Soul Seeker (12 page)

He loved his sons, could see little wrong with them. Harry, the youngest, was just down from Cambridge, due to go on to Imperial College to complete his medical degree in a couple of months. Out of their three sons, it was Harry who had always worried Wallace and Jane. Cold, almost worryingly so, and prone to rages, there had been times when they had seriously considered seeking professional, psychological help although, thank God, that had not come to pass; he had mellowed and Wallace could see that medicine was a good career choice, not only because he had the brains but because he also had the temperament for it.

Greg was nearly twenty-five, completely different in temperament; he had read art at college and was now working as a freelance web designer, although not, as far as Wallace could tell, with much success. Yet he had a lively sense of humour and, despite the worrying choice of career, was blessed with charm and charisma; it gave Wallace a sense of vicarious pride when he saw how the girls reacted to Greg.

Will, at twenty-nine the eldest, was the star, though. Tall, although without the charm of his younger brother, he was eager to take over the management of the estate in the not too distant future, serious and committed; he had just left the army having seen service in Iraq and Afghanistan. Wallace felt an extreme peace in the knowledge that the future – the long-term future, he felt – was assured.

Although he worried somewhat about the short and medium term . . .

Still tonight there was another party to give and to enjoy, acting like an amnesiac balm on his irritating money worries. There were this time ten guests. Two local farmers and their wives – Wallace did not particularly like them, but he knew very well that it was in his best interests to court them, even if he was by far and away the biggest land owner in the area; the Reverend Pilcher – an interesting man, Wallace thought, and undoubtedly the most humane priest he had ever met; his mother-in-law, who endured and whom he endured; Allen Somersby, his farm manager, and his wife; and Andrew and Antonia Barclay, a couple that Wallace had no problems with, although Jane thought that they were just social climbers. Still, the perfect host, Wallace did not let these feelings hinder the proceedings. His sons, all home for the summer, moved amongst the guests and made sure that their glasses were never empty, their free hands never without a vol-au-vent or olive, and they never looked bored; boredom was almost as much a sin as public eructation in Wallace's view.

He approached Somersby, bottle in hand, ready to ply, but his farm manager covered his glass with his hand. ‘Got to be up early tomorrow, Wallace.'

‘Really, why?'

Allen Somersby knew better than to betray his feelings and said mildly, ‘Three hundred lambs going to slaughter.'

‘Oh, yes. Of course.' He vaguely remembered Somersby had mentioned this at their last meeting and he had OK'ed it. To cover his embarrassment, he said, ‘You know everyone here, don't you?'

Somersby gestured with his glass towards the Barclays. ‘Everyone except them. I've seen them around, but can't place them.'

‘Andrew and Antonia Barclay. He's a retired GP. They're bringing up their grandchildren. Quite a tragedy.' With this telegraphic resume, Somersby was brought up to speed; the tone in which it was transmitted gave him added context; Wallace did not consider them ‘one of us'. Whilst he was digesting this, Wallace said, ‘We need to discuss the Grange.'

‘What about it?'

‘The surveyor's report was quite damning.'

Somersby said neutrally, ‘I seem to remember it said that it would require considerable capital investment, and that we could only expect reasonable revenue income after some years.' He paused and then added for emphasis, ‘Twelve million of capital investment, I recall.'

‘And projected revenues of a quarter of a million in the second year, half a million in the second and third, but a million and climbing by year four and thereafter.'

‘But a long time to wait for a decent return.' Somersby knew that he was pushing his luck by pursuing this, but it wasn't the first time he had lived a little dangerously. ‘Even assuming no hold-ups with the redevelopment. And that doesn't include the interest charges on the loan.'

Wallace had a round, slightly greasy and pale face with the perpetual impression that he needed a closer shave. These slightly doughy features now assumed an expression that was partly sorrow, partly angry; Somersby knew from experience that it was the sorrow he had to be frightened of. ‘Allen, you are a good and competent estate manager; make no mistake that I appreciate that. That does not make you an investment manager. We are a good team because we each do what we are good at; please do not fight me on this.'

The sorrow was as disquieting as it was heartfelt and Somersby, a man who had managed to get fairly well on in his career without pushing things too far, said nothing, despite his concerns that this was a vanity project that did not make financial sense. He was saved from further comment by the arrival of Will with more canapés. Whilst the plates were being refilled, Wallace said to his son, ‘What's your opinion, Will? Should we risk a little now in order to reap a fine harvest later on? What this area needs is a decent, top-notch hotel and I think that the Grange could be that hotel.'

‘Oh, sure.' Will had a broad grin and, Somersby could appreciate, the air of the confident; he could persuade men to follow him into battle. As far as Somersby was concerned, that only meant that he had the ability to make people forget the consequences of their actions, no matter how foolish.

Wallace pressed him, knowing the answer he would get, with Somersby knowing that he knew. ‘And? Do you think it's a winner?'

‘Absolutely.'

It was said with total conviction. Allen Somersby found himself wondering what an inexperienced junior officer just discharged from the army – under dubious and unexplained circumstances – would know about anything.

Wallace turned back to him. ‘You've been against redeveloping the Grange from the start, Allen. Why would that be?'

He shrugged and said as disingenuously as he could, ‘It's my job to advise you as to how to best manage the estate. I just don't think that it's the best use of funds at present.'

‘What, and leave a hundred acres of the estate all but unusable and therefore non-profit making? You think that's in my best interests? I can't knock the place down because of the listed status. What else can I do?'

Somersby had no reply to that and knew better than to continue the argument. Parker let it go, but he was curious as to why his estate manager seemed so attached to the Grange.

TWENTY

L
ancefield took a party of four to look around at the top of the quarry's cliff where the body seemed to have been thrown, and then to conduct house-to-house enquiries. She had with her Fisher and two uniforms, neither of whom she knew particularly well, but who Beverley assured her were sound. They examined first the fencing around the quarry; concrete posts with chain-link fencing; they were angled at the top with a barbed wire tiara for more than decoration. They found immediately where a right-angled cut had been made in the fence, a rough door made and then bent inwards. The undergrowth had been trampled down on either side at this point. There was also evidence of tyre tracks leading away from this out onto a nearby lane. Lancefield said to Fisher, ‘Get forensics up here.'

Having pulled them back to stop them trampling on whatever evidence there might be, Lancefield looked around a little further afield. The trees and shrubs around the fence were only about twenty feet deep; a low wooden fence then formed the boundary to some small gardens at the back of a terrace of modern maisonettes, all pale yellow bricks, angles and small windows. Someone looking out of their back windows might have seen something . . .

They split into two teams, she with Fisher, the two uniforms together; she took advantage of her senior rank to take the properties closest to the quarry's edge, sending the other team to knock on a scattering of houses further back along the road that led past the quarry's edge to open countryside; it was possible that people in these might have seen something, but unlikely and so it would be a tedious and fruitless exercise. There was a distinct chance that she and Fisher would strike lucky, however.

She started off with high hopes but these were almost immediately destroyed when it quickly became clear that these were warden-controlled flats, and most of the residents were not going to be perfect witnesses. The tone was set by the first one, the maisonette nearest the quarry's edge. The door bell sounded – a cheap, trilling thing – after which there was a brief pause before the door opened (with difficulty because damp had warped the frame) to reveal a large woman of Far East Asian appearance dressed in a pale green housecoat; it was noticeably stained.

‘Yes?'

She looked bad-tempered, but Lancefield had the impression that this was nature not nurture. She looked no happier when Lancefield and Fisher showed their warrant cards. ‘Do you live here?'

She looked incredulous as if she had been asked an indecent question. ‘No.' Her accent was nearly thick enough to asphyxiate the meaning. She added, ‘I am one of the carers.' There were indignation and pride in her tone, as if she were shocked that she should be mistaken for what she considered a lower form of life.

‘Who does live here?'

‘Mr Barker.'

‘Could we have your name, please?'

She had probably looked happier in her life, although neither of them was going to lay a large amount of money on it. ‘Mary Lavoisier.'

‘And you care for Mr Barker?'

‘I said so.'

‘Full time?'

Her expression didn't change, perhaps because it had already plumbed the depths of contempt. ‘No. We come in on a rota.'

‘And how long have you been here?'

‘About twenty minutes.'

‘How many carers does he have?'

‘We come in four times a day.'

It was an answer, although not to the question that Lancefield had asked. She asked, ‘Can we talk to him, please?'

Mary Lavoisier snorted. ‘You can talk to
him
,' she said sourly, ‘but
he
won't talk to you.' The undercurrent was one of flippancy, but it was laced liberally with hostility. When she saw their looks of uncertainty she said brusquely, ‘Come on,' and turned away. They stepped in after her, immediately aware that the atmosphere was hot and dry, that there was a fusty smell around them. She led them to a sitting room where, among thirty-year-old furniture that was no longer of any use to him, sat Len Barker in his wheelchair.

He looked at them with an expression that was unreadable. Lancefield approached him and knelt down. ‘Mr Barker?' His eyes had followed the two police officers as soon as they had entered the room, the only sign of animation until that moment; now he nodded slowly and a soft grunt came from the back of his throat. Lancefield made a face of sympathy that Len Barker was beginning to know and detest, then turned away from him back to Ms Lavoisier. ‘We'll need the names of the carers who have visited in the past two days.'

‘What's going on?

‘Suspicious activity in the quarry. We're looking for witnesses.'

Before the delightful Ms Lavoisier could answer, Lancefield's attention was drawn by an urgent sound from Len Barker. He was agitated, with spittle coming from the corner of his downturned mouth, and he was waving his right hand about feebly. Curious, Lancefield glanced across at Fisher and then at the carer, who said carelessly, ‘Oh, don't worry about him. He hasn't come to terms with his condition yet. It's very common for them to become seriously depressed.' She might have been speaking about an old pet dog.

‘No one else lives here?'

She shook her head. ‘He's a widower.'

Lancefield looked again at Len Barker; he was looking directly into her eyes, shaking almost. Was he trying to tell her something? She asked, ‘Can he still write?'

‘'Fraid not. He was right handed and that's the side that has been paralysed.'

Lancefield sighed. ‘Never mind.' To Len Barker she said, ‘I don't suppose you saw anything anyway, did you?'

TWENTY-ONE

S
he had lost it completely to hysteria long ago. She had screamed, she had cried, she had begged and she had sobbed. She had wrenched at the restraints, badly abrading her wrists, and now she was exhausted, and whimpering, terrified but unable to do anything more active. She was just wondering when she would begin to die . . .

She had watched as someone had been slowly electrocuted in a chair identical to the one she was sitting in; she
knew
that it had not been a movie, that it had been real, that she had really been a witness to a horrible, prolonged death. She
knew
too that it was going to happen to her.

And no one had responded throughout all her entreaties; the cameras in front of her and to her sides continued to stare without comment, the dark corners of the padded cell slept, the television screen remained blank after showing the horrible, hideous death of the unknown man, after she had seen him twitching, and smoking, and distorting.

When would it come . . .?

She found herself almost wishing for something to happen.

She wondered what it would be like.

When it started, though, she had no time to think about it as the current surged through her body and agony ripped her apart, as every muscle in her body went into spasm, as her eyes twitched upwards almost turning around in their sockets, and as she bit her tongue off with barely perceived pain; twice more it came, the current each time incremental, until she was dead despite the twitching that persisted for a few seconds afterwards.