Dark Tides (15 page)

Earlier that morning I’d returned to the one place I never seemed quite able to leave behind. Much as I didn’t want to admit it, the Caine mansion was a part of me. It was a link to my childhood and it was the location for the incident that had set me along the path I’d followed as an adult. This was my point zero – the grid reference on the map where everything had changed for me. And if things went as badly as I feared they might, it was where my fledgling career as a detective would come to a swift and shameful conclusion.

The exterior of the property had been transformed since my last visit. Where once the sloping driveway was cracked and threaded with weeds, now it was a sleek black swirl of tarmac that wrapped around an oval of neatly manicured grass. The walls had been painted a cheery yellow, the portico columns and window surrounds a pristine white.

I rang the doorbell. It was the type you can’t hear from the outside. I resisted the urge to ring a second time, squared my shoulders and faced up to the massive black double doors. I waited. Waited some more. But no matter how much I tried to fight it, I couldn’t ignore how intimidated I was beginning to feel. The towering doors seemed to grow in size with every passing second while I seemed to shrink.

I was wearing a smart navy-blue trouser suit over a white cotton blouse. I had on my best shoes. They were feminine but businesslike and they’d cost far too much for me to feel comfortable about taking them out of their box more than a few times a year. Days when I wore this outfit around the station, I knew I looked good. Knew I looked sharp. And yet right now I felt cheap and inadequate. Felt, in some ways, as if I might as well have been standing in my childish bin-bag dress with the cardboard stars and moons pasted to it, holding my homemade wand, my sugar-paper hat cocked at a wayward angle.

I was just fidgeting with the strap of my handbag, just thinking of turning to leave, when one of the doors opened and a young handsome guy smiled out at me.

Morgan.

‘Claire.’ He swooped in and kissed me on the cheek. He smelled of citrus and sandalwood. ‘So good to see you.’

He moved back and gestured for me to enter and I stepped inside – into that dark wooden space, completely unchanged, with the red-and-black Persian rug and the sweeping staircase and dramatic gallery – then stood there, hands in front of my waist, tying my fingers in knots.

‘Sorry.’ Morgan gave me a wolfish grin. ‘Detective Cooper, I should say.’

‘Detective Constable.’

‘The police.’ He looked me up and down, as if I were an auction lot he’d once considered bidding for and now couldn’t quite understand what had first caught his eye. ‘Forgive me. I forget you didn’t know me as well as I used to hope you might. I had quite the crush on you when we were little. Perhaps you knew?’

It was strange, having Morgan flirt with me like this. As a teenager, I’d seen him out a few times lurking at the fringes of parties or gigs, or watching from the corner of the beer tent set up for the TT festival, and he was always alone, always isolated. I’d assumed he’d stayed that way since. To the extent I’d thought about it at all, I suppose I’d imagined that he’d always be the shy misfit with the sickly pallor and the bulging eyes. So his sudden transformation into the confident, charming man in front of me was unnerving, to say the least.

The Morgan standing before me now was well groomed and clean-shaven, with a head of fine brown hair that was gelled expertly to one side. He’d grown into his face and his eyes no longer bulged oddly but seemed to twinkle with intelligence and wit. He had on a pair of neat brown brogues, pleated chinos and a green V-neck sweater with a motif of a guy on a horse playing polo.

‘I suppose the truth is I used to let my mind get away from me. Father wouldn’t let us play together, but that didn’t stop me pretending that we did.’ He smiled, as if bemused by the memory of the awkward kid he’d once been. ‘Looking back on it now, I can see that I invented a version of you that probably isn’t anything like the reality. Foolish of me, don’t you think?’

I smiled awkwardly, wondering if he was thinking the same thing as me. Was he remembering how he’d delivered that card to my house, asking to be friends? Did my snub still smart?

Somehow I doubted it. We were children back then. Not even teenagers. And look at him now. Look at me. He had access to everything he could possibly want. Except, perhaps, perfect health. I knew that the polyglandular Addison’s disease he’d suffered from as a child was incurable. But perhaps he’d learned to manage the symptoms better. Maybe there were improved drugs that could help him with that now. Meds not unlike the ones that enabled me to keep my depression and anxiety in balance.

‘What is it you do these days, Morgan?’

‘Oh.’ He slipped his hands into the pockets of his chinos and rocked on his heels. ‘Pretty much what Father wanted me to. I manage the Caine millions. Investments, stock options. That kind of thing.’

‘Tough gig.’ I glanced up towards the galleried balcony. ‘I spoke with a Mrs Francis on the phone?’

‘Father’s assistant.’

And my mother’s latest replacement, as far as I could tell.

‘Is she here?’

‘Out running errands. But Father’s expecting you.’

‘Then would you take me to him?’

‘Take yourself.’ He waved his arm in an expansive gesture. ‘Turn right at the top of the stairs. Keep going as far as you can.’

I hesitated.

‘Please. You’re an old friend of the family. I think we can trust you not to pocket any silverware. And if you’ll excuse me, there’s a phone call I really have to make. More of Father’s money to move around.’

He reached for my arm and I felt a small charge as I watched him turn and walk away towards Edward’s study. Probably his study now, I thought. He closed the door without looking back and I was glad of it. I didn’t know if I could stand seeing inside that room again.

The entrance hall fell silent around me. The only noise was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. I turned on the spot, taking in the crossed muskets on the wall, the matted fur of the mounted stag’s head and the acres of dark wooden panelling. A theatre designer with a flair for Gothic horror couldn’t have dressed a set any better. The only thing missing was a series of spooky oil paintings of Caine family ancestors, the type with eyes that seemed to follow you around the room.

The space at the top of the staircase would have been the ideal location for a portrait of Edward’s dead wife. I’d seen a photograph of her once. It had been a black-and-white image in a large gilt frame on Edward’s desk. Her name had been Marisha – a name that had always sounded impossibly glamorous to me – and I could almost imagine how the painting would look. She’d be dressed in some kind of flowing white garment, her hair falling around her head in golden ringlets, her eyes downcast, almost coy. And in the play of light on her skin, there’d be just a hint of a spectral glow, as if in eerie anticipation of her messy but dramatic death.

A stupid thought. But then, I had a lot of those.

The grandfather clock ticked on. The pendulum kept swinging.

I looked down and saw to my surprise that I was standing in the middle of the Persian rug that Mum had always made me step around in case I trod dirt into the weave. I moved aside and began to climb the stairs. The carpet was worn underfoot, flattened down into a dense nap. None of the treads creaked or rocked. But they didn’t have to. I was feeling unsteady enough already.

I’d never been up here before. Just like the rug, it was an area that had been forbidden to me as a child, and the truth was I’d long been in awe of the balcony. And yes, part of that was because I’d known, perhaps even as early as my first visit, how Morgan’s mother had died. Part of it was because I was terrified of sneaking up here and getting caught disobeying Mr Caine. But it was also because I knew, even as a kid, that the balcony held a giddy allure for me that was hard to fathom or explain. It was something to do with its commanding height over the entrance hall below. Something to do with the elaborately carved banister and beautifully turned railings. A lot to do with the noirish glamour of the fateful accident that had claimed Marisha’s life.

I was sure she would have fallen gracefully. I was certain her nightgown would have billowed out from her pale limbs like angel’s wings. And part of me had always feared that if I sneaked up here myself, if I edged towards the point from which she’d fallen, I’d find myself inexplicably drawn, as if in some strange hypnotic trance, to clamber over the banister. I’d lean outwards and glance up to the heavens and I’d let go.

Like I said, stupid thoughts.

I reached the top of the stairs, sucked down a deep breath and moved close to the wall, tracing my fingers along the heavily varnished panelling. But of course I couldn’t resist taking a peek.

It seemed so much higher now I was up here, and I could see why Marisha’s fall had been deadly. I could understand why she hadn’t survived.

I backed away and moved into the corridor beyond, where the panelling was replaced by flocked wallpaper and a series of closed doors. The corridor was long, dingy and unlit.

At the far end, a door was partway open, surrounded by a glimmering border of light. My path towards it should have been simple but, just at that moment, I had the strangest sensation that I was trapped in a labyrinth, and that what appeared to be an exit might be anything but.

I knocked on the door. There was a muffled response from beyond that was hard to decipher. It could have been a welcome or a warning. I lingered for a moment, unsure of myself, then took a deep breath and ventured inside.

The daylight was startling, the temperature noticeably chill. There were three large sash windows in the facing wall and all of them were fully open. Fine net curtains danced and drifted on the breeze.

A hospital bed filled the centre of the room. It was pointed away from me, towards the middle window. The bed had been raised up at one end, exposing the metal framework beneath. An oxygen canister and a catheter bag were fitted to the frame. The bag was slowly filling with clouded urine. I could see a hand draped over the safety railings. The skin was grey-white and threaded with purple veins. The fingers were long and thin, the nails yellowed.

To the side of the bed was a wheelchair with a raised and sculpted headrest and a plastic joystick embedded in one of the arms.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was weak and straining. ‘Who’s there? Don’t lurk. Come in.’

I circled the bed and the wheelchair and tried my best not to flinch at what I saw.

‘Detective Constable Cooper, Mr Caine.’ I fumbled in my bag, removing my warrant card. ‘You were expecting me?’

‘I was. I have been for quite some time.’

It sounded like Edward needed to clear his throat but I wasn’t sure he had the energy for it. He didn’t look as if he had the energy for much of anything any more.

He was slumped low in the bed. The white cotton sheets were pulled up to his waist and had moulded themselves around his legs. He had on a blue cotton pyjama top that looked several sizes too big for him. It was unbuttoned towards the collar, revealing an unruly sprig of coiled grey chest hair.

But it was his face that shook me most of all.

‘You remember me. I can see that you do.’

I nodded. I’m sure that I did. But I’d lost myself for a moment.

In the light coming through the window, it looked as if I was staring at Edward’s skull. His skin had lost its elasticity and was draped so finely over the bone structure beneath that his nose, chin and cheeks seemed in danger of poking through to the surface. His eye sockets were deep, shadowed craters, his temples sunken and mauve.

But his swollen, amphibian eyes were as calculating as always. He blinked and the blue capillaries in his papery eyelids swelled as if they might burst.

‘And I remember you, Claire. How could I forget?’

His eyelids retracted and he fixed me with a piercing gaze. Rheumy liquid trickled from the corners of his eyes, wetting his chalky skin.

‘Do you find it cold in here, Claire? It is cold, I’m sure. I’d ask you to close the windows but I don’t believe we should give him the satisfaction.’

‘Him? Do you mean Morgan?’

‘Who else? There’s an irony in it for him, you see. A rather obvious one. For years I kept him confined here where he was safe. Kept him indoors when he would have preferred to be outside with other children. And now our roles are reversed. I’m dependent on him. He prefers me to remember that.’

I glanced quickly around the room. Perhaps it was true. I’d been so focused on the hospital bed, on Edward, that I hadn’t taken in his surroundings. Now I saw that the space we were in was decorated like a boy’s bedroom. The wallpaper featured illustrations of classic cars and trains and aeroplanes. A cork noticeboard was pinned with a jumble of certificates and postcards, and a faded map of the world was fixed to the ceiling with sticky tape. The far wall contained a set of open shelves jammed with books and toys: an American football helmet; plush animals; an old computer console tangled with wires.

‘I can close the windows. I could open them again before I go.’

‘Ah, an admirable solution. But I think not. Pull up a chair, if you will. I’d prefer you to be on my right-hand side.’

The urine bag was on his left so I had no problem complying. Besides, my legs were trembling and I needed badly to sit down.

I spied a leather club chair next to a low coffee table and slid it across.

‘Closer,’ Edward rasped. ‘Closer.’

I pushed the chair until one leg butted up against the bed frame, then folded myself into it, set my handbag down on the floor beside me and removed my notebook and pen. The bed was raised pretty high. When I glanced up, I found that Edward was looking down on me, his head turned sideways on his pillow. So much of the pigmentation had faded from his waxy skin and near-hairless scalp that he looked almost as if he’d been embalmed.

‘Tell me, how long have you been a detective, Claire?’

‘Just under a year. I was in uniform for three years before that.’

‘And you’re twenty-five now, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ I told him. But I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that he knew anything about me at all.

‘You still have that look, Claire.’

‘Look?’

‘As if you’d like very much to rake me with your nails.’

I swallowed and cracked the spine of my notebook with shaking hands. The pages fanned and flapped. ‘Did Mrs Francis tell you why I wanted to speak with you?’

‘She did.’

‘And are you prepared to answer my questions?’

‘I’m prepared to listen to your questions. Whether I choose to answer them will depend on what you ask.’

‘You do appreciate that my being here in no way implies that your case is being actively reopened. This is just an assessment exercise at the moment. We’re carrying out reappraisals on a number of past cases.’

It wasn’t a point I wanted to dwell on, but it was something I had to stress. Edward needed to believe that I was visiting him in an official capacity, but I didn’t want him to follow up on my visit with any of my colleagues.

‘I’d like to begin with some general questions, if I may?’

‘As you wish, Claire.’

I wasn’t comfortable hearing my name on his lips. I got the impression he was very aware of that.

‘So tell me, generally speaking, were you satisfied with the outcome of the investigation into the assault you suffered?’

‘The
aggravated
assault.’

I waited, pen poised.

‘I was not wholly dissatisfied with it.’

I made a note. It might as well have been in Chinese.

‘Mark Quiggin was convicted of the crime. He was sentenced to fourteen years in prison, is that correct?’

‘I’m sure you know that it is.’

‘Would you have preferred for him to receive a longer sentence?’

‘I would have preferred for him to be hanged.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I see.’

‘Do you really, Claire? I wonder if anyone truly can until they find themselves brutalised and beaten to within an inch of death inside their own home. Until they find the lower half of their body paralysed. Until they find themselves spending their retirement confined to a hospital bed, or a motorised wheelchair, entirely reliant on the whims and petty grievances of others.’

‘With all due respect, Mr Caine, I’m not sure that I can say in my report that you would have preferred for your attacker to receive capital punishment.’

‘Oh? Who will read your report?’

‘My team leader to begin with.’

‘And who is your team leader, Claire?’

‘DI Shimmin.’

And if Shimmin ever heard that I’d been here today, I was certain to face disciplinary charges. The archived records that I’d managed to sneak a look at concerning the investigation into the assault on Edward had stunned me with one piece of information above all others: Shimmin had been in charge of the case.

‘And after DI Shimmin?’

‘After him depends on what I report.’

Edward paused. He pursed his arid lips.

‘Then perhaps you should just note down that I felt the sentence should have been longer. Particularly as Mr Quiggin expressed no regret for his actions at my trial.’

‘Speaking of his actions, the case put to the jury was that Mr Quiggin was in your home to rob you, correct?’

‘He was a convicted burglar. Of course he was here to rob me.’

‘And the footprint?’ I turned a page of my pad and glanced down, as if I was consulting some notes that I’d made in advance of our interview. ‘The ashy footprint?’

‘A distraction, I imagine.’

‘It meant nothing to you?’

‘No, it meant nothing to me. Nothing whatsoever.’

‘The jury also found that Mr Quiggin threatened you with a shotgun that he was carrying at the time of the break-in. This was despite Mr Quiggin’s claims that the gun belonged to you.’

‘Thankfully the jury could see through his lies.’

Lies.
Edward’s skeletal face betrayed no emotion. Fact was, the shotgun had been unlicensed, which was why I guessed Edward hadn’t fessed up to owning it. Sadly for Mark, the jury had believed him.

‘But there was one element of your original claims that the jury were never asked to consider.’

‘They were not
claims
, Claire. They were the facts as I best remembered them.’

‘The facts being, as you best remembered them, that Quiggin had a number of accomplices with him when you disturbed him in your study.’

‘Quite.’

‘But you weren’t able to identify a single one of them?’

‘They were wearing masks, Claire. All six of them.’

‘Six?’

‘That’s right. Six, including Quiggin. I saw their eyes, of course. And their body shapes. It’s a hard thing for me to forget.’

My mouth had gone dry.

‘Not five? Not seven?’

‘I made my fortune with investments, Claire. I think you can assume I have a solid grasp of basic numbers.’

Actually, he’d made his fortune in the most convenient way imaginable – by inheriting it. And sure, he’d added to his family wealth, but he’d had a mighty generous seed fund to begin with. Not that I was about to correct him.

‘But these are recollections you had after you came around from your coma. After your head injury.’

‘You’re suggesting my memory was compromised in some way.’

‘I’m suggesting it could be possible. The investigating team found no evidence that anyone else was involved.’

‘So your DI Shimmin told me. Though he was a detective sergeant back then.’

‘And Quiggin always insisted that he acted alone. You appreciate, I assume, that he might have received a reduced sentence by co-operating and providing the name of anyone else who was with him that night?’

‘Yes, it’s curious that he didn’t do that, isn’t it, Claire? Perhaps he was afraid of them.’

‘You believe he was threatened?’

‘I’m speculating, Claire. At your prompting.’ He was wheezing now, his words coming with more difficulty. ‘Of course, the alternative is that he felt a strong sense of loyalty to the other five. Harder to believe, perhaps, but if so, I do hope they’ve earned his discretion.’

There was a tightening in my chest. I felt like I’d been holding my breath for longer than was healthy.

‘But in summary,’ I managed, ‘you remain absolutely convinced that there were five others?’

‘I do.’

‘Then can I ask why wasn’t this mentioned at the trial?’

‘You’d need to make an appointment with the prosecution services to ask them.’

‘But I’m interested in events from your perspective, Mr Caine. It would be helpful for me to know if the fact that these other alleged accomplices were never found or charged with any involvement in your attack is another reason for your dissatisfaction with the handling of your case.’

Edward considered me without answering, almost as if he hadn’t heard me at all. He studied me closely, searching me for something I was trying hard not to let go.

‘Oh, come, Claire. Must we continue with this pretence?’

‘Pretence, Mr Caine? I’m not sure I follow you.’

‘Don’t be disingenuous, Claire. Of course you follow me. You didn’t really come here today to ask me about my attack. There’s something else you’d much rather know.’

I held his gaze, clutching tight to my pen and pad. The net curtains swayed behind me, the wintry breeze cooling the back of my neck.

‘You want to ask me about your mother, Claire.’

I felt my lips part.

‘You’d like to ask me if I killed her.’

Something escaped my mouth. Some half-formed word that neither of us could decipher.

‘Ask me, Claire. Ask, and I’ll tell you.’

The room seemed to shrink around me until there was just Edward and his wasted body and his enormous, probing eyes. He looked hungry for my pain.

‘All right.’ I closed my pad and clasped my hands together on my lap. I concentrated very hard on keeping my voice steady. ‘Did you kill her?’

‘Good, Claire, that’s good. But no, I didn’t kill your mother. The last time I saw her she was with you, Claire. She was taking you home to bed.’

‘To come back here. To work for you.’

‘Yes.’ He moaned softly and his eyes rolled back in his head. ‘But she never made it, Claire. She didn’t return.’

‘I want to know what happened to her.’

He turned his head on his pillow once more. Turned it slowly and I leaned forwards, pushing my face so close to his that I could smell the sweet rot on his breath.

‘Do you, Claire?’

‘I need it.’

‘Very badly?’

‘Yes.’

He closed his eyes and sighed, and I sensed he was conceding something to himself – an inner battle he’d waged for too long – and when he spoke again it seemed to drain him in a physical way.

‘Then I think you should speak with your father, Claire. I think you should ask him the same question you came here to ask me.’