THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS - EPISODE THREE

XI

GRAHAME MOORE

Leaving the offices of Hogbin, Marshall and Moruzzi and strolled for another arranged meeting, this time with Jan Burton, who still lived at the house of the deceased.

On my way to meet her, I made a phone call. The most relevant one would make throughout this entire case. 

"Citizens Advice Bureau."

"Oh, come on."

"Who is it?" 

"All you can come up with?"

         "How are you doing, mate?"

"Good. What about you?"

         "Been ages, son."

 Chatting for a while, catching up, Grahame Moore was one of my best friends and a fortysomething hacker. On some instances, an incredible source of information reaching beyond any security system without leaving a trace, bagging names, numbers, and email addresses, credit histories and contracts. This cash-only business, he runs out of his spare bedroom in his house in Oxmarket.

         "Did you miss me?"

"Missed your money. So, what can I do you for?"

"Hoping it's pretty easy. Need a financial check done on a couple of people. Bank accounts and cards, mortgage, investments, and pensions -- anything you can find. Need the whole thing, A to Z." "Who are my checking up on?"

 "Lady Casterton and her nephew, Nicholas," I told him. 

         He whistled.

               "Read an article in the papers, about this, the

only suspect was given an alibi, by the housekeeper."

         "Almost."

         "Problem?"

"No. But you do like to aim high, don't you?"

"Do I?"

 "Yes, you do, but it'll be your funeral, not mine." My best friend. A man, without any cares. Prosperous, contented. No remorseful thoughts, no uneasy twinges of conscience from the past, no haunting memories.

 Meeting on an assignment. Government-paid assassin's, working for MI5. My friend always maintained a cold detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did, as though they were already dead -- walking meat bags waiting for dispatch to the butcher. Thinking of them as an appointment with their destiny, and us the conduit. Everyone dies sometime. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. Happy and oblivious one second and gone the next. Simple. Convenient.

Painless.

         Target?     Alessandra     Polina     a     spy     from,  Prokopyevsk, Russia. Responsible for three of our agent's deaths and the joint heads of intelligence provided a termination warrant. 

Once in the prone position, the crosshairs locked below. Every man and their dog determined to be in our way, milling ant-like on white concrete. To us, another day in the office. Except our branch was a windy roof-top overlooking a busy London paved road. Our tools were not a computer but a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. No need for a silencer. The gunshot would be lost in the droning of the traffic and mistaken for a back-firing van. My role as the spotter through a pair of accurate binoculars watching. 

 The target stepped out from the black limousine, her curly brown hair falling in soft layers around bare shoulders. The right physique and hair, but we would have to wait for her to turn to get a positive I.D. on the face. The noise of a siren filled the night air. Everyone turned toward the noise including her. The photograph did not do her justice at all. Through my field glasses, her eyes shone. A genuine look of concern on her symmetrical features rather than the glee of a gawker. For a moment, I wanted to reach out and touch her lips, full and glossy red in the fading light of the evening. Her arms honed from hours in the gym and about her neck sat the diamond necklace paid for her last job. No time for sentimentality. The brief. Eliminate her. 

Alessandra Polina fell without a cry, never aware of her end. One moment expecting a glittering gala and now gone. No satisfaction in the killing, but we took enormous pride in getting a good clean kill. 

Looking through at the uproar. On the pavement, an eternal, scar from the bullet. One moment her eyes shone with the anticipation of the night, the next bleeding out, eyes open, unfocused.

Ordinary pedestrians in the street now took on a whole new meaning. About six people, three men and three women, crouched down around the body, all armed with PSM's a compact self-loading pistol still given to high-ranking government officials, police, military, and surveillance forces. 

Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation agents.   Bold as brass.

         "Let's go!"

           Checking again, it was easy naming at least four

of them, scanning the rooftops for us, 

         "Could take them all out."

"Are you mad?"

                       "Look at them. FSB spies took out on ours

London's streets."

                  "Orders were to take out Alessandra Polina.

Which we've done."

          "Have you ever obeyed a command?"

"Since Caroline. I am the luckiest man alive."

 If I had not left, when he had said, I would not have made the party in Finchley, and I would not have met Zoë. The woman who became my wife.  She died of leukaemia five years later and the rest, as they say, is history.

 "Usual rates?" I asked, bringing my mind back to the present day.

         "Of course. I'll give you the details."

 What he meant was the locker room at the local golf club, we both used -- the code for the padlock, which he changed daily. 

XII

JAN BURTON AGAIN

The two-hundred years old house was a small, terraced and sandwiched between two far more extensive and more impressive abodes. An iron entrance access to the garden, fashioned to look antique, but the hinges undoubtedly new bearing the marks of machine tools not available a hundred years ago. The house was beyond a shell, or so it appeared. So, why a new gate? I scanned the stone walls for inconsistencies, and at first, none, just moss and lichen and only caught a familiar noise, a small motor, like one used to move a camera.

Walking up the gravel path, I knocked on the door, and the ding-dong echoed throughout the house.

The approaching footsteps clip-clopped down the hallway. The clatter came to a halt, and the sound of the door unlocking followed. Locks clicked, and bolts slid, and the door protested as it opened.

"You," she snarled. "You're a private detective?"

"Indeed, I am, Miss Burton," I went to shake her hand, but she declined.  "You tricked me."

"You didn't give me your name, and I never gave you mine. We both held back some information, but I promise you; my intention is to only the victim's best interest at heart and do my utmost to find out who killed her."

Her face softened. "Very well, would you like to come this way?"

Following her down the passageway, I glanced at the grandfather clock opposite the large hallway mirror to make sure I had the right time.

At the left of the Aga stood a little silver kettle on a silver. Dainty cups and saucers of egg-shell china grouped about; a small tray held a sugar-dish and a cream-pot and a half-dozen gold-lined souvenir spoons.

Jan poured two teas pouring the milk in; first, the way I preferred, we settled at the table, of battered pine, with dents from knives and forks, pens, and pencils. A dog had chewed the legs. This is a table for family meals, celebrations, homework, chatting. Did I wonder how much life happened around this unassuming piece of furniture?

Taking out a notepad and pen, I was ready to jot down some notes. "Read the papers?" "Not today," I lied.

"Soulless, callous. My mistress would hate it."

"The truth can never be done justice by journalists. The things they leave out are always crucial, but they do not seem to worry. Never let it stand in the way of a relevant story."

"The way they talk about Mr Casterton, as though he is some saint, when quite frankly, his conduct outrageous. The way he spoke to his aunt sometimes, no average decent man would ever have contemplated."

"Interesting. It is puzzling a well-bred man should behave in such a manner."

"Exactly my point. Nicholas will never be an ordinary man. I understand him a little because, of course, I had a s****l relationship with him. In many ways, he runs true to type. 

He only ever thought about himself and as a result became a little unbalanced. He set his mind on something, and nothing else mattered, nothing could get in his way. Like a grown-up in a dream when something or someone took his fancy. Obsessed with what he wanted. Not until he had bought or seduced some unsuspecting woman did, he comes out of this self-absorption and starts to pick up the threads of ordinary life again."

She looked questioningly at me, and I nodded.

"You understand. Well, this explains, I think, why he always chased Lady Casterton's money. He is prepared to do anything to get his hands on it. The only thing what mattered to him. He does not notice anything else. The fact that the situation becomes impossible for his aunt never occurred to him."

"What do you mean?"

"The capital is dissolving. The cost of running this place and constantly paying off Nicholas's debts and getting him out of one scandal after another takes its toll. He will soon discover, hardly any cash is left."

"He won't be happy," I said. "Nor will his future wife."

"What is your unbiased opinion of Miss

Khalifa?"

"What he sees in her is life, blazing vitality which made him blind and deaf to any other woman."

I sensed a hint of sadness and jealousy, which she tried to disguise but failed miserably.

"She is a superb, slim, straight creature, arrogant, her eyes permanently insolent with triumph, and the way she looks at you watches you -- waiting . . ."  She visibly shivered. "Young."

"What do you mean by that?" 

"Young typically means innocent, appealing, a little vulnerable and helpless. "Mia Khalifa is not like that. She is crude, strong, powerful. Cruel and wicked." 

"How well did you get on with your mistress?"

"I loved her," she said, with sadness. "The deepest green eyes with a touch of hazel in them. Her smile would melt your heart, and when she flashed her pearly white teeth, she would light up an entire room. Her voice every bit as beautiful as her glamour." She paused, with an inquisitive expression on her face. "Why do you ask me?"

"Did you ever reflect, the reason for the murder is nearly always to be found by a study of the character murdered?"

A light of understanding came on in her eyes.

"No-- yes, I suppose I appreciate what you mean."

"Until you understand what sort of person the victim was you cannot understand the circumstances of the crime. What I am looking for -- and what you and Mr Casterton helped to give me -- is a picture of the individual Lady Casterton was."

She passed the main point of the remark over. A single word attracted her attention. "Mr Casterton?"

"Yes."

"You have spoken to him?"

"Yes."

Her face darkened. 

"He's prejudices."

"Against whom?"

"His aunt."

"You think Mr Casterton might have given me a false impression?"

"She is beyond being harmed, but they're always certain -- how shall say -- antagonism

between her and her nephew." "Why?"

The question irritated her. 

"Why? How should I know why? These things are what they are. They were always arguing. His undisciplined behaviour and how his names were always getting into the gossip columns."

"How did Lady Casterton react to her nephew's relationship with Miss Khalifa?"

"Difficult to say. The attitude was not straightforward to define. Worried, I think, with Mr Casterton for making a fool of himself over her. She said more than once the relationship wouldn't work, and he would live to regret his decision."

"What about your relationship with her nephew?"

A spasm of pain crossed her face.

"After the event. She was upset. She always thought so highly of me. I felt like I betrayed her, but once she realized Nicholas was now with Mia Khalifa, she became bitter towards the pair of them."

"Ironic, don't you think, your evidence, got him off a murder charge?"

"I wished I hadn't mentioned the time in my statement. I cannot allow an innocent man to go to gaol. I could not imagine any feasible alternative. I do not want to think he did it. Who else? Myself? Do I look like a murderer? No, there is no choice. Nobody killed Lady Casterton except Nicholas. He didn't

because I heard him leave." Silence followed.

"Yet," I said at last, "I think nothing. I collect only impressions. About, the victim and her nephew. What happened is what I need. To go over the facts painfully one by one."

"Very well, what else do you need to know?"

"What is going to happen to this place?" I asked, gesturing around the room with exaggerated emphasis.

"Mr Casterton already received an offer from some homeless charity, who are going to convert this wonderful place into a hostel. All the rooms will be cut up and partitioned into cubicles, and the grounds

will all altered a great deal."

"He's quick."

"Yes, what he doesn't realize is that most of the profit will be gobbled up by the debts."

"What else can you tell me about that day?" 

"Nothing really," she shrugged. "Her nephew turned up about half-past five."

"Did you comprehend why he called?"

"He always wanted admittance to his trust fund," she explained. "A bank credit account left to him by his parents, his aunt was the trustee. Alive, he couldn't have unlimited access to his money."

"Did she revel in the situation?"

"A bit," she revealed. "Mr Casterton hated the hold she had over him. He saw it as active maleficence rather than misguided devotion. He started to believe he depended on her utterly. He told me once he felt like a kept man in this financial prison for so long if the dungeon door stood open, he would no longer witness. He is a peculiar man. He -- I do not fathom how to put it -- But he enjoyed seeing anyone afraid of him. It gave him a morbid kind of pleasure, and why he hated her controlling him."

"I see."

"A well-read man and a man of considerable intellect. In some ways -- well, I didn't come across it myself." 

"Just one last question?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind telling me where you were standing when Mr Casterton left?"

"Why?"

“Please, humour me."

She took me to the part of the hallway that led to the kitchen. I stood and looked. I am six-foot-two, and Miss Burton about five-foot-five, and it did not matter how hard I tried; I could not see the grandfather clock in the corridor.

Then, by slightly adjusting my position, I caught a glimpse of the time reflected in the mirror.

"This was where you stood?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You noticed the time clearly from here?"

"Yes."

“It said a quarter-to-six?"

"Give or take a couple of minutes, yes." "You could not see the correct time from here. You only saw the time from the reflection in the

hallway mirror."

She flushed angrily, taken aback.

"I know what time it was. A quarter to-six! Unmistakable! I tell you; I know!"

Turning away, she flounced into the kitchen and slammed the door.

XIII

A LOCKED ROOM MYSTERY

In her world, Mia Khalifa adored baking a cake. Creating new worlds in her imagination as she whisked and measured. The choreographed freedom of her actions, free yet orderly, did the same for her brain. As she made the gâteau, she cried some more tears and quickly wrote a few notes in her diary, the one always carried in case she needed to record something important.

She found cooking a cathartic process, which helped her deal with the daily traumas of her life.

In his study, Nicholas busied himself, working. 

What a laugh! 

Then hers.

Despite their change of fortunes, financially, Nicholas being the sole beneficiary to the will, he was not happy. He shut himself away after another disagreement. She wanted her brother to move back in, Nicholas declined.

He did not get on with Aziz, and they argued over Mia. More correctly, fought over what Mia contracted from Nicholas.

Syphilis!

Once Aziz found out, he went berserk. She had cracked. Told him, everything. Her growing hatred of Nicholas Casterton. What an awful bastard. She loved him, but now that withered down to nothing. She could not forgive all for love's sake. Like a fundamentally right person. She confronted Nicholas, and in the ensuing argument, ended up with her having a broken arm. All her compassion within her turned from her at that moment of revelation.

She discovered the name of the prostitute. 

Saskia.

With no feeling of regard to Saskia at all, apart from the fact she is a thoroughly dishonest woman.

No morals of any kind to make a career in that way. No guilt in passing on a sexually transmitted disease.

How many other wives, lovers and girlfriends been infected? Saskia hard upbringing and being badly brought up -- the only absolution she could find for her.

Something needed to happen! 

However, long it took.

Old sins cast long shadows!

So, did Aziz.

Nicholas always found an excuse. Pressure. Anxiety. The buzz of experiencing life. An explanation for his drunkenness, brawling, and infidelity, as well as an affair with his aunt's housekeeper, Jan. 

Soon out of work, and another rival will be dispatched over the horizon. Now the dotty old relative was dead, and the reading of the will was tomorrow. 

Being a claimant, Nicholas demanded a copy so that he could read all the brass tacks. It came in the post that morning but since then, refused to discuss it. He fastened himself away, studying the vital document.

Shouting scratched the air, filled with rage. Mia tensed. When Nicholas got going, no escape, leaving only made his ire worse, longer-lasting -- drawn with curiosity to the shouts from inside. A raised voice, with seething and anger. With whom was he in dispute? 

Through the concealed door came harsh voices, each back and forth of the verbal fight getting shriller, more severe. Mia withdrew her hand from the door and crept backwards.

A chill raced through her spine at the sound of a yell of help. She shuddered as a cool wind would wake someone. Her blood ran cold, and a bead of perspiration dripped down her face. She froze helpless, not knowing what to do and too scared to even think.

The arguing came right through the walls as loud as any TV or Radio programme. She got all the details she never wanted to know who what and where. Emotionally cold -- every word over-

Pronounced, slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air. 

She tried the handle, but the door was bolted.

A shriek tore through her like an enormous shard of glass. Her eyes widened and pulse quicken, her heart thudding like a rock rattling inbox. The howl came again, desperate, terror-ridden, inhuman. The blood drained from her face before she became even aware of making a conscious decision my legs were pounding on the hallway floor and out of the front door. Her ears strained for more sounds, more clues as to where it came from. With no clue as to what to do when she got there only that to get there, fast.

She got round to the window. The curtains were closed. Why at this time of the day? Another scream pierced the morning like the air raid sirens in those second world war films. It echoed throughout the farmhouse, making the origin hard to pin-point. The first cries were undoubted of terror, but not the shrill of a movie theatre, the calls of one with eyes open wide and every muscle rigid. The next of pain, garbling and pitiful. 

Mia banged on the glass, calling his name. 

No response. Mia ran back into the house and headed straight for the study.

Her hands trembled, and her eyes watered as she reached towards the doorknob. Something behind, and it was not anything good. Her body became hot, and sweat starts trickling down her neck. She gripped it tightly and twisted it. With every advance she made, she felt more terrified. My breath quickened as the door rattled but did not move. Suddenly, everything fell silent. With shaking hands, she found her mobile phone and understood what facing your fears felt like.