Never Coming Back (29 page)

I accelerated away, heading east and joining the coastal road, and left the Ley and the village behind. Farnmoor was three miles away. The best time I could hope for, if there were no traffic, no jams anywhere along the narrow lanes, was fifteen minutes. Driving any faster, I risked hitting another car—or falling into the sea.

After a mile, my phone started ringing.

I glanced at the display. Number withheld. Thinking it might be Graham, or even Robert Reardon, Carrie's university lecturer, I reached over and answered.

But it wasn't either of them.

It was Healy.

A ripple of anger hit me immediately. His timing was terrible, as always—and if there was ever a moment when I didn't need to play passenger as he slid slowly into self-pity, it was now. “Healy, don't take this the wrong way, but you'll have to call me back.”

“You'll want to hear this,” he said.

I glanced at the clock. I'd already become caught in a conga line of slow-moving cars, and I'd promised Graham I'd only be twenty minutes.

Calm down
.

He's got his security team.

He's called the police.

And then, as Graham lingered in my thoughts, I remembered something he'd said to me about Cornell:
He told us he used to work for the Bellagio, in their security team
.

I filed that away and turned my attention back to Healy. “What is it?”

“You remember what you said to me?”

“About what?”

“You wrote me off.”

Another spear of anger. This time I couldn't keep a lid on it. “I haven't got time for this shit. I never wrote you off—I said you were a good cop. Don't twist my words.”

Silence.

“Fine,” I said. “I'm done.”

I reached over, ready to end the call, when he spoke again. “You want to know what they've got?”

“Who have got?”

“The police.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The body on the beach.”

I paused. “Healy—”

“Those arseholes I used to work with,” he said quietly, “they thought I had nothing left to give. Well, fuck them. Fuck everyone. I'm a better cop than they'll ever be.”

“What have you done, Healy?”

“What have I
done
?” A snort. “I've
done
what I did for twenty-six years: I got the answers I needed from wherever was necessary. I proved a point.”

“Who did you speak to?”

“Does it matter?”

“Have you put yourself at risk?”

Another snort. I started to wonder whether, for him, this was the morning after the night before. There was a soft lilt to his words, as if he was still drunk. “Do you mean have I put
you
at risk? Is that what you mean, Raker?”

“Believe it or not, I've spent the last year trying to
stop
you from landing yourself in shit. You might want to cast your mind back—once you've sobered up.”

No reply.

“If you want to share what you've got, then great.” I glanced at the clock. Seven-twenty. “If not, we'll have to save this fight for another day.”

“Officially, police are saying the body belongs to a white male between seventy and ninety,” Healy said, a sudden determination in his voice. “Unofficially, it's the higher end of the scale. We're talking eighty-five to ninety. No dental records. No matching prints. No medical records. The guy's a ghost. I was right: the body was kept on ice before it ended up on the beach. Maybe a week, maybe more—the coroner's trying to narrow down TOD. One thing that might interest you: the guy has scarring under his left arm.”

“Scarring?”

“The skin was flayed.”

“Does it match up with anything on file?”

“No. They've been through the databases. If there was any match,
they wouldn't be hunting around for a name. The only thing they've got is the size of the scar. It's a small surface area. Like,
really
small. Only about a centimeter squared. But whether he did it himself, or someone else did it to him, the knife went in deep. Like he was cutting something out. Forensic tests are ongoing. Results expected in the next couple of days.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, and something else: they found sand in his lungs.”

“Sand?”

“Tiny traces of it.”

“From being washed up on the beach?”

“No. It's not local.”

“So where's it from?”

“Same story as the skin. Results not yet in.”

In front of me, the line of cars ground to a complete halt.
Shit
. I turned back to the phone. “Where'd you get all this information from?”

“What do you care?”

“Stop
fighting
me all the time, Healy.”

“I'll see you around.”

He hung up.

Ahead of me, a motor home was maneuvering through a narrow lane, everything static behind it. As I watched it, a residual anger remained, burning a hole in the center of my chest—but I cleared my head, took what he had told me, and moved on. I couldn't afford to get hung up on Healy, on the point he was trying to make, on all the misguided, aimless punches he was trying to throw. In the moments when he was introspective, almost delicate, it was easy to get drawn in by the promise of a different man; but this side of him you just had to cast off into the wind.

I shifted my mind back to before he'd called, to what Carter Graham had said about Cornell working for the Bellagio security team, and then to what Prouse had said at the Ley: he'd killed Paul and Carrie, and Cornell had taken care of the girls. If Cornell had worked for the Bellagio, they must have had his personal details there, which meant he'd left something of his life, of his background, of his whereabouts, on file. The people who'd hired him would have done all sorts of background checks, because you didn't just walk into a security job without being checked out. And, in turn, without having to give something of yourself away.

Grabbing my phone, I went to the browser and straight to the Bellagio site. There was no number listed for the security team on the contact
page, just a general information line. I noted it down, backed out, and headed to Google, putting in a search for “Bellagio Director of Security.” There was no picture—but there was a name: Carlos Soto.

I punched in the general inquiries line just as traffic started moving again.

“Good evening. This is the Bellagio. How can I help?”

Through the cell, and across five thousand miles, it sounded like I was talking to someone on the moon. “I was hoping to speak to Carlos Soto in security, please.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The line went silent. A couple of clicks.

Then it started ringing again.

I glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. That meant it was just before midnight there. Security staff worked all sorts of hours, so there was a good chance Soto was there.

I just hoped I'd get lucky.

But I didn't.

Click
. “Hi, this is Carlos Soto, director of security at the Bellagio. I'm afraid I can't take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, I will get back to you as soon as I can. Alternatively, one of my colleagues will be happy to help.” He went on to list a few names and their direct lines, but the signal began to wane as I moved closer to the coastline's black spot. If the high-rollers group was bringing in the sort of money Lee had suggested, the hotel wasn't going to palm Cornell off on to a glorified mall cop—they were going to give him their top man.

That meant it was Soto or no one.

I listened to the rest of his message, then left one of my own, hoping the signal would hold up. “Hi, Mr. Soto, my name's David Raker. I'm an investigator based in the UK. I was hoping I could talk to you about a man named Cornell.”

I figured that would be enough—so I left my number and ended the call. Almost immediately my phone started ringing again.

Carter Graham.

I picked up. “Carter—is everything all right?”

“David,” he said. He was whispering. Immediately I could sense the alarm in his voice. “He's here. I think he's shot one of my security guards. I'm so scared.”

“Okay, calm down. Who are you talking about?”

“Katie says she saw a man with a gun coming from the barn.” He sniffed. It sounded like he was crying. “Help me. Please.”

Katie says . . .

“Listen, Carter. You can't trust Katie.”

He was crying.

“Carter. Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

“I said you can't trust—”

Suddenly, there was a massive noise in the background.

“Oh
fuck
!” he screamed. “Oh shit!”

“What the hell was that?”

“That's him firing a fucking gun!”

I pulled the phone from the cradle. “Okay. Listen: did you call the police?”

“Oh,
please
,” he said, words deformed by tears.

“Carter?”

“Please,” he said again, “please don't kill m—”

And then a second gunshot.

The line went dead.

When I got to Farnmoor, the gates were wide open and I'd become lucid enough to see how fast I'd been drawn in, how unprepared I was. Whoever this man was, he was armed and he was a killer. I wasn't either of those things. I'd left Prouse's Glock back at the Ley—and now I had nothing to fight back with.

I drove past the gates, on about an eighth of a mile to where I knew there was a turnout. Leaving the car there, I backtracked along the lane until I saw a space in the hedge that traced the perimeter of the grounds. From this distance, everything seemed normal. No movement. Nothing out of place. The rain had eased off, leaving the lane awash, but this close to the coast the drizzle was massaged by a cold sea breeze that made it difficult to hear anything but the gurgle of water and the whine of the wind. I headed further down the lane, toward the gates, and then watched the house again, this time from the bottom of the driveway. No sign of the police, or of Rocastle, even though it had been the first thing I'd told Graham to do when I'd woken him up. Instead there was a stillness to the house, a pallid hush, that it had never had before.

I'm too late
.

Darting in through the gates, I arced right, following the boundary hedge to where an orchard sat, perched on a gentle slope. Beyond it was the side of the house, where I could see the window into the library, its glass dark and indistinct. Further around, the swath of green that encircled Farnmoor dropped away toward the sea, running left to the cliff's edge, and right to a series of fields on which I could see the empty barn.

The one Prouse had killed Paul and Carrie in
.

Hunched behind a knot of apple trees, I waited to see if there was any reaction to my movement. Any eyes on me. Any sign I'd been spotted. In the windows of the house all I could see was a reflection of the grounds and the growing blackness of the sky. As I moved further around, right to the edge of the orchard, I saw three cars at the back. One I assumed was Katie Francis's, a Lexus I'd seen parked in exactly the same place both times I'd been before. Further down were a series of five garages, four closed, one open: inside the open one was a red Porsche Cayman. It must have been part of Graham's collection. The other one was a black Audi A4 with
SECURITEAM
stenciled on to its side.

Graham's security detail.

He said he had seven men here.

Where the hell are the rest of their cars?

The remnants of the previous night's gala were evident: the marquee was still up at the rear of the house, ribbon was attached to the doors and windows, and behind one pane of glass I could vaguely make out a balloon. Along the gravel path, running between the orchard and the house, I could see plastic beer glasses and discarded cigarette butts, in doorways, on windowsills. Briefly, I wondered why there was no clean-up staff here.

Then I realized.

It's Sunday.

Graham must have given them the day off
.

A sudden rush of wind carved in off the sea, ghosting through me, and I shivered there, alone, in the orchard. It was cold now, freezing cold, the rain getting harder, leaves falling from the branches above me, cascading past my face like fallen wings. My eyes fell on the rear door, one I assumed would lead through to the kitchen and then on into the belly of the house. It was my quickest route inside, but it was also dangerous: I'd be approaching from a different direction, entering hallways I hadn't used, passing rooms I wasn't familiar with. But going in through the front door meant going around the house.

And that was an even bigger risk.

I'd be passing windows.

I'd be exposed.

I grabbed my phone from my coat and checked it. A single bar. I dialed 999 and listened to it ring, the reception drifting in and out. Then the line died. I tried again, got as far as asking for the police, and then I lost the signal for a second time.
I'll have to call from the landline
. Pocketing the phone, I watched the house for a few minutes more.

Then I broke cover.

Sprinting across the open ground between the orchard and the house, I moved in a diagonal, across to the rear door, and—as I got closer—realized it was already ajar. I hit it hard, pushing through into the kitchen and stopping the door dead before it hit the wall.

Silence inside.

Ahead of me, the kitchen—all chrome and brushed steel—split in an L-shape: one branch led into a cove that doubled up as a pantry; the other
opened out into a bigger, brighter space, with a granite-topped island sitting under a slanted roof full of skylights.

Beyond it was the door.

I headed around the counters, grabbed a knife from a rack, then padded through to the hallway. The stairs up were about a third of the way along. The other times I'd been, I'd approached from the opposite direction and there had been people working. This time there was no sound anywhere and the whole place was empty. I felt my heart shift, instinctively knowing this wasn't right, and then a sense of dread started to wash over me: ten minutes before, Graham had called me in desperation, in tears, in fear of his life.

A gunshot had drowned out his plea to be spared.

Now there was only stillness and quiet.

I passed vacant rooms, frozen in party mode: balloons and decorations, glasses on tables and mantelpieces, the smell of spilled booze and cigarette smoke. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I looked up, saw nothing, and headed straight past, all the way to the vast front room that had been the central focus of the gala. There was no one inside, but—as I backed out—I noticed the front door was fully open. Outside, it was still raining.

Returning to the stairs, I paused and looked up.

As the steps spiraled right to meet the landing, I noticed something on the wall. A smear.
Blood
. I felt compelled to look behind me again, in both directions, the size of the house suddenly intimidating, its ceaseless, deathly silence sending a cool finger down the center of my spine. Then my eyes fell on the blood again, and I saw more beyond it: on the carpet at the top of the stairs, on the walls around it, on the door frames.

Slowly, I started the ascent.