Beneath the Bleeding (44 page)

1. Danny Wade
   
2. Robbie Bishop
   
3. Tom Cross
   
4. Kevin Matthews
   
5. Niall and Declan McCullogh
   
6. Deepak
   

Pannal Castle had stood on its present site since the Wars of the Roses. A ruin by the mid-nineteenth century, it had been rebuilt by the 14th Baron. Although from the outside it looked like a substantial medieval pile, indoors it had central heating and modern plumbing, as well as a layout that conformed to modern rather than ancient needs.

Probably the best thing about it was its range of astonishing views, a gift appreciated only by the few, since Pannal Castle remained resolutely closed to the public. Wool, coal mining and, more recently, the Red Rose Fine Arts and Craft Village had allowed successive lords Pannal to hang on to their castle and lands without having to resort to day-trippers.

Lord Pannal himself had actually worked for a living. For a dozen years, he’d been a relatively undistinguished documentary film maker, which now fitted him to be a member of all sorts of boards and committees. He was, as far as Carol knew, a decent enough bloke in spite of having once had Tony Blair up to Pannal to open the new gallery at the craft village.

As they drove up the gentle rise of the private road
that led to the castle, Chris looked around. ‘This must have been spot on as a defensive position way back when,’ she commented. ‘You’d have a hard job creeping up on them.’

‘I expect that’s why it’s still here,’ Carol said.

‘That and the poison garden, eh? If you don’t get them with the cannonballs, get them with the soup.’

‘No wonder English food got such a bad name.’

‘So what’s actually here?’

‘Lord Pannal got interested in poison gardens when he was making a documentary about the Medicis a dozen years ago, so he decided to make one of his own.’

‘And they say TV isn’t educational. So what’s he got there?’

‘I don’t know the full list, but he’s got the ones we’re interested in. Castor oil plant, belladonna, oleander. He says his poison garden is surrounded by eight-foot railings with razor wire along the top, which makes casual burglary unlikely. But he does have a deputy estate manager called John Anson.’

‘JA. I like it. I like it very much.’

A short man in a tweed cap and a Barbour jacket was waiting for them as they drove across the massive wooden drawbridge and into the courtyard. Three black Labradors mobbed them in leisurely fashion as they got out of the car. ‘Benson, Hedges, Silkie, come away,’ the man called, letting Carol and Chris come to him as the dogs slumped to the ground at his feet. ‘Lord Pannal,’ he said, holding out a hand as they approached. His pink face, blue eyes and bristling moustache gave him a bizarrely charming resemblance to a new piglet. ‘I’m a bit slow on the uptake first
thing in the morning. After our call, it dawned on me. That footballer, and the chap who saved all those people after the bombing-they were poisoned.’ He bit his lower lip. ‘Awful thing. Terrible if the poisons came from Pannal. Did you want to look at the garden?’

‘I think we’ll leave the garden for now.’ Carol nodded to Chris, who took half a dozen photos from a folder and spread them across the bonnet of her car. ‘Lord Pannal, would you mind looking at these and telling me if you recognize anyone?’

He craned his head forward, like a big pink turtle emerging from its shell. He studied the pictures carefully then extended a plump finger. ‘That’s John Anson. Works for me. Deputy estate manager.’ He looked away, blinking crossly. ‘This is awfully hard to credit. Hard-working chap. Been with us a couple of years, very obliging.’

‘Do his responsibilities include the poison garden?’ Carol asked.

‘Comes under his remit. Not in a hands-on sort of way-that’s up to the gardeners. But it’s within his area, yes.’ He spoke in abrupt little jerks, clearly upset, though he would have been mortified had anyone offered him sympathy or support. A Scotch might have been acceptable, but Carol wasn’t even sure that would do.

‘Do you know where we can find him now?’ Chris said, scooping up the pictures.

‘In Bradfield.’ He bit his lip. ‘He’s interviewing prospective tenants for a vacant unit in the craft village.’

‘Where exactly in Bradfield?’ Carol asked gently.

‘I’ve got a bolthole there. We use it for business as well as a pied à terre in the city. In the Hart Tower.’

Chris and Carol exchanged a telling look. ‘On the edge of Temple Fields,’ Carol said. ‘We’ll need the address.’

Tony gave the smile all he had. ‘The thing is, I’m not supposed to ask you to do anything. Carol says, perfectly reasonably, that you don’t work for me, you work for her. Me, I think we’re all working for the cause of justice, but I’m not going to argue with her.’

‘Not the mood she’s been in this past week,’ Stacey agreed, not even glancing up from her screen. ‘Interesting that the boy ID’d the photo. No doubt in your mind?’

Tony shrugged. ‘No doubt in the kid’s mind. That’s what matters here. He was absolutely positive. Mummy’s friend who bought him an ice cream.’

That makes sense of everything that raised a question mark for us. What you said about it not profiling right for terrorism-well, that follows if it wasn’t terrorism. The two timers-Aziz thought he was getting away, but Rachel Diamond’s plan was different. She wanted him to die.’

‘But she didn’t want him to know that,’ Tony said thoughtfully. ‘If I were you, I’d be contacting airlines to see if Rachel Diamond and her son Lev are booked on a flight to Canada any time soon. And I’d be checking whether any of those rental cottages Kevin was checking out had a booking in her name.’

Stacey frowned. ‘You think she was planning to join him?’

Tony shook his head. ‘I think she wanted him to think she was planning to join him.’

Stacey gave him a look of respect. ‘Oh, that’s very clever,’ she said. ‘Very evil, but very clever.’ Her fingers were already flying. ‘I think I might also make some phone calls to Canada.’

‘Don’t mind me, I’ll just read the paper,’ Tony said, sitting back and relaxing.

The journey from Pannal back to Bradfield took significantly less time than getting there, but still it felt interminable. ‘Come on,’ Chris urged the traffic in front of her every time she had to slow.

‘I can’t believe nobody in the office had a list of the prospective tenants,’ Carol said for the third or fourth time. ‘You’d think there would be more than one copy of something like that.’

‘Yeah, we could have got Stacey on to it. Maybe figured out which one was his next victim. Move, you twat,’ Chris shouted at the dawdling people carrier in front of her.

‘Unless…’ Carol’s voice tailed off as another possibility dawned on her.

‘Unless what?’ Chris sounded impatient as she rounded the dawdler.

‘Unless there isn’t a list at all. Maybe that was just an excuse he made up for Lord Pannal to cover his back. Maybe his next victim has got nothing to do with the craft village at all.’

Chris stamped on the brakes and blasted the horn. A startled SUV driver swerved out of her way as she powered through. It doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? All that counts is getting to them before
Jack or Jake or John or whoever fills them full of some untreatable poison.’

As they hit the outskirts of the city, Chris tried to work out the best way to the Hart Tower. ‘I wish we had Kevin with us,’ she said. ‘Nobody knows the back doubles like him.’

‘You’re doing just fine,’ Carol said. But she wasn’t at all sure she was telling the truth.

‘Beautiful dream come true. Beautiful dreamer.’ Kevin frowned. Had he just repeated himself? Every time he thought he’d said all there was to be said about his lovely car, he remembered something else he wanted to say. Then, when he said it, he felt as if he’d said it before. More than once.

He shifted in his chair, which seemed to have become treacherously slippery. His limbs weren’t doing what he wanted them to do; more than once he’d had to grab at the arm of the chair with its interesting texture to stop himself slithering to the floor. Where there was a really beautiful rug with colours like jewels that he wanted to embrace.

A strange blob kept crossing his field of vision. Pink with bristles, topped with thick brown fur like a bear. The fur was different, somehow. Before it had been like a flowing horse’s mane, but suddenly the mane had exploded into the air in a great spiral of silky strands. He had watched it whirl through the air in slow motion before it landed on the wooden floor.

Kevin turned his heavy head, heavy heady heavy head to look at it again. Like a pompom that somebody had steamrollered flat. Beautiful. Everything, really, was beautiful.

The next thing he knew was the blob was in front of him, making a noise. It all felt very sudden, as if he’d fallen asleep and woken in a different place. But no, he was in the same chair. At least, he thought he’d been in this chair once before. A long, long time ago.

And suddenly, he wasn’t. He was on his feet. Hands in his hands, leading him. Too hard. Too very strangely hard. Kevin collapsed to his knees and fell forward, My, how smooth the beautiful rug was. He kissed the rug and felt a giggle well up in his throat. As he laughed, he began to roll, aware of the hands on his body. A hundred hands, a million hands, a Brazilian hands, rolling him.

He felt he could roll across the planet for ever. And ever. And ever.

Gaining access to the building was easy. Lord Pannal had been desperate to help, as if, by hiring a bad apple, he had somehow been responsible for what had happened. So he’d given them the spare swipe card that would let them into the underground garage, the lift and the apartment itself, provided they had the right PIN code, which he’d also given them.

Everything worked perfectly till they got to the door of the apartment, where the LED display told them the PIN was incorrect. Carol tried it a couple of times before admitting defeat. ‘I bet he changes the PIN when he arrives and changes it back when he leaves,’ she said. ‘Bastard.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Hasn’t Stacey got one of those gadgets you plug in that reads PIN codes?’

Chris snorted. ‘I think that was in a movie, guv.
But even if she did, we haven’t got time for that sort of malarkey. What about building security? D’you think they’ll have some sort of override card, like a master key?’

‘Go and find out, Carol said. ‘I’ll wait here.’

It was a long eight minutes before Chris returned with an erect elderly man in the uniform of the Corps of Commissionaires. He looked sniffily at Carol from under the peak of his cap. ‘I’m going to need to see photo ID,’ he said.

‘Staff Sergeant Malory is in charge of security,’ Chris said, doing her level best to be ingratiating.

Silently, Carol produced her warrant card and her Bradfield Police HQ building pass. Malory scrutinized it carefully, tilting it against the light to make sure the holograph was authentic. ‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant?’ He gave her a stern look.

Carol bit her tongue. ‘Section Eighteen of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act,’ she ground out between her teeth. ‘I don’t need a warrant if I have grounds to suspect that I can prevent a serious criminal offence from taking place. Which I have. And which I am not going to share with you, Mr Malory.’

Behind his back, Chris rolled her eyes and mimed hanging herself. But contrary to her expectation, Malory folded. ‘That’s fine by me, ma’am,’ he said, swiping the card and tapping the number pad with a flourish.

A subdued buzz, and the door swung open at the pressure of fingertips. Signalling Chris to follow silently, Carol crept down the short hallway. She could see nothing through the open doorway at the far end, but she could hear the grunts and groans of exertion
from the far side of the threshold. She had a moment to decide. Creep or rush?

With a quick flick of her hand to beckon Chris forward, Carol leapt through the doorway. She took it in like a snapshot. Kevin on his back on the floor, legs bent, trousers undone, arms above his head, ginger hair askew and a silly smile on his face. Beyond him on the floor, like a discarded soft toy, a wig resembling a starburst of hair. Bending over him, trying to roll him, was the man in the photograph. The man who had come a very long way from the starting point of Jack Anderson. His short hair was plastered to his head with sweat and he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, but there was no question of identity here.

Chris streaked past Carol and made for Anderson. But he was quicker than either of them expected. He jumped to his feet and used Chris’s momentum against her, straight-arming her in the face and twisting her over to his left so she’d have to trample Kevin or stumble over him. Blood blossomed across her face as she windmilled her arms, trying to stay upright.

Anderson kept going, shoulder-charging Carol. She snatched desperately at him, managing to grab his shirt as he passed. Buttons flew off as he wrestled away from her, shedding the shirt like a snake its skin, leaving her staggering backwards, away from him.

Then he was gone, past them both and racing for the door. ‘Fuck,’ Carol screamed in frustration as he disappeared.

She had forgotten Staff Sergeant Malory.

Tony was still working his way through the features section when Carol and Chris limped into the squad
room. ‘Result,’ Carol said. ‘We’ve got Anderson, or Andrews or Anson, whatever you want to call him.’ Then she saw Tony. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘The subconscious. It’s a great tool. We got there just in time to save his next victim. Anderson had got him off his face, but we’re pretty sure he hadn’t delivered the poison yet.’

‘Tell me?’ Tony felt faintly sick.

‘You were right to warn Kevin. You just didn’t know who you should be warning him against,’ Carol said.

‘Is he OK?’ Tony demanded.

‘The medics seem to think he’ll be just fine. He’s still high as a kite but he’s not showing any symptoms of anything other than rohypnol or GHB or something like that.’

‘So, do we have any idea what happened?’

‘Anderson set up their encounter weeks ago, long before he killed Danny Wade.’

‘How do you know that? I mean, if Kevin’s still off his face?’

‘Because I’m the one they have to ask for time off, and Kevin booked this morning off at least a month ago. Anderson was impersonating a freelance motoring journalist who wanted to write about Kevin and his car.’