‘Yes, it’s a bit of a cliche really,’ he said, ‘Not really my scene but Mrs Walker loves it!’
She span around.
‘Mrs Walker?’
‘Yes, come on I can hear her out the back, let me introduce you.’ He strode off around the side of the beautiful house, passing rows of carefully manicured flower pots. After a second, India ran after him and grabbed his arm.
‘Wait a minute,’ she hissed, ‘You never said you were married, What’s your wife going to think about you bringing another woman home first thing in the morning?’
‘Ask her yourself,’ he said, ‘But do me a favour, could you curb the language a bit?’
‘
‘Ahem!’ interrupted a voice and she spun around to face the person obviously standing behind her. The woman stood before her in a heavy duffel coat and green Wellington boots, holding a bucket half full of chicken feed.
‘Hello dear,’ she said sweetly, ‘Nice to meet you, my name is Agnes, Brandon’s mother!’
India and Agnes sat in the farmhouse kitchen drinking coffee as if they had known each other for years. Brandon had disappeared into the depths of the cottage.
So!’ said Agnes, ‘It’s not often he brings a lady home, what’s the occasion, I don’t suppose there is any good news on the horizon is there?’
India paused for a moment before realising what she meant.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped, ‘Nothing like that, Mrs Walker, we are not….. I mean…… Brandon and I are work colleagues.’
‘Oh I see,’ said the woman, ‘Never mind, early days yet.’
‘Mother!’ said Brandon coming back into the kitchen, ‘Leave her alone, this is strictly business.’ He turned to India ‘Anyway, let’s show you your room. We can both catch up on some sleep and then get down to business.’
‘My room?’ queried India
‘Yes, dear,’ said Agnes, ‘You will be using Brandon’s room. Don’t worry I’ve already made it up. There’s clean bedding and I have run you a nice bath.’
‘I don’t understand, how did you know I was coming?’
‘Oh Brandon sent me an e mail a few hours ago,’ she said holding up a touch screen phone, ‘He is good like that.’
India glared at Brandon.
‘Yes he is, isn’t he?’ she said sarcastically, ‘And where will Brandon be sleeping exactly?’ she asked, not letting go of his stare.
‘Don’t you worry about him,’ said Agnes, standing up and finishing the last of her coffee, ‘He will have the couch in his den!’
India stood in the doorway feeling a little awkward. She had slept for six hours and made her way downstairs in a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy T shirt. Brandon was already up reading a newspaper at the kitchen table.
‘Hi there,’ he said looking up, ‘You look better, come on through. Hungry?’
‘Famished,’ she said.
‘Mom,’ he shouted, ‘India’s awake, could you bring us something to eat.’
‘Will do,’ came a distant response
‘Do it yourself you lazy git,’ hissed India.
‘It’s okay,’ he laughed, ‘She loves it really, come on, we’ll go through to the den.’ He stood up to lead India through a side door. To her surprise it opened immediately onto a staircase leading downward.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, ‘The bat cave?’
‘Something like that,’ he said and pushed open the door at the bottom.
India stared in shock, she was not quite sure what to expect but she hadn’t expected this. The room was how she had imagined the private offices in gentlemen’s clubs or the houses of parliament might look. The ceiling was oak panelled and the walls were completely covered with bookcases containing thousands of hard backed reference books. Subtle wall lights emitted a gentle glow and there was a log fire crackling in a hearth. The furniture consisted of two deep red leather winged armchairs and against a wall was the most comfortable looking battered leather settee she had ever seen. A glass coffee table supported by metal dragon lay in the centre and the only nod to technology was a laptop on a desk underneath a stained glass window. As the only source of natural light India realised it must have been just above ground level outside. The smell of polish hung in the air and the whole thing felt warm, comfortable and stank of money.
‘This is your den?’ she asked.
‘That’s what my mother calls it,’ he said, ‘I like to think of it as my office.’
‘Some office.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is really. After my father died I bought this cottage for mum and had the cellar done out. More to stay out of her way than anything else.’
‘How did he die?’ she asked.
‘Big C,’ he said, ‘Had a bad time of it. Anyway, make yourself comfortable, we have work to do.’
‘
Brandon poured the tea while India took a bite of a ham and cucumber sandwich. Finally, she sat back and putting the crust on the table, put one teaspoon of sugar in her cup.
‘So Detective Inspector Walker,’ she said as she stirred her tea slowly, ‘Let’s start again, this time from the beginning. What is all this about?’
‘Do you watch the news, Miss Sommers?’ asked Brandon, sipping his tea.
‘Of course.’
‘Did you see the story about the dead girl found a couple of weeks ago in Victoria station London?’
‘I remember seeing something about it. Found in a toilet, as I recall.’
‘That’s right, fifteen years old, and do you remember what was the cause of death?’
‘Drugs?’
‘No, not drugs, but you wouldn’t know anyway. The details weren’t released to the media for the truth was too horrible for the sensitivities of the great British public. She wasn’t found in the toilet either, she was found deep in the underground complex, in a side tunnel.’
‘But the news said…’
‘Forget the news India.’ he said, ‘The news tells us what the government wants us to know. The truth is she was found by a maintenance team locked in a side room far down one of the disused tunnels and she was naked.’
‘Sexual assault?’ guessed India.
‘No. She had been beaten. whipped repeatedly by a nylon cane across her legs buttocks and back until the skin hung from her back in shreds.’
‘Oh my God,’ said India, ‘That poor girl. She must have died in agony.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘There was evidence that she lived for a while after her beating. There were a few crisp packets and an empty bottle of water in there with her. It seems she had been left there in the dark and eventually died of starvation.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said India quietly, ‘Do you know who she was?’
‘Yes, her name was Diane Thomas, no one of great importance. Fifteen years old from Reading. Abducted from her home a few months ago and hasn’t been seen since until her body was found.’
‘And is that why you are here, to find her killer?’
‘Not exactly, we know the killer. He was a rail worker from Hammersmith called Bennett. He used to help
