Fear No Evil (27 page)

‘Thanks,’ I muttered. You should always make time for good manners, as Sister Margaret Mary taught us. And if you didn’t, Jesus would hit you on the knuckles with a wooden ruler.

I was glad I didn’t have a couch, or I’d have lay down and fallen asleep. I still felt like I had Justin’s blood on my hands, which I didn’t. And even though I now knew he was going to be all right, my nerves hadn’t quite caught up with my brain as yet. I felt fried.

I pulled out my phone and dialled Wigwam. He wasn’t near enough to kick, but he was always on hand to abuse. For some bizarre reason I felt angry with him. Maybe I was just angry with the world, and I knew Wigwam had done enough bad things during his life to deserve my vitriol, even if this particular drama wasn’t his fault. Police logic. It made perfect sense to me.

He answered, and launched into a mini-rant of his own.

‘Theresa’s been a right pain in the fucking arse since she saw you – what were you saying to her? I think she’s in bloody love with you.’

‘And what’s wrong with that? Better than the fuck-ups she’s hanging round with now, you arsehole. Bothers you if you’re not the only gay in the village, does it?’

Silence. Possibly a stifled giggle.

‘No. I don’t give a toss. But she’s had a hard time and I don’t want it any harder for her. Eugene tolerates me, but we all know homosexuals are an abomination, don’t we? Now stop talking shite – have you found out who got Geneva up the duff yet?’

‘No. But I will. That’s why I’m phoning. Where would she hide something? Growing up with the shower of bastards she called family, she must have learned a few tricks.’

‘Have you tried the bog?’

‘Of course I bloody have! And the light switches and the drawers and the extractor fan and under the effing mattress. There must be somewhere else. Geneva might have been a Casey, but she was still female – there’s no way she wouldn’t have a photo or a love letter or a hotel room receipt tucked away as a memento. Now make yourself useful and think.’

He was quiet again, apart from a vague background humming. I couldn’t have sworn to it, but it could have been ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ by Shakira. The bootylicious sound of Wigwam thinking.

‘There was this time,’ he said eventually, ‘with Theresa’s mother. You know about her, don’t you? Druggie. We tried to get her cleaned up, but it was like trying to keep seagull shit off the Liver Birds. The woman was chronic. We used to raid the house every week or so, looking for gear. We tried to do it when the kids were out of the way, Geneva was always round there, or Theresa was always round at theirs, they lived next to each other. But Geneva did this thing – she used to hide. Nosing round, like, listening to conversations she had no right hearing.’

Lorraine had mentioned that as well. Sneaky little tyke to have round the house – especially a Casey house. Maybe in a different life Geneva would have made a grade A, kick-ass girl detective.

‘So one day we’re in the bathroom, and we’re taking it to bits and putting it back together again, like we did all the time. Felt like I had a job with a plumber’s yard for a while there. She had the stuff in bags, taped flat to the bath, covered with the bath panel. We only knew ’cos she left a bit of the plastic peeping out the corner, the stupid cow. So we got it off, got the stash, and—’

‘I don’t want to know. Just let me imagine you flushed it all down the toilet like the responsible citizens you aren’t. And Geneva saw all this, did she?’

‘She did,’ he replied. ‘She was in the airing cupboard, watching us through the wooden slats. Must have been about eight or nine at the time, but I guarantee she’ll never have forgotten – it’ll have been tucked away in that brain of hers. Any use?’

‘I’ll tell you when I’ve dismantled her bath,’ I replied, and snapped the phone shut.

As soon as I closed it, it rang. Tish.

‘How’s Justin?’ she said. I could hear glasses clinking and music in the background. She was in the pub.

‘He’s fine. He’ll just be even uglier when he gets out. Where are you? Top-level business meeting?’

‘No. Quick pint with the Divine Richard then home for make-up sex. The interlude with Adam was pleasant, but Richard’s the real deal when it comes to bonking. It’s been weeks, I’m going to drain him dry. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

‘Please don’t,’ I said. ‘It may make me ill. How’s your research going?’

‘Brilliant. It’s going to get me on the front pages of every paper in the country.’

‘Well, that’s good to know. That was obviously my main aim in getting you involved in all this. Anything you’d care to share?’

‘Not at this stage, no. But soon, promise. Out of interest, who else was there when Justin got hurt?’

‘Me, him, Dan and our friendly neighbourhood demon. Thing. God, I can’t get used to saying that. I’d feel much better if there was someone I could—’

‘Kick the shit out of?’ she suggested.

‘Yes. That. Let me ask you something – Geneva Connelly told her cousin, and bessie mate, that she’d met The One. What do you reckon? She would’ve left trace of it somewhere, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yeah. There’ll be something. A little love poem or a photo of them together maybe. The One… that doesn’t sound like her, from what you’ve said. Must have been serious. And what about DNA? Will they still have, you know, a bit of the baby in a jar?’

That was totally gross even by my standards, but the thought had crossed my mind. The only problem was, even if they did have, it’d do no good unless we had a suspected Daddy to compare it to.

‘Not sure. I’ll check with Corky, but he was on one of his many paternity leaves when the case came in. And yeah – The One. Too romantic by far. By all accounts Geneva made Margaret Thatcher look like a Mills & Boon heroine, so I was surprised as well. But Theresa had no reason to lie. There was a Mr Big lurking in the background and I don’t have a clue who it was.’

‘Well, I have every faith in you, Miss Marple. You’ll suss it out. Let me know when you do. I’ll be in touch very soon – there’s stuff you need to know, and as soon as I have it all tied together, I’ll call. It might not have direct bearing on the demon thing, or Joy’s death, but I’ll fill you in. Give my regards to Justin, and give Dan a big, wet kiss from me. With tongues. Gotta go now – my libido’s calling… but stick close to Dan, okay? And just be careful.’

‘You too,’ I said. ‘Use a condom.’

She was still laughing as she disconnected, and went back to her beer and her impending sex. God, I was jealous.

Chapter 32

I spent the next half hour going through my case notes on Joy Middlemas again. I felt I’d lost sight of something over the last few days. The distractions of Dan and his crew; the demonic kids; Wigwam and the Caseys. Geneva and her mystery lover. Mainly that. This case was about Joy Middlemas, but I’d been dragged deeper and deeper into the last days of Geneva Connelly’s life as well. I felt there was a thread there I needed to pull, I just didn’t know why.

And in the chaos, I’d forgotten to ask Will if he’d ever heard from her again – if she’d been tracking the history of Hart House as well, she could have found something that could be useful. I added it to my mammoth mental to-do list, then made a quick call to Rose Middlemas.

I updated her on some of my findings, the sanitised version, and assured her I was still hard at it. She was brisk and businesslike as ever, until she started crying. I made a few pathetic attempts at comforting noises, then got off the phone as quickly as I could. I’d be no consolation to her, and she’d be as embarrassed as hell about her fall from Nazi-like authority later on. But I’d needed that. I needed to be reminded of Joy, and the way she died, and of everything she and her parents were cheated out of. To remember the huge hole she’d left in their lives, the gaping wounds her death had caused. I couldn’t heal them – but perhaps I could apply a little anaesthetic if I answered their questions.

It also helped me make up my mind to do something very, very stupid. I knew I was going to do it all along, but I needed that extra push in the wrong direction.

I was going back to Hart House. And I was going alone. Dan had his hands full with Justin; Tish had her hands full with the Divine Richard’s various body parts, and there was nobody else I cared to involve. All I’d be doing was putting them at risk. It was me against Demon Nippers, Round Three. Ding ding. I knew I was punching well above my weight, but it wouldn’t be for the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Hopefully.

I decided to walk. It was a beautiful day, and I needed to clear my head. It also allowed for the possibility that en route I would have a freak attack of common sense, and decide to leave it after all, and go and do something less risky like throw myself off a cliff.

I headed to the Shire Horse. It was the nearest boozer to Hart House, and as such was known as the local student watering hole. Watery beer, torn rock posters on the walls, and Green Day on the jukebox. Tim had said he’d be heading to the pub, and he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to end a drinking session until he either ran out of cash, or passed out. Maybe I could get a swift brandy myself, in an attempt to quell the heebie-jeebies that were starting to creep in at the thought of going back into enemy territory.

As it happened I didn’t even need to go into the pub. Which is always a disappointment, but probably for the best under the circumstances. There was always the risk I’d get drunk, and end up telling the Demon Thing he was my best mate and we should get a flat together in Spain.

Tim was perched on a wall outside, next to a waifish blonde who looked like her idea of nutrition was licking the last few coffee granules out of the jar. They were both smoking, and from the smell wafting towards me, they weren’t on Marlborough Gold. Close your eyes and you’re in Glastonbury, I thought as I approached them.

‘Hey! How’s it going?’ asked Tim, swaying slightly with the effort of putting half a sentence together. Very drunk, very stoned. Which would probably make my job easier.

‘Well we had a bit of an accident actually, Tim. One of my friends slipped on the stairs, so we had to cut it short.’

‘Bummer. Is he okay? Was it the good-looking serious-surfer dude or the turtle-headed dude?’

‘The turtle-headed dude, and yes, he’s fine, thanks. He’s in hospital but should be out tomorrow. They’re all a bit busy with that, and we didn’t finish what we came to do. Is there a chance I could borrow your key and take another look? Then I’ll drop it back to you and buy you a pint for all your help.’

Assuming, of course, I wasn’t making amusing cartoon concertina shapes on the staff car park by that stage.

‘Yeah, course. No problems. I’ll still be here. We’re going to a party later on, you can always come with us if you like.’

Ugh. Student party. Even I wasn’t that desperate for a drink.

‘That’s really kind, Tim. I’ll see you later, shouldn’t be too long.’

He handed over the key, grinned, and went back to his conversation. It was something to do with the mating rituals of blue whales, but I didn’t hang around to listen in.

Arthur, the befuddled security guard from the other night, was on duty when I swiped my way into the building. I stopped for a quick chat, updating him on Justin’s progress, and telling him where I was going. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly the SAS when it came to rescues, but it made sense to tell at least one sober adult what I was up to. Tim didn’t qualify on either count.

I took the precaution of using the lift to get up to Geneva’s floor. Arthur had called in the maintenance staff to do a clean-up on the stairs after we’d assured him it was just an accident, but I didn’t fancy passing the spot where I last had an intimate encounter with Justin’s bodily fluids.

I started in on a quick Our Father as the lift cranked its way upwards. It couldn’t hurt. I also fingered the silver cross and chain I’d taken to wearing recently – a gift from my gran, who lived in mortal fear for my soul. Until two days ago I’m ashamed to say it was in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, along with a rarely-used vibrator and my emergency hangover paracetamol. Maybe she was right.

I was so scared by the time I got out that even the sound of the lift doors closing made me jump. I looked around cautiously and sniffed the air, as if that would do any good. Logic had flown out of the window by this stage, and I was acting like an animal being hunted in the woods, all primitive fear and instinct. It didn’t feel – or smell – cold, which I knew from past experience was a good thing. No little voice threatening to feed me to Baa Baa Black Sheep either, even better.

My hands were shaking as I turned the key, and I almost tripped over my own feet in my haste to get inside the room and close the door behind me. Again, I had no idea why I thought that would help. I’m not up on the physics of it all, but I’m fairly sure supernatural beings with no body can get through closed doors.

I scurried into the bathroom, keen to be in and out as quickly as possible. The adrenaline was dive-bombing my nervous system, making me clumsy as I pulled out my tools. My body was preparing me for fight or flight – which wasn’t especially useful when what I needed to be prepared for was a bit of DIY bath wrecking.

It wasn’t that hard in the end. It was a cheap bath, standard bulk-order white plastic, and the panel was barely slotted in to the groove at the top. It took me a couple of tries to get my penknife slipped inside it, then I levered it off with a scrape and a pop.

I pulled the panel down, and could see the shell of the bath inside. Pretty dusty in there, as you’d expect, with a mouldy smell that implied a small leak. Not my concern, but perhaps I could be a good citizen and report it to Arthur on my way out. If I made my way out.

I laid the panel flat on the floor by my knees. I didn’t have to look long or hard. It was right there – a small waterproof bag, the kind you get your sandwiches wrapped in for your lunchbox, stuck on the inside of the panel with sellotape that had faded from clear to a mustard yellow. I grabbed it.

By this stage I was too wired to stay a minute longer. I slammed the panel back on, cursing when it stuck, and stood up. I used my trainer to give it a bit of a kick and it popped back into place. Nothing but a very slight scuff mark and a tiny scratch to show I’d even been there. There was no way Tim would notice – assuming he even took baths.