An Early Grave (13 page)

‘And Kingsley?’

‘Not as utterly obsessive about it, but he was pretty clear on his future.’ Callum drank some more of his beer then retrieved the group photo, taken on the ski trip, from the box-file. Tara watched him examine it, watched as he relived those times in his mind. She thought it likely that he had done this many times since Tilly passed away.

‘What happened the night Kingsley disappeared?’

‘It was really strange. We were having a laugh at the time. Nobody thought it odd that he rose from his seat and walked out. For all we knew he was just going to the toilet.’

‘Did anyone say something to offend him? Did he seem angry?’

‘We were playing silly games. Or one silly game. Georgina’s idea. She liked to be at the centre of things. She tried to convince us that it was a Latimer tradition for those in their final year. None of us believed her. We thought it was another way for her to show off.’

Tara cocked her head, interested to learn of a college tradition that she may have missed.’

‘What was the game?’

‘She called it the
Five
Year
Plan
.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard of that,’ said Tara in surprise. ‘You’re supposed to predict what you will be doing in five years’ time. Your fellow students then vote whether you’re a ducker or a diver. It’s supposed to be based upon the classification of
The
Slicker
and
The
Big
Man
from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
This
Side
of
Paradise
.
The
Slicker
gets to college and becomes a success.
The
Big
Man
goes to college and turns out a failure.’

Callum’s eyes widened, sparkling from the lights of the pub.

‘You mean it is a real tradition?’

‘Don’t know how long it’s been a tradition, but we played it in my time. I was a diver, first class, but at least I got to drink more. That’s the penalty for being voted a diver. A diver sinks to the bottom and is lost without trace. A ducker avoids all trouble in its path and floats on the surface. So that’s what you were playing when Kingsley walked out?’

He stared into the picture, thinking hard as Tara had demanded. He’d thought many times of the game they had played that night, an abiding memory he couldn’t explain. It had remained with him when many greater moments were jumbled or lost. Like the picture he held in his hand. Why this one? Why not one of the many pictures taken on the slopes? The times, for instance, when they thought how great they were on a slalom course, when five-year-old kids whizzed by at twice the speed and without ski poles. Why not those pictures? Why was it a picture he had taken and not one in which he featured? Was it because he never really belonged in that crowd? Even with Tilly?

‘Are you all right, Callum?’

‘I’m fine.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anthony Egerton-Hyde went first, I think. He said he intended going into politics like his father and grandfather before him. He wanted to improve his country seat, to bed and wed a damn fine filly to support his venture and to produce an heir. Everyone laughed at that, because it seemed so old fashioned. Anthony belonged in a bygone age. Despite the laughter, we voted him a diver. He had to sink his pint. Tilly went next. Everybody loved her. She could have said she was going to be a nun and we still would have voted her a ducker. She was already well into her writing by then. Georgina and Charlotte thought her a genius and dubbed her the next JK Rowling. We all voted her a ducker. Ollie Rutherford got a thumbs-down. He rambled on about markets in the city, buying his first Maserati and a holiday home in Tuscany. No imagination, Georgina said. You can tell by now that she had assumed the role of chairperson. It descended to the point where only her vote seemed to count.’ He stared into the photo again, using it as a checklist.

‘Charlotte, I think, got a thumbs-down as well. Can’t remember her plans, but I’m certain it had something to do with politics. She wasn’t happy to be classed a diver, but then she tended to take things far too seriously. Georgina and the others fed off that. They used to wind her up, especially about Anthony. Tilly told me once that Charlotte was besotted with him, and that Georgina encouraged her to go after him. It was as if Georgina, even when she was with Justin, knew that someday she would marry Anthony. It was cruel of her to tease Charlotte.’

‘How did you fair in this game?’

He almost cracked a laugh at the question. She took it as a good sign. No harm in him enjoying himself a little as he told his story.

‘Georgina always called me her Belfast Boy; it sort of stuck as a nick name. As soon as I mentioned chemistry I got an instant diver signal. ‘Not good enough, my Belfast Boy,’ Georgina said. Then Jian had a go, and they voted him a ducker, a big thumbs-up for what was more or less the same plan as mine. Of course, everybody thought it was a laugh. The Beijing Boy was a ducker, while the Belfast Boy was a diver. I saw the mischief in Georgina’s eyes. Still, I got to finish my pint and order another.’

‘She doesn’t sound like a very nice person.’

He shook his head and drank some beer.

‘Everyone loved her. She and Tilly were a hell of a pair. Yes, she was over-bearing, but she knew exactly where she was headed. You couldn’t help liking her. It gave you a lift simply to be in her company. Most people like her you’d say they were full of shit, but with Georgina you had no reason to doubt that she would be a success. No one dared vote her a diver. Besides, her plans were so outlandish they eclipsed all the others. She stated, to the nearest million, how much money she would be earning per year, after five years. Rhymed off the businesses she intended to have running, and when you read about her now, what she’s worth, the empire she controls, her prediction was so accurate. I’ve never met anyone like Georgina.’

He seemed to drift into his old world for a while, while Tara looked on. One thing she had learned, and would certainly make a point of passing on to the likes of Murray and Wilson: never judge a person simply by their appearance. Callum Armour was a man who once had such a full and joyous life. He was clever, thoughtful and attractive. Immediately, she tried to dispel this last trait from her thoughts. Callum had been immensely happy once. The scale of tragedy in his life had wiped away all traces of that happiness.

‘You haven’t mentioned Justin Kingsley playing this game.’

‘Refused to play it. Charlotte and Tilly tried coaxing him, but he just sat with a grim look on his face. It was the sort of look you see in a guy who’s had far too much to drink, beyond the happy point, melancholy; you know what I mean? The time when people start bearing their soul, saying things they later regret even if they are perfectly true. Justin seemed to be getting there. When he refused to play, Georgina said something like, ‘Perhaps my Justin has no plans.’ Things went a bit flat until someone realised that Peter hadn’t taken his turn. He never seemed to take himself seriously.’

Callum paused, stared at the photo then looked at Tara, his expression brimming with sudden realisation.

‘What’s wrong? Have you remembered something?’

He closed his eyes and blew air through his lips.

‘Something just made sense. About Justin. It fits now; I know it.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Peter started bubbling about his future, playing for laughs, talking about becoming a priest, with us poking fun about him wearing a cassock and talking gibberish from a pulpit. He took it all in good spirit, and said,’ You may well laugh, people, but someday I will be Archbishop.’ Tilly said something like, ‘Ooh, I wonder which one?’ And Justin grunted, ‘Thomas Becket.’’

CHAPTER 19

‘You think there’s a connection between Peter’s murder in Canterbury Cathedral and what Justin said before he disappeared?’

‘Has to be more than coincidence.’

So far, despite Callum’s willingness to talk, Tara hadn’t learned much. It was certainly not the calibre of information to shed light on a complicated business, most of which occurred some years ago and hardly around the corner in the next street. Callum still needed pressing.

‘Apart from his mood that night, can you think of any reason why Justin would disappear?’

‘I didn’t know him that well, only through Georgina and Tilly.’

‘Did he feel pressure from his studies, or from exams approaching?’

‘I don’t know. He was destined for the law profession; his father is a QC. Maybe it was expected of him, rather than it being a path of his choosing.’

‘What reason would he have to harm his friends, first Tilly then Peter Ramsey and Zhou Jian?’

‘I really can’t understand Jian’s death. Justin only knew him through me. I brought Jian along on the ski trip. He hadn’t really socialised with the others before then. I’m not sure how well Justin knew Peter either. Again he would have met him through his mates, Ollie and Anthony, at the rowing club.’

‘Callum.’ Tara placed her hand gently on his forearm. ‘What if Justin is dead? That the night he walked out he intended to kill himself? People do such things.’ Callum snatched his arm away and sat upright in his chair.

‘Then who killed them? If Justin didn’t do it, are you suggesting that it’s merely coincidence?’ He was still clutching the photograph, but he tossed it into the open box-file and began rummaging through the contents. Tara had no answers, certainly not the answers Callum wished to hear. She needed him to consider the possibility that the conspiracy only existed inside his head.

He wasn’t letting go without a fight.

‘Look at this,’ he said angrily, ‘Do you think I imagined this?’ He held out the sympathy card he’d received on the day Tilly and Emily were killed. She didn’t need to examine it. There was nothing to be gained. She wanted to believe him, but her expression betrayed her. ‘I picked this up before leaving the lab in Oxford. I was late for the train, and Tilly wanted me home early to pack for our Easter holidays. Jian’s project was running behind; I had stayed on to help him. Tilly was driving from our house in Shiplake to meet me at Reading Station.’ Tears streamed down his bruised face, his voice inflamed, while customers in the restaurant looked on. ‘They were hit by a train, Tilly and wee Emily, their car crushed and shoved a hundred yards down the track. They didn’t even make it to hospital. And I was sitting outside Pangbourne on a delayed train. I had this card with me, Tara. I wasn’t given it the next day or the day after; it didn’t come in the post. I had it with me. Whoever left that card for me knew that Tilly and Emily were going to die. The police ignored it, and it was never discussed at the inquest. Does that make it any less important? Does that mean it’s all in my head? You’re the detective; you tell me.’

Tara felt her face burn. She felt the eyes of the people in the restaurant upon her. Now all of them knew what she was, and what she was doing with this scruffy man. Her best option, her only sensible approach, was to continue the discussion, take the heat out of it and proceed as if nothing happened. Callum eyeballed her, but she couldn’t hold his stare. His hurt, his anger gave him an irascible confidence, and she didn’t feel strong enough to wear him down. She could tell him to wise up; he didn’t have a pick of evidence to prove that Justin Kingsley did anything but walk out of a party and disappear.

‘What else do you know about the killing of Peter and Zhou Jian?’

He drew a steadier breath, his anger standing down for the moment.

‘No more than I have already told you, and that’s only what I read in the papers.’

She sorted through the muddle in the box, giving no response to his answer.

‘Why do you have this?’ Removing several paper cuttings, she reached him the story from the
Oxford
Mail
she’d read previously, an appeal for information regarding the Baby Isis, the discovery of a baby boy found in a shallow grave near the river in Oxford. Callum shook his head.

‘After Tilly died, when I started looking into things, I collected any news stories I could find about Oxford during the time I was there. I have stuff on Shiplake, Strobl in Austria where we skied, and articles on Georgina and Egerton-Hyde. I’m just searching for answers. I don’t know of any other way to do it.’

She paid the bill for lunch and suggested to Callum it was time to head back. He looked exhausted, and they both were growing irritable as she continued to ask difficult questions, and he persisted in giving only vague answers. The rain had arrived promptly, the huge swathe of cloud that had seemed to linger in the distance found its way to the village of Sefton. They dashed from the pub to her car, and once on the road to Netherton, the wipers busy and the heater blasting to dispel the mist on the windscreen, she suggested the next course of action. She didn’t dare consider the number of rules she was breaking, the advice given by her friends, and her own sensible thinking. Ten days ago she had begun an investigation into the murder of a teenage girl. At this point she had learned little more than the girl’s name. Then she’d been confronted with a bizarre case of the deaths of four people, linked through an Oxford College and the man, who right now, sat beside her. She could see only one way of progressing both cases, and that involved the co-operation of this awkward man, who carried his and most of the world’s troubles on his back.

‘There’s only so much we can learn from those boxes of yours. If we trace all of the people in your photograph, speak with them, explain your theory, and ask if they have seen Justin, then maybe we’ll form a better idea of what’s been going on. We can also pay a visit to Canterbury and Oxford.’

She was conscious that he hadn’t responded to her idea but, as she neared his street, she reckoned the best policy was to keep talking.

‘I’ll book a couple of days leave; we can fly down on Friday, and hopefully make it home by Sunday night.’

‘I’m not going.’

‘What do you mean? I thought you’d jump at the chance to investigate these deaths?

‘I’ve told you all that I know. You’re the police; you investigate. It’s not my job. Besides, I could be the next victim.’

Suddenly, she ran the car into a lay-by, breaking hard. She couldn’t drive and argue at the same time. Switching off the engine, she turned to face him.

‘But I’ve told you, Callum I can’t go poking my nose into these cases. It’s not my patch. You have to meet your old friends. Ask them about Kingsley. I’ll be there to help you along. But I can’t go on a professional basis, not as a police officer.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘I don’t understand. You told me you wanted to find the person who killed your wife and daughter. I could lose my job doing this for you.’

‘You’re only doing it because you think I have more to tell you about that girl, Audra.’

‘And have you?’ Her large eyes looked pleadingly, but they held back her fury. She was determined not to back down.

‘I’m only interested in finding justice for Tilly and Emily. Beyond that I care little about my life or the life of anyone else.’

‘But you’re too young to give up on yourself. Tilly’s gone, Callum. I’m sure she wouldn’t want this kind of life for you. I’m sure, if she loved you, she would want you to rebuild your life, get on with things.’

‘Is that an offer?’

‘You’re forgetting I’m a police officer, and I have girlfriends who would tear you apart for being presumptuous with me.’ It brought a smile to his face.

‘I can’t go,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

He dropped his gaze like a scolded child. Tara couldn’t fathom this man. She didn’t have his trust, and he certainly did not have hers. He could be the killer of Audra Bagdonas, and in some bizarre manner he was deflecting the murder investigation by dreaming up stories of conspiracy. She despised and pitied him in the same breath. But she’d had enough for one day. If he was not prepared to go with her then why should she risk her career? Gunning the engine, she glanced in her rear-view and then the wing mirror. Once the road was clear she drove away. A quarter of a mile further on she turned into the estate and moments later pulled up by his front door.

‘I’m not going there alone, Callum. If you can’t be bothered to come with me then I’m afraid your investigation ends here.’

Without a word he undid his seatbelt and opened the car door.

‘I don’t like flying,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand it.’ Tara was dumbfounded. ‘Not with all those near misses and pilots dozing off, and strange gases filling the cabins.’

Now it was her turn to smile, and she managed it with some relief. She placed her hand on his arm.

‘If that’s the only reason we can go by car? Or do you have a fear of driving, too?’

Without reply he climbed out and lifted his box-files from the back seat.

‘Leave those, Callum. I’d like to have another look through them. I’ll be in touch.’ He closed the car door, and stood watching as she drove away. He’d misjudged her. She was a very determined lady.