Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

“You’ll go far,” grunted the Chief, “or you’ll go insane. There’s only so many details of a case that a policeman should memorise, you know? Particularly if it’s not their case.”

“It’s an old habit from when I was a boy. I loved mysteries. Probably even quite a bit obsessed by them.”

“Well, you better not admit to your colleagues that you have obsessions; they’ll get the wrong idea entirely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, back to business. The Tin House case is unsolved. Lord Kirkwood never turned up, either dead or alive. Seeing as six months have gone by since he vanished, I’m putting the case into deepfreeze. When there’s a legal presumption of death, Kirkwood’s nephew will inherit everything. What I want you to do is take these keys — one will open up the Tin House — I want you to photograph every room. And I mean every room, no matter how small.”

Newton frowned. “Surely we’ve a detailed photographic record of the house already?”

“We have — from six months ago, but it’s a requirement of the police authority’s insurance company that we photograph houses, cars, livestock, every blessed thing that we hand back to owners, just in case the owner decides we’ve damaged their property in some way and hits us with a compensation claim: believe me, it happens. Once you’ve done that, give the keys to Kirkwood’s nephew. Jeremy Kirkwood is meeting you at the house.”

Newton had a suggestion. “I could show the nephew that the house is in good order. After all, don’t we trust him?”

“No. We do not .” The Chief spoke with feeling. “The Kirkwood family is famous for suing people.” He shot Newton a telling look. “I also learned that the first Lord Kirkwood, back in the eighteenth century, made a fortune from the slave trade.”

“Really?”

“Kirkwood shipped thousands of Africans to the Caribbean where he sold them to plantation owners. With the proceeds, he bought twenty thousand acres of land near the coast and built a mansion.”

As a new detective, Newton was conscious that he should question his own superior, to prove he was listening — that and thinking analytically. “The Kirkwood trade in slaves must have been over two hundred years ago. That can’t be relevant to a man going missing six months ago, surely?”

“Can you immediately assess what is relevant to a case?”

“It’s ancient history.”

“Ancient history or not, the Kirkwood family are, at this present time, still living on proceeds earned from selling slaves. All that capital generated from kidnapping African men, women, and babies was invested here in Britain. The man you will meet …” He glanced at his watch. “… forty minutes from now enjoys a luxurious life style as a result of one of the most barbaric commercial enterprises in the history of the human race. Okay, detective … time you went to the Tin House.”

The drive from town to the coast took thirty minutes. Newton went alone. He remembered the route from childhood when his family spent two weeks here every August. The only thing markedly different from back then was the weather. Today, fine snowflakes tumbled from a November sky, and even though it was only mid-afternoon, he drove with the headlights burning into a gloomy landscape.

As a child, Newton had loved his time at the coast; in his imagination, the vast sandy beaches became transformed into mysterious deserts that contained secret castles and hidden treasure. The real mystery occurred there when he was ten years old; his mother asked him to bring her glasses from a drawer. That’s where he discovered a letter from his mother’s sister. The letter clearly revealed that they’d had a major falling out, and the letter closed with a stark PS in capital letters: SO YOU’RE FINALLY GOING TO LEAVE YOUR MARK ON THE WORLD. He interpreted YOUR MARK as referring to him. The comment was clearly designed to hurt his mother. Though he loved solving mysteries, the ten-year-old Mark Newton decided not to delve into this particular one. He had a lurking sense of dread that some family disaster would happen if he ever discovered the truth behind that letter’s bitter postscript.

Satnav efficiently directed him to the Tin House. The building stood on a narrow coastal road with its back to the beach and the sea. There were no other houses within half a mile — so the neighbour who discovered that Lord Kirkwood had vanished, leaving a still warm bowl of soup, must have happened by due to sheer good chance. With no sign of the Lord’s nephew, Newton decided to start work immediately and photograph the building’s interior as his superior had ordered. Photographs would prove that while under the protection of the police, the property hadn’t been burgled or vandalised, so no claims could be lodged by the next of kin.

After parking at the side of the road, which seemed to be one of those quiet, backwater ones, he headed up the drive. A plaque above the front door announced: THE TIN HOUSE.

“And, yes,” he murmured, “the house is actually made of tin.”

The two-story house had been clad in corrugated tin sheets, which were green in colour. They even covered the roof. At some point after Kirkwood’s disappearance, the windows had been covered with mesh security screens. From the outside, anyway, the house looked in a perfectly good state.

As he tapped his knuckles on a tin wall, he imagined what the din would be like inside during a fierce hailstorm. Meanwhile, he breathed deeply, enjoying the tang of salt air. From the distance came the forceful hiss of surf. He pictured himself on that very beach twenty years ago: an adventurous child with senses tuned for the next mystery that came his way.

“Hey you … get out of there; it’s private property.”

Newton saw a man striding through the drive gates. Aged about forty, he wore a bulky jacket in brown leather; he also wore an expression several degrees nearer anger than irritation.

“Mr. Kirkwood?” he asked pleasantly.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Newton. You are Mr. Jeremy Kirkwood?”

“Of course I am. Who else would be hanging around this Godforsaken hole?”

“I’m here to photograph the house; then I’ll give you back the keys.”

“Photograph the house? Whatever for?”

Newton explained that taking photographs before handing over keys to next-of-kin was standard procedure.

“Police rules and regulations, eh?” snorted Kirkwood. “You’d think taxpayers’ cash would be better spent on catching murderers.”

Newton’s professionalism dictated that he would neither like nor dislike the man, although he suspected Kirkwood’s face probably always wore an expression of bad temper. This gentleman had been born with angry bones. For some reason, Kirkwood didn’t approach Newton, and he remained near the driveway gates, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

The man shot him a sour look. “So this it, you’re closing the case on my uncle?”

“Lord Kirkwood is still listed as missing.”

“But scaling things back, eh? Taking things easy on the investigation?”

The Chief had told Newton that the case would be going in the deepfreeze, seeing as investigations had reached a dead end; however, the case wouldn’t be officially closed. After Newton politely stated that the investigation would continue, he pulled the keys from his pocket and nodded in the direction of the front door.

“I’ll take the photographs,” Newton told him. “You might want to check inside for yourself.”

“No, thank you.” Jeremy Kirkwood spoke primly. “I’m staying out here.”

“It’s starting to snow again.”