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

  A path led across the unkempt garden to the house. Atticus dallied at the gate for a little, waiting to see whether Robson was at home or not, but, as he paused, the front door opened and a man came outside. He was followed by a large, shaggy-haired Alsatian. Atticus hurried back and pushed into the gorse at the side of the track. He looked through the vegetation as the man made his way to the Land Rover. Atticus recognised him: it was Robson. He was big, over six feet tall and heavily built. He was wearing an olive-coloured anorak, a beanie on his head and a pair of muddy boots. He held a shotgun beneath his right arm, the breech cracked open.

  Atticus watched as the big man opened the door to the Land Rover. The dog bounded inside and Robson hauled himself in after it. The engine started and the vehicle rolled out, splashing through the mud until it was on the track. The brakes wheezed as it came to a stop in front of the gate, the engine turned over with a temperamental grumble, the door opened and there was a splash as Robson stepped out into a puddle. Atticus heard the jangle of the padlock chain as it caught on the metal bars of the gate, the squeak of hinges and then the sound of footsteps and the vehicle’s door slamming shut. The Land Rover’s engine grumbled louder and the vehicle splashed ahead, passing through the gate. Atticus crouched down lower, grateful for the gloom and the thick vegetation.

  He heard the vehicle’s door open once more, the squelch of footsteps, the creak of the hinges as the gate was shut, the rattle of the chain and then the click of the padlock as it was secured. He heard Robson get back into the Land Rover, shut the door and rev the engine, and then the vehicle bumped and bounced over the uneven surface of the track and headed north. It passed close enough to Atticus’s hiding spot that he could have reached out and touched it; the Alsatian was in the passenger seat and its yellow eyes flashed at him as the vehicle went by.

  Atticus stayed where he was until the sound of the engine and the squeak of a rusty spring were no longer audible.

  He took a deep breath and, after checking that he was alone, he turned back and made his way back to the gate. It had been locked, just as he had thought. Atticus clambered over it, his feet splashing in the mud as he dropped down on the other side. The approach to the house was by way of a path that had not been cleared for months. Weeds had been allowed to grow unchecked, and the grass was tall enough to brush against Atticus’s knees.

  He approached the front door and tried it: it was locked. He went around the back of the property. All of the windows were boarded, with no way of seeing inside. A thick electrical cable was suspended from a second-floor window to a post in the ground from which it snaked along to a diesel generator that chugged away beneath a wooden lean-to.

  Atticus reached the midpoint of the back wall and a second door into the property. It was flimsy, a simple frame that held three panes of glass. He tried the handle; the door was locked. He didn’t have his lock picks with him and, preferring not to damage anything in an attempt to get inside, he started looking for a hidden key. It was surprisingly easy. Atticus noticed that a collection of loose bricks had been left against the side of the house. One of the bricks was angled away from the others and, as he knelt down to examine it, he saw that it had recently been moved. He lifted it up and, to his satisfaction, saw that a key had been left beneath it. He used the key in the lock, pulled down on the handle, opened the door and went inside.

  74

  The inside of the house was gloomy, with the only light reaching in from the side of the open door. Atticus closed the door and wiped his boots on the doormat. He took out his phone and started to record a video of his investigation. He was in the kitchen. There was a stove that was stacked with pots and pans, a counter that held a pile of plates and the detritus of used packaging, and cupboards that, when Atticus opened them, held only pre-packaged microwave meals. The linoleum floor was sticky with some long-spilled liquid, and his boots squeaked as he crossed the room to the door on the opposite side.

  There was a corridor beyond, with doors to the left and right and stairs that ascended to the first floor. He heard a low humming sound from above and, as he sniffed, he thought he detected something acrid in the air. The corridor was dark, but light glowed down from the first floor. Atticus would investigate that last of all.

  He started with the door on the left. It was a bedroom. There was a bed, together with a chair and a television resting on an old dresser. The interior was a dreadful mess: bric-a-brac littered the floor, together with clothes that had been discarded and left. Shelves had been fitted to the walls, and a collection of books and magazines had been stacked there. They looked precarious and, as Atticus reached up to take down one of the magazines, the pile slid off the shelf and spilled out across the floor. They were pornographic magazines from the ’80s and ’90s, the covers faded and the pages stiff.

  He wasn’t sure where to look, or even what he might expect to find, and he had no idea how long Robson would be away from the house. He knew that he had to move quickly.

  He started on the left-hand side of the room, with the bed and the surrounding furniture and debris. There were more magazines, books that had been taken from the library and not returned, dirty plates that had never made it back to the sink to be washed, and fragments of paper that must have spilled out of pockets. The bed was unmade and the sheets were stained. Atticus ignored that and cleared a space on the floor so that he could crouch down and look beneath the frame. There was nothing of interest. He picked up a photograph from the bedside table; it featured three people on a beach, a man and a woman and a young child. The man was big and resembled Robson; Atticus wondered if it was Robson’s father, the photograph a memory of a family occasion. He looked on the shelves above the bed, in the drawers of the bedside table, and inside the dresser.

  He didn’t see anything of interest.

  He left the bedroom and checked the door to the right. It was a bathroom. It was filthy, but there was nothing of note here, either.

  Atticus went to the stairs and climbed. He stopped on the half-landing, his mouth falling open.

  Where the ground floor was dark, the first floor was unnaturally bright. Industrial lamps had been fitted to the ceiling, and light blazed out of them, a harsh white glare that had Atticus blinking his eyes until they had adjusted. He climbed all the way up and saw that the walls of the property had been removed to make for a wide-open space, the roof supported by struts and props and the space enclosed by plastic sheeting that made for a large tentlike structure.

  The space was filled by hundreds of cannabis plants.

  The heat from the lamps was stifling. The humming that he had heard from below was the sound of the extractor fans that ventilated the plants.

  Atticus reached down for one of the plants, trailing his fingertips across the leaves. His mind spun, drawing lines between facts, teasing out conclusions. Robson already had one potential motive for wishing harm to the Mallenders: the possibility that Cassandra’s parents had forbidden him from seeing their daughter.

  Here, though, was another: what if Hugo Mallender had discovered the cannabis farm?

  What if he had threatened to call the police?

  What might Robson have done then?

  Atticus’s mind raced, seeking more connections, follow-up questions and enquiries that would have to be made, and, as he stood there, distracted, with the noise of the fans smothering any noise from outside, he forgot where he was and whose house he was in, and it was only then, too late—much too late—that he heard the sound of footsteps below.

  He heard a bark and then the slap of paws as Jimmy Robson’s Alsatian raced down the corridor and leapt up the stairs.

  The dog reached the half-landing, its paws slipping from underneath it as it quickly changed direction, scrabbling for traction again and then launching up the rest of the stairs. Its lips were pulled back and its teeth shone as it reached the top and started to bark.

  Atticus backed up, but there was nowhere to hide.

  He heard the sou
nd of heavier footsteps coming down the corridor and then up the stairs, and then the mechanical click of something being snapped together.

  Jimmy Robson reached the top of the stairs, the shotgun held level and aimed at Atticus.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?”

  Atticus backed up. The dog growled and padded after him.

  Robson frowned. “No—I know you. I remember you. I’ve seen you before.”

  Atticus didn’t answer and took another step back.

  Jimmy followed. “You’re police.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are—I remember. You nicked me.”

  “I’m not police. I got fired.”

  The dog barked, saliva dripping out of its half-open muzzle.

  “Stop lying. I remember you. You did me for assault.”

  “You headbutted a police officer, Jimmy.”

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’m not police,” he said again. “I was fired.”

  “Bollocks. You just happen to be up here, nosing in my business?”

  Robson was still advancing, the shotgun still aimed into Atticus’s body. They would be picking bits of his corpse up for days afterwards if Robson fired at him from as close as this.

  “You’re Drugs Squad.”

  “I’m not Drugs Squad. I’m not police. And I’m going to leave now.”

  Atticus felt something against his back and, stumbling, he knocked it over. It was a trestle table upon which had been arranged a number of large bags of processed cannabis. The table collapsed with a loud crash, the bags of cannabis spilling open and scattering buds all across the floor.

  “You ain’t going nowhere,” Robson said. “Not until you’ve told me what you’re doing inside my house.”

  Atticus stepped over the table and backed all the way up to the wall. He had nowhere left to go.

  Robson followed. He looked even bigger close up.

  “Come on,” Atticus said. “There’s no need for this to get nasty.”

  “You shouldn’t have come in here,” Robson said.

  Atticus feinted right and tried to pass the big man to the left. It didn’t work; Robson was faster than he looked, shoving out a meaty fist that struck Atticus in the chest. He staggered back, winded, and crashed into the wall. Robson closed in, his fist clenched and ready to strike. Atticus gasped for breath and tried to slide out of the way as Robson threw out a big right-hander. His knuckles caught Atticus on the side of the forehead; sparks of light detonated across his vision. Robson came up close and grabbed Atticus, both hands knotted in his jacket, and hauled him upright.

  Atticus drew back his head and butted Robson in the face.

  The big man swore. He grunted with effort, switching his weight from left to right and tossing Atticus across the room. Atticus slammed onto the floor. He tried to find his feet but couldn’t, the soles of his boots sliding across the spilled buds.

  The clamour stirred the dog into action, and, with an angry growl, he sprang forward and closed his jaws around Atticus’s wrist. He tried to free himself, but the dog was tenacious and its grip was strong. Atticus booted it in the ribs; it yelped in pain and let go.

  Atticus lost his balance and, as he put out his arms to try to prevent himself from toppling over, he turned back to Robson as the big man unloaded a right-hander flush into his jaw.

  Atticus’s knees went out from beneath him.

  The lights started to fade, and then they blinked out.

  75

  Atticus drifted in and out of consciousness. The first thing that he was aware of when he finally came around was the pounding in his head. It was centred just above his right ear, an electrical pulse that popped through his skull and all the way down into his gut. He felt sick. He thought that he had opened his eyes, but he could see nothing. It took a moment for him to realise: his eyes were open, but, wherever he was, it was dark. The pain continued to throb, and he tried to put his hand up to his head so that he might be able to work out why, but, as he tried, he found that his arms were stiff and unmoving. He tried again, jerking from his shoulders, and felt something coarse abrading the skin on the insides of his wrists.

  He had been tied up.

  He remembered: Jimmy Robson.

  He had tied him up and dumped him somewhere.

  He blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust. The dark wasn’t complete; he could see a line of grey down low, as though it were coming from under a door. He waited a little longer until he thought that he could make out the dim shape of a paint pot, and, next to it, what looked like a bucket. He remembered the storeroom that he had poked his head into as he had searched the house. Robson had put him inside there.

  “Hey!” he called out. “Hey!”

  He heard the sound of footsteps overhead—the heavy tread of a person and the scampering patter of a dog—but no one came to attend to his cry.

  76

  Mack grabbed her coat and made her way out of the court building. It was cold and damp, with a chill in the air that promised the snow that had been forecast. She wrapped her scarf around her neck and looked left and right, getting ready to cross the road. She would go back to the station and take care of the administrative tasks that needed to be got out of the way.

  The afternoon’s evidence had been enthralling, although without the explosiveness of the morning’s session. Abernathy had finished his cross-examination of Ralph Mallender and had handed the witness back to Crow for re-examination. Ralph’s anger during Abernathy’s questioning had caused serious damage to the defence case, and Crow had done his best to repair as much of it as he could. Abernathy had been gleeful when they debriefed afterwards. It was, he suggested, a lost cause. The loss of Lamza’s credibility didn’t matter anymore. Lamza had been important because he could say that Ralph had told him that he hated his parents.

  Ralph had just confirmed that from his own mouth and, what was more, he had explained why: his father had abused him and his mother had enabled it.

  Mack had been around briefs enough times to know that equivocation was their standard response when asked to prognosticate as to the odds of a successful prosecution. Abernathy had been no different during this case. Now, though? When she asked him what he thought were the chances for a guilty verdict, he had unhesitatingly and confidently replied that he thought it was eighty-twenty in their favour.

  Eighty-twenty? Mack could live with that.

  The road was busy and she had to wait to cross.

  “Detective Chief Inspector!”

  Mack turned in the direction of the voice.

  “DCI Jones!”

  It was Allegra Mallender.

  Mack stiffened. Ralph Mallender had been put through the mill all day, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine what his wife must have thought of that. Mack suspected she was about to receive another dose of Allegra’s bitter abuse.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mallender. How can I help you?”

  Allegra reached her. She was out of breath. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Of course,” Mack responded, as politely as she could. “What is it?”

  “Atticus Priest.”

  Mack managed to stifle her sigh. “What’s he done now?”

  “I’m worried about him.” Allegra paused. “You know he’s been working for Ralph?”

  “I had gathered that,” Mack said as blandly as she could.

  “Look—I don’t think you know this. Cassandra Mallender was seeing Jimmy Robson.”

  Mack frowned. “What?”

  “You know, he works in the woods. He used to work for the family?”

  “I know who he is,” she said. “What do you mean—Robson and Cassandra were in a relationship?”

  She nodded. “Atticus found an old friend of Cassandra’s from when she started at university and he said that she was seeing Robson. Cassandra used to be wild—the friend thinks that Robson was the reason she started doing drugs. He says he was supplying them. One of
the friends died after taking ecstasy, and Cassandra changed—she started going to church, ignored all her old friends, stopped seeing Robson.”

  “Did your husband know about this?”

  “No,” Allegra said. “I mean, yes, he knew that she was a little wild, but that’s just student stuff. I don’t think he knew that she was seeing Robson. He’s never mentioned it to me, anyway. But it’s important. He was there that night—he said so himself.”

  Mack felt the case shifting again.

  “Robson might have had a reason to want to hurt them,” Allegra said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “If it’s true. Why are you worried about Atticus?”

  “He said he was going to go and speak to Robson.”

  “When?”

  “In the lunchtime adjournment. He would’ve been there by two at the latest.”

  Mack looked at her watch. “It’s four thirty now. You haven’t heard from him?”

  She shook her head. “I tried to call, but he isn’t answering. I’m worried.”

  “All right,” Mack said. “I’ll send someone over there. Thanks for letting me know.”

  She unlatched her handbag, took out her phone and then walked around the corner of the building for a little privacy. She stared at the screen for a moment. Lennox had interviewed Jimmy Robson in the aftermath of the murders, and then he had been interviewed at greater length as they prepared for the trial. Mack recalled the detail of his file. He was a nasty piece of work, with three convictions for assault. The last one had seen him butt the officer who had tried to restrain him after a scuffle outside The Chapel at the end of a drunken Friday night out; Robson had been rewarded with six weeks inside for that. His evidence at the trial had been solely for the purpose of establishing a timeline; save the murderer, Robson was likely to have been the last person to see Hugo Mallender alive. He had no alibi for the evening of Christmas Eve, but, even with his record, they had seen nothing that gave them reason to consider that he might be a suspect.