Hanging Hill

the garden. It didn’t disturb Jason. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing low and hard. ‘Suppose you won’t be needing the coffee, then.’ She waited another five minutes to be sure, then, very quietly, moved down the corridor, picking up a couple of beer cans as she went.

The study was the only place people hadn’t been smoking. She propped the door open, so the smell could permeate from the hallway, dropped a couple of the cans on the desk, pushed the armchair to one side and scuffed the rug so it would look as if the bikers had been in there. Then she began to sift through the files. There were whole boxes devoted to Jason’s schooling – he’d gone to St Paul’s and the invoices were eye-watering. She wondered if Julian was still paying Millie’s fees at Kingsmead. Report cards, sports-day cards, uniform lists and details of overseas school trips were all tucked together. Whatever unpleasantness Mooney had inflicted on the women of Pristina, he did at least love his son. Or, rather, he had ambitions for him. In other boxes she found details of pension plans, with the MoD and a private company, mortgage papers, rental papers on a property the Mooneys seemed to own in Salamanca. There were medical reports and details of a legal case relating to a car accident Mrs Mooney had had in 2005. His bank statements were there. Zoe took them to the armchair and sat down with them, began to sift through them.

Over the impossibly expensive tiles of the next-door roof the sky was brightening by the minute, one or two clouds, still with their grey night pelts on them, hanging above the chimney pots. As she worked it grew lighter and lighter, until the sun found its way into the gap between the houses, and crept through the leaded window into the study. She searched the accounts for almost an hour and found nothing. Her heart was sinking. After all this, the answer wasn’t here. Zhang and Watling had been right: if Mooney had paid someone to drop Goldrab, he’d brushed the ground clean behind him with his tail. She rested her chin in her hands and stared blankly at the photos on the wall. Pictures of Mr and Mrs Mooney holding hands in front of the Taj Mahal. One of Mooney shaking hands with someone she thought was high up in the US government – Alan Greenspan or someone. Krugerrands, she wondered. Who the hell in the West Country would take Krugerrands and know what to do with them? You’d have to go to one of those bloody horrible streets in Bristol or Birmingham. Going round those with a warrant card in her hand would be a nightmare. Impossible-

Something in one of the photos struck her. She pushed the chair back and went to the picture. It showed Dominic Mooney, wearing a standard Barbour and green Hunters. A Holland and Holland shotgun, the breech cracked open, dangled from one hand. He was smiling into the camera. Behind him a snatch of horizon was visible, a distinctive shape black against the blue of the sky. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill. And in his hand, which was lifted to the camera, a brace of pheasants.

The gamekeeper. She pushed aside the file. The fucking gamekeeper. Jake had said someone was raising pheasants for Goldrab. Mooney had been shooting at Lightpil House and had to have spoken to the gamekeeper. She put the file away, shoved the photo into her jacket and buttoned it up. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Everyone knew what gamekeepers were like – mad as fishes. And dangerous. With gun licences and plenty of ways for disappearing bodies. If she was Mooney and wanted something done to Goldrab, the gamekeeper would be the first place she’d start.

She went into the living room. Jason was still asleep. She leaned over, put her head close to his face and listened to his breathing. Low and steady. He wasn’t that pissed. Not die-in-a-ditch pissed. He’d live. She crouched and hoisted him further on to the sofa so he wouldn’t roll off in his sleep. ‘Night, dude,’ she murmured. ‘And Godspeed to Mars. You’re going to need that rocket when Mum and Dad get home.’

25

Sally didn’t go to bed. She snoozed for an hour or so on the sofa in the living room, but woke, her heart thumping, thinking about that cottage. The snaking path that led down to the bottom garden. She showered and dressed. Steve must have listened to her and gone on to that dinner meeting, because he hadn’t called. And she was determined not to call him. There was a sweater of his he’d left lying around and she pulled it on, stopping for a moment to sniff the sleeve. Then she went into the kitchen and began to get breakfast ready. Millie appeared in the doorway, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

‘Hi.’ Sally stood at the sink, feeling as stiff as a wooden doll. Sore-eyed. ‘Did you sleep OK?’

‘Yeah.’ Millie went to the fridge and poured a glass of juice. She sipped it for a while, then paused and glanced at her mother. ‘Oh, no – you’re looking at me funny again. Like you were last night.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. What the hell’s going on?’

Sally filled the cafetiere and placed it on the table. Then she was still for a moment or two, contemplating Millie. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Remember that day last week when you came to work with me?’

‘Yeah.’ Millie used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. ‘The medallion man? I remember. Why?’

‘What did you do while I was in the house? Where did you go?’

She frowned. ‘Nothing. I wandered around. Walked to the bottom of the garden. There’s a stream there, but it was too cold to paddle. I sat in a tree for a bit. Read on the lawn. Then Jake turned up.’

‘Did you speak to anyone?’

‘Only the freak.’

‘The freak?’ she said steadily.

‘You know – the gamekeeper. He lives in that cottage.’

Sally’s head seemed to lock in place on her neck. ‘Gamekeeper?’

‘Yeah. The one with the baby pheasants. Why? What’re you giving me that look for?’

‘I’m not. I’m just interested. I’ve never met him.’

‘Well, you see him in town sometimes.’ She put a finger to her temple and circled it. ‘You know, few sandwiches short of a picnic.’

‘No. I don’t think I’ve seen him.’

‘The one they said went to Iraq? Now he’s got metal in his head? Ask Nial – he knows the whole story. Me and the others used to go over there, you know, in the old days if we were bored, except the metal in his head means he’s nuts so we stopped. Peter and the others call him Metalhead.’

Metalhead. Sally knew who that was. Kelvin Burford. He’d been at the same nursery school she and Zoe had gone to as tiny children. Kelvin had been a funny little lad – always teased. She hadn’t seen him much after nursery – he’d gone to one of the schools on the other side of Bath – and if she had seen him, it was only in the street, never to speak to. She’d have forgotten all about him if she hadn’t read about him in the Bath Chronicle – how he’d got into the army, had been blown up in Iraq and nearly died. He’d been given a metal plate to replace parts of his skull, and although the doctors had thought he’d made a full recovery, the army wouldn’t have him back because they said he’d gone mad. His talk was all about nightmares and people having their heads blown off. When she’d read in the papers about him being blown up she’d felt sorry for him – she’d even worried about him from time to time. But Kelvin Burford – the man in the cottage? The one who’d put the lipstick in the car? She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

‘And the day I was working, did you speak to him? To Metalhead?’

‘I just said I did.’

‘What did you say? You didn’t talk about why you were there?’

‘No. I mean, I said hi and that. I said my mum was working at Medallion Man’s house.’

‘Does he know your name? Where you live?’

‘I’m not completely thick, Mum. I went into his back garden. He showed me the baby pheasants and that was it. I came back. He let me put some hoods on them, which was kind of cool. Except you don’t want to get too friendly with him. He attacked a girl in Radstock – went to prison for it. That’s why I didn’t tell you I’d been there. Thought you’d freak.’ She lowered her chin and gave her mother an appraising look. ‘And I was right.’

‘Get dressed, Millie.’ Sally gave an involuntary shiver. ‘I’m taking you to school.’

26