Cause of Death (7 page)

‘And are you a threat to him?' Rina asked. ‘Stan, what do you plan to do?'

Stan shook his head. ‘Rina, I'm not sure I know yet. I got out planning revenge. I wanted . . . wanted Haines and his people taken down, not just for my own protection or those they'll hurt next, but just because . . . Karen has a more personal agenda, I suppose, she knows there are people out there who want her dead and gone and Haines could well be on that list if it suits his agenda or there is some profit in it. Her dad was one of his men; he may have had a low opinion of Parker, but his reputation relies on others knowing that a threat to his people is a threat to him. My guess is that Haines wants her dead and gone and I think she figures she should get in first. Me, I don't know. I could live with the threat, I could go away. I could do a lot of things—'

‘But Karen could go away. Keep out of reach,' Matthew argued. ‘She's good at that sort of thing. Why come back and stir things up?'

Stan shrugged. He'd given that same question a lot of thought and come up with no definitive answers. ‘I've not worked that out yet,' he admitted. ‘And she didn't say.'

‘And meanwhile you are trying to work out what your options are?' Rina nodded. ‘It's not in your nature to run, is it?'

‘I never have,' he agreed. ‘I think I'm too old to start now. But I didn't expect to have Karen in the mix.'

‘So perhaps you should stand back and let her get on with it,' Stephen offered. ‘That would seem to be a practical solution.'

Amused, Rina observed Stan's look of surprise. ‘Stan,' she said, ‘I'll show you your room and where everything is. Feel free to make yourself more tea and there's cake and biscuits in the tins over there. I think it's time we got some sleep and in the morning we'll all talk this through. I think Mac should be involved, don't you?'

Stan shook his head vehemently. ‘He's a police officer. You think he'll just stand back while I—'

‘He's a police officer and a friend and he needs to know, if he doesn't already, that a dangerous man is back on his patch,' Rina told him sternly. A dangerous young woman too, she added silently. ‘This Haines caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people last time he was here. I don't imagine he'll have quieted down. Mac needs to be kept informed.'

Stan nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose so.'

‘Right, so we all get some rest. The morning will bring some clarity. I'd best leave a note for Tim, let him know you've arrived. He'll be about another hour, I expect. If he could shoot the bolts on the front door, I think that might be wise. I'll leave him a note.'

She saw Matthew and Stephen exchange a glance. The bolts at Peverill Lodge had almost never been used. There was rarely any need for maximum security in Frantham.

Stan nodded and followed Rina up to what was to be his room, and the Montmorencys took themselves up to bed.

‘It's small,' Rina said. ‘I hope it will be alright for you. You can see the bay from the window.'

‘It's great,' Stan said. ‘I'm grateful, Rina.'

‘No need to be,' she said.

She left and Stan sat down on the single bed and dumped his bag at his feet. It was, as she had said, a small room, but it was bright and comfortable and he had slept in far less salubrious conditions; she had also told him that the little shower room on this upper floor was for his exclusive use. Stan got up and went over to the window through which she had told him there would be a view of the sea. Glimpsed at what distance and over how many rooftops? he wondered. Tugging the curtains aside, he looked out. It was late, but as so often happened on this southern coast, the night sky was deepest blue and the moon was just a few nights from full. Stan leaned against the window recess and stared out at the sight of ocean and sky, the view clear and unobstructed and dizzyingly close, some odd aberration of landscape lifting this end of Newell Street and Peverill Lodge higher above Frantham town than he would have guessed.

Stan sighed and closed his eyes, weary beyond measure and grateful of a place to hide, even while he knew that such security was just a pleasant illusion. Haines was out there somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before he turned his attention to killing Stan Holden.

S
tan was unable to sleep much after dawn. The curtains blocked out the light very efficiently, but a body clock that had been trained over years – Stan rarely bothered with an alarm – told him that the sun was up and it was time to get the day going.

It was a Wednesday. What time was it acceptable to be up and doing in Peverill Lodge? Stan wondered. He scrabbled on the bedside cabinet for his watch and discovered it was only half past five. Late for him, early for the rest of the world. He had slept solidly for almost six hours, he reckoned, and he felt better for it.

He lay still, listening to the sounds of the house. It was all very quiet. The usual creaks and groans of an old building warming up in the morning sun and not much else. It occurred to Stan that he had not even heard Tim come home at whatever time that might have been. That he had slept so deeply puzzled him and was oddly disturbing.

He padded to the little shower room and hoped he wouldn't disturb anyone as he showered and shaved and got himself sorted for the day. Rina had left a bathrobe hanging behind the door and some soaps and shampoos in the cabinet, and he was grateful for these little indicators of welcome. Feeling better now he was clean and rested, he padded down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen and made himself some tea.

Six fifteen the kitchen clock told him and still no sound of anyone rising. Now what? Stan thought. He prowled the friendly, tidy space, discovering a utility room through one green door, a pantry through another, playbills on the walls advertising the previous occupations of the house's tenants: the Montmorencys during their time as a comedy double act; the Peters sisters perched decoratively on a grand piano; Rina Martin in
The Importance of Being Earnest
and then in her famous role as Lydia Marchant, investigating on the television. A more recent poster for the Palisades hotel featured a picture of Tim Brandon looking dark and mysterious and glamorous against a backdrop of art deco splendour.

Tea in hand he wandered through to the hall, noting that Tim had obeyed Rina's note and bolted the front door. The room nearest the entrance was closed and Stan did not try the door. In contrast, the living room and dining rooms stood open and he wandered through both, admiring the patina of the much-loved old dining table with its oddly mismatched chairs. He tried to guess which belonged to which occupant. The two lighter, balloon backs he decided must belong to the Peters sisters. The upright and very formal Victorian jobs were Matthew's and Stephen's. Rina's carver had been set at the head of the table, and an elaborate dark oak number – with a cushion on the seat – he guessed was Tim's. He paused, noting abruptly that another chair had now been set opposite Tim Brandon's seat. The high, bobbin-turned back spoke of solidity, and the warm glow of the timber evinced a long life and much polishing. He knew at once that this was now his place at the table and it moved him tremendously that they had already both literally and figuratively made a space for him.

The sound of light footsteps on the stairs brought him back into the hall.

Rina smiled. ‘I thought you'd already be up.' She nodded at his mug. ‘Any more of that?'

Stan grinned. ‘I think there might be,' he said.

Karen stood in the shadows and watched as the residents of Hill House boarded the minibus and set off for school.

She was used to not being seen, and she knew the layout of the house and gardens well, had made a point of knowing ever since her little brother had come to live there after the death of their parents. Karen had always looked after George. Karen had always looked after their mother too, keeping them safe, keeping them moving. Hiding from the abusive husband and father who had died not so far from where she now stood.

Karen felt a pang of guilt that she was not
still
looking after George. Not directly, anyway. But that had largely been George's choice and she tried not to blame him for it.

He was one of the last to emerge, coming out through the big double doors and then dashing back in again to collect a forgotten something. The girl with him rolled her eyes and then stood and waited for him to return. Blonde, slender and, Karen had to admit, very pretty, Karen knew that Ursula was George's best friend at Hill House. And from the way he briefly took her hand when he returned, something more than that now?

Karen was so taken aback that she almost forgot to look properly at her brother. When she did, she was doubly shocked. He had grown! Long limbed and skinny, now tall enough to tower over Ursula, she could not believe how much he had changed in the months since she had last seen him. He had gone from being a child to a young man and she had missed it.

For a moment Karen felt utterly bereft. It was, she thought, almost like a parent missing that moment when their child takes its first steps. George had changed almost beyond recognition. He pushed back the red curls falling across his forehead and laughed at something Ursula said before clasping her hand once again and walking with her to the minibus.

Karen felt that her heart would break. Of course she wanted George to be happy, she wanted that more than anything, but, oh God, they had been so close for such a long time. All of George's childhood, Karen had been there – his support, his confidante, his parent when their own had proved so inadequate.

Karen smiled at the thought. Not done such a bad job there, she told herself, and allowed that small sense of satisfaction to grow and replace the momentary hurt. George was her success story and nothing was going to change that.

The minibus pulled away and she lost sight of it behind the tall trees that bordered the drive. Karen turned and, keeping close to the line of overgrown shrubs that edged the rather scrubby lawn, made her way back on to the cliff path and then back to her car.

‘It'll be OK,' George said. ‘I'll be there and so will Cheryl, and if it all gets too much you just walk away and we'll bring you back home.'

Ursula laughed. ‘God,' she said, ‘I never reckoned either of us would think of this place as home.'

George grinned. Neither had he. He could recall the time he had first come to live at Hill House. Dank, wintry days when he'd hated the place and the only bright thing anywhere had been Ursula's friendship. He'd been almost thirteen then; now they were both close to fifteen and just starting the first year of their GCSE studies.

He dug in his bag and consulted the still unfamiliar timetable. Three days in and Ursula had already committed hers to memory. He groaned as his worst suspicions were confirmed: ‘Double maths and then double history.'

Ursula laughed. ‘Could be worse.'

‘How?'

‘You could have that cow Tonks for maths. I mean, how did someone like that ever become a teacher? He hates kids, despises teenagers even more, and he stinks when he leans over you as you're trying to work. Bad breath and BO and cigarette smoke. Ugh.' She shuddered elaborately and George laughed. Miss Patel who taught his group for maths was actually OK, or seemed to be so far, and he was getting most of what she was trying to drill into them, which was a welcome change. They had moved about so much when he was a kid that George's education had been at best patchy, and often lessons from his big sister, Karen, substituted for school. Much to his surprise, though, he was being entered for eight GCSEs and everyone was tentatively confident he'd get A to C grades in probably six of those.

There was a momentary pause and George knew what was coming next.

‘Do I have to go on Saturday?'

‘No. You can tell Cheryl that you just don't want to. No one will make you.'

No one but Ursula herself.

She grimaced. ‘I can't do that though, can I? I mean, it's the first time he's been well enough to want to see me for ages. I can't just . . .'

George said nothing.

‘You'll come in with me,' she confirmed, and George squeezed her hand and told her that he would. There were times when he was profoundly relieved he had no father to make demands on him, and there was only a garden of remembrance to visit when he wanted to think about his mother. He felt a pang of guilt as he thought how infrequently that was. It was like it was another life and another George back then and he hated being dragged into the past.

‘I hate hospitals,' Ursula said. ‘And I hate that place even more.'

Again George knew better than to say anything. Sometimes conversations with Ursula were more about the silences than anything else. At least they were when she talked about family. And she only did that when family imposed themselves on her life; it was rarely voluntary.

George had been to psychiatric hospitals. He'd been to ordinary hospitals too, and to refuges and police stations and social service offices and emergency accommodation and cheap B&Bs. Such had made up the landscape of his childhood, so he could sympathize with Ursula's point of view. Her dad had been in a secure unit for most of the time he had known her, only being returned to open hospitals for brief interludes. He made it to a halfway house once, and there had even been tentative – and totally unrealistic – talk about Ursula moving back in with him one day.

Ursula and George had both known this would never happen, whatever their key worker, Cheryl, and other professional optimists might say. Ursula's dad had retreated from the world and George knew there was no kind of road map or mental satnav that was going to bring him back again.

And there was no way Ursula would ever countenance moving in with her mum, even if the authorities would allow it. Ursula's mum had left a long, long time ago. This year she had even forgotten to send a Christmas card.