Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

I saw the field ahead. There was a large gate set into the wire fence surrounding it, but mercifully it was open. I could see Ruth Bryson’s caravan. There was a light on inside. There was also a new-looking Volvo estate, the car that the security guard had described to me, parked outside. I took these as good signs as I screeched to a stop, jumped out of the car and rushed to the caravan’s door.

I didn’t bother knocking, just wrenched at the handle.

The door had been locked shut. I banged on it and there was no response. I popped the boot of Kate’s car and got out the tyre jack. It was slippery in my hands but I managed to pry it between the door and the metal. It was an old caravan and it didn’t take me long to force the door open, ruining the lock. A little job for a maintenance man but I was far from worrying about that. I climbed into the caravan.

A very elderly woman was lying on the floor but Kate wasn’t with her. I threw open the door that led to a small bedroom and she wasn’t there either.

The woman was breathing heavily and trying to say something.

‘What is it, Ruth?’

But she couldn’t manage to articulate what it was that she wanted to say. She lifted an arthritic hand and pointed a gnarled finger, its joints painfully prominent, and pointed towards the back window. Then her arm dropped and her eyes closed as if she was exhausted by the effort. She probably was.

I could hear an ambulance siren approaching, very near now. I would have lifted the old woman onto the couch at the end of the caravan but I knew that could be the wrong thing to do.

‘The ambulance is here now, Ruth. They’ll take care of you.’

She sighed a wet sigh, small bubbles forming at the corners of her mouth. But there was a word in that sigh that I could just about hear. ‘Kate,’ she whispered.

I drew back the curtains and looked towards where she was pointing. There was a small cabin or large shed directly behind the caravan.

I went back out into the rain as an ambulance drove into the field. I picked up the tyre lever — slick with mud and rain now — from the ground where I had dropped it and walked around the caravan and up to the cabin.

It was a sturdily built wooden structure, locked and harder to get into than the old caravan had been. But finally I managed to wedge the tyre lever in and, using all my weight, finally got the door open.

I stepped inside, glad at least to be out of the driving rain. There was a light switch just inside the door and I flicked it on. No one was inside the cabin. Somebody had been, or was, living there, though. There was a single bed against one wall and a sink in the corner. Obviously the cabin was connected to the mains water. There was a neat table, with some paperwork on it and an old tin box. I looked at the photographs that it contained, old ones. If I’d had to guess I would have said they were from the early 1940s, before David Webb had been killed. I knew that because he was in one of the photographs, and I knew that because his name was written beneath his picture, as were the names of other people in the shot. Names that I recognised.

They were standing on what was now the third tee at Sheringham golf course. Behind them was a large tract of open land. Nowadays there was a big block of apartments there that had coastal views. The fact that the men in the picture were all smiling at the camera and were not in any way dressed for golf made me think that the photo had some significance.

There were a couple more photos of David Webb, one of him with his arm around a much younger woman.

There was a letter in the box as well. I took it out and started to read it.

A minute later I put down the letter and was startled out of my thoughts.

‘Excuse me.’

I spun round. There was a paramedic standing in the doorway.

‘Are you related to the lady?’

‘No,’ I said, putting the letter and photographs back into the box.

‘I need to take some details from you, sir.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t got time.’

I pushed past him and hurried back to the car, carrying the box with me.

‘Sir!’

But I ignored him.

I knew most of it now. Knew what connected all the killings.

But I still didn’t know where Kate was.

I drove out of the field, racing to get away from the paramedic who by now was banging on the car window. I headed back up the beach road and round the corner before parking at The Ship public house. I pulled out my phone and tapped in a number.

‘Helen Middleton speaking.’

‘Helen, it’s Jack Delaney,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level even though my heart was pounding in my chest.

‘Nice to hear from you, inspector. Is there anything wrong?’

Everything was wrong. ‘No, I’m just following up on some things that have come to light.’

‘To do with David’s murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, of course — if there’s anything I can tell you. .’

‘When I was at the cemetery the other day I noticed there were fresh flowers by his memorial plaque. Did you place them there?’

‘No, it wasn’t me, inspector. I’ve not been feeling at my best. I haven’t been out of the house since my return. I have arranged for a proper burial, though, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

I looked at the photograph of the men on the golf course. There was one name I didn’t recognise. ‘I have an old photograph here taken on Sheringham golf course in 1938. There are four men in the picture. Your brother David Webb, Jeremy Walker, Reverend Holdsworth and a fourth man called Patrick Preston.’

‘Yes.’

‘I haven’t come across the name Preston, but every other one I have.’

‘Oh, the Prestons were a very influential family around here. Patrick Preston had a building development company with Martin Wright and Jeremy Walker. Poppyland Developments. I don’t think the company exists any more but they certainly did a lot of building round here back then.’

‘And was your brother involved?’

‘He was for a time, but he sold his shares back to the company — not long before he died, apparently.’

‘And did he make a lot of money on the sale?’

‘Goodness me, no. There was a war on you know. And, to be honest, we were losing it at that time. I think that all he got back was his modest investment.’

‘And what happened to the Prestons?’

‘Oh, some of them are still around. In fact, you know one of them quite well, inspector.’

Kate Walker wriggled and squirmed.

Her hands were tied behind her back and her legs were bound at the ankles. She’d had a rag tied cruelly between her teeth and knotted tightly at the back of her neck, forcing her lips apart. Giving her a macabre rictus grin.

But her wriggling was in vain. There was no way she was going to get loose. Her eyes hadn’t been covered, at least, but that was not much use to her. She was in some kind of hut and there was no light. She had tried shouting for help but the gag had made it impossible for her to make any noise above a low whimper. The wind was howling outside now.

Kate couldn’t believe who had taken her and she couldn’t believe what was happening, although it all too clearly was. The irony was not lost on her. She had been attacked in London before. Because of Jack’s job. She had survived through her own actions but now she was powerless. She had persuaded Jack to move up to Norfolk so that they could all be safe. And now here she was, waiting to be murdered like the others before her. And she had no idea why. She tried kicking out with her legs again but it was no use. She lay still for a while, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.