*
Harvey watched the trustees emerge from the Chapel and brace themselves against the cold. They huddled together, a ragged gathering of black hearted crows. Full of suspicion and accusation. They talked in low tones, until one parted and the others watched him leave.
He was stunned to see the woman detective arrive at the cemetery and talk to the trustees. Her arrival scattered the remaining three like a gunshot. She remained, watching them leave.
She meandered around the graves, referring often to her notebook. After one slow circuit of the church grounds she made her way back to a car. Harvey was mesmerised by her. Petite, wrapped up in a long, dark coat, wisps of blonde hair blowing from beneath her hood. What was she doing here? Was she looking for him?
Harvey played the events of the assassinations over in his mind. Had he slipped up? Had someone identified the poisonous karma and was even now building a case against him?
No. He thought back to the woman detective carrying out a box of possessions from Grace's office. She may have traced Grace back to the Trust, perhaps connected Masters to the Trust. But nothing was tying him to the murders. Nothing substantial, at least.
After she left, Harvey rose from his vantage point and walked along the wall of the Garden of Remembrance where rows of brass plaques indicated the last farewells to the departed.
He tracked along the small plaques of remembrance, following the dates and names. The names were random, flitting from family to family, whilst the dates slowly increased. 2004. 2005. 2006. 2007. 2008. He hovered at the beginning of the year, his throat suddenly dry and his eyes refusing to read further when a familiar name leapt from the wall. A polished brass oblong with an inscription to Helen Barker. Beloved daughter of Andrew and Catherine (both deceased).
No mention of other family. No Husband, children.
Not even him, her brother.
At the sight of her name memories engulfed him. Images and impressions and random moments of a shared childhood. Helen running in the surf, swinging from a tree, screaming and yelling and throwing herself into the long grass. Snippets of home made movies running through his mind, of he and his sister playing together in their family home next to the sea.
It must have hurt the family when he left, all those years ago. The circumstances of his departure would have caused so much pain.
The plaque made no mention of her passing, and Harvey scrabbled in his pocket for the paper clipping of her newspaper obituary. The clipping mentioned her love of life and her passionate attempts at conservation. Her involvement with 'Friends of the Earth' as an active protestor in many rallies in London and throughout the UK. How it was the passion of her beliefs that led to the accidental death.
A protest that had gone horribly wrong. Resulting in the tragic accident that ended her life.
Tragic accident. Harvey stared at the words in the newspaper clipping.
Once Harvey had discovered his sister had died, he was consumed with further research into her passing. The words accidental death waved before him like a red flag.
His research brought to light further details of the accident. The coroner's enquiry detailed the circumstances that led to the night that she had died.
The newspapers reported that Helen Barker had been caught up in an argument with the demolition crew and had chained herself to a tree. That night a storm had swept through lower England. The ancient tree to which Helen had chained herself had been struck by lightning, the bark shattering like a grenade, bursting into deadly shrapnel.
From the autopsy report it was determined that Helen had survived the lightning strike, suffering from third degree burns on her arms and back, but had died of multiple cuts inflicted by the explosion of the tree. She had bled to death before fellow supporters or the demolition crew arrived the next morning.
Harvey did not believe in accidents. His was the trade of the secretive murder. A death to look like an accident, or natural cause, or a suicide.
And so he began an investigation from afar. The internet and his own underground contacts the initial resources. When he had a name, then he flew from America to England and began his investigation proper. The Valentine Trust had been the driving force behind the levelling of that particular part of Sussex to make way for a luxury hotel and golf course. And it was the Valentine Trust that he held ultimately responsible for his sister's death.
Touching the plaque, Harvey leant in close and whispered, 'This will have to do, Helen. Revenge is all I have to offer.'
He wedged the newspaper clipping between the plaque and the brick wall and walked from the cemetery.
Harvey didn't notice the two figures behind him. They watched intently as he leant in against the wall, the directional mic one of them held caught his whisper, recorded to digital tape. They shadowed him as he walked away from the Garden. One of the men, in a camouflage jacket with a hood pulled tight, reached for the scrap of newspaper tucked behind the plaque. His hand and arm was a mess of scar tissue. Long gnarly lines of white scar tissue tracing over his skin like a two-tone Jackson Pollack painting in flesh.
'Should I follow him further?' the other man asked.
The scarred man shook his head. He tucked the paper into his jacket and turned back the way they had come.