A Deadly Thaw (13 page)

The chill of Providence Villa hit Kat as soon as she pushed open the door. ‘Lena?’ She’d shouted for her sister every time she entered the house since the day she went missing. Kat was still convinced that her sister’s absence was voluntary. Which meant that she could, if she wanted, return home.

But silence was all that met her.

Her first client wasn’t due at her rooms until two, which had given her the time to fit in a trip to the local shops to get some provisions. She took them through to the kitchen but couldn’t face putting them away immediately. Instead, she made herself a coffee and took it up to Lena’s room.

The bedroom was large, bare and neat. The wooden floorboards, snarled by age and with huge gaps from which balls of fluff constantly appeared, were covered with two blue striped rugs from IKEA. Kat had made a special trip to the store when she’d heard that Lena was coming out of prison. The gesture had gone unremarked. The white walls were unadorned with the exception of a small simple icon above the bed. None of Lena’s paintings were in the room. It hadn’t changed since she’d entered it that first morning of Lena’s disappearance.

Kat went over to the chest of drawers and opened it. The clothes inside, woollen jumpers and plain T-shirts, were neatly folded. Kat sniffed slightly. There was no smell of damp. She pulled open the wardrobe and again breathed in the air. A little fusty, possibly, but nothing to match the rancid smell of that blouse.

Where else could Lena have kept the thing? The cellars were dank and uninhabitable. She and Lena had made the decision earlier that year to close them off and leave them empty. They’d had a clear-out of what detritus was down there, and that had been that. No cloth would have survived those conditions. There was an attic, of sorts, above Kat’s bedroom. A largish room that opened out over the west gable. But it had been years since Kat had gone up there.

She heard a rap on the front door and groaned. Surely not the police. She couldn’t face them again so soon. She pulled the door shut and made her way down to the hall. When she opened the front door, she saw that it was Mark.

‘No news, I’m afraid. I just came around to see how you are.’

He looked like he hadn’t slept over the week-end. Dark shadows swept arcs under his eyes, and the scar on his cheek was an angry red.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course. Why do you ask?’ He sounded surprised.

‘You look, well, tired.’

She let him in but was at a loss what to say or where to take him. ‘Coffee?’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘When in doubt, offer me coffee. No, thanks. Anyway, I can tell you’ve just had one. I can smell it on your breath.’

She felt her cheeks burning and turned away in case he spotted her confusion.

‘I’ve got a bit of a mystery for you.’ She went to her handbag and showed him the blouse. ‘The boy who gave me the gun had another present for me. He left it on the park bench opposite here.’

Mark took it from her and frowned. ‘I don’t like the idea of him following you. How do you know he’s connected to Lena? He might be acting by himself.’ His nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘What’s the smell?’

‘I’ve got a horrible feeling that it comes from this house. I think the blouse might once have been mine. Or perhaps Lena’s. When we were teenagers we were forever borrowing each other’s clothes. Often without asking. It would cause no end of arguments.’

‘For God’s sake, Kat. Why would she leave a rancid blouse for you to try and guess its meaning?’

‘I don’t know, but I do know where to look. Are you scared of the dark?’

He looked at her with amusement. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘Why “of course”?’ she retorted.

‘I was in the army for eight years. Have you any idea what training we go through? It takes more than the dark to scare me.’

‘Come with me.’ She forced herself to resist the temptation to hold his hand. She led him upstairs, as far as her bedroom, but didn’t open the door. Instead, she pointed to the hatch in the ceiling of the landing. ‘That’s the attic. If this blouse has come from anywhere in this house, it’ll have been from up there.’

He looked at her in amusement. ‘Do you have a ladder? Or are you expecting to give me a leg-up?’

‘There’s a ladder attached to the hatch. It’s ancient and I’m not sure where to find the pole to push up the board to let it down.’

He pulled his arm away from her and looked around. Seeing the door of her bedroom, he pushed it open and came out with the wicker chair she used to throw her clothes over. He stood on the chair and pushed up the board. Then, to Kat’s astonishment, he grabbed hold of the two sides of the opening and swung himself up into the void.

‘Were you in the circus in a previous life?’ she shouted up into the now-empty space.

‘Army training,’ came a faint voice from above. ‘Is there a light up here?’

‘Yes, the switch is actually on the floor to the left of the opening. It’s not very bright but it will show you something.’

She saw the light come on.

‘Good, good. Have you any idea what’s up here? Hang on. I’m sending the steps down to you.’

A flash of steel and the ladder descended in front of her.

‘It’s coming down a lot easier than I expected.’ Mark peered at her. ‘I’m pretty sure someone’s been in this loft recently. You coming up?’

Kat stepped onto the metal gingerly, but the ladder held as she made her way up. The attic had been boarded years earlier, without any great skill, but enough to support the pile of unwanted things that their parents had hoisted up there.

Mark stood in the middle of heaps of cases, cardboard boxes and black bin bags. He had his hands on his hips and was staring around in mock despair. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’

Kat crouched down and started rifling through cardboard boxes. ‘I’m looking for photographs. Anything to give me a clue why that blouse is so familiar.’

‘Andrew Fisher was a big fat liar.’

Sadler, on his way through the office, stopped by Connie’s desk. ‘Why?’

She waved a sheaf of papers at him. ‘I’ve been looking at his CV. A lot of hype and one big, fat stinker of a lie. It says here that he has an MBA from Cranfield University. I’ve checked, and he has no such thing. He says he got it in 1996. I’ve gone ten years either way and there’s nothing doing. Liar.’ She slapped the papers down on the desk.

‘Do you think that’s significant?’

‘I’m not sure, but it tells us what kind of guy he was. You were at school with him. What was he like then?’

‘A rugby player. Liked drink. Girls.’

Connie’s look was sour. ‘Rugby players. You know he was the same build as our first victim. If they knew each other, do you think it might have been through rugby?’

‘Possibly. Do you have anything particular against rugby players? They’re not necessarily a bunch of louts, you know.’

‘I came up against a gang of them when I first joined the force. I was policing one of the matches. They said something about my “knockers”.’ Connie’s look had changed into a martyred air.

Sadler could hear Palmer laughing into his coffee.

Connie was looking down at her chest. ‘I don’t actually have that much to comment on. I was surprised.’

‘Fishing for compliments?’ asked Palmer.

Sadler backed away. It was probably best if he left them to it while they were in this mood. They certainly seemed on friendlier terms than they had been in the past few weeks.

Llewellyn’s secretary was typing rapidly and only looked up for a brief minute. ‘You can go straight in. He’s waiting for you.’

Llewellyn was reading a report. His glasses were on the tip of his nose, and he was squinting at the print, frowning in concentration. ‘Ah, Sadler. I’ve got the results from Ballistics. I’m reading the fine print and I’d like you to study it too because it makes interesting reading. Ballistics have proved that the 9mm bullets extracted from Andrew Fisher’s body were shot from the Luger that was sent to Kat Gray. Is
anyone
German in this case?’

‘Not that I’m aware, but I heard once that Lugers are a form of trophy gun. Lots of them were taken off captured and killed German soldiers. In both wars. And then brought back.’

Llewellyn grunted. ‘It says the same thing here. They’re pretty good guns. Got an excellent reputation.’ He put down the report. ‘My dad was a copper. Did you know?’ Sadler shook his head. ‘He never got beyond sergeant. Never wanted to. But he looked like a copper. All right, Sadler, I know I do too. He was a giant of a man. All the boys in the village were scared of him. When he was roused, he’d take the belt off his trousers, ready to strap them. Different times then.’ He glanced at Sadler. ‘Anyway. He was a man with plenty of stories. He used to keep all his family and friends entertained with them. You know what the countryside’s like. There were some strange tales, you know.’

Sadler did know. His own mother had been brought up in the adjacent village to Llewellyn’s. She too could tell some interesting tales.

‘Well, anyway. I remember him telling me about an incident in the village. It must have happened in the 1960s. A farm labourer holed himself up in one of the cottages with a rifle. Drunk, of course, and had his girlfriend and a baby inside as hostages.’

Sadler shifted in his chair. A story he hadn’t heard before.

‘So there was a bit of a stand-off, and the official police gun then was the Smith & Wesson, and only a few sergeants had been trained in their use. Which was a bit daft as it wasn’t that long after the war. All the coppers knew how to shoot. So, before going to the village, they all went to their homes and came back with the guns they kept in their houses: hunting rifles and an assortment of pistols. It was a sight to be seen apparently. There were Lugers too. My dad said it was a beautiful gun.’

‘What happened? I mean, to the hostages?’

Llewellyn shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. The reason I’m telling you this, Sadler, is that, believe me, there are a lot of old guns knocking around this place if you care to look for them. So you’ve got your work cut out for you. However, according to this report, this Luger was a First World War model. I won’t go into it now. You can read it yourself. Do you think that’s why Hale’s End was used for the killing?’

Sadler was flicking through the report. ‘I don’t know. The building was used by the Canadian regiments mainly. I can’t see any connection, apart from the war, obviously, but the fact that Kat Gray was sent the gun does have a positive side.’

Llewellyn nodded. ‘If the person who used the gun is the person who sent it to her, then that suggests that they have no further use for it.’

‘There won’t be any more deaths,’ said Sadler.

‘I should bloody well hope there won’t be. How many more bodies do we want in Bampton?’

Sadler raised his hands. ‘I’m saying it because it means that it’s Andrew Fisher who was meant to be killed. The killer got the right person.’

‘Got the right person the second time around, you mean. Have you made any more progress on the first victim?’

Sadler shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve got so little to go on and we’ve been distracted by the body at Fearnley Mill. Although maybe that’s the wrong word. She might not be a distraction at all.’

‘You think she’s connected to all this?’

Sadler thought of the woman he had seen in the river, her resemblance to Lena and Kat, and the manner of her death. ‘Yes. I do.’

It was Mark who found the photo. He had looked grimly through all the old family shots. His own fractured family life must have been a huge contrast to the shots of Kat and Lena and their parents. At the beach. Having picnics.

It didn’t last, she wanted to tell him. We were close, and then we weren’t.

He’d been focused in his search. Childhood photos had been quickly passed over in favour of teenage snaps, and these he’d studied with care. It was he who had discovered the one with the mustard blouse. Lena had been wearing it.

They’d taken the box of photos down to the kitchen table and were studying the snap.

‘Don’t you remember?’ he asked. Curious.

She didn’t. Some clothes she did remember. The paisley silk shirt with the long tails that she had worn over a black pencil skirt. Perhaps because it had lasted for years, surviving numerous washes. She could still feel the softness of the material against her skin. She’d finally chucked it when the background was more grey than white.

‘She looks a lot like you.’ Mark was studying the image. ‘Except her face is a slightly different shape. You’ve hardly changed at all, Kat. Is there a painting up there that’s ageing while you stay forever young?’

Kat smiled, pleased. He was leaning in close to her, and she could smell his skin.

‘Who’s this?’ Mark was pointing to a third girl in the photo.

Kat peered at the photo. The three of them were standing inside the hall of Providence Villa, arms wrapped around each other. The picture had probably been taken before they went out. They’d often done that. Spent hours putting on their make-up and teasing their permed hair into the gelled licks that had been fashionable then. They could have been in a pop band, they were so similarly dressed. Lena had a pair of black leggings under the hateful blouse while she was wearing a scarlet top over what looked like a long, stretchy dress. The third girl had on a white blouse and a short pleated skirt. ‘It’s a friend. There were a few of us that used to go out together.’

‘Are you still in touch with her?’

Kat shrugged. ‘When I went to university, I lost touch with a lot of friends. Most of them, in fact.’

‘Can you remember who this is? She’s in this picture of Lena wearing the blouse. It may be her sending you the messages.’

‘Of course I remember. Her name was Stephanie. Stephanie Alton. She was a friend of Lena’s. Not from school though. From her Saturday job in the florist’s. Steph worked in another shop nearby, and that’s where she and Lena met.’

‘What did you say her name was?’ Mark’s voice was harsh again, the same tone she’d heard in the counselling room when she showed him the gun.

‘Steph. Stephanie Alton. What’s the matter?’

‘There’s a rumour that someone of that name’s dead. It’s all about town. Didn’t you know that a body was found down by Fearnley Mill?

‘No! It’s Steph?’ Kat sat down gingerly on a chair. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t think it’s been officially confirmed but the lads in the pub last night mentioned a name. Steph Alton. I’m sure that it was.’

‘How did she die?’

‘I don’t know. Have the police contacted you?’

Kat shook her head. ‘Thank God it’s not Lena.’

‘I suppose it’s a good thing they haven’t been to see you.’ Mark was scrutinising the photo. ‘They’re not connecting the case with you. Yet.’

‘You think someone might have killed her?’

‘I don’t know, but I don’t like the fact she’s dead just after Lena disappeared. This doesn’t look good. You need to pack a bag. This boy knows where you live. I don’t want you here by yourself. I’m worried about you.’

‘But what about Charlie?’

‘Charlie?’

‘The cat.’

The look on Mark’s face was resigned. ‘Then Charlie had better come too, hadn’t he?’