The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1) Read online

  No more, she told herself.

  That was the last time.

  No more mistakes.

  The usher cleared his throat. “All rise.”

  Mack jotted down her thoughts as Abernathy presented a series of police witnesses. She watched as Yaxley and Edwards, the first officers to reach the farmhouse after Lennox, gave their evidence. The testimony was not particularly controversial, dealing, for the most part, with both men going through the details that they had entered into their notebooks. By the end of their evidence-in-chief, Abernathy had confirmed the summary that Lennox had provided yesterday. Abernathy also worked to mitigate the damage that had been caused by Lennox’s testimony, with both officers confirming that they had not seen or heard anything inside the house that might have suggested that someone was still alive while Mallender was outside with them.

  The defence accepted most of their evidence, with Crow concentrating his cross-examinations on the suggestion that it would have taken only a moment for someone to be inside, and that it was possible that they might have missed what Lennox said he had seen. The officers admitted that it was possible, but reiterated what they had said before: they had not seen anything themselves. Crow did not press the issue and the officers were dismissed.

  The civilian telephone operator who had taken Ralph Mallender’s panicked 999 call came next. The call had been recorded, and the courtroom was rapt for thirty seconds as it was replayed. Mack had heard the call many times before, but hearing it here—with everyone leaning forwards, tension fizzing through the air like electricity—lent it an urgency that had her holding her breath just like everyone else.

  “999. What service do you require?”

  Mallender’s voice came over the speakers. “I need help. My father has been shot.”

  “Slow down, sir. What’s your name?”

  “Ralph Mallender.”

  “And where are you?”

  “Grovely Farmhouse. In Grovely Woods. Near Great Wishford.”

  “Where is your father now?”

  “Inside the kitchen. The door’s locked—I can’t get in. I think he’s been shot.”

  Mack looked up at Mallender; he was staring straight ahead, his face expressionless save for a tic that twitched in his cheek.

  “Is anyone still inside the house?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, the door’s locked.”

  “I understand, sir. There’s a car on its way. They’ll be there as soon as they can.”

  “How long?”

  “No longer than ten minutes.”

  “Please tell them to hurry!”

  The call ended.

  Abernathy said that he had no questions, and Mallender’s brief indicated that there would be no cross-examination from the defence. The operator was dismissed.

  Abernathy stood. “Now might be a good time to adjourn for lunch, my Lord.”

  “Very well,” Somerville said. “We’ll adjourn.”

  40

  There was half a mile between the court and the station, and Atticus covered the distance at a brisk walk. There was a train at nineteen minutes past the hour, and he was keen to be on it so that he could get to Bath in plenty of time for his meeting with Cassandra’s friend. He was sweaty by the time he arrived. He bought a ticket from the machine, fumbled it into the ticket barrier, and hurried across to the correct platform. The doors were just closing as he reached the train; he pushed them apart and squeezed on board. It was busy, and the only space was next to a prim matron, who glanced up at him with disdain as he sat down next to her.

  The journey would take an hour. There was time to do a little extra research. He took out his laptop, tethered it to his phone and opened a fresh Word document. He typed FREDERICK LAMZA across the top, copied it and then pasted it into Google. It was an unusually distinctive name and, thanks to that, Atticus was rewarded with a series of useful hits.

  The first was a report from the Camden New Journal from the summer. He copied and pasted it into a fresh document.

  FREDERICK LAMZA, aged 28, of Sapperton Court, Islington, was found guilty of soliciting prostitution. The incident took place on June 27 at Camden High Road, Westminster. He has been fined £220 and has been ordered to pay a surcharge of £30 to fund victim services and pay costs of £135.

  There was a picture of Lamza looking straight into the lens of a police camera. He glared angrily out of the shot, his lip curled up at one side with unhidden contempt. He looked scruffy, and his hair was long and unkempt.

  A second hit led to a YouTube video. It was a BBC documentary on the sex industry in London, with a focus on male prostitution. Freddie Lamza was noted in the description as one of the interviewees, and Atticus scrubbed through the film until he found him. The interview had been recorded eighteen months ago.

  “I started off with one or two people a night,” he said, “and then more and more.”

  The video was shot from behind Lamza so as not to show his face, but Atticus could see from a comparison with the newspaper photograph that it was the same man, and that he wasn’t being portrayed by an actor. His hair was the same, and he had the same build: slim, with a slender neck that made his head look a little outsized.

  Atticus took notes and allowed an impression of Lamza to form. He was feminine and spoke with a sibilance that Atticus suspected was manufactured; he gesticulated to punctuate his sentences, a theatricality that verged on flouncing. The shot from behind changed to a close-up of Lamza on the phone, speaking with a client.

  “One hundred and fifty pounds is a full service,” he said, “and we can negotiate extras separately.”

  The woman sitting next to Atticus was surreptitiously watching over his shoulder, but she blew her cover with an audible tut as the camera showed a neon sign that promised BONDAGE, SPANKING, HETERO & GAY. Atticus looked over at her and smiled, turning the laptop a quarter in her direction so she had a better look. She shook her head with exaggerated disgust and made a show of reading her magazine.

  Atticus let the video play and continued with his notes.

  41

  Mack took her seat as the afternoon’s testimony began. The first witness was Brenda Grant, the cleaner who, together with her husband, had been present at the gathering on Christmas Eve. Abernathy encouraged her to talk about the atmosphere inside the house and the argument between Ralph Mallender and his father.

  “Mr. Mallender—Ralph—complained that his wife didn’t feel welcomed by the rest of the family. The whole thing just escalated into a shouting match. Hugo said he would write Ralph out of his will unless he agreed to leave her. Ralph picked up a glass bowl that Juliet liked and threw it against the wall before storming out of the house and driving away. I had to clean up the mess.”

  As Mack had expected, she made an excellent witness: she was persuasive and unemotional, sticking to the facts and avoiding the kind of speculation that might have appeared prurient.

  Abernathy thanked her and sat down.

  “Mrs. Grant,” Crow said, “had you ever seen this kind of incident before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Had anyone told you that there was a problem in the family?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” Crow said as he looked knowingly over at the jury. “I have no further questions for you.”

  She was dismissed.

  Hugo Mallender’s surviving family members came next: his brother, Colin, together with his son and daughter, Ralph’s cousins.

  Colin gave evidence that he had received a telephone call from his brother in the early evening of Christmas Eve, and that he had been fine. There was no suggestion of a problem at home, although Hugo had made reference to the argument that had taken place that afternoon with Ralph. Colin went on to say that, in his opinion, Ralph had always seemed to be aloof from the rest of the family. He said he was a ‘cold fish’ with whom he had never felt very close, and noted that Hugo had told him on more than one occasion that he felt that Ralph was dri
fting. Colin said that Hugo had told him that Ralph seemed to have no purpose in life and little in the way of prospects.

  Crow stood up for the cross-examination. He suggested that Colin and the rest of his family had an interest in Ralph being found guilty of the murders, since he would be the next in line to inherit the estate if Ralph forfeited it by reason of his guilt.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Colin said.

  “Is it? Who would stand to inherit your brother’s estate if Mr. Mallender is found guilty?”

  “That’s not relevant,” he blustered.

  “Please—answer the question.”

  “Well, I suppose I would,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Crow was about to sit when Colin spoke again. “Are you saying that I’d lie about this so that I could benefit?”

  “No, sir. I’m just pointing out that you stand to become a very wealthy man if Mr. Mallender is convicted.”

  “I don’t care about the property or the money. I’d give it all up to have my brother back again.” He glowered across the court at Crow. “And I have to say, I find your insinuation absolutely disgusting.”

  Mack gritted her teeth. They had known that Colin had the potential to react badly—he had been the same during the witness preparation—but they had hoped that he would be able to keep his temper. She glanced across the court and saw disapproving expressions on the faces of several of the jurors.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mallender,” Crow said. “I have no further questions.”

  Abernathy rose for the re-examination and attempted to make up for the damage that Colin’s haughtiness had caused. He focused on the loss of his brother and the stress of attending the trial and, after five minutes of gentle cajoling, he decided he had remedied things as much as he could and sat down.

  Colin Mallender was dismissed.

  42

  The train was delayed en route, but, to Atticus’s relief, George had messaged to suggest they meet at four. The train pulled into Bath Spa at half three. Atticus hopped down to the platform and made his way through the station, beating the crowd of commuters and setting off for the coffee shop that George had suggested. The place was called Colonna & Small’s and was on Chapel Row, a half mile to the north of the station. Atticus had half an hour, so he ambled along, looking around at the city as he passed along its grand streets. He liked Bath. The buildings were impressive, crafted from the same honey-coloured limestone that was so common here. It was an affluent city and the streets were busy with locals and tourists who had come to visit.

  The coffee shop was between an estate agency and a wine shop. It was small, with a stencilled sign in the window that made much of the fact that it used only sustainable beans. It was busy inside, catering to a mixed crowd of hipsters, students and middle-class yummy mummies with expensive pushchairs parked against the wall. Atticus went inside. He had refreshed his memory of the pictures that he had grabbed from George’s Facebook profile and, after standing awkwardly in the door for ten seconds, he saw him sitting at a table at the back of the room.

  He went over to him.

  “Hello.”

  George looked up. “Mr. Priest?”

  “That’s right. And you must be George.”

  “I am.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “A flat white, please.”

  Atticus went to the counter and ordered two coffees. He paid and waited while the barista set to work, looking back across the room to where George was sitting. He was smartly dressed, wearing a woollen cardigan, jeans and a pair of Chelsea boots. He guessed that he was in his early twenties, around the same age as Cassandra had been when she had died.

  “Two coffees for…”

  “Atticus,” he said, shaking his head as the barista struggled to read the name that had been scrawled on the sides of the cups.

  “Atticus,” the barista repeated. “Like in the book?”

  “Just like in the book. Thank you.”

  He took the coffees back to the table, set them down, and pulled out a chair opposite George. He sat down.

  “Thank you,” he said, putting the cup to his lips.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you finding the time to see me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m working on the investigation into Cassandra’s death,” Atticus said.

  “You said. But for who? The police?”

  There was no point in lying. “I’ve been hired by Ralph Mallender.”

  “Her brother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But they said he did it.”

  “He’s been charged,” Atticus said. “The trial is taking place now.”

  “So what does it have to do with you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” He took out a business card and slid it across the table.

  George took it, examined it, and then slipped it into his pocket. “I see,” he said. “I wondered whether you were police when you messaged me. But then I thought police probably don’t use Facebook to get in touch with people.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “But no—I’m not police. They finished their investigation a long time ago. I’m looking at the evidence that they’ve put together against Mr. Mallender to make sure that it all stacks up.”

  “And does it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  George sipped the coffee and then put the mug back down onto the table. “I couldn’t understand why they didn’t speak to me before.”

  “The police didn’t get in touch?”

  “No. Not a word. I know they were here, but… nothing. It was the same with all the old crowd.”

  “Who did they speak to? Do you know?”

  “People at Cassandra’s church. The university, too, and her new flatmates. But not me or any of the others.”

  Atticus took out his phone and opened the voice recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

  He shrugged.

  “So—let’s start at the start. You were friends with Cassandra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close?”

  He nodded.

  “I saw you used to be on her timeline all the time.”

  “The good old days,” he said with a wistful smile.

  “And then you’re not on it at all.”

  “Things change,” he said. “People change.”

  “This was about a year ago?”

  He nodded. “At the start of our second year.”

  “What do you mean by ‘people change’? What happened?”

  “She ghosted me,” he said. “And not just me. She was like that with everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “There was a crowd of us. Six of us had rented a house. It was really good—we all got on, we went out together, hung out all the time. We went home at the end of the year, and then when we all came back”—he snapped his fingers—“she stopped seeing everyone. It was the strangest thing. One day she was part of the crowd, best friends with everyone, popular, going out all the time, all that, and then the next day… nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “I blame the church. You know about that? The church?”

  “I know she was religious,” Atticus said.

  “Didn’t used to be. The complete opposite. It was that summer, after the first year—when she came back in September, she was really into it. Services two or three times a week, volunteering for their charity stuff.”

  “She hadn’t been into it before?”

  “The opposite. She was into Marx—thought the whole thing was a scam, opium of the masses and all that. She was an atheist.”

  “Did you speak to her? Ask her what happened?”

  “Just once. She’d changed her phone, so I had to go and find her. She said she was sorry, but she was unhappy with her old life and she wanted to make a new start. I said that was fine, I was okay with that, but it
didn’t make any difference. She said she was going to concentrate on the church and her studies and that she would rather we didn’t see each other anymore.”

  It was obvious that there was something that George was unhappy about discussing, and Atticus decided that he would need to approach it with tact if he was to persuade him to go into detail.

  “Let me backtrack,” Atticus said. “You said you and Cassandra were friends?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was a hesitation before he answered, and Atticus could see there was more to their relationship than that.

  “George? I’m sorry—I need to ask. Were the two of you seeing each other?”

  “For a bit,” he admitted. “We met in Freshers’ Week. It wasn’t serious.”

  “And then?”

  “And then she dumped me for the guy from home.”

  There was a clipped dismissiveness to the way he said that. Atticus could see at once that his motivation for speaking to him might not be entirely altruistic. George had been spurned, and now Atticus knew that there was a chance that his snubbing might colour anything that he said. He resolved to bear that in mind.

  “I didn’t know that she was seeing anyone at home,” Atticus said.

  George shrugged.

  “Do you know his name?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Can’t remember.”

  “Can you try? It could be helpful.”

  George closed his eyes. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “Why would I have a picture of him? He was awful. No one liked him.”

  “Why?”

  “He was older, for a start.”

  “How old?”

  “Mid-twenties?”

  “And Cassandra was seeing him romantically?”

  George shrugged. “He came up four or five weekends in a row and stayed in her room—so, yeah, they were seeing each other. That was when she started to go off the rails. I mean, we all do, now and again. Right?”