7

WPC Softly decanted me outside my flat.  After showering, and changing into some fresh clothes, I made myself some coffee and toast.

The flat had three bedrooms but I had turned one end of the smallest into an office when I had set up Handful Investigations. I sat at my desk and switched on my computer.  It slowly came to life and I checked my e-mails.  Most were the usual trash trying to sell me stuff I didn’t want or need.  It never ceased to amaze me why anyone could think that this type of direct marketing sells anything.  I deleted all of them without reading them.  In amongst the masses of junk and spam, however, was one message actually meant for me.  It was from the local Oxmarket solicitors, Hogbin, Marshall and Moruzzi, and they were willing to use me as and when I was required.

Quite pleased with myself, I went into the main search engine and typed in Sir Gerard Seymour Hornby and entered into a corrupt and deceitful world.

*

I arranged to meet Detective Inspector Paul Silver in the Waggoner’s Rest at midday, and he found me standing at the bar nursing a mineral water. 

“It’s your round,” he said.  “I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”

The place was busy with a lunchtime crowd and students from the local agricultural college. Some people are eating and the students are playing pool. The only girl among them looks underage and is dressed in tight jeans and a singlet top, revealing her bare midriff.  The boys are trying to impress her but her boyfriend is easy to spot.  Bulked up by weight training, he looks like an abscess waiting to explode.

Paul wandered over to a small unoccupied table in the corner, took the chair nearest to the window and set his glass on a coaster.  I sat opposite him and left my glass untouched. 

Paul sat there and watched the bubbles rise to the head of the Guinness.  Minutes pass.  Finally he raises the glass to his lips and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows

“What have you got for me then, John?”  He wiped the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand.  “I’ve had a bad day, so this had better be good.”

“What’s happened?”

“I had to take the parents of the Knightley boy to identify the body in the mortuary, this morning.  The mother took one look at what was left of her son and threw up all over the floor.”

“Poor woman,” I said, “you could hardly blame her.”

“No.  She didn’t look long enough though to identify anyone.  The father had to do it.  Never seen anyone age like that in front of my eyes before.  God knows what they must be going through.”

“How did he die?  Did you find out?”

“Indeed we did.  He was shot in the back.”

“Poor kid.”

“SOCO have been all over the crime scene,” Paul exclaimed.  “Found sweet FA.  At the moment young Mr Knightley is under the category ‘murder by persons unknown.’  And between you and me, that’s how it’s likely to stay.  I haven’t a lead to speak of.”  He stared at his pint glass, as though checking to see if it was centred properly on the coaster.  The chimes of the Oxmarket church began ringing in the distance.  “Unless of course you’ve got something you want to tell me?”  

“I want to talk you about Sir Gerard Seymour Hornby.”

“Why?”  He showed no emotion.

I told him why and watched the blood drain away from his face.

*

The Oxmarket Castle shoot was well underway when we arrived.  Flags were flapping noisily against flagpoles and a fairly sizeable crowd had gathered to watch.

I watched Sir Gerard Seymour Hornby break open a shotgun, plug two shells in the chambers and snap it closed again before tucking the gun against his shoulder and gazing along the barrel.

“Pull!”

Two clay discs launched into the air flying left to right.  The shotgun leapt in his hands and each disc disappeared in a cloud of dust that dispersed into the wind.

Sir Gerard pulled yellow earmuffs to his neck and turned cracking the shotgun open again.

“Mr Handful,” he said, without looking at me.  “Who’s your friend?”

“Detective Inspector Paul Silver,” I replied firmly.

“I thought I told you I did not want to involve the police.”  His voice was suddenly quite threatening, heavy with raw realities.      

“Well, I was never one to do as I was told,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and the gun moved an inch or two in his hands as his body reacted.  “What do you want, Handful?”  He said, “Can’t you see I’m a busy man?”

“You murdered, John Knightley.”

He gave a short laugh that had no mirth in it at all.  “Are you crazy?”

“No,” I said, angrily.  “I’ve never been saner.”

With lightening speed he reloaded the gun and his eyes and both barrels were facing unwaveringly my way.  The well-manicured hands held the shotgun with expertise.  What it mattered, I thought, if the finger that pulled the trigger was clean and cared for.  What did it matter if his shoes were polished . . . I looked at the silly details because I didn’t want to think about death.

“Now, now, Sir Gerard,” Paul said nervously.  “Let’s not do anything rash.”

I didn’t move. I was trembling inside and concerned that Sir Gerard Seymour Hornby shouldn’t see it.  I’d had guns pointed at me before.  A long time ago.       

“It was easy to work out, really.”  I squared up to him.  This was my Agatha Christie moment: my drawing room soliloquy.  “According to you, your ex-wife ran off with the gardener.  What was his name?”

“I can’t remember,” Sir Gerard snapped, the gun still pointing in my direction.

“I find that a bit odd, I’m afraid,” I said.  “I would have thought that his name would have been etched in your memory forever.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was.”  I agreed.  “And I’ve done a bit of digging and do you know what, Sir Gerard?  Nobody has ever met the person in question.  Your wife has not been seen since, either.  She has not contacted her family, has not used a credit card, or applied for welfare, or visited a doctor, or picked up a speeding ticket, or lodged a tax return, or travelled overseas.  Kent Police launched an investigation, but it petered out.  They couldn’t prove that Lady Tara Hornby was dead and they couldn’t prove evidence of foul play.”

“That’s right,” he said with increased intensity.  “They couldn’t prove anything and neither can you.”

“According to DI Steve Ferrett of the Kent Constabulary,” Paul interrupted, “you were the one that got away.  The one he’d wished he’d caught.”

Sir Gerard glanced at DI Paul Silver, his face suddenly tired and his eyes shivering.

“They found your wife’s car parked at the railway station.”  I went on.  “A suitcase was missing from the house with some of her clothes, but she did not leave a note or tell her sister.”

“She was too ashamed,” Sir Gerard retorted.  “Leaving me for the gardener.”

“It took her sister three months before anyone took them seriously.” Paul again interrupted.  “By that time the trail had gone cold.  The CCTV footage wasn’t kept, so Kent Police had to rely on witnesses.  They interviewed passengers on the trains and filmed a reconstruction – had an actress wearing Lady Tara’s clothes and put it on TV – but nobody came forward.”

“Because the whore ran off with the gardener, I’m telling you!”  Sir Gerard spat out the words vehemently.     

In the distance two more shooters have walked down the path from the castle.  They took a bay at the far end of the range and put on vests with pockets for shotgun shells.    

“Do you know what it is like to hate the one person you’ve loved?”  He asked me.

“No.”

I had loved Zoë unconditionally and would like to have the opportunity to love Kimberley Ashlyn Gere, as long as he did not pull the trigger.

“And do you know what it’s like to spend ten years of your life with someone trying to please them only for them to despise the very ground you walk on?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you?”  He shouted.

“Sir Gerard!”  I heard Paul shout.  “Please stay calm!”

“Do you?”  He repeated more calmly.

“No.”

“It becomes your whole existence.  Looking for things she will like but only finding things she hates.  And all the time she thinks you’re an impotent idiot, whose only charming feature is his bank account.”

“What about your brother, George?”

“He was always so bloody perfect,” he said.  “He was good at sport, good at running the family business.  Didn’t want me interfering.  He was always angry with me.”

“Why?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have someone like George, angry with you all the time?”

“No,” I said.  Actually I did. Lately, people were becoming angry with me for exposing their misdeeds. Hilly and George Painswick.  Reverend Harkett and his sister Mrs Deeves. I had started to enjoy it, but I decided not to say so, not now.    

   “I’ll tell you,” he said.  “It eats away at your soul.  When I was younger it was frightening.  I spent my whole childhood being frightened of him.  Especially when Daddy was away, which he often was.  Mummy was useless with him.  George could wrap her round his little finger.”

He went quiet for a moment and stared off into space; I could tell he was reliving incidents elsewhere.  I noticed tears started to fill his eyes.

“When I got older and bigger, he stopped bullying me because he became scared of me retaliating.  Therefore, he changed his tactics from physical to mental abuse. Especially after Daddy died and Mummy rotted away in an old peoples’ home.  He would put me down at every opportunity.  He belittled everything I did and at the monthly board meetings he used to have great fun in telling the fellow share holders how useless I was and I wasn’t to be trusted.”

“How did he die?”  I asked coldly.

“I hired someone.”

“Telmo Alves?”

A look of recognition filled his face.

“Do you know him?”

“I’m acquainted with his methods,” I said.  “I’ve seen the results of some of his other work in Istanbul and Marseilles and Parlermo – to name but a few places.  I believe he has now retired and is residing in Campo Grande, Mato Grosso du Sul, in Brazil.”

“You’re good,” Sir Gerard admitted.  “You’re very good.”

“So are you, Sir Gerard,” I said.  “You had me fooled at the start. However, the second ransom note was an amateurish mistake and obviously not sent by John Knightley.”

“Ah, I see,” Sir Gerard, acknowledged.  “You’re too clever for your own good, do you know that?  Our mutual friend in London warned me.  If John Handful is after you, watch out, he had warned me.  He’ll sneak up on you when you think he doesn’t know you exist, and they’ll be slamming the cell or burying you six feet under before you’ve worked it out and he doesn’t care which way you end up.”

I didn’t say anything.  What could one say?  Especially as I was staring down the black holes of the barrel of a shotgun.    

“Well, I’m not waiting for you,” he continued defiantly.  “You won’t snare me, do you hear?  You won’t bloody well snare me!”

Before any of us could react, Sir Gerard Seymour Hornby, spun the gun round in a wide arc, pressed the metal rims of the barrel into his own mouth and pulled the trigger.

*

I watched Detective Inspector Paul Silver thread his way to the bar.  People hurriedly stepped out of his way.  He has an aura like a flashing light that warned people to give him space.

He returned quickly with a pint and a whisky chaser for both of us.  He rolled the liquid fire around in his mouth as if he was washing away a bad taste.  “What a bloody mess!”

“Certainly is,” I agreed.

He wrapped his fingers around the pint glass and leant back.  “Should have realised what he was going to do.  Tried to take that bloody gun off him.”

“It’s not your fault.” I said.

Paul exhaled with a rustle of dissatisfaction.  He didn’t agree with me. 

“There’s one thing I want to ask you.” He said raising an eyebrow.

Here we go, I thought.

“I’ve never asked you before,” he continues, “but just to clear a few things up, I think I’m going to have to.”

“Go on,” I said, warily.

“Who did you work for in London?”

I drank my whisky down in one gulp, leant forward and told my friend everything there was to tell about myself.

*

A week later Gemma Hornby came to my office, accompanied by a pretty girl called Kassindra, who smiled at me nervously.  Indian women have such wonderful skin and dark wet eyes.  Kassindra was wearing tailored trousers and a navy blouse that highlights the small gold medallion around her neck.

“I’ll wait outside,” Kassindra said politely and as she leant forward to give Gemma a reassuring hug, I glimpsed that she was not wearing a bra and I could see her breasts beneath the blouse.  The nipples were dark, sharp peaks.  Immediately, I felt guilty and looked away.  

 For a few seconds the silence spread out like thick oil.

“Did my uncle really kill John Knightley,” Gemma asked eventually.

“I am afraid that certainly looks that way,” I said, as gently as I could.

“He loved me, you know.”  She said firmly.

“I’m sure John did,” I said, without meaning. 

“Not John,” she corrected, “Uncle Gerald.”

“He was your legal guardian.”  I said.  “He was your father’s brother.”

Who had probably killed him as well, I thought.

“It was more than that,” her sightless eyes widened. 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think there is a proper age for people to fall in love?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uncle Gerald said that people would never understand our love.”

“When did he say that to you?”

“After Mum and Dad died.”

When you were ten, I thought.

“Gemma did he touch you inappropriately?”

“He loved me.”

“How old were you, Gemma?”

“This was different.”  She had shut her eyes and was starting to rock back and forth.  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“How was it different?”

“He loved me.”

“He was grooming you, Gemma.  He knew you were vulnerable”

“It wasn’t like that,” she groaned.

“He took advantage of you after your parents died.”

Her head rocked from side to side in denial.

“He wanted to show you how special he was to you and then you could show him how special he was to you.”   

She didn’t answer.

“And then when you started hanging around with boys from school, he went mad with jealousy.”

“Stop it,” she whispered.

“He went cold and sarcastic.” I probed.

I had interrogated terrorists until they had lost total control of all their bodily functions but this was the worst thing I had ever had to do.

“He told you how much he loved you,” I said.  “Told you he’d die if you stopped loving him.”

“Please stop.”

“He didn’t kill John Knightley over the DVD,” I said, “he killed him because he was infatuated with you.”

“I wanted to make him jealous,” she said, her words coming out in a hot rush of snot and tears.  “I knew what John used to do!  Film himself having sex with girls from the town!  I heard him boast about it to one of my friends!  I might not be able to see but I knew he fancied me and I wanted Uncle Gerard to prove that he loved me!”

“He was so obsessed with you; he didn’t know what he was doing!”

“He loved me!”  Gemma screamed, on her feet.  “And he proved it by what he did!”

“He was a sexual predator who ended up being the victim.”

“It wasn’t like that!”

A tear landed on Gemma’s clasped hands.  It hovered on her knuckles and then slid between her fingers.  Her concerned friend had appeared behind her at the door, I waved her away.  Gemma had her head bowed, her chest rapidly rising and falling.  She placed her hands between her thighs and squeezed them.

“That’s not for me to decide,” I said, reaching for the phone and dialling the number of the Oxmarket Police Station.  

*