Authors: Robert McCracken
An Early Grave (30 page)
The man she believed to be Kingsley was now more than a hundred yards along the path heading, she guessed, for the gateway from the Meadow into St. Aldates, or to Merton Street and beyond, or to Merton Field towards Latimer College. Terrible misjudgement to have worn heels, but this morning she never thought she’d be haring around Oxford on the trail of a murderer. Stephanie peppered her with questions as they hurried along. Some she answered, others she couldn’t and one or two, wouldn’t. Fortunately, the man didn’t alter his walking speed seemingly unaware of his pursuers. Tara realised that if he made it to St Aldates and to the streets crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers and tourists, she would lose him. All the while the one question swung to and fro before her eyes. What connected Justin Kingsley to the Baby Isis?
The man was nearing the end of the Meadow; Tara watched carefully for the direction he chose.
‘You were saying that Ollie fights with Egerton-Hyde?’
‘They’ve had a couple of blow-outs,’ Stephanie replied.
‘About what?’
‘Money, investments. All gone quiet though since Anthony got the ministry post.’
‘Are they business partners?’
The man turned left. They were only forty yards behind, but they needed to reach the exit gate before he entered St. Aldates. Once there he could go left, right, straight across the road, or even hop on a bus. She broke into a run. Stephanie had no problem picking up the pace.
‘Ollie handled some financial deals for him; one didn’t quite go to plan; that’s all I know. Why are you asking me these questions, Tara? If the man we’re following is Justin Kingsley, surely that proves he’s the killer? He’s come to murder again.’
‘That’s why we need to follow him.’
The man had reached the open gate to St Aldates, but once he passed through he stopped and gazed up and down the road. Tara and Stephanie slowed to walking pace, and twenty yards off came to a halt. She had to do something inconspicuous, while at the same time get another look at the man’s face.
‘Have you got your phone?’
Stephanie pulled her mobile from the pocket of her anorak.
‘Call Ollie. Get him to tell Callum that I may have found Kingsley.’ The man set off again, heading up St. Aldates towards the city centre. The girls followed, maintaining a distance of forty yards behind him. Still he seemed unaware of his stalkers. His pace quickened, however, and it seemed to Tara as if he had a specific destination which was at odds with his dithering earlier by the gates to Christchurch Meadow. Tara needed Callum and Ollie to give a positive identification. All she had to go on was the ten-year-old photo that she’d just removed from her bag and periodically examined as they hurried along the street, passing by Christchurch College. She wondered where he was going. She wondered, also, what to do when she had him at a fixed location. Call the local police? To tell them what exactly? I’ve discovered a man who’s been missing for ten years wandering the streets of Oxford? He’s responsible for the deaths of five people? But sorry, I can’t place him at any of the crime scenes, and I can’t provide a motive for any of the killings. She’d be the one locked up. She worried how Callum would react if they managed to corner Kingsley at a house or flat. Listening to one side of the telephone conversation between Stephanie and Ollie, it didn’t sound pleasing.
‘Ollie’s coming to meet us,’ said Stephanie. ‘I’ll keep him posted as to where we’re going.’
‘Where’s Callum?’ said Tara, a sudden note of panic in her voice.
‘He’s gone off to visit some old colleagues from the lab, Ollie said.’
‘Shit. Why does that man think he’s here on a jolly?’
‘I take it you two had a row? Things seemed a bit frosty over lunch.’
Tara couldn’t speak. She had a sudden urge to turn around and walk away. But her fear and her determination to find the truth behind this bunch of people, dead and alive, drove her forward. Thankfully, this man was proving easy to follow. Crossing High Street, he entered Cornmarket, a pedestrianised zone. His pace slowed again as he paused to browse at shop windows, and each time the girls had to stop, look the other way and pretend to be chatting.
‘Call Ollie again,’ said Tara. ‘Tell him to go find Callum. I need him here with me.’ They set off once more, but in a few seconds the man entered a burger bar, and they could do nothing but wait outside. Five minutes later Ollie was standing beside them.
‘So where is Lord Lucan then?’ he said, chortling. His bluster and lack of discretion continued to grate with Tara.
‘Let’s move away from here,’ she said, ushering him to the opposite side of the street to stand in the doorway of a clothes store. ‘Keep watching that burger bar. I’ll tell you when the man I think is Kingsley comes out. You tell me if it’s really him. Try not to let him see you.’ Tara stepped away from Ollie and Stephanie, thinking it best that if Kingsley did notice Ollie she would not be associated with him, and could continue to follow Kingsley when he walked off. She didn’t get the chance. Before Ollie managed a good look at the man, he was out of the shop, turning right and moving at much greater pace than before in the direction of Broad Street. Seemed likely to Tara that the man had spied Ollie through the window of the burger bar, and he’d decided that Ollie was not the person he wished to meet right now.
‘Did you get a look at him?’ she asked.
Ollie shook his head.
‘You two go and find Callum. I’ll keep following this guy.’
‘But, Tara,’ Ollie protested. ‘If it is Kingsley…’
‘Give me your number, Stephanie, and I’ll call you if anything happens. Phone me when you find Callum, and we’ll arrange to meet.’ As soon as she’d punched Stephanie’s number into her phone she hurried off, trying desperately to pick out the man among dozens of people moving up and down the street.
What should she do if she managed to corner him? Wait for Callum to show up? They could beat each other senseless? Questions did little to aid her chase. If she still had her eye on the right man he hadn’t slowed his pace and in fact had put greater distance between them. When he reached the corner of the Cornmarket he paused by a large bookstore, briefly inspecting the window display. Suddenly he glanced in her direction. There was nothing she could do. She had to keep going. Any sudden jink to her left or right, dropping her head, or coming to a sudden halt would look conspicuous. She fixed her gaze dead ahead and maintained her pace. At least it gave her the opportunity to look at his face, while she hoped he took little notice of her. She was almost upon him before he moved off again. Once his back was turned, she had time to pause and allow some distance to develop again between them. From the bookstore he crossed into Magdalen Street, on the same side as the Church of St. Mary Magdalen. Concentrating on crossing the road, she momentarily took her eye off her quarry. When she peered down the street he’d gone. She stopped and gazed around. He’d vanished. She hurried along by the railing of the old graveyard, scanning the pavement on the opposite side of the street, crowded with shoppers and several queues of people waiting for buses. He may have crossed the road and gone into one of the shops, she thought. Searching each of the stores was futile. Too many people. She’d lost him. Further along the street she noticed the open door into the church. He couldn’t have gone much beyond this point. She’d only taken her eyes off him for a second. It had to be. Worth a try anyway, she thought. The overhanging trees cut the light; giving the impression of dusk as she made her way to the church porch. There would be others inside, she told herself. She could get a good look at the man as he wandered around. Stepping into the wide porch, she entered the ancient church through very modern plate glass doors. The interior was dim, rather gloomy, with a pervading smell of burning incense. Standing at the back, she gazed forwards at the sanctuary but saw no one. Cut off from the bustling street outside, there was total silence. Glass panelling behind her separated a small office and sacristy, lit by a single dim spot light, from the main church. It also was deserted. Stepping into the south aisle, she noticed a door opened slightly revealing a hallway leading to the south door. She’d lost Kingsley; he had not entered the church, or else he’d given her the slip by leaving through this door. After a last look around the church, she hurried into the hallway. She gave a yelp as a hand took firm hold of her hair, pulling her into a darkened corner. She managed a brief scream before another hand covered her mouth and nose. She felt a body behind her. Squeezing her tight. She fought for breath. Her eyes bulged, her face tightened as the hand twisted and pulled her hair backwards. Panic gripped her. She struck out with her feet, trying to stamp her heel into his shoe. Why weren’t there other people? Why couldn’t someone help her? She moaned, but the hand remained locked around her mouth. He released her hair and slung his arm around her waist, pulling her close to his body. She tried pulling away, but without breath she had no fight. Her head spun. She felt close to passing out. Then he spoke in a harsh whisper.
‘One scream and I’ll break your neck. Understand?’ His arm squeezed tighter into her stomach. She wanted to heave. ‘Understand?’ he repeated as he twisted her head and body to face him. His eyes drilled into hers. The hand on her face slipped downwards allowing her to breathe through her nose. He was too strong, too big. Forcing his right leg between hers he thrust his knee upwards pressing it to her crotch. She cried out, but his hand gripped ever harder to her mouth, and her head thumped against the cold stone wall of the church. Why didn’t someone come? She attempted another escape, trying to force her hands between them, to get leverage, to shove him off. She felt a stinging pain in her side, just below her ribs.
‘Next time I won’t stop with the knife, and you can bleed to death. Now, tell me why you’ve been following me. Scream and I’ll cut you again. Understand?’
This time she attempted a nod, and slowly he relinquished his grip on her mouth. She gasped a deep breath, and felt the knife jagging into her flesh.
‘In there,’ he ordered, his arm locking around her tiny waist, her T-shirt raised and the knife still pricking at her side. He bundled her through the door into the south aisle of the church. Quiet and empty, she felt shattered by disappointment and bereft of any hope. He bungled her to the right hand side and into a rear pew. Jabbing the knife into her side, he slid her across the cushioned seat until she hit the wall. He pressed himself tightly against her; the knife, she was sure, had again pierced her skin. He repeated his question as if she could possibly forget.
‘Why were you following me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His right arm moved around her shoulders mingling with the strands of her hair. He grasped and pulled back sharply. She cried out.
‘No more games. Who are you? What do you want with me?’
This time she got a closer view of his face. Clean-shaven, smooth taut skin. His eyes she judged a blue grey, wary but not evil in the way she had known others to be. His breath smelled of onions and vinegar after his meal in the burger bar. Most striking was his tanned complexion. Unless he slept every night under a sun-bed this man had spent serious time in the sun.
‘I’m a police officer,’ she replied at last. She watched his eyes dart as his brain dealt with the implications. ‘Detective Inspector Tara Grogan. I think it’s time you let go of my hair and put that damned knife away.’
He did neither.
‘What do you want with me?’
‘I saw you by the river; you were looking at a plaque about the Baby Isis, why?’
‘And that’s a reason to follow me across town? Try again.’ His grip tightened on her hair. She drew a sharp breath and felt the cold blade on her skin.
‘I know who you are, Justin,’ she said. The knife cut her. She cried out.
‘You’ve got the wrong man, cop.’ Judging by his reflex action with the knife as she spoke, she knew that the man squeezing the breath from her was definitely Kingsley.
‘Please, Justin. Listen to me. I’m trying to help you. Put the knife away, and we can talk.’
He laughed nervously then pressed his forehead into hers, pushing her back against the wall. He pulled ever harder at her hair, and she cried in fear that she’d got things terribly wrong in her mind. That Justin Kingsley was indeed the killer, Callum was right, and he was here to finish off this group of Latimer alumni. But first, he intended to kill her.
‘No, you listen to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever you’re doing you’ve got the wrong man. Leave me alone, or next time you won’t get to speak before the knife goes in.’ Releasing her, he shoved her hard against the wall. He was out the door before she’d crawled into the aisle. She tried going after him, to make him understand, but as she struggled to her feet she saw her blood dripping to the floor.
Finding her shoulder bag lying in the porch, where she’d been grabbed by Kingsley, she retrieved a small pack of tissues and struggled back inside to sit in a pew. Using her compact mirror, she inspected the cuts. A lot of blood but, she hoped, without real damage. There were at least three long gashes in her side, and a rip in her T-shirt, where he’d forced the knife point to break her skin. Had he been deliberately careful with his cutting? She wondered.
While she pressed a tissue against the cuts in her side, the silence in the church was broken as the door opened. She had no time to run. A man of around seventy, bald, squat with glasses and a sagging face ambled through the doors; a woman of similar age and remarkably similar build with silver hair followed behind. They did little more than glance at the young woman seated in the back pew, her hair sticking out at every angle, her face pale with shock and fear, tears drying slowly in the corners of her eyes. The woman managed a brief smile, and Tara tried her best to return it. A bit bloody late, she thought. While she worked to stop the bleeding in her collection of grazes, she recalled a prayer, and after what had taken place within its walls she felt she couldn’t leave without some form of devotion. She recited what she could recall of the
Memorare
, removed her mobile from her bag and tentatively stepped outside.
Fresh air helped, although her body still trembled, and she wondered if the people in the bus queue opposite noticed the little girl lost rocking on her feet. She steadied her hand and managed to call Stephanie’s number.
Thank God they were close by. She propped herself against the railings of the churchyard and waited for them to appear, watching all the while in case Justin Kingsley had decided to keep tabs on her.
Stephanie and Ollie took her immediately to A&E at the Radcliffe. Fortunately, the wait was brief and soon she’d been seen by a staff nurse and momentarily by a junior doctor who assessed the damage. Not as bad as it looked, was the medical opinion. She’d had to explain how she came by such an injury, and in doing so had to point out that she was a police officer involved in a case which was ongoing. No time for rest or written reports to her superiors. Eight stitches and a tetanus jab later, she was released to her waiting companions. Ollie went off again in search of Callum, while Stephanie escorted Tara to their room at the Randolph.
Callum appeared with Ollie thirty minutes later. His face was pale, his eyes frightened.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, rushing to her and going down on his knees.
‘’I’m fine, just a little shaky. You were right, Callum. He did show up.’
Ollie had a glass of brandy for her, although Tara knew she couldn’t manage it. She sat gingerly upon the bed as Stephanie boiled water in a kettle and made some strong coffee. Callum hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he came in, listening in silence while she spoke of her encounter with Kingsley.
‘You’re certain it was him?’ Ollie asked her, helping himself to the glass of brandy.
‘Might not have been one hundred percent until I called him by his name. That definitely touched a nerve.’
‘So we have our man then?’ said Ollie.
Callum appeared to wait for Tara’s view on the matter.
‘We don’t have anyone, Ollie,’ she said. ‘Kingsley didn’t hang around for a reunion with you lot. We have no further evidence that he’s the murderer.’
‘He stuck a knife into you, Tara,’ said Stephanie, alarmed. ‘Isn’t that sufficient evidence?’
‘If he killed the others, why not kill me?’
‘Did you tell him you’re a police officer?’ Callum asked.
‘Yes I did. But if he’s a determined killer my being a police officer wouldn’t have stopped him.’
Ollie shook his head in despair, throwing the remainder of the brandy down his throat.
‘I don’t understand coppers. If you can’t see a killer from close up, what hope is there for the rest of us?’
Only now was Tara able to sip at her coffee, it having been much too hot when Stephanie poured it. Something inside her, despite her shaking, enjoyed seeing Ollie Rutherford a bundle of nerves. He looked a fit man, but lacked something substantial in the courage department. Regardless of his mental state, she had a couple of questions to ask him.
‘Tell me about you and Egerton-Hyde, Ollie.’
‘Here we go. You still reckon Anthony is the killer?’
She wasn’t about to argue the toss over her suspicions. She simply wanted information about Egerton-Hyde. The rest of them seemed convinced that Kingsley was the murderer, but as far as she was concerned nothing had changed. No one had identified a motive for any of the murders.
‘How much business does he put your way?’
Rutherford glared icily at Tara, his face paling into the most serious expression she’d so far witnessed in the man. For a moment she wasn’t certain that he would answer.
‘Okay, Tara. I handle a fair number of private investments for him. Strictly business. Nothing to interfere with his political activities.’
‘If he were to take a fall would you go down with him?’
‘This is ridiculous. The man’s a close friend of mine. We were at school together. He’s not a murderer.’
‘Is he in your debt, Ollie, or are you in his?’
‘We’ve worked together for years. I helped him raise money outside of his political career. It went to saving his ancestral home. Most families in properties like his have to open their doors to the public to keep going. I earned Anthony enough money so that he won’t have to consider such actions for years. You’re out of your mind, Tara, if you think Anthony would be trying to kill me or anyone else.’
‘I hear you have quite a few rows with him. What about?’
He fired his girlfriend an unhealthy stare.
‘Well informed, aren’t you?’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes, we have rows, usually about money.’
‘Not always money?’
‘No.’ He fixed his gaze on Stephanie, and looked on the verge of tears. ‘I had an affair with Georgina.’
‘When?’ Stephanie demanded. She’d been sitting on the double bed next to Tara, but she jumped to her feet and stood before him. ‘When, Ollie?’ she repeated.
‘Years ago, before us,’ he said with some resignation in his voice. ‘He and Georgina argue about it, and she throws in his gay fling with Peter. They beat each other up with it all the time. I think he would use it against me, but he needs me to earn money for him. Nowadays he seems resigned to needing me.’
‘What about Georgina?’ Tara asked.
‘She hates my guts, because Anthony is so reliant on me. He could get himself another investor, but I think he keeps me around just to spite Georgina.’
Tara looked at Callum for input. None was forthcoming. She’d believed that she and Callum were in this together. Now, however, she realised she was very much on her own. She felt awkward about their having spent the night together. Clearly, it hadn’t meant that much to him beyond a brief sexual desire. She wasn’t considered a part of his future. He’d used her every step of the way, offering little support. Even now he couldn’t see evidence stacking up against Egerton-Hyde. Instead he pinned all his suspicion on Justin Kingsley, and this afternoon it seemed he had been proven right. Still, Tara thought, it was Egerton-Hyde who’d been a delegate at the food safety conference in Lucerne when Zhou Jian was murdered. Hell of a coincidence if Kingsley had been there, too.