The Grave Tattoo (42 page)

As if to confirm him in his thoughts, his phone rang. ‘Hi,’ he said, trying not to sound as bored as he felt.

‘Let’s have a little hustle, Jake,’ Caroline said. ‘It’s showtime.’

‘What?’ He sat up straight in his chair.

‘I know where you can find a Wordsworth autograph manuscript,’ Caroline said.

‘How the hell…’

‘Jake, you’re not my only set of eyes and ears,’ she said. ‘But you are my only pair of hands. I know where it is, and I need you to fetch it. I’m flying back tomorrow. We’ll enjoy the spoils together.’

It was all moving too fast for him. ‘OK, OK, I’m on my way.’

‘Don’t let me down, Jake. This is what I need you to do…’

42

The last of the light was fading behind Langmere Fell when the taxi turned up. By the time they reached Coniston, the only light came from windows where curtains had not yet been drawn. There were a few people making their way to and from the pub, and Jane asked the driver to drop her there. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by having him take her right up to Copperhead Cottage.

It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk up to the cottage and Jane enjoyed the feel of the fresh air on her skin. Even a few hours behind bars had been enough to reinforce her need to be out of doors. There was an autumnal tang to the air, made up of leaf mould and the smoke from coal fires. It was a smell that made Jane nostalgic for the autumns of her youth–Hallowe’en guising, Guy Fawkes bonfires and fireworks, cosy evenings in the kitchen doing her homework to the background sounds of her mother baking and making preserves.

She was so lost in her memories that she was on Copperhead Cottage almost before she realised it. Glad that she’d remembered a torch, she picked her way through the garden, its bare stalks and tender plants wrapped in sacking a sad remnant of what must have been glory in the summer. The outhouse wasn’t hard to find, and the key was exactly where Jenny had told her it would be.

Jane let herself in and felt for a light switch. She clicked it on, but nothing happened. Cursing, she remembered Jimmy’s tale of Jenny’s elaborate preparations for leaving the house. She must have turned off the electricity at the mains. Jane was too impatient to go searching through the dim house for the fuse box, so she climbed the stairs by torchlight.

The room with the chest was the third door on the landing. As she swept the room with her torch, Jane noticed an old-fashioned oil lamp sitting on a chest of drawers, a box of matches next to it. That would make things easier, she thought, lifting the glass and turning the knob that raised the wick high enough to light it. The flame guttered and smoked, but Jane lowered the wick a little and replaced the glass. It wasn’t as good as electric light, but it was a damn sight easier than trying to juggle the torch and the contents of the chest.

Jane crouched down and raised the lid. Her eager hands hurriedly lifted out the jumbled contents and dumped them on the floor next to her. By the light of the lamp, she could see the thin leather loop. Holding her breath, she lifted it and set it to one side.

‘Oh, my God,’ she murmured, reaching out and letting her fingers caress the brittle, yellowing pages. It was real. She lifted the bundle out and stared at it.
William Wordsworth wrote this. Dorcas Mason kept it safe.
‘Thank you, Dorcas,’ she said, getting to her feet, her eyes still fixed on the familiar handwriting.

‘I’ll take that now.’ The voice was as shocking as the chill waters of Langmere Force.

Jane whirled round, clutching the papers to her chest. ‘It’s fine,’ she gabbled. ‘I’ve got them safe, it’s fine.’

Dan shook his head, his mouth curling in a pitying smile. ‘Just hand them over, Jane.’

‘Why? What are you doing here?’

‘Did you really think I was going to fall for that line about a call from your lawyer? You’ve never had an emotion that wasn’t written all over your face. There’s not a lawyer on the planet could make you look like that. Now, just give me the fucking papers.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I want them. Because I’m tired of my crappy life. Because I’m tired of being a nobody going nowhere. Because I deserve something better and this manuscript is my ticket to it.’ He made an impatient movement with the hand that wasn’t holding the heavy rubber torch. ‘Because I can. Now give me the fucking papers.’ He took a step closer and Jane backed up, almost tripping over the chest.

‘This is crazy, Dan. We can work on this together, that’s enough to make a great career for us both.’

He snorted. ‘You think I want to be a fucking academic for the rest of my life? You really think that’s how I want my life to be? What a tiny, pathetic ambition. I want things you can’t even imagine.’

Cold creeping fear had its hand on her now. She had never suspected this viciousness existed within a man she had counted a friend. ‘Things worth killing for?’

‘It was an accident, the first time. I just meant to scare her. But–’ he snapped his fingers–‘she went out like a light, and it made things easier. It’s no big deal, Jane. They were old. I’ve seen how death creeps up on people and it’s not pretty. You might even say I did them a favour. Saving them from a slow and lonely decline.’

‘You don’t have the right to make that decision. They valued their lives, how dare you presume to play God?’ She had no idea how she was going to escape him, but she knew she had to try to keep him talking. ‘And what about me? I’m not old, but you tried to kill me.’

‘I’m not getting into it, Jane. Stop playing for time. Give me the papers.’ He lunged towards the manuscript, but she fended him off with her free hand.

Sudden rage erupted in his face, turning his lips to a snarl and his eyes to narrow slits. ‘Stop fucking with me,’ he screamed, slamming the torch into the side of her head.

A brilliant light exploded behind her eyes. Then everything went dark.

It was the acrid smell of burning that acted on Jane like smelling salts, helping her make the last steps on the upward spiral into consciousness. Bleary and groggy, she pushed herself up on one elbow, unsure of where she was and how she had come to be there. The flames were what drove her disorientation from her, sharpening her consciousness. Jane pushed herself to a crouch. A line of fire extended from the spilled oil lamp across the floor for about eight feet. The carpet was burning, and the paint around the door frame was beginning to bubble. The air was already thickening with smoke, sparks shooting upwards like baby fireworks. Through the shimmering haze above the flames, she could see Dan, his face attentive, watching the fire take hold, making sure the blaze across the threshold kept her at bay.

‘You should have given it to me,’ he shouted above the roar and crackling of the fire. ‘I’d have made it easy on you. Burning’s a bad way to go, Jane. A bad way to go.’

Still crouching, Jane turned her head towards the window to see if there was an escape route there. But heavy wooden shutters were bolted shut top and bottom. There was no way of reaching the top bolts. The only furniture in the room was too heavy for one person to shift. She looked back at Dan. ‘You bastard,’ she screamed. ‘You bastard.’

He grinned at her, the familiar open, careless expression she knew so well. It was like a physical blow. ‘I’ve always admired your spirit, Jane. Just despised your ambition.’ The fire was rising now, and she could hardly see him. ‘I’m off now, it’s getting a little too hot around here for my taste.’

And he was gone.

‘Fuck this,’ Jane said, coughing as the smoke caught the back of her throat. She wasn’t going to let this happen. It was now or never. She moved crabwise as close as she dared to the blaze. She blinked the tears from her eyes, pulled her coat over her head and launched herself through the flames in a diving forward roll.

Jane scrambled to her feet, pulling off her smouldering coat. Dan had barely made it to the top of the stairs and she went for him with a scream of pure rage. Dan stopped and turned back, taking the full force of her charge in the ribs. He grunted in anger and drove into her, landing a punch to the side of her head that made her dizzy. She lashed out again and caught him in the ribs. This time he yelled and she felt a moment’s grim satisfaction.

But still he was coming at her. He smashed a fist into her stomach, forcing the air from her lungs in a sudden whoop. Jane staggered backwards and his hand was on her wrist, forcing it back, threatening to break it. He pushed her and she felt herself falling. But just in time, she grabbed hold of his jacket, catching him off balance. They crashed to the floor together, their momentum carrying them back towards the stairs. Jane scrambled away from him, trying to get to her feet, but he was faster than her, lurching forward and grabbing her leg. She kicked him in the face with her free foot and he yelped as he let her go.

This time, she made it to her feet. Three steps and she was at the top of the stairs. She chanced a look over her shoulder just as he launched himself at her. Instinctively she threw herself to one side.

He crashed into the newel post at the top of the stairs then spun away from it. For a long moment, he seemed to hang immobile, one foot on the top stair, the other in space. Then his balance went and he tumbled sideways, completely out of control. One foot caught a stair tread, pitching his whole body into a cartwheel. He landed head first at the bottom of the stairs with a sickening crunch.

Jane was frozen with shock. She couldn’t move a muscle. Then she began to shake, her whole body shivering from head to foot. She clutched the banister for support, staring down at the unmoving heap below. This time, it was the crackle and hiss of the fire that got her moving. Step by step, she made her way downstairs. Even in the gloom of the hallway, she could tell he was dead. Nobody’s head could be at that angle to their body and still be alive.

A sob caught in her throat. It didn’t matter that it had been Dan who had made it a matter of life or death. What her head knew hadn’t yet filtered down to what her heart comprehended. At that moment, she was looking at her friend with his life snuffed out.

A loud crack from upstairs galvanised her into action. She stooped over his body and tried to figure out where the papers were. It was no good; she was going to have to turn him over. Grunting with the effort, she managed to push him on to his side. His jacket fell open, revealing a plastic folder rolled up in the inside pocket. Hastily, she grabbed it, checking it was truly what she sought. She glanced upwards, in time to see the balustrade crumpling under the weight of flame and falling into the hall scant feet from her. She had to get out of there.

Jane raced for the back door, still unlocked as she had left it. She burst into the cold air, chest heaving, pulse hammering in her head. She knew she had to get away from the house, knew it wasn’t safe to stay close. Staggering after her effort, she rounded the corner of the house and made for the track.
Fire brigade, police.
Stupidly, she patted her pockets.
Jacket.
That’s where the mobile was, in the jacket she’d discarded on the landing.

Her head swimming and her legs rubbery, Jane staggered off down the track towards Irish Row.

Jake had been sitting in the car at the end of Irish Row for a good twenty minutes when he realised he couldn’t wait any longer to pee. He got out of the car and turned to walk behind it when he saw a faint orange glow against the skyline. At first he thought it was a bonfire but as it intensified and grew bigger, it dawned on him that this was something much more serious.

He zipped himself up and headed for the track, almost tripping over a mountain bike stashed behind a bush. Catching himself before he fell, he stumbled on to the track and headed in the direction of the fire.

As he rounded the bend, he saw tongues of flame shooting out of a couple of upstairs windows of a lone cottage. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed, reaching for his mobile. When he was connected to the emergency services, he explained he needed the fire brigade. ‘There’s a cottage on fire. In Coniston. You go up past Irish Row, it’s maybe a quarter of a mile further on. It’s a huge blaze,’ he said, raising his voice as another window exploded like a bomb, showering the air with shards of glass that glittered in the red glow of the fire.

In normal circumstances, the instinct for self-preservation would have driven Jake from the scene for fear that this fire was something to do with his acquisition of the manuscript. But the ancient fascination of fire held him fast. Enthralled, he watched the flames thrusting like blades into the sky, the cinder trails snuffing out as they fell to earth, the billows of smoke shifting like clouds on fast forward. The figure that came staggering down the path from the house was almost upon him before his trance was broken.

At first, he registered only that the escapee from the fire was dishevelled and filthy, bleeding and stumbling, coughing and gasping. He saw the glint of eyes in a smoke-blackened face, then a voice he knew as well as his own rasped, ‘You too? You were in it too?’