Dead of Winter (50 page)

May blossom festooned the hedgerows above verges dotted with the nodding heads of pink milkmaid flowers. It had rained solidly for a week but that morning had broken bright, with a clear high sky washed to blue perfection. Nightingale was singing as she drove, a hymn from schooldays that captured the moment.

As she swung onto the long drive to Saxby Hall she reflected that she had become almost a regular visitor, Fenwick’s proxy while he struggled with his own recovery. The negative press coverage around the police investigation into Issie’s prolonged abduction hadn’t mentioned him at all. In fact, thanks to the
Enquirer
he had become something of a hero, credited with Mariner’s arrest and saving the girl’s life, but that meant nothing to him.

Her forehead creased briefly as she thought of her last conversation with him. He was still eaten with guilt for the delays in discovering Mariner’s hiding places. If they had found her sooner Issie would have never embarked on her disastrous escape. She had told him not to be stupid, that his guilt was irrational, but inside she understood only too well.

Shortly after Christmas Jenni had disappeared from the shelter and, despite every effort short of a nationwide manhunt, Nightingale had
been unable to find her. Without their main witness the case against her cousin had been reduced from attempted murder to assaulting a police officer. He might even escape without a custodial sentence. Nightingale told herself that Jenni had simply gone off somewhere she could be anonymous again, but even so she felt responsible and she could understand some of Andrew’s deep-seated guilt.

She parked the car in shade and walked up a shallow flight of steps, to be greeted by Jane Saxby even before she could knock.

‘Louise! It’s so good to see you again. Come on in. How’s Andrew?’

‘A little better, thank you, Jane. Still not back at work but his psychiatrist is pleased with his recent progress.’

‘Oh, good. Issie will be so relieved. She’s desperate to meet her hero.’

Nightingale grimaced.

‘She shouldn’t call him that. Part of his problem is he just cannot accept it. People’s praise makes him worse. He keeps thinking that if had found Issie at the pump station, or earlier at the farm, then—’

‘None of that was his fault, as the inquiry proved. He was exonerated and deserved his commendation.’

‘You know that; I know that; but Andrew …’ Nightingale glanced away. ‘He’s still struggling.’

‘Will the force accept him back?’

‘With open arms! The assistant chief constable is working hard to keep him but Surrey has also indicated he’d be welcome there. The question is, will Andrew want to return? I’ve tried to talk to him about it but he’s not in a fit state yet to make any decisions.’

‘Well, at least he’s starting to make progress at last. So is Issie, by the way. She’s astonishing the physiotherapists and her special needs nurse has a joke that Issie’s special and she’s not needed!’

Nightingale watched Jane Saxby laugh, marvelling at her remarkable resilience. Like mother, like daughter, though Jane would never take any credit for her amazing child.

‘Issie’s in the garden. I know it’s a bit chilly but she’s wrapped up warm and was so insistent, and tomorrow,’ a shadow crossed the sun of Jane’s happiness, ‘she’s back to hospital again but Issie will probably want to tell you about that herself. She’ll be pleased to
see you. You’re her only link to Andrew and she so looks forward to your visits.’

They walked across the tiled hall, past the stairs along a passage to french windows that looked over a flagged terrace towards a lawn that sloped down to a stream crossed by a Japanese-style bridge. Rhododendron and azalea flowers were bursting into life.

‘She’s on the other side next to the natural lawn. Issie’s always liked that view.’

Jane led Nightingale down flagged steps onto a gravel path that curved away from the sculpted splendour towards a bucolic view of olde England. Ahead was a bank of hawthorn and new willow. Issie sat with her back to them, easel in front of her.

‘You go on,’ Jane said softly. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’ She turned back to the house as Nightingale continued.

‘Hello, Louise!’ Issie called without turning around. ‘I recognise your footsteps.’

‘Hi Issie, how are you?’

‘Good today, thanks, which is why I’m out here. It’s the way the hawthorn bows down under the weight of flower and the curve of the willow there …’

Nightingale had reached the side of her wheelchair and Issie turned to smile a welcome, radiant. The paintbrush was strapped to her left palm, gripped between her thumb and remaining fingers. The lower right sleeve of her jacket ended abruptly in bandages.

‘What do you think? I’m having to learn a whole new technique but I’ve got a good teacher from St Anne’s. She says this,’ Issie nodded towards her right arm, ‘could unlock a whole new creative side of me. I think she says it to be kind but, you know, she might be right. I do see things differently now.’

Nightingale had decided, even before looking at the canvas, that she would lie if necessary; but she didn’t need to.

‘Issie, that’s amazing. So simple, just a few brushstrokes, but you’ve captured its essence.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And the colours; somehow you’ve stolen the soul of the trees.’

‘Oh good! It’s for Superintendent Fenwick. I was thinking of calling it
Spirit of Spring
. D’you think that’s naff?’

‘No; and Andrew will love it.’

A flicker of concern marred Issie’s serenity.

‘I thought he might be with you. Is he really OK?’

‘Getting better all the time and when I bring him news of the progress you’re making …’

Issie looked away.

‘Don’t tell him but tomorrow I have to go back. I was only allowed home because Bill has private nurses and a specially equipped room but I need another operation. No, that’s not right. I
want
another one. This lower stump is useless.’ She pointed to her right leg. ‘And it hurts all the time. If I can just have it raised, then I’ll be able to have a blade and I
want
a blade.’

Nightingale didn’t know what to say but Issie didn’t seem to notice.

‘Bill’s made a donation to a stable for the disabled over near Godalming. I think he’s funding the whole thing, actually. He says it’s because he was impressed by the Paralympics but I think otherwise.’

She gave Nightingale a knowing wink and turned back to the view as footsteps crunched down the path behind them.

‘You know, Louise, I sometimes think that what happened – all of it, the horror as well as … well, that it somehow saved me. I was off the rails and heading for the abyss. If it hadn’t happened I’d have ended up dead or dying of an overdose some day, locked in my own miserable, selfish world; doing nobody any good.

‘Now I have all this and so much to be grateful for. You must make the superintendent realise that, please?’

Nightingale bent down and kissed the top of Issie’s head, unable to speak for a moment; then she said, ‘I promise to do my best.’

‘Coffee!’ Jane Saxby called out cheerily. ‘And ginger biscuits.’

The village of Alfriston is one of the most charming in the South of England. None of the characters in this book are based on anyone living or dead from the village, or elsewhere. However, the friendliness and warmth of the fictitious villagers is a true reflection of the hospitality and welcome visitors receive.

Those who know the South Downs Way will know that I have taken the liberty of moving the location of the copse in which Issie is found. Her grandmother’s farm is not based on a real one so please don’t search for it.

I would like to thank all the people who helped in my research for this book; and my husband Mike, who was a source of constant encouragement and who read early drafts with his customary critical – and invaluable – eye. Special thanks also go to Sara Magness for her important contribution to editing the draft; and to Sonia Land, my agent, and Allison & Busby for their patience in waiting for this fifth book in the series. The next one will not be so long in coming!

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ELIZABETH CORLEY was born and brought up in West Sussex. The European CEO for a global investment company, she manages to balance her high-powered job with a crime-writing career – dealing with numbers by day and creative writing by night. A one-time committee member and vice-chairperson of the Crime Writers’ Association, Corley remains an active member of the organisation. She currently divides her time between the UK, Germany and France.

Requiem Mass

Fatal Legacy

Grave Doubts

Innocent Blood

Dead of Winter

REQUIEM MASS

Someone had wanted her to die and had brought her to a twisted, broken death. Now he would kill for her - once, twice, three times - as many times as proved necessary - to avenge her death and finally let her rest in peace.

Twenty years earlier a young woman falls tragically to her death. The only people with her are four schoolfriends. One – or maybe all of them – is responsible. And there’s someone intent on letting them have their just desserts.

DCI Andrew Fenwick is soon caught up in a desperate race against time to find the murderer before he completes his bloody vendetta. As the death toll mounts, Fenwick stares failure in the face - unless he can draw the predator out of the shadows and into an unconventional and highly dangerous trap with the ultimate bait.

FATAL LEGACY

There was a cloying chemical smell in the car, which he recognized by couldn’t name. The fear was back now, real, smothering fear that made him feel sick and caused his whole body to shake.

‘What’s going on? Tell me, please!’

The well-known face turned towards him and stared him straight in the eye.

‘It’s simple. You’re dying. Sleep tight.’

When the managing director of Wainwright Enterprises dies in suspicious circumstances, his shocking will throws his business and his family into turmoil. Then another member of the firm is brutally murdered and DCI Andrew Fenwick is called in to investigate. Uncovering layers of corruption at every turn, Fenwick realizes the Wainwright family has more than its fair share of skeletons in the closet.

An edge-of-your-seat thriller from the inimitable Elizabeth Corley.