Gregory's Game (8 page)

Patrick had set his painting aside and gone to unpack his pack, laying his stuff out on the bed, examining each and every piece. The notebooks, the pens, the small toys left over from childhood. Old birthday cards from his mother, for fuck's sake.

Patrick shook his head and began to pack everything back into his pack. Keeping aside his notebooks and pens and a few other small objects, Patrick stowed the rest on the top of his wardrobe and then stepped back to look at it. He could just see the pack, could reassure himself that everything was there, ready to go at a moment's notice. But it was OK. He didn't need it all with him.

He had repacked his university essentials in his messenger bag and then gone back to his artwork.

Now, sitting in the lecture, he felt a little bereft, but also a little victorious – and also utterly bored. His mind drifted back to the part finished work on the desk easel in his bedroom and then to the strange man who had drifted back into their lives. All around him, his fellow students made notes, scribbling frantically and Patrick, completely lost to the lecture now, drew Gregory's face, again and again on the lined sheets of his notebook.

‘Professor Marsh?' The young woman standing at his door looked expectant. Did she have a meeting scheduled? Ian struggled to focus and realized that of course she did. Jenny was his ten o'clock tutorial. He'd already propped the door open with one of his heftiest tomes in preparation for her visit.

When had it happened, he wondered, that universities directed their staff to keep their doors open when they had students visit them? Actually, it wasn't an official directive, more of a strong suggestion, ‘for your own security and that of our students'.

‘So,' he said, trying to recall what she was there for and then, blessed relief, spotting her marked essay on his desk. ‘Your essay.'

He glanced quickly at his comments on the cover sheet and then handed it over. ‘Not bad,' he told her, noting the slight flush that touched her cheeks as she looked at the mark he had given her and thinking that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing his door was wedged open after all. ‘Any questions?'

There were questions, mostly of the
what does this say
variety – Ian knew his handwriting was appalling – and how could she improve her marks?

Ten minutes later she had skipped off, happy, and Ian was left to his thoughts.

He'd done everything he could to find out what had happened to his tenant. Why would someone murder the man? And why in Ian's old house? The fear that this was not coincidence dragged at him, distracted him. He had left that life behind, broken contact with everyone. Everyone except Nathan, and Ian admitted to himself that his reasons for maintaining that friendship was very selfish. He knew that he'd been a big influence on the younger man, had taken Nathan under his wing when he'd been just a diffident, awkward boy. But what if … what if … what if that contact had brought vengeance down upon him?

Ian Marsh wanted there to be evidence that the man living in his cottage at Church Lane had done something that had led to his death. He wanted public proof, irrefutable and comprehensible, that he had been guilty of some crime, had brought this down upon himself. But so far nothing was forthcoming. The police seemed to know little and were saying even less.

Ian chewed upon his guilt, masticated it, swallowed it down and it lay in the pit of his belly, leaden and rotten.

S
ome twenty miles away from Ian, Nathan heard his computer chime, telling him that an email had just been received. One he hoped he had been waiting for. Nathan had many contacts; some didn't know that he was the one they were dealing with, but they kept him informed anyway. A little extra cash was still a fine lubricant. He had put out a request on the Sunday for anything on the Church Lane murder, preferably information on how the man had died and if there were any motives or leads the police were not releasing. He knew from experience that crime-scene photos were not that hard to come by. The rest, well, that was harder; it was as though such speculation crossed an invisible line. Usually, by this informant at least, such questions were ignored.

Nathan opened the file, noted that there were several images attached. He checked his security, ran additional virus protection and finally opened the files. He kept this computer purely for such contacts. Nothing that came in via this link ever touched his other systems. Anything that might need to be transferred was sandboxed first and examined scrupulously. Nathan believed you could never have too much security or be too cautious.

He opened the folder and glanced at the thumbnails within. So, crime-scene pics then. Well that would do for starters. He opened the first and scrutinized the scene properly before authorizing payment. Nathan was scrupulous about that too; always pay the messenger and never keep him waiting. Keep the hinges oiled, for you never knew when you might need to open a particular door.

What he saw on the photographs chilled even him, someone hardened to violence. This was nasty, vicious, designed to cause the maximum pain. He zoomed in to examine the way the monofilament had bitten into the muscle of the upper arms. As the man's weight had sagged against it, the line had cut its way through. In some places, Nathan could see it had stopped only at the bone and he guessed even that would have been marked. He had known of an assassin whose favourite method of dispatch was the garrotte. His material of choice had been this kind of monofilament.

Nathan sat back in his chair and thought about it. He was reminded of something, a rumour, perhaps, some snatch of gossip, but something like this happening before – anyway, he told himself, it stood to reason that whoever had killed this man would have practised their methods.

Gregory might know, Nathan thought. No, most likely Gregory
would
know. It was the sort of information the man collected. Minutes later, he had set up a meeting.

‘Is it urgent?' Gregory had asked.

‘Why? Do you have a date?'

‘I might have.'

Nathan laughed softly. ‘I think it's unlikely. Tomorrow will do, but I need your input on something I have a very bad feeling about.'

A moment of silence as Gregory thought about that. ‘I have something to do,' he said. ‘But I'll see you later tonight.'

‘I bought takeaway,' Alec said. ‘And a bottle of that wine you like. The one with the goat on the label.'

‘Are you apologizing for something?'

‘Should I be?' he asked cautiously.

‘I don't know.' She heard him move through to the kitchen and fetch plates down from the cupboard. The smell of food reminded her that she'd not eaten since a hurried sandwich at lunch. She'd checked her watch – again – a few minutes before and knew it was after seven.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, for a lot of things. I know I've given you a hard time. I know it's been difficult for you. I know I've been depressed and … and all that.'

‘And that's suddenly changed? I suppose I have Tess to thank for that.' She realized just how bitter she sounded, but frankly, she didn't care.

‘No, actually. I'm still depressed and I don't really know why. I still feel utterly adrift. I'm still finding it hard to want to do anything. Anything. But I want to say I'm sorry and I want to say that I want – need – to do something about it and, yes, I think you might have to thank Tess for that. And if that makes you feel bad I'm sorry about that too.'

He sighed and she heard the creak as he leant back against the cupboard door. ‘I don't know what else to say.'

Neither did she, but the smell of the food was getting in the way and she really didn't want to fight, despite the fact she'd spent the afternoon practising for it. ‘I'm hungry,' she told him. ‘Can we just eat and then, well, whatever.'

‘Sure,' he said. ‘Sure.'

She heard him scooping food on to plates, pouring wine. She knew he didn't really like wine. ‘Why don't you have a beer? I think there's still a couple in the fridge.'

‘Sit down, I'll bring you a tray.'

She heard him open the fridge door and peer inside. He always stood and stared into the fridge, even when he knew what he was looking for. It was just an Alec thing. Naomi sat down in her chair by the window. She didn't know what to say and so she said nothing. He set the tray down in her lap and told her where everything was, placed the wine on the small table beside her chair.

‘I'm sorry,' he said again.

Naomi didn't reply, she picked up her fork and dug into the food on her plate, suddenly unable to recall what he'd said was where. She wanted to cry, but wanted to eat more and didn't want to talk – at least she didn't think she wanted to talk.

‘So, how was Tess?' she managed, trying to keep things normal.

She became aware, all of a sudden, that it was Alec who was crying. That he was sobbing like a hurt child. The dam had broken and the flood had broken through.

B
y the time Gregory arrived, Nathan had printed out the crime-scene photographs and laid them out on the dining table. There were seventeen of them, all focusing on the body, apart from a couple of contextual shots, one taken from the hall and one from the kitchen door. Nathan, who had been to the cottage several times, recognized the scene. A few personal possessions belonging to the victim were the only changes from when he had last been there.

He guessed that these images had been chosen largely for their impact and probably because the photographer did not have access to those taken of the minutiae of the scene. It was possible – likely, even at such a complex scene – that a couple of different photographers had been assigned. That Nathan's informant had access only to certain shots caused Nathan to speculate. He was senior enough to have been assigned the victim to photograph, but not senior enough that he had automatic access to all of the crime-scene images. Interesting, Nathan thought.

He added into the mix the photograph he had been sent, the one forwarded from Ian Marsh's cottage to his new address. He laid the envelope it had arrived in beside the image.

He had just made coffee when Gregory arrived. The older man had a brown paper bag in his hand, emblazoned with a logo Nathan vaguely recognized. Gregory set the bag down on the table. ‘Cookies,' he said. ‘You should try them. I've brought plenty.'

‘Since when do you eat cookies, for Christ's sake?'

‘Since Friday,' Gregory said. He didn't elaborate, but was already studying the pictures laid out on the table.

‘Recognize anyone?' Nathan asked after a few moments.

Gregory jabbed a finger at the posted photograph. ‘The man in the background looks like Michael Caine,' he said.

Nathan peered at the image and laughed. ‘He does a bit. It seems a shame, but I think we can discount that as coincidence. Anyway, he's Sir Michael now, isn't he?'

‘Probably. Typical, isn't it? He gets to be a knight for pretending to be someone else; you and me, we'd probably get arrested for it.'

‘So far as I know, he's never pretended to be someone else just so he can kill someone.'

‘Fair point,' Gregory conceded. ‘Where did you get this?' He retrieved his coffee, standing back as though surveying the whole landscape of images.

‘It had been forwarded to Ian Marsh's place, from the Church Lane address. I used his old house as a letter drop for a while.'

‘Presumably before he met Kat.'

‘A while before, a while after. Then I thought I'd better stop.'

‘Seeing as the pair of you hate the sight of one another.'

‘A fact we both conceal from Ian,' Nathan agreed. ‘Ian wants both of us in his life, so we called a truce.'

‘So you have fun spoiling the kid.'

‘Little Daisy. Oh yes, I do.' He smiled, briefly, but Gregory could see that he was worried.

‘You know who sent it?'

Nathan nodded slowly. ‘I can narrow it down,' he said. ‘I only gave the Church Lane address to four people. None of them were operatives; they just did odd bits of research for me, picked up some local gossip, that sort of thing. One of them never sent anything there. Two of them used the address three times between them. One of those is now dead. Nothing sinister, old age got him a year or so ago. The fourth was Annie Raven; she used Ian's address sometimes when she was on assignment and didn't have a place of her own and I've checked with her; she didn't send me these.'

‘So that leaves two. Have you been in contact?'

Nathan shook his head. ‘I want to know what I'm dealing with before I risk breaking cover; mine or theirs. Anyone you recognize – apart from Michael Caine?'

Gregory nodded. ‘The woman in the red dress,' he said. ‘And I can make a guess about the location.' He pointed to one of the buildings in the background. A hotel, Nathan had thought. ‘I think that's in Marrakesh, but I could be wrong, of course.'

Nathan doubted it. He too had recognized the woman in red, once he'd had time for a proper look. Fifties, white-blonde hair, expensive. ‘Last time we met she was calling herself Nancy Todd,' he said.

‘I knew her as Michelle Williamson,' Gregory said. ‘You think this is a recent picture?'

Nathan shrugged. ‘I'm guessing so. The letter was postmarked Marseilles, but North Africa is only a hop from there. I'll work on it. And the crime-scene images?'

Gregory took another swallow of his coffee and then picked up one of the pictures, a close-up view of the injuries caused by the monofilament. He stared at it for a moment and then put it down. ‘It brings someone to mind,' he said. ‘But he's dead.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yes. Do the police know how long he took to die?'

‘I wouldn't know. Why?'