“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 r
ight. 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.”
MEREDITH POWELL 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.
Meredith wasted no time in telling the investigator what she wanted: any information to be uncovered about one Gina Dickens. Anything at all, she said. She didn’t know what the investigator would be able to find but she was looking for as much as possible.
“The competition?” The investigator’s tone suggested this wasn’t the first time a woman had come seeking information about another woman.
“You might say that,” Meredith said. “But this is for a friend.”
“It always is.”
They spent a few moments on the fee and Meredith brought out her chequebook because on the telly there was always a retainer given. But Michele Daugherty waved this away: Meredith would pay once services were rendered.
That was that. It hadn’t taken long. Meredith walked back to Gerber & Hudson, feeling as if she’d taken an appropriate step.
She began to doubt this almost at once, however. Gina Dickens was waiting for her. She was perched on a chair in the square of space that went for reception, feet flat on the floor and shoulder bag in her lap. When Meredith entered, she rose and approached.
“I didn’t know where else to turn.” She spoke in an anxious whisper. “You’re the only person I actually know in the New Forest. They said you were gone for a bit but that I could wait.”
Meredith wondered if somehow Gina had made a few unwelcome discoveries: that she’d been in her digs above the Mad Hatter Tea Rooms, that she’d answered the ringing of the mobile phone there, that she’d removed what had been hidden beneath the basin, that she’d only just now hired a private eye to look into the whats and wherefores of Gina’s entire existence. She felt an immediate surge of guilt, but then she quelled it. Despite the look on Gina’s face, which seemed to blend importuning and fear, this was not the moment to let one’s conscience get the better of one. Besides, what was done was done. Jemima was dead and there were too many questions that needed to be answered.
Meredith looked across the room to the little alcove in which she did her work. This was meant to convey that she did not have a moment to spare, but Gina apparently wasn’t going to read anything into Meredith’s actions that she didn’t want to read just now. She said, “I found …Meredith, what I found …I don’t know what to make of it but I think I know and I don’t want to know and I need to talk to someone …,” and the mention of finding something hooked Meredith at once.
“What is it?”
Gina winced, as if Meredith had spoken too loudly. She glanced round the office and said, “C’n we talk outside?”
“I’m just off my break. I’ve got to—”
“Please. Five minutes. Less, even. I …I phoned Robbie Hastings to find out where you were. He didn’t want to tell me. I don’t know what he thought. But I told him you and I had spoken and that I needed another woman and as I’ve no friends yet …Oh it’s stupid ever to tie oneself to a man. I knew it and I did it anyway with Gordon because he seemed so different from other men I’ve known …” Her eyes filled but no tears spilled over. Instead, the moisture made them luminous. Meredith wondered, ridiculously, how she managed that. How did any woman manage to look attractive so close to tears? She herself got all red in the face.
Meredith gestured towards the doorway. They stepped into the corridor. It seemed that Gina meant to go down the stairs and out into Ringwood High Street, but Meredith said to her, “It’ll have to be here.” She added, “Sorry,” when Gina turned back and looked a little taken aback by the abruptness of Meredith’s declaration.
“Yes. Of course.” Gina smiled tremulously. “Thank you. I’m grateful. You see, I just didn’t …” She began to fumble with the straw bag she was carrying. She brought out a simple envelope. She lowered her voice. “The police from London have been to see us. From Scotland Yard. They came about Jemima and they asked Gordon—they asked us both—where we were the day she was killed.”
Meredith felt a piercing of pleasure. Scotland Yard! A triumphant Yes! shot through her brain.
“And?” she asked.
Gina looked round as if to see who might be listening. “Gordon had been there,” she said.
Meredith grabbed her arm. “What? In London? The day she was murdered?”
“The police came because there was a postcard they found. It had her picture on it. Meredith, he’d put them up all round London. At least round the area where he thought she was. He admitted this when the police showed it to him.”
“A postcard? With her picture? What in God’s name …
?”
Gina stumbled through an explanation that Meredith scarcely followed: the National Portrait Gallery, a photograph, a competition of some sort, an advertisement, whatever. Gordon had seen it, had gone to London months earlier, had bought God only knew how many postcards and had put them up like wanted posters. “He put his mobile number on the back,” Gina said.
Meredith felt ice run down her arms. “Someone phoned him because of the postcard,” she whispered. “He found her, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Gina said. “He said he didn’t. He told me he was in Holland.”
“When?”
“The day. That day. You know what day. When Jemima …You know. But that’s not what he said to the police, Meredith. Instead, he told them he was working. I asked him why did he tell them that and he said Cliff would give him an alibi.”
“Why didn’t he just tell them that he was in Holland?”
“That’s what I asked him. He said he couldn’t prove it. He said he’d thrown everything away. I said they could phone the hotel he stayed in and they could phone the farmer he’d talked to but …Meredith, that wasn’t the point, really.”
“What do you mean? Why wasn’t it the point?”
“Because …” Her tongue came out and licked her lips, pink with a lipstick that matched one of the colours in the sundress she was wearing. “I already knew, you see.”
“What?” Meredith felt her head was spinning. “Had he been to London? On the day she died? Then why didn’t you tell—”
“Because he didn’t know—he doesn’t know—that I’d found him out. He’s been avoiding certain topics for ages, and whenever I’ve got close to whatever he doesn’t want to talk about, he just avoids. Twice, even, he’s gone a bit wild, and last time he did that, he …he frightened me. And now I’m thinking, what if he’s the one? What if he … ? I can’t stand to think he might be but …I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to do.” She shoved the envelope into Meredith’s hands. She said, “Look.”
Meredith slid her finger beneath the flap, which didn’t seal the envelope but merely folded inward to contain the contents. There were just three items: two rail tickets to and from London and a hotel receipt for one night’s stay. The hotel bill had been paid by credit card and Meredith reckoned the date of stay was the same as Jemima’s death.