Beneath the Bleeding

Tuesday

He’d been wrong, Carol thought as she made for the shower, mug of coffee in hand, cat muttering at her ankles. The answer had not been there when she woke up. Possibly because Tony hadn’t factored a bottle of pinot grigio into the equation. She’d gone back to the office after her hospital visit, for all the good it had done her. Nothing that was happening there was calculated to improve her mood. Kevin had drawn a blank with the Canadians. Sam had found nothing suspicious in Yousef Aziz’s emails. Paula hadn’t found anyone in Temple Fields who recognized Jack Anderson apart from a woman who’d been at school with him and hadn’t seen him since they’d gone out together for three weeks when they were sixteen. Chris had been getting nowhere with Tom Cross’s phone records. And Stacey had found nothing of interest on any of the several hard drives she’d been fiddling with. All told, her team had spent the day racing up dead-end streets. By the time she got home, she was ready for the cul-de-sac of another wine bottle.

She turned the shower on and finished the coffee while she waited for the hot water to come through. She hung her dressing gown on the door and stepped into the extra-wide cubicle the builders had squeezed into a forgotten corner of the cellar when they’d done the conversion. She loved this flat, in spite or because of the fact that it occupied Tony’s basement. But the time was drawing near when she’d have to accept that she really was back in Bradfield for good. To convince herself that her return from London wasn’t temporary, she reckoned she’d probably have to get a proper place of her own.

Not that she wanted to abandon her proximity to him. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Some way of bringing them closer? Except that occupying the same building hadn’t actually drawn them any closer, either emotionally or physically. Perhaps it was time to get some distance again, to see if that would force them to confront what lay between them.

Or maybe it was just too late.

The water cascaded over her, an external current that seemed to encourage an internal flow of thought. A poison garden would require space. Space and privacy. You didn’t want the neighbourhood kids smelling flowers or scrunching leaves or picking berries if you were cultivating poisonous plants.

It would take money too. She didn’t imagine these were generally to be found in the local garden centre. They’d have to come from specialist growers. They might even have to be imported, in which case there would be records. Somewhere, there would be Jack Anderson’s other alias.

And with that thought came the flash of memory. Pannal Castle. Where Tom Cross was supposed to be arranging the security for a fundraiser. The school knew nothing about it, according to Kevin, so the connection had to be via the killer. It was a risk, using the name of a venue if you didn’t know enough about it. And Tony had called him risk-averse, a careful plotter.

Barely taking time to rinse the shampoo from her hair, Carol hustled out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around her, she headed for the phone in the living room. Her control room gave her the number for the nearest police station to Pannal Castle, which came under the jurisdiction of the neighbouring force. Carol rang the number for Kirkby Pannal police office and waited impatiently for four rings. As soon as it was answered, she spoke. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan from Bradfield Police. To whom am I speaking…? Good morning, Constable Brearley. I need the private number for Pannal Castle…Yes, I know it’s ex-directory. That’s why I’m calling you…No, I’m calling from home…Yes, I’ll hold.’ Carol drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. The boy on the other end of the line didn’t seem to grasp that checking with BMP that there really was a DCI Jordan meant that he was actually speaking to DCI Jordan. Still, she wasn’t about to waste time putting him right.

A couple of minutes later, he came back on the line and dutifully gave her the number. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ending the call and immediately calling Pannal Castle.

‘Hello?’ The voice on the other end sounded posh and cross. Carol introduced herself and apologized for calling so early. ‘No matter,’ the voice said. ‘Always happy to help the police. This is Lord Pannal speaking.’

Carol took a deep breath. This may seem a slightly strange question, Lord Pannal. But do you happen to have a poison garden?’

By half past nine, Tony was a free man. The nurse who had spent most time taking care of him walked him down to his taxi. ‘Don’t do too much,’ she cautioned him. ‘I mean it. You’ll pay for it later if you do.’

His house had never felt more of a home than it did today. Nothing was convenient as it had been in the hospital. But it was his little world. His books. His furniture. His bed, his duvet, his pillows.

He hadn’t been sitting in his favourite armchair for five minutes when he had his brainwave. If Rachel Diamond hadn’t been watching TV and reading the papers, it was possible she hadn’t seen a picture of Yousef Aziz. She may have seen her husband in his company without even realizing it. He needed to make sure. He needed to see her reaction to a photo of her husband’s killer.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and called Carol’s number. She answered, sounding breathless. ‘Not now, Tony, she said. ‘I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll call you in an hour or two.’ And she was gone. An hour or two? In two hours, he would be out of energy. He would want to be upstairs, horizontal under the duvet, sleeping in the warm embrace of his own bed.

Well, she couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. He’d have preferred to have had someone with him, if only to make the drive more congenial. But Carol had made it plain she didn’t want him suborning her people. He’d just have to go it alone.

While he was waiting for the taxi, he called Stacey and had her email him the best head-shot they had of Aziz. Then he realized his printers were upstairs. So he had the taxi wait while he dragged himself upstairs, printed out the photo, and winced his way back down again. ‘You look knackered,’ the cabbie said, insisting on helping him aboard.

‘I feel it,’ Tony said. He put his head back on the seat and was out for the count by the time they reached the end of the street. He woke with a start when the cabbie shook his shoulder twenty minutes later.

‘We’re here, mate,’ he said.

‘Can you wait?’ Tony said. ‘I shouldn’t be long.’

He went through the rigmarole of getting out of the taxi, smoothing down the hair that the cabbie pointed out was sticking up, and walking up to the front door. The bell was answered by a woman in her early sixties. She looked like a Jewish version of Germaine Greer and actually had a pencil sticking out of her unruly steel grey hair. She peered at him over little oblong glasses. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking puzzled.

‘I was looking for Rachel,’ Tony said.

‘Rachel? I’m sorry, you’ve had a wasted journey. She’s gone into the office. I’m her mother, Esther Weissman. And you are?’

Before Tony could introduce himself, Lev appeared at his grandmother’s side. ‘I know you. You came yesterday with the policewoman.’ He looked up at his grandmother. ‘A man hit him with an axe.’

‘How very unfortunate,’ Mrs Weissman said. Lev slipped past her and craned his head to the side so he could see the photo Tony was holding against his crutch.

‘Why have you got a picture of Mummy’s friend?’ he asked.

Startled, Tony balanced himself on the arm supports and held the photo right way up. ‘his is Mummy’s friend?’

‘We met him in the park one time. He bought me an ice cream.’

Mrs Weissman was trying to see the photo. Realizing that he was holding the equivalent of a rucksack full of TATP, Tony moved so she couldn’t see it. ‘What have you got there?’ she demanded.

‘Just someone from the thing on Saturday,’ he said, trying to suggest this was something not to be discussed in front of a child. ‘A question of identity. I hoped Rachel might be able to help. I’m with the police. It’s all right, I’ll catch her at the office.’ He was trying to back away, keep the photo out of sight and not fall over Lev. It was a major achievement just staying upright.

For a terrible moment, he was afraid Mrs Weissman was going to grab the photo from his hands. But the manners of polite society prevailed and she managed to stop herself. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said, swinging himself round and making for the cab as fast as he could.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Mrs Weissman called after him.

Childish though it would have been, he wanted to shout, Nemesis. Instead, he settled for, ‘Hill. Dr Tony Hill.’ Rachel would doubtless figure it out soon enough. As the taxi pulled away, he called the MIT squad room. It was Paula who picked up. ‘I need your help,’ he said.

‘I can’t she said. ‘The chief gave me a bit of a lecture about how I don’t work for you.’

‘Paula, this is vital. I tried to call Carol, but she was too busy to speak to me. Look, I went out to Rachel Diamond’s house, to see if she might recognize a photo of Aziz. Given that she said she’s not been following the media, I thought it was possible she’d seen him without knowing it. Only, she wasn’t there.’

‘And?’ Paula sounded exasperated.

‘And Lev saw the picture and went, “Why have you got a picture of Mummy’s friend?”’

For a long moment, Paula said nothing. Then she breathed, ‘Oh my God.’

‘Yeah. They met in the park. Aziz bought the kid an ice cream, which will be why he remembers him so clearly.’

‘Oh my God. You need to talk to the chief.’

‘I told you. Whatever she’s doing, she’s too busy to take my call.’

‘She’s gone to Pannal Castle with Chris,’ Paula said absently. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Rachel’s supposed to be at her office. Call to make sure she’s there, and then stake the place out till I can talk to Carol. I’m sure her mother’s already on the phone to her, telling her about the strange man who came to the house with a photo. We don’t want her to take off.’

‘We’ve got no evidence,’ Paula said. ‘There’s no way you’re going to get the kid to testify against her.’

‘True. But I have one or two ideas about that. Please, Paula. I’ll take the flak. If there is any. But we need to not let her out of our sight.’

‘She knows me.’

‘What about Kevin?’

‘He’s not here. Personal time, he said. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’

‘We’ll just have to-’

‘I’ll take Sam with me,’ Paula said. ‘Talk to you later.’

Tony leaned back on the cushions. And for the second time that morning, everything drifted away.

Kevin stood at the window, admiring the view across the rooftops of Temple Fields. He wasn’t accustomed to this perspective on an area he knew so well. It looked remarkably innocent from this height, he thought. Impossible to see what misdemeanours the matchstick figures below were up to. He’d known the top ten floors of the Hart Tower were residential, but this was the first time he’d had the chance to experience the panorama. He turned back to his host. ‘You’re lucky, living with a view like this,’ he said.

Justin Adams pushed his dark-framed glasses up his nose and swept the fringe of his long dark hair across his forehead. ‘It’s not actually mine,’ he said. ‘It belongs to a photographer I do quite a bit of work with. He lets me use it when I’m working up here. My base is in London.’ He grinned, smile white against a couple of days’ stubble. ‘Nothing like as grand as this.’ He walked across the room towards the kitchen area. ‘I can, however, offer you something to drink. We’ve got beer, vodka, gin, wine…’ He raised his eyebrows in a query.

‘Thanks, but I’m due in at work later. I don’t want to walk in smelling of drink.’ Kevin settled himself in a squashy tweed armchair the colour of winter bracken.

‘Yeah, I suppose that doesn’t go down too well in your line of work. What about a soft drink? I’m having an orange juice.’ He took a carton out of the fridge and ripped the plastic seal free. ‘You fancy a glass?’

Sealed, and he’s drinking it too, Kevin thought, then mentally called himself a paranoid wuss. This interview had been arranged long before the poisoner had taken a victim. He’d seen Justin Adams’s byline in motoring magazines for years. ‘Yeah, go on,’ he said, watching as Adams poured two tall glasses, adding a couple of cubes of ice from a tray he took from the freezer. Both glasses were in clear sight the whole time, from pour to delivery. Kevin waited till Adams had taken a hearty swig, then he swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. It was delicious; sweet, tangy and bright.

Adams placed a small recording device on the coffee table that stretched between them. ‘You don’t mind if I record this, do you?’

Kevin waved an expansive hand in the direction of the machine. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. ‘It’ll be funny doing a recording that doesn’t begin with the date and time and a list of who’s in the room.’

Adams’s smile barely made it across his mouth. ‘Not the kind of recording I expect I’ll ever make,’ he said.

Kevin laughed. ‘Depends how fast you drive those cars you write about.’

Adams leaned forward and pressed a silver button. ‘Tell me about the first time you remember seeing a Ferrari.’