The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (17 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hugo sat in the rear of the police car, watching through the window as Pendrith talked with DCI Upton. Merlyn hovered in the space between, drifting close to the policeman and the politician only to receive “leave us alone” looks, which pushed her toward the car until one uniformed officer or another asked her politely, but firmly, not to get too close.

At first Upton stood there listening impassively, occasionally looking over one shoulder at Hugo, but more often looking over the other to check on the progress of his crime-scene techs. After five minutes of this, one of the techs interrupted Pendrith to make his report. Upton listened and apparently dismissed the man, then looked at his watch. He spoke now, and Pendrith nodded along. Finally, a constable was sent to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. He waited quietly until Upton himself arrived, sitting beside his constable up front.

“What did they find in the car?” asked Hugo. He sat forward and spoke loudly through the plastic window that separated them, not sure how effective the little holes might be.

Upton half turned and looked at Hugo. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”

“You already told me,” Hugo said.

“Change of plan. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Marston.”

“Call me Hugo. And you’re referring to Pendrith’s intervention?”

“No. The Rising Moon happens to be my local pub. We’re going to have a beer and a chat.”

Hugo sat back, not wanting Upton to see the relief on his face. “Works for me,” he said. “Does this mean you didn’t find a gun in the car?”

Upton raised an eyebrow. “Pendrith’s right, you are a clever fellow. And he told me a little about your friend Harper.”

Hugo cursed Pendrith silently, but knew he probably didn’t have much option if he wanted Hugo free. Hugo turned his thoughts to what the absence of a gun meant, but spoke aloud. “Either Harper wasn’t driving the car, or he didn’t shoot Drinker, or he did both and . . .” The next option was his least favorite.

“Right,” Upton finished the thought. “And unless he tossed it into the pond, and we’ll look, he’s out there with the gun in his hand. But whether he did it or not, we have a man with a weapon roaming the countryside. Someone perfectly willing and able to use it. Seems like cause enough for a drink and a chat, doesn’t it?”

“No argument here,” said Hugo.

DCI Upton and the landlord of the Rising Moon greeted each other like old friends, though there was a respect in Jim Booher’s eyes that told Marston their encounters hadn’t always been in the pub. They arrived as Booher was locking up, but he didn’t hesitate to leave the four of them in the bar alone, trusting them to pay now or, should he need a favor from the men in blue, repay him later. Hugo liked that things still worked this way in the country, but he was interested to see that his initial evaluation of Upton was wrong. He wasn’t a by-the-book cop as Hugo had first thought. The man was also results oriented.

Booher had gotten around to lighting the fire at some point that evening, and Pendrith kicked it back to life with his foot and two new logs. Then they stood around a nearby table and looked at Merlyn.

“She may know something that helps us,” Hugo said, seeing Upton’s desire to excuse her from the conversation. “She knows a lot more about Harper than we do.”

Upton nodded his acquiescence, then played barman, not taking orders, just grabbing a bottle of whisky from under the counter and four glasses. As he moved to the table, Hugo was amused to see Upton shoot a questioning look at Merlyn, who looked irritated. Yes, I’m a girl who drinks whisky.

When he’d finished pouring, Upton took a sip without proposing a toast. “I’ll tell you what I know; you fill in the rest,” he said.

Hugo nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I know that old Mr. Drinker is unconscious with someone’s lead in him. I know that you guys are looking for Dayton Harper up here. I know that Harper and his wife ran over Drinker’s son a week ago. The rest,” he shrugged, “you’re gonna have to help me with.”

Hugo looked at Pendrith, who sat back, glass in hand.

“Fire away, old boy,” Pendrith said. “He’s your charge, not mine.”

“Dayton Harper was supposed to be in my care,” Hugo said, and he began with Ginny Ferro and her grisly end.

“That was definitely murder?” Upton said. “Any chance it was suicide?”

“Well, that’s where things get complicated,” Hugo said. “At first we assumed suicide, and then because of the situation with Farmer Drinker, we considered it might be murder. The cloth over her face helped with that. But now it’s possible, just possible, it was an accident.”

“An accident? She was hung from a tree in a graveyard by accident?” Upton looked around the table to see who else was laughing. When he saw nothing but straight faces, he added drily, “What was she doing, pruning?”

“Let me explain,” Hugo said, holding up a calming hand. “As I said, I was supposed to take custody of Harper after his release, to make sure he was safe and to keep him out of the public eye while this mess with Drinker was sorted out. But then he found out about his wife and apparently decided he had business to take care of up here. We were close behind him and tracked him up here to a place called Braxton Hall.”

Upton’s eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard about that place, though God knows what’s true and what isn’t.”

“Probably most of it’s true, from what I saw and heard,” Hugo said, shooting a smile at Merlyn. “Anyway, seems like he and Ginny Ferro, and a little cadre of their friends, were into asphyxophilia.”

“Breath play. I’ve come across it a few times, but normally it’s a solo activity,” Upton said. “Or I thought so.”

“It can be,” Merlyn interjected. “I’m guessing most of your experience comes from finding people dead, right?”

“Pretty much,” Upton said.

“Which explains why you think it’s a solitary practice. Look, the only safe way is to have someone else there because if it doesn’t go well, you end up on the front pages. With someone else there, you’re much safer. Or,” she said with a shrug, “several other people there. That heightens the safety aspect as well as the eroticism. For some people.” Another noncommittal shrug, but this time a little smile went with it.

“So what does this have to do with anything?” Upton looked directly at her and nodded. “Harper and Ferro are into this?”

“Among other things, yes,” Merlyn said. “Regular bondage stuff, mock incarceration. She was pretty wild even for that crowd.”

She told Upton about the cemetery at Braxton Hall, the crypt that was designer-made for guests to enjoy any way they saw fit, including the recreation of death scenes through breath play.

“You have actual parties like that there?” Upton asked. Hugo thought he was trying very hard not to sound judgmental.

“Yes,” Merlyn said. “I know it’ll sound weird to you, but no one ever got hurt.” That little smile again. “In a bad way, I mean.”

“Which is why you wondered about Ginny Ferro’s death being an accident. Seems kind of . . . unlikely, doesn’t it?”

“Which part?” Hugo said with a smile.

“Well,” said Upton, stroking his chin. “I can see now that she might get something out of a rope and a real cemetery. But the night of her release from prison?”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” said Hugo. “But think about it this way. She gains a certain emotional and physical satisfaction from mock incarceration, right? Well, if she’s incarcerated for real yet treated well, which she was by all accounts, then she may have been on a high coming out of there. She may have wanted to extend the experience by acting out another fantasy in a real environment.”

“But who with?” asked Upton. “Wouldn’t she need someone else?”

“Not necessarily,” Merlyn said. “All she needed was a ladder and the rope, pretty much. But she also had friends down there, friends into this. A quick phone call would have had a dozen people running out there to play with her.”

“Play?” Upton said.

“Yeah, we call it playing. Because that’s what it usually is.” Merlyn took a swig of her whisky. “Look, the point is, she could have had someone meet her there in a matter of an hour, less. She’s a famous movie star for fuck’s sake, anyone in the scene, men and women alike, would have given their left nut to play with her.”

“Literally, eh what?” Pendrith chortled, then stuck his nose into his glass when he saw he was the only one laughing.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Hugo looked up. “Shit, what about Walton?”

“Who’s that?” Upton asked.

“Pain-in-the-arse reporter who followed us here,” said Pendrith.

“He knows about Harper?” Upton asked.

“Yes,” said Hugo. “Unfortunately, he does. He’s agreed not to say anything if we help get him an interview when we get Harper.”

“Very kind of him,” Upton said. “Where is he now?”

“Hard to say,” Pendrith chortled again. “We gave him the slip earlier, sent him on some phony errand. Probably crying in his fish soup. I’ll trot upstairs and see if the bugger’s still here.”

“Good idea,” said Hugo.

As soon as he disappeared through the door, Upton turned to Hugo. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s His Lordship’s role in all this?”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Hugo. “I think he has a crush on Harper, for one thing. Also, Pendrith’s been a friend of the United States, as the ambassador put it, for some years. I’m told his background is in intelligence, which could sure be useful right about now.” Hugo smiled when he saw the frown on Upton’s face. “Don’t be fooled by the upper-class-twit routine, Chief Inspector.”

“All for show?”

“No, actually I think the upper-class bit is real. He’s no twit, though, that bit is just to fool you.”

“Well, we could use all the help we can get,” Upton said, “though I see why you were so bloody evasive back at the farm.”

Hugo nodded. “If it gets out that Harper is running around England, possibly armed and maybe dangerous . . .” He shook his head. “I was worried before when I thought maybe he’d just get mobbed to death by fans, or possibly strung up by a few villagers here. But now, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“Agreed,” Upton said. “Every man, woman, and child in the county would grab a flaming torch and go looking for him.”

They looked up as Pendrith reappeared. “All’s well,” he said. “Walton is sleeping like a baby.”

“Good.” Upton looked into his glass but didn’t take a sip. “So we need to figure out who shot Drinker, what the hell Harper is doing, and whether or not we raise the alarm. And I think we’re all agreed that there’s no need for a public announcement just yet.”

“Certainly not,” said Pendrith. He turned to look at Hugo. “You said before you didn’t think he shot Drinker. Still think that?”

“I’m not quite sure what to think.” He turned to Upton. “Did the paramedics indicate whether Drinker is going to make it?”

“No. He was unconscious by the time we got to him. All we know is what he said to you chaps. I’ll call in and see if there’s been any change, but right now what he said points straight to Harper. Let me call.”

Upton stood and moved away from the table, and they sat in silence as the policeman connected with an underling at the station. He asked about Drinker and listened quietly for a moment. Then he said, “Are you sure he was there? You’re sure it was him?” He nodded at the response and hung up, then came back to the table.

“News?” asked Pendrith.

“Most definitely,” said Upton, wrapping his fingers around his glass. But this time he took a swig. “He was conscious for a few minutes before they went into surgery. Conscious and coherent enough to tell his escort what he told you: Harper was in that house tonight.”

“And?” pressed Pendrith.

“And then Drinker died during surgery,” said Upton.

In the silence that followed, every glass was emptied.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The call that Hugo had dreaded came at six the next morning.

He was already up and in the parking lot, looking for a public footpath that might take him on a walk of a mile or two before the world awoke, a moment to let the country air run through his system and a chance to either escape or help resolve the mystery that had captured him.

He answered without thinking and without checking to see who was calling. “Hugo Marston.”

“DCI Upton here. Where are you?”

All hopes of a morning walk vanished when Hugo heard his tone. “At the pub. Everything OK?”

“No, not by a long chalk. You know where the Weston Church is?”

Hugo almost smiled.
It’s where Jack O’Legs is buried
, he thought. But he just said, “Yes.”

“Good. I’m on my way there now, meet me.”

“Sure, I’ll grab Pendrith, though he may be sleeping still.” Hugo looked at his watch and saw it was just after six.

“No time,” said Upton. “Just get over here as soon as you can, I’ll send a car for him later.”

“What’s going on, Clive?”

“This fucking situation is getting out of hand, that’s what’s going on. So do me a favor and hurry.”

Hugo patted his pockets. Wallet and keys, that’s all he’d need. He glanced back at the pub, a little guilty at leaving Pendrith behind and half hoping to see him at a window, gesturing for Hugo to wait. But the cottage-like pub slumbered in the morning mist, soundless and still.