THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS - EPISODE FOUR

XIV

INTERVAL AT HOME

Black clouds sprawled across the sky, billowing in from the west. Their brassy glare drained the colour from houses and trees and burnished cars in driveways, leaving front lawns tinted bronze in the faltering light. The air grows heavy, and the humidity presses down, suffocating. The scent of rain is dark and heady. A stillness fell over the street, and in the silence came a crackle of thunder, rolling across rooftops to the pattering of tiny raindrops. For a moment, everything stopped. The wind held its breath. A streak of hot silver split the sky, and the downpour began.

The boom rolled across the crowd, announcing the start of what the brooding cloud layer had promised. The boughs of the trees swayed in the strengthening gust, surrendering their dry leaves without a fight. Then came the first drops of rain like bullets. Above me, the dense grey cloud blocked out the light, casting a premature twilight. On the far hill, another jagged bolt of hot silver lightning split the overcast sky and then gone. The thunder only a second behind. More stormy clouds began to roll in. It silently loomed over the horizon. Shadows swallowed the last rays of light, and more thunder crackled through the air. More rain began to pour furiously, drowning any sight of certainty.

I pulled the hood up as I roamed in the rain pellets of water spitting on my hands as the remainder of the drops quench the scattered puddles decorating the tarmac. The water droplets fell like they cannot think of anything better to do. There is a laziness about them. They can barely be bothered to conform to the will of gravity.

The rain hit the summer flowers and leaves drooped under the weight of the downpour with so much heat lately that I almost forgot this feeling, the crisp freshness in the breeze. Come late autumn I will not be so impressed with the rain in whatever way it falls; it will be as ubiquitous as the lousy television programmes and weight-loss advertisements. For August, such a novelty that I found myself enjoying getting wet watching the drips as they fell from the branches of the trees. Being outside without the need for sunglasses, taking in the softened hues with my naked eyes, and listening to the drumming, seemed a treat. Something about this rain had me more relaxed than I have been in days, and in no hurry for the clouds to vanish, returning us to the dry heat that is so customary at this time of year.

The gulls tossed like paper in a storm, flashes of white in the grey, tumbling as they struggle against the gale. Beneath them, the sea rose as magnificent mountains, anger in the form of water, turbulent and unforgiving.

The wind strong enough and fling me into the briny waves. Every sense maxed out, every muscle already working beyond standard capacity, and still, no end in sight. Monstrous waves of contrasting shades in every direction, laced with white, blending into a horizon of the same hue.

The clouds continued to unleash a torrent of water. I looked down from the coastal path, and the waves had become titans, smashing into the sandstone below. The sea that had been so dark, but under the gloomy sky now white with foam and spray. Between crashing waves, howling wind and lashing of rain on her head, I could not hear above the din, and my vision merely a few feet.

The drops were only raining until they reached the sea, then they became part of it, moving with the waves. I guessed starlight the same, shining as scattered seeds of perfect light until the return of the sun. I should have sought the shelter of a beach hut, linger in the cosy walls, wrap cold fingers around a warm chocolatey drink. Still, instead, I am mesmerized by the patterns, countless ripples overlapping in choreographed chaos.

These moments passed as photographs, each morphing into the next. My inner eye saw each water-petal among the many, airborne in the briny breeze as translucent confetti. For in this time of rain, sky and sea became one.

The cliff-path a silk scarf over green cliffs; it undulates with the earth, leading into the horizon of land meeting sky. It looked woven for over thousands of years, in a place where time indeed stayed still forever, a place of eternal serenity. Each footfall cushioned the form below. The next encouraged. A path given to the walker, to the one who loved adventure and a chance to follow.

The coastline, with its chalky white ribbon of cliffs, jagged and folded, shrinking into the distance.

Below the cliffs beaches of rocks made rough by the barnacles upon them. Each beach divided by wooden groins, which stretched out to greet the coming waves, some like gap-toothed children missing planks. In the distance, a spit stretched out into the sea. Upon the end, a lighthouse, lonely and abandoned. The foamy crests of crashing waves the only sound other than the cry of the gulls.

The blue and red lights little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain. Beneath their glow is the white bodywork of a police car. It is yellow white headlights spotlighted the dense hedgerow to the side of the lane.

I took a short-cut through Oxmarket forest. Upon the forest floor lay trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons had been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them more beautiful. They had the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that reminded me of seaside waves. Soft, damp, yet my fingers come away dry. I tilted my head upward, the pines several houses tall, reaching toward the dark sky. The birdsong came in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody.

The forest ancient. The trees thick and old, roots twisted. Past its former glory. Its canopy so dense that only the occasional streak of light rarely touched the forest floor. Its thick vines were slowly taking away the last remnants of the old stone folly that stood in the centre.

Ahead of the forest, the trees thinned. Closer, I knew, neither. Terra-firma gave way to a marsh of tall reeds, the soil submerged in water. The darkening light fell directly to a tree trunk, felled for just this purpose, a bridge. There is no handrail, nothing to steady oneself. The drop is not dangerous, only one hell of a messy landing. With one careful boot, I assessed the bark. Damp with a smattering of moss. Not slippery, and it had a circumference of about three arm spans, yet the top still curved. I took a deep breath and focused on my feet and the next half metre of the tree; arms raised like a tightrope walker. Steady. Steady. One footfall at a time until the other bank appeared.

I did this every time I walked this way and loved the cheap thrill it gave. On the other bank, the path at my feet faded as it led into the darkness of the woods. Stepping this far into the forest robbed you of one sense and heightened the others. I felt disorientated to be almost blinded but given the ears of a wolf. The soft usurpation of the branches felt heavy in the ears. The sense of smell sensitized, the loam in the earth and the decomposing leaves made the atmosphere close and thick. A blackness nurtured a sense of claustrophobia inside you although the woodland stretched unbroken for miles. The narrow path, made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. No map to follow, but the perpetual dark would prevent me from using it.

I drank in the feedback of all my senses. Aside from my noisy breath, nothing to be heard, and the woods too dark. Black boots against an almost black backdrop forced my imagination to begin to supply horrors to fill the void.

The bare branches spiked into the sky -- no sign of life to finding anywhere. So dark, I could not see what direction I headed — only small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the wind. I did not know what lay ahead in the forest, and that made it so exciting.

I cannot imagine being in these woods a few hundred years ago. Between me and complete blackness a burning torch -- a stick and rag. No wonder they feared the dark so much, isn't your imagination always worse when you cannot see? They knew how long those torches would last, but I like my torch with a fully recharged battery. I love pressing a button to feel that reassuring clunk as the beam powers into the night. Light is still light, but give me a pure solid beam to cut right through the darkness into the trees beyond.

The forest dark and foreboding, it is peace in its sullen ambience. My eyes flickered over the thick, dark trunks of the trees that rose steadily into the sky, its branches interlocking with its neighbours like a giant's arms linked together protecting their home. The trees densely packed together, leaving just enough space to allow someone to manoeuvre through. I pressed my palm against its rough bark and breathed in the scent of the forest — the musty odour of leaves after rainfall. The warm soil packed against the earth by scurrying animals, the smell of things in various stages of blooming and growth. The scent of life, the forest teemed with it.

Rain continued to fall on the forest canopy covering dense and tangled vegetation. Bowl-shaped plants caught the rainwater. Beetles, snails, flies, and frogs continued their activities. The soil now so damp; the worms had surfaced to breathe. The crows fluttered over the grass with their inky wings, each of them eating at the sudden buffet.

Mud made the long trek through the woods all the worse, thick brown paste clung to my feet sapping what little heat they had. Icy brown water soaked into my footwear so that it was not long before my feet became soaked as I stood in a rainstorm.

The rain has soaked the ground as good as my mother's rum in her Christmas cake. Everything from sweet caramel to the hearty brown that gives a frisson of joy inside. Something about that water that felt cosy despite the weather. The brooks chattered all around me, in the forest, mini-rivers created minigorges without the concept of scale. Around them the greenery drank, leaves became boats, and their sound upon the rocks sang with steady confidence, the percussion to the chorus of the birds. I went along the hurrying brook, which fell over little cascades in its haste -- never looking once at the primroses that glimmered all along its banks.

When I eventually got to the inlet to discover it was more extensive than ever before, flowing swift and robust. The water a turbid brown from eroding the banks it usually passed by so softly. Branches have been blown in by the storm. The water eddies around them, but not that relaxed way water often does, but harshly, more like mini vortexes. In the rain that still fell, the surface pitted so thickly that the radiating ripples cancelled one another out complimenting the torrent coming from the grey stone sky. The inlet not what I prepared myself for, the brutal swell before me.

The turbulent brown flow eddied its way in the inlet bringing sticks and other vegetation. It tugged at the banks eroding the soft mud. It looked like Willy Wonka's chocolate river, but without cocoa powder in there. The opaque brown nothing, but mud stirred up by the immense floodwater that threatened to burst the banks.

Within ten paces of the murmuring waters of the estuary stood my converted boathouse, the ground gave way to a marsh of tall reeds, the soil submerged in water. A stone building that jutted out from the bank of the estuary. Its lower half stood in the water; the walls stained with a line to show the tide — the top half, a single storey built into the bank. Two small windows sat on either side of a door, like a child's drawing of a house.

I walked to the door, and I struggled for a few moments to find the right key. Finally, I nudged the door open. Inside, no interior walls, just a single large room that I decked out like a studio flat. I painted the unplastered walls with white and installed a double-glazed arched window facing out on to the inlet. A small kitchen area had been built at one side, while a sofa and armchair stood either side of a wood-burning stove at the other. I had chosen sixties-style Scandinavian furniture, unadorned lines, and muted colours, with a deep-red rug I had bought online covering the varnished floorboards.

Small, yet, the place, bright and airy, the sort of thing that could feature in the pages of a glossy travel magazine, and proud of it.

No sooner, inside, my mobile went off.

Grahame Moore.

"Sent you all the information on Nicholas Casterton on a PDF," he said.

"Brilliant, thanks Grahame," I said, "have you sent it to my email address?"

"Yes, already done."

"Thanks, mate, I'll drop it off at your bank tomorrow."

"Cheers, son," he chirped. "Catch you later."

The line went dead, and I turned on my laptop. I went into my emails, and after deleting the daily rubbish that I always seemed to get, I opened up Grahame's PDF file.

I stared at the figures until my eyes glazed over, and the numbers blurred into gibberish. No matter how I worked and reworked them, Nicholas Casterton, submerged in debt. Nothing he could do but sell everything.

I stared at the screen of my computer. Right in front of me. Means, motive, and opportunity.

My mobile vibrated shaking me out of my reverie.

DI Allum-Edwards. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"Why?"

"I'm sending a car to pick you up immediately?"

"Why?"

"There's been a development."

"What sort of development?"

"Nicholas Casterton was found dead about an hour ago," he announced.

XV

THE MURDERED SUSPECT

I walked through the beams of the car in an aspect of the black grille to the other side. In my favourite TV programmes, the bad guy would be hand-cuffed and goes in with a bobbed head, all out of balance before he is lost from view behind blackened glass. The damp evening disappeared with the slam of the door. Black inside; black seats, black floor, and black metal bars between the officers and me. Not a fast run, but, just a slow ride to the crime scene, calling in a status report to their radio and showed not the slightest acknowledgement of me at all. No small talk. A parcel for delivery.

The tape on the perimeter of the farmhouse gave the building of a different concept. Allum-Edwards waited for me in the hallway where white-suited SOCOs continued with their work. After being handed a couple of latex gloves and led to the study door. After unlocking, he ushered me inside.

"Except for the removal of the body, this room is the same as it was when they observed Casterton."

"They found the body-- where?"

DI Allum-Edwards described the victim's position, in the armchair in front of the fire.

A closer inspection was required.

"The offender understood exactly where to strike."

"What do you mean?"

"The blade struck the vital nerve centres at the base of the skull where the spinal cord joins."

"A doctor's work?"

"The only doctor he knew is his local GP."

"Ian? Would you be so kind as to sit down in this chair? Thank you. Now, would you show me the exact location of the dagger."

"The hilt of the knife? Visible from the door?"

"Yes."

"The light on or off, when they found the body?"

“Yes.”

The detective inspector joined me where I stood. We studied the footmarks on the windowsill. I asked him to batten down the door from the inside. Before proceeding to double-check over the room. Darting from one thing to the other. Ian remained by the door, fearful of obliterating any clues.

A dinky purple dispatch case, with a key in the latch, engaged my application for some time. I removed and passed the key to Allum-Edwards to inspect. Nothing peculiar. An ordinary Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire.

Next, I inspected the framework of the door the young constable had broken in. Then I went to the door opposite, leading into the library to discover the door also locked. Still going to the length of unbolting it and opening and shutting several times; with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Something in the bolt, itself riveted my attention. Sifting through and then, letting in one of the SOCOs asked him to remove a small particle and place it in a clear bag for additional consideration.

Still saying nothing, I went back once more to the middle of the room. My eyes travelled around, searching for everything in the place with a quick, trained glance. On the desk besides Casterton's chair, a bottle of pills. I was checking the label: Bendamustine. On the same furniture next to the medicines, a decanter of whisky. Casterton had a bleakness of outlook for his future for his medication to be sitting near strong alcohol.

"A fire in the grate, I see. Do you know if it happened to be still ablaze?"

Allum-Edwards laughed, with frustration.

"Really can't say. Blake, might?"

I am shaking my head with a faint smile. "The most important thing is I always to try to follow a certain procedure when I am investigating a case, but I made a mistake asking you that. If I had asked you of Casterton's attire, you would be able to tell me perfectly. If I wanted information about the room, you would describe everything without question. To find out about this, I'll have to ask the first person to arrive."

Looking slightly offended, Allum-Edwards left the room. After a short lapse of time, he reappeared with a young policeman in tow.

"You wanted me, sir."

"When you stringently opened the door and found Nicholas Casterton dead, was the fire was alight?"

Blake replied without a pause.

"Burned out."

"Ah!"

"Look round you. Any changes?"

The constable's eyes swept around. They came to rest on the window.

"The curtains pulled together, and the lights are on."

"Anything else?" Nodding my approval.

"Yes, this is out a little more."

He indicated to a big high-back grandfather chair to the left of the door.

"Can you show me, please?"

Pulling the seat in question, further back about a good two feet from the wall, making sure it faced the door.

"Brilliant. Would no one want to sit like that? Now, I wonder who pushed the chair back into place? Did you?"

"No, sir. Too shocked by seeing the deceased." "Did you?" Looking across at Allum-Edwards. He shook his head.

"Is it that important?"

"Completely unimportant," I told him, "that's why it's so interesting."

Allum-Edwards dismissed Blake, who returned to his duties.

"What do you think then?"

"Every case resembles every other one."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone involved will always be hiding something."

"Why are you so worried about the fire?"

"Casterton argued with someone, quite late at night, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The window closed and bolted, and the door exposed. Yet when the police broke in and discovered the body, the door's closed and the pane of glass is open. Who opened it? Only Nicholas Casterton could and for one or two reasons. Either because the room became unbearably hot, which begs the question, why light a fire at this time of year. There was not a noticeable drop in temperature last night, was there? No. He wanted to burn something before his secret guest arrived. If he had admitted someone that way, he knew who

would be visiting him."

"All sounds easy."

"Everything is simple if you arrange the facts methodically. What is bothering me is the identity of the person who came calling. It will be impossible to find a solution to the mystery until I know who the victim's visitor was. This might have been left open, after their departure and so afforded entrance to the murderer. What did Casterton do for a living?"

"Casterton sold military memorabilia. This blade is as sharp as anything. My one-year-old granddaughter could drive that into him -- as easy as cutting butter. In one of the drawers of his desk is a catalogue of products, selling under the name Casterton and Co. Not doing that well. Found a pile of final demand letters underneath the catalogue."

"Girlfriend called the family GP, a Doctor

Norton, who came immediately and declared him dead. The pathologist later asserted that Nicholas Casterton died instantly. She noted deep scratches on the victim's right cheek and left hand. Estimating these wounds had been inflicted between thirty-six and seventy-two hours a good deal earlier than the fatal stabbing. On further examination, she found that the lymph nodes near his groin enlarged."

"Meaning?"

"Stage two of syphilis."

"Anything taken?”

"No, which rules out the motive of theft."

Allum-Edwards held up a transparent evidence bag. "One of the SOCOs found this, Casterton's wallet."

A crumpled photograph of Casterton standing next to a pretty woman and a smartly dressed young man. The woman and the younger man were hands in hand, and so similar in stature and appearance -- that they had to be twins. On the back of the picture, '21st July last year' written in red.

The other item of interest we found was a bill from Dr James Johnson, a private surgeon, dated 8 March, 'for the setting of a fractured forearm'. The medical specialist who had examined Casterton's corpse said neither forearms had been set.

"Casterton worked in this room. Fiancée in the kitchen and said in her statement, that although Nicholas had been a little preoccupied recently, she did not realize that he was in danger. Suddenly realizing that she could hear a conversation through the wall: Casterton sounded agitated, and a rougher man's voice which she could not distinguish. Then there came a blood-curling scream, heavy thump, and silence. Rushing to the door in a panic and unable to approach. She dashed out and around the side of the house to the window. That too was inaccessible, and with the curtain's blocked out. The first responders corroborated her account."

"Any visitors in the past week?"

"What do you mean?"

"Strangers?"

"The gardener gave an explanation. He said that on many occasions, Nicholas Casterton told him to leave the entry gate to the public footpath unlocked. Every Friday, a young woman had walked across the lawn and visited him via the French doors."

"What did she look like?"

Allum-Edwards shrugged his shoulders. "No idea. No matter what the weather, rain, or shine, she always wore a hooded anorak, and settled with

Casterton for three hours."

"The latest visit?"

"Just before the argument, and according to the witness, she only stayed for about fifteen minutes and left as Casterton's fiancée came running around the back of the house, shouting and screaming."

"Did he ever confront her about trespassing?"

Allum-Edwards shook his head. "No, Casterton had instructed him not to question her under any

circumstances."

"Is there an address for this woman?"

"Yes, he told me he had followed her home one night, out of sheer curiosity."

"Do you believe that?"

"Not for one minute."

Looking more closely at the door and noticed damage to it. "This shut?"

"Yes. Forced open by the constable."

"The key's not in the lock. I wonder-"

Swiftly, I moved back across to the window, opening, and scrutinizing the grass just in front, before closing it again.

"No access or egress. Glasses with no glass. Casterton was behaving strangely since his aunt murdered. Money problems. What do you think?"

"Let me show you something," remaining where I was, I pulled the door gently together. "Open. Now I will close. Without moving the door-handle and the window not fastened. Now!"

With a short jarring blow, the shaft shot down into its socket.

"The door mechanism is extremely loose. Quite possibly easily opened from the outside."

"The partner insisted that no intruder could escape without her noticing."

Not listening but focusing on quietly tapping at the walls to check if any of them were hollow.

"What is the fiancée’s name?"

"Mia Khalifa."

"So, tell me, how do you think the killer did it?"