A Place To Bury Strangers (Atticus Priest Book 2) Read online

  “Please answer the following question with either ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ On the count of murder, do you find the defendant, Allegra Mallender, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  Allegra had no relatives or friends in attendance, but there were gasps from the section of the gallery that had been claimed by the surviving members of the Mallender family. Ralph sat stock-still, his jaw clenched, unmoving.

  “Order in the court,” the judge said in a loud, stern voice.

  “Do you find the defendant, Tristan Lennox, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Are those the verdicts of you all?” the clerk asked.

  The foreman nodded. “Yes.”

  “Very well,” the judge said. “We’ll adjourn for sentencing. Take the defendants down, please.”

  The female guard who was responsible for Allegra Mallender reached down, took her by the arm and helped her to stand. Allegra tottered on unsteady legs and then collapsed back into the chair. Lennox was led down to the cells.

  Atticus looked again for Mack, but there was no sign of her in her usual place behind the solicitor from the CPS. She had been in court every day so far, including all of his evidence. He had told himself it was because she wanted to see him in action, but he knew it was because his testimony was too important to miss.

  The state of their relationship had been at the front of Atticus’s mind throughout. He knew that she and her husband were living apart and that, as far as he knew, there was no suggestion that the trial separation was close to coming to an end. Atticus also knew that he was singularly ill-equipped when it came to how others viewed him, and had—with some difficulty—managed not to bring the matter up when their paths had crossed outside the court. He was self-interested, and he knew that she would see that; far better, he told himself, to let her raise the question of their relationship. It had not been difficult to hold his tongue, but seeing her in the courtroom every day—if only so that he could smile across the benches at her—had been a part of the experience of giving evidence that he had enjoyed.

  There was a scrum of reporters outside the court.

  “Mr. Priest?”

  “Atticus!”

  He could have asked to leave by the rear door and avoid them, but he had found that he quite enjoyed the attention. He had given an interview to the Sun following the arrest of Mallender and Lennox in which he had not demurred when it had been put to him that his investigation had been responsible for freeing an innocent man and for the arrests of the two people who had subsequently been charged for the crime. He was not ashamed to admit that his motive for giving the interview had been financial; he had earned the chance to make a name for himself and, at a time when his practice had been close to bankruptcy, there was significant value in that. The interview had led to other opportunities, including a ten-minute feature on being a detective—lazily backed by the Dire Straits’ track ‘Private Investigations’—that had been broadcast on BBC Newsnight, during which he was his profession’s representative. He had been given a modest advance to write a treatise on the art of deduction, and there was talk of a podcast that might accompany its publication. There had even been talk of a photoshoot with OK magazine. Atticus had mentioned that to Mack, and she had told him that was the most ludicrous thing she had ever heard.

  The crowd bubbled around him.

  “Atticus—what are your thoughts?”

  “The jury made the right decision,” he said.

  “How long do you think they’ll get?”

  “Well, the sentence for murder is life. They won’t be out for a long time.”

  “Would you say your evidence was the deciding factor?”

  “I wouldn’t say that at all. The jury had a lot to consider. I think they did an excellent job.”

  He gave what he hoped was an enigmatic smile, bade the reporters goodbye and made his way through the crush to the pavement beyond. His recent minor celebrity had led to a spate of new business, including the prospective case for which he had arranged an appointment at four o’clock. He didn’t want to be late.

  3

  Atticus needed a walk to clear the cobwebs from his head. He put on his waterproofs, put Bandit in the back of the car and drove him out to Figsbury Ring. The English Heritage site was the remains of an Iron Age hill fort, a large raised circular rampart with a smaller central enclosure. The views across to Salisbury and Old Sarum were spectacular, and the wide-open terrain offered Bandit space to race around at top speed. Atticus watched the dog as he dashed up one side of the rampart and then straight down the other, scampering away into the inner enclosure with boundless enthusiasm.

  He called the dog back after thirty minutes, and they drove back into the city. He parked in his usual spot and reattached Bandit’s lead, and together they strolled back to the office. It was half past three, and he was expecting his potential new client on the hour.

  Things had changed over the course of the last few months. The exposure that had been generated by the court case had been a boon. He had anticipated the interest and had paid Jacob, his upstairs neighbour, to put together an improved website from which he would be able to advertise his services. It had been a wise move. Traffic to the site was plentiful and had included enough enquiries into the possibility of new work that he had been able to pick and choose the jobs he took on and let go. His previous slate of work had been slender and dull, with occasional work to expose cheating spouses and insurance claimants who fabricated injuries to bolster their payouts. That species of work—for the moment, at least—had been put to the side. He had been taken on by a large regional law firm to provide evidence in a civil case brought by a national bank against a local developer who had been accused of bribing planning officials in order to win permission to build on parcels of land that had been bought for peanuts and then sold for fortunes. The developer had lost the case, and now Atticus had been tasked with locating all of his assets so that the bank could seek orders to liquidate it in order to pay the damages that the court had ordered.

  For the first time since he had set up his practice, he had a steady flow of money being paid into his business account. He had used that to clear his outstanding rent and his overdraft, and then had taken some of the rest and redecorated his office. The larger of his two rooms—the one where he met with clients—had been repainted in neutral tones and then refurnished. He had a large sideboard in artfully distressed wood and a leather luggage trunk that he used as a coffee table. There were new pictures on the walls and a bookshelf that he had filled with legal textbooks and works on forensics, criminology, psychology and investigation. Some of the books were out of date, but that didn’t matter; he had not kept them for the benefit of his education, but for the impression of learning that they could impart to the clients who came to visit him.

  He fed Bandit, then went into the smaller of the office’s two rooms, where he slept, and collected the shirt and suit that he had had dry-cleaned in preparation for appointments. He undressed and spritzed himself with deodorant, then tore the plastic protective sleeves from the clothes and dressed, making sure to button his shirt cuffs to obscure the tattoos that decorated both arms. He checked his reflection in the mirror, made sure that Bandit was comfortable on the futon, shut the door and went through into the office just as the bell rang.

  4

  The bell rang again. Atticus went to the stairs and climbed down, opening the door.

  A man was standing in the passageway outside.

  “Good afternoon,” Atticus said.

  “Mr. Priest?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “James York.”

  “Good to meet you. Please—come upstairs to the office.”

  The redecoration of the office had not extended to the common parts that he shared with Jacob, and, although he had a cleaner coming in once a week now, she had complained that the cord on her vacuum cleaner did not reach down far enough f
or her to clean the stairs. She had, at least, disposed of the menus from the pizza restaurants that had been shoved beneath the door and then trodden on over the course of several months, but the carpet was still dirty from the muck that was trodden into it every day. Atticus knew that first impressions were important, especially when someone was considering an investment in services, and resolved to get the carpet properly cleaned. Whilst he was at it, he would get someone to paint over the scuff marks on the walls.

  “I’m just up here,” he said.

  He led the way into the office and invited York to take a seat on the sofa in the bay window, observing him as he settled down. He was a large man with a flat forehead and greying hair that was cropped close to his scalp. He had large ears and small eyes. Atticus guessed that he was in his sixties.

  He started to speak, but was overcome by an abrupt coughing fit. Atticus went and fetched a glass of water and handed it over. York sipped it, spluttered down another cough, and then sipped it again. Finally, the coughing stopped.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Tickle in the throat,” he said. “It’s nothing.” He folded up the handkerchief, but not before Atticus noticed a splotch of bright red on the fabric. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure. My secretary said it was urgent. How can I help?”

  “It’s my daughter. She’s gone missing. I was hoping you might be able to find her.”

  Atticus was a little disappointed. Missing persons cases were meat and drink for a private investigator, but it was hardly the most challenging or remunerative of work. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  York looked at Atticus hopefully. “Is that the sort of thing you might be able to help with?”

  “Of course,” he said with a reassuring smile.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said. “I know that you’ve built a reputation after the case at Christmas, but you never know how much of what you read in the papers to believe. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I need to know that you’re as good as they say you are.”

  “Of course,” Atticus said. “I don’t blame you. I’d be asking, too. There are a lot of sharks who’ll happily take advantage of people when they’re desperate. Let me see what I can do to put you at ease. You work on the land. A farmer, I think. You’re originally from Birmingham, and you ring the bells on Sundays at All Saints’ in Houghton.”

  York frowned, as if annoyed to have been so thoroughly stripped naked. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Your hands were strong when we shook, and I noticed that the fingers show a little dirt beneath the nails. Neither is definitive, of course, but both are suggestive of someone who works hard outside. I hope you won’t be too offended if I suggest that you look a little tired, and, given that it is just after four in the afternoon, my supposition would be that you were up early—not many professions start earlier than those who work on the land.”

  “I could be a light sleeper,” he demurred. “And the dirt under my nails could be grease. I could be an engineer.”

  “Possibly, although the other evidence points away from that. Your face is red and shows signs of exposure to the elements. I might have hazarded a guess and said that you’ve recently returned from holiday, save the fact that the skin of your arms is pale. Now, obviously it’s winter, so it is unlikely to have been burned by the sun in this country. I suspect it’s wind—the skin can become painful after exposure to wind, and it has been windy recently. It removes the natural oils from the skin, causing pain, redness, and dryness.” He gestured. “Just like that. Also, I noticed a blue Ford Ranger while I was walking back to the office for this meeting. It was parked on the other side of the road. I didn’t notice the occupant, but people often stop there when they’re not quite sure where to park. And Ford Rangers—especially very dirty ones—are often found in agricultural businesses.”

  “The bells?”

  “Your hands, please.”

  York spread his palms to reveal a set of red calluses and broken blisters on the pads of his hands and up and down his fingers.

  “Again, this could be a consequence of working the land, but I think not. I’ve seen wear and tear like that before—the price you pay for playing the world’s loudest musical instrument every week. The nearest churches to you in Broughton are St. James’s in Bossington and All Saints’ in Houghton, but only the latter has bells, if I remember correctly.”

  “You do,” James said.

  “Combine that with the sign of the Ichthys that I noticed in the rear windscreen of the Ford Ranger, and you have a compelling argument.”

  “The sign of the what?”

  “The fish. The Christian symbol.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course. And Birmingham? I don’t have an accent.”

  “Enough for me to notice. You’ve also got an Aston Villa sticker next to the fish. That one was easy.”

  “I spent a lot of time there as a child.” York chuckled and shook his head. “You really notice things like that?”

  “It’s a useful skill for someone in my line of work.”

  Atticus was pleased with the reaction. It was a simple enough little parlour trick, but useful to deploy when potential clients came to call.

  “Now—can I get you a drink before we work out how I might be able to help?”

  “Thanks,” York said.

  “I’m having coffee, but I guess you’d prefer tea?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Educated guess,” he said. “I’d bet that most Brummie ex-squaddies in their sixties would prefer tea. It was a hunch—and my hunches are right more often than not.”

  “Then I know I’ve come to the right man.”

  Atticus went outside to the small kitchen. He boiled the kettle, scooped coffee into his mug and dropped a tea bag into the other and poured the water, returning to the office and depositing the mugs on the leather crate.

  “Shall we get started?” he said. “Tell me about your daughter.”

  5

  York coughed again, holding up a hand to say that he was all right as he waited for it to subside. “Her name is Molly,” he said at last.

  Atticus took a pen and paper and noted that down. “Molly. How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “She left home a day ago, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. I’ve tried calling and sending messages, but she hasn’t replied.”

  “And this is unusual for her?”

  “She’s never done anything like this before.”

  “She lives with you at home?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you married?”

  “I’m not. My wife and I parted ways ten years ago.”

  “I see,” Atticus said. “What about brothers or sisters?”

  “No. It’s just me and her.”

  “What does Molly do?”

  “She’s studying at the college.”

  “In Salisbury?”

  “She’s doing a food technology course. She wants to be a cook.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “She’s clever, although she doesn’t have enough confidence in herself.”

  “Independent?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “That’s why this is so out of character?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “Have you filed a missing persons report?”

  York paused for a moment, and Atticus could see that it was a question that he had anticipated. “I’d rather not.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s delicate.”

  “I’ll need to know.”

  “She’s been seeing a boy.”

  “Isn’t that par for the course for a girl her age?”

  York shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, of course, and I wouldn
’t normally interfere in her business, but he’s not a good sort. She met him through a friend from college, as far as I can make out. I’ve patched as much of it together as I can from what she’s told me and what I’ve been able to find out from her friends. The last thing Molly needs is for the police to find her with him. He’s bad news. He’s into drugs. He’s been in prison for dealing—he’s only been out for six months.”

  “Name?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Surname?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Molly use drugs?”

  “She started smoking weed,” York said. “I found some last week. I sat her down and confronted her about it, and there was an argument. She climbed out of her window, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Where does the boyfriend live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Atticus drew a line under his final paragraph and closed the notebook. “I’m happy to have a look for you.”

  “But discreetly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I really don’t want the police involved. If she gets a record now…” He shook his head. “It’d ruin her life before it’d even got started.”

  “I understand.”

  “What do you need to do first?”

  “I’d like to come and have a look at her room if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. And then?”

  “I’ll ask around. I used to be a police officer in Salisbury. It’s not a big town.”

  “Smallsbury,” James offered.

  “Exactly. The drugs scene here is very limited. Someone will know where to find Jordan.”

  York nodded his satisfaction. “How do you charge?”

  “An hourly rate plus expenses will be best for a case like this.”

  “Whatever it takes. I just want her back.”

  Atticus took down the details he would need for Stella to open a file, and arranged to come over to look at Molly’s room the next morning. They chatted about nothing for five minutes until York had finished his tea, and then Atticus showed him out, following him down to the passageway.