A Death in the Woods Read online

  ‘Abonda knows Steven’s innocent.’ She was composed. Too proud to show annoyance. ‘What you don’t know, clever girlie, is how many times the police have tried to frame him.’

  ‘Tell me, then.’

  Abonda looked at Jess so hard that Jess felt naked. ‘He come up before your dad many times.’ She allowed herself a tiny smile at Jess’s surprise. ‘Abonda knows who you are. Abonda knows you and your family own this part of the world.’

  ‘Hardly!’ Jess’s family history was a ball and chain.

  ‘You’re the Castles of Castle Kidbury. Ain’t no stone castle nowhere.’

  ‘True, but . . .’ It felt like an accusation Jess had to refute. ‘I don’t have any clout. I’m just like you.’

  ‘Just like me?’ Abonda’s expression, although only minutely altered, let Jess know what she thought of that. ‘You get dog shit pushed through your door up there at Harebell House, do you?’

  ‘You say you know all about me, Abonda, but I want to know about you.’

  ‘Abonda’s an open book.’

  ‘Abonda is not,’ laughed Jess.

  It’s disquieting when you laugh alone.

  A tarot pack lay on the table, among the tea things and the ashtray. Abonda took it up. Shuffled the cards lazily. Expertly. ‘You don’t have no man,’ she said.

  Charming. Time to be bold; something told Jess Abonda would respond to plain speaking. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Abonda don’t need no man.’

  ‘Jess don’t neither.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Abonda.

  A card was slapped down, face up. ‘I was on my way north,’ said Abonda. Another card went down. ‘With my family. I was young. Green, like a shoot. I met Stevie’s father and he promised to look after me.’ Another card. ‘I never lived in a house before that. I travelled. I was free.’

  ‘I like that word,’ said Jess.

  ‘My family went on without me. They were ashamed. I had a baby.’

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘The most beautiful baby,’ said Abonda, ‘I have ever seen.’

  Somewhere between then and now the tattooed Norris had lost his looks.

  ‘He was sick, almost taken from me,’ said Abonda. ‘His heart, see. Wired up all wrong. But he’s a fighter. He came through.’

  Another card was laid down. Abonda’s startled look was, Jess suspected, for her benefit. ‘Then his daddy ups and leaves. Says it’s Abonda’s fault the babby had a crooked heart. Don’t want nothing to do with Abonda.’

  ‘I hope you put a curse on him.’

  The complicated look on Abonda’s face convinced Jess, there and then, never to make another joke about curses in the woman’s hearing. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nobody helps Abonda since then. People hate Abonda. They know I have powers. They know I see what others can’t.’

  ‘Gorgers are scared of the unknown.’

  I did it! I surprised her.

  ‘The word comes from gaje,’ said Jess. ‘It means, well, me. Outsiders. Non-Romany. Did I pronounce it right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Abonda put down another card. ‘You been looking things up?’

  ‘I always go to books when something intrigues me.’

  ‘You knows the difference between a gorger and a didicoy?’

  Jess didn’t. She sensed Abonda’s pleasure at her ignorance.

  ‘Well,’ said Abonda. ‘Gorgers are just others, everybody else, and they usually ain’t too nice to us. A didicoy is a friend who ain’t Roma. What else you found out about us, then?’

  ‘That they – you – are pragmatic, adaptable. You’ve had to be.’ Jess didn’t know how to put it, that she recognised Abonda as a fellow outsider.

  Abonda put aside the pack and pawed the chosen cards into a cross shape. She had meatpacker’s hands. ‘Your police pals do nothing about the persecution.’

  ‘That’s another Romany word. Pal.’

  ‘It means “brother” in my language,’ said Abonda. She held up one of the cards. Looked from it to Jess, then put it down again.

  Nope, thought Jess. I refuse to ask what that card means. ‘Has the harassment got worse since the murder?’

  ‘What do you think, Jess?’

  ‘Silly question.’

  ‘You come here looking for answers.’ Abonda tapped the cards. ‘Lots of gorgers do. The only answer I have for you, Jess, is that I know my boy. He’s not a killer. He’s tough, yeah, and he don’t suffer fools. But he was put away for the crime of being attractive.’

  Jess controlled her reaction. ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Steven’s like his father. He likes the ladies and they like him right back. That woman, Louise, whatever, invited him back to her place for some hanky-panky. Before you say it, darlin’, I know that comes from the Roma. The next morning, she’s all Oh no what if my hubby finds out? and before you know it my lad’s locked up.’

  ‘The evidence. The—'

  ‘All evidence is against you when you’re Roma. Rape’s more than a crime to me. It’s a deep, deep shame that can’t be erased. So Steven’s angry, see? He has a grudge. He won’t help you, and I won’t help you, but I’ll tell you now he didn’t murder Denis Heap. Why would he, when there’s others he hates more?’

  These others included Jess’s father. She stood. The kitchen drew her in and unsettled her, all at once. She remembered the dismembered beak outside her house, and the pitiful claws. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘You don’t want to hear what the cards say about you?’

  ‘I never want to hear what anybody has to say about me.’

  That gaze again. Lazy. Insolent, almost. But clever. Abonda vibrated with intuition and would tell people what they wanted to hear. Subtly managing not to promise anything concrete so the punter would return.

  She sells hope.

  Abonda folded her immense arms. ‘You gonna report back to your police friends, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Jess hoped she was believed. ‘Quite the opposite, Abonda.’ She twisted to take her jacket from the back of the chair. ‘The list of Romany words in English is long. Bloke, that’s a Roma word. From bala’lok, or gentleman. Bamboozle’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘From bamboo-bakshish.’

  Scrabbling for her bag, Jess remembered something. ‘And, of course, lollipop,’ she said, straightening up.

  As Jess turned away, Abonda made a small, discreet movement, and a jiffy bag of lolly sticks was pushed behind a stuffed owl. ‘It comes from lolipabi.’

  ‘Which means red apple, I think. Can I come again?’ Jess was neutral, as she always was when she asked something that mattered to her.

  ‘If you like.’ Abonda gave nothing away. She lit a candle and passed the cards she’d used one by one through the jumping flame. Answering the question in Jess’s face, she said, ‘This cleanses ‘em.’

  That was when Jess saw the falcon feather on a high shelf. And thought of the bird she’d seen diving through the air.

  Norris clattered downstairs, pulling on a leather jacket.

  ‘I’m off, Frigga,’ he said.

  Jess shrank as Norris noticed her. He filled the room with his bristling mood. ‘What are you doing here?’ He looked murderously at his mother. ‘Are you completely stupid?’

  ‘Now, son, don’t fret.’ Abonda did have shapeshifting abilities; in front of Jess’s eyes she changed into a meek and mild maidservant.

  Norris turned his attention to Jess. ‘Sticking your beak in, are you?’

  ‘Just badgering your mother for cake.’

  Norris almost smiled. ‘Get your claws out of her,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I called on your dad, would you?’

  ‘Won’t happen,’ said Jess.

  ‘I told her, son, it’s all cock and bull,’ said Abonda. ‘What he needs,’ she said to Jess, ‘is a good woman to tame him and keep him happy.’

  ‘Someone like Sif,’ said Jess.

  Now Norris did smile. ‘You love to show off, Doctor Castle. Yes, I need a
woman just like Thor’s wife, Sif. Long golden hair, like the corn.’

  Sif was a harvest goddess, connected to the earth, bringer of all good things. I’m not sure she’d fancy a bruiser like Norris.

  The front door shook as a fist beat on it. ‘Open up, Norris!’

  Blue flashing light filled the hall, and then uniforms filled the hall.

  Jess recognised the officer who said, ‘Come with us, Norris. There’s been an incident. We’d like a chat.’

  ‘You knew.’ Norris flung the accusation at Jess as he was frogmarched outside.

  ‘I didn’t.’ Jess didn’t care what Norris thought, but Abonda . . . ‘Honestly, Abonda, I had no idea.’

  Her phone rang. Jess looked at the caller ID.

  Abonda saw it too. ‘Go on, talk to your pal, Mr Eden,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 7

  A WHOLE LOTTA MILKSHAKES

  Still Wednesday 4 November

  ‘Listen up,’ started Eden. ‘We have a serial killer.’

  The chatter in the incident room, like the buzz of a hive, stopped dead.

  Eden’s tie was undone. The cuffs of his impeccably white shirt were rolled up.

  ‘Body number two was discovered an hour ago in the Partway Road Jolly Cook.’

  Jess shifted in her seat. I ate there yesterday. It would be easy to imagine the murders were circling her. That Norris was circling her.

  ‘MO same as the last one.’ Eden turned to the images Knott was self-importantly taping to the wall behind him. ‘Victim strapped to the seat, fractured skull, hands nailed to the table, disembowelled, a finished plate; lollipop on the table.’

  Moretti, sitting beside Jess, sharing her bag of white chocolate mice, called out, ‘How come it wasn’t found until the afternoon?’ A touch late, he added, ‘Sir’.

  ‘The diner closed for refurbishment last thing yesterday. The contractors didn’t arrive until this afternoon. Hence the delay.’

  ‘Any word on the entrails, sir?’ asked a voice from the back of the room.

  ‘Not yet. They’ll turn up.’ Eden was coldly certain. ‘Mrs Dandan Wong has just identified her husband, Timothy Wong, as the victim. That’s two new widows and four bereaved children in the space of a week.’

  The Wongs ran Silver River, Castle Kidbury’s best, well, only, Chinese takeaway. Jess sometimes dreamed about their chips and curry sauce.

  Moretti raised his hand. Keen as mustard. Smelling of Paco Rabanne and ambition. ‘Does Norris have any history with the victim, sir?’

  ‘So far there’s nothing specific to tie Norris to Mr Wong. We certainly know Norris is hostile to other racial groups. Do some digging, Moretti. Earn your keep.’

  There was a murmuration in the room. A couple of knowing looks. Sarge wasn’t given to sarcasm with his team.

  ‘Another question that needs answering,’ said Eden, ‘is whether there’s a link between Denis Heap and Timothy Wong.’

  Sombre scribbling. No jokes today, Jess noticed. The second homicide had sobered the entire station.

  ‘Norris is cooling his heels a couple of doors down,’ said Eden. ‘I’ll do my best but we all know what’ll happen. Abonda Norris will supply an alibi. With no forensics to play with, we’ll have to release him. These murders require cunning and daring and a high degree of sophistication; Norris has all of these.’

  Knott piped up. ‘I’ll tell you who else has all those, Sarge.’

  Looking as if he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer, Eden asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘Maureen Davis.’

  Blank looks.

  Jess recognised the name. Haltingly, she said, ‘You mean, Mrs Davis, the lollipop lady?’

  Knott meant exactly that. Vehemently, she hissed, ‘The clue is in her title!’

  ‘I really don’t think—'

  Eden was cut off by the enthusiastic detective constable. ‘She has five O levels. She has the perfect cover, as an innocent lollipop lady’.

  ‘She is an innocent lollipop lady,’ said Eden. His shoulders sagged. ‘Karen, Mrs Davis knits bobble hats for the kiddies. She’s not serial killer material.’

  ‘Or is that just what she wants us to believe?’ said Knott.

  Moretti whispered to Jess, as he stole another mouse. ‘Maureen’s playing a long game, with her twenty years of selfless service.’

  ‘Moretti! Castle!’ Eden was schoolmarmish. ‘If you want to chat, do it elsewhere.’ Keen to get back in his good books, Jess said, ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to call me Sarge.’

  That’s me told. It was strange that, despite working so closely with him, Jess never called John Eden by his name.

  ‘Given the circs.’ Moretti’s hand was up. ‘Shouldn’t we consider the safety of Judge Castle and Eddie Barnes? Both of them helped convict Norris.’

  Jess went cold. Blotmonap, with its fires and its sacrifices and its smell of death, seeped in under the doors of the police station.

  ‘I was coming to that.’ Eden found Jess’s eye and held it. ‘He’s right, Jess. Karen, set up regular welfare checks, please.’

  Moretti nudged Jess. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll look after your daf.’

  Barely hearing him, Jess had fallen down a neurotic rabbit hole, where her father was nailed to a Formica table and she was an orphan. Eden had to call her name twice before she said, ‘What?’

  ‘The moon, Jess.’ Eden verged on tetchy. The tie was unknotted a little lower. ‘Given there seems to be a pagan aspect to the killings, and the murders in the summer were connected to the lunar cycle, could we use it to predict . . .’ He faltered. He didn’t want to say it; nobody in the room wanted him to say it. It was tempting fate. But say it he must. ‘To predict the next event.’

  ‘It’s gibbous at the moment.’ Jess sensed the bewilderment in the room. ‘Or waning. When the moon shrinks, it’s time to be rid of anything toxic.’ Like my father? ‘I can’t see a pattern, though. The moon will simply get smaller and smaller from now until the end of the month.’ The end of Blotmonap.

  ‘Numbers? Can we play with the dates and extrapolate anything?’ Eden tapped the board. ‘The thirty-first and the third.’

  You’re clutching at straws.

  ‘Well, the thirty-first, the last day of a month, signifies endings, end of a year, end of life. Perversely, that also makes it the number of fresh starts, beginnings, as life renews itself.’

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said Ginger Hair, ‘our guy isn’t just beginning.’

  ‘Guy?’ queried Jess. ‘Could be a woman.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Ginger Hair. He sniffed. ‘Have to be a strong woman.’

  ‘They do exist,’ said Knott, and Jess loved her just a little.

  ‘The murders are three days apart. The number three,’ said Jess, ‘is a perfect number. The trinity. Wholeness.’

  Eden rubbed the back of his head. His hair stuck up like a schoolboy’s. ‘In terms of a pattern, it feels a tad simplistic for him to try again in three days.’

  Behind him, Knott busied herself sticking two red pins in a local map.

  They look like a cut-price magic act, thought Jess.

  ‘One aspect of the pattern we can probably rely on,’ said Eden, ‘is that our man, or woman, has a penchant for Jolly Cook diners.’

  There was a red pin in Yonder Road, another in Partway Road.

  Moretti leaned back on his chair. ‘Those could be compass points, sir.’

  ‘Could be. The murders took place perfectly east and perfectly west of Castle Kidbury. So, if our killer is planning a murder at each Jolly Cook in the vicinity—'

  ‘That means two more murders,’ said Moretti, before anybody else could. ‘There are only two more Jolly Cooks. One at Richleigh, one at Molton Abbot.’

  ‘North and south of Castle Kidbury,’ said Eden.

  Moretti held out his hand for another mouse.

  ‘I want both remaining diners under twenty-four/seven surveillance. Two plain clothes inside during opening
hours, two outside at all times.’

  ‘That’s a whole lotta milkshakes,’ said Sleeves-Rolled-Up.

  ‘Jolly Cook management aren’t playing ball,’ said Eden. ‘They’re worried about the effect all this will have on their revamp.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Knott, with another lightbulb moment, ‘somebody has it in for Nic Lasco!’

  ‘One of his fans,’ said Ginger Hair, ‘has run amok and is gutting people with her bingo pen.’

  ‘You all have work to do.’ Eden was taut. ‘Do it.’

  ***

  ‘Did you notice,’ asked Mary, as she and Jess crossed the grass in front of Kidbury Manor, ‘how quiet the streets are? Everybody’s heard about the second murder.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jess sped up. Moose wove in and around them. He loved the wide-open space, but Jess felt exposed, even though it was only a hop, skip and a jump from the visitors’ car park to the house. She had spotted one lone human on the drive from town, a petite figure letting itself into the doctor’s surgery on Cheap Street.

  ‘Can’t believe you get to watch the suspect being interviewed.’ Mary was fired up; death has that effect. ‘What’s Norris like up close?’

  Jess didn’t want to talk about it. She had kept her distance, listening to the man’s tiresome Edda quotes and me-me-me chest beating from the video-link room. It had panned out as expected. Abonda had sworn that she and her precious baby had spent the evening playing cards, and the Norrises had left the station, triumphant. ‘She’s not here.’ Josh was nonplussed about his grandmother’s whereabouts. They stood in the cathedral-sized main hall of Kidbury Manor. All was marble and gilt and genetic self-confidence. ‘She’s driven off to town. She knows I hate her doing that. Dear old thing’ll end up in a ditch!’

  ‘She’s not a dear old thing, Josh.’ Jess wondered at this lazy habit of pigeonholing women the moment their hair went grey. ‘Aunt Iris still holds the women’s speed record at Le Mans.’

  ‘True.’ Josh was content to be corrected. He wore corduroy trousers and an Aran jumper and hadn’t changed much since his baby photos. ‘So, um, how are, well, you?’

  Jess hated small talk. Josh was incompetent at it. Mary rolled her eyes at their sheer Englishness. Moose sat and thumped his tail, loving them diligently. All stood awkwardly together until Josh had a brainwave.