Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

Our worst fault seemed to be that we weren’t frightened enough. With MacKenzie on the loose, we should have demanded round-the-clock police protection or seclusion in a safe house, but neither of us did. Jess refused to leave the farm because she couldn’t rely on Harry and the girls to run it alone, and with search teams scouring the valley, I effectively had police protection anyway.

IT WAS an odd few days. Although Jess and I were never arrested or charged with anything, we were both treated like suspects in a murder investigation. I was asked several times if I wanted a solicitor present, but I always refused on the basis that I had nothing to hide. I believe Jess did the same. The silver lining was that the press was held at bay while every nook and cranny of Winterbourne Valley was painstakingly examined, and the police withheld our names-including Peter’s and my parents’-after Jess and I invoked our right to anonymity because of the nature of the crimes against us.

I was allowed to see my mother briefly in Dorset County Hospital before she was transferred back to London to be near my father, and I was able to speak to Dad on the phone. Because of his jaw, I did most of the talking, but he gave a couple of grunting laughs and seemed pleased when I suggested he and Mum come to stay as soon as the brouhaha died down. He managed a few sentences that I understood. “Did we win? Are the demons dead?”

“Dead and buried,” I said.

“Good.”

Perhaps it was a mercy no one overheard that little exchange, because it would certainly have been misinterpreted. As would my conversation with Jess when the police finally ackowledged we’d had no hand in MacKenzie’s disappearance. We were warned to expect further questioning if and when MacKenzie was taken into custody, but in reality it was a green light to pursue our lives as normal.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Jess since the early hours of Sunday morning. There was no official ban on our communicating with each other, but, with the continuous police presence in Barton House, neither of us felt inclined to do it. The telephone line was repaired almost immediately, more for police convenience than mine, but I was given permission to operate my laptop in the back bedroom when I explained that my boss in Baghdad deserved an explanation before MacKenzie’s name appeared on the newswires.

For three days, the back bedroom and the kitchen were the only areas I was allowed to use. Even the bathroom was sealed off for forty-eight hours while the U-bend was taken apart for forensic examination. The same happened in the scullery. I asked Bagley what he was expecting to find since both drains had had bleach down them, but he said it was routine. I pointed out that it was routine for me to take regular baths and wash my clothes, and with bad grace he ordered the plumbing to be reinstated on the Monday afternoon.

On Wednesday evening, I watched Jess’s Land Rover nose up the drive less than half an hour after Bagley had taken his leave. I remember wondering how she knew he’d gone, and half-suspected she’d been squatting in her top field with binoculars. The one thing I knew about Jess was that her patience was inexhaustible. It had taken one hundred hours of filming to capture the antics of weasels on a fifteen-minute video loop.

“I hope you understand why all this was necessary, Ms. Burns,” Bagley said as he left, offering me his hand in a gesture of peace.

I shook it briefly. “Not really. Is it a job’s-worth thing? Do policemen get chopped off at the knees if they don’t go through the motions?”

“If that’s how you want to see it.”

“I do,” I assured him. “Peter tells me he’s only been questioned twice…once to give his version…and the second time to confirm or deny what Jess and I said. That doesn’t seem fair when we were all witnesses to the same crime.”

“What happened before Dr. Coleman left isn’t in dispute. It’s how MacKenzie freed himself and vanished into thin air that interests us.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps he used his SAS training.”

“I thought you believed the SAS claim was a lie.”

“I do,” I agreed, “but it doesn’t mean I’m right.”

There was a moment’s silence before he gave an abrupt laugh. “Well, that’s something I never thought I’d hear.”

“What?”

“Ms. Burns admitting she might be wrong.” He eyed me for a moment. “I hope you and Ms. Derbyshire know what you’re doing.”

I felt the familiar flutter round my heart. “In what way?”

“Staying put,” he said with mild surprise. “I’m not sure either of you is strong enough to face MacKenzie again…”

THERE WAS something immensely reassuring about Jess’s scowl as she stomped into the kitchen and put a bulging carrier bag on the table. “I hate that bastard,” she said.

“Which one?”

“Bagley. Do you know what his parting shot was? ‘You’ve been thoroughly obstructive, Ms. Derbyshire’ ”-she screwed her mouth into a Bagley sneer-“ ‘but Dr. Coleman tells me you lack communication skills so I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt.’ Bloody wanker. I told him to get stuffed.”

“Peter?”

“Bagley.” Her eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. “I’m holding Peter on ice. Christ knows what he said to them, but it sure as hell didn’t do us any favours. Bagley seems to think we’re a pair of Amazons. Did he ask you what your sexual orientation is?”

“No.”

“I suppose I have the idiots in the village to thank,” she said without animosity. “He asked me if I thought it was worse for a lesbian to have her clothes taken off by a psychopath. What kind of question’s that?”

“How did you answer?”

“Told him to fuck off.” She started unpacking the bag. “I’ve brought you some food. Have you been eating properly?”

“Mostly sandwiches. The police have been ordering them in by the cartload.”

“Champagne,” she said, producing a bottle of Heidsieck. “I don’t know if it’s any good…also, smoked salmon and quail’s eggs. It’s not the kind of thing I usually have but I thought you’d like it. The rest’s off the farm.” She handed me the bottle. “I reckon you’ve earned a little celebration.”

I couldn’t resist a nervous look over my shoulder towards the drive. What would Bagley make of this? I wondered.

Jess read my mind. “Bertie deserves a toast,” she said, taking some glasses from the cupboard, “ and your parents. I don’t see why we shouldn’t remember them just because Bagley’s got bees in his bonnet. Go on, open it. We’d all be dead but for you.”

That’s not how I saw it. “It was me who put you in danger in the first place,” I reminded her. “If I’d never come here, it would never have happened.”

“Don’t go feeble on me,” she said scornfully. “You might as well blame your father for going back to the flat…or Peter for showing up when he did…or me for leaving the kitchen. You should be on cloud nine.”

“Keep talking like that and I will be,” I said more cheerfully, peeling the wire from the neck of the bottle. “It’s unnerving to have you ply me with drink and compliments, Jess.” I popped the cork and poured froth into one of the glasses. “Are you going to have some?”

She inspected it as if it was devil’s brew. “Why not? I can always walk home.”

“When did you last have champagne?” I asked, wondering how drunk it was going to make her.

“Twelve years ago…on my mother’s birthday.” She clinked her glass against mine. “To Bertie,” she said. “One of the good guys. I buried him in the top field under a little wooden cross with ‘For valour and gallantry’ on it, and that bastard Bagley got his men to dig him up again to see if MacKenzie was underneath. Can you believe that? He said it was normal procedure.”