Mo Hayder - Hanging Hill

She went back past him to the hall and tried the door of the study. ‘No one been in here?’

‘Eh? I dunno. I hope not.’

‘I can’t tell. It’s locked.’

‘No. It’s just stiff. Give it a boot.’

She blinked at him, then let out a laugh. A slow, huffing laugh of disbelief.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. The door had been open all the time – she could have walked straight in this afternoon and not gone to all this trouble. ‘Believe me. It’s nothing.’

She put a shoulder against the door, turned the handle three hundred and sixty degrees, and hefted all her weight into it. The door gave a clunk, then swung open. Everything was there – the banker’s lamp on the desk, the leather armchair and footstool. The files. ‘You just about got away with that one. No casualties in there – or nothing serious.’ She came out and drew the door towards her, leaving it slightly ajar. ‘Tell you what – are you sure you want that coffee? You look like you should just lie down. I’ll do the rest. You helped me earlier.’

Jason nodded numbly. He let her lead him into the living room and settle him on the sofa. She found some coats hanging in the cloakroom and piled them on top of him. ‘And if you’re going to be sick, don’t make it any worse for yourself – at least get yourself to the toilet.’

‘I’m not going to be sick . I’m just tired.’

‘Then sleep.’ She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the wall and watched him for a while. The french windows faced east, and before long the room was filled with pink first light. Like someone igniting a bonfire out in the garden. It didn’t disturb Jason. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing low and hard. ‘Suppose you won’t be needing the coffee, then.’ She waited another five minutes to be sure, then, very quietly, moved down the corridor, picking up a couple of beer cans as she went.

The study was the only place people hadn’t been smoking. She propped the door open, so the smell could permeate from the hallway, dropped a couple of the cans on the desk, pushed the armchair to one side and scuffed the rug so it would look as if the bikers had been in there. Then she began to sift through the files. There were whole boxes devoted to Jason’s schooling – he’d gone to St Paul’s and the invoices were eye-watering. She wondered if Julian was still paying Millie’s fees at Kingsmead. Report cards, sports-day cards, uniform lists and details of overseas school trips were all tucked together. Whatever unpleasantness Mooney had inflicted on the women of Priština, he did at least love his son. Or, rather, he had ambitions for him. In other boxes she found details of pension plans, with the MoD and a private company, mortgage papers, rental papers on a property the Mooneys seemed to own in Salamanca. There were medical reports and details of a legal case relating to a car accident Mrs Mooney had had in 2005. His bank statements were there. Zoë took them to the armchair and sat down with them, began to sift through them.

Over the impossibly expensive tiles of the next-door roof the sky was brightening by the minute, one or two clouds, still with their grey night pelts on them, hanging above the chimney pots. As she worked it grew lighter and lighter, until the sun found its way into the gap between the houses, and crept through the leaded window into the study. She searched the accounts for almost an hour and found nothing. Her heart was sinking. After all this, the answer wasn’t here. Zhang and Watling had been right: if Mooney had paid someone to drop Goldrab, he’d brushed the ground clean behind him with his tail. She rested her chin in her hands and stared blankly at the photos on the wall. Pictures of Mr and Mrs Mooney holding hands in front of the Taj Mahal. One of Mooney shaking hands with someone she thought was high up in the US government – Alan Greenspan or someone. Krugerrands, she wondered. Who the hell in the West Country would take Krugerrands and know what to do with them? You’d have to go to one of those bloody horrible streets in Bristol or Birmingham. Going round those with a warrant card in her hand would be a nightmare. Impossible-

Something in one of the photos struck her. She pushed the chair back and went to the picture. It showed Dominic Mooney, wearing a standard Barbour and green Hunters. A Holland and Holland shotgun, the breech cracked open, dangled from one hand. He was smiling into the camera. Behind him a snatch of horizon was visible, a distinctive shape black against the blue of the sky. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill. And in his hand, which was lifted to the camera, a brace of pheasants.

The gamekeeper. She pushed aside the file. The fucking gamekeeper. Jake had said someone was raising pheasants for Goldrab. Mooney had been shooting at Lightpil House and had to have spoken to the gamekeeper. She put the file away, shoved the photo into her jacket and buttoned it up. Jesus Jesus Jesus . Everyone knew what gamekeepers were like – mad as fishes. And dangerous. With gun licences and plenty of ways for disappearing bodies. If she was Mooney and wanted something done to Goldrab, the gamekeeper would be the first place she’d start.

She went into the living room. Jason was still asleep. She leaned over, put her head close to his face and listened to his breathing. Low and steady. He wasn’t that pissed. Not die-in-a-ditch pissed. He’d live. She crouched and hoisted him further on to the sofa so he wouldn’t roll off in his sleep. ‘Night, dude,’ she murmured. ‘And Godspeed to Mars. You’re going to need that rocket when Mum and Dad get home.’

Sally didn’t go to bed. She snoozed for an hour or so on the sofa in the living room, but woke, her heart thumping, thinking about that cottage. The snaking path that led down to the bottom garden. She showered and dressed. Steve must have listened to her and gone on to that dinner meeting, because he hadn’t called. And she was determined not to call him. There was a sweater of his he’d left lying around and she pulled it on, stopping for a moment to sniff the sleeve. Then she went into the kitchen and began to get breakfast ready. Millie appeared in the doorway, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

‘Hi.’ Sally stood at the sink, feeling as stiff as a wooden doll. Sore-eyed. ‘Did you sleep OK?’

‘Yeah.’ Millie went to the fridge and poured a glass of juice. She sipped it for a while, then paused and glanced at her mother. ‘Oh, no – you’re looking at me funny again. Like you were last night.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. What the hell’s going on?’

Sally filled the cafetière and placed it on the table. Then she was still for a moment or two, contemplating Millie. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Remember that day last week when you came to work with me?’

‘Yeah.’ Millie used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. ‘The medallion man? I remember. Why?’

‘What did you do while I was in the house? Where did you go?’

She frowned. ‘Nothing. I wandered around. Walked to the bottom of the garden. There’s a stream there, but it was too cold to paddle. I sat in a tree for a bit. Read on the lawn. Then Jake turned up.’

‘Did you speak to anyone?’

‘Only the freak.’

‘The freak?’ she said steadily.

‘You know – the gamekeeper. He lives in that cottage.’

Sally’s head seemed to lock in place on her neck. ‘Gamekeeper?’

‘Yeah. The one with the baby pheasants. Why? What’re you giving me that look for?’

‘I’m not. I’m just interested. I’ve never met him.’

‘Well, you see him in town sometimes.’ She put a finger to her temple and circled it. ‘You know, few sandwiches short of a picnic.’