‘W
ell I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.’ Lynn Windsor turned her back on Mickey, began to walk away from him as if he’d been dismissed.
I don’t think so, thought Mickey, following.
He was back in the solicitors’ offices, following up his previous call. Finding out what he could about Adam Weaver. He wasn’t getting very far. Lynn Windsor was stonewalling.
‘Lynn, don’t walk away from me, please.’
She stopped, turned. Sighed, exasperated. Her face looked different from the previous day. Harder, set. No flirtation in her manner, just business to get on with. Once she had dealt with Mickey the irritant.
‘I need to talk to you. I need to talk to your boss. Adam Weaver. I saw him here yesterday, going into a meeting. I saw him again last night. And he was very dead.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Dead?’
‘Haven’t you seen today’s news? Read a paper?’
‘No … ’
‘He was found dead in his hotel last night. Murdered.’
She turned away from him. ‘Oh my God … ’
‘Yeah. So I’m following up every lead I can.’
Lynn Windsor’s head was down, eyes on the floor. Her shoulders heaved as she sighed. She looked up.
‘You’d … you’d better … better step inside my office.’
She entered her office. Mickey followed, closing the door behind him. They sat down at either side of the desk.
‘Right,’ she said. She leafed through a pile of papers in a distracted manner, not making eye contact with him. ‘Tell me again what happened and what you want.’
‘I want to know why Adam Weaver was here yesterday. Who he was seeing, what he was discussing, what business he had.’
‘He was seeing my boss. As to what they were discussing … ’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
‘Could I talk to your boss, please.’ No question, just a statement.
‘He’s … not here at the moment. Out all day. Don’t know when he’ll be back.’ She looked up at him, eyes on him, darting quickly away. ‘Sorry.’
Mickey knew when he was being lied to. He also knew when stating that fact helped him and when it didn’t. He didn’t think now was the right time. Wouldn’t get results.
‘I will have to talk to him. At some point.’
‘Well I’ll run it by him, see if he’s OK with that.’
‘Lynn, it’s not a question as to whether he’s OK with it. This is a murder investigation. I can get a warrant if I have to.’
Yeah, he thought, I could. But it’s a hell of a lot of effort just to have a conversation. He was sure Lynn knew that too, but if she did, she wasn’t letting on.
‘I realise that,’ she said, ‘but it’s not my decision to make. As I said, I’ll put it to him.’
‘Thank you. Appreciated.’ He gave a smile.
She returned it. Briefly.
‘Of course, whether he’ll be able to tell you anything … I couldn’t say. Client confidentiality and all that.’
‘Of course,’ said Mickey. He sensed that was as much as he was going to get, dropped it. Gave her another smile. ‘Well, thank you.’
She smiled too, nodded.
Mickey looked at Lynn Windsor, head down, rearranging papers on her desk, toying with a paper clip in her fingers, and knew there was something wrong. Or at least something she was unhappy about. Tense.
‘You OK?’ he said.
She jumped. Dropped the paper clip. ‘Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled, sat back. Not professional interest, the move said, more personal. ‘You just seem a bit … distracted.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Head down once more. Another sigh. ‘I suppose … ’ She looked up again. ‘Just … split up with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
She nodded. Looked at the papers on her desk. Looked up again. ‘Have you got … anyone, Detective?’
Mickey felt his cheeks reddening. Anni’s face came into his mind’s eye. ‘Erm, no. Not really.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really?’
‘No.’ Anni’s face disappeared. He felt the beginnings of an erection. ‘No. There’s no one.’
Lynn Windsor nodded. Sat back, crossed her legs. Smiled. Mickey’s eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts. He tried not to look. Failed. Kept his eyes glued to hers.
She smiled again, well aware of what he had just done. ‘I’ve still got your number … Mickey.’
He swallowed. His throat had gone dry. ‘Yeah, yes. You have.’
‘Shall I call you if there are … developments?’
‘I … ’ The room suddenly felt very hot. Uncomfortable. ‘Yes. That would be … I’d … yes.’
He couldn’t believe the way he was behaving. This was textbook, he thought. The kind of scenario every copper dreamed about. How many pub tales and fantasies had revolved around this kind of situation? And here he was, tongue-tied and blushing. Not very Sweeney.
‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I might just do that.’
He returned the smile. She looked away.
‘Well, I’d better get on with some work.’ She stood up. ‘Very nice to see you again. Good luck, and … I’ll be in touch.’
‘I … I look forward to it.’
Mickey got up and left the room.
Outside, he shook his head as he walked away.
‘I look forward to it,’ he said out loud. ‘Tit.
’ But he was smiling as he said it.
P
hil walked the grounds of the hotel. He didn’t need a guide.
The place felt familiar to him, but it was a kind of dream familiarity. Like he had never visited in real life or during waking hours, but knew his way round none the less.
Phil was firmly a rationalist, didn’t believe in any kind of psychic phenomena. Even turned the TV off, swearing at it, when
Most Haunted
came on. But standing in the grounds, the trees around him, the river behind him, the way he was feeling now, what he was experiencing … he couldn’t say. All bets were off.
He put his palm on the nearest tree. A huge old oak. Felt … he didn’t know what. Rough bark, lichen, on a physical level. But beyond that, age, the centuries that the tree had stood there for. Something that had been living long before him and would continue to do so long after he had gone. A permanence. A rightness with nature.
Hand still in place, he closed his eyes. Tried to feel beyond that, reach for something else, some reason for the connection he was experiencing to this area, this place. Eyes closed tight, screwed up. He felt … he felt … nothing.
Opened his eyes again. Took his hand away quickly, hoping no one had seen him do it. The kind of behaviour Glass would use against him. Mark him down as a tree hugger, a liberal, even. A danger to the team. A maverick. Phil would have smiled if he thought Glass wouldn’t have meant it.
The hotel was beyond the trees. Beyond that was a golf course. Phil felt no affinity with that, no reason to go there. Strange. He wondered why. Apart from the fact that he hated golf. So following his instinct, he turned and walked down towards the river.
The water, flowing fast, clear, looked cold. The trees on both sides of the bank were losing their leaves, carpeting the forest floor or dropping into the water, the current bearing them away.
It was Phil’s favourite time of the year. He would have found the view beautiful, calming, restful. If not for the nagging inside his head.
And the murder inquiry.
He walked down to the river’s edge. The bank showed roots, twisted and gnarled, bare where the moving water had eroded the earth. Sticking out ready to catch the ankle of an unobservant walker.
On the opposite side, a tree had been uprooted and fallen backwards. Probably in a storm or during a harsh winter. It was quite remarkable. The roots had fanned out into a large semicircle, making a natural bay for the water to run into. Or an animal amphitheatre, he thought, smiling. Where the woodland creatures could perform
Tales of the Riverbank
.
He looked further into it. Saw the twisting roots, but became aware of something beyond them. He knelt down on his side of the bank, tried to peer closer. Tunnels. He could see tunnels. Probably an animal. Rabbits or badgers, something like that. A nesting habitat.
Tunnels. Phil sat up straight. The word hit him with an almost physical power. Tunnels.
Why? What did that mean?
He didn’t know. But he thought he should find out. He stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, looked around. Tunnels.
Being guided by the word and his own instincts, he started to walk upstream.
The natural footpath beside the river began to narrow and eventually petered out. Thorned brambles and branches barred the way forward. Phil peered through. He could see that the hotel’s land continued, the boundary in the distance. Pulling his jacket over his face, he plunged into the trees.
The thorns pulled at his clothing and, where they could, his exposed skin. He felt the barbs dig in, rip flesh as he tried to pull away. Like being shot repeatedly with an air rifle. Branches slapped him, stung where they hit. But he kept going, driven by the thought – the memory – in his head that remained just out of reach.
The forest became denser. Branches and leaves overhead blotting out the sunlight. To his right, the river seemed further away than previously, the bank more built-up, a steeper drop down to the water. He turned, moved towards it.
As he did so, he checked the ground. There were indentations in the earth, the leaves. He knelt down, examined them. Footprints. Someone had taken the same route. And not so long ago, he reckoned.
Phil looked upwards, around him. Examined his surroundings in closer detail. Branches showed signs of having been bent back and broken, some snapped off altogether. He looked at the tracks, the broken foliage. Followed the trail.
It brought him to the river’s edge. He looked round. Listened. No sign of anything, no sound except the movement of the water. The hotel, the murder scene, seemed far away.
He reached the edge of the bank. There was a drop down to the river, probably higher than he was tall. He looked down at the footprints. They went to the edge and stopped. Phil knelt down. There was scuffing on the ground, as though someone had climbed over the edge, taken some of the earth with them. He looked down. Saw only the river.
He thought. A boat? Was that how they had got out of here? So why hadn’t the uniforms looked for signs? Had they just given up at the end of the footpath? He closed his eyes. Tried to think, imagine himself in the killer’s position.
Come up the river by boat … moor it … climb up the bank, through the trees, down to the hotel … slip inside … up to the room … and out again the same way …
Phil focused. Examined his theory further.
The killer must have known the layout of the hotel. Known a way in, found the room and out again without being seen. Been confident enough of not being tracked into the forest. Sure enough of himself to get a boat away from the scene without being spotted.
Something nagged at him.
Tunnels …
He knelt down again, looked over the edge of the bank. The noise of the water increased, mingled with the sound of rushing blood in his head as he leaned further over. He edged forward, scoping the bank side.
Grabbing on to a protruding root, he swung himself over the edge, began to climb down. Jumped the last little bit of the way, got his feet wet in the shallow siding of the river. There was a tunnel right before him. Or at least a cave-like entrance. Dark, overgrown with the tendrils of weeds, roots sticking out at the entrance.
He looked inside. Felt his heart miss a beat.
A shadow detached itself from the dark. Became larger.
Someone was coming towards him.
Fast.
P
hil braced himself, wanting to turn, run, escape. But knowing he couldn’t do that. Knowing that his training – his job – should leave him ready to handle whoever it was coming towards him.
Out of the cave mouth flew a bundle of rags. It took Phil a few seconds, but he recognised it as Paul. The tramp he had interviewed the day before.
‘Wait,’ Phil shouted. ‘I just want to talk … ’ He ran backwards, twisted and fell. The water splashed up around him, cold penetrating to his skin straight away like icy underwear. He looked round for something – anything – that he could use to defend himself. Pulled at a root that was sticking out of the face of the bank, but it wouldn’t budge.
Paul didn’t stop.
Phil managed to get to his feet again, felt the weight of the cold water in his sodden clothes dragging him down. If the tramp hit him, forced him into the water, he might not be in a position to fight back.
‘Please, I just want to talk … Please … ’ He held his hands up, showing he had no weapon. ‘Please, Paul, please … ’
The figure paused.
Phil pressed home the advantage. ‘I’m not armed, I’m just here by myself. There’s no one else with me. Come on, Paul. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’
He hoped that would be enough.
He looked at the tramp standing before him. Blinking in the sunlight, confused by Phil’s presence.
‘Why … are you here?’
‘I’m … ’ Phil ran his hand through his hair, decided how to approach this. The truth. Try that. ‘Well, Paul, I’m here at the hotel.’ He gestured. ‘Back there. There’s been a murder. And I’m investigating it.’
Paul looked at him, frowning. Phil couldn’t tell under the filth and hair, but there seemed to be some conflicting emotions moving across his features.
‘Murder … ’
‘That’s right. A murder.’
Paul began to nod. ‘Yes … ’
‘Let’s … ’ keeping his eyes on him all the time he was speaking, ‘let’s sit down, Paul. Get comfortable.’
Not wanting to get his clothes any dirtier or wetter than they already were, Phil found a tree root to sit on. Brushed it before he sat. Paul settled on the ground.
‘So, Paul … twice in two days. What are you doing here? Long way out for you.’
Paul looked round, brow furrowed as if listening, waiting for the trees to give him answers. ‘I … Heaven.’
Phil nodded. Here we go again. ‘Heaven. How d’you mean?’
Paul spread his arms out. ‘Here. Heaven. Can relax.’
‘Right. And how did you get here?’
Paul looked at the river. ‘I was brought here. On the water.’
‘You mean you travelled on the river, yes? In a boat?’
Paul looked at Phil then. Right in the eye, unblinking. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ His voice calm, controlled.
The directness of the question threw Phil off balance. ‘Well, I … ’
Paul shook his head. ‘You don’t have to answer. I know you do. They all do.
You
all do. And that’s fine.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. Fine. ’Cos maybe I am.’ A laugh. Or at least an approximation of one. ‘Should be. Everything that’s … all that’s … you know … ’
Phil ignored the gathering cold in his clothes, leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean?’
Paul looked round once more. ‘Heaven. This place. Heaven. Or it was. Until … ’
‘Until what, Paul?’
Paul snapped his attention back to Phil. ‘I told you. Yesterday.’ He turned away once more.
Phil thought. What had Paul said? It had all sounded so rambling at the time. Allegorical, even. ‘You said that,’ said Phil. ‘But that’s all you said. Heaven until the bad men came.’
Paul nodded. ‘I did. Yes. I did. Yes. I did. Evil. Evil. Yes.’
‘Was it here, Paul? Was it here that the bad men came?’
Paul looked round once more, taking counsel from the trees, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Here. Heaven up here. In the Garden.’
‘The garden? The garden of the hotel?’
‘It’s not a hotel.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘The Garden.’ Said like Phil was stupid for even asking. ‘Always has been. Always will be.’
‘Right.’ The Garden … Something in that name too, though Phil couldn’t quite place it. He took a risk. Abandoned his chosen line of questioning, his training, everything. Asked Paul a direct question.
‘Paul, when I came here last night, and again today, I felt something.’
Paul gave him a sidelong look. Eyes narrowed. He said nothing.
Phil continued. ‘I don’t know what, I can’t really explain it.’
‘I think you can.’ Paul’s voice had changed. He spoke with sudden sanity, clarity. Noticing this, emboldened by it, Phil went on.
‘I felt like … like I’d been here before. Like I knew my way round.’
‘Go on.’
‘But I couldn’t. I’ve never been here in my life. How could that happen?’
‘Perhaps you have been here before. But perhaps you don’t remember it.’
‘How can I not remember it?’
Paul leaned forward. A light danced in his eyes. A charismatic light. Not mad; deeply sane. Phil found it comforting. He was surprised, to say the least. ‘Perhaps you choose not to remember it. Or part of you has chosen not to remember it, and the other part is trying to break through.’ He sat back.
Phil thought about the words. They made sense. Sitting here, he thought, wet through, by a river in a forest with a tramp, the words made sense.
‘You have to listen to yourself,’ Paul went on. ‘Trust yourself. The answer is there.’
‘Where?’
Paul leaned forward. Placed his index finger on Phil’s chest. Pushed slightly. Phil felt the equivalent of a mild electric shock pass through his body. ‘There.’
Paul sat back once more. Said nothing further.
Phil felt like he was on the verge of something. Answers. ‘I’ve been having these dreams … The cage in the cellar … in the dream, I’m in it … ’
Paul’s features clouded. ‘No. No … ’ His voice small, head shaking with it.
Phil pressed on. ‘Are those … those dreams … are they part of it?’
‘No … Don’t … No … I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘But … ’
‘Navaho. They say dreams are a way of keeping in touch. You dream of someone, you’re keeping in touch.’
‘But I’m … ’
‘You’re dreaming of someone. Don’t. You don’t want to meet them. Not now. Not ever. Not since the Garden got replanted.’ Paul stood up. ‘I have to go now.’
Phil stood also. ‘Please. Don’t go. I need to … I have to talk to you. About the murder at the hotel. About yesterday.’
‘I didn’t do it. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.’ More nods. ‘Bad thing. But I’m not.’ He walked along the side of the river, heading upstream. ‘I’m going now. Please don’t follow me.’
Phil tried going after him, but Paul was soon lost in the foliage, and Phil became stuck, entangled in the thorny branches of a low-hanging tree. By the time he had extricated himself, Paul had gone.
Phil looked at the mouth of the cave where Paul had been sitting. Saw the remains of a campfire in the entrance. A few trails of dead smoke rising up from it, scuff marks in the earth at the sides where he had kicked dirt over it to damp it down. The ground here looked flattened, like Paul came here a lot.
Phil looked inside the cave, but saw nothing. Only darkness.
Finding nothing more, and remembering that Glass didn’t think Paul was a suspect, Phil turned. Made his way back to the hotel.
As he walked, he heard Paul’s words zinging round his head.
They should have made things clearer.
But Phil just felt more confused than ever.