Murderous Secrets, page 14
At a safe distance, he’d watched the blaze for a few moments. From somewhere not far distant, he heard the sound of an engine revving up. It was too far off to be any of the vehicles on the farm. The road was quarter of a mile distant, but at night sound travelled — and he was trained to listen. It was in that moment that he knew for certain what he already suspected. The fire had been no accident.
He had walked around the outside of the barn and looked towards the farmhouse. A single light was showing in one of the bedroom windows. Blue’s. He thought he caught a glimpse of her standing there like a ghost in her white pyjamas. She had to be able to see the glow of the fire in the night sky above the barn. For the first time in years, he’d experienced a stab of doubt. Blue would raise the alarm. The police would come. He would be back on their radar, the focus of their attention. It was time to leave. But what about Blue and her family? He couldn’t just abandon them with a killer still at large.
And that was why he was still here. He had a mission now, just as he’d had one on the streets of London. To protect the innocent and the vulnerable.
The police had been swarming around Northfields and the surrounding fields and villages all day. At least they weren’t using dogs. He hoped that meant they were after him because he was missing and not because they thought he was Nick and Samantha’s killer. Still, he had to be on their list of suspects. He wasn’t about to walk into their arms and answer all their prying questions.
He waited until dark before doubling back to Northfields. The light was on in the kitchen, but he didn’t intend on going up to the house. Monty would be going out to the brewery sometime in the next hour to sterilise the equipment and measure out the malt. He did it most evenings. Soren took a monocular spyglass from his bag and observed the kitchen more closely. Monty, Aubrey and Bea were assembled for a family meal but there was no sign of Blue. Perhaps she was having an early night.
Soren felt a stab of guilt. What if Blue was absent because she was still upset about the fire? He was certain she cared for him, and his disappearance must be worrying for her. Surely the family had been reassured that he hadn’t died in that inferno? He tried to read the emotion in the faces of Bea, Aubrey and Monty, to observe their body language and guess at their mood, but the monocular wasn’t powerful enough to pick up the nuances.
He glanced up at Blue’s bedroom window. The curtains were open, the room in darkness. He hoped she wasn’t lying up there, awake and alone, worrying about him. Then again, the thought that she might be thinking of him at all gave him a warm glow.
The barn was still cordoned off with police tape but there was no longer a guard. He was about to slip under the cordon when he noticed a large padlock on the door. He slipped around the back of the barn, wincing when he caught sight of the burnt-out caravan. It was also surrounded by tape. Some would say he’d had a lucky escape, but he didn’t trust to luck. His training had saved him, even while asleep.
He made his way to the brewery. The door was unlocked. He was disappointed but unsurprised. His efforts to encourage the Stratford family to be more security conscious had fallen on deaf ears, even after two murders on their property.
He breathed in the familiar aromas of the brewing room, feeling a sudden sense of nostalgia. He stepped up to see over the side of the fermenting tank. Although it was dark, he could sense that the tank was full. He cupped his hands, scooped up the cool, delicious beer, and slaked his thirst.
Afterwards, he opened the rough wooden door to the adjoining room used for storing casks and as an office space. He sat down and waited.
Monty arrived at eight. He flicked the light switch and walked straight across to the office, flicking on the light in there, too. Soren looked at him and smiled. Monty’s reaction on catching sight of him raised Soren’s spirits for the first time since he’d escaped from the burning caravan.
“Soren! Mate! You’re okay!” He peered at him. “You are okay, aren’t you?” Monty placed his hands on his shoulders and searched his face with concern.
“I’m good,” Soren answered. “I’m sorry if anyone thought I’d come to harm.”
“They told us you weren’t in the caravan,” Monty said. “But we didn’t know if you were hurt — or why you’d disappeared.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
Monty lowered his voice. “You were right, though. The police were here asking questions about you.”
Soren hoped Monty didn’t feel the sudden tension in his shoulders. “What did they want to know?”
“They wanted to know if you’d ever shown me any ID.” Monty looked embarrassed. “They said you’re not who you claim to be. They said Soren Hunter doesn’t exist. What’s going on, mate?” He released Soren’s shoulders. “Look, I told the police I don’t care what your name is. You put yourself in danger to help me. That tells me everything I need to know about what sort of person you are. Nothing’s changed.”
“Thanks, Monty.” To his relief, Monty just nodded and didn’t press the issue. “So, have the police confirmed that the fire was started deliberately?”
“Yes. An old bath towel soaked in paraffin — set alight and lobbed through one of the windows. Dad or I should have upgraded the locks on those windows. A child could have opened the ones that were on there.”
“Don’t blame yourself. The arsonist would have smashed the window if it was the only way.”
“Do you think it was the same person who killed Nick and Samantha?”
“Probably.”
“Why would they want to kill you?”
“I’m working on that. Can I trust you not to tell the police where I am?”
Monty didn’t hesitate. “Course you can, mate. Can I tell Mum, Dad and Blue that you’re okay?” His face lit up. “Hey, Blue’s had a baby girl. Esmé. They’re still at the hospital but they’re both fine.”
“That’s great news! Congratulations, Uncle Monty!”
“Thanks. Look, where are you going to stay? I doubt the police will be back here looking for you. There’s a kind of general assumption that you’ve gone back to London. You could stay here. Blue’s going to be busy with the baby when she comes home, and nobody really comes to the brewery except me.”
Soren considered his options. Nothing like hiding in plain sight. “Okay,” he said, at last. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep quiet about it, though, even to the rest of the family — for now.”
“Sure. No problem. They’ll be worried about you, though. I’ll bring you some food. You must be starving.”
Soren helped Monty complete the evening tasks then Monty left the brewery. He’d promised to bring some food and a sleeping bag for Soren as soon as Aubrey and Bea had gone to bed.
Soren sat in the dark. He didn’t want to draw attention to the shed by putting the light on. His stomach rumbled. He hoped Monty would return soon. To distract himself from his hunger, he went over his first encounter with Nick Winter in London.
***
It had been close by the Brunswick Centre, near Russell Square Underground station. Nick had been huddled in a doorway looking like he was new to the streets.
It was around two in the morning. The only people still around were stragglers returning late from the West End or those for whom the street was their habitual accommodation for the night. As soon as he saw the three drunk lads turn into the street, Soren knew they were trouble.
At first, they only abused Nick verbally, but then one of them took it a step further by landing a kick. Nick was passive. He covered his head and seemed resigned to a beating. Perhaps it wasn’t his first. His strategy seemed simply to endure. Maybe he believed antagonising his attackers would only make the thrashing worse. Soren tensed as a second man kicked Nick in the groin. The third gave a laugh and began to unzip his fly, no doubt to piss on Nick.
“Hey! Shitface!” Soren’s voice startled the trio — ruined their fun. He took a step towards them, making sure the knife in his hand was visible. One of the men held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“No worries, mate. We were just having a bit of fun. No harm done.”
Another piped up. “Yeah, we were just on our way.” The third, Fly Man, pulled up his zip hastily and took a step backwards. They weren’t looking for a fight, Soren knew. They were cowards, bullies picking on the vulnerable. He saw them off with little more than his initial address and a step towards them. It was almost funny watching them turn tail and run off down the street like three frightened children.
“You alright?” Soren turned his attention to their victim.
“Yeah. Thanks, mate.”
“Haven’t seen you around these parts before.” He hunkered down beside Nick to check if he was injured.
“I tend to move around a bit,” Nick said.
“Well, shove up. I’ll share your doorway tonight, make sure you don’t get yourself into any more trouble.”
The following day, he’d introduced Nick to Pixie at the hostel. Unlike a lot of rough sleepers Soren had encountered, Nick was amenable to being offered help. There were some who preferred the streets for one reason or another — usually, in Soren’s experience, because of an underlying issue with their mental health. As usual, Pixie had offered Soren a bed for the night, too. And, as usual, he’d turned her down.
“Who are you really, Soren Hunter?” she’d asked him. “You don’t belong on the streets.” But she knew better than to press him. That was the good thing about Pixie. She knew that people weren’t always ready to tell their stories, and she didn’t pry.
Soren and Nick met up a number of times over the next few weeks until Nick’s sister, Jenny, turned up and persuaded him to go back to Nottingham. Before leaving, Nick gave Soren his contact details and asked him to get in touch if he was ever in his area. Soren had thought that unlikely. Then he’d met Monty and been offered work and a place to stay at Northfields. When he was settled there, he’d sent Nick a letter — Soren didn’t do mobile phones — to let him know he was no longer in London. After some consideration, he’d let Nick know where he was, never guessing that he would actually turn up.
Should he regret rescuing Nick from his assailants that night in Russell Square? Would Nick still be alive if he had never met him? Usually, Soren would dismiss such thoughts as unproductive, but he couldn’t help wondering if the killer had some connection to him — to his time in London — or to Nick or Monty.
He dug in his backpack and pulled out the tin containing the scrap of material he’d torn from the sleeve of Monty’s assailant in London. He rummaged around in the bag again with a growing sense of dismay and then anxiety.
He tipped the contents out across the desk and picked out a torch. He shone the beam over his small pile of possessions and saw at once that what he was searching for wasn’t there. It took a few moments for him to recognise the sensation of tightness in his chest as fear.
Chapter Sixteen
Ava woke to the sound of her mother singing in the shower. She had a good voice, but why did she have to use the shower just when Ava was ready to use it? Still . . . just another couple of days and her mother would be gone. Ava and Ollie could settle back into their usual routine. Rather than lie in bed waiting for her turn in the bathroom, she decided to go for a swim on her way to work. She could take a shower at the pool.
For years, Ava had been a bit of a fitness freak, but she’d lately begun to cut back on her unforgiving exercise regime. She still liked to run and swim but was less fanatical about the whole thing. She’d taken up yoga and dropped some of her gym sessions. And she’d never felt better.
After a brisk swim and a shower — even at the pool she’d had to wait as one of the showers was out of order — she arrived at work feeling energised. PJ greeted her with a smile, saying, “I’ve been to the gym this morning. Decided to get in shape and become more positive in my outlook.”
“That’s good news, Peej. I was starting to worry about you. It’s good to have the old cheerful PJ back.”
“I’d barely noticed she’d gone,” Tom said, gallantly.
“Where’s the boss?” Ava noticed that he wasn’t in his office.
“With the big boss,” Tom said, meaning George Lowe. “He wants the DI to do a press conference this morning. There’s been a lot of interest in the murders. It’s the Valentine’s Day Massacre and Beast of Northfields labels that are firing everyone’s imagination.”
It was the morning after the fire and Soren Hunter was still missing. Tom had coordinated a search for Hunter but it was as though he’d vanished into thin air. “Probably back to London, where he can just disappear,” Tom concluded. “Might be worth contacting that Pixie you spoke with at the hostel, Ava. She could give us a heads-up if he turns up on her patch.”
“I suspect her loyalty lies with Hunter, not us,” Ava said. But it was worth a try, even though she couldn’t see Hunter making the mistake of showing up in a place where he was known.
“How have you been getting on?” she asked PJ, who had been tasked with finding out more information on Toby Swallow and with trawling through the interviews conducted with the guests and charity committee members, as well as anyone else who had been at Northfields on the fatal night. Swallow, Ava already knew, had no record. Though he appeared to be squeaky clean, he remained a suspect.
Going through the data from the interviews was a dull but necessary task; it was often in the detail that the key to a big break in a case was found. PJ had approached the task without complaint.
The members of the committee had been questioned in some depth. Most of them had arrived at Northfields in the afternoon to make the final preparations for the dance. All of them lived in the village, a ten-minute walk or a couple of minutes’ drive from Northfields. They had all left the barn on one or more occasions to go across to the farmhouse to discuss arrangements with Bea Stratford, to fetch supplies from their cars or make phone calls if they couldn’t get a signal in the barn.
The buffet had been supplied by a catering company based in Stromford. A mobile bar had been hired to take care of the drinks. They’d had to cover everyone who’d been involved on the day.
“Well, no one seems to have noticed anyone else behaving suspiciously,” PJ said. “Hardly surprising, as everyone was there to have a good time, not to spy on the other guests.” Ava had spoken to PJ about her own impressions of the evening and hadn’t been surprised to learn that all PJ could remember was the enticing buffet, which hadn’t even paid lip service to the concept of wartime rationing, and the dancing. And that was before she’d had her fourth lime daiquiri. She certainly didn’t notice Ava slip outside. The first hint she’d had that something was wrong was when Ava took to the stage to make her announcement.
“I’ve spoken at last with Meredith Price, the committee member who left Northfields before the dance started,” PJ said. “She’s been away in Dorset staying with her sister. I’m not sure, but something Meredith said might be of interest to us.”
Ava and Tom eyed PJ keenly. She looked a bit worried. Maybe she thought she’d raised their expectations too much. Ava gave her an encouraging nod.
“Okay. So, Meredith had been at Northfields in the afternoon helping out with the preparations for the evening, but she couldn’t stay on for the dance. She was going off to Dorset the following day and her son was picking her up early to drive her down. She’d been so busy the last few days that she hadn’t had time to pack. Anyway, when she was making her way back towards the farmyard where she’d parked her car, she passed the outbuildings where Aubrey has his workshops.”
Ava raised an eyebrow. “What time was this?”
“Around 6:15. She saw a man approaching the larger of the workshops — the one Aubrey calls the garage, where Nick’s body was found. She said he’d come across the field from the direction of the yurts.”
“Did she give a description of him? Was it Nick?” PJ was going too slowly for Ava.
“It was dark at that time, remember, and he was a distance away, but she did make out what he was wearing because there was some light coming from the garage. She didn’t see his face, but she was pretty sure he was dressed in a pinstriped suit and a trilby hat.”
“He was dressed as a spiv, then?” Ava said. When PJ gave her a questioning look, she added, “You know, like Private Walker from Dad’s Army? Thin moustache, slicked-back hair . . .”
“Duck’s arse,” Tom said.
Ava and PJ stared.
“The slicked-back hairstyle favoured by spivs was called a duck’s arse.”
“Right,” said Ava. Tom was full of surprises. “That’s what Nick was wearing when we found him in the ambulance. So, if it was him that Meredith saw, that means he was still alive at 6:15. Meaning we could be right that he was going over to the farmhouse to get something, possibly for Samantha, and intended to return to the yurt.” She high-fived PJ. “Good work, Peej. That gives us a more accurate approximation of the time of Nick’s death.”
“It might also confirm our suspicion that Nick was killed first,” said PJ.
“Not meaning to throw a spanner in the works,” Tom said, “but Nick probably wasn’t the only one dressed as a spiv, was he? There must have been other men in zoot suits and Fedora hats. But a lot of people hire costumes to wear to these things. I suppose we could check with local costume hire shops. Find out who else hired outfits like that the same weekend, question them all.”
“We could do that,” Ava said. “But given that the man was making his way over from the direction of the yurts, we can, if only tentatively, assume it was Nick.”
