Gregory's Game (24 page)

Through gaps in the hedge she could just make out that a light was on in Ian Marsh's house. In the living room she and Vin had sat in so many times. She visualized it now. Old-fashioned and cosy in a haphazard, overstuffed kind of way. She had never been able to gauge much about Ian Marsh or his wife from that room. It had been created by an earlier generation, put together according to the taste and habits of another couple. Ian and Katherine Marsh had simply inherited it, moved into that space, but made no impact upon it.

Tess realized that she was hungry. She should go home, eat something. Instead, she drove to a Chinese takeaway she knew and ordered chicken and cashew nuts with egg-fried rice. Then she drove on a little further down the coast and sat in her car to eat her meal, listening to the radio, finding solace in a country music programme that played songs of love and loss and broken hearts. Briefly, she thought of Alec. He'd mentioned he was going to the fireworks in Pinsent, with his wife and some friends. He even seemed to be looking forward to it. Tess wondered if she'd ever be one to enjoy domesticity.

So, she asked herself, what exactly was she doing here? She told herself that she'd driven out towards Halsingham because the takeaway she liked was out in that direction, but she knew that was a lie. This had always been her plan. Why else would she be parked up at the side of Ian Marsh's cottage on Church Lane?

Quietly, Tess got out of the car and slipped around to the back door. The keys she had taken from the evidence box had now been copied and replaced and this wasn't the first time she had let herself into the property on Church Lane or even into Ian Marsh's other house – though that was something she had to be more cautious about. Church Lane, on the other hand, was easy. Not overlooked and far enough from the neighbour's house that she never noticed Tess's incursions.

Tess stood in the kitchen, cleaned now by a professional company Tess herself had recommended, though she knew even they would never get rid of every trace. Blood would remain, hidden in the cracks of the flagstone floor, the tiny gaps in the cabinet fixings, absorbed into the new paint on the kitchen walls. Traces would remain.

Tess stood and inhaled the scene. She closed her eyes and remembered the hanging man, the CSI moving purposefully and quietly around him. The click of the camera shutter …

Eyes still closed, she erased them from the scene, took away the officers and their quiet intensity. Left only the hanging man and her own presence. She could hear her own breath now, was conscious of her heartbeat, the pulse of blood in her ears. She lifted her head as though looking up, but kept her eyes closed, remembering every detail of the body, the look, the presence, the smell, the pain.

In her mind's eye she saw his assailants. Faceless, sexless, even, but she assumed both male. She visualized where they must have stood. The one behind, manipulating the rope, the chokehold they had on their victim. One standing where she stood now, or maybe a pace further back, looking up at the victim. Winding that tight fibre about his body, twisting it tight so it bit into the flesh, twisting it tighter still. The knife wound in the side – Tess mimed the upward thrust. Most of the blood on the floor would have come from that knife wound. Arterial blood, spurting out, hitting the ceiling at one point, trailing down the body and on to the floor.

That was an oddity, Tess thought. The rest of it had been relatively clean. There would be blood on the knife, blood on the assailant. Blood that spurted out and covered the man driving the knife upward into the wound.

Tess mimed the movement again. No, the angle was wrong. It was all wrong.

One man would have held the rope, pulling it tight around Anthony Palmer's neck. It hadn't been a sliding noose, merely a way of applying a choke hold across the windpipe.

The other stood in front of him … and there was evidence that Anthony Palmer's feet had been bound and tied down to prevent him from kicking out at his assailant. His ankles had been ripped and torn by the same monofilament. It had taken a while before they understood what he'd been tied to, but marks on the heavy oak table suggested it might have been that. The noose man maybe sitting on the table to add extra weight and provide him with the ideal position from which to increase the tension.

So what about the knife wound?

Tess moved round slightly, thinking again about the angle of thrust. From the side, she thought, and the assailant wasn't worried about getting Palmer's blood all over him. Somehow that seemed at odds with the rest of the scene – and they knew the blood had spurted all over this man because there was a void in the spatter pattern on the floor and wall.

‘A third man,' Tess said softly. ‘There was a third man. I'm bloody certain of it.'

Tess didn't look back as she got into her car. If she had she might have caught the hint of a movement in the shadow beside the garden hedge. After she had driven away the shadow detached itself fractionally, stood silent and still until the tail lights of her car had disappeared.

He then retreated to his own vehicle and made a call. His companion fired up the ignition and eased out from between the trees, following Tess's car up the hill.

O
n 3 November, Professor Ian Marsh failed to turn up for work. In itself, that wasn't to be wondered at; he'd officially been absent, on compassionate grounds, since his family had disappeared, but in the past week he'd come into his office twice, at least trying to keep up with his admin, see a few of his students and help spread the workload created by his absence.

His colleagues were of the quiet opinion that he didn't actually do a lot when he did come in and they were also awkward around him. What do you say to a man going through what he was going through? But they rallied and supported and tried to include him in any way they could, hoping it would at least help attach him to the land of the living. In the view of several of them, Ian Marsh was now a man living in the shadows, not a part of this world, even if not quite consigning himself to the next.

The third day of the month was important though, if only to the PhD student Professor Marsh was supervising and who he'd promised he would still see. For half an hour, his appointment waited for the professor in the corridor outside his locked office. After another half-hour, he left a note for Ian Marsh and went to get a coffee, hoping the professor would have rolled up by the time he got back. Returning, he ran into the professor's neighbour, who sympathized and called Ian Marsh at home and then on his mobile. Then phoned round within the department to see if anyone else knew where he might be.

By mid afternoon, Tess had been made aware of the problem, Marsh's worried colleagues having called and suggested someone go round. Just in case …

Tess and Vinod duly went. ‘You think he might have topped himself?' Vin asked as they sat in the car outside the Marsh house.

‘Bloody hope not,' Tess said. ‘I can do without another fricking body.' She sighed. ‘If he has, then I just hope he's left a bloody note, preferably one that confesses to what he's done with his wife and kid and ends with him being sorry.'

Vin got out and waited for her to join him. ‘You really think he might have done it?' he said. ‘I know you don't like him, but … I don't know. It doesn't smell right, somehow, you know? I mean, if he did kill them, does that mean he did for Anthony Palmer as well?'

‘I don't know,' Tess said. ‘I suppose that would depend on how he did it, if he did, and I'm not sure I even want to think about that.'

No one answered the doorbell. Vin went round the back while Tess knocked on the neighbours' doors. Ian Marsh's car wasn't there, she'd noticed, so that suggested neither was the professor. One neighbour thought she had seen him drive off that morning, but she couldn't be sure of the time.

‘Was he carrying any luggage?' Tess asked.

The woman frowned, considering. ‘Only that shoulder bag of his. That old leather satchel type of thing he takes everywhere.' She frowned, doubtfully. ‘It might have been yesterday. You should ask those journalists down the road. They'd know, wouldn't they?'

Tess thanked her and returned to where Vin now stood beside the car. ‘No sign of him, alive or dead,' he said.

‘The neighbour saw him go off this morning or maybe yesterday. I suppose it's possible he intended to drive to the university and something happened. Best check for RTAs and call the local hospital. We'll drive his route and then check with his colleagues again.'

Vin nodded and they pulled away. ‘How come you know what route he takes?' Vin asked.

Tess hesitated, not sure she wanted him to know, but also sure that he'd guessed by now. ‘Because I've been watching him,' she said. ‘Because even if he didn't kill his wife and child I'm sure he played us. And, Vin, I don't like being played.'

She paused at the road end to speak to the constable on duty. The press pack had diminished; days of nothing happening were hard to report and just the dregs and shreds remained. Professor Marsh had been logged leaving yesterday morning. He'd not been logged as returning.

‘And no one thought to report this?'

The young officer flushed. ‘I wasn't on duty,' he protested.

Tess drove off, too annoyed to respond. She should have checked in more often. She should have put word out to keep a close eye on the professor. But he wasn't officially a suspect; he hadn't been told to stay put; he hadn't permitted a liaison officer to come and assist him. And he'd spooked her. That was the truth of it. Tess still felt edgy from the last time she'd visited the Marsh house. She hadn't wanted to admit to that, but it was the truth and it had led her to be careless. To keep out of Ian Marsh's way and hope someone else did that part of her job for her. It appeared no one had.

Vin was talking on the phone, checking for possible road accidents and hospital admissions. But there was nothing. By the time they arrived at the professor's office it was dawning on Tess that the man had deliberately disappeared. They spoke to the PhD student and to the professor's colleagues. He had spoken to no one, left no messages, informed none of them of possible plans.

‘What now?' Vin said.

‘Back to the house. We take the place apart.'

‘There's still a possibility he's there. He might have topped himself. We should have gone in before.'

‘The neighbour and our log said he left. No one saw him come back. He's not there.'

And she was right. They entered through the kitchen door, Vin breaking the small window and then reaching through to turn the key. Inside it was emptily quiet. The sort of quiet, Tess thought, that settles on a house when it's been uninhabited for a while.

Vin followed her upstairs. Everything was tidy, precise and clean. She paused at the entrance to Desiree's room. It was eerily neat and empty. Pink and white and lilac and filled with toys and books and teddy bears. She turned away quickly.

‘Anything missing from the bedroom?' she asked.

‘I can't tell if he's packed anything. But there's something I didn't expect to be there.'

He pointed at the bed. Lying on the pillow was a mobile phone. In a bright pink case. With gloved hands, Tess picked it up and flipped the cover open. A flashing light announced a text, unread. ‘This has got to be Kat's phone. How the hell did it get here?'

‘There's a message.' Vin's voice was tense and hoarse.

Tess opened the message screen. She turned it towards her partner.

‘Time's up, Professor,' the message said.

‘He's been in contact with them,' Tess breathed. ‘And he didn't say a bloody word.'

T
he start of November had brought storms and heavy rain. By the Friday of Bonfire Night the rain had eased a little, but the firework display on the bit of land between the recreation ground and the beach happened against a fractal background of raindrops and rising tide. The crowd had wrapped up against the cold and damp in wellingtons and thick coats and the bonfire had somehow been lit and then kept alight. The blaze, red and gold against a grey world, lit the faces of the crowd and while Patrick tilted his face skyward to watch the rockets fly, Harry found that mostly he just watched his son.

They had been coming to the display ever since they moved back to Pinsent and tonight Naomi and Alec had joined them, leaving Napoleon safely in the care of Marie, Harry's mother. They'd be going back there to eat later, sharing Bonfire Night food and good company.

Patrick's face was as pale as ever, the untidy dark hair blown into tangles as his hood fell back. The firelight danced on the pale skin, touching it with colour, the way Patrick so often touched his otherwise monochrome art. He's beautiful, Harry thought. Not handsome; that was too harsh, too masculine a word. Patrick was beautiful and Harry felt as though someone had taken his heart in their hands and crushed it to pulp. His chest was too tight, his breath held as he worshipped his child and recognized, fearfully, that he was becoming a man.

Naomi too had her face tilted towards the sky. She could still perceive a little in the way of light and shade and fireworks still possessed some of their magic as a result. She clasped Alec's arm tightly and Harry, glancing at them for a moment, saw his friend smile. Alec had been more settled of late, more of his old self, though Harry knew that the recovery was still fragile.

The fireworks ended, the last of the redness falling into the sea and the music fading out to nothing. Spontaneous applause broke through the crowd and Harry clapped because his son was clapping. He could recall nothing of the display. Now, as the firelight illuminated only the grey of the breakers crashing on the beach, Patrick turned to Harry, a grin on his face. ‘Awesome,' he said. ‘But I'm freezing now.'

People had begun to drift away, some towards the stage where live music would play for the next hour or so and families would dance and eat the hog roast. Steam roast, Harry thought, with all the rain. Others moved back towards the town and home, and the four of them joined the slow exodus from the recreation ground and back on to the promenade. There was something else to celebrate tonight. Against all expectation, Patrick had passed his driving test the day before. Harry, Patrick's mother and his stepfather had all contributed towards getting him a little car – or more likely, Harry thought, towards getting him his insurance, as the quotes he'd found were, frankly, unbelievable. The car would be the cheapest, easiest part of it. He planned on handing the money over to Patrick tonight when they got to Marie's.