Blood and Ashes (2 page)

What was that all about? I mentally shrugged: nothing good, I bet.

I headed across the green towards an imposing house that held sway over the smaller dwellings to either side. The house looked Victorian but for the satellite dishes in the garden and the cars on the drive, a Lexus and a Mercedes SUV. For all his claims to the contrary it looked like Don Griffiths was doing OK even in this cul-de-sac of a town.

I leaned on the doorbell.

The house remained very still. As if it held its breath.

I pressed the bell again.

Beyond the door there was a shift in the darkness and a light came on above my head. I fought the urge to glance up at the light, an old habit to protect my night vision. Waited while the person inside hooked a security chain in place, then opened the door a sliver.

Don is a heavy-built man in his early sixties. He has short steel-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. The person looking out at me didn’t match any of those points. She was slim and dark and no more than thirty years old.

It was more than fifteen years since I’d laid eyes on her but I’d have recognised Millie anywhere. She had the vivid green eyes and raven tresses of her mother, but the strong nose and high cheekbones were every inch the image of her father.

Millie Griffiths studied me for a while. I raised my head so the peak of the cap was no longer casting such a long shadow on my face. Finally Millie closed the door and I heard the unhooking of the chain. She opened the door fully this time.

‘Come in, Joe.’ Her head dipped as I stepped by her into the darkness of the entrance hall. It looked like all the rooms on the lowest floor were unlit.

‘Where’s your father?’

Millie locked the door before turning to look at me.

It was weird standing there in the dark, staring at her silhouetted against the front-door glass, all that was evident being the soft sparkle of her eyes. When she moved past me her shoulder brushed my upper arm and it was brusque. I settled my heels as Millie walked away without comment. Then, sighing, I followed.

Without flicking on a light, Millie led the way along the hall to the back of the house. There she opened a door and a flight of stairs led down into the basement. Another door at the bottom was etched around its frame with a dim glow.

I paused before descending.

Didn’t need to hear her sob to know.

‘I’m too late,’ I said. ‘I heard what happened and I’m sorry.’

Millie nodded: a single hard slash of her jaw. ‘My sister died because you
wouldn’t
believe him.’

She turned away before I could reply, her tread heavy, then quickening as she fled up the stairs to a bedroom. Overhead a door slammed and I listened to the young woman sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Shit . . .’

I pulled the cap off and jammed it into a coat pocket. Scrubbing a hand through my hair I took the stairs down to the basement, counting the steps. With each one it felt like I was descending into the abyss.

Chapter 2

‘I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant, these days.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not the way I’d describe myself.’

Don Griffiths was sitting in an old chair with sunken upholstery and faded patches on the arms. How many hours had he spent sitting in this selfsame place over the years? How many memories could that old chair recount if it was given a voice? Over Don’s shoulder an archaic cine-camera projected some of those memories on to a makeshift screen. The flickering images were the only source of light in the otherwise dark room, two small girls playing in a paddling pool while first a younger Don and then his late wife, Sally, mugged and danced for the camera.

Don didn’t look at me. His gaze was lost among the images on the screen. ‘How would you describe yourself? I thought you were someone I could rely on. Where were you when I needed you?’

I exhaled, and turned to view the girls happily playing. Even back then, Millie was distinctive. Her slightly older sister, Brook, was pretty as well, but with the elfin qualities inherited from her mother. It was difficult coming to terms with the thought that the little girl – who was so full of life and wonder on the screen – was now dead and buried.

‘I was injured.’ Though no excuse, it was the only thing I had to offer.

‘I noticed you were a bit lame when you came down the stairs.’ Don wasn’t interested in any one else’s pain, only his own. ‘But you’ve been injured worse than that before. Wounds never stopped you then, Hunter.’

‘I was younger.’

‘Yeah,’ Don agreed. ‘We both were. But my daughter won’t grow any older, will she? Her children will never know their mother’s love again.’

There was no answer to that. I could only watch as Don shuddered, his chin dipping on his chest. The man wept silently. Laying a consoling hand on his heavy shoulder wouldn’t help. Don wouldn’t welcome my pity. Always pitiless to others, he saw emotion as weakness. Maybe it would do him good to experience some of the grief.

It was as if Don could hear what I was thinking. His head came up and he fixed his gaze on me. ‘I know you don’t owe me a damn thing. In fact, if you told me to go to hell, I guess I’d understand. But I didn’t think Joe Hunter was the type to turn his back on a woman or her children.’

‘I’m not.’ Even as I said it I realised how ineffectual my words sounded. I turned back to the screen. Millie and Brook had moved on to chasing each other around the garden with buckets of water. There was no sound accompanying the home movie, but by the rapture of their faces both girls were squealing in glee. Closing my eyes didn’t help.

The chair creaked, and there was a grunt as Don stood up. He turned off the projector and the room was plunged into darkness that was evident even behind my closed eyelids. Only at the click of a light did I turn and look at the older man. Don had both hands folded across his bulging stomach, his head dipped: he looked like a monk in prayer. But I recognised the stance for something else – it showed an old man shattered by the loss of his child.

‘Tell me again what happened, Don.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘Because I’ve travelled days to get here.’ I stopped. I didn’t care for Don one bit. Not after what had occurred between us all those years ago, but it was like the man had already said: I wasn’t one to turn my back on women or children in need. ‘Look, Don. Let’s put our differences behind us for now. Tell me what happened . . . maybe there’s still something I can do. If what you originally told me is true, then this may not be finished with.’

Don probably wasn’t even conscious of chewing the end of his moustache. He was too busy studying my face for a sign of insincerity. He must have come to a favourable conclusion because he slow-blinked like an old bull frog. ‘It
is
true. As crazy as it sounds.’

Three days on the road had left their residue on me. Perspiration had dried on my skin, my clothes were grimy and uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the reason for the prickling sensation in my flesh. It was as though my nerve endings were charged with static. ‘It just takes a little coming to terms with, Don. How could a dead man be threatening your family?’

‘It’s gone way beyond threats, Hunter. Didn’t you hear what I told you?
Brook is dead
.’

The tingling in my skin was becoming painful, and a seething rush shot through my veins. I resisted the urge to scratch and bunched my fists in my pockets. ‘Brook was killed in a car crash. The police ruled it an accident.’

Don grunted. Next to his battered chair was an equally worn cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and drew out a folder which he opened and held out. I was still thinking about the gleeful faces that had only moments before flickered on the screen and didn’t want to see what Don offered.

‘Take it,’ Don said. ‘Have a good look and tell me if you still think my daughter died accidentally.’

I’m no stranger to death in any of its horrible forms. To some I’ve inured myself, but not all. Once, I bore witness to the aftermath of an attack by guerrilla fighters on a village of innocents. Some of the victims – mostly women and children – had been burned alive. The images of their bodies twisted into blackened husks still occasionally plagued my nightmares. I didn’t want to see Brook like that.

But I looked.

The rushing heat in my veins went cold.

There were photographs from the accident scene. They showed a vehicle on its roof, so consumed by fire that even the tyres had been burned clean off their rims. The distance shots weren’t so bad; only when the camera had zoomed into the interior did it became apparent that the bundled form lying amid the ashes and molten components had once been human. That was nasty. But nowhere near as horrific as the follow-up photographs from the morgue where Brook’s remains had been taken. Under the stark glare of lights, surrounded by dull steel, the extreme charring of the woman’s corpse was shocking. There was little left of her, just a blackened skull and the withered husk of a torso. The larger bones of the upper arms, the pelvic girdle and legs had survived, but all the lesser bones of her extremities had gone to ash. She had been twisted by the intensity of the heat into the classic pugilist pose, but it wasn’t that evident with her hands gone.

My blink was slow, and I held my lids shut for a time afterwards.

‘Well?’

Well, what?

I handed the file back to Don.

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ I said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine the terror your daughter must have gone through. But, Don . . .’

‘It was no accident.’

‘The car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the engine ignited the spilled fuel.’

‘That’s what it
looks
like.’ Don opened the file; thrust the photographs under my nose. ‘That’s what it was
made
to look like.’

‘The report is conclusive.’ I gently closed the flap on the file, covering the images. ‘Before you say anything, I’ve read it. I already had Rink get me a copy of both the police and ME files.’

‘And you believe a couple of hick cops and a washed-up medical examiner over me?’ Don snorted. ‘They only saw what they wanted to see.’

‘Nevertheless, they didn’t find anything suspicious. No evidence that Brook’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.’

‘But now that you’ve seen the photographs?’

‘It doesn’t change a thing, Don. Your daughter died by the flames that also burned out the car she was trapped in.’

Don chewed his moustache again. After a few seconds he lifted a hand, pointed at the stairs. ‘I want you to leave. If you don’t want to hear my take on what happened, then just go. I’ll find someone else who
does give a damn
.’

The old man’s words were like a slap in the face. I squinted at him, anger riding on my tongue. But I let it go. I headed for the stairs. I ignored the tug of scar tissue in my thigh, in a hurry now to get away before I said something that I’d regret. There were enough regrets for me to contend with without hurting a grieving father.

Don’s next words halted my hand on the door handle.

‘I got an email, Hunter. It said: “Who must you lose next?”.’

Without turning, I pressed on the handle and tugged the door open and went up the stairs. ‘He’s dead, Don. How could he send you an email?’

‘Whether it was him or not, I was still sent the goddamn thing.’ Don walked to the base of the stairs but he didn’t follow me up. ‘It was a direct threat to
my
family.’

I slipped into the dark hallway, hearing the rage building in the old man like the rumble that precedes an earthquake.

I made it all the way to the front door, but for a second time in less than a minute my hand was halted by words.

‘You’re just going to walk away from this, Joe? Do you hate my father so much?’

Millie was standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped round her body as though she was freezing. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face and clinging to the tears on her cheeks.

Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Don, just what he’d once led me to do.

‘He’s hurting and confused, Millie. You both are.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re all confused. But so are you. When will you open your eyes and see what’s really happening here? He
is
back.’

I gnawed my bottom lip. It wasn’t possible. The bastard’s body was ravaged by flame, immolation of his corpse as complete as what had happened to Brook. Carswell Hicks had fallen over the precipice into his promised eternity in hell.

But then there were the emails. Someone must have sent them.

I opened the door.

‘Tell your father I’m sorry for his loss.’

Chapter 3

There was an ache in my right hand which was compounded by the cold, and more than the slight tugging in my leg, this concerned me the most. When adrenalin rushed through my system the wounds to my leg were no hindrance but I required the full range of movement and dexterity of my fingers. My hand had been shattered during the same battle where I’d picked up the other injuries, and I’d had to undergo micro-surgery to put it right. As I walked, my fists in my pockets once more, I periodically flexed the hand to promote movement.