Nemesis (30 page)

“What about his
hair
? Was it long, short
- ”

“I guess you’d call it long. We all had the same style, copied off the bands of the time - you know, Oasis, Supergrass
- ”
He broke off, frowning. “You’ve remembered something?”

“I saw Sarah with a man the night she died.”

“Christ, why didn’t you tell someone?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Was it Bryn?”

Natalie watched the leaves drop to the ground, completely still. “No, how could it be? She’d never met him, never met either of you
… ”

The doctor, the teacher, the librarian …

How could she have got it so wrong?

47

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Natalie.

A flicker of a smile.
“Please don’t tell me you see dead people,” said Geraint.

“For the past fifteen years I’ve had Sarah inside my head, stuck on repeat, walking down this path.”

“You think you’re the only person to be haunted by a memory? You think I don’t blame myself for running away - basically leaving Bryn to die - every single day?”

“I’m sorry, so sorry, but I thought Sarah was murdered by someone she knew - and maybe she was - but stupidly I made the assumption that I would know them too. What if I don’t?”

“You’re going to have to get over the idea that you can solve your sister’s murder by yourself,” he said. “You’re a writer, not a detective, all you can do is
give
the police what evidence you have and let them do their job. I suggest we drive to the police station, tell Bloom about the tunnel and let him sort it out. It’s his job, not ours. We were naïve to imagine otherwise.”

She could imagine how that conversation would go.

“OK,” she sighed. “But I have to tell Alicia about the tunnel first.”

“Are you
mad
? You don’t have to tell her anything!”

“She’s my friend!”

He bit off a curse, turned abruptly, took two paces towards the Lodge and then swung back. “Look, you already know how I feel about this
- ”

“I get it, I do really, but Alicia is the only friend I have. I know that sounds pathetic, but apart from Simon, Alicia was the only person who stuck by me after Sarah died. The only person who helped me when I was broke and alone and
- ”
pregnant
, she added silently inside her head.
Pregnant with James’s baby.
How Alicia had dealt with that bombshell, Natalie could not imagine.

“I owe Alicia a debt I can never repay,” she said firmly. “If Bryn’s death implicates her family in any way, she needs to know first.”

For a moment he merely stared at her. “Fine,” he said. “If that’s what you want. Let’s get it over with.”

She was surprised he’d acquiesced so easily. “You’re coming too?”

“Oh, yes,” he said grimly.

She hesitated. “You’re not going to say anything that might upset her?”

“I think you’ll find Mrs Fitzpatrick is a lot tougher than anyone gives her credit for.”

Natalie’s legs ached from the unfamiliar exertion but she led Geraint back up the drive towards the castle. Two days ago he had chased her though these woods, finally catching up with her outside the Lodge. He’d slammed his fist against the window of her car and called her ‘Sarah’. Now here they were again.
Fate, having the last laugh.

The path to St Daniel’s Church was about a hundred yards along on the left. There were several of these little paths leading a tortuous course through the woods. Perhaps they had once been ancient rights of way, which was why the locals felt they had a right to wander them at will. Although it soon became clear no one walked here anymore. The fern had grown to waist height and spirals of brambles, heavy with ripe blackberries, cascaded over the path. The oak trees had weaved together overhead, conspiring to block out all light; their fallen leaves creating a pungently rotting carpet beneath their feet.

A stray bramble latched itself onto Natalie’s jacket and, as she paused to carefully un-snag it, a bird shot from out of the undergrowth with a shrieking ‘caw caw caw’.

“These woods give me the creeps,” muttered Geraint. “And everything looks the same. Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

She pointed to the ground beneath her feet. Between the rotting leaves was a neat herringbone pattern of brick.

“Follow the red brick road,” she said.

He didn’t smile. “This will take us directly past the walled garden. Are you all right with that?”

“It’s the quickest way.”

Aware Geraint was regarding her strangely, she moved quickly on. Sure enough, the path straightened and divided into two, one path leading through a line of clipped yews towards a black, wrought-iron gate. The other path led closely alongside one wall and down the hill towards the church. Natalie took the left hand fork and walked right up to the gate, resting her forehead against the bars, feeling them wet and cold against her skin.

Geraint came to stand beside her. “What do you think?” he asked.

“About what?” she said, because she was seeing another garden, another time.

“Can you see what we’ve done to the garden? We based the renovations on the original plans - incredibly the estate office still had them. It will take a while for everything to grow in, but by this time next year it should look exactly as it did before
… ”
he stopped suddenly, glancing warily at her.

“Before I found my sister?”

He was swift to make an apology but she wasn’t listening.

It was incredible how exactly the garden had been recreated. The original specimen trees had re-emerged from the jungle of weeds, and the long terrace had been replanted with the neat lines of box. Thick clouds of Michaelmas daisies were already in bloom amongst the stalks of the new rose bushes planted for spring. The past fifteen years might never have happened.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“A beautiful secret garden.”

The perfect place to leave a body.
Hidden - in plain sight.

If she had not bunked off school that morning, would Sarah’s body have been found?

Geraint was convinced Sarah and Bryn had been killed as a result of a burglary gone wrong. If that was the case, why had the killer gone to the trouble of taking off Sarah’s clothes and dumping her in a pond? Except she had not been casually ‘dumped’, someone had gone to the trouble of arranging her against the water lilies - for personal gratification, or as a message? And if so, for whom had the message been intended?

Beside her, Geraint picked something up from the floor. Distracted, she half turned her head and caught a glimpse of something shiny slithering through his fingers.

“Great,” he muttered. “Some bastard’s hacked right through it.”

He was holding a heavy metal chain, with a padlock still hanging from it. The padlock was fastened but the chain had been cut clear through.

“Bolt cutters,” he said in disgust. “What sad bastard takes bolt cutters for a walk in the woods?” He leant past her, lifting the latch and pushing open the gate. It swung back noiselessly, leaving her standing in the centre of the path, with no barrier between her and the garden.

“Wait here,” he told her. “I need to check this out. It could be vandals but - well, you never know.”

What century was he living in? “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m coming too.”

“I’m serious.”

Me too, she thought, but said nothing, watching as he set off across the newly laid turf, which gleamed wetly in the dull sunshine. She allowed enough distance to grow between them, to ensure he thought he had his own way, before following the slightly muddy trail that marked the grass and led directly towards the terrace. Her shoes slipped but the hems of her jeans were already soaked up to the knees from her earlier trip through the orchard. She caught up with Geraint as he climbed the stone steps onto the terrace but for once he made no comment. His attention was directed towards the centre pond.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the steps two at a time.

Her voice seemed to wake him from his trance and quickly he turned, blocking her view.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, catching hold of her hand and attempting to lead her back down the steps.

She twisted out of his grasp and, although he grabbed at her again, it was too late.

The dark water was smooth and unrippled. The pink and white petals of the lilies appeared so perfect they could have been carved from wax. But something protruded through the round glossy leaves. Something shaped like a foot.

Instinctively, her fingers curled into his, her nails digging into his palm, as her gaze travelled the length of the pool.
Through the murky water she could discern a knee, a thigh -

“Come away,” Geraint was saying. “Please,
cariad
.”

Floating a few inches below the surface was a girl, her weight partially supported by the mass of flowers. Her skin was paler than the petals that surrounded her, her eyes wide open but clouded, her hair such a pale blonde it could have been spun silver.
A water nymph, her beauty flawless.

48

Summer Cameron lay amongst the pink and white water lilies, the paleness of her skin stark against the dark water, her eyes open wide in the glassy-eyed stare of death.

Once again, Natalie felt the sensation of the past trying to push through to the present.

“It’s the same,” she said.
“Exactly the same.”

Geraint, his face blanched white in shock, had turned away.

She pulled her hand from his, moving closer to the edge of the pond. “Even the clothes are laid out in the same way
... ”
She prodded the pile with her foot and the sunlight caught on the sequins of a pink t-shirt.

“Don’t,” said Geraint.

“You’re right. Nothing should be touched until the police arrive.”

“I meant
… ”
Geraint had a strange expression on his face. “It seems wrong to touch her belongings when she’s
… ”

He must think her very hard-hearted, but how could she explain? She had to keep it together for Sarah. She had to find the one thing that would link the two deaths, because that would lead her to the murderer and Sarah could finally rest in peace. But if she said all that out loud, it would only come out wrong. He would think that she didn’t care poor
Summer
was dead, provided her death helped find Sarah’s killer. And she wasn’t that person.

Was she?

Geraint stumbled down the steps and, leaning over the nearest flower bed, began retching.

Natalie took her phone from her bag, dialled Calahurst Police Station and asked for DCI Bloom. When told he wasn’t available, she explained what had happened and agreed to wait with the body until someone could be sent over. Even then, she sounded so calm the switchboard seemed to think it was a hoax and insisted on calling her back. It was only when the call was terminated, and she dropped the phone back into her bag, that she realised her legs were shaking so badly she could no longer stand up.

The nearest seat was in the summer house, which was little more than a roof supported by stone columns. Around the columns grew a tangled mass of old wisteria, which did not appear to have ever been cut back. It tumbled right across the flat roof, and provided a shaggy curtain where there were no walls. Natalie went inside and sat on the little wooden bench to await the police. The curtain of decaying leaves provided no shelter from the chill breeze and she couldn’t stop shivering.

Geraint was now sat on the paved edge of the terrace, his feet resting on the steps, his back turned resolutely away from the pond. He had lit up a cigarette and was smoking it determinedly, albeit with a trembling hand. He was staring out across the garden. The sun shone brightly, the leaves were already turning to gold - it was a beautiful autumn day.

The first police officer arrived almost immediately, walking nonchalantly through the gate and across the lawn to where Geraint was sitting. They spoke briefly. Geraint pointed to the pond behind him; the officer took one glance at it before using his radio to call for assistance, and then the garden was full of people - exactly the same as when Sarah had died.

DCI Bloom was the last to arrive. He walked around the pond, talked with the officers from Scenes of Crime, and then with Geraint. The sun, which had been directly overhead when they had arrived, was now dipping towards the woodland that surrounded the garden. A female officer approached Natalie for a statement. It was hard to know where to begin, so Natalie told her story from when she’d gone down the well, and the police woman wrote it all down and got her to sign it.

Summer’s body was taken from the pond and zipped into a body bag.

Unable to watch, Natalie turned her head aside and found the DCI had moved into the shelter of the summer house and was now standing beside her, watching her.

“Hello, Miss Grove,” he said. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble?”

Natalie thought it best to remain silent.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the bench. Carefully he arranged his coat over the damp wood before sitting down. “I understand what you hoped to achieve,” he said, “writing your book and promoting it on television, but right now you’re making my job extremely difficult.”

She would have protested but he didn’t pause long enough to allow her to speak.

“Fifteen years ago your sister was murdered and left in this very same pond,” he said. “Questions will be asked and fingers will be pointed. You
will
be blamed for this girl’s death, you do realise that? With your talk of diaries and suspects you’ve set something in motion. You say you wanted to stir up the past? Well, it appears you’ve got your wish.”

“I didn’t want
this
!” Natalie found she was clenching her fingers so tightly together they had turned white. “I needed to find out what happened to my sister. I never meant for anyone to die.”

He didn’t respond to that. For a few more minutes he didn’t say anything at all, merely watched as
Summer’s
body was carefully carried across the garden and out of sight.

She was so small, so slight - so
young
, thought Natalie miserably.

I was the one who started this. It should have been me.

“Although it could be the work of a copycat,” the DCI was now saying. “Fifteen years is a long time to wait between murders.”

That only made her feel
worse.

“I suppose I should congratulate you on finding the tunnel,” he added.

She was pathetically grateful for the change in subject. “You
knew
about the tunnel?”

“The crypt too.
They’re clearly marked on the estate plans. The County Archives even have photographs - a bit blurred, admittedly. They were taken in Victorian times, before the tunnel was sealed up. It was considered unsafe.”

Natalie remembered the paler stones on the wall in the cellar. “I thought those wine racks hadn’t been moved. No wonder they were so hard to shift. But if Bryn didn’t escape down the tunnel, how did he end up down the well?”

“The most obvious answer is usually the right one. Someone threw him down there. They wanted to dispose of his body and it was quicker than digging a grave. He died of a broken neck - but the poor devil was dead before he even hit the bottom.”

“He
was
murdered? It wasn’t an accidental fall?”

“He had other broken bones around the facial area.” When she continued to regard him blankly, he added, “Bryn Llewellyn was beaten up before he died.”

“Did he die the same day as Sarah?”

“Probably.”

“Why wasn’t she thrown down the well too?”

“What did Sarah have, that the killer thought Bryn didn’t?”

A family, Natalie realised. Apparently even a crap one like theirs counted for something.

“The killer knew Sarah would be missed,” she said. “By leaving Sarah where she could be found, he knew it would also implicate the missing man as the murderer. Because she was naked, everyone would assume the motive was sexual, even though there was no evidence of sexual assault.”

“There is one last thing I have to ask, before you can go,” he said. “Yesterday, when your father threatened you with a gun, you dropped your bag. Are you missing any of your belongings?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you mind checking?”

“Look, if you’re after the diary - it doesn’t exist. I told you that.”

“Humour me,” he said.

She plonked her bag onto her lap, unfastened it and began to take everything out and lay it on the bench beside her. She didn’t have much in there, only her phone, purse, a small make-up bag and her keys.

“It’s all here,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m not one of those women who carry their entire life around with them.”

He pointed to her keys. “Are those for your apartment?”

“Yes, two door keys, one key for the windows and another for my car. After the break-in I had to have new door keys fitted
- ”

“You have six keys on the fob,” he said.

She separated the two smaller keys from the others and held them up. “These two are the keys to the Lodge. The Yale key fits the front door; the smaller one fits the back door.” She flipped the smallest key with her finger, setting it in motion. “I keep them for sentimental reasons. I suppose I ought to give them back. I thought Clare would have changed the locks, but when I was there recently they still fitted.”

“May I take a look?”

She hesitated. “That was a trick question, wasn’t it?”

The DCI reached inside his coat and took out a plastic bag. Inside was a large padlock.

Her first thought was that it was the one Geraint had found - but that had been new and shiny; this one was rusted. She began to sense
a certain
inevitability.

“May I?” he asked blithely, and he held out his hand.

She let the keys fall into his open palm, and then watched as he picked out the smaller key; the one she had always assumed fitted the kitchen door of the Lodge. It slotted easily into the padlock and he twisted it with a flourish. There was a dull click and the padlock sprung open.

“I don’t believe it
… ”
she whispered.

He held the padlock and key out to her. “Would you like to try it yourself?”

She shook her head. “That’s the padlock from the well, isn’t it?”