Wychwood Page 19

  “That’s quite a punishment,” said Peter.

  “The Carrion King was not known for his mercy,” said Miller.

  Elspeth rubbed her temples, attempting to stave off the tiredness. “Have you ever considered setting these stories, as you tell them, down in a book, Professor Miller?”

  Miller laughed. “Oh, no. That sounds far too much like hard work. I’d much rather leave that to people like Mick Williams. He’s much better qualified.”

  “So, that leaves us with The Fool,” said Peter. “I presume he, too, has a tale of woe?”

  “The Fool is an interesting case apart,” said Miller. “He was a simple man, drawn from the Carrion King’s adoring flock. He was nothing but a farmer, with no occult knowledge or supernatural insights to his name. Yet the Carrion King elevated him regardless, and kept him close as a kind of warning, a reminder of the credulous idiots who had plagued his existence. The Fool was his barometer, you see, and by his standard the Carrion King judged all other men, and found them wanting.”

  “So he, too, had to die?” said Elspeth.

  “They all did,” said Miller. “The Fool was the very last of them, and while the Carrion King saw that he was naive and innocent – the only one of the apostles not to betray him – he nevertheless remained a shackle, the fifth sacrifice. For the Carrion King could not rise to true prominence until he had set himself free of all of his apostles; until he had made the supreme sacrifice and abandoned his humanity. Only then could he transcend and claim his true power.

  “The Fool, then, went willingly to his own death, so convinced was he in the altruism of his master. He was blindfolded and hung from a tree by his neck.”

  “And what became of the Carrion King?”

  “Ah, now, there’s a question,” said Miller. He downed his second coffee. “Having freed himself from the shackles of his past by taking revenge upon the ealdorman through the use of his mirror, the death of The Fool became his final sacrifice. He had finally freed himself from the kingdom of men, from the physicality of the flesh, and in doing so gained power over life and death itself. He completed his transcendence and became one with the forest, wild and free. Much like Esme, he walked the underworld, protected by his magic, able to manipulate the souls of others, to raise spirits from the grave and cast others down at a whim. Some say he is still out there today, watching over all who dare step foot within the bounds of the Wychwood.”

  “And do you believe that, Professor Miller?” said Elspeth.

  “They’re romantic stories, Miss Reeves, rich in symbolism but not in historical fact. There’s no archaeological evidence to support any of the parables. Believe me, I’ve checked.”

  “Then what is it about these stories that’s led you to devote so much of your life to studying them?”

  Miller looked thoughtful. “Like Edmund, I suppose I’m seeking the truth. Not in a base, historical sense, but in a philosophical one.” He shrugged. “That’s the luxury of academia.”

  “Alright, Professor Miller, we’ll let you get back to your studies.” Peter nodded to Elspeth, and they both got to their feet. “Thanks again for your time.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “And good luck with your enquiries.”

  Outside, it had started to spit with rain, and Elspeth could sense that a storm was brewing. She pulled her jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. “What did you make of all that?” she said.

  “I think he’s very full of himself,” said Peter, “but it could be useful. I’m going to head back to the station and try to get some of it down, mull it over for a bit. All that stuff about ‘hinterkind’ and the underworld – I can’t quite see how any of that relates to what happened to Rose.”

  “I think a lot of it is just window dressing,” said Elspeth. “The key is trying to decipher the stories to work out who the killer might choose as The Master of the Pentacle and The Fool. Is there anyone from the theatre who’s particularly religious?”

  “No,” said Peter. “But we know Oscar Waring has a juvenile fascination with pagan mythology.” His phone buzzed, and he took it from his pocket and held it to his ear. “Shaw.” He frowned, and then looked suddenly pleased with himself. “Alright. Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “News?”

  “Sasha Reid’s just turned up, alive and well and a little indignant.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “The car’s only round the corner?”

  “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s find out if Oscar Waring’s been telling the truth.” They turned and ran as the heavens opened, feet splashing through the flash puddles that formed upon the glistening paving slabs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A police car was already parked outside Sasha Reid’s house when Peter pulled his car to a stop a little way further down the road, tucking it in behind a sporty red Mazda. It was a busy street with little or no off-road parking, and neat rows of small terraced houses lining both sides of the road, probably dating back to the early Edwardian era.

  It was a far cry from the impoverished neighbourhood of Oscar Waring, with neatly manicured borders, gleaming front doors and windows, and a general lack of abandoned waste clogging up the front yards. Elspeth wondered what the woman made of Oscar’s living arrangements. It certainly didn’t appear to be what she was used to.

  Peter cut the engine and climbed out, clearly anxious to get to the bottom of whatever had been going on with Sasha Reid. One way or another, this was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for. The woman’s testimony would either corroborate Oscar’s alibi or reinforce the police case against him – which at present remained entirely circumstantial, despite his being the apparent best fit for Lucy’s murder.

  Elspeth hurried to keep up as Peter made a beeline for the house, slamming the car door behind her. He bleeped it locked without looking back.

  As they approached the house she saw DC Patel coming out to greet them. He looked pleased with himself.

  “She’s inside, sir,” he said. “She only arrived today. Says she’s been staying with a friend in Sheffield for a few days and left her phone charger at home. She didn’t bother finding another as she didn’t want any calls from Oscar Waring while she was away.”

  “Alright, good work, Patel.” Peter turned to Elspeth. “You’d better wait out here, Ellie. Patel will keep you company for a minute while I have a word with Ms Reid.”

  Elspeth nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. She watched as Peter ducked inside the house, pushing the door shut behind him.

  “So,” said Patel. “You and Shaw, eh?”

  Elspeth sighed. “We’re old friends,” she said. “Nothing more.” She knew this wasn’t entirely true – that Peter, at least, had rather obvious ambitions for something more – but she was still working out how she felt about the breakup, and still trying to decide what to do with her life. She certainly didn’t want to go reinforcing gossip at the police station, or giving anybody the wrong idea.

  Patel gave the sort of nod that suggested he’d heard it all before.

  “What about you,” said Elspeth. “Married, kids?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We have two kids. Anita is seven and Rohan is three. They’re a right handful.” He beamed. “Wouldn’t be without them, though.”

  Elspeth smiled. Patel must have been around thirty, and seemed cheery in the sort of way that policemen – in her experience – rarely did. She wondered if it was simply that he hadn’t had it knocked out of him yet. Or perhaps she was just being cynical.

  “Have you worked with him for long? Peter, I mean.”

  “A couple of years,” said Patel. “He’s good. A little unorthodox sometimes, but he gets results, and that’s really all the DCI seems interested in. You met her, didn’t you?”

  Elspeth nodded. “Yeah, the other day, when I found the body.”

  Patel smiled, as if to say ‘then you know exactly what I’m getting at’.

  They both laughed.

  Elspeth nodded
towards the house. “Did she say whether she’d been with Oscar Waring that night?”

  Patel seemed to weigh up whether or not to say anything, then shrugged. “Yeah. I think Griffiths is going to be disappointed. She said she was with him until the early hours. She got up to make a drink, put the costume on to keep warm, and when she went back to bed they had a blazing row. She stormed out, got in the car and drove off. Later the next day she called in sick to work, made arrangements with her friend and drove up to Sheffield. That’s her car, there. The grey Corsa.”

  Elspeth rolled this over in her mind. So if Oscar had been telling the truth, who had done for Lucy Adams that night? Not to mention Rose? They’d obviously been at the theatre the previous night, but then so had a couple of hundred other people, not to mention the rest of the cast and crew. Could it have been Michael Williams? That still seemed like a possibility.

  They couldn’t yet rule out Vanessa Eglington, either. Her brother had given her an alibi, but it was tenuous at best, and judging by what Peter had said, Robbie Eglington was so out of it on heroin that he probably wouldn’t even have noticed if his sister had slipped out for a couple of hours in the middle of the night. She was still a possible candidate, although Elspeth was having a hard time trying to work out what reason either of them would have to kill Rose, unless it was simply the fact she was an agony aunt.

  If someone was recreating the Carrion King myths, they might simply have chosen her because of her suitability for the role of The Confessor, just as Lucy Adams could have been picked because of her promiscuity, and Geoff Altman because of his occupation as a gamekeeper. Somehow, the thought of that was even more horrifying than the idea that they’d been murdered because of something they’d done, or something they knew.

  Elspeth looked round at the sound of the front door opening, and Peter emerged, closely followed by a stunningly beautiful young woman in her early twenties. She had coffee-coloured skin, with thick, dark hair that tumbled down to her shoulders in loose ringlets. She was wearing a loose-fitting yellow dress that fell to her ankles, and she was nodding as she listened to whatever Peter was saying to her.

  Elspeth and Patel stood back as they stepped out onto the street and Sasha led Peter over to her car. She took out her keys and blipped the lock, then opened up the boot. They both stood there for a moment, peering down into the car. Then Peter reached over, and when he came back up, he was holding the crumpled remains of a white feather cloak in both hands. Elspeth could see the disappointment on his face. Just like the clothes they’d found on Rose, the costume Lucy Adams had been wearing out in the woods had not come from the wardrobe of the play. They’d been chasing a dead end.

  Sasha Reid asked Peter a question, and he nodded. She closed the boot behind them as they walked back towards the house. Peter stopped by the police car, handing the costume to Patel. “Get this bagged and over to the station with Ms Reid. I’ll follow behind. She’ll give a formal statement, but it seems that whatever else Mr Waring has been up to, he’s not responsible for the death of Lucy Adams – at least directly.”

  “Right you are, sir,” said Patel. Sasha had disappeared back into the house, presumably to collect her coat and bag.

  “Ellie, do you need a lift into town?”

  “If you can drop me off on the way?”

  He blipped the lock on the car. “Jump in. I’ll just see Ms Reid off with Patel, and I’ll be with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The drive back into town was abruptly interrupted by a crackling voice from the police radio, as Peter turned the car out of the end of the street.

  “DS Shaw? Are you there?”

  “Welcome to my life,” said Peter. He put a finger to his lips to indicate she should stay quiet, then reached over and thumbed the button on the receiver, yanking it free from its cradle.

  “Shaw here.”

  “Ah, sir, there’s been a reported disturbance at the Williams residence. I thought you should know. We’re despatching a squad car.”

  “What sort of disturbance?”

  “The caller reported the place has been turned over and the residents aren’t present on the scene.”

  Peter glanced at Elspeth, concern evident in his eyes. “Do you have a name for the caller?”

  “Yes.” There was a brief hiss of static. “David Keel, sir.”

  “Thanks, Cooper. I’m heading over there now.” He dropped the handset into the cradle and swung the car left at a T-junction. “Sorry, Ellie,” he said. “Duty calls.” He put his foot down, and they roared off down the street.

  * * *

  Three cars were parked on the gravel driveway as they pulled up outside the Williams residence: a small red sports car, a more sober silver-grey saloon, and a white Audi, splashed up the side with streaks of dried mud. There was no sign of the squad car yet, but it couldn’t be that far behind.

  It’d taken them only fifteen minutes to get across from Heighton. Peter had driven at a speed that left Elspeth feeling queasy, as if she’d just stepped off a rollercoaster and was no longer certain of her centre of gravity. She climbed out, and leaned against the car roof with one hand while she steadied herself, taking slow, measured breaths. Clearly he hadn’t given up on all his youthful ambitions to become a rally driver.

  Peter was already marching across the gravel, his boots crunching with every step. Elspeth hurried to catch up. There was an air of foreboding about the place today that she hadn’t noticed the last time they’d visited. She knew she was probably imagining it, but she had the eerie notion that something was seriously wrong.

  They trudged down the path and across the small courtyard to the converted outbuilding. David Keel was already coming up the path to meet them. He was wearing a brown leather coat and jeans. He looked nervous, a bit like he had at the theatre, when he’d comforted Elspeth about Rose. He kept scratching the back of his neck and looking over his shoulder. “Oh, thank God,” he said.

  “Mr Keel,” said Peter. “You reported a disturbance?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” said Keel. “But something’s gone on. And given everything that’s been happening recently… I don’t know what to think.”

  “Alright,” said Peter. “You’d better show me.”

  “This way, down at Mick’s office,” said Keel. He started to retrace his steps, leading them down towards the summerhouse.

  “I take it that’s your car on the drive, Mr Keel,” said Peter.

  “Yeah, yeah, the white one,” said Keel.

  “And what exactly are you doing here?”

  “I had a meeting arranged with Mick. After everything that happened with the play… well, I was trying to work out if there’s anything I could salvage from it.”

  “But Mr Williams wasn’t here when you arrived?” said Peter.

  “No. No sign of Mick, or Rebecca. But their cars are both there on the drive. I got here about twenty minutes ago, tried the house, then came down here when I got no answer.”

  They’d reached the door to the summerhouse. Raindrops had beaded on its slick surface. It was hanging ajar.

  “And what did you find?” said Peter.

  “See for yourself,” said Keel. “It was like this when I found it.”

  Peter ducked inside, and Elspeth followed behind him, feeling a mounting sense of disquiet.

  All the windows were covered, and inside it was difficult to discern anything amongst the pooling shadows. They flowed like liquid, cloaking the room, making sinister, unfamiliar shapes from the everyday; a plant pot became a looming assassin, a ruffled rug became a body on the floor. Elspeth stood just inside the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  “Hello?” called Peter. “Mr Williams? It’s DS Shaw.” He was on her left, fumbling on the wall for a light switch. He found it a moment later, and with a click, the entire space was flooded with brilliant yellow light. Elspeth narrowed her stinging eyes as they adjusted to the sudden glare, glancing from left to right.


  There’d been a disturbance, alright. A chair was overturned, a picture frame was shattered and there were sheets of paper all over the floor, shed from a stack on the desk to form a mismatched carpet. This, she presumed, was Michael Williams’s magnum opus, the manuscript for his novel about the Carrion King. Each of them was covered in neat black typeface, and worse, spattered across them in a long line towards the door was a streak of vivid red blood.

  “Stay back,” said Peter. “Don’t come any further inside.” His training had obviously kicked in; his expression was stern and calculating as he read the crime scene for evidence, for any hint at what might have gone on here. “Did you touch anything, Mr Keel?” he called over his shoulder.

  “No,” said Keel, from the doorway. “The door was ajar when I arrived. I went in, calling for Mick, and noticed the mess. I put the light on, saw the blood, and then went straight back up to the house. I still couldn’t get an answer, so I called the police.”

  Peter walked back to the door. “Why did you put the light out again?”

  Keel shrugged. “I don’t really know. Habit, I guess. I wasn’t thinking straight. Do you think something’s happened to Mick?”

  “I don’t know,” said Peter, his voice level. “Have you tried his mobile?”

  Keel nodded. “Several times. It’s ringing out.”

  “I think I should check the house,” said Peter.

  Keel gave him a quizzical look. “But I already did. There’s no one home.”

  “Inside the house.” He led Elspeth back outside. “Mr Keel, would you be so good as to remain here in case the squad car arrives before I’m back?”

  Keel looked like a deer in headlights. “Of course.”

  “Ellie, come with me.”