Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1) (23 page)

‘Tara, my dear lady, I had no idea of the background hidden within this beautiful place, but what on earth happened to all those tragic people?’

She looked down to her tiny fingers, ‘Well some died from the opium, but most died insane from syphilis and were buried without headstones in the village graveyard.’

‘And what became of Thornley?’

She fell quiet for a moment, her pink lips pressed tightly together in a personal sadness.

‘Oh, he went mad with syphilis as well, and one day, buried himself alive out there in the crypt.’

Reflecting on Thornley’s book, Monty began to understand the mysteries of the manor.

The labyrinth with its drawings and paintings of outrageous pornography, the hidden naughty area where the entire family were reduced to hideous bestiality, and the master passage where Thornley could watch his vengeance being acted out.

But at what a terrible cost. All those lives lost in such a horrible way.

Monty could see now, just how much she felt for Thornley, his pain shared by her own.

‘The poor man. But where exactly is the crypt? Do you know?’

Reaching over, she carefully flicked through the pages till she came to a detailed map.

‘It’s there beside the church, outside the wire in the meadow, but no-one can see it because old Thornley planted a copse of trees and wild flowers all around them.’

Monty nodded.

‘You see, that’s the way he wanted it, just the three of them to rest all alone, just the one grave with Isobella and her unborn child, and Thornley watching over them in the crypt.’

Angela ejected Tara’s DVD from the machine, and sitting back in the armchair, her body became taut with anger.

She’d watched the whole melodrama taking place in the bedroom, the nauseating images coming back like a revolving door, and he’d actually carried the bitch, stark naked in his arms and tucked the little whore into bed, his hand on her brow, tea and biscuits and that ridiculous story of a special song.

Oh yeah? Well that was just an excuse to throw the sheets back and let him see what she had to offer, and getting all dressed up in that Chinese, hookers outfit.

Oh, the bitch was clever alright, and cunning beyond words, and it might explain why she hadn’t bothered with those filthy, ridiculous clothes, the clothes that had been disgusting enough to trap the other men, but she’d obviously chosen a different way with Lewis and used her pathetic performance as the dying swan to capture him.

Oh yes ... she was certainly clever, that little whore, and that sickeningly pathetic song.

“We don’t cry out loud.”

Standing up, she threw the DVD hard across the room.

And what an abomination that this scheming, cunning little bitch should even think of taking him away from her, and what gave her the damned, fucking right to even imagine she could get away with it?

Well she won’t be able to for much longer, not when she’s stone cold dead and joining all the other backstabbing lousy bastards out in the churchyard, and bloody good riddance to the lot of them.

Wandering around Evelyn’s apartment, Frank cursed at how close he’d come to winning the game, because poor old Dudley had been there, just waiting for him, but they’d still managed to get to him first, and with a sigh, he picked up the phone.

‘Sarge, this is Frank Lewis, so have my people from removal’s arrived yet?’

‘They’re here now, sir. So should I get a signature, for the, umm, package?’

‘No, leave that to me, but you can sign Dudley out, and put him down as having left on medical grounds, you know, taken ill at work or something like that. Okay?’

The sergeant became straight faced,
Oh my god, so it was poor old Mr Dudley in the bag, the Head of Station, so why the hell did he have to kill him?

‘Oh, and Sarge, I’ve taken Mrs Carthwaite off her normal duties, but don’t worry, I’ll arrange for a replacement as soon as possible. Okay?’

‘Right sir, I’ll make a note in the log.’

As Frank replaced the phone, Evelyn brought coffee.

‘I’m very grateful, Mr Lewis, really I am.’

‘That’s okay. But what do you know about a guy called Julian?’

‘Julian? Oh, do you mean, Mr Dudley’s Julian?’

He nodded, ‘The same.’

She stared into her coffee, ‘I’d forgotten, the poor man will be devastated.’

‘Yeah. So who is he?’

‘He’s Mr Dudley’s partner, Julian Feather, they live ... lived, in an old country house, it’s quite beautiful actually, and not far away between Upper and Lower Slaughter.’

Sipping his coffee, he thought,
who’d want to live in a place called Slaughter.

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve been there a few times, just socially.’

‘Good, have you got a car?’

‘Yes, it’s in the car park, round behind the house.’

‘Right. Well drink up, you’re taking me over there.’

Frank smoked a cigarette while Evelyn got ready, and as he leant on the smooth top of the balustrade, looked down, but all he could see was the ugly concrete yard, and as he watched the ever changing scene, saw tiny figures in workmen’s overalls, coming and going from a hut between two workshops, and realised it must be the nerve centre of the maintenance crew, the clerk of works office. Anderton.

22

Walking round to the car park, Frank was surprised to see Evelyn’s car was a small black Pontiac Ferrero sports. Having changed into soft shoes, she hiked her skirt up to the stocking top line.

‘Sorry, but modesty isn’t possible with this car.’

Sliding down easily into the cockpit, she reached over and flipped open his door, but as she guided the Pontiac out through the car park, he glanced over and saw a road that ran down between the workshops.

‘Stop.’

She braked to a halt, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I just need to get something organised, so wait here.’

Watching him in the rear view mirror, she saw him stride over to the service road and disappear round the corner. Hesitating for a moment, she cut the motor and slipped out of the car, and tugging her skirt down, followed after him.

As Frank marched down to Anderton’s hut he had three things on his mind, Stacey’s list, the abuse of Tara and the murder of Ambrose Dudley.

Turning the corner he saw the hut, and looking through the filthy window, saw a bloated Gorilla of a man picking his nose as he checked papers on a desk.

He was scruffy, filthy, unshaven, as ugly as hell, and all alone.

Walking up the short flight of concrete encrusted steps, Frank pushed the door open, stepped inside and let it close with a crash.

Anderton swung round and stared at him from small, dark vicious eyes, his breath snorting through a bent and twisted nose, ‘And who the fuck are you?’

Frank saw uneven, nicotine stained teeth and a dirty moustache, ‘The name’s Lewis.’

Anderton faltered as if he’d heard the name somewhere, and became wary as a sly smile spread over his grimy, pock marked face.

‘Lewis, you say. I’ve heard that name. So you’ll be the new copper, then.’

‘That’s right.’

Anderton walked over and reached out his muscular arm, his hand the size of a plate, and when Frank saw his crafty smile, he reckoned a hand crush was coming
. Oh yeah.

‘Anderton’s my name.’

Frank let him get closer, ‘I know.’

Suddenly kicking up hard, the toe of Frank’s boot found Anderton’s balls, and as the pain hit, he stopped, frozen, his eyes bulging as the agony suddenly erupted like a fireball.

Frank watched as Anderton’s mouth fell open, his eyes now shining brightly with pain, his body crouching forward as he gripped his knees, his great bulk shuddering.

Stepping closer, Frank took his bull like head in his hands, and suddenly throwing it down, brought his knee up hard into his face.

There came the quick crunching sound of cartilage and bone as his ugly twisted nose splattered and flattened, and stepping back, Frank watched as he crumpled and sank to his knees, blood gushing out of his nose, the agony in his balls making him choke, his vomit spilling out through broken teeth to run with the blood in a beery yellow gush.

Backing away from the stench, Frank sat down on the corner of the table, lit a cigarette and fingered the nylon twine sewn into his trouser pocket, and he wished he could finish him off now, but that would have to wait a while.

Grasping the windowsill, Evelyn was hardly able to believe what she’d seen.

This man Lewis had reduced Anderton to a pulp, as easily as a walk in the park, and as she looked at him, just casually sitting there, she felt a curious, nervous excitement.

Frank took a good long look at Anderton, because this ugly freak was big and strong, and would probably shake off the pain within an hour or so, but that wasn’t long enough, so standing up, he crushed out the cigarette, and walking round behind him, saw his skull lobes were large and prominent, and choosing the right lobe, swung his foot in a swinging arc and kicked him hard with the heel of his boot.

Evelyn winced as Anderton’s long filthy hair suddenly flew up under Lewis’s boot, and with his head shooting forward, he crumpled down unconscious.

Frank nodded to his thoughts.

Anderton should be out of the game for at least four hours, and walking over to the desk, picked up the phone and called the main gate.

‘Sarge? It’s Lewis.’

Sergeant Jenkins tensed. If he could kill Dudley, what else might he have done?

‘Yes sir. So what can I do for you?’

‘It’s the clerk of works, Anderton, he’s had an accident in his office.’

Thinking for a moment, the sergeant smiled.

Anderton was nothing but a thug and not liked by anyone.

‘That was clumsy of him. So how can I help?’

‘Well he’s drunk on duty and smashed himself up, so I’d like him isolated for a while. Oh, and you’d better disconnect his phone and send up a reliable handler with a good dog.’

‘Yes sir, and as luck would have it, Sheba’s on duty. She’s a really good Alsatian bitch but gets quite excited when she’s on heat.’

Arriving at Glastonbury, Christiana parked at a corner shop, and buying cigarettes, asked for help with the one line of Dmitri’s address. Eventually finding the street, she saw Dmitri’s place was in a line of joined up houses, and knocking, heard the sounds of scurrying feet, but when the door was flung open, she saw a woman in her mid-thirties.

She was tall and slim with her brunette hair swept back and held in place by a black velvet band, and while her green eyes stared at Christiana, the woman’s self-assured face filled with surprise while her hand rested on a very pregnant tummy.

‘Yes?’

Staring at her, bemused, Christiana looked down to the address on the slip of paper.

‘Pardon me, but I’m looking for Dmitri. Dmitri Kosakov.’

The woman’s expression changed instantly, and now she was cold and defensive.

‘You must have the wrong address, there’s no-one here of that name.’

Christiana looked at the number on the door, and back to the tiny slip of paper.

‘Well that’s odd. You see, this is the address I was given.’

The woman stiffened, ‘Given? And by whom?’

‘By the man in the little bookshop in London. He remembered …’

The woman froze and suddenly seemed unsure, ‘Bookshop? In London?’

‘Yes, that’s where I knew him, Dmitri, I mean, and this is a real shame.’

‘Well I’m sorry, but my husband’s name is Vasilyevich. Vladimir Vasilyevich.’

‘Right. Oh well, there goes Moscow.’

The woman stared, ‘Moscow?’

‘Yes, that’s where I met Dmitri.’

Christiana turned to walk away, but the woman suddenly called out, her voice rising.

‘Wait. So who are you?’

Christiana looked back, ‘My name’s Levett. Christiana Levett.’

The woman sagged, ‘and you met my … You met him in Moscow?’

Christiana frowned, ‘Yes, that’s right, back in the old days.’

Calculations began to appear in the woman’s sharp eyes, her brow now furrowing.

‘The old days? And from where exactly, was it just, Moscow?’

Hearing the edgy tone in her voice, Christiana knew something was wrong.

‘No, I also knew him in Istanbul.’

The woman stared as she retraced the timescale back through her mind.

Istanbul was just before he came over to the west, and now she remembered he was on file as having an affair with the American agent who’d brought him out.

Her mouth tightened, and glancing quickly up and down the street, looked back through cold eyes to Christiana’s bouncing red T shirt and her skin tight yellow leggings.

‘I think you’d better come in.’

Christiana’s instinct told her everything was not as it seemed to be, but following her anyway, they walked through to the kitchen, and when the woman found her composure, sensed that questions wouldn’t be far away.

‘I was going to make some tea. Would you care for some?’

Christiana smiled, ‘Sure, if it’s no trouble.’

The woman turned away to an old fashioned wooden dresser and fiddled with the cups.

‘It’s no trouble at all. But strange, don’t you think?’

Christiana recognised the opening gambit, ‘In what way?’

‘Oh, just that you’re here at this address and looking for a particular Russian man, whilst here am I, living at this address with another Russian man.’

Christiana went with the flow, ‘Yes, it is a coincidence. Unless of course …’

The woman pulled open a door in the dresser, ‘unless, what?’

‘Well, maybe the coincidence could be explained, if …’

The woman reached inside the dresser, ‘If what?’

‘If possibly, the man, for certain reasons, had felt it necessary to change his name.’

The woman banged the door closed, ‘Yes, I suppose that might explain it.’

After careful thought, Christiana decided to set the cat amongst the pigeons.

‘And so, Mrs Vasilyevich, will Dmitri be joining us for tea?’

The woman’s jaw tightened, but she shrugged and glanced over to the clock.

‘No. He’s out somewhere, as usual, but no doubt he’ll come home sometime.’

Christiana’s heart sank.
So was it true? Was Dimi really married?’

‘And so, do take a seat, Miss Levett, and then you can tell me, as no doubt you will, just how well you knew him in Istanbul.’

Christiana felt the tension building, and wondered just how much she knew.

‘Oh, it was only business, but I like to think we were friends.’

The woman rattled the crockery, ‘So, milk, lemon or herbal, for your tea?’

Christiana saw her body language tightening up, ‘Is herbal good?’

The woman took the kettle, ‘It’s an acquired taste, but quite refreshing. Try some?’

Christiana nodded, ‘Yes, thanks. But this is awkward, so are first names okay?’

‘Well that would depend, Miss Levett, and it is, Miss, is it not?’

Alarm bells rang again, ‘Correct, but depend on what, exactly?’

‘Well, Miss CIA, the real purpose of your being here is naturally of interest to me, so would it be business, or do you find bedding Russian men addictive?’

Christiana inhaled deeply, and pulling out a chair, sat down at the kitchen table.

‘I see, so you do know, but I must say I’m surprised that Dmitri has been quite so open with you, and possibly, quite so unnecessarily honest.’

The woman smiled cynically as she took her time pouring water into the kettle.

‘But my dear, Miss Levett, Dmitri has been open and honest with me since first we met, but that isn’t so surprising, after all, I was his Case Officer after he defected, and it is on file, that you, how shall we say, provided him with all the comforts of home.’

Christiana’s thoughts suddenly went into free fall, because this was the very last thing she’d expected.

So here she was, an agent of the CIA’s Royal Edict Force, working unofficially and undercover in the UK, to find out why an unknown Brit was sniffing around Area 57, and was trying to enlist the help of a Russian defector, who just happened to be an ex Colonel of Spetsnatz, Alpha Group, KGB Intelligence, to break a code that might be connected with Cardinal, the most ruthless intelligence organisation in the world.

It was a crazy situation, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Dimi was now married to a Case Officer of British Counter Intelligence, a woman who was not only standing barely two yards away in her own god-damned kitchen, but who was now wondering if Miss CIA was here to use her husband, screw him, or both, and she knew just what Tomlinson would say.

Well thanks a bunch Chrissy. So how does it feel to fuck up?

‘And so, Miss Levett, you’ve had enough time to think, so what is the reason for your unexpected visit. Is it business? Sex? Or both?’

Christiana knew that nobody gets to be a Case Officer of British Counter Intelligence unless they’re a hell of a lot better than the best of the best, and so, in the final analysis she’d walked into a trap of her own making.

‘It’s no big deal, I’m here on vacation, so I called in at the bookshop for old time’s sake and when they said he’d moved out here I thought I’d come on down and see Glastonbury, it’s as simple as that.’

The sparkling green eyes flickered like a machine gun, but suddenly they steadied.

‘My dear, Miss Levett. Tut, tut. I expected far better from you.’

‘Oh really. So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is, my dear, it’s hardly credible that a member of the CIA’s most elite, would take the chance of meeting an old contact without having first updated herself with his current security profile, and especially if the person in question, was a defector Colonel of Spetsnatz, Alpha Group, KGB. Wouldn’t you say, Miss Levett?’

Christiana’s heart sank, because the damned woman was absolutely right.

‘And not only would it be breaking all the known rules, but his conversion had been a Brit-American conspiracy, so it could expose both governments to scrutiny. Correct?’