THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - EPISODE ONE

CHAPTER

ONE

Oxmarket was blanketed by snow, surprised by its silence.  Mounds of dirty ice had been ploughed to the sides of the roads or shovelled from driveways and footpaths.  The dreaming spire of the church overlooking the North Sea looked particularly pensive, shrouded by mist, and guarded by gargoyles with beards of ice.

            Normally, I didn't mind the snow.  It can hide many sins, Oxmarket looked beautiful under laundered sheets, like a town from a fairy tale or a sound studio.  But today I wanted the trains to be running on time.  Dr Kira Reed was arriving from London, and we were going to spend the week together.  This was our chance of reconciliation but knowing Kira she would call it something else.

            I looked for Kira among the crowds of passengers from the carriages of the London to Oxmarket service.  She was among one of the last off the train but when she saw me, she pushed through the throng and ran the last few steps and raced into my arms.

            Her lips were soft, and her fragrance intoxicating, and our mouths remained locked for such a long time that the platform had almost emptied by the time we came up for air.

            “Hungry?”  I asked.

            “Starving.”

            “Sushi?”

            “I don’t like Japanese.”

            “It’s very healthy.”

            “Not for whales and dolphins.”

            “We’re not going to eat whale or dolphin.”

            “What about bluefin tuna?”

            “So, you’re boycotting all things Japanese?”

            “That’s about the size of it.”

            “Italian?”

            Her face lit up.

            “Italian, it is then.”

            Glancing over Kira’s shoulder, I saw two men waiting by the ticket collector, brushing snow off their overcoats.  The older one was in his forties with a disconcertingly low hairline that seemed to be creeping down his forehead to meet his eyebrows.  His colleague was younger and taller with the body of an ex-fighter gone to seed.

            A police badge was flashed and they both started looking in my direction.

            Kira nudged me.  “What have you been up to?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “They’re looking for you.”

            “I know.”

            “Aren’t you going to say something?”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “We’re going to lunch.”

            The suspense was killing her.  She announced loudly, “Are you looking for John Handful?”

            The men turned.

            “He’s right here,” she said.

            “Mr Handful?”  The older man asked.

            “Yes,” I answered.

            “We’ve come to collect you, sir.  I am DS Keith Grave.  This is my colleague Trainee Detective Constable Dougie Binns.”

            “People call me Bin-Bag,” the younger man said, smiling awkwardly.

            “I’m taking my friend for lunch,” I said, gesturing to the exit of the station.

            “Our Guv wants to see you, sir,” Grave answered.  “He says it’s important.”

            “Who’s your guv?”

            “Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Shaw.”

            “I don’t know him.”

            “He knows you.”

            There was a pause.  My attitude to detectives is like my views on priests – they do important jobs, but they make me nervous.  It is not the confessional nature of their work – I have done nothing to feel guilty about – it is more sense of having done my share.  I wanted to put a sign-up that said, “I’ve given.”

            “Tell your boss that I’m deeply sorry, but I’m unavailable.  I’m looking after my friend.”

            “I don’t mind,” Kira said, interested.

            Grave lowered his voice.  “A man is dead.”

            “I can give you the names of other consulting private detectives.”

            “The guv doesn’t want anyone else.”

            Kira tugged at my sleeve.  “Come on, John, you should help them.”

            “I promised you lunch.”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “What about the shopping?”

            “I’ll have to guilt you into buying me something.  I’d prefer to save up my guilt points for something I really want.”

            “Guilt points?”

            “You heard me.”

            The detectives found our conversation amusing.  Kira smiled at them.  She was bored.  She wanted some excitement.  But this was not the sort of adventure anyone wanted.  A man was dead.  A pointless tragedy. 

            Kira wouldn’t let it go.  “Come on, John,” she said.  “Let’s go.”

            “You’re up here to have a break from this sort of stuff.”

            “I’m up here to see you.”

            Grave interrupted.  “We’re only going to the station, sir.”

            A police car was parked outside, and Kira slid into the back seat alongside me.

            We drove in silence through the near-empty streets.  Oxmarket looked like a ghost city trapped in a snow dome.  Kira leaned forward, straining at the seat belt.

            “Are you going to tell us what this is all about?”

            “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Miss.”

            Within ten minutes we arrived at the police station.  It had an iron and glass canopy over the front entrance, which had collected a foot of snow.  A council worker perched on a ladder was using a shovel to break up the frozen white wave, which exploded into fragments on the paving stones below.

            Instead of parking at the station, the detective carried on for another hundred yards and turned right before pulling up outside a Chinese restaurant where denuded ducks were hanging in the window.

            “Why are we here?”  I asked.

            “Guv has invited you to lunch.”

            Upstairs in a private dining room, a dozen detectives were seated around a large circular banqueting table.  A food carousel was laden with steaming plates of pork, seafood, noodles, and vegetables.

            The man in charge had a napkin tucked into his shirt and was opening a crab claw with a silver pincer.  He sucked out the flesh and picked up another claw.  Even seated, he gave the impression of being large.  Mid-forties.  Fast-tracked through the ranks.  He had a shock of dark hair and razor burns on his face.  I noticed his wedding ring and his unironed shirt.  He had not been home for a couple of days but had managed to shower and shave.

            Beyond the circular table, a series of whiteboards had been set up to display photographs and a timeline of events.  The victim’s name was written across the top. Lord Mabbott. My heart sank. Now I understood. The restaurant had become an incident room for the death of my client.

            DCI Joe Shaw tugged his napkin from his collar and tossed it onto the table.  It was a signal.  Waiters converged and carried away the leftovers.  Pushing back from the table, Shaw rose with all the grace and coordination of a deck chair.

            “John Handful, thanks for joining us.”

            “I wasn’t given a great deal of choice.”

            “Good.”

            He belched and pushed his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

            “Can I get you something to eat?”

            I looked at Kira.  The smell of the food had made her feel hungry again.

            “Excellent,” Shaw said, “Bin-bag get the young lady a menu.”  He leaned closer, turning in my direction.  “How do you like my incident room, John?”

            “It’s unconventional.”

            “I encourage people to feel like part of a team.  We drink together, we eat together.  Everyone is free to give an opinion.  Admit their mistakes.  Express their doubts.  My department has the best clean-up rate in the county.”

            Your mothers must be enormously proud, I thought, rapidly forming a negative opinion of the DCI because of his cockiness and a sense of entitlement.

            He picked up a toothpick and cleaned his teeth.  “You were recommended to me.”

            “By whom?”

            “A mutual friend.  I was told you might not come.”

            “You were well-informed.”

            He smiled.  “My apologies if we got off on the wrong foot.  Let us start again.  I’m Joe Shaw.”

            He shook my hand, holding it a second longer than I thought necessary.

            “I have a suicide.  And your name is in the deceased’s diary.”  The words were whispered.  I glanced across the room to Kira, who was spooning fried rice onto a plate.

            “When?”

            “Three nights ago.”

            I glanced at the whiteboard, which had a collection of photographs of a prostrate figure lying face down in the snow.  The snow had been falling when the images were taken, giving them a sepia tone.

            “What do you want from me?”

            “Why the deceased wanted to see you?”

            “I am bound by client confidentiality.”

            “Not when he’s dead, surely?”  DCI Shaw said impatiently.

            I contemplated this for a few moments.  He was right of course, but I wanted to let him stew for a few moments.

            “He was being blackmailed,” I said eventually.

            “Was he now?”  That information sparked some interest in the DCI.

            “However, the demands for p*****t had recently stopped.”  I quickly added.

            “How much in total had he handed over?”

            “Two hundred thousand pounds.”

            “Jesus Christ!”  DCI Shaw exclaimed.  “What had he done?”

            “He was sent compromising photographs of him with a woman who wasn’t his wife,” I explained. 

            “Bloody hell,” DCI Shaw said.  “I hope she was worth it.”

            “I’ve no idea,” I answered. 

            The DCI thought for a moment, and then asked, “How many payments did he make?”

            “Four,” I said.  “Four payments of fifty thousand on random dates throughout the year.”

            “Do you know the dates?”

            “Off by heart.”

            “Would you like to share them with us?”

            “Fourth of March,” I began.  “Fifth of April.   Fourth of June. Fourth of October.”

            “All near the beginning of the month,” The DCI said, making sure that one of his team was taking notes.  “Any significance in that, do you think?”

            “I don’t think so, and it’s now January, and he had stopped hearing from the blackmailer.”

            “Well, he definitely won’t hear any more now, will he?”

            I walked over to the whiteboard.

            “How did he die?”

            “We believe suicide,” the DCI said.  “Jumped out of the top floor window of Mabbott Manor and broke his spine and neck on impact. Died instantly.”

            I stared at the photographs.

            “It wasn’t suicide.”

            It went incredibly quiet, and I sensed everyone’s eyes focused on into my back.

            “How can you tell?”  Shaw asked.

            He waited for my answer.  I glanced at Kira, wishing we had used another exit from the railway station.

            “If he jumped out of a window,” I said.  “Please tell me how, in all these photographs, taken by the crime scene photographer, the windows were all shut?”

CHAPTER

TWO

The Land Rover skidded and fishtailed through the slush, following a farm track towards a copse of skeletal trees that were guarding the ridge.  The ploughed fields were bathed in a strange yellow glow, as though the snow had soaked up the weak sunshine like a fluorescent watch-face before reflecting it back again as an eerie twilight.

            We had dropped Kira off at my converted boathouse and then drove three miles out of Oxmarket through the country roads and pulled into an opening guarded by a ten-foot-high iron gate on stone pillars.  On either side, a perimeter wall stretched through the trees.  Poking through a layer of snow, I could just make out broken bottles that spouted from the concrete like hardy jagged flowers.

            The gate had an intercom box.  I pressed the button and wait.  A voice answered.

            “Who is it?”

            “John Handful and DCI Shaw.”

            “The family is still in mourning.  What do you want?”

            “We would like to discuss Lord Mabbott’s death again with the family.”

            “Are you being funny, pal?”  I noticed a hint of a Welsh accent.

            I glanced at Shaw who shrugged.

            “Who are you with?”

            I dipped my head and looked through the windscreen.  A CCTV camera was perched on a metal pole twenty feet above the gate.  We were being watched.

            Shaw leaned across me.  “DCI Shaw.”

            “I’m sorry Detective Chief Inspector but Lady Mabbott and the rest of the family are not seeing anyone at present.”

            “When is the best time to speak to them?”  I asked.

            “Write a letter.”

            “I’d prefer to leave a note.”

            The gate stayed firmly closed.  Released from the claustrophobic heat of the car, I felt the wind tug at my winter coat. I walked around the Land Rover and stretched. It was freezing outside – minus twenty-six degrees in places, extraordinary for this time of year.  I felt like Scott of the Antarctic.

            The snow had begun to fall four days ago, big wet flakes that melted, refroze, and were covered again, stupefying traffic and silencing roads.  There were not enough snowploughs to clear the motorways or council Lorries to grit the streets.  More grit was needed, literally and figuratively.

            Airports were shut.  Flights grounded.  Vehicles abandoned.  Tens of thousands of people were stranded at terminals and motorway service stations, which looked like refugee camps full of the displaced and dispossessed, huddling beneath thermal blankets in a sea of silver foil.

            According to the TV weather reports, the ‘Beast from The East’ had returned.  Hardly original but the public knew exactly what they meant.

            The camera pivoted and followed my every move.  I hoisted myself onto a fallen tree and peered over the wall. 

            “Can you see the house?”  Shaw asked.

            “No.”  He looked left and right.  “Now there’s an interesting thing.”

            “What?”

            “Motion sensors, and more cameras.  I know the gentry get nervous – come the revolution and all that – but this is complete overkill.  What are they all so afraid of?”

            Boots crunched loudly in the snow.  A man appeared on the far side of the gate, walking towards us.  Dressed like a gardener in jeans, a checked shirt and an oilskinned coat, he had a dog with him; a massive German shepherd with a black and tan coat.

            “Get away from the wall,” he demanded.

            I jumped down, and he made eye contact with me.

            “Lovely day,” I said.

            “Yes, it is,” said the man with the dog.  We both knew that we were lying.

            Shaw got out of the car and moved around to the passenger side.  He dropped his hand behind his back and held down the intercom button, leaving it there.

            The German shepherd watched me as if deciding which leg to eat first.  His handler was more concerned with DCI Shaw and what threat he might pose.

            Shaw took his finger off the intercom button.

            A woman’s voice answered, “Yes, who is it?”

            “Lady Mabbott?”  Shaw asked.

            “Yes.”

            “I’m sorry, but your gardener said you weren’t home.  He was obviously mistaken.  It’s DCI Shaw.  We met the other day.  Is it possible to have a few moments of your time?”

            “My husband committed suicide.”  She said her voice, wavering.  “You told me that yourself.  Why can’t you leave me to grieve in peace?”

            “I’m terribly sorry, Lady Mabbott.”  He said with sincerity.  “But some new information has come to light that has forced me to take another look at the case.”

            “And what is that?”

            Shaw glanced at me.  She really believed her husband had committed suicide.

            “We have now been led to believe that your husband was in fact murdered.”

            Silence followed.

            “You should really talk to Butch.”

            Was she talking about the gardener or the dog?

            “I’m talking to Butch right now,” Shaw said.  “He’s come down to the gate to meet us.  He is very charming.  Must be a dab hand with the roses.”

            She was knocked off guard.  “He doesn’t know daffodils from dogwood.”

            “Me neither,” Shaw said.  “Can we come in?  It is important.  And I don’t want to have to come back with a search warrant.”

            The gate let out a hollow click and swung inwards.  Butch had to step back.  He wasn’t happy.

            We returned to the Land Rover with Shaw sliding behind the wheel.  We drove past and Shaw raised his hand in a half-salute before spinning wheels on the ice on the gravel drive.

            “He’s no more a gardener than I am,” Shaw said.

            “Ex-military,” I said.  “Did you see how he was standing?  He doesn’t advertise his strengths.  He keeps them secret until he needs them.”

            The gable and the roofline appeared through the trees.  Shaw slowed over a grated gate and pulled up in front of the main house.  The large double door looked about four inches thick.  One side opened.  Lady Mabbott peered from within.  A slender, pretty woman in her early forties, she was dressed in a thick cardigan and figure-hugging jeans.

            “Thank you for seeing us,” I said, making the introductions.

 She didn't offer her hand but just ushered us into the main hall.  Inside it was almost pitch black, smells of furniture polish, and there was a wide wooden staircase that led up to the rooms above.  As for why it was so dark, I could see that the two sash windows on either side of the front door had their shutters firmly shut.

            “Sorry about the gloom,” Lady Mabbott said, “but we have to keep our ancestors out of direct sunlight.” 

            Once my eyes became adjusted to the dark, I saw that the hall was wood-panelled, and every spare inch of wall was covered in oil paintings of old family members stretching back over hundreds of years.  I glimpsed men in armour, men sitting on horses, and more modern men sitting in front of views of Mabbott manor, on more summery days than today.

            “The whole place is full of history.  The floorboards you are standing on are made from the deck of a famous tea-clipper, one of the Mabbott's was the first officer.  Here, let me introduce you."

            With an enthusiastic grin, Lady Mabbott went over to a gilt-framed portrait at the foot of the stairs.  Looking at it, I could see a narrow-faced man with piercing blue eyes and tightly curled blonde hair looking straight back at me.  The portrait's stare was so intense – so unflinching – that it was unsettling.

            “My husband’s Great-Great Grandfather, the Honourable Thomas Mabbott, the youngest son of Baron Oxmarket.  His older brother inherited the family estate and title, but Thomas as the younger son, had no role in life, so he did what many younger sons did at the time and ran the family business and built the textile firm up from scratch.”

            “Wow,” DCI Shaw said – and I picked up the sarcasm in his voice.

            “I know,” Lady Mabbott said, having not taken the Detective Chief Inspector’s comment at face value.  “If you are interested in the history of this place you should talk to my husband’s brother Adam, he’s our resident genealogy buff.  Anyway, I’m sure you don’t have time for all this, let me take you through.”

As she spoke, Lady Mabbott escorted us from the gloom of the main hall down a long bright corridor, and from there into a large airy sitting room full of oriental rugs and matching sofas.  Bookshelves filled the alcoves on either side of a large fireplace that is set but not burning.  There were photographs on the mantelpiece and side tables showing a child’s passage through life from toddler to teenager to beautiful young woman.  A first lost tooth, first day at school, first snowman, first bicycle, first school prom, and first day at university – a lifetime at firsts.

            “Your daughter?” I asked.

            “Yes, Cleo.”  She replied, before motioning to the sofa, wanting us to sit down.  “She’s been absolutely traumatized by her father’s death.”

            I felt she added that last comment as an afterthought.

            “Can I get you something?  Tea perhaps?”

            “Thank you,” Shaw said, answering for both of us.

            As if by magic, a plump woman in uniform appeared at the door.  There must have been a hidden bell at Lady Mabbott’s feet, beneath the rug or tucked down the side of the sofa.

            Lady Mabbott issued instructions and the woman disappeared.  She turned back to us and took a seat on the sofa opposite, tucking her hands in her lap.  Everything about her demeanour was closed off and defensive.

            “What has happened for you to demand to see me Detective Chief Inspector?”

            “We believe there is a possibility that your husband was murdered.”

            She blinked.  Grief was like a moist sheen over her pupils.  It was as much emotion as she was going to show.

            I took out my mobile phone and found the picture I had taken of the crime scene.  I had cropped the picture, so it didn't show her husband's broken body face down in the snow. I turned my phone around so that she saw the photograph.

            “This was taken at the crime scene taken by the police photographer when they first arrived at the scene.”

            She looked concerned as she looked closer at the picture.  Her eyes searching for what they could not see.

            “Is there anything about this photograph that you might think is odd?”

            She looked more closely for quite a while and eventually looked back at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

            “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I can’t see anything wrong.”

 "All the windows are shut," I explained.  "Unless any member of your family or your staff shut the window your husband jumped out of, then he must have been murdered.  He couldn’t have shut the window behind him as he fell.  That would have been impossible.”

 Lady Mabbott shook her head fiercely as if trying to clear the information from her ears.

            “Why would anyone want to kill my husband?” she asked, suddenly, a little less sure of the world.

            “Did he have any enemies?”  Shaw pressed.

 Her back stiffened.  "My husband was well-bred, well-educated.  He studied chemistry at Cambridge.  Got a first.  And then worked at GCHQ as a codebreaker.  He went into politics just before we met and quickly rose through the ranks of the party and the way he had forced unpopular defence cuts on to the Chief of Staff had hugely impressed the Prime Minister. The Home Office beckoned; he was sure of it.  I’m sure along the way he had upset some people but not enough for them to want to kill him.”

            “Did you know your husband was being blackmailed?”  I asked.    

            She nodded slowly.  “He told me on the day the blackmail started.”

            The housekeeper returned with the tray.  The teapot and china cups seemed too delicate to hold boiling water.  Lady Mabbott poured, almost willing her hands to be steady.

            “Do you have milk or sugar?”

            “Milk.”

            “Straight from the pot,” Shaw said.

            She stirred without letting her teaspoon touch the edges of the cup.  Her thoughts drifted away for a moment before returning to the room.

            A car sounded outside – tyres crunching on the frozen snow and ice.  Moments later the front door slammed open and hurried footsteps cross the foyer.  A man made the sort of entrance that befitted a man his size, bursting into the room, hell-bent on hitting someone.  He looked remarkably familiar.

            “Who the hell are you?”  He bellowed.  “Why are you harassing my sister-in-law?”

            Balding, with big hands and a thick neck, his head was shaped like a hard hat and glistens with sweat.

            Shaw was onto his feet and I quickly followed.

            “It’s all right, Adam,” Lady Mabbott said.  “They are following different lines of enquiries into Greg’s death. Mr Handful, Detective Chief Inspector this is my husband’s twin brother, Adam.”

            Adam Mabbott wasn’t happy.  “Why?  It was suicide.  Any i***t would see that.”

 "We believe that your brother might have been murdered,” Shaw said.

            “Don’t be so ridiculous.  He jumped for God’s sake.”

            “Calm down, Adam,” Lady Mabbott said.

            “Be quiet, Victoria.”  He barked.  “Leave this to me.”

            Butch had followed him into the room, moving behind our backs.  There was something in his right hand, which is tucked inside his jacket.

            I turned to face him.  “We don’t want to upset anyone.  We just want to find your brother’s killer.”

 Adam Mabbott scoffed.  "Listen to me, you moron.  This family has been through enough in the last few days.  Greg committed suicide.  End of story."

            “Then who shut the window?”  Shaw asked him.

            Adam Mabbott turned his attention back to the DCI.  “What?”

            “Your brother was found face down in the snow, after apparently jumping from his study window on the top floor.”

            “Yes, yes.  I know!”

            “Then who shut the study window?"  Shaw pressed.  "It wasn't your brother.  And in all the statements, not one person interviewed who were present in the house when he died, admitted shutting the study window after he'd jumped."

            Adam Mabbott clapped his hands together and laughed indignantly.  “What a bloody joke.  This is not an Agatha Christie country house murder mystery you know.  This is real life.  Obviously, one of your forensics chaps shut it after he had done his work.”

            “This was taken before any of the forensic team arrived,” I said, holding out my mobile phone at arms-length. 

            “And who are you?”

            I lowered my arm.  He wasn’t interested in looking at the picture.  “My name is John Handful.  I’m a consulting private detective assisting the Suffolk Constabulary with their investigation into your brother’s death.”

            “And on whose authority are you involved in this investigation?”

            “On the authority of Assistant Chief Constable Angela White, sir.”  Shaw jumped in.  I could sense he had been growing annoyed at the intrusion.  “Maybe you should do like your sister-in-law suggests and calm down, Mr Mabbott.”

            “Are you trying to intimidate me?”

            “No, sir, we’re just trying to get some answers.”

            “And when you burst in,” I said.  “I was just about to ask Lady Mabbott whether I could take a look at her husband’s study before we left.”

            Adam Mabbott gaped at me incredulously.  The manic glimmer in his gaze had been replaced by a fever of uncertainty.  Suddenly, the room was not big enough to hide the awkwardness of that moment.  The air had become cloying and harsh.

            “Of course,” Lady Mabbott said, sensing that if her brother-in-law carried on in the same vein, he would end up being the prime suspect, if I could prove her husband had been murdered.  “I’ll take you up there now.”