Gregory's Game (4 page)

‘Now you really do sound like an agony aunt. But yeah, you're probably right. Dad and me, we went to America in the summer. My mum and her new family live in Florida and we went over to spend time with them and then went to New York.'

‘That sounds very civilized,' Gregory commented. ‘Divorces, in my experience, have usually messy consequences.'

‘Oh, theirs did for a while. Mum wanted me to live with them and I hated it. I hated my step dad, resented her and didn't want to share her with the kids he had already. I wanted to be with my dad and she thought I was better off with her.'

‘But you managed to resolve the situation, obviously.'

‘Eventually. They moved to Florida, I stayed with Dad and slowly we all started to get on better. He needed me; she didn't.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Ten, nearly eleven.'

‘And how did you convince them?'

Patrick laughed. ‘I think it was just easier for everyone to give in. She said I could stay for the summer holidays and we'd talk about it before the new school term. I think it was just obvious by then that we were all happier the way things were. I think she felt really bad about it for a while. You know, realizing that I didn't want to be with her must have hurt, but I'm glad it turned out the way it did. We've all managed to sort things out and, like you say, be civilized about it.'

But it's all left you feeling very insecure, Gregory thought. He analysed that emotion too, turning it over in his mind and examining it from all angles, before finally deciding he had not experienced that one either.

D
I Fuller was relieved the weather had been cold and even more relieved that the central heating hadn't been turned on but even so the smell was pretty bad. The cottage was isolated and, had it not been for the neighbour, the body could still have been undiscovered.

Tess Fuller doubted the neighbour would forget what she'd seen in a hurry and was glad the half-closed door had kept her from the full horror. The first officer attending hadn't been so lucky. He was still next door with the neighbour and a local on-call GP was treating the pair of them for shock.

Fuller had been waiting by the front door until the CSI in charge told her it was OK to come in. Square plates, like stepping stones, described the designated pathway and Tess moved cautiously from one to the next until she stood directly in front of the hanging man.

‘We know who he is?'

‘We're assuming it's the tenant. A Mr Palmer. Dental will have to confirm it.'

Tess Fuller nodded. ‘How long did it take him to die?' she asked, not really expecting an answer. She hoped it hadn't taken as long as it looked. She tried to keep her breathing shallow, but her heart was pounding, demanding a level of oxygen she was unwilling to provide. The truth was that whenever Tess Fuller – calm, capable Tess Fuller – saw a dead body, her first and often lasting response was to run, to get the hell away as far and as fast as she could.

‘Anything you want to tell me?'

The lead CSI shook her head. ‘What you see is what you get, I'm afraid. It's going to be a hell of a scene to process. When you're done looking, we'd like to start taking the body down.'

Tess Fuller nodded. ‘Go ahead,' she said. She took one last look at the body. It was naked to the waist and was suspended from some kind of what she took to be an ornamental metal beam that spanned the kitchen space. That he had been strangled was obvious from the swollen face, the protruding tongue and eyes, puffed and blackened with suffused blood and three days of putrefaction. But what was strange was that the man's arms had also been bound to the beam, so that his arms were outspread, almost in the attitude of someone crucified. The image of the crucifixion was reinforced by the gaping wound in the man's side. There was no sign, that Tess could see, of the weapon that created the wound.

The torso was criss-crossed by cuts: some deep, some shallow, barely breaking the skin. But the odd thing was the length of the cuts, the length of the lateral lines. Could you cut that straight if the man was struggling? She looked more closely at the pinioned arms.

‘What is that thing he's fastened up to?'

‘It's a tie rod,' the CSI said. ‘This is an old house; that and two others are keeping it from falling outward. If you look outside you'll see two great iron cross pieces on the wall.'

Tess nodded, understanding. ‘And what's he held up with? It looks like … well, fishing line.'

‘It could be. It's certainly a monofilament of some kind by the look of it.'

‘And it's strong enough?'

‘Some lines can have more than a hundred pounds breaking strain. And it's wrapped and wrapped, so yes, no problem with it being strong enough. Trouble is, it cuts in. It doesn't break, just … well, you can see. We think that's what caused the cuts on the body. He was wrapped in the stuff, it was tightened, something threaded through at the back here and then twisted to tighten.' She pointed at some marks on the man's back that Tess couldn't see. She made no effort to go round and look. Her imagination was already into overdrive.

She tried to focus on the questions she should ask and just nodded, not trusting herself to speak now. Where the man had been tied to the beam the line had sliced deep into skin and muscle, disappearing into the cuts it had made, seeming almost to dissolve into him. She tried not to think about the other monofilament that would have wrapped the man's body, bitten and cut his chest and abdomen. She had seen nothing like it before; heard of nothing like it.

‘The fishing line, or whatever it is, stopped at the bone,' the CSI said and, though she was doing her best to sound matter of fact, Tess could see that she was somehow awestruck by this. That it had gone beyond the usual level of horror.

Tess nodded again. She managed to ask, ‘But round the neck … wouldn't it have …?'

‘Decapitated him? Yeah, probably; it looks like they used a nylon climbing rope or something similar instead. Step round there a bit and you can see.'

Reluctantly, her brain still screaming out its flight response and her heart now hammering twice as hard, Tess moved to the next plate on the pathway.

‘See?'

A yellow rope stretched down from the dead man's neck. It had been stretched taut and then tied off round the back of a chair. The chair was then wedged beneath the heavy table so that the tension was maintained.

‘I'm speculating, you understand,' the CSI said. ‘But he's not a big man; two people could have grabbed him and strung him up. I'm guessing they used the rope round the neck to haul him up, then tied him. They could have kept him alive for quite a while, releasing the tension, then … I guess the filament wrapped round the body was just additional incentive. I'm not sure, yet, if it was the rope or the stab wound in the side that finished him off. That's where all the blood came from, so logically he was still alive when the knife went in. Whoever stabbed him, they twisted it in the wound, just for good measure.'

‘They tortured him. I get the picture.'

‘Yeah. Wish I didn't.'

Tess nodded, knowing they'd both be waking in the night, unable to clear the image and what it insinuated from their minds.

‘I'll get out of your way,' Tess Fuller said.

I
f Harry was shocked to find Gregory mashing potatoes in his kitchen, he hid it well, expressing only polite surprise as he shook hands.

‘Kettle's on,' Patrick said. ‘And there's a pot of tea already made, should still be drinkable.' He gave his dad a quick hug as he passed him, then grabbed the oven gloves and opened the door. ‘Sausage, mash, peas and I even did onion gravy.'

‘Sounds good to me,' Harry said, dropping his briefcase behind the door and flopping down into a chair. ‘Boy, what a day.'

Gregory poured him a cup of tea and placed it on the table. ‘I hope it's all right,' he said. ‘Me stopping for supper?'

Harry waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course it is. You'll just have to give me a minute or two to resume normal operations, as it were.'

‘You spent the afternoon with Atkins,' Patrick remembered.

‘I did indeed.' He gulped at his tea and then seemed to find the energy to shrug off his coat.'

‘Shall I stick that in the hall?' Gregory asked, aware that he was now blocking the door.

‘Thank you,' Harry said. ‘Stick my bag out there too, would you. Lord knows I've seen enough of it for one day.'

‘This Atkins fellow. He's trouble, is he?'

‘A man with too much money and too little perspective when it comes to his actual importance to the world.'

Gregory laughed. ‘And you're what, his accountant?'

‘Yes, he's a client. Fortunately he has a business manager that I usually deal with, but two or three times a year, Mr Atkins has to come and do what he calls a proper audit. Anyway, let's leave the job in the hall. It's Friday evening and I don't have to think about it for a day or two.'

Gregory watched as father and son exchanged a smile. Their closeness had been obvious from the first time Gregory had encountered them and he wondered about it. What was it like, being that close to someone? He'd never been close to his father and never been particularly interested in his mother though he recognized she had done her best with her rather diffident and uncommunicative son.

‘Ready to eat?' Patrick asked and gestured to Gregory to take a seat. Gregory sat, suddenly a little uneasy. As he'd told Patrick earlier, he wasn't good at making conversation – though he found Patrick surprisingly easy to talk to.

Patrick served up the food.

‘Dig in,' Harry said. ‘No need to stand on ceremony. Thank you, Patrick, much appreciated.'

For several minutes they ate in near silence, all giving attention to the food. Gregory realized that he was hungry and, from the way Patrick seemed to be wolfing his meal, that he was too.

‘So,' Harry said eventually. ‘What brings you to Pinsent? You've come to see how Alec and Naomi are getting along, I expect.'

‘Something like that,' Gregory agreed. ‘As I told Patrick, it was a bit of an impulse. I suddenly find myself with time on my hands and I'm not too sure what to do with it, I suppose.'

Harry nodded. ‘It's not easy to stop being a busy person,' he agreed, then got up. ‘More tea for everyone? Good. Well, as Patrick has probably told you, I think Alec is still in shock perhaps. I think it might have been easier if he'd had a job to go back to. He's always been a busy person too and it's bad for that kind of personality to come to a full stop.'

Harry set the mugs on the table and sat down again. ‘I think going back to work would have been the best thing for him. Routine and other people's expectations can be remarkably … soothing is the wrong word; comforting, I suppose, in an odd way.'

‘It struck me, when I saw them both, that he was enjoying the break in routine,' Gregory said. ‘But I figured he'd soon get bored. I think they both would. It's not good for people used to having roots to suddenly be adrift.'

‘Do you have roots?' Patrick asked.

‘A very few tenuous ones,' Gregory told him. ‘I always assumed that the only time I'd be fully planted was the day they finally put me in the ground.'

Meal over, Patrick excused himself. He had work to do that he'd rather get out of the way so he could have a free weekend. Gregory helped Harry to clear the table and wash up. Harry had switched on the radio and the news informed them that the populated world was still doing nasty things to itself. The local bulletin spoke of a car crash on the coast road and ensuing delays and reports of a suspicious death a few miles down the road at Halsingham. Gregory recognized the name of the village, but could not place what bell it rang. Maybe, he thought, he'd just passed a sign for it recently.

‘Shall we go through to the living room?' Harry asked. ‘I could do with a drink and I'm not keen on drinking alone.'

‘I should go,' Gregory said. ‘I've imposed for long enough.'

‘Do you have somewhere to be or are you just being polite?'

Gregory smiled. ‘A drink would be nice.' He followed Harry through to the small sitting room. It was plainly furnished. A sofa, a chair, a television in the corner and …

‘You're into hi-fis?'

‘My one real indulgence, I'm afraid. I love my music. It's not a new system, but it does the job. Truth is, the speakers are a bit over the top for the room and I've never had the amp up past three, but—'

‘A Pioneer A400, that's something of a classic,' Gregory said.

‘I bought it a long time ago, but it's a fine piece of kit and I'd have to spend a lot to better it. If you open that cupboard door, you'll find the music. Pick something.'

‘The music cupboard,' Gregory laughed. It was just that though, stacked full of CDs and vinyl. He selected a Pat Metheny album and handed it to Harry and for a little while the two of them sat, whisky in hand, music surrounding and enfolding them, like two old friends who don't need to make conversation. Then finally Gregory asked, ‘So, what's your story, Harry?'

‘My story? I don't think I have one.'

‘Everyone has a story.'

‘And do you relate yours very often?' Harry wondered.

‘Fair point.' Gregory leaned back in his chair and sipped his whisky. ‘Does it bother you? That I'm here?'

‘Bother me? I don't know. Why?'

Gregory waited for Harry to answer his own question.

‘You're a guest in my house. Patrick brought you home and I trust his judgement and he's always been welcome to bring people home with him. To bring friends home.'

‘And am I a friend?'

Harry scrutinized his visitor. ‘You want to know how I feel about you, knowing something of what you are,' he said. ‘For some reason, my judgement is important to you. Why is that, Gregory? Why should you care?'