The Killing Season (21 page)

‘None for Amy?’

‘She’s in court.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Some guy flashing his chipolata at a woman on the 9:45 Sheringham to Norwich.’

‘Classy.’

Today Laura had dyed her hair purple, was wearing a leather jacket over a black Harley-Davidson motorbike T-shirt and a red skater-girl skirt over thick white tights.

‘You got any electricity in your house, or do you just prefer dressing in the dark?’ I asked her.

‘What are you on about?’

‘Just wondering why Amy never takes you to court with her.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

I took a sip of my coffee and shook my head solemnly. ‘Not in my nature.’

‘That’s all right, then. So where are we on the case?’ she asked, plonking herself into the chair opposite my desk and fishing out a croissant.

I filled her in on some of the latest developments. It actually helped to talk things through. Speaking aloud about something sometimes crystallises thoughts in your mind. They may have been floating around in your subconscious but sharing them with someone else can bring about a breakthrough.

It didn’t in this case.

‘So the dentist still hasn’t shown up?’

‘Not so far as I know.’

‘So we can only conclude he has been taken by the killer.’

‘That would seem to be logical.’

‘So he is either dead, or is about to become so unless the police find him quick.’

‘That would be a fair conclusion also,’ I agreed.

‘What’s our next move then?’

‘Our?’

‘Well, Amy’s not here. I thought we could go detecting and stuff.’

‘What would you recommend?’

‘I’d recommend we go back to All Saints Church in Beeston Regis, have a word with the verger and the groundsman and see if Princess Prissy has been poking her nose round there, too – and when.’

‘Princess Prissy?’

‘Susan Dean. The homecoming queen of the secret policeman’s ball.’

‘And what would that tell us?’

‘That she knows more than she is letting on. That maybe she agreed with you all along. Or . . .’ She shrugged.

‘Or?’

‘Something else.’

I had finished the croissant so I drained my coffee and stood up.

‘Get your coat, then.’

‘What coat?’

‘Is that all you’re wearing?’

‘Yeah. It’s not that cold. You is old is all, Stretch.’

She walked out the door and I followed, thinking it was about time I had a word with my personnel department.

THE WIND WASN’T
whistling any more – it was roaring now. Blasting in from the North Sea, stripping whatever leaves remained on the trees and scattering them through the air like large, autumnal confetti.

I had contemplated walking to the church but had taken the car instead and was pretty glad that I had.

I parked and turned the engine off. The vicar at Upper Sheringham had called the man responsible for doing the maintenance work and had arranged for him to meet us there.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive. A tall, thin youth of about twenty-three came up and rapped on the window.

‘All right, Laura?’ he said.

‘Eddie,’ she replied, not too enthusiastically.

‘You know him?’ I asked her.

‘Yeah, went out on a date with him once. It didn’t work out.’

‘Height issues?’

‘Brain issues.’

I opened the car door and stepped out, almost blown back a step by the wind. Open land ran from behind the church straight to the cliff’s edge, and it didn’t have to run far.

I held my hand out to the young guy and he shook it as though he didn’t have much practice in such a ritual.

‘Jack Delaney.’

‘Eddie Peters.’

‘So did the rev tell you why I wanted to speak to you?’

‘Yeah, he said you wanted to talk about them two gravestones. Wright and Holdsworth, innit?’

‘That’s right. I wanted to know if you had noticed anything.’

‘I noticed they were smashed up pretty good.’

‘I meant before that.’

‘Wasn’t much to notice before then, was there?’

I was beginning to understand what Laura had meant.

‘He means did you see anyone? You daft pillock,’ she said, stepping in. ‘Anybody suspicious, anybody looking around at the graves.’

‘We get a lot of tourists here. They often come and look at the graves,’ he replied. ‘Me, I’d rather go down the arcade and play the slotties.’

‘You had a lot of tourists recently?’

‘Nah, it’s well out of season, isn’t it?’

‘What about the superintendent, Susan Dean? You seen her up here, Eddie?’ asked Laura.

‘Only when she was here questioning us all. Bit like what you’re doing, I guess. I reckon it’s goths myself.’

I sighed.

‘What?’ Laura voiced her exasperation.

‘Well, they’re into all that, aren’t they? Graveyards and cemeteries. Vampires . . . all that shit.’

‘Well, you’ve been very helpful, Eddie,’ I said, lying as I fished my car keys out of my pocket.

‘Is that it, then?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘What other one?’

‘The graveyard – another headstone’s been chiselled out. I noticed it while I was waiting for you guys to get here.’

‘Show me where it is, Eddie. Now!’ I said, keeping a tight grip on my urge to plant a boot up his skinny arse.

He led us round the side of the church to another grave that had been dug near to the low stone wall.

It wasn’t a well-tended grave, but again the marble was expensive and the masonry work was of a typically Victorian opulence and flourish. The name and inscription had all been hacked out of the marble by some crude tool. Most likely a chisel. Some of the gouges were deep so considerable force had been used to deface the stonework.

‘Do you know whose stone this is, Eddie?’

The youth shrugged. ‘No, I don’t read them. Just push the mower round between them now and again. The vicar would know but he isn’t here.’

‘I know.’

‘Is the church open?’

‘It can be. I’ve got the keys.’

‘Come on, then, you muppet!’ said Laura, propelling him towards the church doors.

He finally managed to get the large oak doors open, I went through and up to the small office door but it too was locked. ‘Have you got the key?’ I asked and he shook his head.

‘Don’t worry, I brought my own.’ I raised my boot and kicked the door hard, twice. At the second kick the lock splintered, the door swung open and I went over to the filing cabinet, pulling out the plot-number schematic and the log of names. It took me a moment or two to locate the name of the vandalised grave’s occupant.

I felt the world tilt on its axis as I read what it was.

Jeremy Walker. Kate’s grandfather.

Kate was at home with the baby that morning. Siobhan was at school. I pulled out my mobile phone and pushed the speed-dial button.

‘Jack – how’s it going, me big leprechaun?’ she answered breezily.

‘I haven’t got time to explain now, but I want you to lock all the doors and don’t open them for anybody. Even if you know who they are. Just stay there until I can get there.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Just do it, Kate. I’ll be home with you as quick as I can.’

Laura and I ran back to the car. I switched the engine on and sped down the hill, leaving a shower of gravel spraying back towards the very puzzled groundsman who was watching us go.

As I came back into Sheringham the traffic lights were just turning red. I leaned hard on my horn, overtook three cars who had pulled up at the lights and headed towards the traffic that was about to be oncoming. I got a few angry honks in reply but hardly heard them.

‘Jesus Christ, Jack,’ said Laura. ‘Are you trying to get us killed?’

I ignored her and moments later I was pulling into Siobhan’s junior school. I flashed my badge and was led to her classroom. Her teacher was a bit disgruntled by my sudden appearance but I didn’t have enough time for niceties or explanations. Just said that it was an emergency and brought a far from unwilling Siobhan back to the car with me. Laura had climbed in the back to sit with her and I was back at our house minutes later.

Kate was waiting at the window. She went to open the door as Laura ushered Siobhan in.

‘Jack,’ Kate called to me as I walked back to the car.

‘Go in and pack some clothes, Kate, for you and Siobhan – just for a few days for now. Laura will help you.’

She was about to say something but I held up my hand.

‘Please, Kate. I’ll be there in a minute.’

She must have heard something in my voice because she nodded and went back inside the house.

I opened the boot of my Saab and pulled back the spare-wheel covering. In the recess underneath was an oiled-leather package. I unwrapped it and took out a gun and a shoulder holster. I took off my coat and put the shoulder rig on, then donned my coat again and went in to explain to Kate.

NIGHT-TIME IN SHERINGHAM.

It was bitterly cold. Yellow light pooling on the ground from sulphurous street lamps. Here and there kids and adults dressed in Halloween masks. Ghouls, monsters, witches, a woman in an Edvard Munch ‘scream’ mask.

The distant wails of police and ambulance sirens in cacophonous disharmony somewhere. Cars flashing past in both directions. I threw my cigarette out of the open car window a hundred yards shy of the petrol station. Moments later I pulled the car hard left and parked. Switching off the engine but keeping the radio on. Radio Norfolk was playing a sea shanty sung by a local group. ‘Captain Stratton’s Fancy.’
‘Oh, some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, and some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight.’

I stood for a while, breathing the cold, almost purifying air.

I holstered the petrol pump back in its cradle and turned round to see Superintendent Susan Dean standing there. She wore her trademark black wool suit. Her lipstick was the colour of fresh blood and her skin was the colour of the pale moonlight. Her eyes looked steadily at me, filled with contempt but also with purpose. A cold purpose. She held a shotgun in her hands and she raised it and pointed it at me. She was too far away for me to make a move towards her. I felt the beads of sweat trickle down from my forehead onto the bridge of my nose and into my eyes. I blinked to keep the moisture away.

I held a hand up in a calming gesture to stop her. But she shook her head, almost apologetically.

‘Whatever it is, Susan, we can work it out.’

‘It’s “superintendent” to you – I’ve told you that. And it’s too late for that, Delaney. Far too late.’

‘It’s never too late.’

‘We’re all born with a use-by date! You wouldn’t be told. You wouldn’t stop meddling.’

‘I was just doing my job.’

‘It wasn’t your job. You wanted the truth so I guess you’re going to find out.’

Before I could reply she had pulled the trigger. The noise was like a clap of thunder and I could feel the blood boiling in my ears now. The shotgun blast was like a burning iron fist in my gut. I cried out in pain and spun round and dropped to my knees. The shot had passed straight through me. Kate was standing there, holding her hands over her shattered stomach, with blood running through them like crimson rivulets. She had taken the full force of both barrels. She fell to her knees and smiled sadly at me. Her eyes were peaceful and she seemed in no pain, but large tears welled after a second.

‘It’s all right, Jack,’ she said. ‘Take care of Siobhan and baby Jade for me.’ And then her eyes closed.

I cried out and startled awake. My breath ragged. I was disorientated for a moment. I had no idea where I was.

‘Was it the dream again, Jack?’ Kate asked.

I took a sip from a glass of water that I had picked up from the bedside cabinet. ‘Yes, and no. It was different.’

‘In what way?’

I shook my head as if to clear the images that still lingered there. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re safe.’

After Kate had packed clothes for her and the children and supplies for the baby we had driven to the house of a friend of mine in Thornage, a small town just outside Holt. He was an ex-army man and ran a security firm based in Norwich. We had met over a contract we had worked on together.

I had explained everything to him and he had gladly taken us in, saying that Kate and the children were welcome to stay for as long as necessary. And, moreover, he would get enough personnel in to make sure that the house was guarded the whole time.

‘Tell me about your grandfather, Kate,’ I asked her.

‘I never really met him much. My dad didn’t get on with him. And when I went to live with my uncle in London he only visited a few times.’

‘Did your uncle get on with him?’

Kate laughed harshly. ‘Yeah – I think they were cut from the same cloth.’

‘Would he know anything about what happened, do you think? Would his father have told him anything he knew about David Webb’s murder and disappearance if he was involved?’

Kate looked across at me. ‘From what I can gather he would have bragged about it to him.’

‘He wouldn’t have been alive himself when it happened.’

‘No. But that wouldn’t make a difference. My uncle used to let certain people know just what sort of a man he was and I bet his father was no different.’

‘I’m going to see him.’

‘When?’

I looked across at the clock. It was four o’clock.

‘No time like the present. It’s a long drive – the sooner I get there the sooner I can be back.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll stay here with the girls and keep safe.’

‘He won’t tell you anything, Jack. You know that. Even if he does know something.’

‘It’s worth a try. I’m not seeing you hurt, Kate. I can promise you that.’

SOME HOURS LATER,
and the dawn had finally broken.

I had taken Kate’s car, partly because it had a full tank of petrol and partly because I didn’t want my old Saab breaking down on me. Much as I hated to admit it, maybe Kate had a point about the car.