Kate had no idea where in the twenty square feet her grave was.
She looked into the long grass. Looked up at the blue sky. A sudden wind shivered the trees. And when she looked back at the plot of ground, a man was standing at the other end of it.
Surprised, she took a step back.
He was tall, skinny, in a long black raincoat. He was in his thirties, maybe early forties. He stood, feet together, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed, as if in silent contemplation of the plot.
Then he lifted his head, just a little, and raised his eyes to look at her. He gave her a mischievous, malevolent look from that strange angle, made more sinister when he smiled. He called out to her, his voice deep, an edge to it.
‘What Katie did next, eh, darling?’
Then he turned and ambled away.
FIFTEEN
‘ W ell, something is kicking off,’ I said the moment Gilchrist had got into my car. ‘What happened to your flat is the worst, but I’ve just had calls from Kate and Tingley. Kate had a scare put into her – some guy hassled her up at the cemetery.’
‘The cemetery? What was she doing there?’
‘She’s found the grave of the Trunk Murder victim.’
‘Oh, that. Clever girl. And Tingley?’
‘He’s found out who Gary Parker’s father is.’
Gilchrist snapped her head round.
‘How the hell has he done that? We don’t know yet.’
‘He has his methods. Anyway, somebody is getting really rattled or pissed off – or both.’
‘Gary Parker’s father?’
‘No, that doesn’t make sense. The timing is wrong for him to come down heavy on us if his son is wanting a deal.’
‘I want to talk to that gap-toothed bastard, Connolly, in Haywards Heath.’
‘Tingley is on to him too. We’re going to pay him a visit. But we’ve got to collect Tingley from Gatwick first.’
‘Tingley’s been away?’
‘Not unless Lewes counts. A meeting. As usual, he was enigmatic.’
Tingley was waiting for them at the South Terminal. He slid into the back seat. Gilchrist told him about her flat but was really just waiting to ask one question.
‘Who is Gary Parker’s father?’ she said.
‘Not who you’d expect,’ Tingley said.
Kate was trying hard not to freak out. The man at the cemetery had chilled her to the bone. What could he possibly want from her? Surely nothing to do with the Trunk Murder – this wasn’t one of those silly thrillers where secret societies protected a secret for centuries. Was it?
Wrapped in a rug, she was on her balcony. Tonight, the music in the square was just Amy Winehouse and something unrecognizable involving a heavy bass beat. She had a notepad on her lap and a pencil in her hand. She was trying to focus on the Trunk Murder but all she could think about was that thin man standing at the other end of the burial plot.
When he walked away she thought of following to ask what he meant, but there was no one around and she wondered if he might attack her. Then she thought he might have done something to her car. When she got back to it she got in gingerly and locked it immediately, before starting the engine and testing the brakes.
She’d entered her flat nervously too, but there was no sign of any kind of break-in. She’d phoned Watts and told him what had happened. He’d told her to stay in the flat until he got over there later in the day. Told her to keep her mobile beside her.
It rang now, playing the irritatingly perky tune she couldn’t figure out how to change. Her parents’ number flashed up on the screen.
‘Hello, Kate,’ her father said in an oddly hearty voice. ‘How are things?’
‘Things are fine, Dad, thanks.’
‘Everything going OK, is it? You’re feeling OK?’
Her father never asked anything about her except when he was checking up on her for his own peculiar reasons.
‘I’m fine, Dad. Why do you ask?’
There was silence on the line for a moment. Then:
‘Nothing unusual happened?’
It was Kate’s turn to be silent as she pondered his asking her this question after her encounter in the cemetery.
‘Not really, no.’
‘Not really – what do you mean, not really?’
‘I mean no. How’s Mum?’
‘Mum’s fine,’ he said impatiently. ‘She’s wondering when you might be coming up to London again for a visit.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In fact, we were both wondering if you might like to come and stay for a few days. We don’t see nearly enough of you.’
Stranger and stranger.
‘I’ve got work, Dad.’
‘Don’t you have leave due?’
‘I haven’t been there long enough to get leave yet.’ And if I had, she thought but didn’t say, I wouldn’t want to spend it at home.
‘Maybe next weekend, then.’
‘Maybe – it depends on my shifts.’
Another silence. Finally:
‘OK, then. Well, you take care, Kate. And phone me if you need me.’
‘Will do, Dad.’
‘Love you.’
‘Bye, Dad.’
She dropped the phone in her lap and listened to Amy Winehouse’s by now poignant views on rehab ricocheting round the square. She thought for a moment about other singers she’d liked, who’d arrived but hadn’t stayed long. Whatever happened to Macy Gray?
But really she was thinking about her dad calling. It had to be more than coincidence. The man in the cemetery was something to do with the grey areas of her father’s life. The many grey areas. In threatening her, the man was sending a message to her father. And her father had clearly received it.
There had been concern in her father’s voice as their conversation had gone on. It was a long time since she had heard that. It would have touched her had she allowed it to. There was fear too. She had never known her father to be in a situation he didn’t fully control. Maybe this was it – the first time.
Kate pulled the throw up over her shoulders and waited to hear from Watts.
‘James Tingley – you tease,’ I said. ‘Who would have thought it?’
‘I’m not teasing. I’m trying to get it clear in my head. I’d thought it would be Cuthbert – same Cro-Magnon mentality. I’d hoped it was Hathaway so we could do a deal that would explain your situation. But it’s neither.’
‘We get that,’ Sarah said. ‘So who is Gary Parker’s father?’
‘Another close friend of Mr Watts here. This whole affair is bedevilled with them.’
‘And that close friend is…?’ I said, trying to listen to the satnav instructions at the same time. I was driving down dark, winding lanes to the north of Hampstead Heath.
‘A certain Mr Winston Hart.’
