DC Doug Banks welcomed Gardner and Rice into an entrance hall framed with potted topiaries. After he’d shown them into a living area, warmed by a blazing fire, Gardner told him he could get off home.
Cassandra Thwaites, who still hadn’t changed from her glamourous attire, was nursing a glass of red wine on the sofa closest to the fire. A half-empty bottle was standing on the rug at her feet.
The storyteller himself, sat on the sofa opposite her, head lowered. He’d put an end to the earlier pantomime by changing out of his pirate costume into loungewear and had relinquished the ridiculous tarnished tankard for a crystal whisky glass, which he sipped from regularly.
‘Can I get you anything to drink, DCI Gardner?’ Cassandra asked.
‘No thank you, Mrs Thwaites.’ Gardner moved closer, so she could see Robert in profile. The transformation from the man she’d watched perform earlier was rather startling.
Gone was the bluster, the grandiose gestures, the ruddy skin and booming voice, replaced instead with a pale complexion, and a jittery demeanour.
Maybe this storyteller would be more transparent than she’d initially feared? After all, he didn’t look like he was capable of much right now, never mind crafting another fanciful fable like Valentina’s curse.
Cassandra stood. ‘Please sit here.’ She moved to the sofa opposite and sat alongside her agitated husband.
They hadn’t met Rice earlier, so Gardner introduced him before they sat. ‘How are you feeling now, Mr Thwaites?’
He took another mouthful of whisky, swallowed, looked up and gestured down at his glass. ‘Better now, I guess.’
It’s a bad guess, Gardner thought. You look worse.
‘It was the weight of it,’ Robert said. ‘That’s what I can’t get out of my head.’
‘The skull?’ Rice said.
Robert nodded. ‘Yes. It’s heavier than my fake one. It felt more dense… more solid. Not as smooth as the other either.’ While holding the whisky glass with one hand, he made a curving gesture with the other as if stroking the skull. ‘Rough. The cold, too. I’ll never forget the cold.’ He wasn’t making eye contact with anyone and looked deep in thought. ‘Within seconds, I knew I was clutching on to someone who was dead.’ He shook his head, dropped his empty hand and took another drink. ‘I’m sorry for the state of me.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Gardner said. ‘Anyone would feel the same.’
He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow and his top lip quivering. ‘A skull is going to be bloody old, right? So, I guess that this isn’t a murder victim, is it? Maybe it’s from a science lab, or someone dug it up as a prank?’
‘There are a lot of questions right now,’ Gardner said, thinking, You’re the storyteller, you tell me! ‘And we know very little.’ Apart from that very incriminating message in the jaw, but I’ll get to that momentarily. ‘But a skull doesn’t have to be old… no. Decomposition can be fast, quick, dependent on certain factors.’
‘Still, it must take years and years, surely?’
‘Not necessarily. Dependent on humidity and insects, it can be surprisingly rapid.’ Robin had said that in optimal conditions, the bone could be exposed in a matter of weeks. Not discounting the possibility of someone treating the remains with chemicals. ‘We really can’t say yet.’
Robert looked at Cassandra, who was making quick work of her wine. She didn’t return his gaze. ‘So, I’m under suspicion for murder?’ He looked back at Gardner.
‘No one has said that. We—’
‘But if he’s been murdered recently… well, how does that look?’
‘Yes,’ Cassandra said, nodding. ‘I mean, what’s everyone going to think?’
Their responses felt nonsensical, almost farcical, but shock was known to have such an effect.
Guilt, too, occasionally, Gardner thought.
Rice sighed.
She was stunned he’d lasted this long, and his following comments came as no surprise. ‘People are going to think exactly the same thing as if they’d been murdered ten years ago… one year, ten years, twenty years… one bloody day… why do you consider time so relevant a factor if someone is murdered?’
Robert and Cassandra stared at Rice wide-eyed as if he’d just delivered an unthinkable revelation, rather than the plain obvious.
‘And what makes you think it was a man, anyway?’ Rice pressed.
Robert shook his head. ‘Sorry… I didn’t—’
‘You just said he.’
Well-spotted, Phil, Gardner thought, glad you’re on the ball. My head has still not settled from the beer and the emotion of the evening.
‘Did I?’ Robert’s face melted into panic. ‘I meant nothing… I just thought… assumed that…’
‘Assumed that he was a man. But why?’ Rice pressed. ‘Our pathologist can’t even bloody confirm that.’
‘Do you have to swear so much?’ Cassandra asked.
Gardner touched Rice’s leg to suggest that he cool it. She saw the frustration on his face, but he parked the verbalisation.
‘We’re as passionate about getting to the bottom of this as you are,’ Gardner said, regarding Cassandra. ‘My colleague’s questions are fair. He’ll moderate his choice of words though.’
She didn’t need to look at Rice to know his blood would now boil. Instead, she regarded the woman who’d just called out Rice.
Cassandra Thwaites didn’t seem as flustered and anxious as she’d done earlier when her husband had discovered the skull. Her eyes were narrower, and she looked deep in thought.
Calculating?
Maybe Rice had been onto something earlier in the car when he suggested her involvement?
‘It’s obvious why my husband thought it was a male skull,’ Cassandra said, her confidence growing by the second. ‘In the narrative of Valentina’s curse, he’s pulling out the captain’s head. I guess, in my husband’s mind, the skull remains male.’
Robert nodded. ‘Yes.’
Good answer, Gardner thought, and jumped into her next question before her irritated partner could flare again. ‘You mentioned the possibility of it being a prank before? What makes you think that?’
Robert shrugged. ‘Nothing in particular. In retrospect, it was a stupid suggestion. Hardly a prank smashing my car window, eh?’
‘Still, could you think of anyone that would do this? Someone you’ve offended, perhaps?’ Gardner asked.
Robert shook his head and looked at his wife. ‘No… can you, love?’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘We don’t have enemies. In fact, we’re the opposite. We’re churchgoing and are part of several social groups.’
‘Maisie?’ Robert sat up straight.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert,’ Cassandra glanced at her husband and gave a dismissive shake of her head.
‘Who’s Maisie?’ Gardner asked.
‘Maisie Bright,’ Robert continued. ‘Our neighbour. She came round the other week. We had a fall out about our tree overhanging her garden. She always jumps nought to a hundred in two seconds flat, and I’d got a headache. I didn’t mince my words when I told her she needed to sling her hook. She’s a widow. You know we’ve bent over backwards over the years to help that woman out. Taking food around, bins out, but you know, enough was enough—’
Cassandra cut her husband off by putting a hand on his leg. She looked at him with concern. ‘Maisie didn’t smash our car window and plant an actual skull in your car.’
‘I guess,’ Robert said, now looking rather embarrassed. ‘I was just trying to think of someone we fell out with.’
‘What’s her full name?’ Gardner asked. ‘We’ll check it out—’
Cassandra fixed Gardner with a stare. ‘She’s eighty-five.’
Gardner moved her eyes to Robert, trying to fathom if his bumbling fool behaviour was down to shock, alcohol, or well-honed acting skills.
Robert noticed the stare and looked embarrassed. ‘My wife’s right. Sorry. Looking back, I was probably rather too harsh on Maisie.’
‘I’d say. Eighty-five is quite an age, sir,’ Rice said.
Gardner stared at Rice. Don’t. When she looked back at the couple, she saw Cassandra was glaring at Rice, too.
Still not quite feeling ready for her big reveal on the note, Gardner turned her attention to Cassandra – she was yet to be questioned at any length over the events at Blind Jack’s. ‘Mrs Thwaites, could you please recount the events of the evening in case any important details were missed?’
‘Of course.’
Gardner and Rice made notes. In due course, Gardner would compare back to her earlier interview with Robert, but no discrepancies stood out at her now. They described how they parked in a space behind the library and went for a pre-performance drink in Six Poor Folk. Robert had explained earlier that they knew the landlord well, and he’d be happy to confirm their presence there. When they returned to the vehicle to retrieve their props, someone had smashed the rear left passenger seat window with a brick, and the alarm was blaring.
‘Glass all over the back seat,’ Cassandra said.
‘So, why exactly do you think your car window was smashed?’ Rice asked.
Cassandra finished her wine and put the glass down at her feet. ‘The main case was on the back seat. It was too big to be dragged out of the passenger window. We assumed the thief only realised this after they smashed the glass. Obviously, we now know different. Someone put that skull in there.’
‘Did you not think to check the contents of the case before the performance?’ Rice asked.
‘We did,’ Cassandra said. ‘There was nothing missing. Or at least, we thought nothing had been taken. We checked inside our cases but, we didn’t go as far as to look inside the treasure chest.’
Robert groaned. ‘Wish we had done.’ He rubbed at his temples, mumbling, ‘Bloody hell. No one is ever going to book me for an event again.’
Potentially the least of your problems right now, Robert, Gardner thought. Anyone who saw fit to do this to you might take a bolder approach next time.
‘Maybe it’d have been best to call the police at this point,’ Gardner said.
Cassandra sighed. ‘In fairness to Robert, he wanted to. He said it may affect the insurance claim if we didn’t. When I pointed out that the excess made this pointless anyway, at least compared to what he’d be earning for his show, we both decided to press on with going to Blind Jack’s.’
‘And you were happy to leave your car open?’ Rice asked.
‘Well, it wasn’t open. Not as such. Nobody would’ve been able to open the door. We covered the back seat with a stash of shopping bags to protect it as best we could from the snow. But, yes, I get your point. It was risky, but my husband’s shows are very important to him.’ Cassandra looked at him. ‘And me.’ Gardner saw the admiration in her eyes that she’d witnessed earlier in the evening when she’d been mouthing the words he was speaking like a superfan at a concert.
Robert looked at his wife apologetically.
Cassandra looked down at the bottle and glass at her feet, sighed and reached down to refill.
The vigorous fire alongside Gardner crackled. She looked over in time to see the cascade of sparks burst from a split log. Her eyes rose to the mantelpiece where a picture of a woman with windswept red hair and sunglasses stood in the foreground on the Sydney Harbour Bridge with the elegant, sail-like Opera House in the background. It was a destination that had always appealed to Gardner.
A destination that had never felt so far away, considering her current financial situation and family circumstances.
‘Our daughter,’ Cassandra said, clearly noticing Gardner staring at the photograph. ‘Ruby May. She lives in Sydney. Has done for nearly ten years.’
‘Must be nice for holidays.’
Robert nodded. ‘Yes. We’d like to get there more often, but the shows are doing so well of late.’
Gardner noticed Cassandra lowering her head. A source of disagreement, perhaps? Work commitments keeping them away from their daughter?
‘It seems everyone wants to book a show in winter, which is when we most want to go,’ Cassandra said. ‘Storytellers by a crackling fire on a cold eve, I guess.’
How romantic… Her thought reminded her of how unromantic her own evening had been.
‘Mind you, the summers are no better. Awash with festivals,’ Cassandra added, taking another mouthful of wine without raising her head.
Robert put a hand on Cassandra’s leg and looked at her apologetically again. ‘But Ruby is yet to have children,’ Robert said, momentarily coming from his morose stupor, ‘but as soon as she does, wild horses won’t stop us. She’s thirty-three, and happily married – won’t be long now.’
Gardner made a note to contact Ruby in Australia.
‘You clearly love your job,’ Gardner said to Robert. ‘To still be working so hard in retirement.’ She didn’t think it necessary to add, while possessing such wealth. After all, the house had made that obvious.
Robert beamed. ‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to tell stories. Always.’
‘You’ve a lot of talent, Mr Thwaites,’ Gardner said. ‘I watched you tonight.’
‘I know… I saw. It’s kind of you to say so. I’m sorry it had to end… so… unexpectedly.’
Me too. I was in the middle of a rather significant situation with Lucy.
‘I’ve never been so happy, professionally. I retired from law in 2013 when I was fifty-five. I just couldn’t handle the day job any more. The creative calling was too much.’
Great option if you’ve got it, Gardner thought. Some of us have bills to pay. You clearly didn’t have that concern.
‘Not that I’m ungrateful for the opportunities I had as a solicitor. I’ve been able to provide well for Cassandra and Ruby. But still, it’s only now I feel truly blessed to be able to do this, day in, day out.’
Gardner noticed now that Robert was coming more and more alive. It seemed the earlier shock was starting to settle, and the whisky had finally delivered its medicinal kick.
‘Are you still involved with your old company?’ She looked down at her notes. ‘Long, Oakes and Thwaites Ltd. Is that correct?’ Gardner asked.
‘Yes,’ Robert said and smiled. ‘I still have some shares. I’m still good friends with Arthur and Reg. They thought I was bonkers walking away at fifty-five, but they get it now. Age is sobering. You realise how little time remains. They, too, have found more things they enjoy, and I’m glad for them.’
‘You must have worked on behalf of lots of businesses during your time as a commercial solicitor?’ Rice said.
‘More than I can remember. And many of the big ones too. Three years before I left, we were the most in-demand company in the country. As you can imagine, the work-life balance was a disaster zone. I barely came up for air. I wanted to spend more time with Cassandra.’ He reached over and took her hand. ‘And I wanted to tell stories. A lot of stories.’ He smiled.
Again, Gardner thought, a simple move to make when you were rolling in money, as you most certainly were.
‘I don’t mean disrespect, but I guess that over the years, working with a lot of companies, and against companies and individuals, you may have upset people?’ Rice looked at his own notes. ‘Some more powerful than your elderly neighbour, Maisie Bright?’
Robert sneered at Rice’s sarcasm. ‘Yes. But it was a job. People on all sides of that fence understand that. Business is business.’
‘They say that in the mafia too,’ Rice added.
Gardner glared at Rice and then glanced back at Robert. ‘Do you think there’s any possibility that what happened tonight is linked to your old life?’
‘I doubt it very much.’
‘It may help us if you had a think on it,’ Gardner added.
‘I will,’ Robert said and smiled.
Gardner fixed him with a stare. ‘You see… there was a note, Mr Thwaites. Left for you. In the jaw of the skull. I guess whoever staged this intended for it to fall out when you picked it up. I’m sure they wanted you to see it.’
‘A note? I don’t understand… I saw nothing…’ He leaned forward on the sofa, throwing a quick glance into his tumbler, perhaps to check if there was enough of the good stuff left for what was about to be unleashed on him. ‘What did it say?’
Gardner flicked her eyes between Cassandra and Robert, wishing to gauge both reactions. ‘It said: why don’t you tell a true story, Robert?’
Gardner held her breath and waited, hoping for a sudden realisation from either of the two individuals on the sofa in front of her.
But there wasn’t one.
Just silence.
And the more and more Gardner watched them, the more and more obvious their emotional state became.
Dread. Cold dread.
The splitting of a burning log punctuated the silence. Gardner breathed in the sudden scent of pine and asked, ‘Does the note mean anything to you?’
Cassandra drank her wine and slumped back on the sofa. Robert looked down into his glass, swirled the amber liquid and then looked up, fixing Gardner in his stare. He shook his head.
‘Nothing?’ Gardner asked.
‘No,’ Robert said. ‘I can’t think what it could mean. It sounds… ridiculous…’
Cassandra nodded beside him.
Gardner made a note and then glanced at Rice, who was clearly thinking the same thing.
A lie.
The great storyteller had returned.