Authors: Clare Curzon
Last to Leave (7 page)
But Marion had the sense not to attempt anything greasy. She found wholemeal bread in the crock, sawed off two slices and dropped them in the toaster.
The warm, yeasty smell that arose reminded Kate she hadn't eaten since toying with the hotel food the previous evening. âNo butter or spread,' she warned the woman scrabbling in the fridge.
âMarmalade, then. You can't eat it dry.'
Kate supposed she was right. Dry, the toast would lodge in her throat. There seemed to be a lump there already. âJust a smear,' she allowed.
She stirred herself to fill and switch on the kettle, aware of Marion watching under lowered lids. The effort of moving made her feel less light-headed. Something like anger pulsed inside her. She resented the woman regarding her as spineless. âI am not a victim,' she said shortly. âThere's just so much that anyone can take at once.'
âIt's the uncertainty,' Marion suggested. But that was just parroting. Everyone knew that was what parents said when their children went missing.
Well, Kate's children had gone missing. Hadn't they? Not in the same way, though. The thing she confronted was death, still in the balance in one case. In the other â¦no hope now.
âHave the police been back?' Marion asked.
Kate shuddered, remembering the detective inspector's face; the crude message delivered on her doorstep.
âNot since last night,' she admitted once she could find words. Grim-faced she fetched two mugs, the cafetière, milk and sugar bowl, lined them up on a tray, then forgot what next.
âGround coffee?'
âPacket's in the fridge door. It keeps fresher that way.'
Her words were cut across by the phone ringing. As with
the doorbell earlier, she started, felt her body thudding with shock, and all energy instantly drain.
the doorbell earlier, she started, felt her body thudding with shock, and all energy instantly drain.
Marion Paige held out one hand towards her, but was moving in the opposite direction.
âNo!' Kate shouted. âDon't answer it. I'll go.'
The phone was in the hall. In the seconds it took her to get there she forced herself to take control. âHello,' she whispered; lifted the receiver and repeated it aloud.
âMrs Dellar?' It was a woman's voice, not Sister's, so nothing important after all.
âThis is Sergeant Zyczynski again, Mrs Dellar. From Thames Valley CID. I heard you were at home and wondered if there's anything I could do. Is there someone with you?'
Not a friend exactly, but the young woman detective who'd come out to Jess's boat. âI'm all right. There is somebody here,' Kate admitted.
There was a short pause, then, âI don't want to bother you, but there are one or two things we need to know, Mrs Dellar.'
Kate wished she wouldn't keep repeating the surname. It made her sound like one of
them,
in parallel with Claudia. âIs it something I can answer now, without you coming round?'
them,
in parallel with Claudia. âIs it something I can answer now, without you coming round?'
âIf you prefer. It's just that we'd like to know the name of your family doctor.'
âI told them at the hospital. My GP's Dr Finnegan at the Medical Centre. But my son has someone else in London now. A Dr Santer, but I don't know his address.'
âYes?' The policewoman appeared to be waiting for more.
âIs that all?'
âPerhaps I'd better have your dentist's name too.'
âWe use the Park Clinic, but â¦' She was going to say that maybe she was the only one registered there now. The children would have joined another list when they moved away. Then the reason for the request struck her. Neither of
the twins, nor she herself, had any need for dentistry at present.
the twins, nor she herself, had any need for dentistry at present.
They needed to know, for an odontologist to identify the body. They would check with Jess's records and there would be no escaping. It would be certain then. No way of going back, of keeping the frailest hope alive.
But she'd known since last night, hadn't she? A body found in the ruins. Only one member of the family missing. There was no one else it could be.
Blindly she reached out the receiver. It clattered down in place. âThey're identifying the body,' she told the woman hesitating in the kitchen doorway.
âAt least you will know then for sure.'
âI don't want to know,' she wailed. This was Jess they were talking about: Jess, once her darling baby.
Back at Carlton's, when they'd been first introduced, this woman had made an odd remark about Jess. After Marion had said how alike mother and daughter were, Kate had had the momentary suspicion that there had been a tinge of malice in her voice. And later when Kate had rashly demanded what the woman had against Jess, she'd brushed the question aside, saying enigmatically, âAh, that's another story entirely.'
An interruption had occurred at that point, so she had never explained herself.
But she could now.
âYou'd met Jess before seeing her at Carlton's, hadn't you?' Kate accused her now.
âYes.' Marion sounded casual. âMichael introduced us. I'd called in at King's College and she was in his Faculty office.'
So she had known Michael too. The academic world was a small one, but if Marion's department at UCL was Geophysics, why would she need to consult a historian?
This must have happened almost a year ago, maybe more. Michael's fatal mugging down by Temple Underground station had been in October. At that time Jess hadn't yet
dropped out of Engineering, hadn't become infatuated with Charles Stone.
dropped out of Engineering, hadn't become infatuated with Charles Stone.
âI see,' Kate said; but she didn't. Any idea of this woman offering comfort was shaken now. She'd been an acquaintance whom Michael had never troubled to mention: someone on first-name terms with him. And any animosity between her and Jess could have started from that moment of first meeting in his office at King's.
So what were the circumstances of it? Kate looked away from her, wishing she would go now and leave her to grieve alone.
Â
Zyczynski had returned to the Area CID office and was re-reading her shorthand notes on Kate Dellar. âI should have gone to see her,' she regretted, almost under her breath.
Beaumont was perched on a corner of her desk, working his way through an apricot Danish. âIt's done now. At least you say she's not on her own. Do you want me to go and pick up the dental records?'
âIf you've nothing more pressing. Better telephone first or they'll leave you hanging around.'
âRight, then. Tell the Boss where I am if he asks for me.'
âWill do.' She watched him stand, brush the fallen flakes of pastry off his shirt-front, wipe his fingers on a scrap of printer paper and make for the door, conscious that this left him one up.
Zyczynski gave a wry smile. When Littlejohn's notes on the body's teeth arrived Beaumont would be there, star pupil, to produce the matching chart from Jessica Dellar's dentist and win any acclaim.
She shrugged. Scoring points should take second place in a case like this. And it didn't matter that she'd handed him that one on a plate. Their detailed track records weren't so important at the moment in the race for promotion. Walter Salmon was installed again as their DI and looked likely to remain until such time as Angus was permanently back:
which she was sure he would be eventually, now that the wedding was definitely on.
which she was sure he would be eventually, now that the wedding was definitely on.
She'd bet almost anything that Paula had finally surrendered, agreeing to quit her Law practice in London and seek a place in local chambers; even switch from legal defence to join Crown Prosecution. Which surely meant the pair of them would be setting up home here in Thames Valley.
She settled to transcribing her notes on the computer, reflecting it might now be a good thing that Max was taking the apartment next to her own. Good flats were hard to find at a reasonable price, and much as she valued Angus as her immediate guv, she didn't need him on her doorstep after the day's work was done.
She printed out her report, dropped a copy off at the incident room and took another to leave on Yeadings' desk. She found he had just returned and was on the phone. He waved her to a seat.
âDI Salmon's still at the PM,' he said when the call was through. âI want you to follow up some of Sir Matthew Dellar's judgments. He's been retired from Queen's Bench for over four years, so you'll need to dig way back. Make a list of any disgruntled old lags released in the last three months. Special attention to anyone with a taste for arson who made a death threat against him. It's often no more than hot air, but just once in a blue moon some obsessive will make an attempt on the judiciary.
âThat'll do for the present. If nothing of significance shows up we may need to go even further back, to when he was a QC. No, on second thoughts I'll put a DC on checking among long sentences from that period.' He entered a note to this effect in his log.
âYessir.'
âThat's to say, after we've tried this new Italian coffee you brought in. Where's Beaumont?'
âChasing up Jessica Dellar's dental records.'
Yeadings looked up from his pouring. He looked thoughtful.
âAh, yes. Littlejohn thought we might have to go for DNA. There hadn't been much work done on the body's mouth.'
âAh, yes. Littlejohn thought we might have to go for DNA. There hadn't been much work done on the body's mouth.'
âWell, she was young. Probably took good care of herself.'
âUntil the early hours of Saturday morning,' he said dryly. He paused. âI'd very much like to know what she was doing downstairs before the fire had gone out of control.'
âAnd if she was the reason her brother rushed to get through to the cellar,' Z suggested.
They drank their coffee hot, both keen to get on with the inquiry. Z departed, seeking an expert in legal archives and a terminal for access to High Court case records. It was more than an hour later that she was paged to return to the Boss's office. She found Beaumont already smugly installed. A copy of the girl's dental chart from the Park Clinic was on Yeadings' desk.
âDo they match?' she asked. âHas Littlejohn's report come through already?'
âYour notes from the PM are sufficient,' Yeadings said sombrely. âAccording to Jessica Dellar's dentist she'd broken off two upper front teeth in a riding accident when she was thirteen. He had rebuilt them himself and said the work was distinctive.'
He looked from one of his sergeants to the other. âSo, there's no way our body could be Jessica. And there's nothing to suggest who else it might be. Even DNA will be useless until we have something to compare it with.'
He waited for his announcement to take its effect, then, âIt means we have an extra case on our hands. Because now Jessica Dellar is officially a Misper.'
âIt's a reprieve for her mother,' Z said instantly. âI'll go round and let her know the good news. She'll be so thankful.'
âIt may not be such good news in the end,' Yeadings warned her. âAlthough it's unlikely they'll find another body in the burnt-out house, we have to consider the
vandalized condition of the canal narrowboat. That may have been part of an unsuccessful plan to injure or kill her earlier. And, as reported, it occurred in the same hours of darkness as the torching of Larchmoor Place. It's possible whoever was out to get her was successful with the second attempt.
vandalized condition of the canal narrowboat. That may have been part of an unsuccessful plan to injure or kill her earlier. And, as reported, it occurred in the same hours of darkness as the torching of Larchmoor Place. It's possible whoever was out to get her was successful with the second attempt.
âJessica Dellar may still have been a victim of murder or abduction. And since the Senior Fire Officer has decided the outbreak was arson, our original case looks like premeditated murder with criminal disregard for the lives or safety of others.'
On Sunday, ignorant of all that had happened at her uncle's after her departure, Jessica Dellar rested her elbows on the balcony's rail and gazed out across the lagoon. It was immense, stretching west and east until lost in early morning haze, and so vast that she could imagine that at either end it sloped downwards as the global horizon.
The water's surface barely stirred, limpid and almost colourless beyond the fish-traps' black verticals staked out in receding horizontal rows to the west. And directly across from her, the distant shoreline, with the Doge's palace and San Marco miniature and unreal, was a shimmering thread of opalescent light.
From the end of the balcony she could look down into the convent garden next door. Above the ancient, stained terracotta of the roof rose a demure little square bell-tower of bleached wood from which a bell tolled a single note, calling the faithful to early Mass, sounding medieval in its mixture of secure orthodoxy and irksome restrictions.
Mother still went defiantly to church, but it was something Jess had given up after Dad died. She supposed all the Dellars would be trooping off as customary to the village service, Claudia dominating the choir's contraltos and Miranda, the
idiot savant,
performing prodigiously on the organ: Dellars en masse pretending to recognize a greater power than the Family!
idiot savant,
performing prodigiously on the organ: Dellars en masse pretending to recognize a greater power than the Family!
She turned back to the lagoon panorama. What a place to be sent to. But not to stay. Venice was too rich and romantic for everyday living. To stay was surely to remain entranced, slowly sink with it almost imperceptibly, millimetre by millimetre, back into the sucking lagoon.
Last night the water had looked infinitely deep, inky dark, the boat's bows cutting out a violet-white curve that flew along the gunwales. She had thrilled to the choppy
movement as they sped through the blackness, stopping only at Murano for a few passengers to land. It was a stage-set, a night scene from Barcarolle except that the stone buildings looked menacing, each ancient block sparsely lit by a single globe high under the roof, the glow scarcely reaching to the shadowed water. This was a place for masked assassins and poisoners and vendettas. She'd been bound for another island: Lido, which, she remembered, was quite different.
movement as they sped through the blackness, stopping only at Murano for a few passengers to land. It was a stage-set, a night scene from Barcarolle except that the stone buildings looked menacing, each ancient block sparsely lit by a single globe high under the roof, the glow scarcely reaching to the shadowed water. This was a place for masked assassins and poisoners and vendettas. She'd been bound for another island: Lido, which, she remembered, was quite different.
All the same, there was no knowing what lay in store for her ahead. Already, over the past twenty-four â no, thirty-six â hours she had found herself increasingly out of her depth. Too many instant decisions. Certainly too many obscure instructions. Used to flouting convention, she preferred to have control over events. This time she'd obediently leapt in, eyes closed. She didn't really know how deep the water might be.
She supposed events were bound to get out of hand when she accepted old Carlton's invitation to his birthday weekend. She hadn't intended going, but Charles Stone had insisted, although it meant turning down a better alternative. Still, she'd thought Eddie might be there, and she'd something important to ask him, tell him, whatever.
In the event there hadn't been an opportunity, because Jake was being such a weedy limpet that she'd played him along, and it took a rise out of Ma to let her see that. She'd thought there'd be opportunity enough to talk with her brother next day.
The essential thing was that Eddie should be told before he returned home. But things had got out of hand, happening so fast, without warning: so still he had no idea.
She had let Charles Stone have the last word. âKeep in with your family,' he'd as good as ordered. âWhen all else fails in life, a family is still there for you. In any case I need to be sure where you are for a few days. Stay until Monday. I will be in touch.'
At the time she'd taken it at face value, but later she
realized that the cliché about family was totally un-Charles. And then she'd been sure: he was up to something. But, of course, when wasn't he?
realized that the cliché about family was totally un-Charles. And then she'd been sure: he was up to something. But, of course, when wasn't he?
That had been on the Tuesday, so when Eddie rang next morning to ask what she intended doing about the family rally, she'd said, âI guess I'll go. What are you giving the old boy?'
âGod knows,' he'd said. âThe coffers are almost empty, and anyway we've few tastes in common. Maybe a book.'
And because she didn't trust the phone line she hadn't simply warned him then.
Clever-clogs Eddie. Empty coffers or not, he'd turned up at Carlton's with a superb first edition copy of
Three Men in a Boat.
The stick insect uncle had almost clasped him to his bosom.
Three Men in a Boat.
The stick insect uncle had almost clasped him to his bosom.
Her own offering, a silver paperknife, was more modest and lay still unopened with all the other gift-wrapped presents on the octagonal table in the drawing-room. The plain brown paper bag containing Eddie's offering had so clearly revealed the shape of a book that Uncle Carlton couldn't resist opening it there and then. Full marks, Eddie. Give the boy a scooter.
Not that Eddie was the sort to curry favour. He simply enjoyed others' pleasure. If she'd been able to choose a sibling from everyone she'd ever met it would have to be Eddie. Steady Eddie, so unlike herself although they were twins. Even Ma felt comfortable with him, whereas her own escapades put an almost permanent strain on mother-daughter relations, Kate trying so hard, and so obviously, not to be openly judgmental.
So how had the âparty' evening scored overall on a scale of one to ten?
Barely four-ish. Uncle Carlton and Aunt Claudia had been in their element, of course, holding court. Their nephew Robert, only slightly less bouncy than usual, had plugged his new book and successfully presented his new love. His widowed father, Matthew, had drifted through
the necessary greetings-and-eatings in a mild-mannered way until the bridge table came out, and then he reverted to the natural predator he'd been for half a lifetime as a QC, seeing it as his divinely bestowed function to fill Her Majesty's prisons with his rivals' clients.
the necessary greetings-and-eatings in a mild-mannered way until the bridge table came out, and then he reverted to the natural predator he'd been for half a lifetime as a QC, seeing it as his divinely bestowed function to fill Her Majesty's prisons with his rivals' clients.
The others of his family sprig had mingled in their several different ways, daughter Madeleine over-conscious of her hot flushes, her husband Gus from habit buttering up the ladies, and her stepson Jake peacocking away as though he'd been brought up in a corridor of mirrors. For herself, she'd had only a brief word with Eddie, frozen off Gus, been a trifle provocative with Jake and had the satisfaction of turning him down at her bedroom door despite his beseeching spaniel eyes and hand-on-heart gestures behind Eddie's back.
About the outsider Marion Paige, Jessica had yet finally to make up her mind. They'd met before and she'd admit to strong prejudice. And she hadn't cared for the hard stare she'd given poor Miranda, who'd been no more negative than she customarily was.
At least it hadn't rained to keep them penned mustily indoors. As she'd sat that night at her open bedroom window the pleasant breeze of the afternoon was turning into a sneaky wind tugging at fronds of Virginia creeper which encroached on the window panes. The old shutters had started to rattle in their iron hasps. She had turned away to undress and became aware of a square white envelope pushed under the door.
That idiot Jake doing the Romeo thing, she'd supposed; opened it and found a printed message:
The pool after midnight.Magnus.
The pool after midnight.Magnus.
That could only be from Charles Stone. Nobody else knew the jokey name she teased him with. Silly, really: Charle
magne,
Carolus Magnus, Holy Flipping Roman Emperor, because he could be so high-handed and needed taking down a peg or two.
magne,
Carolus Magnus, Holy Flipping Roman Emperor, because he could be so high-handed and needed taking down a peg or two.
So was he staying somewhere near and had sent
someone to deliver the note? It was only on Tuesday he'd flown out to Washington.
someone to deliver the note? It was only on Tuesday he'd flown out to Washington.
At already a quarter to one the house appeared silent. Glancing again from the window she could see only three lit windows reflected on lawn and shrubbery.
A carafe of water was already supplied beside her bed so she hadn't the excuse of going for a drink. But, ostensibly fetching something to read, she could creep down to the study passage and let herself out there.
The rusty bolts were stiff and she loosed them slowly to keep down their screeches. Two more bedroom lights went out as she crossed the cracked flagstones of the terrace and circled to the house's rear. Here all the windows were in total darkness, and the moon, in its last eighth, gave her little light through the archway of overgrown trees.
Towards the end of the semicircular path she could make out a gleaming surface which would be the pool. Not water, she found, but the shabby, bleached blue plastic which covered the empty hole for eight months of the year. At near sight she found it was stained with mould, sagging under an accumulation of twigs and leafy rubbish from recent rains. The whole scene was creepy, dingy and deserted.
The little cabin, once used for bathers to change in, was in sad disrepair, with a fallen branch lodged in the broken thatched roof, and the edges of the hole black with rot. For a secret tryst the place was ideal for privacy; but so dismal. It was impossible to imagine the immaculate Charles making love to her here.
Cautiously she circled the little ruin. Nobody stood waiting under the thatch's overhang, but a whisper reached her as someone lying on the bench beyond sat up and started uncertainly to rise. In dappled moonlight she made out the thin form of a young man, little more than a boy perhaps, and he staggered as if in pain. She reached him as he swayed on the point of falling.
âWho are you?' she demanded. âWhat are you doing here?'
He shook his head, grasping at her wrists for support. âHide me,' he begged. âI work for him.'
âFor whom?' she insisted.
âYour husband. Charles Stone.'
This was no moment for arguing her status. The man was clearly ill. âLook, sit down. What's wrong?'
He slumped again on the bench. âI was shot at, coming here. From a passing car. They got away. It's only a flesh wound.'
She looked at him in disbelief. His eyes were sunken in deep pits of grey, and a sheen of sweat beaded his forehead. She doubted he'd make it on foot as far as the house, and she couldn't support his weight alone. And, of course, she'd left her bloody mobile back in her room.
âWe must get you to hospital. Can you wait here while I call for an ambulance?'
âNo ambulance. No hospital. See. I'm padded.'
He meant bandaged. His English was adequate but the accent was foreign. She began to doubt him. He'd made that mistake about herself, so he couldn't know all that much about Charles's affairs. On the other hand his injury wasn't an act. As he pulled back one edge of his green knitted jerkin she could see the open shirt and the bloodstained handkerchief below the right shoulder. So who had fixed that for him but not informed the authorities?
âHide me,' he said again, more faintly. âNobody followed, but if they come back, they will search.'
âWhy should they?' Her voice sharpened with suspicion.
âYou know who they are, don't you? It wasn't random.'
âEnemies. His. I come to help you. Secretly.'
She stared at him a moment. Quandary-bloody-plus.
So she did the obvious thing and ran for Eddie. His was the one light still on, and he rose from reading in bed as she knocked and entered.
âJess, what now?'
She said she'd gone out for fresh air and there was this injured man in the garden. He'd sworn someone was after
him and he had to lie low. He was too ill to walk unaided and she couldn't get him into the house on her own.
him and he had to lie low. He was too ill to walk unaided and she couldn't get him into the house on her own.
Stated baldly like that it sounded crazy, but the full truth, with mention of Charles, would have been worse. And Eddie knew as well as anyone that she was always getting involved in harebrained situations.
His reaction was instant; terse and sceptical. âIt's the police he's running from, idiot. And he expects you to grant him free entry to rob the house. We'd best go down and see how far he's got with it.'
He reached under his pillow to arm himself with a heavy torch. It looked the business, and she began to feel all options might be covered. If this nameless young man really came from Charles she'd somehow make Eddie help him. And if he was a phoney â¦
The unknown boy was still stretched out on the bench. âWhat's your name?' her brother demanded, bending over him and shining the light on his haggard face.
âNicholas. I am shot.'
It might have been
Niklaus,
she thought. A more or less international name. He certainly wasn't native English.
Niklaus,
she thought. A more or less international name. He certainly wasn't native English.
âLet's be having you then,' Eddie offered unexpectedly. âWhere's the wound?'
Jess pulled back the edge of the crumpled shirt to reveal the bloodstained area. Her brother made a soft humming sound. âCan't risk a fireman's lift then. Jess, are you up to helping with a bandy-chair?'
He steadied the man on to his feet and they slid their arms behind, fingers locking on to each other's wrists. Gently they eased him into position so that he sat on their hands, his left arm reaching for Eddie's far shoulder and the other lying useless in his lap.
âWhat now?' Jess panted as they re-bolted the door, gained the study and closed the curtains. She switched on some lights.
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