The Ties That Bind (39 page)

‘What we need to pursue is what’s happened with your other captor, Vaughan Parfitt,’ said Markevelos. Luke automatically looked at the door. ‘Don’t worry. He’s in custody now, and that’s where he’ll stay until his trial. No bail for him, even if we could find someone to pay it.’

‘What did you charge him with?’

Markevelos didn’t need to check a notebook. ‘Torture, false imprisonment, grievous bodily harm . . .’ Luke listened for extortion, but it wasn’t on the list. ‘And murder.’

Unless Luke had missed something, the detective had missed out the ‘attempted’.

‘
Murder?
’ he echoed, straining up to a sitting position. ‘Did Joss Grand die in the night?’ He looked to French for confirmation: the DC, evidently briefed to let his superior do all the talking, merely slurped noisily at his coffee.

‘No, Mr Grand’s still with us,’ said Markevelos. He leaned in close; Luke caught a whiff of fresh cigarettes on him and realised that he must have gone for over a week without a cigarette. As methods went, this was an extreme way of giving up smoking. ‘After the incident, we conducted a fingertip search of the place in Disraeli Square, starting with the basement where you were held captive. During this search, we found human remains cemented into the cellar wall.’

Luke knew who it was straight away, the realisation sharp as a needle in his skin. ‘
Shit,
’ he said, but he found that the shock was absorbed quickly, as though it had been expected.

‘Shocking job, very crudely done.’ Markevelos wrinkled his nose in contempt, as though the bad DIY was more offensive than the body it hid. ‘They might as well have drawn a chalk outline for us.’

Luke could picture the exact area; that patch of badly-applied plaster on the far wall, damp patches exploding on it like black fireworks. An image came to him of a toothy skull wrapped in shrunken skin, only feet away from where he had lain. They had been virtual bedfellows.

‘The body has been identified as belonging to one Jasper Patten, a journalist like yourself.’

There was no point in denying all knowledge of Patten; he’d made enough fuss about finding him at the History Centre, and if these detectives were even halfway competent they would know that Luke had been there, they would have spoken to Marcelle and Cecil. There was a copy of
Hell on the Rocks
by his bedside at home, for fuck’s sake.

‘I’ve heard of him.’ Luke got the admission in before they could ask him the question, hoping that it would have the ring of honesty. ‘He wanted to write Joss Grand’s biography a while ago but he abandoned the project before he got very far. I don’t know why.’

‘Yes, that tallies with what we’ve got. Mr Grand says they never met. Parfitt’s got a
theory
,’ he leaned sarcastically on the word, ‘but we’ll come to that in a minute.’

‘How did he die?’

‘We won’t know the exact cause until the post-mortem is completed, but it’s highly unlikely that he cemented himself into the wall, so we’re not thinking natural causes. My money’s on strangulation. He’d been restrained with a length of plastic twine just like you were. The perpetrator – or perpetrat
ors
, that’s what we’re trying to get to the bottom of here – had tied the body up at the wrists and ankles to fit it in the hole.’ Luke flinched at the idea that in a parallel universe somewhere, someone was using similar words to describe
his
recently discovered body to his mother. So this was what Vaughan and Sandy did to journalists who threatened to expose their scam.

‘We found the rest of the roll of twine in a lock-up that Parfitt rents, and as the body was found in Cassandra Quick’s home, we’re drawing the conclusion that they were co-conspirators. It’s highly unlikely that Parfitt did it without her knowledge. She must have realised that we’d search the basement, and that we’d find the remains there. If she’d lived, we’d probably be charging her with conspiracy to murder, or with assisting a criminal. Doubtless that’s why she committed suicide.’

‘Doubtless,’ echoed Luke as another layer revealed itself. He had barely scraped Sandy’s surface.

‘Now, can you confirm from yourself that the email sent to Jeremy Gilchrist from your phone was in fact falsified by Ms Quick and Mr Parfitt? He won’t budge on this.’

Luke flushed with embarrassment even though he hadn’t written it himself.

‘Of course! I would have thought it was a pretty blatant ruse.’

Markevelos punched his palm and he and French grinned at each other. ‘Excellent. Another nail in Parfitt’s coffin.’

‘But you haven’t told Jem – Jeremy – about this?’

‘It wouldn’t have been appropriate until we had confirmation from yourself.’

‘Does he have to find out?’ He heard the childlike whinge in his voice. Markevelos looked at him like he was simple.

‘Well, yeah. Obviously it’ll be an issue at the trial.’

So it was up to Luke to tell Jem the truth. How did you even begin a conversation like that? He wanted to roll over and go to sleep and forget that it had to happen.

‘Luke?’ The detective snapped his fingers in front of his eyes.

‘Sorry.’

‘Now, we’ve got enough forensic to put Parfitt away for a long time but it’s all a bit complicated as to the division of blame between him and Ms Quick. He’s alleging that – hang on, it’s a bit of a shaggy dog story, let me read it from here.’ He pulled a folded document from his inside breast pocket, sighed theatrically and read sarcastically. ‘The allegation is that Cassandra Quick had evidence that put Mr Grand at the scene of an old murder, and was using this to blackmail him. According to Parfitt, she had a lens from his glasses that would’ve placed Grand at the scene of Jacky Nye’s death, back in sixty-eight. I had a look at the case, and it’s still technically open . . . well, you’ll know this, won’t you?’

‘Of course I know about the
murder
,’ said Luke. ‘That was the point of my book. But I don’t know anything about this lens.’ He threw the lie out there and waited for the flared pupil or tilt of the head that said his words had contradicted something they already knew, but none came and he was emboldened. ‘I wish I
did
,’ he continued. ‘If there was something that could put Grand in the frame for that killing it would make my book.’

Markevelos and French gave each other a look he couldn’t interpret.

‘I’m inclined to believe it’s a figment of Parfitt’s imagination,’ said Markevelos. ‘There’s no trace of anything matching its description anywhere inside the house or on her person.’

Luke tried not to let his surprise show. Where could she have hidden it? Thrown it from the rooftop? There had been enough witnesses that someone would have remembered and reported it. Suddenly he was back in Disraeli Square, recalling in hyper-real detail the way the impact had tossed her shoes whole yards away from her splayed body. It was possible that the lens had escaped its scarf and skittered across the pavement, rolled into a gutter and down a drain. He pictured it, rinsed and recontaminated by the Sussex sewers, worn smooth by the sea and ending up, years from now, another pebble on the beach.

He shook his head free of the reverie to find that the detectives were studying him expectantly and bought himself time with, ‘I’m confused.’

‘Right,’ said Markevelos. ‘What it is, is that Parfitt asserts that Ms Quick’s set-up was rent-free accommodation in the Disraeli Square property. But according to Parfitt, Jasper Patten got wind of this – something to do with the Land Registry, and finding out that she was living in a Grand property without paying rent, apparently – and jumped to the same conclusion, namely that she was blackmailing him. When he confronted her about this, she killed him, then asked Parfitt to help her dispose of the body. Parfitt maintains that he did so because he didn’t want his employer involved in a scandal. That’s the same boss he threw down the stairs and left with a hip like talcum powder, so you can see why we’re having a hard time buying it. Ah . . .’ he flipped a page in his notebook. ‘Ms Quick’s body also had significant ante-mortem injuries. There’s a handprint bruise across her face which is as good as a fingerprint. This also undermines Parfitt’s position as passive victim.’

‘So
was
she blackmailing Mr Grand?’ asked Luke. The part of him that still believed he was walking into a trap was appalled at his own boldness.

Markevelos sighed from his boots. ‘We’ve dug about in the company records, and it does appear that Ms Quick was living at the property free of charge, but this isn’t proof of extortion and she wouldn’t be the first old dear Grand’s taken on as a charity case.’ He closed his notebook and then asked the crucial question in an overly casual tone, a transparent attempt to make it sound like it had only just occurred to him. ‘You sure you didn’t come across any of this, Luke? Because they wanted to kill you too, and I’m wondering why.’

Markevelos leaned in close. Luke, not trusting himself to lie convincingly whilst holding eye contact, fixed his eyes on a point just above the detective’s right ear.

‘Maybe they wanted to stop me before I got that far,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t got more evidence for you. I’m sorry I can’t help you about that lens. I’m intrigued. I want it as much as you do, if it’s any consolation.’

‘Oh, I don’t bloody want it,’ said Markevelos.

‘Eh?’ said Luke, disarmed into meeting his gaze for real.

‘We’ve got enough to put Parfitt away for the murder of Jasper Patten and the other charges I told you about, but he’s going to plead not guilty and this is going to be a big case. I’ve got paperwork taking up half a warehouse in Shoreham and it’s going to get expensive. I’ve got crime that’s happening
now
, and I’m fighting it all on a shrinking budget. The last thing I want is to find my team opening up an old case that everyone’s forgotten about with a geriatric suspect who doesn’t look like he’ll last the week, let alone be fit for trial.’

‘But Charlene said he was OK,’ said Luke.

‘You clearly haven’t seen him,’ said Markevelos enigmatically. ‘Frankly, if this bloody lens turns up, I’ll be mightily pissed off. Especially while Joss Grand’s alive.’

Luke had finally learned to understand a threat when he saw one. Markevelos had come here not for his help but to silence him. I’m in the same trap as Capote, thought Luke, and this was one association with his hero he did not welcome. I can’t write my book until its subject is dead.

‘That’ll do to be getting on with,’ said Markevelos. He tossed his empty coffee cup into a bin in the corner. ‘Come down when you’re ready, for a proper statement. We’ll be working on this for a while yet. Let’s hope that nothing turns up to throw a spanner in the works in the meantime. Anything else you want to ask us?’

‘Yes. How did you identify Jasper Patten?’ He was asking not for the dead man but for his living imposter, and wondered whether the naming of the bones would set in motion his unmasking.

‘A bank card in his inside pocket, and from there, dental records,’ said Markevelos. He didn’t mention whether checking the system had triggered any kind of flag that might have led them to the African. Luke hoped not: he rather liked the idea of him continuing to make something, however modest, of Patten’s life. It made it seem less wasted, and he put his faith in the peerless ineptitude of the UK benefits system.

‘Sandy’s archive,’ said Luke. ‘What’s going to happen to it all?’

DC French spoke for the first time.

‘Well, it’ll stay with us until we’ve had a chance to comb through it all and we’ll release anything we don’t need once we’ve prepared the case for trial. I believe Ms Quick’s collection was left to some niece in Canada who isn’t interested. The Brighton History Centre might take some of it, but it’ll probably just get incinerated or recycled. It’s just a load of old paper, isn’t it?’

Chapter 58

Viggo flourished Jamie and Bernadette Considine into the room, then bowed out backwards like a butler. Luke’s parents’ clothes still bore the folds of the suitcase and their faces still bore the folds of their flight, deep creases of concern that no suntan could camouflage. He had been nervous about seeing his mother’s – and worse, his father’s – tears, but it was he who burst into uncontrolled sobbing.

‘Oh, my poor little soldier,’ said his mother, virtually climbing into bed with him. She ran her palm over the velvet of his head. Her touch was almost more than he could bear. ‘Your lovely hair.’

‘Go on, Bernie, that’s the first decent haircut he’s had since he was fifteen,’ said his father, although his voice was breaking. He cast watering eyes about the ward, only relaxing when they alighted on the TV remote control. He picked it up and felt its heft. ‘Can you get the BBC News 24 in here?’ he asked. ‘We’ll turn the sound down. I just like to have it on.’

‘He’d have had that bloody news channel on in bed if I’d let him,’ said Bernadette.

‘I thought you got it in Australia,’ said Luke.

‘Yes, but it’s not the same as watching it live, is it?’

Bernadette clicked her tongue and gave Luke a secret smile. The muted flickering screen was the background to a conversation dominated by his condition and when he might be able to leave hospital. They had already been briefed on the circumstances that had led up to today; Viggo had told them only that Luke had come to harm in pursuit of a story. They had arrived by themselves at the conclusion that a newspaper had sent him to interview Grand.

‘Will you get compensation, from the editor that sent you on this caper?’ said his mother. Their assumption that he would never have willingly put himself in danger tugged at the muscles of guilt, always supple but stronger than ever now.

‘There’s plenty of time for all that when I’m well enough,’ he said, and that seemed to satisfy her for now.

They had brought with them a selection of get well soon cards hand-drawn by his nieces and nephews, recognisable images where last year there had been stick-figure scribbles. One of the little ones had drawn him in traction with bandages on his head and his leg in plaster. He felt a child’s longing to be surrounded by his family and when he cried again, Bernadette wiped his nose.