Beneath the Bleeding

Three months later

A bright Sunday afternoon, a classic Northern England landscape of high moors and long valleys. A scarlet Ferrari convertible, top down, drifted along a single-track road that wound uphill to a high plateau. ‘Where are we going?’ Tony asked Carol. ‘And why are we going there in Kevin’s car?’

‘It really doesn’t matter how many times you ask, I’m not going to tell you till we get there.’

‘I hate surprises,’ he grumbled.

‘You’ll appreciate it,’ Carol said. ‘So stop whining.’

A couple of miles on, the road flattened out. On the moor, shooting blinds stuck out of the bracken and cotton grass like gun turrets on a ship. A track cut off to the right and Carol pulled up. She reached into the back seat and grabbed a backpack. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This is it.’

Tony looked around at the blank landscape. ‘This is what?’

‘Follow me.’ She set off down the track, then turned round to wait for him. The limp was still noticeable. She wondered if it would ever disappear completely. They were talking about replacing the joint, she knew. But he wasn’t keen on the idea of more surgery. Not even at the hands of the redoubtable Mrs Chakrabarti.

‘I still can’t walk far, you know,’ he said, catching up with her.

‘We’re not going far.’ About half a mile down the track, the hill dropped away abruptly, providing a spectacular view of the valley below and, at its head, a fine castle. ‘This’ll do nicely,’ Carol said. She opened the backpack and took out a lightweight groundsheet. They sat down next to each other and she produced two pairs of binoculars, a half bottle of champagne and two glasses. She glanced at her watch. ‘Perfect timing.’

‘Are you going to tell me what is going on?’

‘Use your eyes.’ She handed him a pair of binoculars. ‘Look up the valley, towards the castle.’ As she spoke, a wisp of smoke twisted into the sky. Then there was a sudden whoosh of flame and a swathe of greenery turned scarlet and yellow and black with fire and smoke.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Tony asked, gazing at the spectacle through his binoculars.

‘Lord Pannal’s poison garden,’ Carol said. ‘He’s been wanting to do it since the day we arrested Jack Anderson. But we needed to be sure the prosecution and the defence had done all the research they needed. They both signed off on it on Friday, so His Lordship’s finally got his way.’

‘I see now why you borrowed the Ferrari.’ Tony lowered the glasses. ‘Is Anderson still pleading guilty?’

Carol nodded, twisting the champagne cork with her thumbs. With a soft pop, it flew out and she poured it. ‘His brief has tried everything to get him to change his mind, but he’s smart enough to understand that, if he sticks with guilty, almost nothing will come out in court about the reasons why he went off the rails the way he did. And of course, since the toxicology guys found the pessary in his pocket was loaded with strychnine, it would be hard to argue that he was just an innocent bystander.’

‘No kidding. Did you ever find out how he administered the roofies?’

‘Ice cubes. One side of the tray was laced with rohypnol. The other side was clear.’ She gave a little snort of laughter. ‘The side with the drugs had a big “R” written on it in magic marker, to keep him straight.’

Tony sipped his drink. ‘I wondered at the time if he was going to cheat us.’

‘Cheat us? How?’

The cyanide capsule in the shirt button. Or whatever. I wouldn’t have been surprised.’

He stared out over the valley. ‘Anything new on Rachel Diamond?’

‘She’s still protesting her innocence. But we have witnesses to the fact that the Diamonds’ marriage was shaky. And the stuff Stacey managed to get off her office computer coupled with the handover in the gallery café is going to nail her. You did a brilliant job, figuring that out.’

He shook his head. ‘It was a very strange time for me. The pain, the drugs, the weirdness of the cases. And my mother.’ And the fact that we hardly stopped fighting from start to finish.

‘Has she been in touch?’

‘No. She probably won’t be, until the next time she wants something from me.’

Carol leaned into him. ‘Are you still thinking about trying to find out more about your father?’

He sighed. Sometimes he wished she wouldn’t pick at his scabs. He knew she did it out of concern and affection, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. When his father had been unknown, he’d been able, like Jack Anderson, to inhabit his dreams. Now there was a flesh-and-blood reality to investigate, he wasn’t sure he wanted that part of his inheritance. ‘I never thanked you properly for sorting Vanessa out,’ he said.

‘It’s all right. I know it’s complicated for you.’

He looked down at her, hair gleaming in the sun, long legs stretched out in front of her. Anyone observing them would presume them to be a longstanding couple, out for a Sunday-afternoon walk, comfortable with each other. The truth, like most things in his life, was far more intricate and less attractive. He gave a wry smile. ‘It’s just that sometimes I wish you’d never stopped me signing,’ he said.

She pulled away and looked at him, shocked and hurt. ‘You wish I’d just stood by and let your mother rip you off?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ he said, struggling to find the words. ‘We spend so much of our lives, you and me, figuring out the answers to mysteries. We’ve got so into the habit of it that we can’t leave anything alone. We’ve always got to take the wheels off and see how it works. And increasingly, I find myself wishing for a bit of inscrutability and vagueness. Being and doing instead of thinking and analyzing.’

‘You’re not talking about your father now.’

‘No,’ he said, lying back and looking at the sky. ‘I’m not.’