The Killing Season (23 page)

She knew fear when she saw it.

I RAN THROUGH
the pouring rain and jumped into Kate’s car, pushing speed dial on my phone as I started the car’s engine, slammed it into gear and tore out into the country lane that was running with water now. The car fishtailed and I righted it one-handedly as I gripped my mobile, waiting for the call to be answered.

God help any 4×4-driving muppet who got in my way.

The receptionist at Kate’s surgery answered and I asked her for the addresses of any of Kate’s patients whose first name was Ruth. She said she wasn’t allowed to give out such information and I told her to put Ruth’s colleague on. She would have fobbed me off at that but I explained in colourful Irish vernacular what I would do to her if she didn’t get him on the phone.

‘What’s going on, Jack?’ said Doctor Hugh Anderson, the senior partner at the practice. ‘Lillian seemed very upset at the way you spoke to her.’

‘Fuck Lillian,’ I said. ‘Kate’s in danger, very serious danger. She has had a call-out to see a patient. I don’t know if it is genuine or not.’

I could hear the phone muffling as he cradled it to his stomach and spoke with the distraught Lillian.

‘It didn’t come through here, Jack,’ he said when came back on line. ‘Maybe the patient called direct, which we discourage for obvious reasons.’

‘It was a woman called Ruth – she was having breathing difficulties, as I understand it.’

‘That’s most likely Ruth Bryson. She only has a nephew who is elderly himself to look after her. Kate checks up on her once a week or so.’

‘Where does she live, Hugh?’

‘Weybourne. She has a caravan in a field on the right-hand side of the road by the entry to the beach.’

‘I know it.’

‘What’s going on, Jack?’

But I clicked the phone off and punched Kate’s number again. The message came back saying her phone was disconnected.

I switched mine off again, put my headlights on, peered as best I could through the windscreen wipers that were going at full tilt and floored the accelerator again.

I prayed that there was a God and that he was looking over us as I hammered through Holt, round the roundabout and then went as fast as I dared on the Cromer road. There weren’t many cars out and it was easy enough to overtake any that got in my way. I went past the turning to the hospital, ignoring the thirty mph speed limit as I came to High Kelling, and then turned left. Downhill along a more narrow country road, flashing past Holt rugby club, through the woods and dropping down towards the coast. I came out eventually by the Weybourne church, another All Saints, fishtailed round another corner or two and headed for the beach.

My mind was racing. I was thinking about a man who had been stabbed and then thrown into the sea like slops from a bucket, about another man who had been buried up to his neck in sand, his mouth taped shut and exposed to an incoming unstoppable tide. And I thought of Kate in the hands of the madman who was seeking revenge on progeny of the perpetrators of a seventy-three-year-old murder.

I saw the field ahead. There was a large gate set into the wire fence surrounding it, but mercifully it was open. I could see Ruth Bryson’s caravan. There was a light on inside. There was also a new-looking Volvo estate, the car that the security guard had described to me, parked outside. I took these as good signs as I screeched to a stop, jumped out of the car and rushed to the caravan’s door.

I DIDN’T BOTHER
knocking, just wrenched at the handle.

The door had been locked shut. I banged on it and there was no response. I popped the boot of Kate’s car and got out the tyre jack. It was slippery in my hands but I managed to pry it between the door and the metal. It was an old caravan and it didn’t take me long to force the door open, ruining the lock. A little job for a maintenance man but I was far from worrying about that. I climbed into the caravan.

A very elderly woman was lying on the floor but Kate wasn’t with her. I threw open the door that led to a small bedroom and she wasn’t there either.

The woman was breathing heavily and trying to say something.

‘What is it, Ruth?’

But she couldn’t manage to articulate what it was that she wanted to say. She lifted an arthritic hand and pointed a gnarled finger, its joints painfully prominent, and pointed towards the back window. Then her arm dropped and her eyes closed as if she was exhausted by the effort. She probably was.

I could hear an ambulance siren approaching, very near now. I would have lifted the old woman onto the couch at the end of the caravan but I knew that could be the wrong thing to do.

‘The ambulance is here now, Ruth. They’ll take care of you.’

She sighed a wet sigh, small bubbles forming at the corners of her mouth. But there was a word in that sigh that I could just about hear. ‘Kate,’ she whispered.

I drew back the curtains and looked towards where she was pointing. There was a small cabin or large shed directly behind the caravan.

I went back out into the rain as an ambulance drove into the field. I picked up the tyre lever – slick with mud and rain now – from the ground where I had dropped it and walked around the caravan and up to the cabin.

It was a sturdily built wooden structure, locked and harder to get into than the old caravan had been. But finally I managed to wedge the tyre lever in and, using all my weight, finally got the door open.

I stepped inside, glad at least to be out of the driving rain. There was a light switch just inside the door and I flicked it on. No one was inside the cabin. Somebody had been, or was, living there, though. There was a single bed against one wall and a sink in the corner. Obviously the cabin was connected to the mains water. There was a neat table, with some paperwork on it and an old tin box. I looked at the photographs that it contained, old ones. If I’d had to guess I would have said they were from the early 1940s, before David Webb had been killed. I knew that because he was in one of the photographs, and I knew
that
because his name was written beneath his picture, as were the names of other people in the shot. Names that I recognised.

They were standing on what was now the third tee at Sheringham golf course. Behind them was a large tract of open land. Nowadays there was a big block of apartments there that had coastal views. The fact that the men in the picture were all smiling at the camera and were not in any way dressed for golf made me think that the photo had some significance.

There were a couple more photos of David Webb, one of him with his arm around a much younger woman.

There was a letter in the box as well. I took it out and started to read it.

A minute later I put down the letter and was startled out of my thoughts.

‘Excuse me.’

I spun round. There was a paramedic standing in the doorway.

‘Are you related to the lady?’

‘No,’ I said, putting the letter and photographs back into the box.

‘I need to take some details from you, sir.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t got time.’

I pushed past him and hurried back to the car, carrying the box with me.

‘Sir!’

But I ignored him.

I knew most of it now. Knew what connected all the killings.

But I still didn’t know where Kate was.

I drove out of the field, racing to get away from the paramedic who by now was banging on the car window. I headed back up the beach road and round the corner before parking at The Ship public house. I pulled out my phone and tapped in a number.

‘Helen Middleton speaking.’

‘Helen, it’s Jack Delaney,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level even though my heart was pounding in my chest.

‘Nice to hear from you, inspector. Is there anything wrong?’

Everything was wrong. ‘No, I’m just following up on some things that have come to light.’

‘To do with David’s murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, of course – if there’s anything I can tell you . . .’

‘When I was at the cemetery the other day I noticed there were fresh flowers by his memorial plaque. Did you place them there?’

‘No, it wasn’t me, inspector. I’ve not been feeling at my best. I haven’t been out of the house since my return. I have arranged for a proper burial, though, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

I looked at the photograph of the men on the golf course. There was one name I didn’t recognise. ‘I have an old photograph here taken on Sheringham golf course in 1938. There are four men in the picture. Your brother David Webb, Jeremy Walker, Reverend Holdsworth and a fourth man called Patrick Preston.’

‘Yes.’

‘I haven’t come across the name Preston, but every other one I have.’

‘Oh, the Prestons were a very influential family around here. Patrick Preston had a building development company with Martin Wright and Jeremy Walker. Poppyland Developments. I don’t think the company exists any more but they certainly did a lot of building round here back then.’

‘And was your brother involved?’

‘He was for a time, but he sold his shares back to the company – not long before he died, apparently.’

‘And did he make a lot of money on the sale?’

‘Goodness me, no. There was a war on you know. And, to be honest, we were losing it at that time. I think that all he got back was his modest investment.’

‘And what happened to the Prestons?’

‘Oh, some of them are still around. In fact, you know one of them quite well, inspector.’

KATE WALKER WRIGGLED
and squirmed.

Her hands were tied behind her back and her legs were bound at the ankles. She’d had a rag tied cruelly between her teeth and knotted tightly at the back of her neck, forcing her lips apart. Giving her a macabre rictus grin.

But her wriggling was in vain. There was no way she was going to get loose. Her eyes hadn’t been covered, at least, but that was not much use to her. She was in some kind of hut and there was no light. She had tried shouting for help but the gag had made it impossible for her to make any noise above a low whimper. The wind was howling outside now.

Kate couldn’t believe who had taken her and she couldn’t believe what was happening, although it all too clearly was. The irony was not lost on her. She had been attacked in London before. Because of Jack’s job. She had survived through her own actions but now she was powerless. She had persuaded Jack to move up to Norfolk so that they could all be safe. And now here she was, waiting to be murdered like the others before her. And she had no idea why. She tried kicking out with her legs again but it was no use. She lay still for a while, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.

She didn’t want to die like this.

And then she remembered what had happened to Len Wright and she had to fight to control her bladder. There was a creak as the door opened.

I HAD THE
phone on hands-free now and was driving back to Sheringham.

The rain had stopped. Blown over by the wind as suddenly as it had come. But that wind was getting stronger – I could feel it buffeting Kate’s car as I headed down the twisting coast road. It was blowing straight off the North Sea again, its fury unabated as it headed southwards from Siberia.

‘Amy, it’s Jack.’

‘For God’s sake, Jack. Is everything all right? I’ve been trying to call you and your phone has been engaged or out of signal.’

‘You know everybody in town, Amy, don’t you?’

‘Hardly. I know a few.’

‘Do you know Ruth Bryson?’

‘Not really. But I know her nephew.’

‘Who is?’

‘Solly Green.’

‘Solly Green the odd-jobs man?’

‘Yeah. You must have seen him – he does work up at the golf club.’

‘Does she have any other relatives?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘What about Solly? Does he have any sons or grandsons?’

‘Nope.’

‘How do you know him, then?’ I had to shout at the hands-free set because the wind was howling so loudly.

‘Professional capacity, Jack. I’ve had to represent him a number of times.’

‘On what charges?’

‘Assault, affray, actual bodily harm.’

‘He’s an old man, Amy.’

‘Don’t let that put you off. He’s as strong as an ox, Jack. Ask any of the police: it takes six of them to get him out of a pub when he starts scrapping – which he does often enough, even now. William Solomon Green is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘With his aunt. Up in Weybourne in a field off Beach Road.’

I nodded.

‘Where’s Kate?’

‘I don’t know.’

I could see the golf club a few hundred yards ahead of me. ‘I’m going to the golf club, Amy. I’ll get back to you.’

I should have noticed the headlights in my rear-view mirror, but I didn’t.

I clicked the phone off and when the entrance appeared I swung hard left into it, over the railway crossing, into the car park and over it onto the practice range. My car wheels spun in the soft mud as I gouged my way across the turf to the maintenance hut.

I jumped out of the car and ran to the hut. It was locked but I had chucked the tyre lever on the passenger seat of the car when I’d left Ruth’s field and it didn’t take me long to get it open. A locksmith was certainly going to have some work to do in the area. I flicked on the light and walked in. The place was piled with maintenance equipment: tools, paint, hedge-trimming shears. Old furniture. There was also a mattress in the corner and a bin full of empty vodka bottles and beer cans. There was nobody in the hut, though. I was about to leave when something under a stack of folding chairs caught my eye. I bent down to have a look and saw that it was the heel of a shoe. I pulled the shoe out and looked at it.

It was one of Kate’s.

I slammed my hand against the frame of the door and looked out into the night. I was too late.

I stepped out of the hut, the wind rocking me. I looked up at the cliffs where it had all started seventy-three years ago. I pretty much knew it all now. Fat lot of good it did me.