The Grave Tattoo (11 page)

‘And how do you think people would make a living round here if it wasn’t for heritage tourism?’ Jane countered. ‘There’s other parts of England just as beautiful, but they don’t have anything like the tourist income we have. The history of literary connections with the Lake District is one of the main reasons people come here. Whether it’s Wordsworth, Beatrix Potter, Ruskin or Arthur Ransome. Their legacy has given back much more than they ever took out of the area.’

‘But this? This won’t be something that generates money and jobs in the tourism industry, will it? This is not going to help create jobs for the kids I teach and their families. It’ll be a handful of outsiders getting rich.’ He shook his head. ‘I never thought you’d be one of the ones treating this place like a cash cow.’

‘There’s a long and noble tradition of that, Matthew. Wordsworth and his friends were a part of it too. Do you despise them as well?’ There was an edge to Jane’s voice now. She knew it would be enough to make Matthew back down.

He threw his hands up in surrender. ‘You’ve always got an answer, Jane.’ He pushed his chair back, the feet screeching on the stone-flagged floor. ‘I better be getting back. I’ve got lessons to prepare. Nearest I’m likely to get to study leave.’ He stood up. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘A couple of weeks. When’s the best time to catch Diane on Saturday?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘Pretty much any time, if it’s raining. Which it looks like it’s set on for the next few days.’

‘Tell her I’ll drop in. I’m dying to see Gabriel.’

‘Sure you can spare the time to play aunties and nephews? I mean, you are supposed to be studying, right?’

‘Grow up, Matthew,’ Allan said wearily.

Matthew snorted. ‘I’m not the one playing hunt the metaphorical slipper, Dad. If anybody needs to catch the boat from Fantasy Island, it’s Jane. Wake up and smell the coffee, Sis. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Time to join the rest of us in the real world.’

11

Damp mist held the heavy tang of the polluted city close to the ground. It clawed at throats, making smokers cough harder, and shrouded heads in streetlight haloes. The glow from windows was romanticised by the fog, but it was fooling no one. The pavements were quiet; it wasn’t the sort of evening to tempt people away from their own TVs.

Tenille stretched and checked the clock on the PC. Just after ten. It was time to make a move. Part of her wanted to stay here, snug in the cocoon of Jane’s flat, isolated in a place where she could pretend her life was different from its ungentle reality. But another part of her wanted to test the mettle of Jane and her alleged father. She gathered her stuff together and trudged towards the door. She took a last look around, checking the door key was still in her pocket, then stepped out into the night. After the warmth of the flat, the clammy cold made her shiver as she hurried along the gallery to the stairs. She had just begun to climb the two flights to her floor when she heard a low boom. The fog muffled it, making it impossible to divine its direction or identify its source. But unexplained noises were hardly an unusual event on Marshpool Farm, and it barely registered on her consciousness.

Heading towards the final turn of the stairs, Tenille realised there were footsteps coming down the steps towards her. The footsteps of someone big and confident, judging by the sound. Instinctively, she dodged to one side, making room for whoever it was to pass. Round here, making room could sometimes mean the difference between getting home in one piece or not.

She rounded the stairs and came face to face with John Hampton moving quickly down. A confusion of feelings hit her: apprehension, anxiety and curiosity. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even break step, merely glancing briefly at her, his face blank of expression. As he passed her, he said softly, ‘Not a good time to go home, Tenille.’

She stopped short and stared after him. A shoot of happiness blossomed inside her. He’d done it. He’d done it for her. Tenille grinned and ran up the few remaining steps, eager for the first time to see Geno. She didn’t think he’d be keen to hit on her any time soon.

The door to the flat was slightly ajar; she pushed it open and walked in. There was a strange smell, like fireworks. The hall was in darkness, except for a thin sliver of light outlining the living-room door. Tenille pushed it open, eager expectancy drawing a smile on her face.

The sight that confronted her was not what she had anticipated. Where she expected to see Geno curled in an agonised ball on the sofa, all that was recognisably his were his trousers.

The top half of his body was unrecognisable. Mangled meat jumbled with chewed-up fabric. Tatters of skin hung like macabre decorations from his head and neck. Blood, hair and flesh were spattered over the sofa and the wall behind it. Inside the room, the stink was different. Shit, gunpowder and something metallic bit at Tenille’s throat. She could feel her gorge rising but the gruesome remains on the sofa still held her with a terrible fascination. It was as if her mind had split in half. Part of her was rejoicing in the knowledge she was safe. The other part was wondering why she wasn’t screaming.

Tenille took a step forward, almost tripping over something lying on the worn carpet. In her shocked daze, she bent down and picked it up. The wooden butt of the sawn-off shotgun felt warm in her hand. Her other hand ran absently over the smooth metal of the barrels. This had been her friend. This had bought her salvation. This had been her father’s chosen tool.

The thought of John Hampton cracked the shell. The horror of what was spread before her hit like the slam of a door. She threw the gun from her, appalled and shaking. Her prints were on the gun now. Dimly she recognised from dozens of TV shows how this would look. She had to do something. It wasn’t enough to wipe the gun. She knew that, however clever her father might be, there would be microscopic traces. She’d watched enough episodes of
Forensic Files
to understand that neither she nor her father was safe.

Forcing her eyes away from Geno, Tenille tried to control herself, dragging a shuddering breath into her lungs. She had to do something. But what? She had to get out of the room so she could think straight.

Tenille stumbled back into the hall and squatted on her haunches, head in hands. There had to be something she could do to make sure her father was in the clear for this. He’d come to her rescue when she’d needed him. Now she felt the need for some comparable gesture. A recognition that she appreciated what he’d done for her.

She racked her brains, recalling the true crimes she’d watched unfold on late-night satellite TV. Every night, another death. Every death, another investigation. Tips and hints for those with the brains enough to grasp their significance and heads sufficiently cool to put them into practice.

Her face cleared. Fire, the great cleanser. It wouldn’t disguise the fact that Geno had been blown away by a sawn-off before the fire had started. But a good enough fire would clear up any traces that she or her father might have left at the scene of the crime. Tenille got to her feet. All she needed now was something to make sure the blaze caught a good hold. She wished she lived in one of those houses where they had a garden shed full of stuff that would go up like a Roman candle. Cans of petrol for the lawnmower. Gas bottles for the barbecue. That sort of thing.

Tenille went through to the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink. Bleach, fabric conditioner, all-purpose cleaner. Totally useless. She banged the door shut and went through to her aunt’s room. Perfume was alcohol, that would give off fumes that would help a fire, she thought. She grabbed the few bottles off Sharon’s dressing table, then noticed an economy-sized bottle of nail varnish remover. That would burn, she was sure of it. Tenille added it to her haul. She was about to return to the living room when she noticed a canister in a half-open drawer. She yanked it out and helped herself to a pressurised can of lighter fluid.

At the living-room door, she closed her eyes momentarily, trying to steady herself. ‘Get a hold of yourself, girl,’ she said loudly, driving herself back into the room. This time, she tried not to look at Geno. She crossed to the sofa where she emptied out all of the bottles. The sweet sickly aromas rose around her, blotting out the smells of violent death. Then she pushed the nozzle of the lighter fluid can hard against the wooden arm of the sofa. The liquid gas emerged, spreading over the scarred veneer and soaking into the surrounding fabric as it evaporated. The harsh oily smell of the butane made Tenille wrinkle her nose and turn her face away. She let the whole contents of the canister escape before throwing it on the floor.

Now all she had to do was light the fucking thing. Where was the bastard’s cigarette lighter? Her earlier exultation had subsided now; she had started to grasp the finality of his death and the almost casual way it had been meted out. However grateful she was to her father, she couldn’t keep fooling herself that this was a good thing. She really didn’t want to look at Geno.

Tenille sidestepped the feet sticking out from the sofa, kicking the gun nearer as she did so. That sofa was going to go up like a torch. Sharon had bought it off some dodgy second-hand shop, there was no way it was going to be anything other than a fire-trap. She looked down at the cluttered end table next to Geno. The tumbler he’d been drinking from had been shattered by stray shot, and his cigarettes and lighter were covered in glass shards and rum. Tenille reached out for the lighter and grimaced as the sticky spirit coated her fingers. She backed towards the door and wondered what to do next. She didn’t want to be too close to the sofa when she lit the flame. But she had to be close enough to get the fire going.

‘Stop messing,’ she scolded herself. She took a step back towards the sofa and ignited the lighter. It seemed to burn with a higher flame than usual. At arm’s length, she reached out towards the soaked upholstery. She was still inches away when there was a sudden whoosh and a sheet of flame ran over the area she’d saturated. At once, the flames started to lick over the cushions towards Geno.

Tenille jumped back nervously, ready for flight. But she wanted to be sure this wasn’t just a flash in the pan, that it would really burn the way she needed it to. Within seconds, she had her answer. Tongues of flame spread quickly over the cheap synthetic material, melting it as they went, sending spirals of greasy black smoke upwards.

Time to get the fuck out, Tenille told herself, turning on her heel and making for the door. She slammed it shut behind her, then took off down the gallery towards the stairs. Thank Christ she had Jane’s door key. She could hole up there, wash her clothes in Jane’s machine and claim she’d never been near the flat all night. Jane would have to back her up, because she didn’t know about the key. As far as she knew, Tenille had no way of getting back in once she’d left.

Tenille reached the top of the stairs and turned for one last look. The only difference from usual was that the light showing through the curtains was more orange. She wondered if she should call the fire brigade. She didn’t want the fire to spread, to maybe claim other lives. That would be the worst thing that could happen. But if she made the call, it would put her in the frame; 999 calls were, she knew, recorded and saved.

The curtains stirred. Soon they’d go up too and somebody would see what was going on. They’d call the fire brigade. Tenille turned on her heel and set off down the stairs at a run. It would be all right. Somebody would see.

What she didn’t know was that somebody already had.