Jack stood with Alan Rivers at the gates of Hill House and watched the undertakers slam shut the rear doors on the anonymous grey van that would take Basil Coates to the mortuary.
He could just see glints of the rising sun through the woods.
He checked his watch — seven o’clock.
It had been a long night. First the ambulance, then the local doctor and the police.
The doctor — with the usual caveats — pretty certain that the cause of death was a heart attack.
Death from natural causes.
Because of the threats and recent pranks, Alan Rivers had stayed to interview everybody in the house. And there would have to be an autopsy.
Finally — the undertakers had arrived to take the poor old actor away.
While the family seemed frozen in shock, Jack and Sarah had found themselves doing all the immediate organising, greeting, explaining, guiding — making teas and coffees until finally Mrs Foy had been summoned to take over.
“You coming back up to the house?” said Jack.
Alan shook his head. “Got statements from everybody,” he said. “If there’s any kind of causal link between the threats and the death then there might be a case to be built. Against someone. Right now, I’ve no idea who.”
Jack watched Alan climb into his police car.
“You find anything suspicious, Jack, you’ll let me know, hmm?”
“Course.”
“Kind of sad, really, isn’t it?” said Alan, pausing before closing the car door. “I remember watching Basil Coates on TV when I was a lad. Made a great vampire, he did. Scared the life out of me. But really — in the end — he was just a harmless little old man.”
“Guess we’re all the same when we go, Alan,” said Jack, not expecting this sudden sentimentality from the policeman.
Alan nodded and turned on the engine. “Be in touch,” he said.
Then he drove away.
Jack looked around. Silence. Not a soul about.
No TV crews. No reporters.
So, whoever had been tipping them off hadn’t done it yet this morning, he thought. Interesting …
So far, it would seem, the world hadn’t learnt of the departure of one of its greatest horror film actors.
As soon as they did, for sure, this driveway would be full of reporters.
Sarah and I need to make sure we’re well out of here before that happens, he thought. Or they’ll be on our backs too.
He pulled his jacket tight against the bitter wind and headed back through the gates up to the house. It looked even bleaker in the grey morning light.
*
“There’s more toast for them as wants it,” said Mrs Foy, placing a fresh teapot on the table. “And one last rasher of bacon here that’ll only go in the bin if it isn’t eaten.”
“I’ll have it,” said Gordon. Then: “If nobody else wants it, of course?”
Sarah watched as Gordon eagerly held up his plate for more breakfast. Nobody else seemed interested in the bacon.
Not surprising, she thought, looking around the kitchen table at Basil’s family.
Val sat at one end staring into space, a cup of coffee in front of him that must be cold by now.
Alyssia sat next to him. Her hand next to Val’s on the table.
Interesting, thought Sarah. Those two hands, almost touching …
On a bench in the corner by the open window, Karina smoked a cigarette, having ignored Alyssia’s repeated orders to put it out. The young woman seemed more annoyed at all the fuss, rather than grieving, interspersing puffs of smoke with loud sighs.
Sarah looked up as Jack entered and stood by the door. He gave her a slight nod. She took the gesture to mean “they’re gone”.
“Cup of tea, Mr Brennan?” said Mrs Foy, pouring him a mug and handing it over without waiting for a response. “I’m sure you’ll be needing one.”
“Thanks,” said Jack. Then he turned to the whole table: “Just wanted to say that the police have gone, and Mr Coates’ body has been taken to the mortuary in Oxford.”
Sarah looked around. Not a word, not a response from anyone. Though Gordon did for a second put down his knife and fork.
“Sarah and I will be heading back to the village now. Leave you all in peace.”
“You’ve been marvellous, Jack, I can’t thank you enough,” said Alyssia, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Least we can do,” said Jack.
Sarah watched him put his mug down on the table. Then he turned to the others: “I know this hardly seems the time, and everybody’s obviously upset, but you ought to know that at some stage today or tomorrow, the police will want to ask you more questions about the fire last night,” said Jack. “So, I would suggest to everyone here — if you do know anything that maybe you failed to mention already …?”
Sarah watched Jack look around — both their gazes ending on Gordon, who sat frozen, fork full of bacon half way to his mouth, a dab of ketchup dripping now onto his plate …
… but it was Val who broke the silence.
“Oh, God,” he said. Then he stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the tiled floor — and walked across to the window.
“God, God, God, God, God.”
Sarah waited. Everyone around the table sat back, surprised at this outburst.
“This is all my fault,” he said, turning, sitting back down at the table again.
Sarah’s eyes went to Jack.
The look: This … is surprising.
“Val, hang on. How so?” said Jack, moving to the other end of the table and sitting so he could face Val head on.
But Val didn’t answer. Alyssia got up, put her arm around his shoulder and crouched next to him.
“My dear Val, how is it your fault? What nonsense is this?”
Sarah watched Val as he took a pristine handkerchief from his top pocket, wiped his eyes and dabbed his nose.
Then he took a deep breath: “I should have been with him. Not outside trying to get that damned hose to work. Poor Basil, I just can’t bear to think of him … alone …”
Sarah caught Jack’s eye.
Time to go? his expression seemed to say …
“Nobody could have known that was going to happen, Mr Rayment,” said Jack. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for Basil’s death.”
Sarah watched Alyssia put her hand on Val’s.
“Jack is right,” she said, “you were always such a good and loyal friend to Basil. His heart was weak — we all knew that. There was nothing any of us could do.”
Sarah looked up at Jack. He shrugged.
“Don’t think you need us around anymore,” he said. “Just got to grab my bag from upstairs, and then — Sarah and I — we’d best be heading back to Cherringham.”
She got up and followed Jack to the door. He turned.
“Just one last thing,” he said.
The room froze, and from the expressions on their faces, for a second Sarah thought: Maybe this isn’t so cut and dried …
“Heard a noise. Saw — well — a van outside. Anyone know who it was who came to the house last night? Just before the fire?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea,” said Alyssia.
“Me neither,” said Val.
Sarah watched Gordon and Karina shake their heads too.
“No big deal,” said Jack. “Maybe … somebody lost. Or one of those annoying reporters. Ready, Sarah?”
*
As they drove away from Hill House down the narrow lane, they had to pull in to let a line of news trucks past.
“Looks like we got out just in time,” said Jack, as Sarah pulled the Rav-4 back onto the road.
“Hmm,” said Sarah. “Is it my imagination — or does the air feel fresher down here?”
“Pretty claustrophobic place, for sure.”
He waited until she had gotten onto the main road, then: “So what are you thinking, detective?”
“I’m thinking forty-eight hours into this case — whatever it is — we still don’t really know what’s been going on. But now somebody’s died, it’s not about harmless pranks anymore.”
“Agree. Would Basil’s heart have failed anyway? Nobody knows — but the stupid stunts didn’t help.”
“So — assuming that the devil himself is not actually responsible for those stunts — then you think we carry on looking for exactly who is?”
“Yep, I do,” said Jack, turning to her.
She nodded her agreement.
“Good,” he said. “So, let’s go back to the beginning. The skulls and the noose — well, they’re no big deal. Anybody could have done those. Easy. But the blood, the snake — that damned burning wicker man? They took some real setting up.”
“And your instincts say …?”
Jack looked out of the window at the early morning traffic, people racing in to work. Then back at Sarah.
“Right now … I’d say … Gordon. Gordon the ghostwriter, as I like to call him.”
Sarah laughed. “Reason he’s in the frame?”
“Okay. First — that book he’s writing? Hardback bio of some old movie star that most everyone under thirty has never heard of — how many copies is he going to shift?”
“Not many.”
“Exactly. But — add into the mix the whole haunted house, devil’s revenge shtick and suddenly you’re talking TV interviews, documentaries, YouTube clips featuring him, conspiracy websites analysing the evidence. You name it. And now with Basil’s death — perfect timing by the way — and whaddya know? Suddenly book sales and his career look great.”
“You’re not saying he actually planned all this to give Basil a heart attack?”
“Yeah — a stretch. But who knows?” said Jack. “Basil’s heart condition was serious — and it wasn’t a secret.”
“Wow,” said Sarah. “I must admit — he has all the contacts — see how the TV guys turned up again this morning? I bet he made the call on that.”
“Totally,” said Jack. “He’s got a solid motive, for sure.”
“How about Karina? You think she could be in on it too?”
“She makes a big public show of disliking Gordon, but — well, you saw it too, hmm?”
“Oh yes — something going on between them for sure.”
“So maybe she fancies a share of the not inconsiderable spoils — that house must be worth a packet. Same, though, could be said about the beautiful Alyssia?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure about that,” said Sarah. “Motive?”
“Money as well? Fame? Another shot at celebrity?”
“I don’t buy it,” said Sarah, shaking her head. “She looked genuinely upset last night — and this morning.”
“Once an actress, always an actress.”
“You’re all heart, Jack Brennan.”
“Well, talking of hearts, she knew more than anyone that Basil’s was weak. Maybe she was already resigned to losing him.”
He looked across at Sarah who gave him a sceptical glance.
“Hmm, yeah, okay. A tad unlikely.”
“What about the mysterious visitor — in the van?”
“Right. Timing can’t be a coincidence, that’s for sure. Whoever it was left around ten minutes before the wicker devil went up in flames.”
“But not much to go on.”
“Yep — a dark van, with writing on the side,” said Jack. “That’s gotta cut down the suspects to oh … at least a hundred thousand.”
He stared out of the window as they turned into Cherringham High Street. Shops and businesses weren’t open yet. He loved the feeling of the village waking up.
Didn’t get that down on The Grey Goose.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Drop me here, I’m going to grab a coffee and do a bit of thinking. Walk down to the boat later.”
“Sure,” said Sarah, pulling up outside the village hall. “I might go straight to the office, get my head into some work. Fancy supper tonight? Pasta and wine?”
“I’ll bring the wine,” said Jack, getting out of the car.
“This case isn’t over, is it?” said Sarah.
“Think not,” said Jack. “Fact, I have a suspicion it may have only just started.”
“See you tonight,” said Sarah.
Jack watched as she pulled away and drove off down the High Street. Then he walked across the road to Huffington’s, looking forward to a rare treat: a macchiato, the morning paper, and some time to think.