The Unburied Past (29 page)

‘Good God!' he exclaimed. ‘What the hell brings you here?'

‘We wanted a word, Tony,' Barry said placatingly. ‘We got off on the wrong foot on Friday, and we need to get things sorted before tomorrow morning.'

Tony turned his attention back to his line. ‘As far as I'm concerned, they
are
sorted.'

‘Look,' Dean began, ‘you've every right to be annoyed with us putting a spoke in your wheel. It's just that we were so worried about finances—'

‘Point is,' Tony said expressionlessly, ‘you
never
listened to me. I'm supposed to be Development Manager – how the hell can I do my job when every time I suggest a new angle or any kind of innovation, you slap me down? It's been going on for years and frankly I've had enough of it. Now that I have my own prototype, it's time to branch out by myself.'

‘But you'd have to start from scratch,' Barry argued. ‘We've got the set-up all ready for you – all you'd have to do is install the machine and off we'd go. And if it's as successful as you claim, perhaps you could adapt it for use in other departments.'

Tony gave a grim smile. ‘If you'd spoken like that a year ago,' he said, ‘things would be very different now.'

‘What are your terms for staying?' Barry demanded urgently. ‘A partnership? You've got it. Salary increase? Definitely, once we're out of the wood. Name your price. Sole responsibility for—'

‘Sorry, you're wasting your breath. My mind's made up.'

Barry bit back his irritation. ‘At least let's talk it over. So far, we know nothing about this machine except that it dramatically cuts production time. We only have your word for it; give us a demonstration, and we can discuss the best means of—'

‘Of what? Taking over control of it, and shunting me sideways?'

‘Of course not!' Barry ran a frustrated hand through his hair. ‘God, what do you think we are – a couple of crooks?'

Lifting his line out of the water, Tony propped the rod against an adjacent rock before turning to face them. ‘Look, boys, I'm sorry it's come to this. I don't want to leave with any bad feelings, so let's end our association on a friendly note. I'll work out my month's notice and then I hope we can part with a handshake.'

Barry had begun pacing back and forth. ‘You don't seem to realize that you're arbitrarily consigning us to the scrap heap!' He paused, trying to control his breathing. ‘We're on our uppers, as you well know, and you have it in your power to save us. If we have to beg, OK, we're begging. Postpone going for a year. Keep control of your patent, if that's what you want, but put it to use at Ferrises. Then, once it's established and we've built one of our own under licence, you can go down south or wherever and start up yourself. That's not asking too much, surely?'

Tony turned towards his rod. ‘You'll have to excuse me, it's time I was breaking down my tackle. We're eating at the George this evening, and I'm in need of a long, hot shower.'

Barry caught hold of his arm and spun him round, his face infused with rage.

‘Haven't you heard a word I just said?'

Tony stiffened. ‘Didn't
you
hear what
I
said?'

‘Be reasonable, man! This year or next – it's surely immaterial to you, but the difference between life and death for us!'

‘I'm sorry, but as I said this has all come too late. Now, please let go of my arm. I have to pack up.'

Barry's hands dropped to his sides. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and for a timeless moment the two men stood face-to-face. Then, with a smothered exclamation, Barry balled his fist and lashed out, catching Tony on the chin and sending him crashing to the ground.

‘Barry!' Dean stared at him, appalled, but Barry, all control gone, had bent to pick up a rock and, before his brother realized his intent, brought it down forcibly on Tony's head. Then, impelled by his own momentum, he began to rain blow after blow on the man beneath him, whose struggles abruptly ceased. Frozen with horror, Dean watched unbelievingly for another heartbeat before leaping forward, seizing his brother's arm and holding it, suspended, inches above the injured man.

‘My God, Barry, what are you doing?' he gasped. ‘You could have killed him!'

Barry wiped a hand across his mouth, his shoulders heaving. Releasing his arm, Dean dropped to his knees, feeling increasingly frantically for a pulse. And found none. White-faced, he stared up at his brother and slowly shook his head. ‘You
have
killed him!' he whispered.

 

The next few minutes were a blur as they acted instinctively and in silence. Somehow they succeeded in half-carrying, half-dragging Tony's body to his boat, still bobbing alongside, and tipped him inside. It wasn't until they'd scrambled in after him and started rowing that Barry glanced up, and froze.

‘What is it?' Dean demanded hoarsely. Trembling from shock, he was concentrating on rowing and preventing himself from vomiting.

‘There's someone up there – on that ledge!' Barry swallowed convulsively. ‘God Almighty, could he have seen what happened?'

Dean followed his pointing finger. ‘You're imagining things,' he said through chattering teeth. ‘There's no one there.'

‘But there was! It was a flash of light that caught my eye – could have been reflection from a pair of binoculars, or a camera.' Barry's voice rose. ‘God, Dean, what should we do? Go after him?'

‘Get real – if there
was
anyone, we've no idea who he was. Come to that, he wouldn't know who we are, either. Just keep your head and let's concentrate on ditching Tony, then we can get the hell out.'

In the middle of the lake they paused to look around them. There was no sign of a living soul, only the surrounding hills to bear witness to their act. Without a word they heaved Tony and the rock that had killed him over the side, watched numbly as the waters closed over him, and started back again.

‘I know who he was!' Barry said suddenly.

‘Who?'

‘The bloke on the ledge; his sweatshirt stood out like a sore thumb against the stone. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place it.'

‘So who was he?'

‘The father whose kid tried to pinch the ball at the fête. Someone said they're the family who are renting the Barlow cottage – where Viv and I stayed a few years back, remember? When she was on her rural history kick?'

‘Well, he still won't know who
we
are, even if he saw anything. He might just have arrived.'

‘But we have to make sure,' Barry insisted agitatedly. ‘He saw me close up at the fête – if it
was
binoculars, he'd have no difficulty recognizing me.'

‘Bloody hell! What can we do?'

‘Call round there with some excuse – a lost dog or something – and see if he reacts.' They scrambled ashore, where Tony's rod was propped against the rock, its iridescent fly gleaming in silent accusation.

‘Put the rod and line in the boat,' Dean directed, shaking, ‘and we'll shove it off.' Odd, he thought fleetingly, how he seemed to have taken charge, but Barry was unravelling fast. ‘Leave the oars in the rests,' he added. ‘With luck, it'll look as though he fell overboard.'

‘He did,' Barry said grimly, but he followed his brother's instructions without question. Then, after a swift look round to make sure no one was about, they hurried back to their car.

As she'd intended, Emma had put the children to bed earlier than usual, and within minutes both were sound asleep. There was no meal to prepare – after a substantial lunch in Hawkston, she and Mark had decided on a snack supper – so she settled down to write the postcards she'd bought, first to her parents, then to Mark's, filling the available space on each with her small, neat writing as she detailed their doings of the past week. Then, as she picked up the card destined for Lynne and Harry, it occurred to her that while Kirsty was asleep it would be a good time to extract her beloved Bear and do the necessary repair.

Having managed to retrieve the toy without disturbing her daughter, she returned downstairs with it and her sewing kit, and quickly and neatly secured the ear. She was snipping the thread when she heard the screeching of tyres outside, and the next minute the door burst open and Mark half-fell into the room. She came to her feet, staring at him in alarm.

‘Mark! For God's sake, what's wrong?'

White-faced and dishevelled, he drew a shuddering breath. ‘I've just seen someone being murdered!' he said.

Jerkily, repetitively, he recounted what he'd seen from his vantage point on the ledge.

‘I was using the zoom lens,' he ended. ‘It was like having a ringside seat.' He shivered convulsively.

Emma's wide, frightened eyes dropped to the camera still round his neck. ‘And you actually
recorded
it all?'

He nodded and, divesting himself of the camera, opened it with fumbling fingers, extracted the film and replaced the camera in the bag.

‘Then take it to the police! Straight away!'

‘God!' he exclaimed. ‘Why the hell isn't there a bloody phone? I'll have to go down to the village.'

‘Don't waste time phoning!' Emma urged. ‘Take it straight to the police station in Hawkston – it's evidence!'

He hesitated. ‘It's late now; there won't be anyone there.'

‘Then phone from the village and leave a message, and we'll all go down in the morning.'

Mark had started shaking. ‘I got a pretty good look at the killer – you'll never believe it, Emma! It was the man who handed out the prizes yesterday – I'm sure of it!'

‘It can't have been! He's quite well known, they said. But the police won't have to take your word for it if you show them the film.'

He sighed, resigning himself to the loss of some of his best shots. ‘Well, as you said, we'll take it in the morning. In the meantime …' he looked feverishly round the room, ‘we need to put it somewhere safe, in case anyone comes looking for it.'

Emma frowned. ‘Who would come looking? The police aren't likely—' She broke off, her eyes going wide with horror. ‘You don't mean those men? They didn't
see
you, did they?'

Mark hesitated. ‘No. No – I'm sure not.'

Ironically it was those last few words, intended as confirmation, that gave rise to doubt. ‘Mark! They didn't, did they?'

‘It's just that I was crouching behind a gorse bush, but in the excitement I must have stood up, and only realized I had when the film finished. But by that time,' he added quickly, ‘they were already out on the water. It's just a safety precaution, but where can we put it where no one would think of looking?'

Emma looked wildly round the room, then her eyes fell on the toy and the pair of scissors lying beside it. ‘Inside Bear?' she suggested doubtfully.

‘Excellent! Well done! Cut him open and slip it inside. It'll be safe there till the morning.'

Quickly, Emma cut a hole in the middle of the soft, furry body, slipped the film in, buried it among the kapok stuffing and sewed it up again. ‘Now go and make your phone call and get back as quickly as you can. I shan't be happy till we're both safely inside with the door locked.'

‘God!' Mark said wretchedly. ‘Why did I go the lake this afternoon? Why didn't—?'

‘Go!' Emma commanded. And he went.

Picking up the teddy bear, she patted his stomach in apology and carried him back to her daughter's cot, placing him within reach of the sleeping child. It was as she was turning away that, to her surprise, she heard the front door open. Mark should have been well on his way by now.

She went to the head of the stairs. ‘Mark?' she called softly.

There was no reply.

D
ean sat in the car drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind a maelstrom of panic and horror. He was still having difficulty taking in what had happened. Had Barry
really
killed Tony, and had he, Dean, helped him to dispose of the body? Or was it some ghastly, ongoing nightmare? If so, he fervently wished he could wake up. And where
was
Barry, for God's sake?

They'd agreed that only he should go to the cottage, in the guise of a man worried about his missing dog. To this end, they'd parked the car out of sight and Barry had got out, saying over his shoulder, ‘Shan't be long.' But – Dean checked his watch – that was ten minutes ago, for Pete's sake. What was he
doing
? God! he thought suddenly. Suppose he'd lost his head again, as he'd done at the lake? But no, that just couldn't happen. Barry was no killer; what had happened there had been an aberration, a temporary loss of control brought on by sudden, ungovernable anger. All the same, it shouldn't be taking him this long.

Increasingly uneasy, he got out of the car and stood for a moment looking about him. It was quiet at this end of the village, no casual passers-by were likely to come along. The rain had moved away and the sky was a freshly washed blue, with innocent white clouds scudding across it. They had no place in this living nightmare.

He glanced down the lane and, seeing the cottage gates, started to walk towards them. There was no sign of Barry but a car stood in the drive, so presumably if the man who'd been on the ledge was indeed staying here, he must have returned from his outing.

Dean hesitated, then, making up his mind, turned into the gateway, and as he did so stubbed his toe on a small white rock that had been edging the path and become dislodged. Kicking it aside, he looked up and his random thoughts skidded to a halt as he stiffened in disbelief, his heart leaping into his throat.

Lying alongside the car was a still form – an eerie, impossible replica of Tony on the banks of the lake.
No!
his brain screamed. Stumbling, he ran into the drive and over to the body. A young man in a garish sweatshirt, as Barry had described, lay with unseeing eyes staring up at him, a bloody gash on the side of his head.