The Grave Tattoo (39 page)

She started in the only bedroom that showed signs of occupancy. A thorough search revealed nothing of interest. The second bedroom told the same story. In the third room, however, Tenille found an old brass-bound chest. It seemed to contain nothing but old photographs. But when she lifted them out, she noticed the chest seemed shallower on the inside than it ought to have been. She risked carrying it through to the landing, closing all the doors and turning on the light. When she looked more closely, she saw a thin leather loop in one corner of the bottom. She yanked on it and the whole base lifted up, revealing an inch-deep hiding place.

Tenille lifted out a thin bundle of papers. The paper was thick and brittle, yellowing round the edges. It smelled of dust and dry cleaners. It was covered in old-fashioned handwriting, all loops and curls. She could hardly make it out at first. Then the opening words jumped out at her.
I am minded tonight of the time we spent at Alfoxden, & the suspicion that fell upon Coleridge and myself, viz. That we were agents of the enemy, gathering information as spies for Bonaparte. I recall
Coleridge’s assertion that it was beyond the bounds of good sense to give credence to the notion that poets were suited for such an endeavour since we see all before us as matter for our verse & would have no inclination to hold any secrets to our breasts that might serve our calling.

There should be trumpets or drums or something, she thought stupidly. Trumpets or drums or the Hallelujah chorus. This was the real deal. What she was holding in her hand had been written by one of the greatest poets the world had ever seen. Hardly anybody had ever set eyes on it. And she was touching it, smelling it, reading it. She’d have died before she admitted it, but Tenille felt exhilaration and exultation. She sat back on her heels and drank it in greedily.

She had no idea how long she crouched there, overwhelmed with it all. She felt drunk with excitement. But at last she came to herself and realised she had to get back to Jane with this news. She was tempted to walk out with the whole manuscript, but she knew instinctively that was the wrong way to play it. She thumbed through the papers, checking to see if there was a poem tucked in between the prose jottings. But no. All she could find were notes. What if she took one of the pages from near the middle? Then Jane would know she was telling the truth. And it would be worth all the hassle to see the look on her face when she realised what she was looking at.

Tenille chose a page at random and carefully placed it between her T-shirt and her sweatshirt. Then she put everything back as she had found it, carefully replacing the chest exactly where it had been so as not to disturb the dust around it. She felt giddy with delight as she made her way back to the cat window.

The chill night air and the prospect of getting down from the roof sobered her up. She eased the window back down and spreadeagled herself on the tiles. Inch by careful inch she made her way down the roof. When she reached the edge, she realised she was going to have to drop to the ground; the bench was too far from the wall to lower herself back on to it.

Tenille didn’t care. She felt invincible. She hung from the guttering then let go. It was only a few feet, and she landed safely in soft earth. As she staggered upright, heavy hands descended on her from both sides. Snarling, she struggled to free herself, but it was pointless. Her assailants were bigger, stronger and heavier. Within seconds, she was face down in the dirt, her arms pulled roughly behind her.

She felt cold plastic against her skin as a voice said, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary.’

Tenille’s face screwed up in frustration. ‘Ah, shit.’

39

Rigston glowered across the table at the mutinous child opposite. He’d had to wait for an appropriate adult to arrive before he could interview her, and the duty social worker had taken his time to get to the station. The kid had had three hours in a cell to contemplate her options. He hoped it had softened her up a little.

He’d gone through the formalities with the tape, but Tenille had refused to confirm her identity. ‘I ain’t saying one damn thing to you, Mister Man,’ was all she had offered.

‘You’re doing yourself no good,’ Rigston said. ‘I know you are Tenille Cole. I know you’re wanted by the police in London in connection with a murder and an arson down there. We’ve taken your fingerprints and they match the ones the Met sent us. It’s only a matter of time before they arrive to take you back down there. Unless of course you’d care to explain your connection to four suspicious deaths up here, in which case I’ll be hanging on to you.’

She glared at him from under lowered brows. He couldn’t fathom her. Most thirteen-year-olds he dealt with were sufficiently intimidated by their surroundings and his presence to fold like a house of cards. But she was a tough customer, no question of that. Not much older than his own daughter, but she could have been from another planet.

‘We’ve been processing crime scenes all night, Tenille,’ he said, more gently this time. ‘We found your prints all over their homes–Edith Clewlow, Tillie Swain, Eddie Fairfield and Letty Brownrigg. You were in their houses. But there’s no sign of anything having been stolen, so you weren’t there for any ordinary burglary. And now we find you climbing out of Jenny Wright’s cottage with a sheet of paper that looks pretty old to me. Would you like to talk about that?’

Tenille shook her head.

‘For the benefit of the tape, Tenille Cole has shaken her head to indicate a negative.’

Rigston rolled up his shirtsleeves and leaned his meaty forearms on the table. He dropped his voice confidentially. ‘See, here’s how I think it went down. Jane Gresham’s been hiding you. I mean, why else would a London sparrow like you come up here? And Jane Gresham is on a quest. A quest she’s roped you into. She thinks somebody up here has something she wants very badly. And when she couldn’t dig it out the conventional way, she sent you in to look for it. Is that how it went down?’

Tenille made a small noise of contempt and shifted in her seat so she didn’t have to meet his eyes.

‘Only, things got out of hand. In all of those houses where Jane got you searching, somebody died. You’re in big trouble, Tenille. But we can maybe find a way to make it go easier for you. I think Jane Gresham put you up to this. She told you what to do, how to do it so nobody would know it was murder. And that lets you off the hook a bit. You’re just a kid. You were doing what Jane Gresham asked because you were frightened that, if you didn’t, she’d hand you over to the police for Geno Marley’s murder. That’s called coercion, and it would make things easier on you.’

Tenille turned her face back to him, defiance written on her features. ‘That’s called bullshit,’ she said. ‘And that’s all I have to say.’ She turned to the social worker. ‘You better get me a lawyer. You’re no use to me, man.’ She folded her arms and leaned back in the chair, studying the ceiling.

‘You going to take the rap for Jane Gresham?’ Rigston said. ‘Very loyal. I wonder if she’ll be as loyal to you? I bet you’re going to end up carrying the can for all of this, Tenille. You’re an easy target. Truanting black kid, bastard love child of a big-time gangsta. You’re going to take the fall for your nice middle-class university lecturer. While you’re spending the foreseeable future banged up, she’s going to be making a name for herself with the manuscript you found.’

She flashed him a quick look of contempt.

Rigston laughed. ‘You reckon that’s not how it’s going to play? I thought you’d have more street smarts than that. Jane Gresham will walk, and you will not. That’s the bottom line.’

‘I think you’re badgering her now,’ the social worker said. ‘If you’ve got some evidence, let’s be having it.’

‘I’ve got evidence of burglary,’ Rigston said. ‘My men were staking out Jenny Wright’s cottage. They were waiting for a killer. Looks like they got one too. But until we can firm up that part of the case, we’ve still got Tenille for burglary. And we’ll be keeping her locked up for now.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Interview terminated at three fifty-three a.m., Inspector Rigston and Constable Whitrow leaving the room.’ He suited his actions to his words and walked out into the corridor.

‘You didn’t pull any punches there, guv,’ Whitrow said.

Rigston ran a hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. ‘For all the good it did me. Can you believe that kid is thirteen? Hard as nails and tough as old boots. Doesn’t even need to get lawyered up to know to keep her mouth shut.’ He set off down the corridor. ‘Let’s shake the tree a bit and see what falls out. Send a couple of uniforms out to Fellhead and bring Jane Gresham in.’

‘You want them to arrest her, or just ask her to come in for questioning?’

‘Arrest her. Let’s get her on the back foot. Conspiracy to burgle, that should do it. She’s not got the equipment to stonewall us like Tenille Cole. Let’s scare the shit out of her. I’ve got four dead bodies on my patch and I want some movement.’ Rigston swung into his office and closed the door firmly behind him.

Shocked awake by the ringing of the bell and the hammering on the door, Jane winced as she sat up in bed, stiff and disorientated. The bedside clock showed four twenty-three. What the hell was going on? She struggled out of bed, groaning as her bruised muscles complained. Grabbing her dressing gown, she opened the bedroom door. Her mother stood at the top of the stairs, her face blurred by sleep, her expression bewildered. She could hear her father’s tread on the stairs. ‘I’m coming,’ he bellowed.

She heard the door open and Allan’s startled, ‘What’s going on?’ over the clatter of boots on the stone flags of the hallway.

‘We’re looking for Jane Gresham,’ a male voice said.

‘Is she on the premises?’ a female voice added.

Judy turned a startled face on her daughter. ‘It’s the police.’

Jane pushed past her and took a few steps down the stairs. Her father had his back to the wall. He kept repeating his original question. Two uniformed police officers occupied the rest of the space, the confined area rendering them even more unnerving than their uniforms and bulky utility belts.

‘I’m Jane Gresham,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s all the commotion?’

The woman officer stepped forward. ‘Jane Gresham, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit burglary. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’

Jane stared open-mouthed, too astonished to feel anything other than shock.

‘What?’ Allan said. ‘Are you out of your minds?’

Judy followed Jane and clutched her hand. ‘There must be some mistake.’

The woman pushed past Allan and began to climb the stairs. ‘Please step away, Mrs Gresham.’ When she reached Jane and Judy, she said, ‘If you’d like to get dressed, Dr Gresham, I’ll have to accompany you.’

‘This is an outrage,’ Judy wailed. ‘How dare you march into my home and arrest my daughter?’

‘Please, Mrs Gresham. We have a job to do. I’d advise you not to make it any more difficult.’ The woman kept coming, forcing Judy back and to one side without actually touching her. She took Jane’s arm in hers, not ungently, and led her upstairs. ‘Which is your room?’

Jane recovered the power of speech enough to say, ‘That one.’ She shook her arm free and walked in, leaving the door ajar for the police officer to follow her. Under cover of her dressing gown, she stripped off her pyjamas and dressed in jeans and a shirt. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake,’ she said as she followed the policewoman downstairs. Her mother was huddled into her father’s protective arm, tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘It’ll be all right,’ Jane said, feeling useless. ‘This is a cock-up,’ she added.

‘What can we do?’ her father asked anxiously.

‘Try not to worry. I’ll be home soon.’ As she passed her mother, Judy reached out to clasp her hand briefly.

‘I hope you’re bloody pleased with yourselves,’ Jane said bitterly as she was escorted out of her own front door to the waiting police car. ‘Are you trying to make a point here? Or is it one of the perks of the job, terrorising innocent people in their own homes?’

‘Shut it,’ the male officer said as he pushed her head down to avoid her hitting the door frame of the car. ‘You’ll get your chance to sound off when we get you to Keswick.’

The journey was long enough for anger to be subsumed by fear. What did conspiracy to burgle mean? It had to be something to do with Tenille, but what exactly? Jane cursed her failure to tell Tenille about the attack on her. She’d thought she was protecting her, but telling her might have had the salutary effect of keeping her from wandering around on her own after dark. What had she done now? And how was it tied into Jane? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Tenille telling a cop that Jane had known what she was up to. It had to be a trumped-up charge.

By the time she was ushered into an interview room, Jane was battling fear with self-righteousness. As soon as Rigston walked in, before he even had the chance to greet her, she was on the attack. ‘How dare you send your storm troopers to my parents’ home in the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe whatever you have to say to me wouldn’t wait till a more reasonable hour.’

‘You’re under arrest, Dr Gresham,’ Rigston said sarcastically. ‘We don’t arrest people at their convenience, we do it at ours. Now, whatever you’ve got to say, save it for the tape.’ He set the tapes running and sat down opposite her.

‘I want a phone call. I’m entitled to a phone call,’ she said.

‘Why don’t we have a little chat first?’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘No? We’ve got your friend Tenille just down the hallway. Caught her red-handed in the middle of a burglary. She was coming out of Jenny Wright’s cottage. The next person on your list, unless I’m mistaken.’

Jane’s eyes widened. Where had he got that information from? Then she remembered showing the family tree with its list to River. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

‘Nothing to say? OK. Let’s keep going. We’ve conducted post mortems on all four of the recent deaths in Edith Clewlow’s extended family and we have reason to believe there may be suspicious circumstances.’

Jane gave him a fierce look but said nothing.

‘We’ve also examined the premises where those people were found dead. Care to guess whose fingerprints turned up at all of them?’ He paused. ‘No? Your pal Tenille again. The same little pal who is already wanted for questioning about another murder. Starting to see a pattern here? The thing is, the only connection between a black London teenager and four elderly corpses in Cumbria is you, Dr Gresham. I can’t help thinking that you’re the one who put Tenille up to her nocturnal wanderings. Wanderings that have left four people dead.’

Jane’s eyes were squeezed shut. This was a nightmare and she wanted to wake up from it. She dug her nails into her palms, but all that happened was pain. ‘I want to make a phone call,’ she said again.

‘All in good time. You know what the irony is? The one night Tenille gets herself caught just happens to be the night she found what you were looking for.’

Jane’s eyes snapped open. ‘What?’

Rigston opened the folder he’d brought into the room with him. He took out a transparent plastic sleeve that held a small sheet of writing paper and pushed it towards her. Jane was transfixed as she read the familiar hand.
That night, I lay awake considering the import of Bligh’s words. It was clear to me that if I did not endure his iniquitous and unwarranted treatment, I would be forced to suffer a different sort of torture…