The Killing Club (19 page)

It was now or never, he guessed, the gate creaking audibly as he passed through it. The front door to the house opened at the top of a flight of steps. A youngish woman stood there, wearing a kilt and jumper.

‘PC Harding,’ she said, looking immovable in the doorway. ‘Family Liaison.’

Heck had expected that would be her role, and was pleased to see her even if she didn’t seem to reciprocate. PC Harding was short and stocky, with bobbed dark hair. She was pretty-faced but snub-nosed and wore a distinctly truculent expression.

‘Quite out of the question,’ she said when Heck identified himself and expressed a desire to come in and speak to Mrs Trevelyan.

‘She’s not in a fit state to be interviewed?’ he asked.

‘Hardly. She only received the news an hour and a half ago.’

‘Of course I’m fit!’ came a shrill, screechy voice.

An elderly but tall woman appeared in the doorway. She was skeletally thin but angular-framed under her baggy slacks and buttoned-up cardigan. Straggling hanks of unruly white hair hung to either side of her long, wizened face – apparently Mrs Trevelyan was nearly ninety.

‘Of course I’m fit,’ the old lady reiterated, glaring down at Heck through delicate, wire-framed spectacles. ‘What do you take me for … a weakling?’

Somewhat reluctantly, PC Harding stepped aside for her.

‘Mrs Trevelyan,’ Heck said, advancing up the steps. ‘Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.’ She acknowledged this with a curt nod, seemingly resigned to the terrible situation – which made him wonder if true realisation was yet to dawn. ‘Is it alright if I ask you a couple of questions?’

‘Of course … come in.’ Mrs Trevelyan turned and headed indoors.

‘Well done for getting here so quick,’ Heck said quietly, as he and Harding followed her.

‘Things are a bit more disorganised than we’d normally like,’ she replied, her tone curt. ‘Everyone’s a bit thrown by this.’

‘Anyone else in with her?’

‘She hasn’t got anyone else.’

‘What about the neighbours?’

‘She thinks they’re busybodies. Us too.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up.’

By the look on Harding’s face, she hadn’t intended it as a heads-up as much as a piece of well-needed advice. ‘Just go easy on her. She acts tough but she’s still in shock.’

‘She’s seen a doctor?’

‘Yes. He’s prescribed sedatives, but she won’t take them.’

‘She
will
.’

The interior of the house was richly furnished and yet shabby, the décor dated – all browns and mauves, the furniture dark, heavy and old, the carpets and curtains thick and moth-eaten. In every room, the scents of must and polish competed.

‘Be so good as to make the sergeant a cup of tea, would you?’ Mrs Trevelyan said to Harding once they’d arrived in the lounge. ‘You
do
drink tea, sergeant?’

‘Yeah, that’d be great, thanks. One sugar.’

Somewhat grudgingly, Harding left the room.

Mrs Trevelyan sat slowly and wearily on the sofa, which faced onto a large stone fireplace currently without flames. In one corner, a can of Pepsi and an evening paper perched on a small table next to an armchair, indicating this was Harding’s station. It had evidently been chosen because the house landline was there; it would enable her to intercept and ward off troublesome press enquiries.

Heck appraised Mrs Trevelyan again, now from closer up. If she’d been in bed on receiving the news about her son, she’d evidently got dressed again; further evidence she was a feisty character. But her cheeks were pale and wrinkled as old tissues. A scrunched handkerchief was clutched tightly in her left hand.

‘Mrs Trevelyan … how much do you actually know about what happened?’

She scrutinised him carefully. Her eyes were rheumy, moist. ‘You mean … am I aware my Anton died this evening as the result of a shooting incident?’

That was a fairly blunt statement for someone recently bereaved. Harding’s comment jumped into his mind.
She’s still in shock.

‘Is it okay if I sit?’

‘Not at all.’

Heck settled himself on an armchair to the right. Harding reappeared carrying a cup and saucer, which she placed with a clatter on the mantelpiece alongside him.

‘Please tell me, sergeant … how did it happen that my son was shot? I mean, was he shot by accident? Did he drive into the midst of some terrible event?’

‘I’m afraid we suspect your son may have been one of the objects of the attack,’ Heck said.

She nodded – again, strangely, as if this was something she’d expected. But she also swallowed, a tight lump passing down her raddled throat. ‘Was … was it a robbery then? Did they stop his car?’

‘The incident occurred at a house near Stanton St John.’

‘Stanton …?’ Mrs Trevelyan’s face creased with puzzlement. ‘And … did you say there was more than one target of this attack?’

‘We have several victims, I’m afraid.’

‘Good gracious … oh my. He wasn’t … at the house of Doctor Po by any chance?’

‘Why do you ask that, Mrs Trevelyan?’

‘Anton often dined there.’

‘Were the Po family friends of his?’

‘Doctor Po was an old friend of his. They first met when they were undergraduates, and have been very close ever since. Doctor Po’s dead too, isn’t he?’

‘I’m afraid we think he and Mrs Po were also victims,’ Heck said.

‘Oh … oh, my.’ Mrs Trevelyan’s breathing had shortened, but she was attempting – with some measure of success – to maintain her rock-steady façade.

Harding watched worriedly from the corner of the room.

‘Was someone else at the dinner party responsible?’ Mrs Trevelyan asked, dabbing her handkerchief at invisible tears.

‘We don’t think so.’

‘A stranger then? And yet you say this wasn’t a robbery?’

‘The truth is we don’t know very much. Mrs Trevelyan – and please understand I have to ask these questions – your son wasn’t in any kind of trouble?’

She gave him a freezing stare. ‘My son is an Oxford don, sergeant. A fellow of Jesus College.’

‘I understand that, ma’am, but even the best of us have things go wrong in our lives.’

Her bottom lip trembled. ‘This is a grave impertinence.’

‘And a necessary one, I’m afraid.’

She continued to glare at him, but dabbed her eyes again, which were now filming with real tears. Her head slowly drooped as the swift, icy rage thawed. ‘There is … something. No doubt you’re aware of it. Some fifteen years ago, there were accusations made against my son. Foul, disgusting accusations … which had no basis in reality. He was completely exonerated.’

Heck didn’t dispute this. It would serve no purpose to deny the old lady the solace of a faulty memory.

‘Is that the kind of trouble you’re referring to, sergeant? Did some despicable vigilante decide the law was an ass?’

‘Again, we don’t know. Has there been anything odd in recent times? Anything curious that might have caught your attention?’

‘Anton is a God-fearing man! An upstanding citizen!’

It wasn’t reassuring that she was still referring to her son in the present tense.

‘What I mean, Mrs Trevelyan is … was anything troubling Anton?’

‘Anton doesn’t get into trouble. He lives a simple life, and divides it entirely between his work at the university and his leisure time … of which there is precious little, but which he spends quietly and unassumingly. He’s always been a worrier, of course. Doctor Po says he worries about things far more than is good for him.’

‘What kind of things does he …
did
he worry about?’ Heck wondered.

She sniffled. ‘Everything. His own academic work – he’s given himself ulcers over that in the past. But also the badness in the world. The dreadful problems that afflict his fellow men. For instance … several nights ago, he was taken ill during dinner. I feared for his heart.’

‘Ill, Mrs Trevelyan?’

‘It was a temporary thing … it didn’t last. But …’ She swallowed again, fresh tears brimming from her glassy eyes. ‘But at the time he staggered away from the dinner table … and only just made it out to the rear lawn before he was violently sick. I asked if it might be something he’d eaten, but he told me to stop fussing, called me a silly old woman … which is not like him at all. It made me wonder if something was concerning him. I asked more questions, but he refused to speak.’

‘And what was the trigger to this episode, Mrs Trevelyan?’

‘The trigger?’ The old lady feigned ignorance of the term, but she now sat stiffly upright, facing him full on. She
wanted
to talk, perhaps because only this way could she face the reality of her son’s secret, sordid history.

‘What caused this?’ Heck asked again. ‘There presumably was something.’

‘It was an article on the evening news …’ Her bottom lip trembled again, violently. ‘Concerning that dreadful man who escaped from prison. The one they called Mad Mike.’

‘That was a disturbing incident, I’ll admit,’ Heck said.

‘Anton was very upset by it. We’d just sat down to eat, but it was the headline story. Almost immediately, I heard him gasping for breath. When I looked at him, he’d gone white. The vomiting followed shortly afterwards.’ She hung her head, like a child caught in mischief. ‘I’m afraid … that’s all I can tell you, sergeant. As I say … Anton does worry.’

‘I’m sure that’s as much as we need, Mrs Trevelyan,’ Harding said, approaching. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down? You don’t want to wear yourself out.’

Rather meekly, the lady of the house rose to her feet and allowed herself to be led, still sniffing into her handkerchief, to the door.

Heck remained seated. Trevelyan’s reaction to Silver’s escape wasn’t exactly a smoking gun – it might simply mean that he was an overly concerned citizen – but given what had happened to him, that didn’t seem very likely. Just supposing Trevelyan had formerly used the Nice Guys’ services. From his perspective, with Mike Silver’s escape, the whole ghastly affair had suddenly blown up all over again. For a guy who gave himself ulcers over academic issues, that would be more than enough to convince him that life as he’d known it was back on hold, that something terrible might yet happen.

Heck stood up and followed the two women out into the dim hall, where Harding was gently assisting the old lady upstairs. All strength and feistiness appeared to have drained from Mrs Trevelyan. Tears openly coursed down her cheeks, when she suddenly stopped, turned and stared back at him.

‘My son is not a bad man, sergeant … not at heart. He has his … his demons. His obsessions, you might say. But he always regrets them afterwards. So deeply.’

‘We all do things we regret, Mrs Trevelyan,’ Heck replied.

‘But we don’t all expect to suffer for them, sergeant. Not like my Anton. And suffer he does, wouldn’t you say? Or rather … suffer he
did
.’

She continued to ascend, leaning heavily on Harding’s arm, suddenly crooked, looking every inch the eighty-nine-year-old.

Heck exited by the front door, but as he started down the steps outside, he almost collided with two people coming up. It was Gemma Piper and Frank Tasker. They were talking quietly together, but stopped dead at the sight of him.

Gemma, who often professed that nothing Heck did would ever surprise her, could only gape with outraged disbelief.

‘What in Christ’s name are you doing here?’ Tasker stuttered.

‘Morning to you too, sir,’ Heck replied. ‘The Woodhatch Gate murders are a Nice Guys’ hit for sure. If you’ve been to the scene, you’ll have spotted the calling card.’ He had no option but to go in sure and confident. If he didn’t put them on the back foot straight away, they would launch him into the stratosphere. ‘You want my opinion, Anton Trevelyan was a former customer. It looks like Ronald Po was too. If the crew were after hitting two birds with one stone tonight, that might explain the excessive nature of the attack … but I think that’s mainly down to their new
blitzkrieg
policy.’

‘Who … told you all this?’ Gemma said, seemingly because she didn’t know what else to say.

‘Trevelyan’s mother. I don’t know how much she actually knows, but she’s clearly aware he was no Goodie Two Shoes.’

‘I asked you a question, sergeant,’ Tasker said flatly. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Happened to be in the area, sir. Thought I could help out.’

‘You smart-arsed little …’

‘Frank, why not let me deal with this?’ Gemma cut in, acutely aware of curtains twitching upstairs in the house. ‘Okay? Please …?’

Tasker, who’d looked set to erupt, straightened his crumpled tie and strode red-faced up the steps, shouldering his way roughly past Heck.

‘There’s something else,’ Heck told Gemma, but she put a finger to her lips and beckoned him down to the pavement, from where she headed to her Merc, parked a few yards away.

‘There’s been an unusually high number of other violent crimes in central Oxford this evening,’ Heck said quietly. ‘I’d suggest Thunderclap looks at those too … they might be diversionary tactics.’

She fished her keys from her raincoat pocket. ‘That’s all in hand. Thames Valley MIT are assisting.’

‘You know SECU are en route?’ he asked.

‘Not anymore,’ she replied. ‘Frank’s told them
we’re
taking this one.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

Heck was surprised – since when had SOCAR wielded that kind of power?

Meanwhile, Gemma had unlocked her Merc. ‘Get in,’ she said.

He pointed across the road to his Citroën. ‘I’m only parked over there.’

‘Get in!’
she hissed.

‘Ma’am,’ he protested, ‘this is relevant to the enquiry. Now we
know
what the Nice Guys are up to.’

‘
We
doesn’t exist, Heck!’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘So get in the damn car!’

Wearily, he climbed in. Once they were both installed, she hit the central locking – and sat there, staring through the windshield. After what seemed like several minutes, she closed her eyes resignedly and pinched at the bridge of her nose. ‘It may have escaped your attention, sergeant …’ Her tone was curiously calm; if anything she sounded tired. ‘But there are actually higher powers in this job than me.’