A silence fell. Then Stoddart spoke.
“How do you know this, Jonathan?”
“I’ll use your words,” replied Stark. “It’s complicated.”
A noise from the top of the stairs. The door opened. Stark, startled, looked up. Framed in the doorway, a silhouette.
“This is a cosy chat,” came a voice. “Though not the cosiest of places, I think. You shouldn’t be here, Edward. Not in your condition. The air will eat your lungs. And we know how shrivelled your lungs are. And Jonathan? What are you doing down here? There’s no need. You can go home. The place is closed. Or hadn’t you heard? Your services are no longer required.”
The door closed. Now, the faint sound of footsteps on the metal stairs, as the figure climbed down towards them.
“Or perhaps you both like it down here.” The figure was Walter Hill. Dressed casually. Jeans, Barbour jacket, climbing boots.
He was holding a rifle.
“What the hell is this!” said Stoddart.
“Don’t fret. It doesn’t matter anymore. The rifle is a Nosler M21. She’s a beauty, yes? Versatile and accurate. Such a thing should be kept under lock and key. But I like to hunt. Rephrase that – I love to hunt. This particular piece of equipment can knock the head off a stag from a hundred yards. Wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. After my announcement yesterday that the firm was closing, I needed to blow off a little steam. You understand. I have some land up north, and so there I went. To partake in a little killing. I came back early this morning. And lo! Driving by the office but who should I see.” He gestured at Stark with the muzzle of the rifle. “You skulked in, like a thief in the night. With a bag. What were you doing, I wondered? Nothing good, I thought. Something bad. Like a bad apple. Like a fucking cancer. I thought – you might be dangerous. After all, you seemed awful close to the serial killer, The Surgeon. Who knows what you’re capable of. So I brought the rifle. And I waited. You were down here a long time, Jonathan. What were you up to, I wondered? And when Edward joined you, I waited at the door, and listened to your conversation, and decided then that this nonsense had to stop.”
“With a rifle?” said Stark.
“The perfect conversation stopper,” replied Hill.
“It was you,” said Stark, voice hard and flat. “You killed my mother.”
Hill took a long breath, sat on a middle stair, training the weapon on Stark.
“So long ago,” he said. “Why rake up the past? She came that night. Straight up to Edward’s office. I had no idea who she was.” He focused on Stoddart. “You always kept your office locked. But I had a key. Imagine my surprise when the door opened, and there was someone I had never seen before, also with a key, able to get in. One of your dirty little secrets, Edward.”
“You were in my office?” said Stoddart.
Hill sighed. “If you remember – and I know you do, Edward, because you remember everything – over twenty years back, we thought someone had been embezzling from the firm. Not a lot, but enough. That person was me. Just a little, every month. I wasn’t a partner then, you understand. Living on an associate’s wage. I had to keep the creditors away.” He licked his lips. “I had to maintain the life I had become accustomed to. You understand? Of course you do. I knew you suspected a member of staff. I had to know if you suspected me. I had to check your records, because one thing I know about you, Edward, is that you like to keep records.”
Both Stark and Stoddart remained silent.
“She found me at your desk. She asked me why I was there.” He laughed, though it had a tinny undertone. “I asked the identical question. She said she would tell you she had seen me in your room, at your computer, looking through your personal files.” He shook his head sadly. “And so…”
“And so you killed her,” finished Stark. He wanted to end this. He wanted him to understand that he knew everything, that it was over. But more. He wanted to tell him the whole story. Because this story had a conclusion beyond the worst nightmare. “You stopped her from leaving. You grabbed her. She struggled and screamed…” His voice faltered. “The paperweight on the table. You used it.” He saw the lump of quartz. He saw the blood. It never seemed to stop. “You struck her. Again and again. And then you carried her here, to this place, and you buried her in the darkest corner.”
Hill regarded him curiously. “And how would you know such a thing?”
“You dug a hole, and you dropped her in.” He floundered. The words weren’t easy. The dream was vivid and clear in his mind. He felt her pain. Her terror.
He found the words. “But she wasn’t dead,” he said. “You buried her alive.”