Carnal Acts (13 page)

Evie made her own lunch. She preferred it that way. Her parents were rarely in and, although Cheryl would have done something for her, Evie preferred not to ask. She took her fruit and yoghurt to the dining room. When Favon Hall opened to the public in the summer months, it was one of the high points. For that reason her father had spent what he described as ‘a ridiculous amount of money’ restoring it to its original condition. The mahogany
table was long and wide, and covered with antique silverware, china and cutlery. A red sash separated the paying customers from the valuables and a security guard was hired to make sure nothing was taken. The walls were covered in paintings, including a Gainsborough, two Constables and a Stubbs. They used to be kept in a bank vault, but Victoria had convinced Andrew to bring them out to attract visitors. The security system that the insurers required cost ‘an even more ridiculous amount’.

Apart from the library, the dining room was Evie’s favourite. The family rarely used it – only when they wanted to impress people and persuade them to put money into her father’s numerous business initiatives. Although the sugar mill, distillery, tannery and machine works had gone, Andrew had his fingers in pies all over Northumberland and County Durham. Evie knew that her mother kept a close eye on the companies and was a director of several.

But it was all rooted in blood money. Evie wondered how the story of Jaffray had affected Nick. She still wasn’t sure why she’d shown him it. After they’d made love beneath the table, she should have changed her mind, but her mind and body had moved on to a different, unguessed-at level and she had lost control of herself. Maybe she’d scared him off. Imagine losing your virginity and then forcing your lover to read about the disgusting behaviour of your ancestors. But there was something unusual about Nick. On the surface he was the school hero, but deeper down he was vulnerable. She had the impression he hadn’t found himself yet. Maybe she could help, though not by recounting the fruits of her latest research. She had run it past her parents and they had reacted violently, telling her not to waste her time with the past – hardly the most helpful observation to a future student of history. Andrew had obviously heard at least part of the story, probably from his notoriously unpleasant and fortunately long dead father. It was clear that Victoria hadn’t. Although she was initially shocked, a look came into her eyes that Evie didn’t like at all.

What she’d found was the description of a slave ship’s voyage across the Atlantic in 1766. The
Esmerelda
wasn’t just any slave ship, though. It was the first that the Favons had a share in. Twenty years later, the family owned three ships outright, as well as retaining an exclusive agent in the Bight of Benin. One of her forebears even crossed from Africa to Jamaica. Erasmus was his name. He kept a diary. The writing had faded, but she’d managed to make it out.

But Evie had not left the story there. She carried out more research and discovered it was Erasmus who, on inheriting the title from his father, had built the Hall beside the medieval tower. By the time he died, a pox-ridden, dropsical balloon, he had gambled away much of his fortune. It was the beginning of the family’s decline, though the profits from the Caribbean were still enough to surpass many of the older aristocracy’s holdings. When Erasmus died at fifty-three, he weighed twenty-three stone and had to be fed like a child. His wife, twenty years younger and the personification of avarice, leaned towards his blubbery lips to catch his last words. They were, ‘Negra … forgive me’. She had no idea who he was talking about. It was fifteen years since he’d made a trip to Jamaica and there were no slaves in Northumberland. No black ones, at least.

‘That’s it,’ DS Rokeby said, pointing at a detached house on the village’s main street. A dark green Jaguar and a yellow Saab were parked in the gravel-covered drive. ‘So, how do you want to handle this?’

‘What? Oh. How about I ask questions and you take notes?’

Pete Rokeby wondered where her thoughts had been for the last quarter of an hour. She’d been on autopilot, reacting to his directions and driving safely enough, but silent and absorbed.

They got out and approached the entrance. The house was large, but by no means the most striking in the village. Rosie Etherington opened the door, her face pale. She took Joni’s hand and then Rokeby’s, smiling nervously.

‘I’m sorry, Nick and his grandfather have been delayed. They’ll be back shortly, something about a cricket net over-running?’ She seemed to have little idea of what that meant.

‘We can wait in the Land Rover,’ Joni said.

‘Don’t be silly. Come into the kitchen.’

Joni let her start inside, then whispered to Rokeby to stay by the Land Rover until the other males arrived.

‘Oh, has your colleague …’

‘He has some calls to make,’ Joni said. ‘I like this room.’

Mrs Etherington glanced around. ‘Just the usual country kitchen. Aga, oak table, old-fashioned storage jars on top of the cupboards and…’ Again, her words trailed away.

Heck had told Joni about Rosie losing her husband – she was a friend of a friend of Ag’s. After that, the death of the major general’s wife had brought them even closer together and there had been gossip when he moved in here. Even a few minutes with the woman convinced Joni that she was nowhere near getting over her husband.

‘How’s Nick been?’ she asked.

‘Tea? I usually just do a big pot of Darjeeling.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Etherington.’ Joni wasn’t going to let her off the hook, but she could be diplomatic when necessary. ‘Look, I’m very sorry about what happened on Sunday night. I wouldn’t have handcuffed your son if I hadn’t been on my own. It looked like a serious incident and unfortunately that initial judgement was correct.’

‘Yes, I heard a man died.’ Rosie was fiddling with the alignment of cups and saucers. ‘But Nick couldn’t have seen anything. He was wearing that silly traffic light.’

‘Let’s hear what—’ Joni broke off as male voices came from the front of the house.

Nick Etherington walked in, looking surprisingly relaxed, with his grandfather behind. Pete Rokeby was further to the rear.

‘Detective Inspector,’ Michael said, extending a hand. ‘Your
colleague introduced himself. Sorry we’re late.’ He pulled a chair back and nodded to his grandson.

‘Hello, dear,’ Rosie said.

‘Mum,’ Nick said, with a smile.

‘Sit down, everyone,’ Rosie said. ‘There’s some cake…’

Joni sat opposite Nick, while Michael went to help Rosie. DS Rokeby took the chair at the far end of the table. After a few minutes there were plates and cups in front of everyone.

‘This won’t take long,’ Joni said, ignoring her tea. ‘Nick, I need to clarify some of the things you said on Sunday night.’

‘Clarify?’ the young man said, looking down.

‘Nick,’ his grandfather said firmly. ‘Do the lady the courtesy of looking at her when you answer.’

Joni gave him a tight smile. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d allow me to handle this, sir. Otherwise we’ll have to take Nick back to Force HQ.’

‘No!’ Rosie said, giving her father-in-law an imploring look. ‘Please, Michael.’

The major general nodded and sat back with his arms crossed.

‘So, Nick,’ Joni resumed, ‘you told us you didn’t see anyone you recognised in Burwell Street.’

‘That’s right,’ the young man said. ‘Apart from my friends.’

Joni locked on to his eyes – they were dark brown and had unusually long lashes. He was already a heartbreaker. ‘The problem is, I don’t believe you.’

Rosie’s mouth opened, while Michael’s brow furrowed.

‘What do you mean?’ Nick stared at her. ‘I was looking out of the slit in the traffic light. It was dark. All I saw was a crowd of people, then that half-dressed woman.’

‘The slit is almost two inches wide and over seven inches long.’

Pete Rokeby blinked. Had the DI actually measured it? He hadn’t thought of doing that.

‘Also, as I remember, the street lights were fully functioning. You could see perfectly well, even though you had reduced peripheral vision.’ Joni pushed her cup and plate away and
leaned towards Nick. ‘You saw someone you knew. Tell me who it was.’

‘I … no, I didn’t. You think the people I know go to prostitutes?’

‘Tell me who it was,’ Joni repeated.

The young man’s face reddened, but he didn’t speak.

‘Why are you so sure he saw someone?’ his mother asked. ‘Why’s it important?’

‘Was it a teacher?’ Joni asked, ignoring the parental intervention. ‘One of your friends’ fathers?’

‘No!’ Nick said immediately. ‘No!’

Joni let him stew. Rosie Etherington’s second question was harder to answer than her first, not that she intended explaining herself. She knew Nick was lying because it was her job to know when people lied. Why she thought it mattered was beyond her, but her subconscious, her soul, whatever name she wanted to give the workings of her inner being that were beyond her comprehension, was telling her to press the point. But the schoolboy wasn’t answering. Why? Fear was the most likely explanation.

She took out her wallet and removed one of her cards. She slid it across the table and put her pen next to it. ‘Write the name down. I can’t guarantee there won’t be consequences – you’re bright enough to understand that – but I’ll treat the information with the utmost respect and confidentiality.’

Nick Etherington’s eyes dropped to the objects in front of him. He picked up the pen with his right hand and reached for the card with his left. Then he seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, the pen dropping from his fingers.

‘I didn’t … I didn’t see anyone I know.’

The major general pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the stone flags. ‘That’s enough, DI Pax. The lad’s given you his answer. If you take this any further, I’m going to call our lawyer.’

Joni got to her feet and met his gaze. ‘No need to do that, sir. I’ve got what I came for. Come on, DS Rokeby. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Etherington.’ She stretched across the table and
retrieved her pen. ‘Keep the card, Nick. You can call me any time, day or night.’

Back in the Land Rover, Pete Rokeby said, ‘What was it you came for then, ma’am?’

Joni smiled. ‘That would be telling.’

‘Well, it wasn’t the tea. You didn’t touch it.’

She laughed. ‘Excellent observational skills.’ She reversed on to the road. ‘The thing is, Nick Etherington lives a very protected life. Good school, grandfather chauffeurs him around, mates always with him. What’s he got to be afraid of?’

‘Maybe he’s got in with some bad lads. Drugs, whatever.’

‘That might explain why they went to Burwell Street, now we know the Albanians were dealing dope as well as pimping those poor women.’ She glanced at the DC. ‘Does he look like a user to you?’

‘No.’

‘Or a pusher?’

‘No.’

‘So we’re back where we started. He saw someone at the brothel whose presence put the shits up him.’

Rokeby took his life in his hands. ‘Seems a bit circumstantial, ma’am.’

‘Everything’s circumstantial, Pete. Until it isn’t.’

‘Is that what they say in the Met?’

Joni shook her head. ‘They don’t like instinctive policing any more than the next force.’

So it’s just you, DS Rokeby thought. DI Joni Pax follows her instincts. If I want to get on in Pofnee, I need to make sure she doesn’t influence me too much.

Joni looked at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to do as I do.’

Pete Rokeby sat back, wondering how the hell she knew what he’d been thinking.

Suzana was back in the park where she’d left her bags in the morning. She’d walked around the centre of the town, taking in the main features and memorising them. She now knew how to get to the train and bus stations, the quickest ways out of Cor-ham should someone pick up her trail. She’d gone into a bookshop and found a small dictionary of English and Italian. In the village she had followed the subtitles on the Italian news broadcasts and picked up some words. She had also bought a map of the area. She looked up other words in the Italian part of the dictionary and mouthed their English equivalents.

‘Cash. Go a-wa-y. On-e sing-le tick-et to Lon-don.’

She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice the figures approaching her from right, left and straight ahead.

‘Who’s this then?’

Suzana looked up, her stomach clenching. A young man in a shirt with vertical black-and-white stripes was standing about five metres in front of her. She immediately felt nauseous. Many men in that shirt – she guessed it was a football team’s – had been to her room in the slave house. This one had short hair brushed to a peak above his forehead and a spotty face.

‘Le-av-e me a-lon-e,’ she said, pulling the bag with her weapons closer.

There were bursts of laughter from him and the two other youths she’d failed to notice on each side of the bench.

‘What did she say?’ yelled one.

‘Le-av-e me a-lon-e,’ repeated the young man in front of her. ‘What are you? Chinese?’

‘Go a-wa-y,’ Suzana said firmly.

‘Go a-wa-y!’ repeated the three, collapsing in mirth.

‘Go ’awaii 5–0?’ said the one to the left.

‘Not from round here, are you?’ black-and-white shirt said, moving closer. ‘Maybe we can show you some of the local, er…’ He looked at his mates and grinned. ‘…cock.’

That was a word Suzana had heard before, too often. The men said it when they wanted her to touch their penises or put her mouth on them. She slipped her hand into the bag beside her.

‘The bushes behind’ll do,’ the youth to her right said.

‘Hey, bitch, what’s in the bag?’ black-and-white said, making a grab for it.

‘Go-od bla-d-e,’ Suzana said, slashing the carving knife at his hand.

He leapt back and landed on his backside, blood flowing copiously.

‘Grab the cunt,’ he gasped, clutching the wound with his other hand.

Suzana pulled another blade from the bag. This one was shorter, but honed on both sides. The other young men tried to grab her, but they weren’t quick enough. One nearly lost the tip of a finger and the other had his shoulder run through.

‘Go a-wa-y!’ she screamed, waving the blades like a Celtic warrior maiden.

Her assailants backed off, cursing loudly. She leaped at them and they ran down the slope like terrified sheep.

‘Thank yo-u,’ Suzana said, wiping the knives on the grass and gathering her things together. She was over the wall and out of the park in less than two minutes. For now she was safe, but she had to get out of town tonight.