Authors: Robert McCracken
An Early Grave (18 page)
‘Or else he’s completely lost his mind,’ said Anthony.
They paused on that thought for a moment. Then Anthony turned his attention towards Tara.
‘Georgie tells me that Callum has found himself a girl at last. She didn’t say she was a raving beauty.’
Tara realised she was supposed to blush, maybe curtsey, too, at the charm of Egerton-Hyde, but her thoughts were with Georgina and the reason behind her cold stare a few minutes earlier. She was faintly aware of shaking the hand of Egerton-Hyde before he retraced his steps into the restaurant. She wondered what Aisling would make of the likes of him. Of course, she would revel in the company of a staggeringly upper-class man, but would she be taken in by such brazen charm? She smiled at the thought that Aisling probably would. She, however, was not convinced by the man’s sincerity. He and Georgina seemed an odd pairing.
Neither one felt like saying much after Egerton-Hyde had departed. They found a pizzeria further along King Street and had a quick bite to eat, Tara opting for some pasta while Callum ordered a large meat-feast. Tara was bemused by her companion. It was getting late, they were seated in a restaurant in the centre of London, her car parked at Heathrow, and he had yet to ask where they would spend the night. It seemed to be a case of ‘she’s paying; she can decide where we go.’ Of course, she knew exactly what they were going to do, and if he was quietly wondering about where he would sleep, she wouldn’t put him at ease by telling him.
It was close to ten when they began making their way back to Heathrow. After collecting her car, she drove a short distance then pulled into the car park of a Holiday Inn. A day earlier, while at work in St. Anne Street Station, she had booked two rooms on-line. She was amazed that even as she checked them both in at the hotel reception, he never once said, thank you or well done. It was like he expected it. He would probably argue that it was her idea to come to London anyway. She bid him goodnight, leaving him with instructions to meet her at nine for breakfast.
*
He was excited at seeing his friends, particularly Georgina, after such a long time. He hadn’t set eyes on any of them since the funeral. In the year that followed Georgina and Charlotte had kept in contact by telephone and by writing letters, but once he’d returned to Liverpool the contact amounted to Christmas cards and a brief note close to the anniversary of Tilly and Emily’s passing. His fault entirely. He’d shut himself off from the rest of the world in his home on Treadwater Estate. People soon gave up on you once you stopped returning calls, answering letters and repeatedly turning down invitations.
He lay on his back in the dark, the double bed feeling great after a long day of driving, walking, jumping on and off the tube, the whole time having to think about Justin Kingsley and whether his old friends really believed what he’d told them. They hadn’t gained much, although Tara now seemed convinced that he was right about Justin. He got the impression also that she harboured suspicions of Ollie, Georgina, Charlotte and Anthony. Keeping her options open, he supposed, was part of a detective’s training.
He’d enjoyed spending the day with her. She’d taken charge of all the travel arrangements and dictated exactly the questions he had to ask his friends. He liked her taking control. So like Tilly. Bossing him around, although Tara was much more serious with it. Intense. Apart from hair colour she bore some resemblance to Tilly. Her height, or lack of it, her childishly young face, large eyes and peeved expressions. Despite those similarities, he had yet to see her laugh. Tilly had an infectious laugh. But isn’t that what they say? You choose your next lover because they remind you of the one you’ve just lost.
*
She lay on the double bed, her head resting on three pillows, the first novel by Tilly Reason open in her right hand. Tilly’s widower was one floor below and several rooms away.
The
First
Form
Time
-
Traveller’s
Club
was written for children, made for light reading. She hoped it might distract her thinking from all those people she’d met today and the others she had discussed. Foolishly, she wondered if she might discover a clue to the identity of the killer concealed in the narrative, a secret code or hidden meaning tucked away in the plot. Just as quickly she realised that life was never that simple. The solution to this mystery would not be handed to her on a plate. She felt exhausted but, oddly, not at all drowsy. The television on the wall above the dresser showed the BBC News Channel, but she had long since muted the sound in the hope of dozing off. Much too late to phone Kate, especially if she had to rise for an early shift at the Royal. She sent her a text stating that she was in her room, alone, and things had gone well during the day. She repeated the same to Aisling, who called within seconds of receiving it.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine, Aisling, really. I’ve discovered that Callum is at least bearable as long as you tell him exactly what to do.’
‘Isn’t that true of all men?’
‘So what are you up to?’ Tara asked, hearing a cacophony of voices and rattling crockery.
‘Up at Anfield, big do with City Councillors, sport’s people, investors and the usual bloody hangers-on. Dead boring. I’m ready for me bed.’
‘Sure you mean your own bed?’
‘Definitely. Not one decent piece of muscle here. You’d think some of these footballers would be tempting.’
‘You must be getting old.’
‘No, just choosey. Have to go. I’m supposed to hand out the party bags. Honestly, total waste of money. Bloody iPads for each of them. You take care, and don’t do anything you’ll regret in the morning.’
‘Aisling, don’t talk nonsense.’ Ending the call, she tossed her phone on the bed, setting the novel to the side and picking up the heavy volume Georgina had given her.
Live
Your
Life
, the title in huge gold letters, both Ls in uppercase, standing out from the other lettering. The photo of Georgina, or rather a collage of photos, highlighted the lifestyle choices to be discussed within. The tag line below the title read, ‘
A
template
for
the
modern
woman
.’ Tara leafed through it briefly then settled on the contents page. Each chapter was devoted to lifestyle choices: in fashion, health and fitness, work-life balance, marriage, family commitments, friendships, everything a thirty-something woman needs to feel fulfilled, including sex tips. Continuing to browse, she noticed the chapters were liberally sprinkled with biographical information on the author. She read about Georgina’s childhood: daughter of a wealthy business man and a 1970s fashion model and raised in Hampshire with her younger brother and two older sisters. Further on she found a graduation photograph, taken on the lawn outside Latimer Chapel. Tara had one exactly like it. There were references to her marriage to the up and coming Anthony Egerton-Hyde, Tory MP and heir to the Egerton-Hyde seat in Norfolk. Georgina explained how she juggled a frantic business career with love and devotion to her husband, although, Tara noted, the sex tips did not appear in this section. With greater interest, she read Georgina’s views on raising a family. The author expressed the desire to have children at some point in the next few years. This formed part of a discussion on when it is best for a professional woman to have children, regurgitating, Tara thought, the well-worn debate on women who leave such matters too late, only to discover that fertility treatment is required. Tara found herself in agreement with some of Georgina’s views. Having just met her that afternoon, she wouldn’t have thought it possible. Georgina believed a mother, even one with a busy career, should set aside time to be with her young children. New-born babies deserved to have their mother around in those early years. ‘
Taking
time
out
from
a
career
is
a
must
,’ she wrote, continuing, ‘
If
you
can’t
provide
this
level
of
care
then
you
should
reconsider
becoming
a
parent
at
all
.’ Tara considered the very strong words, pondering her own circumstances, her job and her hopes for a husband and a family. She wondered, too, about Callum and what he had lost.
An hour passed with reading; she’d even ventured into the section on sex tips, and had to admit there might be some things worth learning. She could have a laugh over this with Kate and Aisling when she got home. Switching off the bed-side lamp, but keeping the television on, she lay down hoping to sleep. As her eyes began to rest, her mind suddenly returned to thoughts of why she was embarked on this investigation, this quest on behalf of Callum Armour. She needed to find out more about the relationships between the students captured in the photo from the ski trip ten years ago. Somehow those people held the key to why Justin Kingsley had disappeared. They may also hold the key as to why he had returned, apparently, intent on murder. As sleep finally arrived, her last thought was her unease that Callum had told Egerton-Hyde of their plans to visit Canterbury and of their intention to meet with Charlotte Babb.
Breakfast was a strained affair. Callum showed up late, dressed in his new clothes but unshaven.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked when he noticed her frowning at him.
‘What happened to your effort to remain tidy?’
‘Not meeting anyone today, are we? And you’re not exactly dressed as you were yesterday.’
She wore a leopard-print stretch top and slim-fit jeans. This guy was all charm. There was only so much she could take. He’d lost his wife and child, understandably devastating, but was he going to live the rest of his life being rude, because every day he wanted to play the victim?
‘No one specific,’ she replied. ‘But if you do not return to your room, and make yourself a bit more presentable I am out of here right now. Alone!’
He looked at her, but she stared him out. A schoolboy scolded.
‘Can I have breakfast first?’ Demonstratively, she looked at her watch.
‘You’ve got five minutes to do as I ask. You decide if you have time for breakfast. We’re already late as it is.’
An hour later they were on the M25, anticlockwise, headed for Kent. Her frustration with Callum continued to simmer. That combined with his apparent sulk resulted in a lack of meaningful discussion of the case. Case? First time she had thought of it as such. She was in for so much trouble when she returned home, she hardly dared think about it. But she was fast running out of sensible things to consider. She switched on the CD player and let rip with The Foo Fighters, hoping it would annoy the hell out of him. What had Tilly Reason ever seen in him?
She had followed the signs for the Cathedral, but found herself on a road that seemed to encircle the old city. Eventually she chose one of several signs indicating a car-park and drove into a long strip of Pay & Display spaces beneath the city walls. On foot, they turned right into Burgate and five minutes later stood admiring the magnificent Christchurch Gate. They paid, or rather Tara paid, for them to pass through the gate into the Cathedral precincts. It was impossible not to look upwards, even as she wasted little time in entering the glorious building. She had come here firstly to get a view of the murder scene, although she doubted it would tell her much and, secondly and more importantly, to find someone who would have known Peter Ramsey well. Conducting a police style interview was, of course, out of the question. She was certain that Kent Police, and Detective Inspector Iain Barclay in particular, had performed a thorough investigation. Any friends or colleagues of Ramsey were likely to have endured a police interview already. They would certainly wonder why a Liverpool cop was interested in the case. She already knew the circumstances of the murder, but what she hoped to gain was information on Peter Ramsey, the kind of man he was and what motive anyone could have for taking his life.
Entering the Nave by the south-west door she lifted a guide leaflet in English and, glancing through it, soon identified the location of the Martyrdom. Callum wandered off into the Nave. She would have preferred him to stay close by in case they came across someone who knew Peter Ramsey, but she let him go. Maybe he could do just that on his own. Save her the trouble of pretending to be his friend.
Comparison stories on the murders of Peter Ramsey and Thomas Becket had been rife. Open season for press speculation, it sold newspapers. From where she stood in the Martyrdom, it was difficult to imagine any murder ever having taken place. A man and woman, early twenties, she guessed, swarthy, foreign students perhaps, gazed upon the spot where, it was said, Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had perished in 1170. They inspected a small bouquet of flowers, carnations and chrysanthemums, lying close to the floor-tile marked ‘Thomas.’ Tara read the notes on her leaflet on the murder of Becket, wondering about the comparison made to Peter Ramsey. She paused on the supposed words of Henry II, ‘
Who
shall
rid
me
of
this
meddlesome
priest
?
’
Four of his knights had duly obliged. Had Ramsey been regarded by someone as a meddlesome priest? When the couple moved on, Tara examined the small card attached to the flowers. It read simply, ‘
In
remembrance
of
Peter
Ramsey
.
’
Emerging from the Martyrdom she spied Callum, standing on the Crossing above the Nave, close to the Quire entrance, in conversation with a man dressed in a black cassock. As she approached them Callum turned and smiled, holding his hand out to her.
‘This is my friend, Tara,’ he said. The man smiled warmly. He looked about forty, sturdy build, the leather belt around his waist a little strained. He had light brown hair, curling and drooping over his ears, and gold-rimmed glasses.
‘Very nice to meet you, Tara,’ he said, in a sedate voice, and offering his hand. ‘I’m Stephen Hadleigh, Canon Pastor.’
‘Hello,’ Tara replied, feeling her hand caressed in his gentle grip.
‘Please, may I ask if you are from the press? We have had so many reporters here, inquiring about Peter; I don’t think we can say much more about the tragic event.’ The man looked nervously from Tara to Callum and back to her. She decided on the spot that he deserved the absolute truth. Besides, she wouldn’t feel right telling fibs inside a church. Who knows, small white lies might well be magnified a hundred-fold because the church happened to be a huge cathedral? Callum seemed to wait for her lead.
‘No, Stephen, we’re not from the press. I am a police detective, but I’m not assigned to the murder investigation in any way.’ Removing her warrant card from her handbag she gave it to him. He studied it for a few seconds before handing it back.
‘Why are the Merseyside Police interested in Peter?’
‘They’re not. I’m here only as Callum’s friend. He knew Peter well from their time at Oxford.’
‘I just wanted to see where he died,’ said Callum. ‘And to speak to someone who knew him during his time here.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Hadleigh did not appear entirely convinced. He looked Callum up and down, perhaps wondering, Tara thought, that Callum didn’t strike him as an Oxford graduate. Dear knows what he would have thought if he’d seen him a few days earlier, or even first thing this morning. Navy trousers, heavily creased and a casual striped shirt, he didn’t look particularly dapper.
‘My wife died three years ago. She also knew Peter at Oxford.’
‘Ah, would that have been the author, Tilly Reason?’
‘Yes, it was Tilly. Our daughter Emily died at the same time.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Peter was very upset by the news. He was living with us at the time, my wife Alice and our two children.’
‘Stephen, this may sound very peculiar,’ said Tara, ‘But we believe there may be a connection between Tilly’s death and Peter’s.’
‘Goodness me. But if I remember correctly, Callum, your wife died in a car accident?’
‘I think she was murdered.’
‘My goodness. But why? What possible connection?’ Hadleigh was looking at Tara.
‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘There’s been a third murder, another of Callum’s friends from Oxford. His name was Zhou Jian. Do you recall Peter mentioning the name?’
Hadleigh shook his head, deep in thought or deep in shock, perhaps both.
‘I realise the local police are investigating Peter’s murder,’ Tara continued. ‘But can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’
‘No, absolutely not. Peter was such an easy-going chap. Didn’t take life too seriously. Strange, you might think for someone in our profession, but it was part of his charm, the reason why he related so well to the people who come here.’
‘Did he ever mention the name Justin Kingsley?’ Callum asked. Tara inwardly applauded his question.
His gaze to the floor, Hadleigh again shook his head. Then he glanced at his watch.
‘I’m not entirely the best person to answer your questions, but if you have a few moments I could call Alice, get her to come over. She and Peter used to natter away over coffee every morning after service. If you give me fifteen minutes we could meet up; there’s a coffee shop just outside Christchurch Gate.’
Twenty-five minutes later Stephen and Alice Hadleigh entered Starbucks and joined Tara and Callum at a table by a window, looking out to the war memorial in the ancient square. Stephen had cast off his clerical attire, and wore a check shirt with short sleeves and beige trousers. Alice Hadleigh, a slightly plump lady in a green flowery dress, had thick curly hair and a round face. She smiled instantly and offered her hand to Tara as her husband introduced them. Once they were settled with mugs of coffee, Alice, in a cheery voice, took up the reins of the conversation.
‘You were asking about Peter? He spoke of you several times, Callum.’
‘We were wondering,’ Callum replied, ‘If he ever mentioned Justin Kingsley?’
Alice nodded two or three times as if she fully appreciated the implications of the question.
‘Yes he did, many times. Peter cherished his days at Oxford. Happiest days of his life, he often said. Particularly, Callum, after your wife died, he never stopped talking about college. Oh, Peter wasn’t one for looking on the dark side of things, but he often wondered what had become of this Justin Kingsley. He thought it strange that he’d lost two friends from his college days at such young ages. He appeared very fond of Tilly. Used to read her books to our children.’
‘Did he believe that Justin was dead?’ Tara asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Did he ever mention anyone he thought might do him harm?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Anything that may have troubled him?’
‘Nothing except for the obvious.’
Stephen Hadleigh sat back from the discussion with a deep-set frown on his smooth face.
‘The obvious?’ asked Tara. Alice looked at Callum with some degree of surprise.
‘Stephen doesn’t like to speak of such things, but Peter was gay.’
Tara glanced at Callum for some corroboration, but he looked as surprised as she did.
‘Oh, he didn’t have a partner, or anything like that. Certainly not since he came to Canterbury, but he did tell me it was highly unlikely that he would ever marry.’
‘That didn’t make him gay, Alice,’ said her husband, sitting with arms folded, clearly finding the conversation very uncomfortable.
‘I know that, darling, but Peter did tend to confide in me. He told me once over coffee that physical love, particularly with women, held no particular attraction for him. And there were the letters.’
‘Letters?’ Tara repeated.
‘Yes. Peter lived with us for most of the time he was here. He only moved to his own flat about six months before he died. He left a few boxes and things that he didn’t have room for in his new place. We still had them when he was killed.’
‘We thought we should go through the stuff and send anything important to his parents in Gloucester,’ said Hadleigh. Alice waited for her husband to finish speaking, but clearly she wanted to be the one to explain.
‘I found a bundle of letters tucked away in a cardboard box. Most were simply correspondence he’d gathered over the years. He had a pen-pal in New Zealand since he was nine years old. Isn’t that amazing? Anyway, there were a few letters from his pen-pal, a few from his sister at home and at least a dozen from a friend at Oxford. They were quite intimate in places. And then, in the most recent of the letters, there seemed to have been some disagreement or break-up. It wasn’t entirely clear.’ Alice ceased talking, and took a sip of her coffee.
‘Do you know who that person is?’ Tara asked.
Alice Hadleigh shifted position on the leather sofa, her bright face suddenly fraught with the realisation of what she was about to say.
‘Stephen told me that you are not working officially on this case, Tara. That you believe there is a connection between Peter’s death and that of your wife, Callum?’
‘That’s right,’ Callum replied. ‘And with the murder of Zhou Jian in Switzerland. He was a good friend of mine.’
‘Oh, my Lord. What is going on?’
‘Mrs Hadleigh,’ said Tara, ‘Do you know who wrote those letters to Peter?’
‘Stephen felt we should pass them on to the police, you know. In case they were of use in their investigation. They were from a long time ago, ten years or more, I’m sure.’
‘Can you tell me the name, Mrs Hadleigh?’
Alice Hadleigh stared into her coffee. It seemed she had tuned herself out of the conversation.
‘Alice dear, please answer the question for these good people,’ said her husband, his hand set on her lap, his expression now strained.
‘All the letters were merely signed, Eggy,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you can guess, Callum?’
‘Anthony Egerton-Hyde.’