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

  Bandit started to whine in the corridor outside. Atticus zipped his overcoat to his neck. It was cold in the house and, after his walk, he felt colder. He went out of the room and ruffled the dog’s fur.

  He went to the study. There was a desk and two freestanding shelves that had held ring binders of documents that were relevant to the running of the farm. Those had been removed now, and the leather-topped desk swept clear. The gun safe sat in the corner behind the door. It was just over a metre tall, thirty centimetres wide and thirty centimetres deep. The door was open. It looked as if it would be large enough to store four or five long guns, but it was the handgun that had been inside that was relevant now. Atticus had read in Ralph’s statement that his father had been a competitive shooter, and that he had refused to hand in his pistols when the government had outlawed them following the Dunblane massacre. He had kept two—a Browning 9mm and a Smith & Wesson M19 .357—together with ammunition. Both weapons had gone missing before the murders, with only the Browning subsequently being found. The Smith & Wesson had never been recovered. The defence version of events was that Cameron must have opened the safe and taken both. The prosecution said it was Ralph.

  Atticus took out his magnifying glass and studied the lock. There were the usual small scrapes and scratches in the immediate vicinity of the keyhole, but nothing that suggested that the lock had been forced or even that it had been picked. If it had been opened, it looked as if it had been opened with the key.

  Bandit whined.

  “Nearly,” Atticus said. “One more thing to look at.”

  24

  Atticus went back to the hallway and found the door to the cellar. A flight of steps descended into total darkness; he felt against the wall for a light switch, found one, and flicked it on. A single bulb had been hung at the top of the stairs, with another down below. Bandit stayed where he was, his tail still clamped between his legs. He clearly had no interest whatsoever in following Atticus down the stairs.

  “Woof if you hear anything. I’m going to take a look down here.”

  There was enough light now for him to be able to make his way down. The boards were narrow, old and weak, creaking every time he put his weight on them. He reached the bottom and found himself in a large cellar that seemed as if it ran the length of the house. The walls were composed of bare brick, patches of lichen growing against the damp surface. There was an empty rack of shelving that might, at one time, have been used to store wine. There was a stack of large boxes, the cardboard similarly damp and fragile to the touch. The light from the bulb illuminated only the area nearest to the bottom of the stair, so Atticus had to light the rest of the room with his phone’s flashlight. He shone it left and right and confirmed that the rest of the space was empty, save for bait boxes that had been left there to take care of rodents.

  The coal hole was at the front of the cellar. He made his way there, noting how the storage area was, in effect, a small antechamber that bulged out of the far wall. It was also constructed from naked brick and was narrow enough that he could touch the walls to the left and right with his arms still bent at the elbow. He shuffled forward, casting the light from his phone around. The space was empty. He knelt down and touched his fingertips to the floor, turning his hand over and aiming the light over it; his skin was darkened by a residue of fine soot, probably years old. There were prints in the soot; the police would have been over every inch of it looking for evidence. Atticus recalled the photographs from before that had happened. There had been several prints, too many overlapping one another to make very much out.

  He stood and looked up. A thin line of the morning’s early light framed a square in the ceiling, probably the coal-plate that offered access to the cellar from the outside. It would have been opened by the coalman, who would then empty his sacks straight into the cellar, pouring the coal in to be stored until it was needed. Atticus reached up, placing his palm against the cold metal of the plate, and pushed. It gave a little and then stopped; he pushed again, harder, and heard a metallic rattle. The plate had been secured with a padlock sometime after the murders. That made sense.

  This, according to the prosecution case, was how Ralph had exited the farmhouse while making it appear that it was locked from the inside. Atticus would check for himself when he was outside, but the pictures that had been taken by the police suggested that the coal-plate had been left untended for years and had been obscured by vegetation that had been allowed to grow over it. The plate was difficult to see and might only have been noticed by those who had lived in the house for long enough to know that it was there. It had always been left unsecured; it would have been a simple thing for Ralph to make his way through the cellar, open the coal-plate and then get outside.

  Atticus took a quarter turn and felt a sharp scratch against his shoulder. He swayed away from it and brought the flashlight up to examine what he had touched; a nail had worked free from a wooden board that had itself been fixed to the wall. Atticus had no idea what purpose the board served, but it was coming loose and the nail had popped partially out.

  He shone his torch on it and then turned the light down onto the floor. He knelt down, running his fingertips through the light coating of dust. He found little fragments of debris that had worked loose from the wall over time—little rough pieces of brick and mortar—and then saw the light catch against something that looked out of place. He lowered himself further, holding his phone steady and reaching down with his left hand. It was a small square—maybe a centimetre by half a centimetre—of a thin, papery material. He brought it closer to his eye, then gently rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. It looked like the dense polyethylene that was used in Tyvek, the material in the disposable oversuits that were worn by crime scene examiners. Atticus had a small plastic baggie in his pocket; he took it out, opened it, dropped the remnant inside, and sealed it up.

  He backed out carefully and made his way back to the stair. Bandit was at the top, looking down at him. His tail thwacked against the wall as Atticus climbed back up to him.

  “Come on then, boy,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  25

  Atticus opened the door and Bandit bounded out, racing around the farmyard as if relieved that he could be away from the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Atticus locked the door and walked around the perimeter of the property until he reached the front, then looked down at the weed-choked path until he found the coal-plate. It was similar to a manhole cover, just a little smaller. Atticus guessed that it was around twenty-five inches across. The plate was set into an outer metal ring that was then cemented into the path. It was decorated in an attractive geometric pattern and marked with a foundry mark: Hayward Brothers of London. Atticus crouched down and ran his fingers over it. He dropped onto his belly so that he could look more closely at it. The weeds that had obscured the cover had been pulled up, most likely by the police when they were examining it.

  Atticus wondered how easy it would be to slide through the hatch. It would have been simple enough for someone slender to enter the house this way, but more difficult to climb out. It would have been necessary to have something to stand on—a chair or a box—before reaching up and boosting oneself out.

  Atticus got back to his feet. Ralph was reasonably slim. He wondered if he was slim enough to fit through the narrow opening. He didn’t recall seeing any analysis by the defence to investigate the possibility that he wouldn’t fit, and made a mental note to raise that with Cadogan when he was back at the office.

  Atticus was just brushing the dirt from his clothes when he heard the sound of a car approaching along the track. Bandit sprinted away to investigate. Atticus walked back around the barn and made his way to the gate.

  A squad car had pulled up and Bob Carver was stepping out of it, grumbling to himself as he put his feet into a muddy puddle. Bandit was waiting by the gate, barking loudly as Carver spoke into his radio.

  “Morning,” Atticus called out.

 
Carver looked over and then scowled in recognition. “Bloody hell,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just having a look around.”

  “Trespassing.”

  “No, Bob, not trespassing. I’m working for Ralph and Allegra Mallender. I wanted to see the house.”

  “But—”

  “Technically,” Atticus continued, cutting him off, “Ralph owns the house. It was left to him in his father’s will.”

  “That’ll all change when he gets convicted.”

  “If he gets convicted,” Atticus corrected.

  Carver snorted. “Like he’s not going to.”

  “What are you doing here, Bob?”

  “We got a call that someone was nosing around.”

  “That would be me. No need to worry, as I said—it’s all above board.”

  Carver shook his head. “I still want you to leave.”

  “I’m not finished, Bob. And, actually, it’s you who’s trespassing.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Do you think someone is about to be killed or injured?”

  “No.”

  “The property’s about to be damaged?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Or there’s a breach of the peace?”

  “No, but—”

  “So you don’t have permission to be here, and the law doesn’t allow it. You’re trespassing.”

  Carver stepped forward, his boots squelching through the mud. “You always were a smarmy arsehole.”

  Atticus closed the gate and turned his back on Carver as he went to secure it with the padlock. He felt hands on his shoulders, shoving him forward. Carver leaned against him, the weight of his body pinning him against the wooden gatepost. Bandit started to growl. Carver grabbed Atticus’s wrist and dragged his arm behind his body, his fingers digging into Atticus’s flesh as he yanked up.

  “I don’t like you, you prick. Never did, not from the first moment I saw you.”

  Bandit started to bark. Atticus ground his teeth together. Carver’s mouth was next to his ear, and it would have been a simple matter to have jerked his head in that direction, butting him in the face. He didn’t, though; he knew that was what Carver wanted—any excuse to arrest him. Carver wasn’t the sharpest tool in the drawer, but he had a certain base cunning, and Atticus knew that he would have no problem fitting him up if he gave him any reason. The story would be easy to concoct: Carver responded to a call about a trespasser at the farm; there was an argument between the two of them; Atticus assaulted him. A bloody nose would be all the proof that Carver would need; Atticus’s reputation would do the rest. The last thing he needed was a conviction for assault.

  “You hear me, you smarmy bastard?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Carver let go of Atticus’s wrist and stepped back. Atticus turned around just in time to see Carver’s knee as he brought it up, burying it in his groin. It was a peculiar pain: a momentary pause and then, suddenly, a deep ache that morphed into something much more unpleasant. Atticus gasped and dropped to his knees, splashing down into the middle of the quagmire.

  “Take that as a warning.”

  Carver left Atticus in the puddle and turned, starting to negotiate the quagmire so that he could make it back to his car. He probed for firmer ground and, distracted, didn’t notice as Bandit sprang at him. The dog was heavy and he had plenty of momentum as he planted his front paws right between Carver’s shoulder blades. He toppled over, slamming into the mud with a heavy splash.

  Atticus reached back for the gate and used the bars to help him get back to his feet. He stepped onto the verge where the footing was more secure and made his way around the puddle where Carver was still floundering in an attempt to get up.

  “Oh dear,” Atticus said.

  The pain subsided, turning back into a throbbing ache. Atticus checked that he still had his phone and his keys and his picks and, finding them in his pocket where they were supposed to be, he followed the fresh tyre tracks and started back to his own car, Carver regaling him and Bandit with colourful imprecations as they left him behind.

  26

  There was a tap at the back of the office that the gardener used to irrigate the garden. Atticus tied Bandit to a drainpipe, cranked the tap and washed him off in the jet of cold water. The dog was unimpressed, clamping his tail down and bowing his head.

  “Sorry, boy,” Atticus said.

  He hurried upstairs for a towel, came back down and dried the dog, then let him bound inside. Atticus took off his own muddy clothes and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt he found on the floor. He reminded himself that he couldn’t put off his visit to the launderette any longer. He would go tonight, for sure, with no more postponements. He grabbed a large IKEA bag and stuffed it to the brim with his dirty washing. He spritzed himself with deodorant, grabbed the bag of clothes and pulled on his coat.

  Bandit trotted up to him and Atticus knelt down to scrub behind his ears.

  “All forgiven?”

  The dog licked him.

  “Good boy. Now—let’s see if Jacob can look after you.”

  Bandit wagged his tail happily.

  Atticus called Allegra and arranged to meet her in the café that they had visited yesterday. He drove to court, leaving his car in the car park next to the medical centre nearby, and then made his way back down the road. Allegra was waiting next to the counter when Atticus pushed his way through the door.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, gesturing to the menu above the counter.

  “I’ll get them,” he said, taking out his wallet.

  “Thank you,” she said. “A cup of tea, please. Shall I go and get a table?”

  Atticus took his place in the queue and watched as Allegra went over to one of the empty tables. She was dressed smartly again, in a sober black jacket with a matching skirt and low heels. He was reminded, again, that she was an attractive woman.

  “Attic… Attica…” The barista was struggling with his name.

  “Atticus,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Atticus. That’s my name. Atticus.”

  “Weird name.”

  “It’s from a book… oh, never mind.”

  He smiled with exaggerated forbearance, thanked the barista, and took the drinks to the table Allegra had chosen near the window. He sat down and handed her the tea.

  “Thank you,” she said, sipping it gingerly.

  “Get any sleep?”

  “Not much,” she admitted.

  “How did you find it yesterday?”

  She looked down into her drink and, when she looked up again, her eyes were filmy with unshed tears. “Awful. Awful. Just to hear what they think of Ralph—what they say he did. It was horrible.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I watched the jury and all I could think was that our future is in the hands of twelve people whom we’ve never met before. I don’t know the first thing about any of them.”

  “You could have ended up with a worse jury,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The woman on the far left—the one who was wearing the twinset? She raised her eyebrows when your husband was brought into the dock.”

  “So?”

  “It often indicates positive feelings. Lowering the eyebrows would be the opposite. That was a positive first impression. And you might not have noticed, but she had her arms folded when Abernathy was speaking. It’s become a bit of a cliché, but it’s still a classic sign of disapproval.”

  “But that’s just one out of twelve.”

  Atticus sipped his drink, then replaced the cup on the table. “Generally speaking, when people are presented with someone or something they find distasteful, they’ll turn their bodies a little to the side. It’s very subtle, but you can see it if you know what to look for. I only saw two
of the jurors angle themselves away. Two of them—the elderly man in the suit and the young mother—actively leaned forwards. That’s a strong sign of a positive first impression.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t see a mother there.”

  “Second row, two from the right. There was a discoloration on the left-hand shoulder of her jacket. I suspect she was winding a baby and it was sick. There hadn’t been time to change into something else, and, although she’d done her best to clean it, the stain was still visible, even across the room.”

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re reaching.”

  “Perhaps a little,” he said with a smile. He had studied body language for years and was confident in the accuracy of his cold reads. But he didn’t want to belabour the point now.

  “And if they believe what they’re being told…” She didn’t finish.

  “There’s a long way to go yet,” Atticus said. “We’ve only had the first day.”

  “I know that,” she said. “But there’s so much uncertainty. The police have their case; they’re going to hammer Ralph with it again and again and again. It’s just so upsetting.”

  “How long does Cadogan think the trial will last?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Atticus had assumed it would be something along those lines; it didn’t give him very long to find anything helpful. He would have to work quickly.

  She sipped her drink and then replaced the cup in the saucer. “What have you been doing so far?” she asked him.

  “I’ve started my review of the evidence.”

  “And?”

  “There are a few things that could do with a little examination. DS Lennox’s suggestion that there was someone inside the house when he got there, for one. I know they’ll say that he could have been mistaken, but I’d like to speak to the other officers who were there.”

  “You can do that?”

  “There’s no property in a witness,” he said. “It’s perfectly legal to talk to them, ask questions.”