Dead Feint Page 20

  He looked puzzled.

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ve let him down in the past.”

  That sparked his interest. “So, Mikey’s been playing away from home? Bad boy. Does that mean I’m in with a chance after all?”

  I leaned away and shot him an old-fashioned look.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “Well half-kidding. Though it looks like we’re going to have to make do with each other’s company, anyway.”

  I pulled a face. “I think I can just about bear it.”

  “Let’s hope this theory of yours is right. Or we’re going to be stuck with other for a long time yet.”

  Only then did I realise how much was riding on my being correct. My own relationship as much as anything else.

  “I hope so too,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was another five days before we got our answer. Lowe was the one who broke the news. It was late morning, and he’d called as soon as the results were in. Rusty was sprawled out on the bench at the end of the garden, enjoying the sun. I rapped on the window to attract his attention and pointed to my mobile as I took the call.

  By the time he reached the house and stepped inside, I’d already learned the bad news. He learned it too from the expression on my face.

  I sank onto the couch, grimacing, and shook my head for Rusty’s benefit as I continued my conversation with Lowe. “So what prints did you get?” I asked.

  Lowe was apologetic. He knew how much I’d hoped for a positive result. “Just the ones we expected. Everyone who’d been at the cottage since you moved in.”

  Rusty seated himself beside me on the couch and listened to my side of the conversation with a clenched jaw.

  “Nothing on the companion set in the hearth?” I said. Part of my theory had been that the missing poker had been used as a murder weapon. And if so, the murderer would have probably left his prints on the T bar which held the tools.

  “Sorry, Mikey. No other prints anywhere.”

  “And the rug?”

  “I have a separate report on that.” The sound of papers being shuffled. “The analysis confirms the fibres could well have come from the rug in question.” He made a disparaging sound. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “If they hadn’t, at least it would have shown conclusively that your theory was a bit wide of the mark. As things stand, it’s neither one thing nor the other.”

  “I’m not sure it matters, anyway. We still didn’t get any prints.”

  “Quite. And the rug is a common enough make. The fibres could have come from any number of different sources.”

  Rusty was watching me intently, and I pulled a face at him as Lowe and I said our goodbyes. “Thanks for letting me know, Richard. I guess it was worth a try.” I ended the call and pocketed my mobile.

  Rusty said, “So nothing new?” He sounded disheartened.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I feel like I’ve let you down.”

  “Screw that,” he said. “Sure, it’s a bummer, but none of this is on you.” He tried a smile. “Just means you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer.”

  “I guess everything has its downside,” I said, and grinned.

  He growled at me and gave me a playful punch to the chest. “Say what,” he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic, “let’s go out and drown our sorrows somewhere. It would do us both some good.”

  I made my excuses, pleading the need to get on with some work. My publisher’s deadline had long since passed and I was nowhere near a final draft of the book.

  He accepted the excuse but opted to go for a drink, anyway. “I need to get away. Get some air.”

  Once he’d left, I settled at my desk and tried to focus on my research delving into the twisted psyche of yet another notorious psychopathic killer. It was hard going. Sometimes, I had to wonder how this sort of subject affected my own psyche.

  Fortunately, I was interrupted by a call from my agent, Jerry, with details of time and place for the upcoming award ceremony. I finished the call and was keying the details into my iPad diary app when my mobile rang again. It was Karen.

  “Richard said you might need some company,” she said. “What’s all that about?”

  Laughing, I said, “Just work pressures. But he’s right, I could use some company right now.”

  “And I need a break so why don’t you come on over?”

  “Much as I’d love to, I need to slog through some more work first. Why don’t we meet up for dinner later?”

  “Deal. There’s something I need to discuss with you, anyway.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “It’ll wait. See you later.”

  She rang off, and I turned back to the papers and notes scattered around my desk. But it was no good, and, after three wasted hours, I gave up. I couldn’t concentrate. And so I shuffled the papers away into my messenger bag, and threw it, in disgust, onto the couch.

  Vowing to knuckle down to some serious work later, I went to my bedroom, laid out some clothes for that evening, eschewing jeans and sweatshirt for once and settling for a pair of lightweight stone-grey cargo pants and a light-blue short-sleeved pilot-style shirt. Satisfied with my choice, I ran a bath and took a long leisurely soak, trying to free my mind of anything other than the prospect of a much-needed relaxing evening in the company of a good friend.

  By the time I was dressed and ready to go, I was in a better frame of mind.

  It was still early, and so I busied myself with a few domestic chores to wile away the time. I washed the dishes that had been left in the kitchen sink for most of the day and then made my way around the cottage emptying the wastepaper baskets and trash cans into a black plastic rubbish sack ready to leave at the front of the house for the refuse collectors.

  It wasn’t until I reached the bedroom that a sudden shock of realisation hit me. I stood dumbfounded, staring down at the wastebasket. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  I knelt down and grabbed the handful of screwed up receipts and scraps of paper I’d dropped in the basket a few days back, the contents of the small wooden box I’d found in the loft. It had been among the assorted objects Martha Stubbs had stored away just before I moved in. That meant, in all likelihood, these scraps of paper had been left behind by the previous tenant. And who knew what they may reveal?

  I sat on the edge of the bed, smoothed out the crumpled papers, and went through them one by one. Most of them, receipts from supermarkets and takeaways, were weeks old. Disappointingly, they were all for cash purchases, so no chance of tracing the buyer through a credit card number.

  Two of the more recent ones were local. One I recognised as a convenience store in town and the other was the National Garage on the Charwell Road. I scanned the listed items on each of them, the convenience store first. Just some tinned food and confectionery. I didn’t expect much more from the garage receipt. It itemised some purchases from the shop.

  I ran a finger down the list and froze.

  There, among the more mundane purchases, were two that stood out. A balaclava and a pair of gloves

  A tightness gripped my chest, and I struggled to keep my breathing even.

  What kind person would buy a balaclava and gloves in this kind of weather? In the middle of a heatwave? The obvious answer was one who wanted to disguise himself. The same one who had tried to run me down for instance.

  My hand trembled as I scanned the receipt for more details. I noted the date and ran over the past few days in my mind, trying to place it in the context of recent events. It would have been a few days before Candy Bayliss was murdered. It seems I may have been right after all. Our murderer, whoever he was, had stayed in Woodside Cottage.

  I can’t have been the only one to have thought such a purchase unusual. Whoever had served our man at the garage must have considered it strange too given the weather conditions. And that shop assistant may well have remembered who he served that day.

 
My watch told me it was almost time to head on out for my date with Karen. But first thing in the morning, I would go over to the garage and make some enquiries. For the moment, it was probably best to keep my renewed suspicions to myself. If it came to nothing, it would be just one more disappointment for all involved. I shoved the receipts in my pocket and went out to the Elan.

  I tried to put it from my mind as I drove over to the Fairview - there was no point dwelling on it until I’d had a chance to check my findings - but without success; Karen sensed my mind was elsewhere.

  “You want to tell me about it?” she said.

  “About what?”

  “About whatever planet you’re on at the moment. Because you’re sure as hell not down here on planet Earth.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My head’s buzzing. There’s a lot going on right now.”

  We were seated around the dining table in Karen’s private suite at the back of the building. The Fairview staff were busy catering to the evening diners and Karen preferred to stay out of the restaurant to avoid those who saw her presence as an opportunity to interrupt her with business matters. She had arranged for the kitchen to serve us here and we looked through the menu while we talked.

  “So Richard was right,” she said. “You did need some company.” She fixed me with a shrewd look. “You and Nathan okay?”

  I made a sound that was supposed to pass for a laugh. “Ask me again when this Goddamn investigation is out of the way. Personal relationships aren’t a priority at the moment. I hardly see him. But you should know what that’s like.”

  “Of course I do. But it’s not always going to be like this. Things will ease off eventually.”

  Before I could respond, one of the serving staff, a young woman with a winsome smile, tapped on the door and stuck her head around the door. “Ready to order yet?”

  Karen nodded her assent and chose calf liver pâté for starters followed by a char-grilled sirloin steak. I opted for goat’s cheese and red onion tart, and a pan-roasted fillet of sea-trout for the main course.

  Once we were alone again, I reminded her she’d wanted to discuss something with me, and asked what it was.

  “I’ve sorted out a date for Nathan’s birthday dinner. It’s tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I blanched. “Bit short notice isn’t it?”

  She folded her arms. “Right. And you have such an inflexible work schedule, you couldn’t possibly change it, could you, Mikey?”

  “I’m not sure where you get the idea I can do as I please. I do have deadlines, you know?”

  “So work’s more important than your partner?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I was indignant. “You’re putting words into my mouth.”

  “Good. So you’ll be there?” It was a statement rather than a question, and she didn’t wait for a response. “It’s a surprise, so don’t let on. Richard’s working over at Charwell with Nathan and he’s going to drive him back to Elders Edge on the pretext that his input is needed for a case meeting at the local station. But he’s taking him to The Dog and Duck instead. We’re having a meal there.”

  “So I’ll meet you there?”

  “No. I’ll pick you up at the cottage tomorrow evening. Then you and Nathan can let your hair down and not have to worry about drinking and driving. Okay?”

  I definitely wasn’t going to argue with that. And so we arranged a time.

  We were interrupted again by the arrival of our starters. I was about to tuck into mine and said, “Did you order wine?”

  “Oh hell, I forgot.”

  She threw down her napkin and was about to rise from her chair when I stopped her. “Stay put. I’ll go get us something from the bar. My treat. Pinot Grigio?”

  She accepted my choice. I hurried out to the bar and was able to grab the attention of one of the barman.

  “What can I get for you, Mr MacGregor.”

  This time I recognised him immediately. Andy Burns. The young man from the garage.

  I gave him my order but before he could fetch it, I interrupted him. “I know it’s a long shot but there’s something you might be able to help me with.”

  I dug the garage receipt out of my pocket and handed it to him. “I need to trace whoever bought these items from the garage.” Pointing to the list, I said, “See there? The balaclava and gloves? Not what you’d expect someone to buy at this time of year. Not in this sort of weather. It wasn’t that long ago, and I thought you might remember something about the person who bought them. A description maybe.”

  His cheerful demeanour changed to one of puzzlement.

  “Sure I remember him. I see him around often enough. But so do you. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen you talking with him in here. And you came to the garage with him that day. It’s Mr Naylor. The guy whose sister was killed.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I sat at my desk and stared down at it. A blank computer screen stared back at me. Around it, scattered documents lay untouched and unread.

  The clatter of dishes and smell of roasted coffee drifted out from the kitchen where Rusty was busying himself with breakfast. I had declined to join him this morning, pleading the need to get down to some urgent research. Truth be told, the only research I was interested in was re-evaluating past events in light of what I had learned from Andy Burns the previous evening. In the meantime, Rusty was the last person I wanted to be around.

  I was so confused. I had returned to my dinner with Karen, my mind awhirl with conflicting thoughts. I was too stunned to make sense of Andy’s revelation right then and tried to pass off the rest of the evening as if nothing was wrong. Of course, Karen picked up on my mood straight away but put my doleful disposition down to the pressure of work.

  Now that I was able to give more attention to my concerns free from distractions, I went over the past events and considered each of the points raised in turn.

  If Rusty really was implicated in his sister’s murder, why would he even ask for my help in having the case reevaluated? It wouldn’t make sense. Especially as it would also focus attention on an investigation that he would, in such circumstances, prefer to be kept low-key.

  So too, Mia had seen Candy face up to her tattooed aggressor and would have recognised him as Rusty if they had been one and the same. Unless, as Jenna had said, there were two of them

  And then there were the circumstances of the first murder, the one we had all assumed was a case of mistaken identity. Hardly likely. Rusty wouldn’t mistake someone else for his sister, no matter how alike they were.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Andy Burns had been wrong. He must deal with dozens of people over the course of a working day. It would be easy to get them confused. Maybe I should find time to talk to him again, challenge his recollection.

  “Here. You look as if you need this.”

  I was startled out of my deliberations by an interruption from Rusty as he placed a mug of coffee in front of me. “You were miles away.” He grinned down at me.

  As the world came back into focus, I forced a grin in return and thanked him. “It’s easy to lose yourself sometimes,” I said.

  He was still beaming down at me, coffee mug in hand. I searched his face for signs of… of what?… of a murderer? So what did a murderer look like? I already knew the answer to that. It’s not as if I hadn’t learned a few things from my years of research. A murderer looked just like everyone else. But even so. That open smiling face. The boyish charm. So easy going. Someone who had been a good friend when I needed one. Could this be a murderer?

  “You okay?” he said. The smile faded to a frown. “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “Sure, I’m fine.” I turned away. “I just need to tackle some of this and all will be well.”

  He hovered by the desk a moment longer. “I’m taking my coffee out into the garden,” he said. “We shouldn
’t be wasting days like this. Join me?”

  “Much as I’d like to, I really must get on with this. I’ve been putting it off too long.”

  He shrugged. “Your loss,” he said, and headed off to the garden, leaving the back door open.

  I turned away from the desk and watched him saunter down the path, not a care in the world.

  This is the man who had just lost his sister to a brutal death, been close to another woman who’d been stabbed to death. Shouldn’t he be mourning their loss? Shouldn’t he be feeling less buoyant, more melancholy? Or was I reading too much into his behaviour? Maybe he was just trying to stay upbeat.

  I turned back to the desk and stared at the wall against which it stood. I needed to figure this out. What to do. Should I tell Nathan or Lowe? Let them deal with it? And what if I was wrong? What would that do to my relationship with Rusty?

  Another thought struck me. The credit card Nathan had found on the bedroom floor. What was it Rusty had said later? He thought he’d lost it some time ago? I recalled knocking over the wastepaper basket in the bedroom and scattering its contents. What if that card had been among those other scraps of paper? Had maybe fallen unnoticed under the edge of the bed? Which meant it would have been among the papers I’d emptied out of the trinket box, the box I had recovered from the attic.

  So many possibilities. And so easy to make assumptions, draw the wrong conclusions.

  That’s when it occurred to me there was a means of putting my mind at rest. If Rusty was our man, he would surely still be in possession of the balaclava and gloves. And as soon as he was out of the way, a search of his room would settle the matter. So now I just needed to find a convenient time.

  I picked up my coffee and joined Rusty in the garden. He was spread out on the garden bench, leaning back with his head against the trunk of the beech, eyes closed.

  “You were right,” I said. “We shouldn’t be wasting days like this.” I dropped onto the bench at his side.

  He opened one eye and smirked. “You saw sense at last.”