The Sting of Death Page 5

  ‘So why not call the police and let them extract the truth from the chap?’

  ‘She’s convinced they’d show no interest, because Justine’s a responsible adult, and there’s no suggestion of foul play. So instead she’s asked Drew to help. That’s why she phoned.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see,’ Laurie nodded. ‘So, what did you tell her?’

  ‘To calm down and not jump to any conclusions. What could I say? I can’t see any use in invoking the law. But you’re right that this Philip needs to be spoken to again. I wondered if you might be the person to do that.’

  ‘What? You’re teasing … aren’t you?’ He looked at her intently. ‘This has nothing to do with me. I’d make the most awful mess of it – you know I would.’

  Roma pursed her lips, her mouth suddenly an old woman’s display of pleats and puckers, the upper lip leathery and brown. Far from repelling him, it had the effect of increasing Laurie’s fondness for her. She was always so tough and decisive, but the weight of getting through the years was inexorably dragging her down. It seemed a shame that this had happened – whatever this might be. He knew she didn’t want to be bothered with it, but to get on with her gardening and beekeeping in peace.

  ‘It’s rather a pity Penn chose to confide in you,’ he suggested. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Roma tossed her head dismissively. ‘Not at all,’ she asserted. ‘If my daughter’s in some sort of trouble, it’s only right that I should know about it.’

  ‘That’s not what you said ten minutes ago,’ he observed.

  ‘I know,’ she admitted.

  ‘Well, I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m not going to do any detective work for you,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m not up to anything like that, and I can’t believe any good would come of it. If the girl’s in trouble, it’s a matter for the police. And if she’s deliberately done a bunk, she won’t thank us for ferreting her out.’

  ‘But …’ Roma sighed. ‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Come on – we’d better have runner beans with those chops, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course,’ he confirmed, in mock indignation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Justine had lost count of the days, drifting in and out of a nightmare state where she dreamt of being attacked with a hammer, or buried alive in the desert for the ants to eat. How long could people live without water? She tried to assess the damage that was being inflicted on her body. The blood thickening, moving more sluggishly, carrying its essential cargo less and less efficiently. Hands tied behind her, she had nonetheless managed to make a complete investigation of her prison, and hazard a guess as to where she might be.

  It was a small stone house, with trees growing all around it. It didn’t seem to have been lived in for a long time. It was very dark and it had taken her hours to adjust to the gloom. When she did, it was to see thick cobwebs everywhere, drifts of dust and dead leaves around the edges of the ground floor rooms. There was a kitchen, with a sink and taps. She struggled to turn the taps with her mouth, licking desperately at the rusty orifices where water should emerge. But the supply had been turned off, or the pipes ruptured by frost. Nothing but a very unpleasant metallic taste met her tongue.

  Upstairs had two small rooms, neither with running water. If there was a lavatory or bath anywhere, they must be in an outbuilding, to which she had no access. All she found was a large damp patch on one outer wall, where glistening beads of moisture still lingered. It was foul and disgusting, but she scooped them into her mouth when the thirst became unbearable.

  Having her hands tied behind her back had been the first intimation that this was not some weird kind of game. To start with, that’s what she had assumed: that her abductor was in fact only teasing. It had taken her slow befuddled brain far too long to grasp the seriousness of what was going on. Then, with wrists lashed tightly together, she’d gone berserk, running in a horrible bent position as fast as she could away from this inexplicable danger. In no time, she’d fallen over, rolling painfully onto a shoulder, an instinctive move to save her face from injury.

  But she still hadn’t given in. She’d started to scream, hoping there’d be someone in the farmhouse to hear her, while knowing there wouldn’t be. The scream had been a mistake. A cloth had been clamped over her nose and mouth, a sweet terrifying smell filling her head and quickly knocking her out.

  And thanks to that unconsciousness, she had no idea what had happened next, or how long it might have lasted. She could have been driven fifty miles or five hundred yards.

  When she came to, she was being dragged backwards by the arms into this loathsome place, and then thrown down on the floor. Astonishment had taken precedence over all other emotions. Dazed, her head ringing, heart pounding, she could only stare at her assailant and stammer, ‘But why …?’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ came the breathless reply. ‘You’ll understand one day that there wasn’t any alternative.’ There was something pleading in the voice.

  Wildly, Justine had looked round. ‘Will you bring me food? I’ll die here otherwise.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ was the only response. After closing and locking the door, the hammering began. It seemed to last a long time, while Justine stumbled crazily from one room to another, looking for a chance to escape. Gradually the house became darker and darker, and she understood that boards were being nailed over all the downstairs windows.

  Derelict though it might be, the house seemed all too sturdily built. The cob walls looked to be over a foot thick, and the windowpanes far too small to crawl through, even if she could break them without lacerating herself, and then push aside the wooden barricades. Another door at the back was locked, and a high bolt rammed home for good measure. She didn’t notice the cessation of the hammering in her distraught state. All she heard was the receding sound of the car engine, as she was left all alone in her lightless prison.

  Drew was not deceived by Maggs’s cheerful humming as they drove slowly down the bumpy farm drive. ‘Strange places, farms,’ he said. ‘I get the distinct feeling that we’re trespassing.’

  ‘It is a bit spooky,’ she agreed. ‘But we’re calling on Justine Pereira, that’s all. Friends of her cousin, with an interest in her pots. Probably happens all the time.’

  ‘I doubt it – the place is almost impossible to find,’ Drew objected. ‘Lucky we left early, or it would have been dark before we got here.’

  Early was an understatement. Maggs had become more and more excited through the morning, unable to settle to any useful work and driving Drew mad with constant surmisings as to what could have happened to the missing Justine. So at three o’clock he’d clapped his hands and announced they were going right away. Phone calls would be diverted through to the mobile and with luck they could make people think they were in the office – or at least out in the burial field. It was by no means unusual for them to have absolutely nothing to do for days on end, even though Drew was regularly asked to officiate at non-religious funerals, and they devoted considerable effort to publicity and promotion of their services. This particular week threatened to be a quiet one, with Mr French the only customer likely to require their services. And even he could linger on for ages yet.

  ‘It’d be more fun in the dark,’ said Maggs with bravado. ‘All these great big trees, look! And what a nice view down there.’ She peered between two large oaks to the fields beyond. ‘Is this all part of the farm, do you think?’

  Ahead of them was a broad farmyard surrounded by buildings. There was a stone house to the right, its front door opening directly onto the cobbles of the yard. In front of them was a large barn, twice the size of the house, made of whitewashed cob. A large square opening suggested it had an upper floor; stout double doors at ground level were firmly closed.

  ‘Wow!’ said Maggs. ‘Look at all this.’

  Behind the barn, more sheds and open-fronted buildings were visible, some containing stacks of hay and straw. There was no sign of any livestock, n
ot even a dog.

  ‘I think we go down here,’ Drew decided, spotting a continuing track to their left.

  ‘You could get seriously lost amongst all this.’ Maggs couldn’t stop her awed inspection of the complex buildings. ‘Half of them don’t look used.’

  ‘It’s just a normal farm,’ said Drew.

  ‘Well, I think it’s scary.’ They’d driven fifty yards down the narrowing track before a small cottage came into view.

  ‘Bloody hell! These ruts are going to wreck the exhaust,’ Drew complained.

  ‘Nah,’ Maggs scoffed. ‘The van’ll cope with this, no problem.’

  They’d chosen to use their all-purpose, much-loved van, rather than Karen’s little Fiat – wisely, as it turned out.

  ‘That must be it,’ she said superfluously. ‘You’d think she’d be scared to live here all by herself.’

  ‘Scared?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. It wasn’t a word she uttered often, and now it came twice in a single minute.

  ‘I don’t mean I would be. But most women are wimps.’

  Drew knew better than to comment on that.

  They let themselves in through the front door with the key they found under a brick, as described by Penn. ‘Not very secure,’ said Maggs.

  ‘Not much need to be,’ muttered Drew. He was already inside, stepping warily into a room that turned out to be the kitchen. The air smelt stagnant, with a hint of something rotten. Vegetable, rather than animal, he decided with relief. Drew’s nose was flawless in such matters. He rather thought a cabbage had been left to decay in a rack somewhere. There was a Rayburn – stone cold – and a good-sized pine table. Two handmade rugs hung on hooks above a cupboard that seemed about to fall to bits.

  ‘Hey!’ breathed Maggs. ‘Isn’t this great!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Look at this floor! These flagstones must be hundreds of years old. And the shelves – real oak. Practically as old as the floor, I should think.’

  ‘Dusty,’ observed Drew. ‘And chilly. Must be freezing in winter.’

  ‘Not with the Rayburn going,’ she corrected him. ‘Let’s see what’s through here.’ She dived through an open door into a larger room. It had two good-sized windows, one looking out on the area at the back of the house, and one onto the track where Drew’s van was parked.

  There was an original oil painting on the wall depicting a female nude in the act of stepping into her knickers. It was very good, as far as Drew could judge. He could feel the texture of the woman’s legs, the thinness of her ribs, the gloss of her black hair. Peering closer, he found a signature that looked like ‘C. Perrier’.

  Ranged along the back wall was a pile of cushions, at least eight of them, large and well filled, which presumably served as a couch. It seemed surprisingly old-fashioned for someone in her twenties. Drew could just remember his mother going through a phase of removing all furniture from their living room and replacing it with cushions like these. A hardback book was lying on the floor, open and face down, as if someone had been reading it only moments before. A closer inspection revealed it to be White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Justine had evidently nearly finished it: the book was open at page 417.

  ‘Nice picture,’ said Maggs without enthusiasm. It seemed she preferred the kitchen. A half-filled mug of cold scummy coffee sat on the floor near the book.

  ‘Okay,’ said Drew. ‘Time for the detective bit.’

  Maggs cocked her head. ‘We-e-e-e-ell,’ she began, ‘she was sitting here, drinking coffee and reading. No telly, you notice. Then someone came to the door. She got up and they told her something that meant she had to leave in a rush. She didn’t ask them in, because then she’d have given them a drink as well, and there’s only one cup. What’s that noise?’

  They traced the hissing sound to a radio, plugged in and switched on, but off station, so there was nothing but atmospherics. ‘Maybe someone jogged it,’ suggested Maggs. ‘Maybe there was a struggle.’

  ‘No other sign of it,’ Drew pointed out.

  ‘Well, what would there be? There isn’t much to be knocked over. The cushions look a bit bashed about.’ On closer inspection, Drew agreed with her, although there was nothing that couldn’t be explained by a person lolling across them and burrowing down to get comfortable.

  ‘Didn’t you say Penn had already had a look round?’ Maggs asked. When he nodded, she went on, ‘So isn’t it strange that she left the radio like this? Wouldn’t she have turned it off?’

  ‘Maybe she only glanced in here, just to check that Justine wasn’t asleep on the cushions.’

  ‘Or dead,’ Maggs added.

  ‘Right.’ He heaved a small sigh. ‘Let’s try upstairs.’

  Justine’s bedroom also had a large window, but contained considerably more furniture than downstairs. The bed was covered with a pink and white quilt, which to Drew’s inexpert eye looked handmade. Certainly not by any means an ordinary duvet. A small upholstered chair was piled high with clothes, some of them inside out, and all of them crumpled carelessly. A table in the window held a pedestal mirror, a scattering of make up, various lotions, cottonwool pads, hairbrush and nail varnish. It was all coated with a fine film that Drew concluded was more face powder and talc than normal house dust. A bookcase overflowed on to the floor, with piles of volumes leaning against the wall. They mostly seemed to be current fiction in hardback. Picking one up at random, he found REVIEW COPY – NOT FOR RESALE stamped on the title page. So Justine worked as a book reviewer, did she, as well as making pottery? He could see no sign of any notes or newspaper cuttings, no paper and pens and no computer.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Maggs. ‘She’s a bit of a slob, isn’t she.’

  ‘Certainly doesn’t bother to make her bed,’ he nodded. ‘But then who does these days?’

  Maggs opened a wardrobe and rummaged for a minute on the floor, beneath four or five long dresses and skirts, and a thick winter coat. ‘Doesn’t seem to be anything down here,’ came her muffled voice. ‘How about on top?’

  Drew had to move the clothes from the chair and climb onto it, to see the top of the wardrobe. ‘Two shoeboxes, one larger box, a handbag and a pillow,’ he reported. ‘All covered in dust. Not been touched for months.’

  Drew retreated down the narrow stairs, noticing how the smell of rotting cabbage grew stronger. When he turned to look over his shoulder, Maggs wasn’t behind him. ‘Where are you?’ he called.

  ‘Just coming,’ came her voice, slightly muffled.

  After a brief search, Drew found the source of the cabbage smell in a cupboard under the white porcelain sink.

  He didn’t notice Maggs coming downstairs, his head averted from the collection of mouldering vegetables. ‘Oh, see what I’ve found!’ she suddenly crowed, having been rummaging in a pile of clutter on the pine table. She brandished a mobile phone triumphantly.

  ‘Okay,’ Drew murmured. ‘Point taken. Most women never go anywhere without their mobiles.’ He was by this time in very little doubt that Justine Pereira, daughter of Roma Millan, cousin of Penn Strabinski, had not intended to leave the house for more than a few hours – certainly not for a week.

  ‘We think it looks fishy then, do we?’ Maggs said. ‘On the whole. Generally speaking?’

  Before he could concur, the doorway went dark and they both turned to see why. A broad figure was blocking out the light, so they could not at first distinguish much detail. Maggs made a sound rather like Ooh-er! while Drew remained silent.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here? Who are you?’ The man’s voice was deep, his indignation unmistakable.

  ‘We’ve been looking for Justine,’ Drew said. ‘That is …’

  ‘We’ve been worried about her,’ Maggs interposed fluently. ‘She hasn’t been answering her phone, you see. And she’s missed one or two appointments. So we thought we should come and make sure she’s all right.’

  The man asked the obvious question. ‘How did you get in?’

  Maggs and Drew glanced
at each other; they hadn’t rehearsed the answer to this one. ‘A friend of hers told us where to find the key,’ Maggs offered. ‘You must know how careless Justine is about things like that.’

  ‘You know her?’ His eyes narrowed disbelievingly. ‘Who are you, for God’s sake? I’ve never seen either of you before in my life.’

  Drew couldn’t explain afterwards why he’d instinctively withheld any mention of Penn. She hadn’t asked him to, and her name would surely have smoothed the way quite effectively. He could only suppose that it was something to do with her connection to Karen, and a prudent feeling that it was wise to reveal as little as possible.

  ‘My name’s Slocombe and this is my business partner,’ he said. ‘You won’t have heard of us. We’re old friends of Justine’s from before she came to live here. We know her mother, actually.’

  The man finally came into the kitchen and stood where they could see him properly. He was tall and muscular with a heavy jaw and thick dark brows. ‘Well I’m Philip Renton,’ he said, ‘and I own this place. Justine is my tenant and I can assure you there’s no reason at all to worry about her. I know for a fact that she’s gone off for a little holiday. Camping, I think she said. So you can go back to wherever you came from and assure all those friends and relatives that everything’s fine. She’ll be back soon. I’ll tell her you dropped by, shall I?’

  Drew spent a long time considering the face before him. The eyes hardly moved, as if the brain behind them was working overtime, and all the man’s attention was turned inward. There was no discernible warmth, no simple fellow feeling.

  ‘We came quite a long way, you know,’ Maggs said reproachfully. ‘The place doesn’t really look as if she went camping.’

  Renton laughed. ‘You think she should have tidied up first? Are you sure you know our Justine?’