reminded him.

‘Oh, so you are.' The light went away as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘I've missed so much of you growing up.'

Ursula looked desperately at George and he began to explain what exams they would be taking, what pieces Ursula was playing on the piano. The man listened and nodded but George could see that he'd had enough. He looked across at the nurse by the door and stood up, pulling Ursula to her feet. The nurse nodded sympathetically.

‘Arthur, your visitors are going now,' she said gently. ‘It's time to say goodbye.'

Arthur seemed unable even to look their way.

J
erry hated Sundays. He had hated Sundays as a child – no playing out in case you made a noise and disturbed the neighbours, and all day the dread of Monday slowly building. Monday and school.

Now he hated Sundays because everyone else was having a good time with their families – or at least they seemed to be doing – and Jerry was reminded of just how alone he was.

On Sundays he thought about what he might have had if he had worked things out with Louise, and life hadn't swung a sudden left turn instead. For a brief time during their engagement and subsequent short-lived marriage, he had managed to like Sundays. They had moved in together, despite her parents' opposition, and any Sunday he'd not had to work they had spent in bed, getting up only to eat. Sunday evenings had been spent in the local pub with friends, and even if he had thought about there being a Monday morning, he'd liked the job, got along with his colleagues, and the dread had faded for a while.

But that had been then. Before he'd screwed it up.

First time undercover had been a breeze. Three days. Just another body staying in a hotel. On hand in case a sting went down the wrong way. But he'd got a buzz from it, from the freedom of leaving himself behind, and when they'd looked for volunteers for a longer spell and deeper cover, he had been ready and waiting with his hand up.

Louise hadn't liked that at all. A month, this time, hanging out with a group of environmental activists, observing mostly, joining in with the odd protest and standing in line when the bulldozers arrived. He'd actually felt quite chuffed when they'd got a stay of execution for the piece of land designated as the next bypass. He'd understood what they meant about the ancient woodland the project would have trashed and he felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when the project was eventually shelved, even if the reason was more lack of funds than a bunch of hippy types tying themselves to a few old oaks.

Truthfully, Jerry had liked them and he'd felt a bit of a pang at the deceit. They had been mostly harmless and totally sincere and he felt for the first time that he was missing something in his life. Jerry had never believed in anything much, had never felt the lack before.

The next job, though, with the animal rights lot, that had been hard. He'd come home bitter and angry and in sympathy with what they were against, even while he was uneasy about their methods of protest. And Louise had given him an ultimatum: next time you say no or we are finished. And so next time he had said no and they'd got their Sundays back and he had settled into a routine he'd once loved, but which now somehow felt less real.