The Devil’s Dice

Chapter 7

Outside, it smelt like fresh-cut grass, and the front lawns looked recently manicured, their edges trimmed and compliant. I turned the car carefully, aware that metaphorical net curtains were twitching, and we left the gated complex to set off for the Station.

‘My God,’ I said. ‘Are the 1950s on the phone wanting their good housewife back?’

Jai snorted. ‘But surely every wife asks her husband’s permission before going out to work?’

‘Unbelievable. I’m still in shock. Is she on Valium or something? The effort of keeping my mouth shut almost killed me.’

‘He was weird too,’ Jai said. ‘Seemed quite chuffed Hamilton had done the decent thing and pegged it.’

‘Did you find out anything more from her?’

‘She confirmed he was home all evening on Sunday watching TV. And as far as she was aware, he was at work all day yesterday, but obviously she doesn’t know that. And she comes from Alabama originally.’

I pulled onto a muddy lane, noticing sheets flapping in the garden of a cottage on the corner, and an old wheelbarrow in the driveway stacked with logs. It was reassuringly messy after the clinical pristineness of Edward and Grace’s estate.

‘Alabama? Maybe that explains the Stepford Wife thing?’

‘She was definitely a bit Stepford. Do you think she could be programmed to kill?’

I laughed. ‘That feature’ll be in the next software update. She’d probably lie to cover for him though. All part of being a good little wifey.’

‘And the comment about the child genius having Jesus in his heart.’

‘I know. Sounds painful. Do you think they can sort that with an operation?’ I glanced at Jai, checking if I was offending him. Not clear-cut either way.

‘And you managed to upset the kid so much he chucked a mug on the floor?’ he said.

‘Something like that.’ I pictured Alex’s smug face when I’d confirmed his view of the card game, and poor Rosie’s disappointment. Why couldn’t I have just said I didn’t know? ‘Did Grace tell you anything else?’

‘She met Edward when he was travelling round the US after he graduated. His car broke down when he was passing through her town, and she rescued him, and they were soul mates.’

‘How romantic. Do you think Edward could have done it?’

‘He’s coldly logical,’ Jai said. ‘I could kind of imagine him disposing of the inconvenient.’

‘And he’d do it intelligently, with no unnecessary blood and gore. Just like the other partner. Could they have done it together?’

In Eldercliffe, sandbags were piled high in an alleyway between cottages. I knew during stormy weather, water ran in streams down this road and sometimes into the living rooms of the houses. But I hadn’t heard a storm forecast.

‘Both partners have got a financial motive, if Hamilton had been screwing up at work,’ Jai said. ‘Sounds like something’s changed in the last year with him.’

‘An affair?’

‘Sounds like more than an affair to me.’

‘I don’t know. If he was sleeping with that client who was expressing her grief by complaining loudly about her patent cases and elbowing me in the ribs, it could be quite traumatic.’

‘Love works in mysterious ways.’ Jai wiped at a smear on the passenger window. ‘Or maybe he finished it with her and she bumped him off.’

Back at the Station, I was intercepted by Fiona Redfern, the new DC – all young and keen and untarnished by cynicism. She bounced after me as I limped into my room.

‘We found some drugs in his office,’ she said.

I sat heavily in my chair. ‘What? Drugs drugs?’

I waved vaguely at another chair but Fiona stayed standing. ‘Medical drugs. We haven’t identified them yet. Two different types – one looks like it might be an anti-depressant and we’ve no idea about the other one.’

‘Are you sure they weren’t to do with his work? He files patent applications for pharmaceuticals.’

‘They were in a locked drawer with personal belongings and one of the other partners said it wouldn’t be normal for him to have samples of drugs he’s working on. So I don’t think they’re for work. I’m going to talk to his GP’

‘Okay, good. Anything else?’

‘I asked my granny about that cave – you know, the rumours. I know it’s not really haunted, but if people think it is…’

‘It’s okay. I agree. What did she say?’

‘She said the ghost was a healer who lived there in Victorian times. She starved herself to death after her lover died. You can still see her in the cave when the wind gets up in the quarry…’ She licked her lips. ‘Sorry, I know that’s silly. There was nothing recent or relevant.’

‘Okay. Thanks for checking it out.’

Fiona smiled and seemed to loosen up a bit. It occurred to me that she was nervous of me. I didn’t want that. I liked Fiona. I’d even discovered she and I had been on the same march in London, although we hadn’t known each other then. She obviously shared my feelings about a Chinese ‘festival’ that involved boiling live dogs.

‘Don’t worry about telling me stuff that might be silly,’ I said. ‘I want you to say what you think. In fact, if you’re not making ridiculous suggestions on a regular basis, you’re probably not contributing enough.’

She gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Okay. Right. Thanks. Well, we got the results on those papers from the fire in their house.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘The very top of one piece of paper was legible and it just had one word on it. Tithonus.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An ancient Greek in a myth. He got older and older but could never die.’

I spent some time sticking information into the computer and browsing through what others had entered. My thoughts kept drifting to the girl in the Labyrinth. Hanging deep inside a cave where they used to take witches, the initials of dead people cut into the rock behind her. The last thing I needed in my head was an image of a girl hanging from a noose, but could it be relevant? She’d lived in the same house as our victim, and it was a strange coincidence that his initials were also cut into the cave wall behind him.

I hauled myself out of my chair and wandered off to track down Ben Pearson, the reactive sergeant from the day before. I found him at his desk, fighting with an online form. He seemed glad to be disturbed.

‘Yesterday’s victim lived in the same house?’ He touched his beard as if it was a lucky charm. ‘As the girl who committed suicide in the Labyrinth?’

‘Yep. His poor wife thinks the house is cursed.’

Ben swallowed. ‘I did hear a rumour. The girl’s father died at the house, of course.’

‘What exactly happened to the girl?’

‘She went in to the Labyrinth. It…’ He scraped a hand through his receding hair. ‘Sorry. It took us too long to find the noose. It’s way deep inside and we kept taking wrong turns, again and again. It was horrendous. Almost as if the tunnels were moving around while we were in there. But she’d found it all right.’

I tried to keep it business-like, to not picture her. But Ben wasn’t helping.

‘The noose is an old, old chain.’ He shuddered. ‘Hanging from a hook high up on the cave roof. And there’s a big square rock under it, almost the height of a man. The noose hangs down above the edge of the rock. So, you can climb on the rock, reach forward, take the noose and put it round your neck. And then just step forward off the rock.’

‘God. And it’s been like that since they used to hang witches?’

‘I think the chain’s from Victorian times. They’ve been hanging witches in there longer than that.’

‘And this girl? She’d… She’d already done it.’

Ben hesitated. He was very still. ‘Yes. We were too late. Took too long finding her. She was gone.’

I was holding it together. Pretending I was okay. But I couldn’t talk any more about the girl. ‘And this happened after her father died?’

‘Yes. He either fell or committed suicide, off the cliff at the side of that house.’

‘Where there’s a little rock garden?’

‘Yes. He didn’t leave a note, but there was something else. I’m not sure if they decided it was relevant.’

‘What was it?’

‘He left a sketchbook full of drawings of the Grim Reaper.’

Chapter 8

I left Ben and headed back to my desk, my mind feeling tangled and confused, as if I was staring at equations I couldn’t solve. I knew a house couldn’t really be cursed, but what if people believed it was? It could be like Pointing Bones or clusters of suicides or the placebo effect. Belief in the curse could make it true. I remembered reading about a man who’d been diagnosed with cancer, and obediently died, only for the post-mortem to reveal that the diagnosis had been wrong. There was no cancer, and the man was in good health, other than being dead. Your own brain could kill you.

‘What were you talking to Tat for?’

I jumped and looked up to see Craig looming over me.

‘Sorry? Who?’

‘Tat.’

I deliberately misunderstood. I wasn’t going to call the poor man Tat, even if his entire body was covered in them.

‘Ben Pearson,’ Craig explained as if to a small child.

‘He was the duty sergeant.’ Why was I explaining myself to Craig? I turned to my screen.

Craig laughed unpleasantly. ‘Don’t try to get him through any metal detectors. It’s not just tattoos. There’s all sorts going on in there.’

I was wondering how on earth to deal with Craig, when Jai appeared. ‘I don’t think Meg’s as fascinated by Ben’s piercings and tattoos as you clearly are, Craig,’ he said. ‘Have you got some kind of homoerotic fantasy going on?’

Craig swore at Jai and sloped off.

‘You handle him so well,’ I said.

‘I’ve had lots of practice. He’s unpleasant but he’s not that bright, fortunately. Did you find anything out from Ben?’

‘There’s something odd going on at that house. The guy who died ten years ago left a sketchbook full of drawings of the Grim Reaper.’

‘Like the carving on the wall of the cave?’

‘Sounded like it.’

‘And his daughter hanged herself in the Labyrinth where initials of dead people are carved into the wall.’

I nodded. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit sinister. But there’ll be a rational explanation. I’m going to talk to his brother. He’s a doctor. I don’t suppose he’ll believe in curses and witches.’

Mark Hamilton’s farmhouse sat at the end of a short, stony drive, surrounded by barns and abandoned machinery. It was in a craggy region to the west of Eldercliffe, and the Peak District hills were visible in the distance, laced over with pale stone walls.

I parked in a gravel area and climbed out of the car, and a bunch of fluffy chickens marched over and gave me a bit of a talking to. They seemed to have something important on their minds, but they scattered when I made my way to the house.

Close up, the house was run-down but lovely, the old stonework held together with crumbly lime mortar and the windows forming odd reflections with their original warped glass. I was just beginning to feel calmed by its demeanour when a ferocious growling erupted from inside and something crashed against the glass of the door. I jumped back. Was he keeping wolves in the hallway?

The door opened a fraction and a man’s face appeared through the gap. He was holding back waves of dogs like an animal-loving King Canute. Tails wagged and tongues lolled. My breathing slowed. ‘Sorry,’ he shouted over the frenzied barking. ‘They’re a bit excited. Hang on, let me get leads.’ But he didn’t actually move.

‘I like dogs,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t worry, assuming they’re friendly.’ One of my senior colleagues in Manchester had told me: ‘If you admire someone’s dog, you own their ass.’ Setting aside the fake Americanism (watching too much CSI), he’d had a point.

The man let the door open. Christ, that was a lot of dogs. Barking and leaping and hurling droplets of slobber at my face. He rushed out after them, flapping his hands. ‘Sorry! Get down!’

His clothes looked like they’d been recycled out of the laundry bin – a look I wasn’t unfamiliar with – and he hadn’t shaved that day.

‘Mark Hamilton?’ I said.

He gave a quick nod. I folded my arms and ignored the dogs, who quickly went from jumping to wiggling and wagging. I showed Mark my card.

He held out a hand, then pulled it back and examined it. ‘No, don’t shake my hand. Just been preparing dog food.’

I smiled and whipped my hand back. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I know it’s difficult but the sooner we can get onto this—’

‘Yes, I understand. Come in. Sorry about the mess. Peter’s death, it’s thrown me. And sorry the place reeks of dog food. I do it in bulk – cook it, bag it up, freeze it. I have so many, it saves money, but it’s a bit gross.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, although there was a rancid smell in the air.

‘It’s taking my mind off things today,’ Mark said. ‘They made me take the day off but I’m not sure it’s good to be at home with my thoughts.’

We waded through dogs into a farmhouse kitchen. I glanced into a pantry rammed full of industrial-looking junk. There were bits of old pallets, the ends of gutters, wellies with their feet chopped off, mouse-chewed cardboard boxes.

‘I can’t throw anything away,’ Mark said. ‘I think it’s almost pathological.’

In the kitchen, piles of papers and cats sat on all the surfaces and more cats covered an Aga. An elderly dog lay in the corner, draped over the side of his basket like one of Dali’s soft clocks. Unwashed crockery filled the sink and a fly graveyard decorated the windowsill. This wasn’t just one day’s worth of mess. Gran would have said he needed a good woman. She hadn’t realised you could no longer rely on women for unpaid cleaning duties.

‘Sit down,’ Mark said, waving his hand in the direction of a scrubbed pine table. All the chairs were covered in papers or cats, some both. Was I supposed to sit on top of them?

‘Oh, you can move her.’ He pointed at a grey cat. ‘Oh no, not her.’ I snatched my hand back. ‘This one. Here.’

I plonked myself down and allowed the ejected cat to climb onto my knee.

‘I’m sorry. I take on far too many animals. Especially the older ones.’ Mark walked to the sink, ran water over his hands and wiped them on his trousers. He’d obviously read the research about excessive hygiene being bad for you. He collapsed onto one of the chairs, lifting and scooping a cat onto his knee in a practised motion.

The formalities out of the way, I said, ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your brother?’

‘You know, I really can’t. He was so normal. Not involved with any dubious characters. Everyone liked him.’

‘There’s been a suggestion he might have been depressed recently? Or possibly drinking too much?’

Mark looked at the cat on his knee and stroked it gently. ‘Yes, maybe he has been a little down.’

‘Do you know why?’

The cat stood, arched its back, and re-settled on Mark’s knee. He rubbed under its chin. ‘Just pressure of work, I think.’

‘And, well, could there be any possibility he was having an affair?’ I tried to say this sensitively but it was hard not to speak ill of the dead when conducting these kinds of investigations.

‘Peter? I’d be really surprised. I don’t know when he’d have time apart from anything else. He was terribly busy.’

‘And what about the relationship with his wife, Kate? Was it good?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’ Mark’s stroking became jerky and the cat looked up at him with an irritated expression.

‘Don’t you work in the same medical practice as Peter’s wife?’

‘Same building, different practices.’

‘And do you get along?’

‘We get along all right, yes.’ He gave a pointed sigh. ‘Look, I’m going to be totally honest here. Peter and I had an argument. I feel terrible. The last things I said to him weren’t nice. But I didn’t kill him.’

‘What was the argument about?’

Mark looked startled as if he was surprised I’d asked this obvious question. ‘Oh, as I said, he’s been very moody recently. It was just about his behaviour.’

‘What had he done, specifically?’

He scraped his chair away from me. ‘Nothing in particular – just general irritability. Work stress mainly, but he shouldn’t have taken it out on Kate or me.’

I spoke very gently. ‘Is there any possibility he could have taken his own life, do you think?’

Mark’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no, he wouldn’t do that. No, I’d feel terrible if he’d done that. After we’d argued. No, he didn’t kill himself.’

There was something I liked about this man, with his chaotic kitchen and impractical quantities of animals. At that moment, I felt like blurting out my own confession. To a stranger, even though I’d told no-one, not even Mum or my oldest friend, Hannah. But of course I didn’t. I kept it professional.

‘What about the rest of your family?’ I asked. ‘Do they live close?’

‘Beth lives in Ashbourne, and she visits Peter and me quite often. Dad lives near Stanton Moor, with Granny in an annexe. I’m afraid our mother died when we were children.’ I remembered the woman in the wheelchair, in the old photograph in Peter Hamilton’s study.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ The cat dug its claws into my knee. I tried to shift it into a better position. ‘Peter’s wife said something about their house. About there being some kind of…’ I hesitated to show him I appreciated the odd nature of my question. ‘Curse. Do you know anything about that?’

Mark froze. It was as if the air around us went colder. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

‘I realise there isn’t actually a curse,’ I said. ‘But sometimes there’s a reason behind these rumours. And Kate said nobody had wanted to buy their house, and there have been a few deaths there.’

‘It’s utterly ridiculous. You know what people are like. They can’t handle coincidences. You always get clusters of deaths sometimes, it’s the way probability works. It’s like these cancer clusters people get so hysterical about. Just the result of randomness.’

‘So you’ve no idea what the so-called curse is about?’

‘Of course not. It’s nonsense.’

‘And what about Peter? What did he think?’

‘I’m sure he heard the silly rumours, but he was a scientist. He didn’t believe in a curse any more than I do.’

The road swept steeply down to Eldercliffe, the jumbled roofs and spidery lanes spreading below me like a toy village. The hills rose beyond the town, and the old limestone quarries shone white, as if a monster had taken bites out of the apple-green hillside. I wound my way into the marketplace, and parked on a slope which made me nervous about my car’s handbrake.

I wanted to check Mark Hamilton’s and Kate Webster’s movements for the day before. The surgery where they worked was on a side street which climbed from the town centre, and I struggled up between stone cottages so tiny they looked like Hobbit houses. I wondered if there was a kind of medieval witch trial system in place, because anyone capable of making it up the hill to the doctor’s clearly wasn’t particularly ill.

The surgery sat like an ugly boil amidst the loveliness of the other buildings – a concrete edifice overlaid with square windows like a messed up Mondrian. The early evening sun emerged briefly from behind the clouds as I arrived, sending a shaft of light onto the front of the building and further emphasising its hideousness. I tutted about planning laws, and walked through automatic doors into a spacious reception area that smelt of bleach and sickness.