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  She braced herself and took a handkerchief from her waterproof pocket to hold over her nose; her gloves would protect any evidence, such as fingerprints, and as she couldn’t think of anything else to put off the moment, she went into the bedroom. It was hard to believe this lifeless shell had been a living man. He seemed like a dummy prepared for a horror film or a frightening sight as a ghost train trundled through dark tunnels on its rackety tracks. Poor man. How he would hate his body being examined and dissected, his life looked at in minute detail, his secrets exposed; that’s if he had secrets. But everyone has secrets.

  She avoided the pool of blood which was coagulating to a jelly. She searched the chest of drawers and the wardrobes. There was nothing but clothes and a few mothballs. She was relieved to move to the main room. She switched on the light and decided to draw the curtains. She’d explain to the police she’d been frightened of someone seeing her. She looked in a desk. Its drawers were empty except for some pencils, a rubber and a few mathematical instruments. There were no papers. She frowned. She remembered Frank hypothesising the amount of ash in the Harrop’s fireplace didn’t match up with the amount of paper that may have been in the filing cabinet in Sam’s study. She’d have expected Luxton to have papers, possibly relating to his work, here. There were many books in a bookcase, the majority scientific, but also some classical novels and poetry books. There was something about the arrangement of the books: they were uneven, as though they’d been put back in a hurry. It didn’t match the obsessive neatness of the kitchen. She took out several books and shook them. Nothing fluttered to the floor. She was wasting her time. Someone had done the same actions recently. Luxton? She didn’t think so.

  She moved to the bathroom. There was nothing in the medicine chest of interest: the usual cold remedies, a tube of ointment for treating haemorrhoids, plasters, and an eyebath. All in neat order. She moved swiftly to the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine she’d find anything here. She flung open cupboard doors and quickly moved tins, packets of biscuits and tea, but nothing was hidden. The cupboard under the sink held a bucket, several cloths and bottles of bleach, washing-up liquid and Dettol. She pulled out the cutlery drawer. The knives, forks and spoons were neatly grouped in their respective places. Each piece of cutlery nestling against its neighbour. Nothing had been touched here. She lifted out the wooden box, its divisions lined with green felt. It was heavy and she gripped it tightly to stop it tipping and scattering the contents on the floor. She placed it on the kitchen table, next to her glass of water.

  Lying on the waxed paper lining the drawer was something wrapped in transparent plastic. She carefully removed the plastic. It was a black-and-white photograph, about four by three inches. A young boy smiled at her. An attractive boy. She’d seen his face before. Then he’d not been smiling. He’d looked terrified. She was sure it was the same boy David had drawn. The boy who looked as though something terrible was going to happen to him.

  Chapter 19

  It was after seven before Laurel drove away from the Thorpeness car park. She and Neave had been questioned by Detective Inspector Revie and they’d been ordered to attend Leiston police station the following day to give detailed statements. She was bone-tired and wanted a shower to wash away the particles of death sticking to her skin. She couldn’t go back to Greyfriars yet, she had to see Frank and tell him about the photograph. She decided she’d call at his cottage and hope he hadn’t left for the meeting.

  From Westleton she took the road to Minsmere beach, were Frank lived in the end cottage of a row of former coastguard houses, his being the one nearest the sea, looking over sandy cliffs to the North Sea. The lambent moon was a smudge of light behind clouds; the car’s headlights revealed trees guarding the deserted site of Blackfriars School. She shuddered. The line of trees ended and was replaced by the heath with its stunted oaks and black mounds of gorse. She heaved a sigh of relief: there was a light on in Frank’s cottage.

  The night was calmer than the day, it was dry and the easterly wind had died. Sounds of rock music, loud enough to penetrate the solid door, meant Frank was either in a good mood or he was getting in one. The Faces? She raised the anchor-shaped knocker and gave several raps. The music stopped.

  ‘Laurel! God, you look awful. Come in. Where’ve you been? Dorothy phoned to ask if I’d seen you. The meeting’s been cancelled. We’ll have a brief session before we go to the school tomorrow morning.’

  She didn’t reply. He wouldn’t look so good if he’d spent an afternoon with a corpse with its throat cut. She followed him down a narrow corridor into the kitchen.

  ‘I was just about to cook my supper, but that’ll wait. Sit down, you look shattered.’

  That was better than awful. ‘I need to talk to you, Frank. Dr Luxton’s dead.’ She sat down on a chair next to a pine table.

  Frank’s face stiffened. ‘Accident?’

  ‘No. Could be suicide. His throat was cut.’

  Frank took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured a good measure into each. ‘Tell me about it, Laurel.’

  ‘I need to wash my hands, and have you some bread? I need something to eat, or I’ll be drunk before you know it.’

  He pointed to the sink and cut her a thick slice from a loaf, spreading it thickly with butter. ‘Eat this. I’ll cook for both of us when you’ve told me what happened.’

  At last she was going to get dinner à deux. What a way to get him to cook for her!

  The bread was sourdough and the butter cold and soothing. She was ravenous. Stuart Elderkin said murder always made him hungry, although she hadn’t seen any difference between his normal hunger and that brought on by violence. She swallowed the bread and took a mouthful of wine.

  ‘Ready?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I’d better phone Dorothy first and tell her what’s happened.’

  ‘Phone’s in the front room.’

  She came back, picked up her glass and sat down. She told him everything, from meeting Dr Neave in the car park to the discovery of the photograph of the terrified boy.

  ‘The same boy? You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a casual snap. I’m sure it was posed. You know the look: the cheeks are tight, the smile forced. The other interesting thing was the background. It was an interior shot; behind him was a tapestry, the kind you find in old houses. There was a border of acorns surrounding a hunting scene, with a stag and dogs. I couldn’t see all of it because of the boy’s body.’

  Frank placed his empty glass on the draining board. ‘Was it a full-length photo?’

  ‘No, head and upper body. He was naked, Frank. He looked young and vulnerable, his bones sticking out – an immature boy. What was his photo doing in Luxton’s house? Why was it hidden?’

  ‘You put it back?’

  ‘Yes. I was still looking at it when I heard Neave climbing in through the window. I put it back where I found it, under the cutlery box. When he came into the kitchen he found me as he’d left me: sitting in a chair looking faint.’

  ‘Did you do drama at school?’

  ‘No, but I was in a few school plays; my big role was in Major Barbara; they thought they needed someone tall for the main female character.’

  Frank pulled a face. ‘Can’t stand Shaw.’

  ‘Frank, what are we going to do? You know what this means?’

  He pulled another face. ‘I need to tell Revie about David’s drawings of people, or put them back and somehow tip him off where they are. That would be difficult.’

  She wondered why? Had something happened she didn’t know about? ‘There must be a connection between the school and Luxton. He looked scared when he saw Baron at the back of the hall on Friday night. Also, we’ll have to tell Revie about the boy’s photograph if the police don’t find it.’

  He sighed. ‘I’d thought I’d built up a reasonable relationship with Revie, but this could put the kibosh on it. How was he with you this afternoon?’
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  Laurel drained the last of the wine. She felt better with something in her stomach. ‘He remarked on my being involved in the discovery of three bodies in five days and hoped I wouldn’t make a habit of it. He also thought my choice of companion was improving.’ She watched his face closely.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that your opinion as well?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I haven’t decided. I’ll wait until after dinner before I give you my answer.’

  Frank got up. ‘In that case I’d better get on with it.’ He busied himself getting food out of the fridge and a cast-iron frying pan from its hook on the white-washed wall. ‘Laurel, I’ve got something to tell you. In fact, two things. I’m not proud of either. I need to confess. I’m going to cook dinner while I tell you. That way I don’t have to look at your face. Is fillet steak OK? There’s plenty for two.’

  He showed her a large steak on a white plate. It was bloody. Recent memories flooded back. She gulped.

  ‘Sorry. Was there lots of blood?’

  She nodded. ‘As long as it’s not rare, I can manage. Another glass of wine wouldn’t harm. What’s bothering you, Frank? Whatever it is, I’ll try and help.’

  ‘You’ve got a strong stomach.’ He refilled her glass. ‘I’ll start with my first mistake.’ As he washed lettuce leaves, chopped up celery and radishes he told her about keeping back the drawing of the woman having sex with a man.

  ‘Could you see it was Mrs Pemberton?’ ‘No, but I thought it might be.’

  ‘She’s really got to you, hasn’t she?’ That pain under her ribs was back.

  ‘Make that had got to me.’

  She didn’t answer and took a sip of wine.

  ‘I’ll have to tell the others, won’t I?’ He put the salad into a glass bowl, added a dressing and tossed it using salad servers.

  ‘Yes. But they’ll understand.’

  ‘Do you understand, Laurel?’

  ‘I think so. She’s a very beautiful woman, or so her drawing showed. Everyone has one moment of madness, at least one, when all you can think about is the person you’ve fallen in love with. Do you love her, Frank? After knowing her such a short time? Is that possible? Or is it just lust? Or a mixture of both?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m trying to understand. Although we haven’t known each other for that long, this isn’t like you. You’re normally in control, and I’ve got the impression you’d hate to hand control to another person.’ Had she said too much? She couldn’t see his face as he was cutting chunks of bread and putting it on a plate.

  He lit the gas under the frying pan. ‘Would you lay the table? Cutlery in the table drawer.’

  She got up and followed his instructions.

  He held his hand over the pan, flinched at the heat, then put the steak into it. It sizzled, giving out an appetizing smell. He was right, she had a strong stomach, saliva was already collecting in her mouth. ‘Shouldn’t you have some fat or oil in the pan?’

  ‘That comes later. Five minutes and it’ll be done. Just time for my second confession. I don’t want to share this with the rest of the team, perhaps Stuart, but not Dorothy or Mabel, unless everything goes bottom-up and I’m thrown off the case.’

  What had he done?

  He told her about Carol Pemberton, their meeting and the result. ‘Don’t say anything yet. I’ll finish cooking, we’ll eat and then you can tell me what you think I should do.’ He put a good lump of butter in the pan; it frothed up, the sizzling and the mouth-watering smell increased. He turned the steak over, revealing a charred underside. A few minutes later he put the steak on a board, cut it in two, and placed the pieces onto warm plates. He poured something from a bottle into the pan, it hissed as it hit the hot pan and fizzed as he stirred it into the blackened butter.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Madeira.’ He poured the sauce over the steaks. ‘Tuck in. I hope this won’t be our last supper.’ He looked at her and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Laurel placed the paper napkin he handed her over her lap. ‘Not if they’re going to be as delicious as this.’ She raised her glass which he’d filled with red wine. ‘Cheers!’

  The green of his eyes seemed to darken. ‘Chin-chin. Thank you, Laurel. I’m glad you came round.’

  After they’d eaten they moved to the small front room. Frank removed a fireguard and poked the smouldering log into life. She sank into an old but comfortable armchair; the meal, wine and the return of their former relationship made her aware how much she valued Frank’s friendship. His confession of his desire for Carol, although it produced those under-the-ribs pains, made her see him in a different light. He wasn’t perfect, he could lose control, he was as vulnerable as anyone else to human frailty. At times she’d wanted to have a different, physically closer relationship with him, but now she wondered whether it would be worth risking losing his friendship. Friendships sometimes lasted longer than love.

  ‘Well, Laurel. I’ve told you, I’ll tell Stuart, and I’ll tell Dorothy and Mabel about keeping back the drawing. Do you think I should do anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We’ll have to hope Carol Pemberton doesn’t decide to call us off the case. Frank, what I did to try and uncover my sister’s murderer was far worse than your indiscretion. I’ll never be able to repay you for your support. You risked a great deal for me.’ When she told him how she’d made the killer of her sister, Angela, confess to her murder, and how he’d died, she’d expected Frank to arrest her; she thought he couldn’t do anything else: he was a policeman. When he told her he was resigning from the force and she must never tell anyone else about what she’d done, her relief was unforgettable. He’d taken a great burden from her. No, she could never repay him.

  ‘I think we ought to forget that, Laurel. Thanks for being so understanding. Shall I make you a coffee? I’d offer you a whisky, but I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink; you’ve got to drive home.’

  Laurel looked at her watch. ‘Crimes! It’s nearly eleven.’ She stood up, swaying as she moved towards the door. ‘I don’t usually feel so squiffy after a few glasses of wine. I’d better get on my way.’

  Frank got up and took hold of her arm. ‘Sit down. I don’t think you can drive. It’s not far but the roads are narrow and there are no lights. I don’t want to find you in a hedge as I drive to work tomorrow morning.’

  She flopped back into the armchair. ‘Well, I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve a spare room and a pair of my pyjamas might be big enough for you.’

  Gosh, dinner à deux, and now an invitation to stay the night. She giggled.

  ‘You’re definitely the worse for wear. I’ll ring Dorothy and tell her you’re staying with me.’

  She giggled again. ‘She’ll make you marry me!’ The giggles turned into guffaws.

  Frank shook his head and went out of the room. He returned with a bottle and two glasses. ‘All sorted. Dorothy trusts me not to ravish you, but she was worried about me. I said I’d lock my bedroom door.’

  She tried to throw a cushion at him, but failed miserably. ‘Is that Jameson’s?’

  ‘It is. You’re allowed a small one, then I’ll tuck you up in bed.’

  Laurel smiled. ‘Will you read me a bedtime story?’ Frank shook his head and poured whiskey into the glasses.

  ‘Frank, could I have a bath? I feel … contaminated. I wouldn’t want to get into a clean bed without washing today away.’

  He passed her the glass. ‘Of course, or a shower, I had one fitted.’

  A hot cleansing shower – bliss. ‘Thanks.’

  Later, when she was in bed, clean, in a pair of blue cotton pyjamas, there was a knock on the door.

  Frank came in. ‘Everything OK? Bed long enough?’

  She felt vulnerable lying beneath the sheet and blankets. ‘Thanks, Frank. The bed’s very comfortable.’

  He came over to her and ruffled her damp hair. ‘Thanks for being so understanding, Lau
rel. Sometimes I forget you’re a woman, you’re such good company and so non-judgemental.’ He bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Sleep well.’

  So he forgets I’m a woman. Perhaps she’d better remind him. She turned off the bedside lamp. What would she have done if the goodnight kiss had been the first of many?

  Chapter 20

  Monday, 15th March, 1971

  On Monday morning, after a short meeting at Greyfriars, Frank and Stuart arrived at Chillingworth School at eleven. They’d agreed their questioning would concentrate on getting as much information as they could on David and his friend, Peter. Laurel wasn’t with them; she was at Leiston police station making a statement about finding Luxton’s body. Frank asked her, if possible, to talk to Inspector Revie and tell him he needed to speak to him urgently.

  Frank had asked for two rooms and he was given a small room off the Headmaster’s office on the ground floor, not a place he would have chosen, as Baron might be able to listen in. The room was sparsely furnished with two wooden chairs and a battered desk. He’d asked to see Gary Salmon, the PE master first, and as he arranged the chairs on each side of the desk, he heard Baron say, ‘Go through, Salmon, he’s waiting for you.’

  The man was tall, about six feet, with dark hair and eyes, heavy eyebrows and regular features. He was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a yellow athletic vest, showing off his broad shoulders and lean torso.

  Frank held out his hand. ‘Please sit down, Mr Salmon. I’m Frank Diamond. As you know I’m investigating the disappearance of David Pemberton.’

  Salmon gripped his hand and squeezed.

  Frank squeezed back. ‘That’s quite a grip, Mr Salmon. I hope you’re gentler with the pupils.’

  Salmon frowned, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead. He sat down, back straight, legs wide apart.

  I should have grinned and borne it, Frank thought. Not a good beginning. Try again.