Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

“And her manner?”

Kuiper considered. “Fine. Giggly, even. Said something about giving me a surprise when I came round on Saturday afternoon. She was a bit of a pain, to be honest. Teasing. Said she liked to dangle men on a string, make them do as she wished.”

“Men? Did she have any other boyfriends?”

Kuiper was cocksure. “No way. I promise you that. She just liked to pretend she was irresistible.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Kuiper stared at him insolently. His bravado was returning.

“Really? Well, to be frank, Mr. Devlin, I don’t give a fuck. Now if you don’t mind I’ll be on my way.”

He had chosen his moment well. As he turned away, a group of young men emerged from The Wreckers, shouting drunkenly. A pair of massive bouncers looked out from the doorway, following the gang’s progress. Harry hesitated, realising that if he tried to detain Kuiper, the odds were on a free-for-all as the prospect of a fight attracted young men with fire as well as booze in their bellies.

Kuiper sat astride the saddle of his bike. He had donned helmet and gauntlets and as Harry began to move towards him he gave an ironic wave of the hand before revving loudly and disappearing into the night.

Where was he going? Only one way to find out. Harry broke into a run, heading for his car. One of the gang members jeered after him, yelling some unintelligible obscenity, before the emergence from The Wreckers of two girls in mini-skirts diverted the yob’s attention. Harry took no notice. Within seconds he had reversed out of the car park and was racing down the road in pursuit of the vanished motorbike.

Dusk was beginning to fall. Away from The Wreckers, the New Brighton streets were quiet. Harry had no idea of Kuiper’s destination and when turns and junctions came up, he chose his route as randomly as if competing in a fairground game. For once in his life he won the lucky dip: on taking the long, straight road out of the town he caught sight of a dark figure on a speeding motorbike perhaps two hundred yards ahead. Peter Kuiper.

The gathering gloom gave the drive down Leasowe Road an eerie quality. To the left were houses, roads and streetlights, all the signs of suburban life. To the right was emptiness: market gardens, golf links and common land stretching towards the sand dunes by the shore of the Irish Sea. Harry kept his distance from the motor-cyclist, following him past the lights and turrets of the old Mockbeggar Hall, curving inland with the road away from the ruin of Leasowe’s landlocked lighthouse.

At the roundabout Kuiper took the road to the west of the peninsula. His course was unwavering; it was plain that he had a specific destination in mind. Afraid to lose his quarry, Harry closed in on him a little. They passed fields, shops, houses. Moreton, Meols, Hoylake. And, as he climbed the bridge over the railway which had its terminus at West Kirby, Harry realised where they were going.

Kuiper was returning to Prospect House. As soon as the thought occurred to him, Harry became unshakably convinced that he knew where the journey would end. There was something about the house on the hill which lured the boy, even though he would never see Claire there again. That was why he had turned up on Saturday afternoon. His claim that he had come to see her had sounded like an excuse, although at the time it had seemed the only explanation for his arrival. What had he wanted, what did he intend to do now? Surely a bruising encounter with Jack Stirrup was even less attractive than an evening in the company of the Merseyside Police?

First the motorbike, then the M.G. went by the library which Claire had been supposed to visit on her last day alive. Could there be an unsuspected connection between Kuiper and his girlfriend’s father? Or was that idea absurd?

Harry dropped back. There was no sign that Kuiper knew he had been pursued thus far; to blow the chase now would be folly. The motorbike sped ahead and out of sight. Taking his time as he climbed the hill that led to Prospect House, Harry concentrated on finding a discreet place in which to park.

Fifty yards from Stirrup’s driveway, a path led off the road into a small copse. Harry crawled past and saw the motorbike. It had been dragged off the main road, but with no special effort at concealment. By now it was dark. Harry thought he saw a figure disappearing into the drive. He pulled over on to the grassy verge, locked the car and hurried in pursuit.

At the gateway to Stirrup’s house he hesitated. That was a mistake. Everything was still and silent. No lights shone at any of the windows. The undergrowth of the garden remained thick and forbidding. The place was like a cemetery. What dead secrets might it be hiding? Suddenly Harry felt as cold as if he had stepped under a shower of icy water. He was on his own and didn’t know what he was about to encounter.

For a moment he contemplated retreat. No shame in it. He could contact the police from the town. Leave to them the investigation of whatever was happening in this isolated spot. That would be the cautious, lawyerly thing to do.

Ahead of him something moved. Harry crouched under the spreading branches of an oak. He could sense, rather than see, that someone was making his way stealthily towards the house. It must be Kuiper. Harry inched forward, peering through the night in a vain attempt to sight the student.

Every twig cracking beneath his tread sounded to him like the 1812 Overture . Yet it was better to skirt the drive than risk crunching over the gravel: Kuiper would certainly hear that and choose flight — or, perhaps, violent confrontation. Harry had never considered himself brave. And he did not know if the student had a weapon.

At the bend in the drive, he looked through the trees and at last saw Kuiper’s outline distinctly. The young man was picking his way round the side of the house. The care with which he was moving suggested that he too was absorbed in keeping as quiet as possible: there was no hint that he was conscious of Harry’s presence.

Emboldened, Harry crept after him. The dark silhouette of the stable block loomed up in front of them both. A dozen yards away from it, Kuiper stooped down. He remained bent over something for half a minute. Finally, Harry realised that he was struggling to shift something heavy without making any noise. In a moment of empathy, Harry understood that Peter Kuiper’s tension matched his own.

A low grunt reached Harry’s ears across the night air with remarkable clarity. A grunt partly of satisfaction, mostly of relief. Kuiper straightened for a second or two before bending down again. This time he disappeared from view.

Harry waited for a minute to see what would happen next. Nothing. He approached the place where Kuiper had been. It was on the edge of the clearing in which the stable block stood. Harry remembered the scene in daylight from his previous visit. Even in the dark, he knew at once that something was very different.

A large rock which had looked immovable had been pushed aside. Below there was an opening into blackness. Scarcely daring to breathe, Harry drew nearer. He looked down. So far as he could make out, there were a few rough-hewn steps which led to some subterranean chamber.

Kuiper was beginning to climb back up the steps. He was carrying something in his arms. As his head was just about to reach ground level, Harry coughed. There was a clatter as the student dropped whatever he had been carrying. A white face turned up to look at him.

“Devlin?”

“Evening, Peter. Do you come here often?”

In the moonlight he could see panic spreading over the student’s face and that was answer enough. For a few seconds Kuiper hesitated. The tip of his tongue appeared between lips no longer sneeringly curved. Harry heard the drawing-in of breath before the student lowered his head, and he was ready for the bull-like upward charge.