The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1) Page 14

  Mack came out of the main entrance, turned left and followed the path down to Bedwin Street.

  She was at the junction when she saw Atticus.

  She stopped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you’d be working late.”

  “And?”

  “I came to say hello.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “I meant what I said earlier,” he said. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Can’t we have a drink to catch up?”

  “And I meant what I said,” Mack replied. “No. Absolutely not. Bad idea.”

  Mack saw Atticus’s expression change as he looked over her shoulder, back towards the building. She turned to see Lennox making his way towards the road. He slowed his pace as he recognised Atticus, his eyebrow kinking up in surprise.

  “All right, boss?” Lennox said to Mack.

  Mack sighed, exasperated; the last thing she wanted was to be seen with Atticus. “I’m fine.”

  Lennox stayed where he was, eyeballing Atticus.

  “Get off home, Tristan,” she said.

  Lennox leered at Atticus. “Still doing the weed?”

  “Just at the weekends.”

  “Go home,” Mack said to Lennox. “I’m fine.”

  Lennox said goodnight to her and continued on his way. Mack turned back to Atticus. “All you do is cause trouble. What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Ralph Mallender.”

  “So make an appointment.”

  “You really want me to come into the nick?”

  “I can’t stop you.”

  “Can’t we just have a private chat?”

  “No.”

  “You know how stubborn I’ll be about it. I can be annoying when I put my mind to it.”

  “That’s probably the most truthful thing you’ve said all day.”

  “Come on. One drink. Just business—I promise.”

  There was no point in fighting with him. She knew very well that he meant what he said: he would be back here again tomorrow, and he would return until she gave in. He could be relentless.

  “Fine,” she said. “One drink.”

  37

  The Royal George was a whitewashed building that had its name painted in large blue text on both the front and side elevations. It was close enough to the station to serve as the local for the officers who worked there. It was well known for live music, and it had thriving pool and darts teams. Atticus opened the door and held it for Mack as she went inside.

  There was a low-ceilinged bar area covered with traditional horse brasses and laid out with tables and chairs. There was a dartboard on the wall, and two TVs were tuned to the replay of the Manchester United match on Sky. There was a restaurant area at the rear of the bar with a dozen tables, together with a separate pool room at the back of the pub. The bar was quiet, save for four regulars, who were watching the football.

  Mack was relieved to see that there was no one in from the station tonight. She had wondered whether it might have been more sensible to go somewhere a little farther afield; the last thing she wanted to do was to have to face knowing looks from the others when she reported to work tomorrow. The more talk there was, the better the chance that Andy would find out who it was that she had been seeing.

  “The usual?”

  She nodded and watched as Atticus went to order the drinks. There was no denying that he was an attractive man. She noticed that he had changed his hair since the last time she had seen him. He had previously worn it in a wavy crewcut but had opted, instead, to grow it out so that it was down past his collar. His face was long and aquiline, his blue eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his cheekbones were fashionably gaunt. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet, and he had a certain sartorial style that was all his own. Today, for example, he was wearing the black leather bomber jacket with a shearling collar that he had bought from the vintage shop on Fisherton Street, matching it with a pair of skinny black jeans, biker boots and a faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

  There was no point in pretending that she didn’t find him attractive, because she did. Physically and, especially, mentally. She reminded herself that there was no point in pursuing that line of thinking to its ultimate destination. She had tried that before, and it hadn’t ended well.

  He brought the drinks to the table, placed them down and took the other seat. He took off his jacket—revealing the sleeve of tattoos that ran down his both arms from shoulder to wrist—and held up his glass. “Cheers.”

  She touched her glass to his.

  “Good to see you, Mack.”

  “Hmm,” she replied.

  “We haven’t spoken for ages, have we? I mean, not really.”

  “That was what we agreed.”

  “Come on,” he protested. “You’re not still worried about that?”

  “I don’t think things have changed, Atticus.”

  “But you’re still here,” he said with a smile.

  “Because you wanted to talk about Mallender. And because you’re stubborn enough to bother me if I didn’t.”

  She didn’t mean to sound hostile, and leavened the suggestion with her first smile. She regretted it at once: Atticus saw it, took it as an invitation, and immediately moved the conversation onto more personal territory.

  “How’s Andy?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, no, no. We’re not talking about him.”

  “Domestic bliss?” he said.

  “I said no,” she said firmly.

  “The kids?”

  “Atticus,” she said sternly, “I’ll talk to you about the case. I won’t talk to you about my personal life. If that’s going to be too difficult for you, I can go right now.”

  He looked chastened. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right—just business, nothing personal. Understood.”

  He had never been good with emotions, either his own or those of others. Mack knew that it was not his fault, that it was a symptom of the very mild Asperger’s that he usually kept under control with medication. As far as she knew, he had only ever confided his diagnosis to her; none of the others at the station knew anything about it and attributed his diffidence and lack of social skills to rudeness. He could probably have made his professional life a little easier by confiding in the others, but he had insisted to her that the disorder was mild and that he would much rather keep it to himself. She would never have dreamed of abusing his trust and had not breathed a word of it to anyone, not even to her husband.

  She sipped her drink and watched him over the rim of the glass. “So?”

  “I spent the day looking through the files for the Mallender case.”

  “You’re serious about that?” she said. “You’ve really taken that on?”

  “I told Mrs. Mallender that it was probably going to be a waste of time, but she insisted. And if she’s determined to pay me, why should I say no?”

  “Because her husband is guilty?”

  “Maybe,” Atticus said. “But I don’t blame her for wanting to kick the tyres a bit. I’ve got a list of questions that need to be answered.”

  She exhaled wearily. “This is going to be so much fun.”

  He grinned at her, lifted up his half-empty glass and downed the rest of it. “Another?”

  “I said just one,” she said.

  “Understood,” he said, taking his glass back to the bar.

  She took out her phone, expecting to see a message from Andy asking when she would be home. There was none; he knew that she would be late, and was being reasonable about it all. That made her feel even worse about being here. She was taking advantage of his good nature.

  Atticus returned to the table with two drinks. He set hers down without a word, but a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. She exhaled and then barely managed to stifle a laugh. He was impossible.

  He held up his pint and, knowin
g that she was indulging him, she accepted the drink and touched it against his. She sipped the lager. “So, what is it you really want?”

  He put the glass down on the table and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I have some questions for you.”

  “I can’t say anything. You know I can’t. The trial has started. Jesus, if Beckton knew that you were working for the other side and that I was here having a drink with you, he’d string me up.”

  “I won’t tell him if you won’t,” Atticus said. “Look, I know you won’t be indiscreet, and I’m not asking you to be. I just wanted to get a sense of what you thought of the case. I’ve been through the papers, like I said. There are inconsistencies that I’m going to have to tease out. I’m just interested in what you made of him.”

  “Who?” she said. “Ralph?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Tonight, actually. I’ve come from the prison.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s not the most sympathetic character I’ve ever met.”

  “We can agree on that, at least.”

  “I wanted to know what you thought about him. You were at the farmhouse that night.”

  She nodded. “You’ve read my evidence.”

  “Yes. You didn’t think he had done it, did you? Not at first.”

  She rubbed her forehead, wondering whether this was a line of conversation that she ought to be encouraging. “You know I didn’t.”

  “I trust your judgement, Mack. I can read people, but you have intuition that I don’t.”

  She knew that he was flattering her, but, as usual, she rather enjoyed it. Atticus was sparing in his praise, and when he blessed someone with a compliment, it was something to be savoured.

  “No,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I didn’t think it was him. He was in pieces when I got there. Exactly like you’d expect him to be.”

  “And the others thought the same thing?”

  “We all did. Ralph told us that Cameron was struggling at university, and that he had problems with his temper. And that was all true. You take that about Cameron, add the way Ralph reacted with us, and then add the way the crime scene looked that night… It was difficult to come to any other conclusion.”

  “I’m not criticising,” he said.

  “That’s encouraging,” she said, knowing that that was precisely what he was about to do.

  “But it just seems that the investigation switched to Ralph too easily, and then, once it had, it focused on him so much that every other possibility was ignored.”

  “We looked at everything objectively.”

  “Why did you flip from Cameron to Ralph? The family?”

  She nodded. “They were smart about it. Getting the press on their side early, getting into the papers and then onto the TV. Beckton was getting it in the neck, and you know what that means—shit runs downhill as far as he’s concerned. He made me go over it again. And when we did, I started to see it in a different light. The gun was too far away from Cameron’s body for him to have shot himself, for a start. There was a way to get out of the house while it was locked. And the more we looked at Ralph, the more we saw that he had the motive to kill them all, the opportunity to do it and the means. Read the file, Atticus. Look at what the cleaner said. Look at the arguments that the family had been having for months about Allegra and everything else. Ralph discovered the bodies. He had the best opportunity to kill them all. He knew about the coal hole. You know the statistics as well as I do. The suspect with the most obvious motive is almost always the one who ends up being found guilty. And, in this case, it’s him. He did it.”

  “Maybe,” Atticus said. He finished the rest of the second pint and put the glass back down on the table. “And maybe not.”

  “You’re not an independent judge,” she said. “You can milk the Mallenders out of a lot of money if you give her hope.”

  “Come on,” he protested. “That’s unfair.”

  She leaned back in her chair and nodded. “I’m sorry. Low blow. It’s been a long day, and, honestly, I’m not looking forward to having to tussle with you over this.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Atticus said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. All I promised her was that I’d look into it. There are some inconsistencies that I need to check out, but, between you and me, I think you’re probably right. He does look guilty.” He stood and collected their glasses. “One for the road?”

  She stood, too. “I can’t. I shouldn’t really have even had one, and definitely not two. Andy is expecting me. I’m already late.”

  To her surprise, Atticus conceded defeat. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For being frank with me.”

  She shrugged herself into her jacket and picked up her bag. “It’s good to see you again.”

  He smiled, as if surprised that she would say that. “Likewise. Fancy doing it again?”

  She sighed. Atticus was fearsomely intelligent, but so naïve with it. He could deduce things about people from the slightest piece of evidence, but he was a wide-eyed innocent when it came to personal relationships. That artlessness was one of the things that she liked most about him.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  He nodded, put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. She let him, reminding herself of the musky scent of his skin.

  “See you in court,” she said.

  38

  Bandit woke Atticus up the next morning. He had wriggled up the bed and had pressed his wet muzzle into the space between Atticus’s chin and shoulder. Atticus reached for his watch and held it in front of his face, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  “It’s six o’ clock,” he groaned.

  Bandit licked Atticus’s face.

  “All right, all right. You want a walk. Fine—come on, then.”

  He rolled off the mattress, dressed in clean clothes and pulled on his boots. Bandit trotted into the other room and returned with his lead in his mouth. Atticus clipped it to the dog’s collar. He swallowed his pills and led the way down the stairs.

  It was fresh and cold outside, the dawn just breaking around the vaulting spire of the cathedral. He followed his usual route, through the Close, crossing the river by the Harnham Bridge and then back along the town path. Bandit trotted happily alongside him, darting ahead and then waiting for him to catch up.

  Atticus took the opportunity to consider the case and what he was going to do today. Hugo and Juliet Mallender’s surviving family members were due to go into the box. The prosecution was coming to the end of its evidence, building towards the testimony of Freddie Lamza on Friday or early next week. Atticus knew that would be the defining moment of the trial. If Lamza was credible, Ralph was in trouble. If he wasn’t credible, or if Atticus could find something with which they could discredit him, perhaps there was a chance.

  Atticus was walking back through Queen Elizabeth Gardens when he felt his phone buzz. He whistled for Bandit to stop while he reached into his pocket and unlocked the phone. He saw that he had a Facebook message. A man named George had responded to one of the messages that Atticus had sent following his trawl of Cassandra Mallender’s social media posts the previous afternoon.

  He sat down on a bench and read it. George said that he had been following the case and that his memory of Cassandra was very different than the picture that had been painted in the newspapers. He said that he would be happy to talk about it. Atticus messaged him back and asked when would be a good time. George replied, proposing a café in the centre of Bath and saying that he would be there after he finished work at three that afternoon.

  Atticus said that he would see him then.

  Atticus took Bandit back to the office and arranged for Jacob to look after him again. He slid his laptop and a notebook into his rucksack and set off on the walk to court.

  39

  Mack had a meeting with Gordon Abernathy first
thing and had to ask Andy to get the kids ready and off to school again. There was an atmosphere in the house. Last night hadn’t gone well. Andy had been annoyed that she had been late again, and she had felt guilty about seeing Atticus and it made her feel defensive. He had told her that he had kept her dinner warm; she had told him he was behaving like a martyr; he had retorted that she was behaving as if she didn’t want to spend time with her family and had gone upstairs to bed.

  She blamed herself this morning. She had been taking advantage of him, and she really ought to do something to remind him of how grateful she was for the flexibility that he allowed her. She didn’t tell him that she was thankful nearly enough, and, as she drove away from the house and set off for court, she promised herself that she would make more of an effort. They hadn’t been out on a date night for months. She would arrange for a babysitter and take him out for something to eat and then a film at the Odeon. He had mentioned that there was a new Terrence Malick film that he would like to see. It would do them good to have some time alone together, away from the kids and the pressure of her work. She couldn’t do it yet—the trial made a social life impossible—but she would sort it out as soon as it was done and Mallender had been put away.

  Mack took her usual place behind Abernathy and glanced around the court. Atticus wasn’t there. She started to wonder where he was—or, more to the point, what mischief he might be causing—when the doors opened and he came inside. He made his way into the gallery, said something to Allegra, and continued up to the back where, with copious apologies, he edged along the line towards the only two empty spaces. He sat down, exhaled, and, as he noticed she was looking in his direction, smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

  Mack returned the smile and then quickly turned her face away. She shouldn’t have gone out with him last night. She had promised Andy that she would have nothing to do with him, and going back on her word—and not telling him about it—felt like a betrayal, even though nothing had happened.