Killing Me Softly (29 page)

‘Look, if there's something else you want to tell me, Col, you'd better get it off your chest.'

‘I don't know anything,' he came back angrily, ‘it's him you'd better ask. Ask him where Luce is. He knows. Don't ask me how I know that, I just feel it. All I'm saying is, you want to ask him. We want her back. We love her.' His eyes filled with despair and, as a slow tear trickled down his cheek, he laid his head on the table, on his folded arms.

Abigail placed her hand gently on the weeping boy's sleeve. They were going to have to confront Neale now, she thought heavily. But they'd known that, anyway.

There had only ever really been two possibles after the discovery of the van: Morgan Finch, who seemingly had no access to it – and why should he want to use it, anyway? – and David Neale, who'd had no motive to kill Wishart. At least, that was how it had appeared until they'd learned about his wife, and the part drugs had played in her death. His wife. Luce. Damien Rogers. Neale appeared to have been conducting a one-man vigilante crusade. How short a step was that to taking the role of avenger on himself?

Col believed Neale had discovered Wishart's drug-supplying through keeping a close watch on Morgan. Well, maybe knowing Luce had made Neale suspicious of Morgan, but it was unlikely he would have been able to spot the connection with Wishart, when Skellen and his team had failed to do so, while watching Morgan's every move. No, it would have been his wife's habit that had led him to Wishart, when he'd first begun to supply ‘recreational' drugs to those able to afford them. Addicts in the later stages of addiction were not noted for their circumspection, and Morgan's evidence provided ample grounds to believe that Wishart had been supplying Jane Neale.

It was enough reason to kill. Any reason was strong enough, if it seemed so to the murderer. Never mind motive, Mayo was wont to say. Give me the opportunity and the means, and the possibility that the suspect was capable of performing this crime, and motive will take care of itself. Opportunity David Neale had had, and as for capability ... He showed a gentle and diffident face to the world but that, in the history of murderers, didn't amount to a ha'p'orth of beans.

There was no hard evidence that he
was
a murderer, yet. It was going to be difficult to expose him as such. But the appearance of the van had shifted the focus of the investigation inexorably in his direction.

The van's importance, so near the scene of the crime, couldn't be discounted until a satisfactory explanation for its presence was forthcoming, which hadn't so far happened. The forensic report was still awaited, but Abigail wasn't getting her hopes up about that. There wouldn't be any evidence, if whoever had used it had any sense, and Neale's intelligence wasn't in doubt. Of all those associated with the case, he was the one who had the opportunity to use it. The timing was too tight for everyone else.

He'd been seen to arrive at the Centre at twenty to four, and his car had incontrovertibly been jammed into the car-park until at least half-past five, during which time several people had seen him from time to time around the Centre – though none were prepared to swear exactly when. Plenty of opportunity for him to have slipped out of the Centre, walked across to Miller's Wife and picked the van up, made a quick four-mile dash over to Clacks Mill, then followed the reverse procedure. Not forgetting a spot of murder in between.

Moreover, Barbie Nelson might well be a possible witness. The exact time of her arrival at the hospital to see her father remained unconfirmed, the staff had been too busy to remember, but it had certainly been too soon after Wishart had died for her to be realistically considered as a suspect. But ... Jenny Platt had been convinced at the time of the interview with her that she was holding something back. And, as Abigail now recalled, the windows of her flat overlooked the yard where the van was parked, so that she could have seen something. She'd left Lavenstock far too early last Saturday to have seen anyone taking the van away – on the day of the murder, that was. But what about the previous Saturdays?

As sure as God made little apples, she wouldn't have come forward to say so; if she'd had suspicions she was keeping them to herself. Like Marianne Pardoe, she'd be only too happy if Wishart's killer went free.

Despite Abigail's reassuring words to Col, his outburst had set up alarm bells in her mind. She was beginning to be seriously worried about Luce's fate. She couldn't see any reason for Neale wanting to harm her. On the contrary, he had seemingly been concerned for her welfare, unless – and this was a thought to make her pause – unless in some way the girl, Morgan's girlfriend, she had to remember, had also been involved in dealing drugs. Her other friends were adamant that she'd nothing to do with this, but dealers weren't known for sharing their secrets.

Whether Luce had been dealing or not, Abigail was seized with a growing conviction that they couldn't afford to make light of her disappearance.

The weaker she grew, the more Luce's senses were heightened. She was getting used to seeing in the dark, and her hearing had become acute. She heard the rain on the window and, she was sure, somewhere not too far distant, the lap of water, and even the distant sound of traffic. And every now and then, more of those small, furtive scuttlings. They'd once terrified her, these noises: rats, or cockroaches, she'd imagined with horror, tensing for the clammy insect-touch on her skin, the red eyes in the dark. But as time went on, she identified the sounds as coming from behind, not inside, the walls of her prison. They were comforting, in a way, now, sounds of life.

The end for her must be very near. You couldn't survive without water and she had none left, and no hope either, that he would ever return. He was going to leave her here until she died. It was hard to believe this of him, but then, the whole story of her imprisonment was bizarre.

When she'd flagged him down at the bus stop, David Neale hadn't looked very happy, but you never expected that from him, he was a glumchops at any time, and anyway, he'd agreed after a moment to take her to the station. It wasn't much out of his way after all, and she might just, if he got a move on, get that train. She'd bundled in and thrown her rucksack down anyhow on to the floor beside her. He was in a funny mood, very quiet, and she didn't push her luck by trying to make conversation, which would only turn into one of his boring lectures. It was when they'd reached the railway station and she was getting ready to jump out as soon as he stopped that she realised her bag was somehow stuck and gave it a jerk. One of the straps had caught around something pushed under the seat and as the rucksack was freed, what was under the seat came with it. Of all things, the barrel of a shotgun!

At first, she thought his reaction was because he knew that killing animals was something she thought obscene – she'd once told him about taking part in anti-foxhunting demos – but it wasn't that. His face had gone a queer clay colour, and then, before she had the chance to get out of the van, he'd swung it round with a screech and driven off like a bat out of hell, throwing her sideways. She'd had thoughts about opening the door and jumping because, Jesus, he frightened her. She'd never seen David Neale in a fury before, and it was something she'd rather not see again. But she'd been too awkwardly placed by then to make a jump for it, wedged inextricably into her seat as she was by her lumpy rucksack, hampered by her long skirt. And besides, she didn't fancy the idea of being spread out on the road in front of whatever might be coming up behind.

He drove into the yard at the back of Miller's Wife. And that was the last thing she remembered until she'd wakened up here.

‘Bring him straight into my office,' Mayo instructed the two detectives sent to bring Neale in next morning. They returned without him. He was, they reported, neither at home nor at Miller's Wife, where they'd also called.

‘Keep trying.'

They had scarcely departed before Abigail received a call from the civilian SOCO man. Ex-Police Sergeant Dexter had news. Several short peroxided hairs had been found on the back of the van's passenger seat.

Abigail's heart lurched. ‘The missing girl's a dyed blonde, Dave.' The quick stab of excitement faded. ‘Thanks, anyway, for letting me know. But they're no use without
he
r – unless

‘Right, so get me a sample,' Dexter said tersely, ‘from her clothes at home.'

A few minutes later, Deeley and Scott radioed back that they still hadn't been able to obtain an answer at Neale's house, everything appeared to be locked up. But Deeley gave it as his opinion that their quarry could be in the house. ‘There was a bottle of milk on the step when we came earlier, and it's gone now. We've had a look around and there's a light on in a room at the side, and the computer's going.'

‘Tell them not to do anything until I get there,' Abigail said crisply. She picked up the telephone and spoke to Mayo.

‘I'm coming with you,' he said. They picked up Sergeant Carmody and Farrar and, within minutes, were on their way.

None of the houses on this side of the river were small, and that included Neale's. Stockbroker Tudor, surrounded by a spacious, well-kept garden, it had rosy bricks and sweeping roofs and diamond latticed windows that must have been a window-cleaner's nightmare. A battering ram would have been needed on the studded door. They didn't waste time on it. After knocking and receiving no reply, Deeley was sent round the back to break the glass on the door of the modern utility room extension to let them in.

In a wood-panelled hall as big as the average-sized sitting-room, an arrangement of flowers that looked almost real, in a Chinese jar half the size of a man, stood in an ingle-nooked fireplace. A settle and chintz-covered chairs were arranged around it. Thick rugs were spread on polished boards, and as they moved from room to room, only the occasional whirr of the freezer motor broke the silence, and presently, the noise of men's footsteps and voices as they began to swarm around the house.

Not a thing was out of place, every item of furniture shouting its value, shining with care and attention. The house was cold, and smelled of pot-pourri and furniture polish, of unused rooms, like a National Trust house; only the guide, sitting on a chair by the door of each room, was missing.

‘Where's the room with the light on?' Abigail asked, emerging from a dining-room with a refectory table long enough to seat twenty, if ever it had, in this house.

‘Over here.'

Mayo's voice came from a doorway further down the hall, opening on to a small room, evidently a study, comfortable and informal, unlike the rest of the house. Lamps cast a warm overall glow, the electric fire was full on, a half-empty cup of coffee, cold as Abigail found when she touched the side, stood on the desk next to a word processor where the cursor flickered on an otherwise empty screen, and the desk chair held the imprint of the occupant's rear on the cushion.

‘Just like the
Marie Celeste
,' said Mayo, even as footsteps descended the stairs and Farrar came in to report that there was no one upstairs, either. But somewhere in this waiting house was Neale. The air held his presence. However, he mattered less than Lucinda Rimington. The bottom line was her safety.

‘Sir,' Deeley said, emerging from the kitchen, ‘there's a light coming from under what seems to be the cellar door.'

‘Well, don't waste time telling me. Get down there.'

‘The door's locked or bolted from the other side. We've shouted but nobody's answering.'

‘Then what are you waiting for?'

An audience gathered to watch Deeley as he applied his shoulder and, despite the tension, there were a few muffled laughs as the door flew open and steps leading directly downward caused the big lad to stagger back in an effort not to tumble straight to the bottom. Whoosh! You could almost hear the air expelled as he hit the pneumatic Scotty.

Mayo waved them back and went in first.

It was, in fact, only a short flight of wooden steps, leading into what was more of a basement than a cellar, a big space that had been converted into something approaching a small gymnasium, with exercise machines all over the place and, at one end, a target practice area.

On a wooden chair facing the steps sat David Neale. A shotgun was balanced across the chair arms and his finger was on the trigger. He had removed his spectacles and without them his gaze was unfocused, his eyes rolling in a way that said he was out of control. But the gun was pointing unerringly at the doorway.

There was a moment when everything halted. Without turning round, Mayo told the men behind him to get back. Those who could see past him saw the man with the gun. No one wanted to leave Mayo there but no one wanted to stay, either.

He said, quietly, ‘Give me the gun, Neale.'

There was no response. He looked into the mad eyes he had once thought gentle and compassionate and saw the mistake he'd made. This man had destroyed life at least once before, without a qualm, and would never be sorry. He repeated his request quietly, moved his hand slowly forward and the world exploded in a deafening roar.

The sound ricocheted from wall to wall and in the enclosed space it was as if the end of the world had come.

For a split second afterwards there was silence, another roar, and then pandemonium.

Mayo, his face spattered with blood, lay still at the bottom of the steps. Neale, or what was left of him after he had spun the gun round and aimed it, full into his own face, was still sitting in the chair.

Abigail bent over her boss, her ears ringing, her heart still. His eyes opened. ‘For God's sake somebody get me something to clean up with,' he said, scrambling to his feet in an undignified manner.

‘Yes, yes, of course I'm all right/ he said testily. It had only been a combination of self-preservation and shock which had thrown him to the floor.