This Body of Death (41 page)

H
E DROVE ONTO THE PROPERTY ONCE AGAIN WHILE
G
ORDON
was watering the ponies. Ten minutes more and Gordon would have been off for the day, working on the roof of the Royal Oak pub. As it was, he was trapped. He stood inside the paddock with a hosepipe in his hand and Gina watching him from the fence. She’d not wanted to enter the paddock this time. The ponies seemed skittish this morning, she’d said. She’d lost her nerve for the moment.

Over the sound of the water burbling into the trough, Gordon didn’t notice the car’s engine as the vehicle rumbled onto the driveway. Gina, however, was near the edge of it, and she tentatively called his name at the same moment as the car door slamming caught his attention.

He saw the sunglasses. They caught the morning light like the wings of misplaced bats. Then he was coming towards the fence, and the movement of his lips told Gordon that whatever was to happen next, the other man was determined to enjoy it.

The man said to Gina in a tone perfectly gauged to convey an utter lack of fellow feeling, “Gorgeous day, my dear, wouldn’t you say? Bit hot again, but who’s about to complain. We get little enough good weather in this country, eh?”

Gina glanced at Gordon, a quick look shot through with questions that she wouldn’t ask. She said, “I could do with a few more cool breezes, to be honest.”

“Could you, now? Can’t get our Gordon to wave the fan over you in the afters when you’re both hot and sweaty?” He smiled, a baring of teeth that was as disingenuous as everything else about him.

“What d’you want?” Gordon flung the hosepipe to one side. The water continued to burble from it. The ponies, surprised by his sudden movement, trotted away across the paddock. Gordon thought that Gina might enter the enclosure at that point—with the ponies safely away—but she did not do so. She remained by the fence, her hands fixed atop one of the newer posts. Not for the first time, he cursed that upright piece of wood and all of its brothers. He should have let the whole damn thing rot to hell, he thought.

“That’s not very friendly,” was the reply to his question. “What I want is a bit of conversation. We can have it here or we can go for a drive.”

“I’ve work to do.”

“Won’t take long, this.” He made a minute adjustment to his trousers: a hitch, a shift, and the bollocks put into a more comfortable position. It was the sort of movement that had a hundred different interpretations, depending upon circumstances and the bloke making it. Gordon looked away. The other said, “What’s it to be, my love?”

“I’ve a job to get to.”

“That I do know. So …a drive?” And to Gina, “I won’t take him far. He’ll be back before you know how to miss him.”

Gina cast a look from Gordon to the other man and back to Gordon. He could see she was frightened, and he felt a surge of futile rage. This was, of course, what the other man wanted him to feel. He needed to get the bastard off the property.

He strode to the spigot and cranked the water off. He said, “Let’s go,” and then quietly to Gina as he passed her, “It’s all right. I’ll be back.”

“But why must you—”

“I’ll be back.”

He got into the car. Behind him, he heard a chuckle and, “That’s our lovely boy,” and in a moment they were reversing down the driveway and into the lane. On the lane and heading in the direction of Sway, “You’re a sweet little piece of filth, aren’t you? She wouldn’t be looking at you like you’re God’s gift to her wet hole, would she, if she knew the truth of the matter?”

Gordon said nothing although he felt a churning in his stomach. At the end of the lane, they jogged to the left and began to work their way over to Sway. At first he thought their destination was the village itself, but they passed the hotel, rumbled over the railway tracks, and headed northwest past a line of suburban cottages. They were coursing in the direction of the cemetery, with its neat rows of graves sheltered on all four sides by stands of alders, beeches, and birch. This, Gordon realised, was likely where Jemima would be buried. The ancient churchyards nearby were full, and he doubted there was a family plot somewhere, for she’d never mentioned one to him and he knew her parents had been cremated. She’d never spoken of death at all aside from telling him about her parents, and he’d been grateful for this although he had not considered that until this moment.

They went past the cemetery as well. Gordon was about to ask where the hell they were going when a left turn into a rutted track took them into a bumpy car park. And then he knew. This was Set Thorns Inclosure, an area of woodland like many others across the Perambulation, fenced off from the free-roaming New Forest animals until the timber within it grew to a size that made it impossible for it to be harmed.

Walking paths wound through this vast acreage of woods, but only one other car stood nearby and no one was in it. Thus they had the woodland virtually to themselves, just as the other man would want it.

“Come along, darling,” Gordon was told. “Let’s have a bit of a stroll, eh?”

Gordon knew there was little point in playing for time. Things would be as they would be. There were certain situations over which he had at least nominal control. But this was not one of them.

He got out into the morning air. The scent was fresh and pure. There was a gate up ahead of the car, and he went to this, opened it, went inside the inclosure where he waited for instruction. It was soon in coming. Paths went in three directions from this point: deep into the inclosure or following the woodland’s boundaries. It didn’t matter to him which path was chosen as the outcome was going to be the same.

An examination of the ground was sufficient to indicate which way they should go. Paw prints and footprints looking rather fresh led into the heart of the trees, so they would take an alternate route, this one skirting southeast along the inclosure’s boundary before dipping downward into a swale and then rising again beneath chestnuts and through thick copses of holly. In open spots, the Perambulation’s foresters had stacked wood cut from the trees or felled by storms. Here the bracken was thick and lush, encouraged into growth by filtered sunlight, but now beginning to brown at the edges. By the end of the summer and into autumn, it would form a covering of brown lace wherever the sun hit the floor of the wood most strongly.

They trudged along, Gordon waiting for whatever was to come. They saw no one although they could hear a dog barking in the distance. Other than that, the only sound came from the birds: harsh corvine calls from avian predators and the occasional short burst of song from chaffinches hidden deep within the trees. It was a place rich in wildlife, where squirrels fed on the thick windfall from the chestnut trees, and a flash of auburn in the undergrowth was a sure indication that foxes were here.

There were shadows everywhere as well, and the air was fragrant. Walking and waiting, he could almost forget, Gordon thought, that he was being trailed by someone intent upon doing him harm.

“This is far enough,” the other said. He came up behind Gordon and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Now let me tell you a tale, my darling.”

They were inches from each other. Gordon could feel the hot, eager breath on the back of his neck. They’d come to a widening of the path at this point, more like a small clearing, and up ahead there seemed to be an intersection of some sort with a gate beyond it. In the distance the woodland ceased, and he could see a lawn spreading out. Ponies grazed there placidly and safely, at some great distance from any road.

“Now, my sweet, you’ll need to turn round and face me. There. Just like that. Nicely done, my love.”

Face-to-face, Gordon could see much more than he wanted to see—large pores, blackheads, a patch of whiskers missed in that morning’s shave—and he could smell the sweat of anticipation. He wondered what it felt like to have such supremacy over another, but he knew not to ask that of the man. Things would go worse for him if he played this badly and the point that he’d learned long ago was just to get
through
things so that he could go on.

“So we’ve been found out.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know. You’ve had a visit from the coppers, haven’t you. They’re on your tail. What d’you make of that?”

“The cops know nothing that you don’t tell them,” Gordon said.

“Think that, do you? Hmmm. Yesssss. But they’re on to Winchester Technical, dear heart. Where d’you think they’ll go now they know that’s fiction? Someone somewhere should have sorted
that
one.”

“Well, no one did. And I can’t see that it matters. I didn’t need the bloody letters in the first place.”

“That’s what you think?” He took a step closer. They were chest to chest now and Gordon wanted to step away, so invaded did he feel. But he knew how that step would be interpreted. The other wanted fear to overwhelm him.

“I learned the trade. I’ve worked the trade. I’ve got a business. What more do you want?”

“Me?” His voice was all innocence and surprise. “What do
I
want? Darling boy, this isn’t about me.”

Gordon made no reply. He swallowed a sour flavour in his mouth. He heard a dog yelp excitedly somewhere. He heard its master call out in response.

The other man raised his hand then and Gordon felt its heat cradling the back of his neck. And then the fingers tightened just behind his ears, thumb and forefinger slowly increasing their pressure until the grip was agony. He refused to react, to blink, to groan. He swallowed again. He tasted bile.

“But we both know who wants something, don’t we? And we both know what that something is. You know what
I
think should be done, don’t you?”

Gordon gave no answer. The pressure increased.

“Don’t you, darling? Answer me now. You know what I think should be done, don’t you?”

“I suspect it,” Gordon said.

“A few little words from me. Five or six words. That can’t be what you want, eh?” He gave a little shake to Gordon’s head, a movement wearing the guise of fondness, except for the pain of the pressure behind his ears. Gordon’s throat ached; his head felt light.

“You’re bound,” he said.

For a moment, nothing. And then the other whispered, “I. Am. What?”

“Bound. You know it. This game of yours—”

“I’ll bloody well show you a game …” And the smile, that baring of teeth like an animal, except to think of the other man as an animal was to dishonour animals.

“Down,” he said and he spoke through his teeth. “Down you go. That’s right. On your knees.” He forced the issue with the pressure of his hand. There was nothing for it but to obey.

He was only inches from the other’s groin, and he saw the hairy fingers go deftly for the trousers’ zip. They lowered it smoothly, as if it had been oiled in anticipation of this moment and the purpose behind it. The hand slid inside.

The dog ended things. An Irish setter bounded onto the path, coming from the intersection of trails up ahead. It trotted along and gave a bark. Someone called out, “Jackson! Come boy. Come.”

Gordon found himself jerked to his feet. The setter reached him and snuffled round him.

“Jackson! Jackson! Where are you? Come!”

“He’s here,” Gordon shouted. “He’s over here.”

The other smiled, no teeth this time, but an expression that said things had been merely postponed, not canceled. He whispered, “One word from me and you know who shows up. One word from me and
poof
 …everything’s gone. You’ll keep that in mind, won’t you?”

“You rot in hell,” Gordon said.

“Ah, but not without you, my dear. That’s the real beauty of your position.”

M
EREDITH
P
OWELL FOUND
the office she was looking for without much trouble. It was in Christchurch Road near the fire station, and she walked there from Gerber & Hudson Graphic Design on her morning break.

She didn’t know what to expect from a private investigator. She’d seen depictions of private eyes on the telly, and the emphasis always seemed to be on their quirkiness. She didn’t want quirky, however. She wanted efficient. She had little enough money to spend on this venture although she knew it had to be spent.

That phone call to Gina’s mobile had convinced her, as had the fact that the mobile wasn’t in Gina’s possession in the first place. While Meredith knew that Gina could merely have forgotten to take it with her prior to setting off on that particular day, it looked as if she was, more or less, a permanent fixture on Gordon’s holding and, that being the case, why would she not have returned for her mobile phone once she realised it was missing from her belongings? It seemed to Meredith that there was only one possible answer to that question: She hadn’t returned for it because she hadn’t wanted it with her, ringing, vibrating, messaging, texting, or anything elseing while Gordon Jossie was about. All of this made Gina a suspicious character once again. All of this made Meredith turn to Daugherty Enquiries, Inc.

The Daugherty in question turned out to be an elderly woman, much to Meredith’s surprise. No rumpled trench coat was involved in her attire and no dusty office plant or pockmarked steel desk sat in her office. Rather she wore a green summer suit and sensible shoes, and her office furniture was polished to a glow. There was no plant at all, dusty or otherwise. Just prints on the walls, these of the New Forest wildlife.

She had pictures on her desk, comforting shots of children and grandchildren. She had a laptop computer opened on her desk as well and a neat stack of papers next to it, but she closed the lid of the laptop and gave her full attention to Meredith in the few minutes that they spoke.

Meredith called her Mrs. Daugherty. She said it was Ms. but that Michele would do. She pronounced it Me-shell, with the accent on
me
. She said, “Unusual name for someone my age, but my parents were forward thinkers.”

Meredith was unsure what this meant. She stumbled once with the placement of emphasis on the woman’s name, but she got the hang of it after a single correction, which seemed to please Michele Daugherty because she beamed and winked.