The English Boys (24 page)

He hesitated as he reached the top of the stairs. “Study or bedroom?”

“Study.”

Across from Hugh's bedroom was a smaller room he used for his hobbies. Of course, it had none of the posh appointments of his father's, but it was a fascinating room nonetheless. There was a large wood-and-iron settee that doubled as a bed in an emergency, though it had doubtless never been used, and two chairs in the corner.

A hefty mahogany desk was positioned against the wall across from the settee, which served as a repository for some of Hugh's personal interests. The desk was covered in odd, antique accessories that seemed snatched from Darwin's laboratory: filmy test tubes and vials; bell jars covering old nests and petrified eggs; ancient, dusty books; mounted fish and a harrowing red squirrel with bared fangs that had been rendered lifelike by an adept taxidermist. There were hundred-year-old spectacles folded reverently over a 1930s edition of a John Stuart Mill book. Moths and butterflies, pinned to a velvet backdrop and protected by a thin layer of glass, hung on the wall. Daniel had been in this room once before, but he had found the artifacts creepy and the occasion had never arisen to come in again. By the look on Carey's face, she felt the same way.

“There's nothing here,” she said. “We'll have to look in the bedroom.”

“There's almost nothing of Tamsyn in the entire house,” he said, almost to himself. “I wonder if he's cleared her out already.”

Even
in the closet, few of her clothes were hung beside Hugh's. However, her familiar duffle lay on the floor under her dresses. Daniel picked it up, opening it at once.

“Here we go,” he said, extracting an orange notebook, possibly even the one he had seen her writing in on their drive. He scanned the pages. Seeing Tamsyn's handwriting was painful so soon after reading her diaries. Unfortunately, she had written nothing that could shed light on who had killed her.

Carey took the pack from him and rummaged through it. “Two books, some bracelets, her favorite chocolate bars. How could anyone have so few possessions? She must have abandoned her things when she moved in with Hugh. There's no other explanation.”

Daniel flipped through the journal again, but it contained nothing more than a few wisps of poetry. It wasn't the damning evidence for which he had hoped. He handed it to Carey. She turned a few of the pages before putting it back in the pack and returned it to the spot in the closet where she'd found it.

“This isn't getting us anywhere,” she said.

“There must be something,” Daniel said. “There's got to be some clue to explain why all of this happened.”

“I can think of one.”

“Which is?”

“You only saw what you wanted to see,” Carey answered. “To you, she was sexy and fun. I knew the side of her that had truly been broken. I've been thinking that she developed Borderline Personality Disorder after the rape. Of course, I didn't diagnose her myself. I mentioned her once to my old psychiatry professor.”

“What is Borderline Personality Disorder?”

“It's a syndrome that develops after a severe trauma. The victim shows signs of intense emotional ups and downs, impulse control problems, and eroded self-image. Even violent tendencies.”

“Tamsyn wasn't like that.”

“You're wrong. Six months after Emma was born, Mum forced her to come back to try to work it out. She took half a bottle of sleeping pills, trying to end her life.”

Daniel was stunned into silence.

“That's why they never made her come back again. They had to accept her on her terms from then on.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Carey brushed her hair away from her face. “I knew how much it would upset you.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her. “Do you think Hugh knew?”

“I don't know. Tamsyn managed to keep the truth from you.” She sighed. “What now? Are you ready to quit?”

“No. I still think she would have had a diary. Someone who kept one faithfully as a child wouldn't have abandoned the practice later.”

“Hugh could have destroyed it, if there was one.”

An idea was starting to form, and he looked at her. “You don't suppose she would have kept it on a computer, do you?”

“Where would it be?” Carey asked.

“The laptop is usually in the credenza downstairs in the media room. Hugh likes to surf the net while watching the telly.”

“She wouldn't do that. It would be too risky for her to write incriminating things on a shared computer.”

“She was a risk taker,” Daniel replied. “If you're right, it might have even given her a thrill.”

He took the stairs two at a time, with Carey right behind him. They went down the corridor, through the kitchen, and to the back of the house, which, for the previous owners, had once been a large, conservatory-like room for dinner parties that had probably been featured in
House & Garden
. Hugh had redone the room in dark paneling and thick leather chairs, and before Tamsyn had come along, the two of them had watched countless action films sprawled across them. A credenza stood to the left of the fireplace, and Daniel slipped open the door and took out a laptop. He lifted the top and turned on the power.

“I hate this,” Carey said, as they waited for the computer to boot up.

“I don't like it any better than you.”

A few seconds later, they were in.

“She's made a log for her favorite websites,” Carey said, clicking on various icons. “Where would she keep something private, though? Online? If that's the case, we'll never find it.”

“Something's telling me to look in plain sight.” Daniel clicked on
My Documents
and they read through the list together:
Clothes websites, Emily Dickinson, Favorite Restaurants, Gloves and Hats, Wedding Ideas.
He hovered the mouse over
Emily Dickinson
. “Let's try this.”

A document opened, the first few pages of which were poems by the late American poet. Carey frowned and then pointed to the number of pages in the document.

There were a hundred and eighty seven.

“I don't think Dickinson was that prolific,” she said, “And even if she was … ”

“Bingo,” Daniel murmured, scrolling down. The first entry he stopped at arrested both of their attention.

May 18

Success! I was bolder than I thought today, actually having a conversation with Daniel Richardson on the ferry. I liked him more than I expected, but I have to stay focused on the goal. I've waited ten long years to make them pay for it. This is my chance, and I can't do anything to jeopardize it, no matter what.

Hugh was sitting inside with a drink. I could see him through the windows, and I wonder if he was looking at me. If he saw me, will he remember? If he remembers me, I won't be able to get close to him, but if not …

I stopped the conversation with Daniel about twenty minutes before we arrived in Dover. I had to distance myself from the two of them before landing. I threw the hat in the trash, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled my hair back in a knot. I even took off half my makeup to try to look younger. Who says a theatre background is useless? They got a cab together, and I followed some distance behind in another. It cost a bloody fortune, but I was able to stay close enough to see where Richardson was dropped off. Now I know where he lives. All I have to do is figure out what to do next.

“Dear God,” Daniel whispered. “It's true.”

Carey closed the screen and logged on to the Internet.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“
Emailing it to myself. I'm not going to sit here and read the whole thing like we have all the time in the world. We have to get out of here.”

Just as she attached the document and hit send, the screen went black. They both jumped.

“The battery's gone flat,” she said. He could see she was trying to get hold of herself.

“Check your mobile to see if you got it,” he suggested.

She pulled her mobile from her pocket and sighed with relief. “I did.”

“Then let's get out of here.”

They left the house, locking the door and putting the key back exactly as they'd found it. Once in the street, he hailed a cab.

“Get in,” he said.

Carey stepped inside and slid across the seat for him to get in beside her. Instead, Daniel closed the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I'll come by later. I have something to take care of first.”

“You're going to see Hugh!” she cried.

Instead of answering, Daniel tapped on the roof twice and stepped back as the cab pulled away. From the back window, Carey was shooting him daggers. But the truth was, he was going to have to confront Hugh, and after what he had just learned, he didn't want her anywhere near the bastard.

Thirty-Three

Beneath the foothills of
the Sierra de la Ventana mountains, six hours southwest of Buenos Aires, the Campo de Polo stretched across the secluded grasslands for miles. Its remote location was of particular interest to Hugh, who had wanted to visit the polo camp for several years. It was founded in 1910 and trained both beginner and intermediate riders to play. He did not aspire to be a professional—one could hardly remain undetected even in Argentina if one were to participate in a nationally or globally televised sport—but it had the feel of a good spa about it. It would do him good after all he had gone through.

He had always loved riding and knew he would train as an intermediate, at least. The accommodations, small private cabanas, were humbler than he preferred, but it would suit his purposes. There were regulation polo fields on perfect Bermuda grass, and even an indoor arena for practice on rainy days. Purebred racing ponies were raised on the ranch, and there was a fine selection from which to choose. He had spent hours comparing the mounts available. He favored a sinewy brown thoroughbred named Sultan, and hoped the horse would still be available by the time he arrived. Polo wasn't the only diversion that the Campo de Polo offered. After chukkas, cocktails and empanadas were served on the verandah each evening. There was an enormous pool where he would take a swim before retiring for the night. The physical demands of polo would keep his mind off everything that had happened, and when he tired of it after a season or two, he would take the train to Buenos Aires and find a flat.

Buenos Aires would be most stimulating. There was a surging ex-pat population there, escaping hectic city life and careers in favor of the inexpensive lifestyle and slower pace. He'd considered other locations, like Bangkok or Portugal, but dismissed them after doing his research. Bangkok would be an amusing diversion at first, but he couldn't see himself living in Asia for the rest of his life. The culture was too different, and he knew he would long for England after a year or two. Portugal, while more familiar, was simply too close to Britain, and he would have a far greater chance of being discovered there. Argentina was not only on the other side of the world but in a different hemisphere. It had the romantic allure of Spain, with the added virtue of complete and total anonymity.

His bag was already packed. The passport tucked in the pocket of his coat bore the name Richard Marquardt. He'd had it made after Lizzie Marsden's death in case it ever became necessary to leave the country. That day had now arrived. Arrangements had been made. Tonight, he would take the ferry from Liverpool to Dublin and fly
Aer Lingus to Puerto Rico before flying south to Argentina. He
would travel light, bringing only one bag. Clothes could be bought, flats rented. He hated the thought of leaving his house, but there was no other choice. For the last several months, since Tamsyn had been back in his life, he had been moving money into an overseas account in anticipation of just such a move. Then DCI Murray had honed in on him. He could have gotten away with Tamsyn's murder, but killing Murray was a bridge too far.

He sat in his parents' brick-walled garden with a cup of coffee, looking at the arbor of climbing roses his mother had worked so long to achieve. Although she employed a gardener, she labored here every day. It was a full, mature garden twenty years in the making, and she was enormously proud of it. Dinner parties were held under the stars, with twinkling lights twined on the pergola that dripped with ivy and honeysuckle. It was quiet now, for the middle of the day. He sat back, looking at the pavers that led into the more formal areas of the garden, with small, discreet cherubs gracing the path. The parterre, with its symmetrical box hedges and gravel paths, was small but entrancing. Many days he had walked those paths, often after a fight with his father, to escape the anger in the house. It calmed him. He resolved to find gardens in Argentina. They would remind him of his mother and all that was right in the world.

It was hard to imagine that it would be his last day here, and for all he knew, the last time he would ever see his parents. The thought brought conflicting emotions. His father's gruff demeanor was more than a veneer. Noel had never gotten over his modest upbringing by a single mother or the poverty and the deprivation of life without a father or proper home. He was driven to leave a legacy, a dynasty even, and he had been harder on his son than anyone else. No matter what Hugh did, his father never seemed to approve. No role was great enough, no film would gross as much as his father's had. Hugh was competitive and would have liked to best him, but so far it hadn't happened, and now it was too late.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and studied it. He wanted to talk to Daniel one more time. When he disappeared, he couldn't look back. He tried not to imagine it. Much easier, he thought, to focus on polo and days spent working up a sweat on the back of a sleek thoroughbred. Still, he wanted to talk to him. He dialed the number, mumbling a curse as it rang to voicemail. He didn't leave a message. He pocketed the mobile and lifted the cup to his lips just as his mother stepped out of the house.

“What a nice afternoon,” she said, walking over to him. She pulled her hat forward to shade her eyes from the sun. “May I join you for a moment?”

“Of course.”

She set her gardening shears on the table in front of him and sat down, pulling off her gloves. “I was going to cut some roses for the table. The boxwoods need trimming, but Wilkins would never forgive me if I touched them. You remember what happened last time.”

“It looked a bit wobbly there for a bit, didn't it?” he answered. “You wouldn't want to incur his wrath.”

“Again,” she said, smiling. “Once was enough.”

“Well, it's all recovered now. Your membership in the Royal Horticultural Society is in good standing.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do you know, the Simpsons have box blight? Everything's been infected. Their garden may take years to recover.”

He felt a catch in his throat that the greatest rumor she could impart was the state of the Simpsons' garden. How would she feel when his crimes were revealed to the entire country? She would never get over it.

She didn't seem to notice that he hadn't answered and sat back, changing the subject. “Listen, darling. I wanted to talk to you about something. Your father and I were thinking of taking two or three weeks in Avignon. The Smythes have offered us the use of their farmhouse.” She patted him on the arm. “You're welcome to come with us, of course. You could use some sun.”

“I'd rather stay in London, but I think you should go,” he replied, relieved. With his parents safely off to France, he wouldn't be missed for at least three weeks. It was an unexpected good turn of events, at a time when things had been going very poorly indeed. “It would be good for you to get away. This has been a strain on you too.”

“I don't like to leave you at a time like this.”

“You know as well as anyone that there's really nothing to be done. It's a process. And everyone grieves in their own way.”

She paused, looking up at the house for a moment as though someone might be listening. She was like that when she was trying to tell him something important, making certain his father wasn't within earshot. “I haven't wanted to say anything, and forgive me if I am overstepping, dear, but I felt that perhaps you didn't love her.”

Hugh looked up into her eyes and saw something he didn't want to see. He tried to come up with a coherent response, settling on a bland, meaningless sentiment. “Love is different for each person.”

“I even wondered if she was holding something over you,” she ventured.

“Like what?” he asked before he could stop himself. When his mother didn't reply, he answered for her. “She wasn't pregnant, if that's what you were thinking. Besides, people aren't bothered by things like that these days, you know.”

“I wasn't thinking of a pregnancy.”

He flinched. Could she possibly have any idea of what had happened between him and Tamsyn? Or, for that matter, Lizzie Marsden? But that was impossible. There had been no clues left behind. He'd made certain of that.

“There's nothing,” he said. “I just haven't wanted to talk about it.”

“Of course, of course,” she replied.

She wouldn't bring it up again, and while that in itself was a relief, he was going to swan off to Argentina and she would be left behind to deal with the fallout for years. He hadn't realized the extent to which his actions would have an impact on everyone. He didn't particularly care if his father was infuriated by the whole business, but his mother was another matter. It would kill her.

Hugh took a gulp of air. How had everything turned out like this, anyway? He thought back to that night in Wales, which he remembered in great detail. Marc had been reluctant, but he had wanted to prove something, though he wasn't sure what. He had wanted to seize control of something, and Tamsyn had been the nearest target. If it hadn't been her, would it have been someone else? He had never forced anyone again, but the desire for power continued to consume him. He had funneled that desire into appropriate channels, like building his career and working on his house, but at his core, he was restless, unfulfilled, and angry. Lizzie Marsden had been sucked into the vortex the night she died. If she had shown up at his door on any other night, there might have been an entirely different result. Hugh lived with the fear that something like that might happen again, but the situation hadn't presented itself until Tamsyn burst into his life and forced his hand.

“Well, I'll leave you to it,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.

He reached out and took her hand, glad at least that she couldn't see his desperate thoughts. He wanted to fold her in his arms, but of course she would know something was wrong. She probably already knew it. He released her hand, and, in that moment, he gave her up forever.

“I'm going to ring Daniel,” he said.

He gave her the briefest smile, which was no indication of how emotional he was beginning to feel, and then went inside the house. His father was probably at the club, and his mother wandered into the back of the garden. He went up the staircase, his shoes making no sound on the carpeted steps. Once in his bedroom, he shut the door. He couldn't leave England without hearing Daniel's voice one more time. If it weren't impossible, if he could have spoken freely without judgment or shame, the one thing he would have wanted to tell him was that he didn't kill Tamsyn. Not really. She'd been leading him on a death march, and no one could survive that. Not him, and certainly not Tamsyn Burke.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion in the street below. He avoided looking out of the windows at all costs, knowing if he did it would be on the BBC within the half hour. He refused to give the press more fodder for their sensationalist stories; however, the mild roar outside convinced him that something out of the ordinary was happening. He lifted back the curtain just enough to see Daniel fighting his way through the crowd.

Hugh let the curtain fall back into place. He should have been pleased. Daniel was exactly the person he wanted to talk to, but this was a bad sign. Either he had figured out what had happened or he thought he had. Even Inspector Murray had gotten it wrong. He sighed, slipping the mobile back into his pocket. He had wanted to talk to him on the phone; a final, remote goodbye, leaving their relationship intact and preserving, at least in his mind, the friendship they had shared for so long. Seeing him in person made everything so much harder. And if Daniel knew anything even close to the truth, all hell was about to break loose.