When You're Safe, page 5
“Murdered?” Stewart DeGrey said with shock.
“Yes,” Finn said.
“But it’s only a possibility,” Winters added. “We haven’t confirmed that yet. But there is some evidence to support the idea.”
“You’ll forgive me for asking,” Finn said, “but I understand this is the second death in your family in as many weeks, Mr. DeGrey?”
Stewart nodded mournfully. “My dear Uncle Quentin passed away. We haven’t even been able to put him to rest yet as they have refused to release the body.”
There was silence for a moment. Rob gave Finn a look as if to say don’t say anything until we’re sure, but Stewart DeGrey caught it, despite his disheveled state.
“You don’t think my uncle was murdered too, do you?” he said, shaking his head as if disbelieving his own words.
“We don’t know,” Winters said. “We are waiting on some more test results. But given that Maggie and your uncle died so close together, we can’t rule it out.”
“My God,” Stewart said. “He was old and had a weak heart. We just assumed…”
“Mr. DeGrey,” Finn asked. “Where were you this morning?”
“Oh, and now I’m a suspect!?”
“No,” Rob said, stepping forward and giving Finn a side glance. “We are just trying to ascertain everyone’s movements so we can piece together what Maggie was doing before her death. It could help us.”
“I was here,” Stewart DeGrey said. “I took a walk around the grounds. The groundskeeper, Mr. Lincoln, can verify that.”
“And when did you last see Maggie?” Finn pressed. He had seen too many cases where family members had murdered each other. He couldn’t discount the possibility. Indeed, that was more often than not the outcome of an investigation.
The man sighed and sat back in his chair. He held his chin as if trying to steady his words. “I saw her early this morning. Maybe around 6 a.m. She was getting ready for her run.”
“Did she say anything to you?” Winters asked, jotting down some thoughts into a little notebook she kept with her during cases.
“No,” he replied abruptly.
“Was there any argument between you both?” Winters continued.
“We hadn’t been seeing eye to eye lately.” He shook his head. “If I am honest, we had not seen eye to eye for a couple of years. Our marriage had its fair share of ups and downs, but… I loved her, you have to believe me. I can’t bear the thought that someone took her life.”
“What sort of disagreements had you been having?” Rob asked.
Then, as though a flicker of stability surged through Stewart DeGrey’s body, he stopped himself from going further. “Private matters. Nothing that could pertain to a murder.”
“Perhaps you should let us decide whether something is important or not?” Winters said. Finn knew she was trying to get a reaction.
But the man stayed firm. “No. Just one more failing marriage in a sea of divorces.”
Now Finn’s ears pricked up. “So you were thinking of divorcing?”
“We had both mentioned it,” Stewart explained. “But neither of us had the guts to go through with it. We’d argue and then make up, limping on to the next argument. We were just different people in the end. We’d grown apart. She was a lot younger than me. I fooled myself that it didn’t matter. But when two people run out of things to say to each other, what else is left?”
He looked at Finn with tears in his eyes, and for a moment Finn thought about Demi back home. Was that what had happened to them? Had they run out of things to say to each other, and Demi eventually fell into another man’s arms?
He shook away the thought.
“Is there anyone you know who would have wanted to harm Maggie?” Finn asked.
“Oh no,” Stewart replied quickly. “We may have been in a stagnant marriage, but she was a lovely person. Everyone who knew her thought so, at least, as far as I know. No one would have reason to harm her.”
Harm her, Finn thought. She might not have been the target.
“But what if it was to harm you, Mr. DeGrey?” Finn asked.
Stewart DeGrey’s face drained of color. “No… No, I can’t think I was responsible. Don’t do that to me! I couldn’t live with it!” He started to sob into his hands.
Winters nodded at Finn to let her take the lead for a moment. She walked over to the man and knelt down, looking at him face to face.
“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re not leaving blame at your door. If someone hurt her to get to you, that’s not your fault, that’s their fault. Now, think, is there anyone right now or in the past who would be out to get you in some way?”
Stewart leaned back in his chair and wiped the tears from his eyes. Winters stood up but stayed close to him. She still had concern on her face. Winters was capable of being tough when she needed to, but Finn was continually surprised by the way she could empathize.
“As part of this family,” replied Stewart, “I have dealings with people. Like anyone in business, enemies are made.”
“They are,” Finn agreed. “But if this is the case, it’s for two reasons: revenge for past deeds or to put pressure on you now to change something that’s happening. Tell me, Mr. DeGrey, is there any ongoing dispute that you’re facing? Something that could possibly get nasty?”
He nodded. “Yes. Devon Langdon. He was a business partner with one of my family’s firms for sixteen years. We built a successful retail business investing in small clothes manufacturers and getting them into the high street.”
Finn felt they were finally getting somewhere. “And what went wrong?”
“Like most businesses, they have a lifespan,” Stewart explained. “Our market was shrinking. We were being outbid by other suppliers, and several of our deals with smaller distributors hadn’t provided the cash flow the business needed. I told him it was time to walk away and sell the business’s assets. He didn’t like that.”
“What did he do?” Rob asked.
“He took me to court is what he did!” Stewart said. “You see, we had each owned forty-five percent of the business.”
“And who owned the last ten percent?” Finn pressed.
“Funnily enough, my Uncle Quentin.”
“My God,” Finn said, shaking his head. “So you and your uncle got together and had the majority to sell the company?”
“In theory,” Stewart said. “But they are putting up a damned good fight in court stalling the sale. Although my solicitor assures me that it’s only a matter of time before we win.”
“Could you provide us with Devon Langdon’s address?” Rob asked.
Stewart stood up, swaying slightly before steadying himself. He walked over to a polished writing desk with a slanted front and took out a silver pen and some paper. After scribbling down some details, he handed them to Rob.
“I can’t believe he killed my wife and uncle,” he said. “I couldn’t ever have seen that coming. If I’d known, I would have given him the damned company for all it matters!”
“It’s only a theory for now,” Rob said. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. DeGrey. And please ensure that no mention of this makes its way to Devon Langdon before we get there.”
Stewart DeGrey nodded and slumped back down into a chair. Finn had the feeling he would start drinking again the moment they left. But he knew the answers to grief could never be found at the bottom of a bottle; Finn had found that out the hard way when he was younger.
They left the room and stepped back out into the hallway. Finn half expected to see Thaddeus Lincoln standing there stooped over ready to throw them off the premises himself, but the hall was empty.
As they tried to remember the way to the small courtyard where their cars were parked, Rob turned to Finn and Winters. “I have to go and brief our communications team for the press release this afternoon. Do you think you two can handle Devon Langdon on your own?”
Finn grinned as they reached the courtyard, still bathed in shadow despite the high sun. “Of course, Chief. With Winters’s know-how and my good looks, what could possibly go wrong?”
CHAPTER SIX
The killer looked behind to see if anyone was watching, but all that could be seen was the thick marshland off in the distance. Pockets of trees remained on the more solid ground, their thick trunks wet from the creeping fingers of the marsh.
An attack of nerves wasn’t something the killer wanted to admit to. The plan was coming together and it had been carried out to perfection so far. Only through self-persuasion that confidence was king could the killer continue to bring the one goal closer into view. There was no room for nerves, but deep beneath the skin and sinew of the killer, anxiety still bubbled away.
Getting caught was not an option. Things, secrets, had to remain hidden, sometimes destroyed.
Turning back to the narrow path in front, the killer walked beside a red car and peered inside. Driving it out to the edge of that narrow pathway through the marshland had not been easy. But the valley was so narrow and forgotten, it was as good a place as any to dispose of it.
No one saw me, the killer thought. No one knows this place…
Except that wasn’t true. The killed knew that place. A personal connection to it from long ago, one mired in the fog of formative years. In some ways returning there was painful.
Nostalgia, thought the killer. Useless to me. Keep moving.
Returning to the back of the car, the killer opened the trunk and pulled out a large gas can. The killer had filled it up at a station miles away, and now it would be used to hide, to burn away the truth. If truths could be incinerated, then the killer would put a new truth in its place. One that fit the plan. One that would make it all worthwhile.
Turning the top of the canister, the killer poured some of the foul liquid into the trunk and then opened the rear door. The gas was splashed again, then in the driver’s seat. Finally, the last remnants of the thick, caustic liquid were drizzled over the top of the car and the canister thrown in through the open window to the passenger seat.
Returning to the rear of the car, the killer braced both feet against the ground. Despite the more solid land of the track, there was still a softness to it and as the killer pushed both hands onto the back of the car, it squelched underneath.
One foot after the other, the killer thought, breathing heavily and pushing hard as the car, one judder at a time, began to roll forward. At the tip of the trail was an incline, a termination of land into something worse than marsh, something deeper.
Thousands of years ago, Stone Age people had disposed of bodies in that part of the country. They were thrown into the foul-smelling mix of stagnant water, mud, and rotting plants and animals. And they would sink, eyes open, staring out into the cold darkness of the bleak sludge, trapped forever.
The killer wondered how many were still down there. People forgotten through the meandering path of time.
Secrets can be forgotten, the killer thought, pushing off with one last effort.
The car began to slowly roll down toward the blackened bog. Keeping up with it, the killer pulled out a small book of matches and struck one, throwing it into the trunk.
A wild roar rushed forward, the killer’s hands flying up instinctively to keep the searing heat at bay. A blue then yellow flame clambered all over the trunk of the car and up over the roof. Then the interior went up in a loud growl, and two windows smashed in return.
Standing there, the killer watched as everything within the car was scorched by the flames. Then, moments later, the car reached the black bog and began to sink.
The sound of air escaping and bubbling up through the surface of the thick sludge came, and the heat of the fire and coolness of the bog struggled against each other for ascendancy until finally, the flames were extinguished.
The killer stayed there, watching as the car sank lower and lower, filling up with the fluid sludge of the bog until all that could be seen was the red roof.
Then, deep within, the nerves that the killer had ignored came to the fore. The car had stopped sinking.
“No,” the killer said out loud.
Panic began to course through the killer’s veins. If the car could be seen, it would be found. It had to be submerged completely.
The killer watched. Still no movement.
Looking around, the killer grabbed a large broken branch from the side of the path and leaned out, pressing it against the roof. But the car did not give in. It held on for dear life, still poking out of the sludge.
Rushing back along the path, the killer then found a large stone. It was slightly larger than a human skull but very dense and extremely heavy. It took a moment to bring the stone up into a firm grasp and then to rest it between hand and shoulder.
I can’t hold onto this for long, the killer thought.
Picking up the pace and running toward the end of the path, with one huge shove, the killer launched the stone up slightly and then watched as it fell down onto the roof of the car below.
For a moment, it sat there looking like a solitary fisherman stranded on an island of red. But then movement came. A bubble broke the surface with a loud wet sound, and the car continued to submerge.
Down and down it went until, with one last gulp, the black bog swallowed up the car completely, taking it down beneath to the forgotten places where bog bodies and other secret histories had remained hidden for eons.
The killer breathed deeply and felt a surge of accomplishment.
I did it, the killer thought, turning attention to the next step in the plan. They’ll never see me coming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dammit,” Finn groaned to himself as he tried to stick the car into fourth gear. The gear box spat out a grinding noise before finally relenting. “Piece of junk.”
The road in front wound through a large set of low-lying hills, green and lush with summer serenity. But serenity was not currently in Finn’s mind. He was anxious to get to the small town of St. Albans as quickly as possible.
That was where Devon Langdon, their only suspect, lived.
The sun gleamed through the windscreen, but Finn’s sunglasses shielded him from the glare. Up ahead, he could see Winters’s car moving with purpose through the English countryside.
Finn’s mind was racing, too, and the coffee he’d had in the morning with his lawyer was still coursing through his veins. As he passed yet another sign for St. Albans, Finn’s mind was playing the floor is lava with several islands of worry.
Demi’s offer for reconciliation. He’d hop onto that for a moment, thinking about her. For a brief second, the thought of her felt like a warm blanket, and he sat in the memory of a stolen kiss with her on a vacation several years back beneath an old bridge on a rainy day. Then the ugly specter of her betrayal rose up.
Did I chase her into the arms of another man? he wondered. He didn’t know whether to love or loathe her. A little of both was his guess.
He hated being conflicted, but Finn had always had conflict bubbling deep down beneath his calm exterior. He’d had it when he was a poor kid in Florida trying to get out of a town that stigmatized him for being from the wrong side of the tracks. But that town was still home, and he often thought of it with a smile, too.
“You’re full of contradictions, pal,” he said out loud to himself. “And talking to yourself, as well. That’s one step away from a straitjacket. Buckle up, I guess.”
He leaned over and turned the radio on. A pop song that melted into all the other generic music he’d heard recently played. He had no idea who the artist was, but she sounded like countless others. He was almost thankful when the reception cut out and the radio struggled to find the station again.
Nothing worked in the rental as it should have, and had he not been on a case, he’d have driven back to the dealership and asked for his money back. He was trying to keep up and felt the car struggling.
Amelia Winters was driving ahead, and she had just taken a turn off the current road.
Finn followed the car closely and then watched as the rolling hills, only an hour’s drive from London, parted, revealing a startling sight. St. Albans looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. The streets were old and even cobbled in places. They wound around the small basin where the town sat, coiling like a snake. On either side, the streets were flanked by cozy white cottages with red slated gambrel roofs.
Finn half expected to see the residents moving around town on horseback, but the old English facade of the place was joined by the occasional twenty-first-century apartment building and cars grumbling through the strange timelessness of it all.
Pulling up in a small parking lot beside an old, white-walled pub, Finn got out and saw Winters already standing there waiting for him. She had put her hair up into a bun while waiting.
He continually tried to ignore her beauty. It wasn’t conducive to a good working relationship and he knew that. He also knew that he was in a fragile place, more fragile than he liked to admit, even to himself. His career in the FBI and his love life both hung by a thread. Falling for his partner would have been all too easy, and so he had to give himself a shake to make certain it wouldn’t happen.
“Did someone cut your hair from the backseat?” Finn joked.
“No,” Winters sighed. “I haven’t had a chance to get my hair trimmed recently and it gets in my eyes sometimes. So I put it up.”
“Happens to me, too, so don’t worry about it,” Finn said.
“Your hair gets in your eyes?” Winters asked with a puzzled expression.
“No,” he said. “But I get in women’s eyes all the time. I have to keep telling them. Stop looking. I’m a human being, not a piece of meat. Hands off, ladies.”
Winters rolled her eyes. “You really think a lot of yourself, don’t you, Finn?”
“Someone has to,” he said, the words just slipping out. “So where are we heading now?”
Winters looked down at her phone. “Devon Langdon’s business address is this pub, bizarrely.”
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