Murder at mistletoe mano.., p.15
Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 15
Alan makes an involuntary sound of distress, David shakes his head, and Branson mutters, ‘I hope they electrocute the animal who did this.’
Between them, they lift the semi-rigid corpse and begin to manoeuvre it down the stairs towards the kitchen. As they progress in their ghastly funeral cortège, Nick fights down his horror, slips a hand into Donal’s jacket, closes his fingers over the cold bunch of keys and drops them into his trouser pocket. ‘Careful there, Nick,’ says Branson, oblivious, and Nick apologises and places a gentle, steering hand under Donal’s back as they carry the young man’s slight body through the corridor towards the frozen outhouse.
The shower isn’t hot enough. Nick has risked a return to his room and feels the need to scald away the horror of the day, the shock and sadness, the anger, the terrible claustrophobia and exhaustion of never knowing whom to trust and whom to suspect. Once out, he opens the bedroom shutter a crack and, with a sudden thrill, realises that the constant, dizzy whirl of flakes has finally ceased. A white sliver of moon like a pared nail hangs in the sky. Might it begin to melt tomorrow? Might they finally make it back to civilisation, to professional help, to the forces of law and order?
It’s hard to imagine the world beyond their snow-bound island. He knows it’s out there, but they might as well be floating in space.
Fully dressed, Nick reaches into his pocket and touches the metallic chill of the keys again – he feels a strange sense that he’s stolen a talisman from Donal, a source of energy and strength. Fanciful idiot. He extracts the bunch and studies them. There are a couple of large iron keys that must be for the main door of the manor, and a series – he counts – of twelve smaller ones, then a scatter of oddly-shaped keys that are presumably for various laundry cupboards, sheds, windows …
He walks, swiftly, to the end of the corridor past the main stairs, and takes a breath before once again opening the door to the back stairs. There’s no trace of the dead man, but all the same, he keeps to the edges of the stair treads, mindful that he risks trampling on a crime scene. The knowledge that the snow has stopped falling has given him hope – this may be their final night here, and his last chance to uncover the killer. If he fails, the deaths might continue – and he’ll be trapped here for Christmas, at the mercy of a vengeful lunatic. Not as vengeful as I’ll be if you don’t make it home, says Harriet in his head. Nick almost smiles.
On the top landing, he surveys the corridor. The stark lightbulb burns pointless energy – Donal must have left it on, which might suggest he was ambushed before descending the stairs – or that he was killed in the bedroom, and the killer moved the body. David didn’t find anything obvious; there are no marks on the walls or floor. Until forensics gets here, they have no idea where Donal died.
Nick passes Colt’s door, and makes his way swiftly down the corridor. He tries a key, which twists then sticks in the lock. Six more do the same, but the seventh clicks round. Nick turns the handle and enters Donal’s room.
Like Colt’s bedroom, there’s a single bed and a small desk, but that’s where the similarity ends. Donal’s bedlinen is a sombre grey cotton, the duvet tucked tightly into the mattress; there are no pictures or photographs on the walls, and the desk contains nothing but a black notepad, neatly aligned with the corner, and a small metal lamp. A quick glance in the drawers shows folded work shirts and trousers and a couple of more casual outfits. Wherever Donal kept his personal items, it wasn’t here.
There’s no sign of disarray, no indication of a struggle. Nick glances under the bed before leaving, and sees the glow of a lock screen. Sighing with relief, he extends a hand to reach the phone, detaches it from the charger it’s plugged into and leans against the desk as he studies it. The screen shows an image of Mistletoe Manor in summer, a sight so incongruous it takes Nick a moment to recognise the building. There are trees in leaf, emerald lawns sweeping down to the river, the manor’s old sandstone glowing golden in the evening sun.
He taps the screen, but nothing happens. Passcode.
The excitement drains from his body. Donal’s birthday? No idea. He was about twenty-eight … Nick tries 1996, 1997, 1998 … the phone remains locked. The year he won the Cork Irish dancing trophy? He types in 2011, feeling foolish. Nothing.
He looks again at the screen, where the manor’s windows glow orange in the sun, and the vast front door gleams black. Above it is a sandstone lintel. Nick narrows his eyes, willing what he seeks to be visible. And there it is – a number carved over the door, one he couldn’t possibly have seen on his blasted, snow-blown arrival. The date the manor was built.
Nick types slowly, knowing another mistake will lock him out for good – 1712.
The screen springs to life and fills with apps, and despite everything, Nick finds himself grinning. He begins with Instagram, but is disappointed to see that Donal never posts, he only likes other people’s pictures.
He follows a handful of men around his age, his mates, Nick assumes, as several are from Dublin, and a few male celebrities – actors and singers. He scrolls on, but finds nothing notable, and no messages.
Facebook? Donal is logged out, and Nick’s heart sinks. He’s got no chance of guessing the password this time. Most guys Donal’s age only use it to keep in touch with family – it’s probably just memes from Irish aunties, he tells himself. He scrolls to the Photos app. This, surely, will yield something – Donal’s fiancée Aisling, perhaps.
Nick leaps in shock as the door creaks open. Heart hammering, he snatches up the metal lamp and holds it before him, poised to strike. In his confusion and panic, it’s a moment before he registers the tinkle of a small bell and realises that the intruder isn’t the killer he’s looking for. Jingle jumps on to Donal’s bed and sinuously kneads the duvet, purring like a motorbike engine on a cold morning.
‘You little tosser …’ Nick attempts to regulate his breathing, and turns back to open the Photos app, absently scratching the cat’s head. What he sees on the screen almost makes him drop the phone.
Jingle gazes at him impassively, his eyes the luminous gold of a harvest moon. Nick doesn’t want it to be true, but Donal’s photographs appear to be showing him – in plain sight, high definition, full colour – a watertight motivation for the killer. Someone who had the means, the motive, the opportunity … Nick closes his eyes.
If it’s not the husband, he thinks bitterly, it’s almost certainly the last person you’d ever want it to be. Slipping the phone into his pocket, he leaves the room and slowly makes his way downstairs, towards the reckoning.
22
‘Hello again.’ Colt is still there, a mug of tea in his hand, apparently staring into space. ‘Need a snack?’
Nick pulls out a chair opposite Colt and sits down. ‘I know why you did it,’ he says, evenly.
‘What?’ Colt’s expression is a blank page. He’s good, thinks Nick. Almost convincing.
‘I know why you killed Donal. And I’m assuming you killed Penelope too, but I’m less certain of the reason for that. Maybe you can explain.’
It strikes Nick that Colt could very easily grab a long knife from the block on the worktop and kill him, too. He should have asked David or Branson to come with him – though even as the thought crosses his mind, he dismisses it. None of them would be a match for this coiled, athletic young man. Colt hasn’t moved. He’s rigid in his chair, radiating shock and contempt.
‘Because I’m mixed race,’ he says eventually. ‘Because I’m working class. I get it. Oh, he’s a black lad, none too bright, was in trouble with the police. Must be a murderer. I genuinely thought you were a bit better than that, Nick.’
‘That’s not why!’ Nick feels a wave of horror at the accusation. ‘Look.’
He thumbs through Donal’s phone, finds the Photos app, and pushes it across to Colt. ‘Explain that.’
Colt stares down at a picture of himself, taken unawares. It shows him in side profile, stirring a pan, sweat beading on his brow in the steam.
‘I don’t get it …’
‘Scroll on.’
Photo after photo, all taken when Colt is looking away from the camera, all focusing on the curve of his lips, the light catching his amber eyes, the taut muscles of his arms as he lifts a pan. Some show him laughing, others serious, all taken quickly, surreptitiously. There’s one of Colt sitting up in bed, bare-chested, surprised, taken from the doorway of his room from a low angle.
Colt is still, only his thumb moving as he looks through the endless stream of images, some dating back to the beginning of his time at the manor. The last shows Colt earlier today, turning, half smiling at Donal from the stove. It was taken minutes before Nick walked in on their row.
‘You knew he was obsessed with you, didn’t you?’ Nick says. ‘You’d had enough, after he thought you might be the murderer. You wanted him gone.’
Colt slowly drags his eyes from the small, glowing screen and meets Nick’s gaze.
‘Are you kidding me?’
Nick waits.
‘This is … What the actual … How would I have known?’ Colt shoves the phone back towards Nick. ‘If I’d known, I’d have said, Sorry, mate, you’re not my type, but let’s get you on Grindr and find you a nice bloke. I’d have helped him, not killed him.’
‘Come on,’ says Nick. ‘You said yourself that you didn’t get on – you saw the pictures, and after Donal’s accusation, you snapped.’
‘One problem,’ says Colt tightly. ‘If he was so obsessed with me, why would he accuse me of murder?’
‘Maybe that’s why he was so upset,’ suggests Nick. ‘Thinking the man he loved had done that.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Colt puts his long fingers to his temples and breathes heavily. ‘I had no idea. I thought he was engaged to bloody Aisling. I didn’t know he was sneaking around like a flaming paparazzi. I never saw his phone!’
‘You never once caught him taking a picture of you?’
‘Once. Last summer. I was getting some sun on the terrace, had my T-shirt off. I opened my eyes and he was taking a photo. I asked what the hell he was doing – he said he was taking candid snaps round the manor for social media. I told him to delete it.’ Colt heaves a sigh. ‘Guess he didn’t.’
Nick assesses him. Colt looks exhausted, puzzled, sad. He doesn’t look guilty, or caught out.
‘There are no photos of anyone who might be Aisling,’ Nick says quietly.
‘I don’t reckon Aisling exists,’ Colt says. ‘I always wondered. She never visited; he just used to drop her into conversation. Looks like she was his cover story. Poor guy. That’ll be why his family didn’t speak to him.’
‘Because he was gay?’
Colt nods. ‘He once mentioned that his parents are very strict Catholics. Doesn’t take a genius, does it?’
‘Why not come out once he’d left, though?’
Colt’s look is steady. ‘You don’t know much about shame, do you, Nick? In your nice, straight, middle-class world, with your good media job and your wife and baby. I bet you think you’re an ally, and you see a Pride march go past, and think, Ooh, good for them, and you smile supportively at rainbow flags. You don’t know what it’s like to be young and scared and working class, when all the lads you know use “poof” as a massive diss, and your family can’t even imagine that a son of theirs might not be “normal”. We don’t all live in a bubble, mate.’ He shakes his head. ‘I wish he’d told me, though.’
Nick is feeling an unpleasant, creeping sensation of shame right now.
‘You really didn’t know?’
Colt just looks at him.
Nick pauses in the hall, sick at heart. Yes, Colt could be lying – but Nick doesn’t think so. When he first saw those obsessive, meticulous pictures, he’d been so sure that Colt had found out, that he’d been horrified and enraged by Donal’s stalker-like behaviour. He hadn’t reckoned on compassion and understanding. He’s back to square one, only now he feels like a judgemental fool as well as a hopeless detective. He needs a drink.
In the drawing room, Emily is asleep on the sofa next to Lorraine, tucked under the chenille throw. Nick heads to the sideboard and pours himself a small whisky. Without Donal to check and replenish, the decanter is running low.
‘I’ll take one of those, Nick, if you don’t mind,’ says Branson.
‘Ooh, one for me, too,’ calls Lorraine.
For God’s sake. Two people lie dead in the freezing night, and everyone’s behaving as if they’re at a cocktail party. A shaft of steel enters Nick’s soul. He’s had enough.
‘I’ve spoken to Colt,’ he announces. Will he tell the others what was on Donal’s phone? It’s not relevant. He believes Colt. Which means someone in this room, right now, murdered Donal and is sitting cosily by the fire.
‘Well?’ demands Alan. ‘Did he kill Donal?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Nick says. ‘Were any of you together during the period before dinner? Can anyone vouch for one another?’
There’s a silence.
‘I was in my room, trying to meditate,’ says Destiny. ‘I was chanting – I didn’t hear anything.’
‘I was having a snooze,’ admits Matilda. ‘The thought that poor Donal was being … so close to my room …’ She blinks away tears.
‘We were just pottering,’ says Lorraine helpfully. ‘I was writing some cards, and Alan was doing his nose hairs in the sink. He’s got one of those little whirly electric things that plucks them out.’
Violet snorts and turns it into a cough, as Alan snaps, ‘For God’s sake, Lorraine! And anyway,’ he adds spitefully, ‘you went out to look for a magnifying mirror.’
‘Oh, I knocked on Vi’s door to borrow one, because I couldn’t see to do my eyebrows,’ admits Lorraine. ‘But you didn’t answer, Vi – I thought you must be asleep.’
‘Or somewhere else,’ says Destiny, raising an eyebrow. Violet glares at her.
‘I was having a nap. With headphones in.’
Odd, thinks Nick, that Violet is so nervous – and yet would happily block her hearing and remain alone in her room, with a killer on the loose.
‘Emily and I were playing Guess Who?’ says David. ‘She’s a whizz at remembering the faces.’ Emily is placing stickers into a colourful album, the headphones firmly back on. Nick isn’t going to rip them off and ask the poor child to confirm her father’s whereabouts.
‘Where were you, Branson?’ Destiny asks. Gaia’s ears lift as though the dog, too, expects an answer.
‘I was in my room,’ he says. ‘I mean, Rowan, the one I was in when I snored. I was … I needed to move all our stuff out of the … where she was …’
‘Not with Violet, then?’ presses Destiny.
Nick waits, intrigued.
‘Because as I came downstairs, I thought I saw you leaving Laburnum. Violet’s room. And it’s the oddest thing, but I saw Violet peering out, too, and she was only wearing her robe. And then she kissed you.’
‘He just came to …’ Violet casts a hopeless look at Branson, who is crimson.
‘Why are you lying to us all?’ asks Destiny calmly. ‘It’s obvious.’
‘Lying about what?’ Lorraine’s head jerks up like a meerkat. ‘What does she mean, Vi?’
‘Nothing! She’s just guessing!’
The little group hangs in suspended animation, like an icicle trembling before it snaps and falls.
23
‘It’s not how it looks.’ Violet is employing the greatest affair cliché of all time. She looks intensely rattled. ‘We’re not having an affair, we just get on well.’
Branson turns to her, his expression melancholy. ‘Listen, babe,’ he says. ‘I think we need to tell the truth. It’ll look worse for us if we lie.’
‘Lie about what?’ Violet gabbles. ‘I never met you in my life before—’
‘Vi. Give it up.’
‘I knew it.’ Destiny settles back, a proprietary hand on Gaia’s head.
‘Are you saying you’re a … a couple?’ Alan demands, outrage quivering in his tone.
Nick waits as Branson sinks his head into his hands and lets out a long, broken groan.
‘We’ve been so stupid,’ Branson murmurs. ‘Now you’re all going to think we killed her …’
‘Branson! Why are you doing this?’ Violet’s voice is high and fearful; she’s almost keening with distress. ‘Nick, don’t listen, he’s not in his right mind, he—’
‘Yeah, I am.’ Branson sits up. ‘I can’t do it any more. Since Penny died, I’ve realised – I was just a stupid, ageing, easily flattered guy.’ He turns to Violet. ‘I’m sorry, babe. I can’t keep lying. I’m done.’
Blindly, Violet pushes back her chair and runs from the room. In the ensuing silence they hear her footsteps racing upstairs, accompanied by harsh sobs. Lorraine calls, ‘Vi! Come back!’ But there is only the distant sound of a slamming door.
Branson releases a long breath and lights a cigarette, ignoring the tutting and flapping from the women. ‘First of all,’ he says, ‘neither of us killed Penny. I need to make that clear.’
Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?
Out loud, Nick simply says, ‘I’m listening.’
‘Violet met Penny through work,’ Branson begins, his voice shaking. ‘Penny had been at Inkwell Publishing for years, and when Violet joined the publicity department, they worked together a little. They got on, despite the age gap, and Penny invited her to a few dinner parties – she and her ex did a lot of entertaining. When Penny met me and moved to California, they stayed in touch, and the summer before last, Violet said she was doing a US road trip with a friend and could she come visit us?’ Branson pauses.
‘I can see all too well where this is going,’ mutters Alan, and Lorraine nods.
