The Drowning Ground (33 page)

‘No, I'm fine, Graves,' I said, snapping out of it. ‘Did you speak to Hooper?'

‘The arrogant sod burst out laughing when I asked him about the flowers. Said he didn't even know she was buried there. And didn't really care. Not exactly sentimental,' Graves added. ‘But he did say something else.'

I paused and reached for the ignition. ‘Go on,' I said.

‘It looks like Sarah Hurst was putting it about a bit. Hooper said there was someone else. Something more serious, and that it was over between him and her a long time before Hurst got wind of it.'

‘Over with him? With Hooper?'

‘Yes.'

‘And she ended it because of this other man?'

‘Yes, that's what he said. But of course he didn't mention that before. That would have given him a motive and he figured he was in enough trouble already.'

‘Did he say who?'

‘No,' Graves said. ‘But it sounded like it was pretty serious. He said that Sarah Hurst told him that she was going to leave her husband. Her and this other guy were going to run off together and never come back. They were just waiting for the right moment. That's why she broke it off with Hooper. Hooper said he didn't care all that much. A case of wounded pride more than anything else.'

‘And you believe him?'

Graves didn't answer straightaway. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I do.'

I started to reverse with the phone wedged between my jaw and my shoulder. ‘All right,' I said. ‘Where are you?'

‘On the way back to the station,' Graves said.

‘I'm on my way there now. Wait for me out near the front in twenty minutes and I'll pick you up.'

49

Once we had left Moreton behind us, I picked up speed, despite the snow. I had been calm after leaving the industrial estate. But now I was nervous and tense.

‘So Nancy did know something,' Graves said. ‘That's what you think, sir?'

‘Yes, she had business here. I thought it was a damned long trip to make just for Frank Hurst.' I switched off the radio. ‘But Nancy wasn't here for his funeral at all. Couldn't have cared less. She was here the whole time for something else.'

‘But what?' Graves said, shifting in his seat to look at me and surreptitiously checking his seatbelt. ‘What did Nancy come back to the Cotswolds for? What was she really after?'

I peered into the darkness ahead, really picking up speed now. ‘We know whoever killed Hurst was after something. And they'd been after it for some time. It was something in that big old house, and Hurst knew it. The problem was he didn't know what it was. He didn't know what they were looking for. But somebody was trying to get in. So whatever they were looking for was important. It must have been important for them to take that chance.'

‘So that's why he put the bars in. He did it to keep them out?' Graves said.

I nodded.

‘And so he wasn't losing the plot at all.'

‘No, he wasn't. Actually, he was right. Someone was watching him and waiting. So he put in all the bars to keep them out and then, just to be on the safe side, he got that big old dog and trained it to go after anyone snooping round his property. He kept watch too, and he reduced the space of where he lived to just a few rooms. And he fixed it so that whoever came looking would have to go round the back, where he'd be ready and waiting for them.'

‘With a gun.'

‘Exactly. I imagine it must have been a kind of hard monastic life. But the stubborn bastard probably quite enjoyed it in his own way. Also it fits. We know it wasn't Elise or Gail down there. The DNA you collected from Simon Hurst will prove that it was Rebecca, I'm sure of that now. But Frank Hurst didn't know that his daughter was dead and buried right there under the house. And because he never knew, he waited for her. He waited for her to come back. So the question is: who was trying to get into the house and what were they after? We know that whoever it was also faked those postcards, and that whoever sent those postcards killed Rebecca Hurst.'

‘And the postcards could be used to lure him out of the house.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But the trick could be pulled off only once. And whoever it was didn't look around the house. They searched in a very specific place, and they did it very thoroughly.'

‘Her room. They looked in Rebecca's bedroom,' Graves said.

‘They were looking for her diary,' I said. ‘Her friend Alice said she was pretty attached to it. Went everywhere with it. And it always bothered me that it wasn't with her things. Why didn't she pack her diary when she left? And if she didn't pack it, where is it?'

Graves folded his arms. ‘But that's what they were looking for?'

‘I think so,' I said. ‘But I don't think they ever found it.'

‘But why?'

‘Because somebody else already had it.' I paused and shifted in my seat. ‘This is how I think it might have happened,' I said. ‘Let's say Rebecca Hurst's killer murdered her just as she was about to leave home. That's why she had all her stuff ready to go. They walked in, and there she was, almost out the door. And when it was all over they buried her body under the house and her rucksack too. And when Hurst came back, she was gone and all her stuff along with her. So he just assumed she'd gone and done what she'd been threatening to do for years.

‘But whoever killed her knew that they had to go back. Because after they'd buried Rebecca they realized they'd made a mistake. Something was missing from her things. They might have had a quick look for it, but with Hurst on his way home at any minute of course they couldn't hang about for long.

‘Maybe she hadn't had time to pack the diary. Maybe it was still up in her room somewhere. But the problem with diaries is that they're secret, and because they're secret they're hidden very carefully. So whoever killed her knew that they were going to have to return and search for it. But what if the diary wasn't there? What if someone else had found it? Someone who spent a lot of time up in that room.'

‘Oh, Christ. You reckon she could have been that stupid?' Graves said.

‘Looks that way,' I said. ‘Or desperate. Nancy told me she had a guest house up in Brighton, but her sister said she worked in a hotel. I checked. She was a chambermaid. Things weren't working out for her. And we know Hurst kept that room clean. What if Nancy found it while she was cleaning?'

‘But why now?' Graves said. ‘Why did Nancy wait all that time before coming back here? Why did she wait until Hurst was dead? And if she found it, why keep it? It was probably just an old schoolbook full of her writing.'

‘I don't think she cared about Rebecca's diary,' I said. ‘But I think she cared about what was in it.'

‘Money,' Graves said. ‘It was full of money. The money you said she'd stolen from school.'

‘Yes, I think so. We know Rebecca stole some money. It wasn't all that much. But enough to get her to London and pay her way there for a few weeks at least. And she refused to give it back. Denied it was her, of course. I think it was the money she planned on using to go away.'

‘And she hid the money along with her diary?'

‘I think she must have.'

‘So Nancy took the diary as well.'

I nodded. ‘Her sister sent all of Nancy's belongings up to Brighton. I imagine that Nancy took the diary with her when she found the cash. Nancy probably forgot she even had it.'

‘Until she heard there was a body beneath Frank's house.'

‘Yes, and that's when she thought it might be worth having a look. And after that she must have set up a time to meet Rebecca's killer. From what we know, they didn't even show up at the café. But they were waiting for her down that lane.'

50

I parked the car up the street, away from the house and near the pub. We walked on past a small cottage. Below us were houses strung along narrow twisting lanes. Another pub and a church, an empty school and the occasional lorry or car trundled far down below. In the darkness a grimace spread across Graves's features as we got closer to the house.

We walked along the side of the wall and through the gate. We approached the front door very slowly. We didn't knock straightaway. Instead, both of us paused and watched. We could see Lang through a side kitchen window. He was sitting very still under the warm glow of overhead lights. He was cradling a glass of red wine in his hands, and as I looked he suddenly gripped it and brought it quickly towards his mouth. His wife, a dour-looking woman with streaks of grey hair, was loading dishes into the dishwasher and talking to him over her shoulder. Suddenly she turned around so that she was looking at him and pursed her lips. A look of disapproval crossed her face. Lang smiled wanly and put down the glass. He seemed to apologize and then stood up and helped her for a while. She spoke to him and he nodded from time to time.

When they finished, her features softened, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and kissed him fondly on the cheek. Then she padded away from him and slipped up the stairs. He looked relieved to see her go. He turned away from the sink, drained his glass, stood up and walked to the sideboard. He slipped out a bottle of wine from the rack above the fridge, examined the label and opened it. Then he poured himself a glass. A big one. He sat down. The dog was curled up fast asleep in a corner. He took off his glasses and pressed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, and every so often he would look across at the dog sleeping by the stove.

From behind the thick oak door came muffled voices and then raucous laughter from the television. Lang sat a little straighter in the chair, brushed his trousers, shifted on his seat. I watched him and let him finish his drink. It would be his last for a very long time.

I took another step forward, sure that he would see us. But he stared at the wall in front of him for a while longer. You could almost feel the panic rushing towards him now that he was alone in his kitchen. He took another drink. He clutched at the base of the glass as if he were resisting the urge to hurl it across the kitchen. He looked sick to his stomach, and there was an expression of bewildered terror on his face, like a man waking from a nightmare. With a huge effort of will he remained still, restraining himself. He nodded to himself once. Standing in the shadows of the trees, I looked at him, wondering how many times Lang had been through this. I was sure I was looking at a man living in hell. Then I walked along the path and knocked on the front door.

It was answered by Mrs Lang. She was taking an earring out of her left ear and getting ready to go to bed no doubt, and she looked immensely put out when we told her who we were. Without saying another word, she turned around and headed off down the hall, leaving the door wide open as we waited on the doorstep.

There were boots and scarves and coats in a stand beside the door, and a bag stuffed full of old golf clubs was propped against the wall. We didn't wait for long. Graves went in first, and I followed straight into the kitchen.

I hadn't really expected Lang to try to run. It seemed undignified somehow, and there really wasn't anywhere for him to go. But the back door was wide open, and his wife was standing in the sudden cold of the kitchen, looking utterly bewildered. Lang was already halfway across the lawn. I nodded and Graves went straight after him, while the dog bounded around them both as if it were all a big game. I took a few steps into the kitchen and watched as Graves executed a perfect rugby tackle, tapping Lang at the base of his ankles so that he went flying. There was a loud crunch as he went head first into the snow. He tried to get up and run again, but Graves roughly picked him up and brought him back into the kitchen.

Mrs Lang looked at her husband and then at me. It looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't quite manage it. Her husband was covered in snow and mud. He wiped snow out of his eyes. The dog had followed them in and was wagging its tail furiously. Within seconds, the whole kitchen had become a mess of half-melted snow and muddy footprints. Lang wouldn't look at his wife as I read him his rights and arrested him for murder. I told him that we were going to take him to the station, and that she had better come along too.

51

I let Graves interview Mrs Lang back at the station and let Victor Lang stew for a while on his own.

Graves came out of the interrogation room and gently shut the door behind him.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It was her. She was walking the dog up on Meon Hill, and she saw Frank Hurst up there. Victor was working at home with one of his patients. She was the one who told him.'

‘So she told him that she'd seen one of his old friends out there when she got back home?'

‘No, she didn't know who he was. She'd never met Frank Hurst. She walks the dog out there sometimes. When she got back home she told Victor that a strange man was working on the field as she was walking the dog. And that he just stood there glaring at her, and she didn't know why or who he was or what he wanted.'

‘So Victor must have guessed that she had seen Hurst,' I said.

Graves nodded. ‘But we still don't really have anything. She went out again after that and left Victor on his own. And she didn't come back until later, when he was there preparing dinner.'

‘And how did he seem?'

‘Perfectly normal, she says. He cooked her dinner, and they watched a bit of television and went to bed. So there's still nothing to prove he was out on the field. No one saw him there. Or saw a car. There's nothing to tie him to it or to any of it. I mean, I know he looked pretty out of it when we saw him at home, but he seems in control right now. And when he ran, I think he just panicked. And, sir, if he did kill Hurst, he rammed a pitchfork in his throat, went home for supper and then to bed by the sounds of it.'