Evil in Return (11 page)

She finished her spaghetti and helped herself to some salad. ‘Someone must have seen something,’ she said, pushing the bowl towards Tartaglia.

‘I’m sure they did, but Clive Cornish, or whoever was responsible in the press office, decided not to make it clear at the press briefing that Logan wasn’t killed at the Brompton Cemetery. The impression left is that he was yet another bad-luck victim of gun crime, so the public switch off. They don’t make any connection to something they may have seen.’

‘We can’t give all the details at this stage.’

‘No, but we should have made it clear that he was killed somewhere else. Apart from the usual loonies inspired by a near full moon and the gothic location, no decent witnesses have come forward saying they saw anything suspicious.’

‘Why wasn’t it spelled out?’

‘According to Carolyn – and, as usual, I’m not sure where she stands on this – the powers that be took the view that if we let on that Logan was only dumped in the cemetery later, the killer might cover his tracks.’

‘You disagree?’

‘I thought it was a price worth paying. At the moment, we have no idea where to start looking. It’s possible they’ll release the information tomorrow, but we’ve wasted twenty-four hours. No doubt the killer’s gone to ground. In the meantime, things are no clearer than at the start.’

‘Come on. We’ve made some progress.’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing that narrows the field in any material way. We still have no clue why Logan was killed or who might have done it. We’ve spoken to everyone along that stretch of the canal, bar two people who are away. Nobody saw anything and nobody remembered him at the pub, The Bargeman’s Rest, either.’

She finished eating and put down her plate, stretching back against the cushions. ‘That’s London for you. It must be a popular place at this time of year, with lots of tourists coming and going.’

He nodded. ‘And it seems Logan didn’t get out much. The cell site analysis of his calls shows that he spent most of the week before he died in and around his boat. He made or received a total of twenty odd calls that week, of which half are personal. Yet so far nothing interesting has emerged. Apart from Maggie Thomas, the only people Logan saw were the mysterious Alex Fleming and Anna Paget.’

He got to his feet and began to clear away their empty plates. She got up to help him and followed him into the kitchen.

‘Why don’t you leave it for the morning?’ she said, as he started to load the plates and glasses into the dishwasher.

‘I’d rather get it over and done with. I can’t relax with it hanging over me.’

‘Can I do anything?’

He shook his head and started washing the pan and bowls in the sink. ‘This won’t take long.’

She leaned back against the cupboards, watching him. ‘Maybe Superintendent Cornish was right,’ she said after a moment. ‘Maybe we have a nutter on the loose.’

He laughed. ‘Clive Cornish right? That would be a first.’

He saw a glimmer of a smile, the first that evening. Cornish was worth something, after all. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Maybe not. Perhaps the killer’s someone local, maybe one of the neighbours.’

He gave her a quizzical look.

‘Say there’s someone from Logan’s past, who hates him,’ she continued. ‘Logan then turns up living on the same canal, or nearby, and they decide to bump him off.’

‘That’s the stuff of cheap fiction,’ he said, stacking the pans and bowls on the drainer and drying his hands on a tea towel. ‘You know I don’t believe in coincidences. If there was a connection between Logan and any of his neighbours, it will eventually come out. Whoever did this would know that.’

She said nothing and he could tell she disagreed. He gave the counter a quick wipe, then turned back to her. ‘Coffee or tea?’

‘Tea, please,’ she said, distractedly. ‘Anything herbal if you have it.’

‘Fresh mint?’

‘Please.’

He switched on the kettle, unlocked the kitchen door and went out into the back garden, returning within a minute with a bunch of leaves. The smell of mint was strong as he tore the stems and put them into a large white teapot.

‘Maybe it’s simple,’ she said. ‘Maybe Logan just rubbed someone up the wrong way.’

He shook his head. ‘You don’t honestly believe that either. Logan had only been living there a couple of months, that’s all, and this isn’t about some petty little quarrel. Whoever did it beat him up, put a bullet in his head at point blank range and cut off his dick. Either they were making an example of him or they hated his guts. They then went to a great deal of trouble as well as personal risk to dump him in the cemetery. It was planned and premeditated down to the last detail. We were meant to find him in that crypt, although what it’s all about escapes me.’

The kettle pinged and he filled the teapot. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, glancing over at her. ‘People do terrible things for the most trivial of reasons. Maybe Logan really did piss off one of his neighbours, who just happens to be a violent psychopath. The background checks will show if any of them have form of any sort. If there’s a connection to Logan in some way we’ll find it, but the way I see it, there has to be a bigger reason for it all than a chance meeting or a neighbourly spat.’ He took two mugs from the shelf and poured out the tea, passing her hers.

‘What’s your gut telling you, then?’ she said.

Cradling his mug in his hand, he leaned back against the wall, facing her. Although it was late and she said she was tired, her eyes were bright and she had a good colour in her cheeks. ‘If you want to know, I’m stumped. Logan was a one-time actor and teacher turned best-selling novelist, not some dirty little pusher or gangland heavy. Did the two worlds collide somehow? That’s the big question.’

‘Maybe he had a secret life.’

‘If he was mixing with the wrong people, we’ll soon know. But nothing’s turned up. So far, he’s squeaky clean. The missing second book’s another mystery, although it seems to be common knowledge that Logan kept a key to the boat underneath a flowerpot on the front deck. It would have been child’s play for someone to get inside, find his laptop and delete the file. The password was written on a yellow sticky above the table where he worked.’

‘It would have been simpler just to take the laptop.’

‘Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to what they were doing.’

‘They could have made it look like a break-in.’

He sighed, tired of talking about the case. ‘You’re right. It’s yet another thing that doesn’t add up. I just hope that if someone tampered with Logan’s laptop, we’ll be able to recover whatever was there before. But if he was killed because of something he knew, something he was going to put in his next novel, what the hell was it? He wasn’t an investigative journalist who stumbled on something big. Even the way he was killed and dumped doesn’t add up. To give Carolyn her due, she described the whole thing as a cut and shunt and that’s exactly what it is. None of it makes sense. You know what we need more than anything?’

‘What’s that?’

‘A bit of luck.’

‘If anyone’s lucky, it’s you. Have you thought of talking to a profiler?’

‘It’s too early. You know how difficult they are to get hold of, how much red tape there is. Anyway, there’s not enough to go on to warrant it, plus I’m sure Carolyn wouldn’t sanction it, let alone our blessed superintendent. He thinks profilers are akin to psychics or witch-doctors.’

‘I meant off the record, just for a chat. Who’s the one you spoke to a few months ago . . . about the Watson case . . . you know . . . what was her name?’ She clicked her fingers, trying to remember.

‘Angela Harper?’

‘I think so. She spoke to you off the record, didn’t she? She was pretty user-friendly, I seem to remember.’

He frowned. He wasn’t thinking straight. ‘You’re right, as always, Sam. Why the hell didn’t I think of it? I know Angela will tell me it’s too early, but if nothing else it may help me get my thoughts in order. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.’ Unable to stop himself, he yawned.

She put her mug down on the counter. ‘I’m keeping you up. I’d better go.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘No, I really must go. You’re making me tired just to look at you.’

He picked up a hint of reluctance, as though perhaps she wanted him to persuade her to stay. Not sure what to do, he followed her to the front door and opened it for her, wondering if maybe, after all, she wanted to talk. Or was it something more? If only he didn’t feel so tired . . .

As she turned to go, he caught her gently by the arm. ‘Sam?’

‘Yes?’

He couldn’t tell anything from her tone. Silhouetted against the light from the street, her face was in shadow and he couldn’t read her expression either. He decided to let it go. ‘Shall I walk you to your car?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Good luck tomorrow, then.’

‘Thanks. I’ll call you.’

He watched her walk down the path. A minute or so later, he heard her start the engine and she drove away. As he closed the door and went back into his flat, part of him wished he wasn’t going to bed on his own.

13

‘I understand that Joe Logan was with you for about six months,’ Donovan said.

‘Yes, just the two terms. He left at Easter.’ The Reverend Tom Sutton leaned back into the cushioned depths of his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him.

‘Did you get to know him at all while he was here?’

Sutton shook his head. ‘We have a large teaching staff and, although I was part of the initial interview process, I personally didn’t spend much time with him. By all accounts, he was a good teacher, well-liked by his peers and the pupils, and from what I saw of him he seemed a very nice man, God rest his soul.’

Donovan and Chang were seated in Sutton’s huge, vaulted study in a wing of the main school building of St Thomas’s. The room was thickly carpeted and panelled, the walls hung with oil portraits of previous headmasters in heavy gilded frames. Taking its cue from the ruined abbey in the grounds, which had been destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries, the architecture of the building was high Victorian, all honeyed stone, finials and gothic windows. It reminded Donovan of the Houses of Parliament, somehow fitting for a man of the cloth, although Sutton was surprisingly young and informally dressed. With his short, blond hair, chinos and button-down, striped shirt, he looked more like a fresh-faced, newly ordained priest than a seasoned headmaster.

‘Why was he here as a supply teacher?’ Chang asked, pen poised over his notepad.

‘A member of staff went on maternity leave.’

‘We found a copy of a letter he wrote to you on his laptop,’ Donovan said. ‘I understand you’d offered him a permanent job?’

‘Yes, the lady decided she only wanted to return part-time so we then offered him the job, but he declined.’

‘I thought he hadn’t made up his mind, or that’s what he said in the letter?’

‘That’s right. He declined the first time, but my head of department then had the idea of trying to combine the post with the slot of writer-in-residence. Creative writing’s an increasingly popular option in the sixth form.’

‘I can imagine, particularly with a best-selling author offering tuition. The parents and governors would have been pleased.’

Sutton inclined his head.

‘Was it because of his writing that he left?’

‘I really don’t know. I got the impression he had just made up his mind to go at the end of his contract. Perhaps he just wanted a change, or somewhere a little less isolated. From what I hear, he’d taken jobs all over the country.’

‘Were they all residential posts?’

‘I think so. He wasn’t married, so I suppose he had that flexibility. Sometimes when people get used to that sort of life, they find it difficult or boring to settle in any one place.’

Donovan nodded, although privately wondering why Logan had exchanged such a job in an idyllic location for a pokey narrow-boat on a stretch of urban canal. She thought back to her conversation with Tartaglia the previous night. Maybe Logan had been hiding from something – or someone. If so, how had they found him?

‘Who’s in charge of English?’ Chang asked.

‘A woman called Susan Hamlyn. You really should talk to her, but she’s away on holiday now with her family. I think they’ve gone camping in Greece. Term ended last week and I’m afraid most of the teaching staff have already left for the summer.’

‘Do you know if Mr Logan was working on another book while he was here?’ Donovan asked.

‘Again, Susan would have been the one to speak to, or Ed Burton. He teaches Latin and ancient Greek. Joe was rooming with him, so he might know.’

‘I understand Mr Logan left some belongings here.’

‘Yes. After you called yesterday, I spoke to Ed. He’s expecting you and he’ll be able to let you have whatever’s there. Apparently, there’s a trunk and a suitcase. His cottage is down the drive past the theatre block. It’s about a five-minute walk.’

‘Well, we’d better get going,’ Donovan said, standing up to leave. There was nothing more to learn from Sutton and she was keen to find out what Logan had left behind. She thanked Sutton for his time. He gave them directions and showed them out.

Although the air was fresh and sweet, the dew on the ground was quickly evaporating. It was going to be another hot day. Trees, immaculate lawns and playing fields, bathed in the morning sunshine, stretched as far as the eye could see; woods were visible in the hazy distance, and there wasn’t a road or town in sight. Donovan glanced briefly back at the cathedral-like building behind them and the ruins of the mediaeval abbey beyond. It was a far cry from the crowded and cramped London grammar where she and her sister had gone to school.

‘I wouldn’t mind working here,’ she said, as they crossed the broad sweep of drive and headed down a path signposted ‘Theatre’.

‘You really fancy teaching?’ Chang looked surprised.

‘A place like this, who wouldn’t? Both my parents were teachers, so it’s in the blood, although it was positively the last thing on my mind when I left university. Same goes for my sister Claire. She’s a solicitor. I never thought either of us had the patience, let alone the dedication, but now I don’t know. There’s a part of me that could do with something a bit slower-paced.’

‘You serious?’

‘I am. Think of the peace and quiet, plus there’s a lot to be said for a full night’s sleep.’

‘You’re just saying that because you’re tired.’

‘Maybe, but it takes its toll.’

‘It wouldn’t be like this in term time.’

‘No, probably not.’ Looking about, the place did feel empty with nobody around, as though its heart and soul were missing. The only sound came from a tractor mower that was ploughing steadily up and down cutting the grass in front of an old-fashioned, white-painted cricket pavilion. It must all feel very different with children running around.

‘I’d have hated boarding, being sent away from home,’ she said. ‘My parents would never have been able to afford it anyway, but I suppose for the lucky few it must be an incredible experience.’

‘You make it sound like Hogwarts.’

‘Well, isn’t it? Just without the magic? It must be great fun, if you don’t get homesick.’

Chang said nothing.

‘What I don’t get is why Logan didn’t take the job,’ she continued after a moment. ‘I mean, it must be a perfect billet for a writer. I know the school day doesn’t finish when lessons are over, you’ve got to mark essays and stuff, but it’s hardly full on, twenty-four seven, like what we do. And then there are the holidays, with endless time to write.’

‘I’m sure teaching posts like this don’t grow on trees,’ Chang responded.

‘Exactly. Why give it up? His editor said he took years to write the first book, and I can’t think of a nicer place to hole up for a while to write number two.’

After a couple of detours, they eventually found Ed Burton’s cottage. It was one of a pair, built of brick and flint, semi-detached, and on the edge of the campus close to one of the entrance gates. Burton must have seen them coming down the hill as he was waiting at the top of the small flight of steps that led to the two cottages. He was dressed in jeans and a checked short-sleeved shirt, and was tall and thin, with a pronounced Adam’s apple and a slight stoop. He towered over them both as he shook their hands.

‘Joe’s stuff is all here, ready for you,’ he said, ducking as he led them inside. ‘This is it.’ He indicated a large black suitcase and an old-fashioned trunk that were sitting by the door in the tiny hall. ‘I had a friend coming to stay, so I had to move them out of his room. I put them in the cupboard under the stairs. I didn’t know what else to do with them.’ He spoke apologetically, as though it were an unfriendly thing to do to a dead man’s possessions.

‘Do you know what’s in them?’

‘No idea, but I expect some of it will be his winter clothes. The suitcase isn’t locked, so you can take a look if you like, but as you can see, the trunk’s padlocked. It weighs a ton, so I imagine it’s full of his books. He had a fair number when he was living here.’

‘We’ll get them both back to the office and look at it all there,’ Donovan said. ‘We found some keys among his things, so we may not have to force the lock.’

They followed Burton into a small sitting room at the front where a sofa and two armchairs were grouped around a fireplace. Even though it was high summer, the room smelled strongly of wood smoke. Apart from bookshelves on either side of the chimney breast, there was little space for anything else and it felt crowded with the three of them there. Donovan wondered if Logan had spent most of his time in his bedroom.

‘Do you know if he left anything behind to do with his computer?’ Chang asked, as they sat down.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A separate hard drive or memory stick, maybe?’

Burton shook his head. ‘I doubt it. As far as I know, he took all that sort of thing with him.’

‘So he didn’t leave anything specifically with you, for safekeeping?’

Burton looked puzzled. ‘Other than the suitcase and trunk, no.’

‘Any notebooks or other writing materials?’ Donovan asked. ‘It’s just that we seem to be missing some of his files.’

‘As I said, if he left anything like that behind, it’ll be in the trunk. He cleared out his room thoroughly when he left.’

‘OK, thanks. We’ll check when we get back to the office. Did he talk to you about his writing at all?’

‘Sometimes. We’d have the odd jar in the pub together. And of course I have a copy of
Indian Summer
, which he signed but I haven’t got around to reading it, I’m afraid.’

‘I meant the second book.’

Burton shook his head, again frowning. ‘He was working on something, but he didn’t really talk about it. I got the impression he was a bit sensitive about it. Writers can be, can’t they?’

‘Yes,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘Did he mention what it was about?’

‘No. I suppose he didn’t want to give away his idea or expose it to the air.’

‘But he was definitely working on something?’

Burton nodded. ‘Sometimes we’d be in the middle of a conversation and he’d break off to scribble down a note, so I guess even when he wasn’t actually writing, he was carrying it around in his head.’

‘With his living here, you must have seen quite a lot of him,’ Chang said.

‘During the week, yes, although we were both busy with our schoolwork. My girlfriend lives in Exeter, so I was away most weekends. On the odd occasion when she came here, we were usually tied up doing things together.’

‘But you liked Mr Logan?’

‘Yes, I did. He was a quiet bloke, a bit reserved, and he kept himself to himself most of the time. He wasn’t the tidiest, but I’ve shared with a lot worse and he was pleasant enough to have around. I was very sorry to hear what’s happened.’

‘Apart from you, did he spend time with anyone else while he was teaching here?’

‘He’d go out for the odd drink with other members of staff, but there was nobody in particular he saw.’

‘Do you think he was lonely?’ Donovan asked.

‘No. He wasn’t unfriendly either. I don’t want to give that impression. I’d just say he was self-contained, happy in his own company, if you get my meaning. Maybe he was different with people he knew well. When he was here, teaching took up a lot of his time. The writing had to fit around it and there was little time for anything else.’

‘What about phone calls? Was there anyone particular you remember him speaking to?’

‘I can’t say. There’s no phone in the cottage. Any calls would have been on his mobile, although the reception’s pretty poor.’

‘What about the internet?’

‘The main school building has wi-fi. I remember Joe using his laptop in the common room quite a lot. It’s what we all do.’

‘Thank you for your help.’ Donovan said, getting up from her seat. ‘Would you mind if I take a quick look at his room before we go?’

‘Be my guest. It’s right up the stairs, the one on the left.’

She climbed the steep, narrow staircase to what had once been Logan’s room. It was small, painted institutional cream, with cheap green carpet and woodchip wallpaper. But the two windows set into the eves gave it a light, airy feel. It must have been a pleasant place to work. A divan bed was pushed up against one wall, covered with an Indian throw, there was a pine wardrobe in a corner and small bookcase beside a desk and chair under the far window. The room looked freshly cleaned and, as far as she could see, there were no obvious hiding places. As Burton had said, all traces of Logan himself had long since gone, but if this was where he had lived for six months, he had been a lucky man. She still struggled to understand why he had left.

She was standing at the window admiring the view of the countryside and hills beyond and enjoying the silence, when Chang called out from below:

‘Find anything, Sam?’

Reluctantly, she went back out onto the landing. Chang was standing with Burton in the hall.

‘Justin, can you go and fetch the car?’ She started down the stairs towards them. ‘I hope you won’t mind giving us a hand with the trunk, Mr Burton? Justin won’t be able to get it into the boot on his own and I don’t think I’m up to lifting even one corner.’

‘No problem,’ Burton said, as Chang disappeared out the door. ‘While you’re waiting, I’ll put the kettle on. I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea.’