A Death in the Woods Page 14

  ‘The house is not our own anymore,’ said the Judge. ‘The front and back doors open every five minutes.’

  The static of handheld transceivers battled with the piano music playing on the Judge’s old turntable. Heavy boots stamped on the welcome mat. The locked-in atmosphere affected them all. Baydrian and Ann couldn’t wander out to the garden alone. Patricia had set off the Judge’s personal alarm by mistake.

  Nobody mentioned Norris by name. He was the bogeyman waiting in the woods, like a racist Bigfoot. Since her hypnotic trance, Jess placed David firmly in those same woods. It troubled her to think of them together. One so ugly and angry, the other so lonely.

  Coffee and tea and the ambrosial truffles that Bogna conjured up for guests were passed around. Susannah browsed the framed photographs on the grand piano. Nobody played the piano; since Harriet’s death, nobody could.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Susannah held up a sepia lady in an exuberant hat.

  ‘No idea,’ admitted Jess. The photographs were dusted but seldom looked at. ‘Some mad ancestor, presumably.’

  ‘So pretty,’ said Susannah. ‘Look, Baydrian, these are your relations!’

  Baydrian didn’t care. He was too busy peering up Patricia Smalls’ pleated skirt. Each to their own, thought Jess with a shudder.

  Jess leaned over to Iris, who was stirring a milky coffee. ‘These meals are so long.’

  ‘I agree.’ Iris put her spoon on the saucer with a silvery chink. ‘Doubtless you’d rather eat a Ginsters by an open fridge, darling.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  From the piano, Susannah held up another photograph. ‘Iris, your Seb was hot!’

  ‘Hot?’ Iris’s expertly pencilled eyebrows raised a little. ‘Yes, he was rather.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Susannah, with a clumsily furtive look at Stephen, ‘Seb was a wonderful husband.’

  ‘We had our moments.’ Iris put her head on one side. ‘Not the best of fathers, though.’

  Jess looked sharply at Iris, who refused to look back.

  Mitch said, ‘Guess you guys are accustomed to murder round here but it’s all a bit shocking for a guy from the outback.’ He had turned so he was literally cold-shouldering Rupert, who was reduced to peeping out from behind Mitch like a dog in the back seat of a car. ‘The killings are all anybody talks about in the Spinning wotsit.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Bogna, coffee pot in hand, ‘that the Kannibal signs his name in blood on the bodies.’

  ‘If he did that,’ laughed Stephen, ‘we’d know who he was.’

  ‘You want coffee in cup,’ asked Bogna, ‘or on lap?’ She didn’t care to be corrected.

  ‘Our resident authority,’ said Iris, ‘is Jess.’

  ‘She won’t tell you anything,’ said Rupert. He’d sat back and was just a disembodied voice.

  ‘What if I ask nicely?’ Mitch winked.

  I forgot how good he is at that. ‘Nope. Sorry. My lips are—’

  ‘So, Rupert,’ the Judge cut in. ‘Bring me up to date on Edinburgh.’

  There was endless talk of the law in Harebell House, and always had been. No time, apparently, for Jess’s chosen specialities. She was miffed. Her scowl lasted until Zinnia came and sat against her. The child had the same warm heft as Moose.

  ‘It’s going pretty well,’ Rupert was saying. He leant forward now, and Mitch leaned back.

  They were weathervanes. It struck Jess that their antipathy might be to do with her. She shifted. It should be a compliment: Susannah would relish such a display of testosterone for her benefit. It felt like the opposite of a compliment to Jess. I’m a woman, not a bone for them to growl over.

  Bogna handed around small biscuits she’d made herself. ‘Petty fours,’ she said, with a sly look at Patricia. ‘Posh, isn’t it.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Patricia. ‘I’m watching my weight.’

  ‘Nothing much to watch,’ muttered Bogna as she slid from the room.

  Rupert had plenty to say about Edinburgh. How windy it was. ‘The rain!’ He was, Jess realised, engaged. Excited, even. ‘The architecture’s beautiful, but Jack and I don’t have much time for sightseeing.’

  ‘Setting up new chambers,’ said the Judge, admiration in his voice, ‘is demanding work.’

  Patricia, who had stolen one of the Judge’s petit fours, said, ‘Never mind finding somewhere to live.’

  ‘Live?’ laughed Jess.

  ‘I’ve found a temporary place, just the first six months.’ Rupert pulled a face. ‘The thought of moving all my stuff . . .’ He sighed. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, as they say.’

  ‘Whoever they are,’ said Jess. ‘You don’t even like omelettes.’ She had to say something; that was the best she could come up with.

  Live.

  Rupert was moving cross country. Without even talking it over with me. There was no contractual obligation on his part to run it by her; they weren’t ‘involved’. There had been no bumping of rude parts. But there was something she didn’t dare name in case she bruised it.

  As Susannah continued to build a family tree from the photographs and Baydrian continued to ignore her and Mary fell asleep, Jess re-ran her recent conversations with Rupert.

  Maybe he did tell me?

  There was a chance she hadn’t been listening. Jess couldn’t ignore overwhelming evidence of her tactical deafness.

  I get that from Dad.

  After so long talking about Edinburgh at cross purposes, it was too late to ask questions. Rupert already had one foot out of the door.

  ‘Intrepid,’ remarked the Judge. ‘To move to the other end of the country.’

  ‘Like Jess always says,’ Rupert turned towards her. ‘Castle Kidbury can feel a bit small.’

  He was the one with roots. The one Jess relied on to be around. ‘Do I say that?’

  Iris changed the subject, in her charmingly despotic way. ‘There is such disruption at the manor.’

  ‘Major major renovations,’ said Josh. ‘I get to wear a hard hat.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. The chapel roof,’ said the Judge. ‘After all these years, it’s finally being seen to. Exciting, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes, exciting, rooves are so exciting,’ said Patricia with the air of a woman who needed to contribute something – anything – to the conversation.

  From the piano, Susannah brandished a small snap in a marquetry frame. ‘This seems to be the manor in the olden days!’

  ‘Or, as I like to call it, my youth,’ said Iris.

  ‘You’re not old, Aunty,’ said Susannah.

  ‘She’s almost dead.’ Little Ann begged to differ.

  ‘Ann!’ Stephen pulled his daughter to him. ‘We don’t say things like that.’

  Zinnia nudged Jess. Jess nudged Zinnia. Both enjoyed the sideshow.

  ‘Thanks to our magnificent mystery benefactor,’ said Iris, ‘one of Seb’s dreams will finally come true. He longed to see the chapel used again.’

  She faltered.

  Iris never faltered.

  Jess’s sixth sense glowed like hot coal. It was one of David’s dreams, too.

  Because Iris couldn’t bring herself to talk about David, the family tragedy was redoubled. Something about David’s death made him untouchable. Invisible. Condemned to pace Blackdown Woods forever.

  In lieu of hugging her aunt, Jess put her arm around Zinnia. Motherless as she was, Zinnia sank into it.

  Patricia inserted herself again. ‘I speak for all of Castle Kidbury when I say thank you, Mitch.’ She beamed as Mitch froze. ‘Thank you so very much.’

  Iris’s eyes sank to her lap. The way she clutched her skirt suggested she wished it was Patricia’s neck.

  From the pouffe, Josh had started forward, as if to interrupt Patricia.

  ‘Thank him for what?’ Mary, awake once more, looked Mitch up and down. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Not many people with Mitch’s immense wealth would be so generous.’ Patricia presumably didn’t notice how Mitch
bit his lip.

  ‘Immense wealth?’ Jess was amused. Then confused. Mitch looked as if he’d been caught stealing apples.

  ‘Our new friend is on the Sunday Times Rich List!’ Patricia wiggled at the thought. ‘How did you make your millions, Mitch? Something to do with water?’

  Saffron answered from where she sat on the rug. ‘Mum and Dad invented an irrigation thingy.’

  Zinnia took up the story. ‘They made a machine that helps people where it never rains. It was mainly Mummy. Daddy says she’s the brains and the beauty.’

  That present tense. It pierced Jess’s heart. True, it was easily pierced, but she gave Zinnia another hug nonetheless. She looked at Mitch. At the worn-in jeans. The shirt that had never met an iron. ‘I must say,’ she said, ‘you hide your immense wealth bloody well.’

  Mitch laughed. Passed a long-fingered hand over his features. ‘I’ve been outed now, so I may as well explain. Thanks, by the way, Patricia.’

  The mayoress, oblivious to the irony, inclined her head graciously.

  ‘Casey and me, we had a big place, north east of Perth.’ Mitch seemed about to describe it, but he stopped himself. ‘You guys don’t know the area, but it’s dry as a witch’s armpit. We worked out how to . . .’ He gave up on that, too. ‘It’s complicated, but we developed a way of transporting water with minimal waste, minimal ecological impact. It worked. We took out a patent. Everything went boof!’ He could still be surprised by his own success. ‘Everybody wanted it. Making a fortune was never the plan.’

  Mary reached out and kicked him. Gently. ‘The accidental billionaire,’ she smiled.

  ‘Accidental and reluctant.’ Mitch rubbed his leg. Mary’s gentle kicks could kill. ‘Casey freaked out at all the noughts in the bank account.’

  ‘Daddy gives away the water thingy. For free,’ said Saffron.

  ‘To developing countries.’ Mitch looked embarrassed at being caught out in philanthropy. ‘There’s a foundation now. In Mummy’s name, Casey’s name.’

  ‘It helps children,’ said Zinnia. ‘Aboriginal children.’

  ‘Giving something back,’ said Mitch. ‘That always sounds pretentious.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful to me,’ said Iris.

  ‘Never judge a book by its cover, eh?’ said the Judge.

  ‘Nor a man by his jeans,’ said Jess.

  ‘I wanted to leave my reputation behind in Australia,’ said Mitch, with a reproving look for Patricia. ‘Money changes the way people feel about you. It doesn’t solve everything.’

  Jess read the subtext. It can’t bring Casey back. She found herself staring at Mitch. Her neck prickled, and she realised Rupert, in turn, was staring at her.

  ‘Mitch has already contributed to various Castle Kidbury projects, not just the manor.’ Patricia was proud, as if Mitch was her son.

  ‘I’m patronising an up and coming Britart genius,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve commissioned a family portrait from Squeezers.’

  ‘He smells funny,’ said Zinnia.

  Nobody disagreed.

  ‘I don’t envy you, mate,’ said Stephen, saluting Mitch with his coffee cup. ‘Three daughters. They must run rings round you.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ said Mitch. ‘They run wild most of the time. I’ve been attempting to tame them, make them do some educational stuff while they wait to start school.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Iris.

  ‘Boring things,’ complained Saffron. ‘Like cooking.’

  ‘And fractions,’ said Luna.

  ‘I liked the ice skating,’ said Zinnia quietly, so only Jess heard.

  Male voices revved up in the hall. Officious, saying things like ‘Excuse me, madam you can’t go in there,’ and then the drawing room door delivered Gillian Cope.

  Another trouser suit, this one a gunmetal grey. Her long nose seemed to have grown, and it was quivering. ‘There you are, Patricia!’

  ‘Can I help you?’ The Judge stood up. He was tall when he fully unfolded himself; all the better to intimidate barristers and Gillians.

  ‘It’s her I want.’ Gillian yanked Patricia up from the sofa by her wrist. ‘I need you to inspect some damage at the Old Library. Insurance is saying I’m liable but I’m damned if I’ll let them get away with that.’

  ‘I haven’t quite finished my–’

  Gillian took the cup out of Patricia’s hand.

  Mary, whose taekwondo skills could have neutralised Gillian, said gently, ‘Everybody deserves a day off.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Gillian. She hustled across the rug. ‘The attitude in this country stinks. Every winter you just hunker down indoors and hibernate. I can’t wait to jet off, find some sun, and some can-do. Once Halloween’s over, this country becomes a self-pitying pit.’

  ‘Halloween,’ said Zinnia, ‘is scary.’

  Gillian bent down to the little girl. ‘You have no idea how scary I was out on the streets on Halloween, young lady.’

  Zinnia drew back.

  ‘You wouldn’t have been in any danger. It’s the ones with willies who have to watch out when I’m around.’

  The ones with willies crossed their legs in unison.

  Gillian cackled, and was gone, dragging Patricia with her.

  It was the first recorded instance of Jess feeling sorry for the mayoress. It didn’t last long, and when it wore off, she remembered Gillian’s alibi for murder number one. A sedate dinner party in her own home, where she ignored Halloween altogether.

  Still by the piano, Susannah picked up another frame, then another, asking, ‘Where’s David? There’s no piccie of David up here. Have I got his name right? Everybody else is here.’ She was sunny, unaware of the heavy weather crowding the faces of Iris and the Judge. ‘But no David. How silly.’

  ‘Who’s David?’ asked Mary. ‘I get lost in your family tree.’

  ‘He’s Josh’s dad.’ Susannah seemed proud of her knowledge. ‘Where is he, Daddy-in-law?’

  Stephen stood up. Even he, usually immune to nuance, felt the change in the air. ‘Never mind, Suze. They’re just photos.’

  ‘But David’s missing,’ teased Susannah, still light.

  The Judge was not. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he spoke sharply. ‘They’re just photographs, Susannah.’

  As he left the room, Susannah put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘I only said . . .’ she began. Stricken. Gasping.

  Stephen put his arm around her. There would be much work to do tonight on his wife’s equilibrium. ‘Let’s round up the kids, yeah?’

  Sunday lunch was officially over.

  All stood. Shook crumbs from their laps. Picked up bags and went in search of coats.

  In lieu of her father, Jess made goodbyes at the door. She was as bad at this as anybody might expect.

  Last to step outside was Iris. ‘Let him be, darling,’ she said, her mouth to Jess’s ear. ‘Some things just need to stay shut away.’ She squeezed her niece’s hand.

  ‘Iris, are you crying?’ whispered Jess.

  ‘It’s just the cold November air.’ Iris, ramrod straight, took Ann’s hand and followed Stephen and Susannah across the gravel.

  ‘What’s Baydrian got?’ Ann, ever alert to inequality, shouted, ‘Let me see! Let me see!’

  ‘It’s just a stupid thing I found on Grandad’s car.’ Baydrian threw the object and Jess put up her hand to stop it hitting her face.

  It was damp wood, still green. Whittled into the shape of a coffin.

  Rupert shouted to the officers in the car. A heavy-set constable thudded through the hall from the garden. Everybody stood around and examined the carved offering.

  ‘How did Norris manage to leave it here with all these hairy feckin’ coppers everywhere?’ Mary put an arm around Jess, pulled her to her.

  The hairy feckin’ coppers had no answer to that. They were mortified, and mouthed assurances that Jess couldn’t believe.

  Norris had materialised out of the darkness. He could do so again. He knew no fear.

&n
bsp; We are not safe.

  CHAPTER 13

  DAVID

  Still Sunday 8 November

  The roast beef lay like ballast in Jess’s stomach. She was tired, she was crotchety, and she couldn’t shake the image of the little coffin, now neatly bagged in a police file.

  On the scarred desk in the corner of her bedroom, essays waited to be marked. To Jess, they were as dense as the old Icelandic of The Edda; she was falling behind with her work.

  Work not done needs no reward. Those Vikings had a saying for everything.

  She put down her red pen. Looked at the ceiling. Up there, beneath the eaves, Mary snored, under strict instructions from Eden to stay out of the barn during the hours of darkness. Along the hall Bogna slept, a mallet beneath her pillow.

  If Norris breached the perimeter (Jess had picked up jargon from the uniformed sentries), Mary had her Taekwondo, Bogna had her God-given ferocity, the Judge had his ceremonial regimental sword.

  And me? Jess could quote him to death.

  She felt alone. Even with those three helping the house hum with their breath. Moose, she thought. A dog always helps.

  Tiptoeing down the landings – all lights left on, no dark corners that might embrace an intruder – Jess heard St Luke’s bell begin to toll midnight.

  It was usually a comforting sound when she was up late, reading or marking or thinking. Now it was a warning; the day had tipped over into Monday the ninth. If Norris kept to his pattern – and oh! how a serial killer loves a pattern – then the next few hours would bring messy death to Castle Kidbury.

  To Harebell House.

  The last mournful chime sounded as Jess passed the study.

  A slice of light showed beneath the door. The floorboard squeaked beneath her bare feet.

  ‘Jess?’

  She said nothing. Stayed still. Jess didn’t want to see her father. She was tired of being angry with him. Tired of his refusal to talk about their family. Resentful at his selfishness in refusing to accept the danger of their situation.

  ‘Come in, Jess. Please.’

  She did as she was asked. The Judge’s chair was turned toward the window. A bottle of something sat on his desk.

  ‘Dad?’ The hush felt wrong. The Judge was always doing something. Reading something. Disapproving of something.