Kate moved gingerly to the side of the Audi, aware of the smell of petrol. It was much darker in the thicket of hazel and holly where the car had come to rest at an angle. The front had ploughed into the far bank of a ditch with a savage force, reared up then tilted at twenty degrees. There was a good deal of water in the ditch, which perhaps explained why the car had not caught light. She worked her way along the driver’s side and, placing a foot on the trunk of a fallen tree in the ditch, looked inside the car. Held by the seat belt, Russell’s body sagged over the passenger seat; his head lolled forward and his arms had dropped from the wheel. That struck her as odd. He would surely have tried to control the car until the last moment, unless he had passed out before hitting the brush. There was far less blood than Nock had made out. A lot of mud had come through the smashed windscreen. Russell was cut below his right eye.
She moved round to the passenger side, climbed down into the water and pulled the door open. As she examined the body, her mind replayed his amiable conversation on the way to Dove Cottage. He had spoken about family holidays in Scotland, the outing in June every year to the Opera at Glyndebourne and the annual weekend in France’s vineyards with university chums. A creature of habit was the way he apologetically described himself, and she had liked him for that. His face had frozen in a look of mild expectation, almost a smile. Controlling her shock, she reached out and touched his neck with the hand that had shaken his in the cafe a little over twenty-four hours before. Russell was utterly cold. He must have died instantly, though she couldn’t see what injury had killed him. Possibly it was the blow to the head from the night before: a delayed haemorrhage perhaps, which struck suddenly as he left the drive.
She was now aware that she was shaking and had a curious stale taste in her mouth. She stood up and controlled herself, withdrew from the car and went to join Nock in the road. There were no skid marks visible, no signs of any other vehicle being involved; merely evidence that Hugh Russell had swerved on the stony track as he approached the gateway and, rather than slowing down as he met the road, slammed his foot on the accelerator and careened through the stand of hazel on the other side.
Nock gave her a roll-up to smoke.
‘Jesus,’ he said.
She blew out the smoke and shivered. ‘Did you hear anything? See anything?’
‘No – my dogs noticed something had happened first. I wouldn’t have seen it if the terrier hadn’t dived in there.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They took themselves off back to my place.’
‘Oh God,’ she said, looking back at the car. ‘Poor Hugh. This is awful.’ She was still shaking and she held her hand very tight to stop Nock seeing.
Twenty minutes later the accident investigation team arrived and paced out the likely sequence of events under arc lights. There seemed no good explanation for his bolting across the road like that, and the skid marks on the gravelly incline puzzled them. It was as though he had shot off from a standing start. A pathologist arrived and examined the body in situ with a head torch, while murmuring into a digital recorder. When he withdrew his head from the passenger window Kate approached and told him about the injuries Russell had received in the attack at his office. The man listened carefully to her description and asked whether Russell had fallen forward in the attack. She thought not.
‘Then my gut tells me that this man suffered some other kind of trauma. That’s what I am feeling.’
Presently the body, wet and drenched in petrol, was removed from the car by two policemen and was laid on a stretcher where the pathologist examined Russell again. A few minutes later he stood up in the headlights of one of the police cars and called out to the inspector. ‘You should see this. I believe this man was shot. The cut below his eye is a bullet wound.’
The operation to lift the Audi on to a flatbed truck was immediately halted and quarter of an hour later a .22 calibre bullet was found in the roof of the wreckage. That probably meant it had passed through the open window on the driver’s side as Hugh Russell approached the road. The skid mark on the gravel marked the spot where he had been hit and his foot came down hard on the accelerator in reaction.
‘I should have seen it before,’ said the pathologist, pointing with latex finger to Russell’s face for the edification of a group of officers. ‘You see the stretch marks running like tears down the face away from the point of impact. That is always a classic sign of a gunshot. They follow the tension lines in the region of the eyes and the nasolabial folds. A bullet can freeze the face in the victim’s most characteristic expression.’
And in this case, thought Kate, it had produced neither agony nor aggression but the straightforward cordiality of a country solicitor.
‘And the exit wound?’ asked one policeman. ‘We didn’t see any signs of it.’
‘That was because the bullet exited beneath the bandage at the back of the victim’s head. It simply lifted one corner of the dressing and continued on its way. The dressing fell back and covered the wound when the body dropped forward.’
A team of three detectives arrived and began to work out the geometry of the attack. The position and angle of the car and the line indicated by the exit and entry wounds and the final position of the bullet led them to believe that the killer had lain in wait about twenty paces below where the car came to rest. A large area was cordoned off so that a minute search could be conducted at first light. Then the site was cleared of people.
Just past nine, Kate drove the Bristol back down the track with a police officer in the passenger seat and Nock in the back. She was now sure that Eyam had been assassinated in Cartagena. The bomb must have been intended for him. He had known the risks, which was why he had planned his funeral, prepared a will and had taken steps to leave her the dossier. But why go to Colombia, where it would be a simple task for his enemies to disguise his murder? From what Swift had said, there was good reason to believe he’d left the country using a false passport, but then he checked into the hotel using his own name with a credit card in his own name, thus giving anyone looking for him an exact location. It didn’t add up, but more than that this was not the kind of mistake the patient and calculating Eyam would make.
Russell presented a different problem to the killers. There was no time to fake an accident, or disguise his murder any other way. He had to be eliminated immediately because he was the one person who knew what was in Eyam’s dossier, and they could not allow him to remain alive with that knowledge. The only conclusion to draw was that her last-minute decision to stay at Dove Cottage had saved her life. If she’d left with him, she would certainly have been killed too. She must accept that she was already a target, or would become one the moment they thought she knew the contents of that dossier.
Nock was questioned in the back of a police van parked in the drive, while she made an exhaustive statement to a detective inspector named Jim Newsome. She gave an exact account of her day from the moment Hugh Russell picked her up at the hotel to the discovery of the Audi by Nock. They went back over the funeral and her first meeting with Russell in the cafe. She kept as close to the truth as possible, but there was much she had to omit – her presence in Russell offices, all mention of the documents and of course the child porn she’d found on Eyam’s computer. She filled out the day with plenty of detail about exploring the house, her walk and her calls to New York. Newsome nodded a lot and took down notes. He was polite, but she knew that any experienced investigator would sense the omissions soon enough, and Newsome had a hard, proficient air about him. He asked her a lot of questions about her decision to stay overnight at the cottage and let Russell drive back to town when clearly he should not have been at the wheel of a car. She answered that Russell had begged her to give the place a chance before putting it on the market and indeed during the afternoon she had begun to understand what Eyam had seen in Dove Cottage. It was very peaceful, she said.
‘Peaceful but unlucky,’ observed Newsome dryly. ‘After all, the place has been associated with two violent deaths in as many months. We must at least consider the possibility of a connection. Can you think of any reason why both men were killed?’
‘I don’t see how there can be a connection,’ she said.
‘But if there is it would put you in the line of fire, wouldn’t it? Because you are the common denominator.’
‘Not in any real sense: Mr Russell was David Eyam’s lawyer for a long time before I came on the scene.’
‘But you knew them both, particularly Mr Eyam.’
‘Yes, he was my closest . . . my oldest friend. We hadn’t seen much of each other over the last two years.’
Newsome pondered this. ‘And yet he leaves this place to you. Did you know he was going to do that?’
‘No.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Miss Lockhart, but it seems odd that a relatively young man should make a will and leave everything to someone he hadn’t seen for two years and not even tell her about it.’
‘Mr Russell told me that David had been ill. Believe me, I was very surprised, and before you go there, I am pretty well off in my own right and have no need of Mr Eyam’s money. To tell you the truth I find it an embarrassment.’
‘You’re very fortunate. These days there are few people who can say that. How much money is involved?’
‘I’m not sure, but you can consult Mr Russell’s partner Paul Spring. He will be in charge of the probate.’
‘We will, Miss Lockhart, be assured of that.’ He paused. ‘Still, you’d expect Mr Eyam to tell you about his plans in the event of his death.’
‘Why are you asking me about Mr Eyam? Aren’t you interested in Hugh Russell? He was just here, in this room like you. And now he’s dead – murdered. Why the hell are you talking about Eyam?’
‘Why was it you left your job in New York so suddenly?’
‘The pressure had been intense: I needed a break.’
‘So it was a coincidence that you were here when you received the news about his death. Forgive me, Miss Lockhart; it all seems a bit convenient.’
She opened her hands. ‘Look, I know what you’re saying. You wonder if I somehow engineered Mr Russell’s death, maybe also Mr Eyam’s death, so that I could inherit this place. Let me just say I have no need of any of it. Look me up on the web and make your own deductions.’
‘I will,’ he said, looking down at his notebook. ‘Do you mind telling me how much you earned last year?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘Give me an idea. Over a million dollars?’
‘It varies. Last year less than that.’
Newsome straightened. ‘You must be very good at your job.’
She didn’t reply.
‘So, in effect this house is now yours, Miss Lockhart.’
‘In theory,’ she replied, ‘though I don’t know when I officially take possession.’
‘Have you a copy of the will?’
‘I thought I was here to answer questions about Hugh Russell’s death, not my private affairs.’
‘I’m just asking to see the papers he gave you before his death. You’re a lawyer; you understand that the will is all part of the context of this murder.’
‘If you want a copy of the will, you should apply to Russell, Spring & Co. His partner Paul Spring will happily expedite the request, I’m sure.’
‘I will. So, you’re going to sell up?’
‘Yes, as soon as it is mine to do so. I couldn’t live here with all the associations you mentioned. Anyway, it is impractical – I don’t have the time to visit, let alone to deal with all the maintenance.’
‘But you have Mr Nock for that.’
‘Mr Nock was employed by David Eyam, then in his absence by Mr Russell. It’s not my arrangement.’
‘And you say you’ve never met him before today?’
‘No, the first I knew of Mr Nock was when Hugh mentioned his name. I met him this morning when he dropped in.’
‘Dropped in . . .’ said Newsome.
‘I think Hugh called him to tell him I was here, that’s all.’
After an hour and a half, Newsome closed his notebook. ‘We’ve got all we need tonight, Miss Lockhart, but we will want to talk to you at the station as the investigation develops.’ He handed her his card. ‘And call me if you think of anything that might be relevant to the case. Inform me or anyone at the station if you’re going anywhere.’ She rose with him. ‘There will be a patrol car at the end of the drive guarding the crime scene. So, if you have any worries you know that officers will be at hand.’
When they left Nock came in and asked if she’d like him to spend the night downstairs. She poured them each a glass of Eyam’s whisky and said she would be fine on her own, although some part of her could have done with his company: he reminded her of Cas, a record producer she’d had a brief fling with in New York, and, well, Nock was attractive.
He showed her the heating thermostat in the utility room and flipped the hot water switch. ‘It gets pretty cold up here at night, even in the summer,’ he said, ‘and the beauty of this system is that it’s nearly all your own power. You’ve got a shed load of batteries out back.’
They found themselves in the sitting room. She looked down at the computer. ‘I guess you came to know David fairly well,’ she said.
‘Yep, we got on great. I miss him. I really liked the guy.’
‘But he was having problems with the authorities.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ said Nock bitterly.
She drank the whisky. ‘What happened in England, Sean?’
‘No one was paying attention. Nobody gives a damn any longer.’ He shifted and looked embarrassed and she wondered why.
‘Did you know Eyam was under surveillance?’
He shook his big Viking head, passed a hand over the stubble on his chin, and looked away. ‘I guess so. I came across stuff – sensors in the woods and that kind of thing – before he died. I think they were trying to monitor his movements to the cottage, especially visitors who drove here. There was a lot of activity after he died.’
‘You think this place was bugged?’
‘Maybe. There were some men here after his death. I think they had come to remove everything. I told Mr Russell about them.’
She looked around the room. The place could still be wired, in which case her conversation with Russell in the kitchen might have been overheard, and that might explain why he had been killed when he left.
‘Let’s go outside anyway,’ she said quietly.
She lit a cigarette in the damp air and gave one to Nock, who inhaled and held his breath as though it was cannabis. ‘And the computer?’ she asked. ‘Were they monitoring that?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Look, I don’t know how much to say to you. It’s difficult.’ He looked away and his leg fidgeted.
‘Sean, this is important – I believe the people who were watching David killed Hugh Russell because of what he knew. Do you understand what I am saying? Now, again, do you think they monitored or otherwise tampered with the computer?’
‘Could be.’
‘Did you know that someone put some illegal material on it? Kiddy porn I think is the right expression. They wanted to incriminate him and send him to jail, Sean.’
‘You should destroy that,’ he said, letting a stream of smoke into the cold night air. ‘Can’t be right to have that kind of thing in the house,’ he added vehemently.
They went inside. Nock unscrewed the back, located the hard drive and extracted it with the help of a short curved crowbar and a hammer from Eyam’s toolbox. The casing popped out and flew across the carpet to the other side of the room. He picked it up and gazed down at it with an odd intensity. ‘Shall I do it?’ he said, taking it to the flagstones by the door. She nodded and he dropped it onto the floor and hit it until there was nothing but a little pile of plastic and metal parts. He swept the remains into his pocket and said he would dispose of them on the walk home. Then he picked up his jacket and went to the door where he looked down at her, and believing he saw something in her eye, took her in his arms without permission or seemingly any doubt that this was the right thing to do. He was gentle and Kate felt something stir in her, but there was no question that she was going to respond.
‘You’ll be blaming yourself for Mr Russell’s death,’ he said as he let go. ‘Don’t. This isn’t your fault. Know that, Kate. There are some real bastards out there and they will stop at nothing. Believe me, I know.’
‘How?’ she said, now much more interested in his tone than the rather awkward pass he’d made.
‘That’s for another time. I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ve got my mobile number if there’s any trouble.’
There was no trouble except in her dreams of the car in the ditch and Russell’s body floating out of the window on a tide of filth and oil. She woke at first light and opened the curtains. At the bottom of the valley a ribbon of mist followed exactly the line of the stream down to the farm. The moon hung low on the far side of the valley. One or two birds had begun to sing and owls still called to each other across the valley. At the end of the garden a deer drank from the small pond, raising its head at regular intervals to the sounds in the woods.
She reached for her phone from the bedside table and sent the word ‘today’ in a text message to Darsh Darshan, then slipped from the bed and went to run the shower. After a few minutes the water was still cold. Cursing, she stumbled downstairs to the utility room in her T-shirt. Next to the switch where Nock had turned on the system the night before was a pair of manual timers in a box with a plastic window. Both the heating and hot water timers were set to come on between midnight and two in the morning. ‘Who the hell needs hot water at that hour?’ she muttered out loud. She tugged the window open and reset both to the right time – seven a.m. – then she shifted the buttons on the hot water timer so the immersion heater clicked into life. A steady hum ensued. It was at this point that she noticed that the action of turning the timers had caused something to drop from behind the wooden board on which they were mounted. She slipped a hand under the two clocks and drew out a cassette tape. In that instant she realised the timers were almost directly in line with the empty bottle of wine and the packets of cheese straws, and dog biscuits. Then she remembered the awkward phrase in his letter: ‘You will find it all behind the times.’ Eyam had set the clocks to the wrong time so that anyone needing hot water would release the tape. That person was likely to be her. Not bad, she thought, looking at the recordings of Handel’s Sarabande and The Messiah, sung by New College Choir. Not bad at all.
She turned it over and read the typed label stuck to the back. ‘Press “Play” and “Forward” simultaneously.’ She went into the kitchen, put on the kettle and began searching the cottage for a tape player. Then an idea came to her.