Cause of Death Read online

  ‘And I’ll be just outside the door,’ Cheryl said again. ‘If it gets too much, you just come out here and find me and we’ll drive home.’

  Ursula nodded. She grasped George’s hand tightly and they went inside.

  George had never even seen a picture of Ursula’s dad, so didn’t know what to expect. At least this place didn’t smell, he thought, and it was actually more like a house than a hospital ward. Wooden floors were covered with rugs, and wood panels had been hung with pictures of the outside world: calm and comforting scenes of woodland and little cottages. George could almost have believed this was not a hospital, had it not been for the heavy dose of institutional green slapped carelessly over the walls of the reception.

  Just why did they do that? It was a colour he couldn’t stand – Rina had said it was a bit like eau de nil or something and he’d been told it was meant to be restful, but all George knew was that it was the colour of sickness, of self-harm, of his mother.

  A nurse dressed in ordinary clothes sat down just inside the door and the two teenagers, hand in hand, approached a man sitting beside the fire. He was thin and drawn, but he smiled when Ursula came close.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought a friend. Is . . . is that OK?’

  George gripped her hand tighter. He’d never felt Ursula less certain of herself.

  The man got up. ‘Any friend of yours . . .’ he said, and tried to laugh. ‘Sit down, sit down. Look, we’ve got tea and biscuits.’

  Ursula let go of George’s hand and went over to her father. She hugged him and, very hesitantly, he hugged her back, some deeply rooted remembrance of social skills kicking back in, but George could see in his face that he didn’t know what to do. He began to suspect that Ursula’s dad had not in fact requested this meeting; perhaps some well meaning but, in George’s view, imbecilic doctor or social worker had thought it would be good for him.

  He sat down next to his friend and opposite this sad, stretched man. George recognized the fragility. He’d seen it on his mother’s face so many times. Karen had tried to keep him out of the hospitals, visiting alone whenever there was anyone reliable to leave George with, and later on, when they’d had to keep moving on and his mum had been looked after most of the time just by the two of them and the fear that their mum would be hospitalized again and they’d be separated – again – because Karen wasn’t considered old enough to be his carer had been nearly as great as the fear that their dad would come back . . .

  Ironically, once they’d moved to Frantham their mum had been almost well, even able to hold down a little cleaning job provided she could go home and sleep afterwards and Karen managed everything else.

  George fought those memories valiantly, but they were still there in his dreams and his quiet times and they returned with full force now.

  Ursula’s dad was trying to make conversation. How was school? What was Hill House like?

  Ursula’s responses were brief and monosyllabic and it occurred to George suddenly that even though this may be her dad, she didn’t really know him. Not at all.

  George took a deep breath and dived into the silence. ‘Ursula’s brilliant,’ he said. ‘She gets As all the time and the college reckons she could take ten GCSEs no problem at all and she’s started to play the piano and this summer when we all played football on the back lawn Ursula played in goal. She was brilliant at that too. And I’m sorry but I don’t know your name.’

  Three pairs of eyes turned upon him: Ursula, her father and the nurse beside the door.

  ‘Arthur,’ Ursula’s father said. ‘My name is Arthur.’ He smiled a little wistfully. ‘It’s a little old fashioned, I suppose.’

  George shrugged. ‘So is George. I mean, who calls their kid George these days? I used to hate it.’

  ‘And now?’ There was a spark of interest in Arthur’s eyes and George fed on that. There was no pressure in this silly conversation. No having to think about the right thing to say.

  ‘Now I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘And I can always change it by deed poll if I want to.’

  ‘I suppose you could.’ Arthur smiled and George caught a glimpse of the man he may once have been. ‘So, um, what subjects are you both taking? GCSEs – isn’t that like O levels used to be? Are you old enough to be taking exams?’

  ‘I’m fifteen this month, Dad,’ Ursula reminded him.

  ‘Oh, so you are.’ The light went away as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘I’ve missed so much of you growing up.’

  Ursula looked desperately at George and he began to explain what exams they would be taking, what pieces Ursula was playing on the piano. The man listened and nodded but George could see that he’d had enough. He looked across at the nurse by the door and stood up, pulling Ursula to her feet. The nurse nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Arthur, your visitors are going now,’ she said gently. ‘It’s time to say goodbye.’

  Arthur seemed unable even to look their way.

  TWELVE

  Jerry hated Sundays. He had hated Sundays as a child – no playing out in case you made a noise and disturbed the neighbours, and all day the dread of Monday slowly building. Monday and school.

  Now he hated Sundays because everyone else was having a good time with their families – or at least they seemed to be doing – and Jerry was reminded of just how alone he was.

  On Sundays he thought about what he might have had if he had worked things out with Louise, and life hadn’t swung a sudden left turn instead. For a brief time during their engagement and subsequent short-lived marriage, he had managed to like Sundays. They had moved in together, despite her parents’ opposition, and any Sunday he’d not had to work they had spent in bed, getting up only to eat. Sunday evenings had been spent in the local pub with friends, and even if he had thought about there being a Monday morning, he’d liked the job, got along with his colleagues, and the dread had faded for a while.

  But that had been then. Before he’d screwed it up.

  First time undercover had been a breeze. Three days. Just another body staying in a hotel. On hand in case a sting went down the wrong way. But he’d got a buzz from it, from the freedom of leaving himself behind, and when they’d looked for volunteers for a longer spell and deeper cover, he had been ready and waiting with his hand up.

  Louise hadn’t liked that at all. A month, this time, hanging out with a group of environmental activists, observing mostly, joining in with the odd protest and standing in line when the bulldozers arrived. He’d actually felt quite chuffed when they’d got a stay of execution for the piece of land designated as the next bypass. He’d understood what they meant about the ancient woodland the project would have trashed and he felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when the project was eventually shelved, even if the reason was more lack of funds than a bunch of hippy types tying themselves to a few old oaks.

  Truthfully, Jerry had liked them and he’d felt a bit of a pang at the deceit. They had been mostly harmless and totally sincere and he felt for the first time that he was missing something in his life. Jerry had never believed in anything much, had never felt the lack before.

  The next job, though, with the animal rights lot, that had been hard. He’d come home bitter and angry and in sympathy with what they were against, even while he was uneasy about their methods of protest. And Louise had given him an ultimatum: next time you say no or we are finished. And so next time he had said no and they’d got their Sundays back and he had settled into a routine he’d once loved, but which now somehow felt less real.

  Louise had made him get counselling. He’d gone along to please her, but Jerry could recall how resentful he had felt. There was nothing wrong with him.

  He ran his hand across the now close-cropped hair. He’d grown it down to his shoulders for a while. Added a beard, which she’d sort of liked. And he’d taken up photography in a big way. Louise had been pleased, Jerry remembered, as he sorted through the equipment in the padded backpack. Even bought him one of thos
e khaki jackets she saw the professionals wear on the television; Jerry had laughed, but he’d put it on and after a while, as practicality outweighed his sense of the absurd, he had worn it when he went tramping off over hill and dale, as Louise would have said, searching for the perfect sunrise.

  Gently, he cleaned the lens he was holding and replaced the cap. Haines had encouraged the hobby and the look; it made for excellent cover and the strange thing was, Jerry knew that if he ever found a way out of this, it would be the one thing that kept him sane and quite literally focused. He had a bit of himself that no one else could touch. Haines could make use of his skill, but that was like doing the day job. The boss makes use of you for eight hours of the day, the rest is . . .

  Except it was getting harder and harder to tell where one began and the other ended. Harder to know where the old Jerry had gone and when this new Jerry had emerged, or rather sprung fully formed from somewhere inside of himself that he’d barely registered.

  Others had spotted it though, seen what he really was. Didcott had seen it and been ready to exploit it. And the pressure had been applied.

  Six months at most he’d been told, but he knew Louise wouldn’t stand for it. He’d said no. More pressure had been applied and more than a little blackmail. The rewards he’d been promised had been . . . well, at the time they’d seemed adequate. He knew better now.

  Looking back, Jerry could see how much he had been manipulated. Eventually he’d agreed. Six months, he told Louise, and I’ll be able to come back regularly. He’d been naive enough to believe that at the time. Or maybe he’d just been playing her a line.

  No, she had said. Go and you won’t be coming back at all.

  And he had, and she’d kept her word. The divorce had gone through two years after he’d come to work for Haines. Louise had seen his name blackened and his career ruined by the lies that had become his cover story, and in the end she’d not known what to believe.

  Well, in the end she’d believed what the rumours said: that he was corrupt, that he was a thief, that he had beaten a man to a pulp in an interview and it had taken three other officers to pull him off.

  That part had been true, Jerry acknowledged. But there’d been reasons for it. Trouble was, he’d almost forgotten what they were.

  ‘Can’t you leave your work at work?’ Miriam complained mildly.

  ‘I thought you were still asleep.’

  ‘No fun staying in bed on your own.’

  Mac smiled at her. ‘There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen. I heard you moving.’

  He watched as she crossed to the kitchen and pressed the plunger on the cafetière. Mac was a tea drinker in the morning, but Miriam needed her coffee. She wore a blue silk robe, floor length and cinched at the waist. It had been a present from Rina, genuine art deco, the embroidery at the collar and cuffs heavy and geometric. Miriam loved it and Mac enjoyed the way it clung to her curves. He caught his breath as she pushed a heavy tress of dark hair away from her face and then came over to where he sat, mug of coffee clasped between her palms.

  He had never dreamt he’d end up with someone as beautiful as Miriam.

  ‘So, what’s all this then?’ she asked, settling beside him on the sofa and looking at the files and photographs laid out on the coffee table. The early light streamed in through the porthole window and fell across her hair, illuminating the red strands mixed in with the dark. Mac moved closer, kissed her cheek, inhaling deeply.

  ‘Maybe we should go back to bed.’

  She laughed. ‘And leave half your mind back here? I don’t think so.’

  He knew she was right. He was up and dressed now and deep in thinking mode. ‘Background reading,’ he said.

  ‘These are all Haines’s known associates?’

  ‘No. Some of them are. Some of them are from other cases. I’ve been trying to pull together what I can about that hush-hush business a couple of months back in Wales.’1

  ‘Ah, that’s a face I know. He was on the telly.’

  Mac picked up the photograph. ‘DI Charlie Eddison,’ he said. ‘Not his finest hour, but so far as we know there was no link to either Haines or Vashinsky.’

  ‘Hmm, and there’s a photo of our friend Stan Holden. What do you think will happen to him now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mac admitted. ‘If anyone can sort him out it’s Rina. She’ll have her work cut out, though. I can’t see that he possesses a very saleable skill set.’

  He pointed to another image. ‘Santos, aka Ivram Kayne and a half-dozen other aliases. Worked for a private security firm in Iraq after the first Gulf War. We think that’s where he fell in with Haines. Jerry Mason. Ex-copper, thrown off the force for corruption and assault. He’d reached DI before that and was tipped for big things. Then there’s Tomas James, been with Haines, we think, for about as long as Santos, though we’ve got even less information about his early career than we have for Santos.’

  ‘And has all this research helped you?’

  Mac laughed. ‘Not so far. I just wanted a refresher, I suppose.’ He pushed everything into a pile and set it aside.

  ‘Any thing on the bones yet?’

  Mac shook his head. ‘We’ve got so little to go on,’ he said. ‘Poor young Andy’s got stuck with the legwork. If he gets a break we can see about getting a team together. Right now Kendall tells me they’ve got nothing to spare.’

  ‘It’s still a murder, though,’ Miriam argued.

  ‘Well, that’s the assumption. Frankly, we don’t even know that.’

  ‘So, what? Someone had a few spare bones knocking about and thought the archaeologists might like them?’

  ‘Could be,’ Mac nodded seriously. ‘Truthfully, we don’t have a clue. I mean we really don’t have a clue. We have to see what Andy can turn up.’

  ‘Poor Andy,’ Miriam sympathized. Then, cheekily, ‘I’ll bet he’s not working today.’

  Ted Eebry had lunch with his daughter Stacey, son-in-law Sam and their little toddler. Ted’s first grandchild, Tammy, had been a revelation to him. He had loved his own girls so much it had never occurred to him that he could feel more for any human being. But he did. Tammy was his miracle.

  He played with her while Stacey got the lunch ready and Sam interfered and helped and eventually gave up all pretence of knowing what he was supposed to do and joined Ted in the living room. Sam cooked several times during the week, Stacey working three evenings in the local supermarket, but Sunday lunch was her domain and had to be done her way.

  Sam flopped down into the old recliner. He’d owned it since his bachelor days and brought it with him when he and Stacey moved in together. He watched his father-in-law and little girl as they played with her tea cups and drank pretend tea, a game Tammy never seemed to tire of. He smiled. Ted was a nice old boy, Sam thought, then reminded himself that he really wasn’t that old, just a bit set in his ways.

  ‘Those boxes of stuff any good for your friend?’ Sam asked.

  ‘What? Oh yes, they were. I’ve got some money for you in my jacket pocket.’

  ‘Looked like a box of old junk to me, but Stacey reckoned they’d got a value.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose everything has a buyer if you look long enough.’

  ‘Rina was pleased. She knew a lot of the people on the bills. She was an actress, you know.’ Ted struggled to his feet and fetched his jacket, fumbling in his pockets for the cash Rina had given him.

  Sam looked surprised at the amount. ‘What’s that? Fifty? For that load of old junk?’

  Ted shrugged. ‘Rina liked it,’ he said. ‘Reckon she’ll have a lot of fun going through it and remembering old friends. We were selling her a dose of nostalgia, I suppose.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Well you’d better give that to the boss. I told her whatever the stuff fetched could go into the holiday fund.’ He sounded faintly regretful now the boxes of junk had fetched more than he had anticipated. He bent down to scoop his little girl into his arms. ‘You got a cup of tea for Daddy?’

&nbs
p; Tammy giggled and Ted watched, a heavy weight wrapped around his heart.

  Andy had managed to get back to his mother’s home for a few hours, immersing himself once more in the sibling-heavy squabbling, noise and laughter that characterized her house.

  Andy, oldest of the brood, had moved out almost as soon as he’d started police training, and though his bedsit wasn’t anything to shout about, he was loving the independence – and the quiet and getting off the Jubilee Estate where he’d grown up and where being a police officer wasn’t the typical career choice. He missed his family though; his mother had raised all five of them alone when their father had died. The Big C, as his Aunt Bec still called it, taking his dad only six months after the diagnosis, though Andy realized now he’d been ill for a lot longer than that but just hadn’t wanted to confront the fact. Andy, then eleven, had done all he could to help the rest of them through it, taking over the cooking when his mum had to get a job with more hours. Susie, the youngest, had only been two.

  He’d not said that he was coming to Sunday dinner, but he knew that didn’t matter. They’d be glad to see him and his mum and Aunt Bec – a fixture on a Sunday since the last of her own brood had left home – would be eager for any gossip he might feel able to impart. Andy was always careful about what he told them, but boy were they good at wheedling. Frank Baker always reckoned Andy’s mum and aunt should have advertised their services as interrogators.

  Lunch over, Andy helped his mum with the washing up, the only way he could guarantee getting her alone for a bit. Or almost alone. Aunt Bec installed herself at the kitchen table with a fresh pot of tea and lit a cigarette.

  ‘So,’ Aunt Bec wanted to know, ‘why aren’t you on that murder investigation? The one out near the pub at Teston.’

  ‘Because the CID at Exeter got that one. I’m looking after the bones at the dig site.’

  Bec didn’t look impressed, but his mother was interested. ‘Any news on that, is there?’