The Unquiet Dead (34 page)

‘It didn’t matter to him that the person responsible walked out of court a free man?’ asked Jessie incredulously.

‘What mattered was that Nancy was alive, Detective. Nothing more.’

‘Alive. But not the same.’

Mrs Scott-Somers stood in disgust. ‘I am not prepared to sit here and listen to these veiled accusations. You will be hearing from my lawyers.’

‘Nancy’s feet were bound,’ said Jessie, standing too. ‘Her hands were tied, pulled over her head
and attached by a rope to a beam. Her feet only just touched the floor of the well.’

Mrs Scott-Somers quivered with fury. ‘There is no need for this,’ she spat through clenched teeth.

Jessie remained very calm. ‘Not so easy to forget, is it?’

‘Of course we haven’t forgotten. How do you forget something like that?’

‘You don’t,’ said Jessie.

‘Well, of course you don’t. Come on, Charlotte, we’re going.’

‘The man in the baths was tied up in exactly the same way, Mrs Scott-Somers. Exactly the same way. On exactly the same date.’

‘I can see what you are trying to do.’ The widow visibly composed herself. The condescending tone returned to her voice, enabling her to remain far removed from any event that was not to her liking. ‘Nancy came home, our prayers were answered, and that was the end of it as far as we were concerned.’

‘Was it? Really? Perhaps Nancy wasn’t able to brush it under the carpet as easily as you and your late husband were.’

‘You are on very thin ice, Detective,’ she sneered. The lawyers hovered.

‘
I’m
on thin ice? You’re the one with all the lawyers.’

‘That’s
enough
, Driver,’ said Moore.

‘Why do you feel you need all this protection? I only want to talk to Nancy.’

‘Driver!’

‘It’s Nancy I am trying to protect,’ said Mrs Scott-Somers.

A mean little laugh escaped Charlotte’s lips.

‘My daughter has nothing to do with this. I don’t care if it is that man. As a matter of fact, I’ll be glad if it is.’

‘Mrs Scott-Somers –’ warned the lawyer.

The phone buzzed in Jessie’s pocket. She glanced at the display and saw all that she needed to know.

‘Well it
is
that man. The DNA confirms it. Now you are going to have to answer some questions.’

Jessie re-read Burrows’ message while the lawyers made frantic phone calls to other lawyers, inching their final bill ever skyward. It was a positive match. There was no longer any doubt: fourteen years ago someone had killed Malcolm Hoare on the anniversary of the kidnapping using a method that imitated the way Nancy had been held captive. At last her case wasn’t looking so tenuous.

Moore took the opportunity to have a quiet conversation with the Deputy Commissioner. Jessie watched him retrieve his cap and nod once, curtly, in her direction. She couldn’t read the nod. Friend or foe? Goodwill or trap?

Moore whispered in her ear: ‘Ask the questions, keep it to a minimum – just get enough to cross Nancy off the list.’

‘And what if I can’t cross her off the list?’

‘You don’t really think Nancy Scott-Somers went into a place like that and killed a man with her bare hands, do you? There’s a swimming pool in the basement of their house, Jessie. And it’s hardly likely she’d have taken a job at the baths! So, go gently. It’s your neck on the line.’

‘I think I got that.’

Jessie faced Mrs Scott-Somers on the sofa and asked the only question she’d ever wanted to ask her: ‘Where is Nancy?’

Jessie watched Mrs Scott-Somers struggle with the words. They stuck in her throat like burrs. Not to be extracted without causing pain.

Charlotte leaned over the back of the sofa. ‘Malcolm Hoare is haunting that pool, isn’t he?’

This was not the answer Jessie was looking for. She attempted to ignore Charlotte, as everyone else did.

‘We all saw the news,’ Charlotte continued. ‘Strange things have been happening, and you’ve been talking to an exorcist.’ It sounded so damaging coming from her. Moore coughed nervously.

‘I spoke to a retired vicar on matters that do not concern this case. Apropos of nothing, he thinks the term “exorcist” is objectionable,’ said Jessie firmly. ‘Now, if we could return to the question of Nancy’s whereabouts …?’

‘I’ve seen spiritualists, they all say I’m quite psychic. I hear ghosts sometimes, footsteps at night – clairaudience, it’s called.’

They also tell you you’re surrounded by a lot
of angry dead people, thought Jessie. Poor Charlotte. They would have seen her coming. The walking wounded, so easily swayed. Her imagination took over where their suggestions left off.

‘Charlotte, those people aren’t to be trusted –’

‘Enough of this nonsense!’ said Mrs Scott-Somers loudly. She continued in a quieter voice: ‘I don’t know where Nancy is. She left home some time ago. We miss her very much and we are looking forward to her return.’

Jessie watched Charlotte turn away and lean against the office wall.

‘When will that be, Mrs Scott-Somers?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When did she leave home?’

Charlotte was eyeing her mother. ‘When she was too fat to stay hidden in the house.’

‘How long ago? A few months, a few years? Fourteen years, by any chance?’

‘Mrs Scott-Somers is here because she wants to help. Any more threatening questions, and she will leave,’ said one of the lawyers.

‘It’s ironic, really,’ continued Charlotte, unabashed, ‘in that the Scott-Somers are renowned for their large houses.’

‘How long ago, Mrs Scott-Somers?’

‘Some people just can’t control what they eat.’

Jessie looked at Charlotte again. ‘You’re right. It is an addiction –’ she glanced down at the recently refilled tumbler – ‘like any other.’

‘I fail to see what Nancy’s eating habits have
got to do with anything,’ exclaimed Mrs Scott-Somers.

‘I’m sure it has a great deal to do with everything,’ said Jessie, deflected again.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning: children often eat to protect themselves. They see safety in size.’

‘Your point is?’

‘Nancy kept on eating. Why? Because she kept on being afraid. She couldn’t forget what happened, could she? And you, with the help of your daughter here, are procrastinating. So, for the last time: where is Nancy and when did she leave home?’

… Some time after turning sixteen, Nancy started walking out of the house during the day and not returning for hours. She wouldn’t tell anyone where she was going, and she wouldn’t tell anyone when she was home. The child psychiatrist believed these wanderings were a direct result of the claustrophobic surveillance Nancy had undergone since the kidnapping. They were told that locking her in at this stage might prove fatal. She had already shown suicidal tendencies, signs of depression and food addiction, had fitful sleep and problems with bed-wetting. It was a good indicator, therefore, that she felt confident enough to get out of the house and the family was advised to let her go. When she returned, the doctor told Mr and Mrs Scott-Somers to welcome her back with open arms; the phase would soon pass. It didn’t pass.
Gradually the hours turned into days. Sometimes weeks. Then months would go by before Nancy returned and eventually years …

‘The last time we saw her was on the eve of Charlotte’s eighteenth – 1985.’

Jessie was staggered. ‘You haven’t seen her for nineteen years?’

Mrs Scott-Somers shook her head. ‘I thought she would come back for my husband’s funeral, but …’ She cleared her throat.

‘Do you speak to her?’

‘No.’

‘And you haven’t seen her since –’

‘No. Are you enjoying rubbing my nose in it?’

‘Actually, that’s not strictly true …’

‘Charlotte, please –’

‘She rolled up one year, right in the middle of Christmas dinner. The size of a house and as bald as a baby. She knelt down at Daddy’s feet and cried. Fucking mad, right? But once again, we killed the fatted calf then heaved the gargantuan up the stairs. In the morning she was gone. I would have thought it was another dream, but the Christmas cake was missing, so I guess it wasn’t.’ Again Charlotte drained her glass. She had honed her act of arched indifference. It was close to flawless, but not perfect.’ Perfect indifference did not require alcohol as a prop.

‘When was that?’

‘The following Christmas,’ said Mrs Scott-Somers. ‘She only stayed for one night.’

DCI Moore stepped forward. ‘This is very serious, Mrs Scott-Somers. How do you know she is even alive?’

‘The money,’ replied Mrs Scott-Somers. ‘Every month it goes out of the account we set up for her.’

‘How much?’ asked Jessie.

‘That is none of your business.’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Jessie. ‘There are many unscrupulous groups of people who target the vulnerable, especially if they have a lot of money. Is it a lot of money?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘A year?’

‘A month.’

Jessie’s eyes widened. ‘And do you know for sure she collects it?’

Mrs Scott-Somers shook her head. She started to weep. Another lawyer stepped forward and offered her a handkerchief. Jessie wondered how much he’d get of Daddy’s money for that small gesture.

‘There are literally hundreds of organisations and religious cults in this country who fund themselves by obtaining money from people unable to defend themselves against brainwashing. Nancy was obviously at risk.’

Charlotte slid into one of the large leather chairs and was immediately dwarfed by it.

Mrs Scott-Somers, on the other hand, was at last rising to the bait. ‘Now what are you accusing
me of? That doctor said to keep the doors unlocked, he insisted we let her go,’ she said defensively. ‘That was the way to get her back.’

Perhaps Nancy was yet another Scott-Somers to make a pact with the devil, thought Jessie. Perhaps someone offered murder as a way to put an end to the nightmares, an end to all the things that had conspired to make a young woman dream of death. The sweet seduction of revenge. But it came at a price. And all the money in the world couldn’t cover the cost.

‘She might not be able to get back.’

Finally the veneer cracked. ‘You think this is my fault! I didn’t do this! That fucking man did this! It’s his fault! He ruined my life! I’m glad he’s dead. Do you hear me? The day Malcolm Hoare walked out of court was the day my husband died. It killed him. He ruined everything.’

‘Christ, Mother, don’t you get it? We were ruined long before.’ Charlotte was slurring her words, she had drunk too much to hear her mother correctly. Mrs Scott-Somers hadn’t said
their
lives, she’d said
my
life.
That fucking man ruined
my
life
. And not the day he took Nancy, but the day he walked free. Jessie studied the woman and wondered what it was that Malcolm Hoare had done to her?

Angry at her own outburst, the widow snatched up her handbag and stalked out of the office, her chin, once again, raised slightly higher than was comfortable. A lawyer pulled Charlotte Scott-Somers out of the chair; she had rubbed her eye
so viciously that her smudged make-up made her look bruised.

Jessie and Moore watched them go. Together they began clearing up the used glasses.

‘What do you want to do, Driver?’

Jessie suppressed a yawn. ‘Trace the money. It will lead to Nancy, or whoever is bribing her – or, worse, whoever is masquerading as her.’

‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

‘Somewhere, yes. But I get the feeling she’s not in a good way, not in a good way at all.’

‘And what do you make of the family?’ asked Moore.

Jessie knocked back a slug of whisky. Not in a good way at all. ‘Cursed,’ she replied.

It was one o’clock in the morning by the time Jessie got dropped off at home. A small group of people were milling around the entrance to her flat. Journalists. She’d forgotten that Amanda Hornby knew where she lived. She swore loudly.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked the young police driver.

She took out her keys. ‘It’s okay, I’ll run for it.’

‘For what it’s worth, DI Driver, you have our full support. All of us feel the same.’

It was worth a lot. More than she could say. She mouthed words of thanks and dived out of the car. A couple of the journalists turned at the sound of the closing door. By the time she was across the
road, they were all looking at her and the questions began:

‘Are the Scott-Somers going to sue?’

‘Is it true you’ve been suspended?’

‘Will P.J. stand by you?’

Jessie lowered her head and pushed her way through, her mind focused on one thing: the gate that took her on to private property. She reached out. Someone jostled her. An elbow. A microphone. The gate felt cold. Relieved, she pushed it. It didn’t move. The journalists crowded in behind her. She pushed again, beginning to panic slightly.

‘Is it Malcolm Hoare?’