Gone to Ground (3 page)

Will had gone for a run that morning, pulling on an old Simple Minds T-shirt and some shorts on the landing, then lacing up his running shoes in the dark of the downstairs hall; as he stepped out through the front door, he slipped an orange reflective vest with Day-Glo stripes over his shoulders: no sense getting sideswiped by some half-awake driver who failed to pick him out in the slow-rising light.

The air was raw in his mouth as he went beyond the furthest edge of the village and turned off along the fen. Mist hung over the blackened water and drifted, wraithlike, above the rutted surface of the fields. It would be another quarter of a mile or so before the knots disappeared from his legs and he could relax into the rhythm, lock off all thought of what he was doing—the need to put one foot down after the other, the slight ache in his side—and let whatever thoughts slip through him, higgledy-piggledy, as they may. The first blows, had they been struck in the shower or earlier? Will saw a man turning under the full spray of water, eyes squinched almost shut, hair splayed out flat upon the dome of his head. He would have felt the impact of the first blow before realizing what was happening. And then another: another. More than a fist. Something hard, metallic, possibly. A hammer? Like a leviathan, the bulk of Ely Cathedral rose out of the mist.

Mark McKusick was in good spirits. Confirmation had come through that morning that a £17,000 order from an American couple for equipping their Chester Street house had been confirmed. Both academics, they had taken the house on a long lease, and had wanted the best audio and DVD technology their not inconsiderable salaries could buy. McKusick had first convinced them of the wisdom of investing in a fully integrated setup, then demonstrated the beauties of a plasma surround sound system with adjacent Artisan Acoustic speakers supported by a subwoofer, and compatible speakers in all of the other main rooms. Everything controlled by a simple Philips Pronto universal touch screen remote. Looked great, sounded great, cost no more than they could afford, and in nine months time he'd be getting back to them about upgrading to a superior surround sound amplifier and hard disc soundserver.

He was still counting the prospective commission on that little lot, when the buzzer sounded over the main door and a few moments later one of the other assistants put his head round the door of the multi-room department that was Mark McKusick's domain.

"Asking for you."

McKusick strolled out into the body of the shop, sizing up the couple at the centre of the floor. A man in his mid- to late thirties, tall, wearing a dark suit that had seen better days, tie loosely knotted, blue shirt, his brown hair in need of a trim; the woman with him was five or six years younger, black trousers and a black T-shirt under a waist-length leather jacket, little obvious makeup, thick dark hair cut short and not without a certain style: no way they were going to be spending more than a thousand, two tops, and then only if the man could get away with keeping the exact cost secret.

"Morning. Mark McKusick. How can I help?"

Both handshakes were firm, businesslike, her grip, if anything, the stronger; their eyes stayed focused on his.

"Detective Inspector Grayson," Will said, showing his warrant card. "This is Detective Sergeant Walker. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

No sale then, McKusick thought. It wasn't until they were seated in the smaller of the two demonstration rooms that it occurred to him this might be about something other than some stolen hi-fi.

"Stephen Bryan," Will said, "you're a friend?"

"Yes."

"Know him well?"

"Yes, yes. Why? Why do you want to know?"

"When did you last see him?" Helen Walker asked.

"Stephen?"

"Yes, Stephen."

Something low in McKusick's gut was starting to squirm. "Not ... not for a while now. A good few weeks, I suppose, a month or so. I'm not sure."

"But if you're such good friends..."

"We ... well, we decided to stop seeing one another, so much of one another anyway." McKusick's throat was dry and he could hear, louder than usual, the sound of his own breathing.

"You had a row."

"No."

"A falling out."

"No."

Will was sitting with his hands held steady, fingers lightly interlocked. Helen's elbows were resting on the arms of her chair, relaxed; she was having trouble marrying the writer of those sexually explicit letters with the man in front of them. But then, with sex you never could tell.

"What's happened?" McKusick said. "Something's happened."

They looked back at him without expression, their gaze unfaltering.

"You don't know?" Will said.

"Don't know what?"

"Yesterday morning, Stephen Bryan was found murdered."

McKusick recoiled as if he'd been thumped in the chest; the colour blanched from his face. Head turned aside, he leaned low over the side of the chair and retched, but aside from spittle and a few thin strings of saliva, nothing emerged. His eyes stung but as yet there were no tears.

"Here," Helen said, handing him a couple of tissues from her bag.

"How...?" McKusick began, then stopped.

"He was beaten," Will said, with a slight softening of his voice.

The pain in McKusick's chest was real, something pressing against his breast bone, against his ribs. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. "Where? Where did it happen?"

"In his own home."

McKusick's cry was a wail of pain. Falling forward onto his knees, he began punching himself in the face with his fists.

"Don't," Will said, catching hold of McKusick's wrists. "Don't."

Helen left the room and when she returned with a cup of water, Will was bending over McKusick, holding his arms and talking to him quietly, earning trust.

"Drink this," Helen said, and Will stood away.

McKusick took the drink in both hands.

"We'll need to talk to you," Helen said. "At the station."

McKusick looked at her vaguely and then nodded his head.

"We should go now," Will said a few moments later, offering to help him to his feet.

"I shall just have to explain ... my boss..."

"Of course."

The early morning mist had cleared leaving a wan sky; a breeze, slight for the time of year, barely disturbed the trees, yet McKusick was shivering as they led him to the waiting car.

That early in the enquiry, detectives would be working as close to round the clock as motivation and overtime would allow: uniformed officers would be helping with house-to-house, and civilian staff would be setting up files, starting to cross-reference information and accessing it on computers. As senior investigating officer, it was Will's job, assisted by the office manager, to establish priorities and ensure that all viable leads were followed up. Each move, each policy decision he agreed to or set in motion would be carefully recorded.

For some, this was an invitation to slip behind a desk and demonstrate powers of organization, delegation, play mastermind. But for Will, the crux of what he did was still what happened out on the street, confronting suspects face to face, the heat, the heart of the action. When necessary, he knew Helen to be the most capable of deputies, but together, he felt, they could achieve more than they could apart.

And these first days were crucial. Without results, the adrenaline would cease to race and the number of officers involved in the investigation would be cut back; not so long after that, someone else would likely be brought in to look over Will's shoulder and pick out what he'd missed, point out where the investigation had gone awry.

He didn't want that to happen.

Detailed results of the postmortem had been promised for the following morning, along with the first results from samples taken at the scene; until then officers were following up on the names garnered from Stephen Bryan's diaries or letters, together with those of any friends or close colleagues mentioned by either his parents or the university.

Which left Mark McKusick...

"What did you think of the show?" Helen asked once they were back at the station and McKusick was safely out of earshot.

"You think that's what it was, a show?"

"Punching himself in the face."

"He was upset..."

"I'll say."

"Distraught."

"Careful to miss his eyes and nose, you notice that?"

"He'd just heard someone he cared for had been murdered, what do you expect?"

"Something more than play acting."

"If that's what it was."

A smile crossed Helen's face. "You ever do drama at school?"

"Not if I could help it. Why?"

"I was the White Rabbit once in
Alice in Wonderland.
This born-again hippie drama teacher reckoned it was all some kind of druggie fantasy, dreamed up by poor old Lewis Carroll on laudanum or whatever the Victorians used to get spaced out on. So that was our school show. Strobe lights and patchouli and lots of stoned Sixties music. You know, Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane. One pill makes you larger, one pill makes you small."

"Grace who?" Will said.

"Never mind. I was fourteen years old, never done drugs in my life. The occasional drag on someone else's spliff aside. But I had that white rabbit spinning through an amphetamine trance so convincingly, on the second night a drug counselor came up after the show and practically begged me to make an appointment."

"And your point is?"

"Maybe it takes a faker to tell a fake."

Mark McKusick had washed his face in cold water, combed his hair, straightened his clothes; most of the colour had returned to his cheeks. He had asked if he needed to contact a lawyer and been told that at this stage there probably wasn't any need. This was little more than a chat, informal, simply to establish some background. He was doing them a favour by being there, Will was careful to make clear, helping the police with their enquiries. Whenever he'd a mind, he could get up and leave.

Somehow it didn't altogether feel like that, not to McKusick, nor was it entirely meant to.

"What happened," he said, as soon as Will and Helen entered the room. "What happened to Stephen, was it ... I mean, whoever did it, was it somebody who'd broken in? A burglary?"

"All in good time," Will said. "All in good time."

"I want to see him," McKusick said suddenly. "Stephen, I want to see him."

"I'm afraid it's not possible right now."

"I have the right..."

"I know, I know. But you do appreciate the urgency ... there are questions we need to ask."

McKusick breathed out slowly. "Very well."

"Your relationship with Stephen Bryan, from what you've said, it was long-standing?"

"Our relationship? I don't see what that can have to do..."

"Please just answer the question. Your relationship, it was long-standing?"

"Yes."

"Serious."

"Yes. But I still don't see...?"

"You'd both signed a contract? A civil partnership?"

"No, not that."

"Lived together then?"

"Not exactly."

Will leaned back.

"Look," McKusick said, feeling the need to explain. "We spent almost all our free time in each other's company. Evenings, weekends, holidays. We just ... well, we just didn't live together, that's all."

"And you were happy with that?" Helen asked.

McKusick was surprised at the question. "It was what Stephen wanted."

"Not you?"

Looking at her, he hesitated. "It wouldn't have been my choice, no."

"But you accepted it?"

"Yes, of course." He tried for a smile that didn't quite come off. "Compromise, you know?"

Bollocks to that, Helen thought. "And was that the reason you split up?"

"No, not really."

"No?"

"Look..." McKusick bit down a little on the inside of his mouth. "It's never that simple."

"So, what happened?" Will asked. "You had a row or what?"

"Not really, no."

"Still, some kind of a falling out?"

"If you like."

"A tiff?"

"Yes, I suppose..."

"A lovers' tiff?"

McKusick shook his head. "It wasn't serious, if that's what you mean. Is that what you mean? It's like I said before. We just decided to see less of one another for a while, that's all. Take a break."

"And this was mutual?" Helen asked.

"Yes."

"Mutual," Helen said, nodding slightly, speaking to herself as much as to anyone.

They both looked at McKusick and waited.

"Stephen," McKusick said eventually, "I suppose it was more his idea than mine. He had all this teaching now, more than he was used to. Since coming to Cambridge. More students. New courses. And then there's this book he's been working on. That was taking a lot of time, too. It was really important. To him, anyway. He wanted a little more space, more time. I mean, it's easy for me, once my job's done, it's done, you know? I don't mean I'm not interested, I am, I like what I do, but at the end of the day ... well..." He gestured with open hands. "But for Stephen, it's his life. Films, movies, writing, teaching, it's all one. It doesn't leave a lot of room for ... well, for anything. For somebody else."

He sniffed and wiped a hand across his face as if he might have been wiping back a tear and Will wondered if that was acting, too; if Helen was right and he had been pantomiming before.

"You were together how long?" Helen asked, looking for a sympathetic tone.

"Three years."

"That's a long time," she said. Longer than I've ever managed, she thought. A bloody sight longer. "You couldn't have been altogether happy with that?" she said. "That arrangement?"

McKusick all but smiled. "We did try living together for a while. When Stephen was still in Leicester. I thought it was fine. I really did. I mean, it wasn't perfect, nothing is, but Stephen, he said he couldn't work, not with me there all the time. I wasn't, of course, but that was how it seemed to him."

"So you moved back out?"

"Yes."

"You were working in Leicester then?" Will asked.