White Lies (38 page)

“John’s old house.” Peter limped around to the passenger door on the Mercedes, supporting himself against the car and easing into the seat. “There’s evidence there that points to the murderer. I know who it is.”

“Who?” Richard slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “I thought it was suicide until Inspector White mentioned they’d reopened the case. I’d love to get my hands on the bastard who killed John.”

“I can’t say yet, but I swear there’s evidence in that loft. Evidence the police missed.”

Richard pulled out of the garage, the wheels crunching on the gravel drive. “How is that possible? The police never miss anything.”

“You’ve been watching too many crime dramas. They miss evidence all the time but don’t let on. I mean, think about it. If the police spent their resources searching crime scenes, they wouldn’t have enough to put coppers on the streets. They farm out all the lab work to whatever private contractors offer the lowest bid. Most crime scenes are examined by speccy little twats straight out of school or on leave from college. They miss evidence all the time.”

“So how do you know all this?” Richard turned right out of Cherry Tree Road. “Come to that, how do you know there’s evidence in the loft at his house?”

“I got talking to the paramedic in the ambulance. It turns out he was on call the night John was killed and went up to the loft to cut him down. He says there are letters scratched in the beams that you can only see when you’re level with the trapdoor. He hadn’t got time to look at them and assumed the police would but they haven’t.”

“So you reckon they might have been John pointing the finger?”

“I’m sure of it.” Peter gripped Richard’s arm. “I know we’ll find the answer in the loft, sir, I just know it. Then we can put this whole sorry episode behind us and get on with living again. There are too many skeletons haunting the family. We need to bury them all once and for all.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Richard glanced at his passenger. “What do you mean, ‘bury the skeletons’? What skeletons?”

“You know, sir. Your father’s murder. John’s. Kevin’s”

“Kevin’s? What do you know about Kevin’s murder? We should go to the police if you know anything about that.”

“And we will, sir, just as soon as I’ve confirmed my suspicions.”

Richard signaled left and pulled in to the side of the road. “What suspicions? Tell me, Peter, or I swear I’m going straight to the police.”

“Jimmy Fenstone, sir. He’s the killer. I mean, think about it. He gets out of prison to find his brother doing amazingly well. Good looks, good lifestyle, rich, happy, plenty of sex and with no other living relatives. Meanwhile he’s having it off, begging your pardon, with the rich son of a famous fetish photographer who’s just split up from his amazingly attractive wife.”

Richard nodded. It made sense. He’d seen the way Jimmy Fenstone looked at Catherine for himself. “Okay, go on.”

“So, having scouted out the situation with his brother he scarpers back to Hull...”

“Huddersfield, I think it was.”

“As you say, sir. So he goes back and sends you those letters about buying the rights to Sir Robert’s life work. He knows that with a divorce coming up you’ll be desperate for a few readies which will give him the chance to get close to you.”

Richard frowned. “But why? What does he want with me?”

“Curiosity, sir. He’s spent ten years in prison and comes out to find his brother’s gay and in love with you. As far as he’s concerned, you took his brother away from him so he wants to find out just what manner of man can do that.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“It does, sir. Now, and here’s where he’s really clever, he comes back to Laverstone, kills his brother and makes it all look like suicide, buggers off again while all the hullabaloo dies down then comes back and pretends to be all ‘oh, I’ve just got out of prison and my brother’s dead.’”

“But why would he go to the police about it?”

“He found out about his brother’s insurance policy. You can’t get a payout from suicide, can you? So now he has to get the police to reopen the case and say it was murder after all. For that he needs a scapegoat.”

“So why did he go to Meinwen Jones?”

“Because of her connections with the police and with you.” Peter lifted his leg into a more comfortable position. “Then he’s all ‘Please help me prove he was murdered, Meinwen. Then I can get the insurance money too.’ And while he’s at it who better for a scapegoat than you?”

“God. I think you may be onto something. We should tell Meinwen. She might be in danger too.”

“I doubt it, sir. Not unless he finds out we know the truth.”

“Good point.” Richard put the car back into drive and continued the journey. “But why kill Kevin?”

“Because Kevin claimed to be you, sir. The poor lad thought he was doing you a favor and went to the meeting. By the time he realized Kevin wasn’t you the lad could recognize him so he had to die.” Peter pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

Richard frowned and cracked open a window. He would normally have stopped Peter smoking but with his injured leg... “So he killed Kevin too. Where did he get the knife from? And the crossbow, come to that. They were stolen from the manor.”

“After you, Mary and I had gone for dinner, yes. He must have been watching you and saw an opportunity. He’s already setting you up for John’s murder. Better still to set you up for Kevin’s as well.”

“You’re right. I’ve been blind, haven’t I?”

“Not your fault, sir. We all missed it. I only suspected myself after I got shot by that crossbow bolt. Funny timing that, eh? He turns up at the house, finds you’re back with your beautiful wife and bang! There’s a trap designed to kill you right where you stand.”

“But who would have got the blame for that? If I was killed, it makes it obvious I wasn’t the killer.”

“But you had a row with Catherine, sir.” Peter finished the cigarette and tossed the butt out of the window. “She stormed off and you expected her to take the car and go back to her hotel. The trap was meant for her, he’ll say, but it backfired when you forgot about it. I bet he was asking you to go after her just before I got shot.”

“I don’t think...” Richard thought back to that afternoon. “Actually, Meinwen asked where Catherine was.”

“He’ll have put her up to asking.”

“You mean Meinwen’s in on this?”

“Maybe. They do seem quite close. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt for now.”

“Good. I’ve always trusted her.”

“Yes, sir. That’s the point, really.”

“Good God. I hope she’s not in on it.” He pulled into Ashgate Road. “How will we get into John’s? I don’t have a key.”

“There’s one in the shed, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s my job to know, sir. I’ve looked after you ever since your father died, haven’t I?”

Richard smiled. “You have. Where would I be without you?”

He waited by the back door while Peter fetched the key, then followed him inside. “What if Jimmy comes back?”

“Why would he? He has the luxury flat in Chervil. Why would he come here this late at night?”

“Well, he’s obviously doing the place up to sell.” He flicked on the light. “God. It looks so different without John here. Without his stuff. I wonder what he did with all the pictures.”

“Dumped them, I expect.” Peter went through into the hall. “We came to see the loft, remember?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Richard glanced around the kitchen. He felt unwelcome here, as if the house had moved on. “This is the first time I’ve been here since...you know.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“There’s a torch here. Shall I bring it? Is there electricity in the loft?”

“No. I doubt it, anyway. Not in an old house like this. Best bring the torch.” He headed upstairs, Richard following. “See if you can spot the ladders.”

“Ladders?”

“He must have used ladders to get to the loft hatch.” Peter reached the top of the stairs and switched on the landing light. “Oh, never mind. They’re here.” He carried them out of the bedroom and set them up under the loft hatch. He turned back to Richard. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Of course. We need proof for the police.”

“Right.” Help me up, would you? I don’t think my leg’s up to the task.”

“Yes, sorry.” Richard hurried forward and steadied the ladder while Peter hauled himself up and slid the hatch cover up and into the loft. Once Peter had a good hold of the edge he climbed the ladder himself to provide an extra foothold for Peter’s wounded leg. Peter ended up half through the trapdoor, his stomach on the dusty loft floor and his legs dangling down. With a twist he hauled himself further in. “Pass me the torch.”

Richard stood two rungs from the top and handed it up. “Here. Can you see anything?”

He could see the torch flashing about. Glimpses of Peter’s legs and feet and occasional snapshots of the mortar holding the tiles in place.

“Nothing.” Peter sounded disappointed. “There’s nothing here. No Wait! Look at this.”

Richard craned his neck. “What?”

“There are scratches in the floor, but I can’t make them out.”

“Try, Peter.”

“I am.” His face appeared at the trap. “I can’t. I think they’re in French or something.”

“French?” Richard frowned. “Get back a moment. Let me have a look.” He stood on the top step, put his hands on the edge of the gap and pulled himself up.

The sudden constriction around his neck took him by surprise. It was only his quick reflexes that saved him. Instead of dropping back to the relative safety of the ladder, he forced his arms to straighten and tipped his weight into the darkness off the loft space, rolling onto his side to bring his legs up before clawing at his neck. His movement had loosened it a bit but in the light from the torch he could see Peter reaching for a piece of plastic coated rope. “Peter. He’s here. Help me.”

Peter grabbed the rope and the constriction around his neck worsened. Realization dawned. “It’s not Jimmy at all.”

“No. Sorry.” Peter darted around to the opposite side of the hole, his leg no longer troubling him as it had a few moments ago. He vanished in the darkness. “Nothing personal. I loved you so fucking much and yet you’d go with anyone before me.” He yanked hard on the rope, pulling Richard half over the gap. “John bloody Fenstone. Catherine.”

Richard braced himself with one hand while he struggled against the loop of rope with the other. He only had a few seconds before one hand or the other gave way and he either strangled to death or fell though the hole and hung. In the dim light coming up from the landing he could see the square of wood that had sealed the loft opening. He let go of the line and grabbed the edge of the wood, twisting to add momentum to the blow. By lucky chance it hit Peter in his injured leg, causing him to yell and loosen his grip on the rope. Richard arched his back, grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled.

An uninjured man wouldn’t have stumbled, but the damage to Peter’s thigh had left him weak. His leg buckled and pitching him head first through the trapdoor and onto the ladder. He’d have survived if his necklace hadn’t caught on the safety catch, twisting his head before the chain broke and sending him head over heels down the stairwell. Richard heard the snap of a cracking bone, the clatter of a shoe hitting the hall floor below and then silence.

He pulled the rope from around his neck and looked cautiously over the edge of the loft hatch.

Peter’s body lay at the bottom of the stairs, his head twisted at an odd angle. One foot was bare. His necklace lay on the floor by the balustrade and the stepladder had fallen on its side, too far for Richard to reach from the loft.

Richard took several deep breaths and sat up, dangling his legs over the edge of the hatch. He pulled out his phone, looked up Meinwen in his list of contacts and dialed before he remembered she’d lost her mobile. He closed the connection and dialed the police instead.

Chapter 37

Meinwen banged on the door of her cottage to no avail. She’d left her keys behind, sure Dafydd would be at home on her return. But no. He’d gone out. Where, she didn’t know. There was no note, no apology, no “
just nipped to the shops, back in a minute
.” Of course, he may well have sent her a text or left her a message on the phone she didn’t have. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt for now.