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I WAS IN the guard office under the arched gateway which had always been a guard room to the point it still had a musket stand and the remains of an armoury in a side room. It was warm though, considering the wind tunnel it was located in. I was glad of it as night-time on the Hayefield Estate brought an uneasy chill. The shadowy corners of the courtyard were inky black and the floodlights flickered as they bathed the stone in an off-orange glow.
South of the arched gateway, the gravelled driveway was illuminated with blueish-white solar lights, yet I could barely make out the lake beyond the large expanse of lawn. The forest was as inky black and other than the few buildings with lights on, trying to make out anything on the CCTV system was a nightmare.
I folded my arms and gave up trying. I had been ordered to compile footage of the night Salisbury had been killed and so far I was up to three o’clock in the morning. I’d seen Salisbury head up the driveway with Sophie at ten o’clock. Sophie’s body language had been different: smooth, dominant, but her smile was a charming one and so, so false. Salisbury gazed up at her with glassy eyes but her smile was eager and she checked her phone a lot. I wondered if my former colleagues had her phone records yet and just what they said.
So I had a brief timeline: Salisbury, some rich heiress, met Sophie in a party then they arrived at the estate at ten. Frank had seen them go into a “parlour” together only to re-emerge at midnight when a maid saw them head up the stairs. Edwina had been called to Sophie’s room at zero three hundred. Salisbury had left Edwina’s at the arched gateway at zero three fifteen.
And there they were on the footage. I zoomed in on Salisbury who looked dishevelled and upset. I paused it. Looked like she had marks over her back and neck. Some kind of friction mark on her arms.
I raised my eyebrows. Looked like she’d been fighting with Sophie, not having sex with her. Oh, well, to each to their own. I made a copy of the tape and placed it in an evidence bag with my statement that it was the original copy of the tape and that the estate held a copy for its own records.
The footage played on and Salisbury stomped out into the mist, which let me tell you was so thick I couldn’t make out much beyond the first light on the driveway. So, think less than ten yards. Fiona had been right, Hayefield mist was its own special kind of eerie.
I checked every camera at this point, scouring for a hint of Sophie creeping out or just moving anywhere: nothing . . . but I did see something or some shape in the mist near the gatehouse at twenty past three. I zoomed in. Matched Salisbury’s totter. She turned around. Dropped. Then disappeared into the mist like someone had dragged her.
I shuddered. I had been a detective for a while but mist attacking someone and dragging them off was well above my creepy level. I reran the video. Hands with gloves on grabbed Salisbury’s arms. She turned. Her shoulders relaxed like she knew the person, then she dropped.
I reran it again: Salisbury was scowling, muttering to herself but her eyes were fixed in the direction of the gatehouse. Her mobile was out like she was—or had been—texting someone . . . or maybe she was going to call someone? She stopped before the hands grabbed her and her shoulders hunched.
I rewound it again: She turned, slunk to one hip, and her shoulders relaxed. She flicked one hand through her hair with whoever it was still gripping her. They didn’t grip her where she already had red friction burns but lower. I went back to when Sophie was luring her to the manor. Sophie was at least a head taller than her. When she’d reached out to lead her through the arched gateway, her hand had rested higher.
I noted it down then zoomed back into Salisbury and the attacker. She was slunk on one hip, her brushing the hair from her face and shrugging off their hand . . . then blood, yes blood, they shot her inside the grounds.
I copied the tape, got out of my seat, and took a pad and pencil from my pocket. I needed to check the spot. I glanced up and down the wind tunnel and ducked out. I shivered, then hunched and glanced back at the courtyard. Felt like something icy was crawling up my spine and it didn’t help I was about to head to where some poor woman had been shot.
I shook it off and stepped from the driveway onto the perfect lawn to avoid the cameras. Jake who was the gamekeeper—head groundman?—spent a lot of time trimming ever since I’d been there so I only hoped he didn’t catch me.
Salisbury had been found about fifty paces from the gatehouse. I took out my phone and took pictures of the site. I walked to where Salisbury had been and searched the gravel. It was mucky from the rain but there was a darker patch of something.
So if Sophie Haye had killed Salisbury, why would she be as stupid as to do it in view of cameras on her own driveway? I needed a forensics team. I loved watching them work. On TV, they were a singular slick pathologist who solved the crime or a crack handful of CSI investigators. I never liked to tell people most of the work was sent out to private companies and the pathologist just reported to a coroner and they all had different areas. The SIO, Senior Investigating Officer, i.e. me if you’re lost, would work with the Senior Forensics Manager who got me the information I wanted . . . but I needed to know my stuff as much as them.
I’d need ballistics but from the little I could see, the bullet hit an artery. There was a longer trajectory, finer drops. The light to the left facing the gatehouse had more noticeable blood on it. In agreement with the concave effect a bullet created, there was something more gunky on the gravel. Who would know if they weren’t looking for it? Wet or damp on gravel? Looked more like mud.
I circled the point of contact and searched the ground. There. I pulled out my phone and took a picture, then knelt down, then eyed the route the bullet might have followed. The killer had been close. Most bullets would make it to the gatehouse. I headed over and searched the wall . . . there. One bullet wedged in the wall. I took a picture. Who had been in the gatehouse that evening? They must have heard that hit the wall.
“Morgan, the moor-walk is clear,” one of the security team said into the radio. “The gates are locked and secure.”
You ever jump and shriek then realise you sound like a hysterical teenager? Not my coolest moment. I grabbed my chest—now I looked like my mother—and turned the volume down on my handset. Doubted Sophie needed me having cardiac arrest next to her gatehouse.
“Stable area is secure,” another guard said.
I turned from the scene and hurried back up the driveway to the house. I would need to cordon off the area, call in the police so they could check the area themselves. I was sure there were cones in the guard office in the arched gateway.
“Gun house is secure.”
I turned the volume down further and hurried back to the office. That odd unease crawled over me again. I shuddered. Maybe I needed to tell Edwina first? She’d need to cover why I knew we needed a forensics team. I reached the courtyard and shuddered again. In the daylight, Hayefield Manor echoed with history in a beautiful way; In the dark, it felt like . . . like the colour bled from the place and something . . . hostile lingered . . . watching.
I flexed my left hand and the titanium fingers flexed. It whirred for good measure. I was supposed to wear a skin coloured covering over it which would have made it watertight but I hated it. It looked more false with “skin” than it did just bare metal. The unease made me shudder again and I pursed my lips. I would freak out a spook more. It was just a courtyard. A load of stone. Just an older version of a hotel. Shadows flickered in floodlights and I flexed my fingers again. A really old hotel where it felt like someone was watching me.
“Edwina,” I squeaked an octave higher than usual. “Can you come to the courtyard, please?”
The chill wind tickled over the back of my neck. I hunched.
“Cut it out,” I muttered to myself and forced my stance into a dominant one: Feet shoulder width apart, good hand on belt, other hand ready to smack any spook that got close—
“Do you talk to yourself often?”
I shrieked, spun on my heels, and swung out my prosthesis, stopping inches from Sophie’s temple.
“Where the f . . . ?” I clamped my mouth shut. It would be harder to investigate if Sophie fired me for swearing at her. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, ma’am.”
And where did she come from?
“So I gather.” Sophie’s face was half in shadow, half in dim light. Even with her charcoal eyes, somehow they caught flecks, blueish orange flecks that made her Norman-esque skin tone, high cheekbones, sculpted face ethereal. “Are you going to disappoint me, Morgan?”
The tone was soft, almost a whisper, forcing me to lean in even though my right hand was shaking. “Ma’am?”
“If I can walk right up behind you without detection, then it doesn’t say much about your observation skills?” Sophie’s lip curled on one side. Ethereal turned to shark-like and yet somehow that wasn’t scary but . . . compelling.
Great. Like my libido needed to add to the cold sweat.
“I’m not meant to be watching you,” I muttered and made myself stare at the gloomy arched gateway.
Sophie let through a whispered chuckle, a dangerous one. “So you say.”
“Do you always try to give your staff a heart attack?” I flexed my left hand again and the whir bounced off the stonework.
“Only the new ones.” Sophie studied me. I could feel her gaze on my face and glanced over only to see her smile was ever more hungry. “I didn’t think you would be so easily . . . shaken.”
Libido was definitely beating the cold sweat. Couldn’t remember Trin ever looking at me that intensely. Couldn’t remember anyone raking their gaze up and down my face like that either.
Sophie tilted her head, gaze locked on my lips, and leaned in—
“Morgan?” Edwina yelled from somewhere near the gateway. “Morgan, is that you?”
Right, yeah. Engaged investigator was on duty. I cleared my throat and snapped my gaze to Edwina. “Yes. Yes.”
“Are you alright?” Edwina wagged her finger and marched over. “You didn’t answer your radio.”
“No?” I shrugged. “Must have leant on the volume by mistake.” I glanced back ready to explain to Sophie but she was gone. One empty shadowy corner.
“What are you looking at?” Edwina tottered over and stared into the shadows beside me.
Had Sophie gone through the door? I hadn’t heard it open.
“I . . .” I sighed. Sophie liked to play with new staff members . . . or had she seen me looking at where Salisbury was found? “Nothing. I think I have something the police will find useful.”
Edwina narrowed her eyes, then looked into the shadows once more, and wagged her finger. “In what way? Does it help Lady Haye?” She leaned in and raised her eyebrows. “Did you find anything?”
“Yes, Salisbury was killed on the driveway. I have it on video.” I took out my notepad and pen—you could take the girl out of the police force . . . “Did you notice that Salisbury had marks on her arms when she left the manor?”
“Yes . . . Sophie can be . . . rough with her dalliances.” Edwina glanced back at the gateway. “They never seem to mind however.”
“That’s why they think Sophie killed her.” I smiled, feeling more like a barrister again than a police detective. “They will have found Sophie’s DNA, they will have seen it on the . . . friction marks.”
“How do we prove she got them voluntarily?” Edwina pursed her lips. Guess she wasn’t a rough and ready lover then.
“I have the video that shows Salisbury is still alive when she has those wounds.” And I could see the glee in any defence lawyer’s eyes at that. “Also, the killer, whoever it was, grabbed Salisbury below the wounds.”
“Yes, but if she was shot here, doesn’t that make Sophie look worse?” Edwina rubbed at her throat then glanced back at the gatehouse. “Won’t them knowing Sophie is . . . rough . . . add to their case.”
“No, because she would know the camera was there.” I nodded to myself. It worked. I could make that work as a barrister, any barrister could. “Playing a bit rough in bed is not the same as shooting someone. It’s easily worked over in court.”
“So what do we do?” She hugged herself. “The police officers wanted a warrant to search the estate but the judge turned it down. He said they needed to be more specific about where they needed to search.” She sighed. “They were going to apply again, I believe.”
“Yes, so this area is where they need to look.” I pulled the notepad and pen from my pocket and sketched it out then showed it to Edwina. “And whoever was in the gatehouse should have seen it.”
“Your predecessor, John.” She hugged herself. “Although he blames Mick for not being at the office.”
“Did John say he saw anything or heard anything?” I pocketed the notebook and pen and smiled at two guards strolling into the courtyard on their patrol route. Best not to look too police like. “He should have, the size of the bullet would have made some noise.”
“Nothing. He was asleep or so he said.” Edwina glared at the guards who were at the far side of the courtyard. “And I’ve asked Sophie if she was still in her room but she doesn’t feel she needs to explain herself.”
“Doubt that will change if I ask her.” I sighed. “But she has a good defence right now.”
Edwina pursed her lips. “Yes.”
“Does Sophie shoot on the estate?” They’d found GSR—Gun Shot Residue—on Sophie’s hands but not her clothing.
“Yes, she handles guns when she helps Jake . . . the gamekeeper and head groundsman.” Edwina said it like that would be obvious. “He’s probably the only staff member who she deigns to speak to.”
“Then he might be some help.” I nodded to the security guards now heading back out of the arched gateway into the grounds. “We’ll need his witness statement.”
“He’s difficult to get talking but . . . yes . . .” Edwina looked relieved. “Yes, perhaps he will help. I will call him.” She wandered off through the doorway to my right. It was the side door adjacent to the servants’ quarters and it led past the kitchen to the main hall. It was the staff entrance really but I’d seen Sophie use it a fair amount.
The arched gateway had a camera that pointed toward the driveway, the main entrance was at the south of the building and that camera pointed at the steps. The third camera was on the east of the building on the service entrance facing the forest and the remaining camera faced the moors.
If Sophie had left the manor to shoot Salisbury, she would have been caught on some camera . . . unless there were other exits—I needed to check the map—I turned back to the courtyard and its shadows, feeling that sense of being watched all over again. That’s if Sophie needed doors. Where had she sneaked out from?
I glanced up to the high window over the main doorway. The stone surround and the lead lined glass glimmered in the footlights. A smaller darkened window sat to the left. Sophie met my eyes through the glass, as if, even from here the light caught those charcoal irises.
I nodded, then turned back to the shadow. Why was Sophie sneaking around? And how did she disappear into a solid stone wall? I shivered. Ethereal, that was a perfect description of her.