Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 21
The firelight shines on her perfect face as Destiny pushes back her hair, and Nick sees the vivid lilac bruising beneath her ear.
‘I drove and drove, but I was running out of petrol and I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t go back. I saw footprints in the snow – they must have been yours, Nick – and I thought they might lead to a house where I could shelter. And that’s how I ended up here …’
Lorraine has her arm around Destiny’s small shoulders. She looks on the verge of tears. ‘I wish you’d said, love,’ she murmurs.
‘What good would it have done? I only told David because he’s a doctor and I was worried about the damage to my neck.’
And he’s a good listener, unlike me, thinks Nick, ashamed.
‘So are you really a yoga teacher?’ asks Alan.
‘Alan!’ snaps Lorraine.
Destiny half smiles. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Everything else I’ve told you is true. I am going to a cottage alone for Christmas – he never liked me coming to his family’s, because “they’re a bit funny about Asians”, apparently.’
‘My God,’ David murmurs. ‘Destiny, I don’t know where Emily and I will go after all this, but come with us. Seriously. We’d love to have you, and we’ll work out a plan for your future.’
‘Thank you.’
Nick looks at them, smiling into each other’s eyes, and wonders where they’ll go from here. If it might be together.
31
Dinner is a salad, featuring half-cooked ribbons of slimy courgette and a scattering of raw macadamia nuts, assembled by Destiny and served by Violet, who came downstairs with her wet hair pinned up. She seems to have decided to behave like a polite guest on a pleasant weekend break, sitting in the corner with a book. Branson arrives with red eyes, avoiding Violet’s glance, and pours a brandy so large Nick worries he’ll choke.
He misses Colt’s cooking with a visceral longing. There’s still no sign of the chef as Nick pokes unhappily at the tepid vegetable matter on his plate, and he has a sudden mental image of the young man lying lifeless on his bed.
Lorraine forks at a large, pale nut. ‘Is there any meat, Debs?’
‘No.’ Destiny is irritated. ‘Obviously not, I’m vegan. I’m hardly going to be chopping up corpses …’ She realises what she’s said. ‘Anyway, I got the recipe ages ago from the Beansprout Lady on TikTok. You should try her fermented pine-nut cheese: it’s a revelation.’
Branson pushes his untouched plate away. ‘What did Alan say?’ he murmurs to Nick.
Nick tells him. ‘I still can’t think of a motive,’ he says. ‘Or at least, it’s not yet possible to guess.’ A thought strikes him. ‘Alan,’ he calls down the table. ‘What’s your business? You haven’t said.’
Alan looks both irritated and proud. ‘Software security,’ he says promptly. ‘There’s not much Pinner Consulting doesn’t know about computing safety.’
‘Thanks.’
Nick turns back to Branson. ‘Tell me everything you remember about the competition you won to stay here.’
Branson pulls a face. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
Nick shrugs, and Branson shakes his lighter. ‘Getting low on fluid,’ he says with a sigh. ‘It was Penny, really. She was the one who entered.’
‘But you told me she didn’t enter, she just found out she’d won. From a group?’
‘Oh yeah, you’re right. That’s true.’ Branson exhales an acrid stream of smoke. ‘So, she was in this nostalgia group about growing up in Harrogate, and sometime back in October I guess it was, she came and found me in my study and said, “Hey, guess what, we’ve won a trip.” She said she’d had a message from some admin person to say she’d been chosen for a two-night stay at Mistletoe Manor. Penny checked it out and it seemed legit, and we thought, Hell, we’re going to the UK for Christmas anyway …’ Branson shakes his head, and falls silent.
‘Might you have access to Penny’s computer?’
‘She didn’t bring it.’
Nick’s heart sinks.
‘She did bring her phone though. I just … After what happened, I put it in the bedside drawer. I couldn’t look at it.’
‘Do you know her passcode?’
‘Sure. It’s our wedding anniversary.’ Branson looks away, clearly unwilling to meet the judgement he fears he’ll see in Nick’s eyes. ‘I’ll go get it.’
Branson returns, clutching an iPhone. The screensaver is a picture of Penelope and Branson, running on the beach with a golden Labrador. They look like an advert for midlife vitamin supplements. He deftly taps the screen and hands it to Nick.
‘Here’s the screenshots I took, in case it was a scam.’
The first photo is the group page: ‘We grew up in Harrogate and Surrounds’. There are over eight hundred people in the group, and none of the names are familiar. Nick scrolls through a few screenshots – most of the posts are from older members, black-and-white pictures of terraced houses and ragged children with lengthy, misspelled captions about playing in the street till dusk and a farthing for an ice lolly. It doesn’t seem the sort of thing the sophisticated Penelope would have enjoyed. The next photo reveals the message he’s looking for.
Congratulations, Penelope! You’ve won a trip for two to beautiful Mistletoe Manor!
The message goes on to explain that she’s been randomly selected from the group, that all she has to do is email admin@harrogatememories.com for the details. The message sender is simply ‘Harrogate Memories’, and there’s a shot of the email too, a reiteration of the Facebook message, offering a two-night stay with dinner – must be taken in the week before Christmas.
That’s hardly normal, is it? Nick wonders. Most places are full before Christmas; the last thing they want is competition winners clogging the place up, costing them money. The final messages are obviously an afterthought, Branson ensuring ‘everything’s legit’ as he puts it.
The image is of a private message to Penelope. Hi! Saw your profile and thought our new group might be of interest! Would love it if you’d join!
Penelope had typed a jolly No problemo! beneath. She must have clicked the link and joined on 5 October. She won the prize on the fourteenth. The group was launched last September.
Someone was very keen to get Penelope to Mistletoe Manor this week. Whoever the admin is, thinks Nick, as he hands the phone back to Branson, they’re here with us right now, sleeping alongside us, eating with us, crying and commiserating even as they plan their next move. He has to find them, before someone else is murdered.
Nick feels he’s had enough wine. It’s making his head feel muggy and humid, and he needs to be sharp. As he crosses the hall after dinner, he opens the vast front door to let some air into the building and disperse the fug of Branson’s cigarettes. The snow is still relentlessly falling. It feels both cruel and personal, as though the weather is enacting a cosmic punishment. Get a grip, Nick. You’re not Destiny. He’s increasingly aware of how fragile mental health can become, when humans are trapped and under great stress. Nick turns as Lorraine appears behind him.
‘Bloody brass monkeys,’ she says. ‘Get that door shut!
‘Sorry.’ Reluctantly, Nick closes the door, and Lorraine follows him back into the freezing hall.
‘God, that tree’s had it,’ she says, looking at the drooping pine. ‘It’s like the opposite of Christmas.’
He looks at the space where the fairy lights used to be. ‘Lorraine, I need to check something with you.’
The smile drops from her face. ‘Go on.’
‘Did something happen to Liz?’
‘Liz?’ She freezes, like a cat before a snake.
‘Alan’s ex-wife. I wondered if …’
‘No. We don’t talk about … It’s got absolutely nothing to do with – no!’ Lorraine turns and almost runs back to the drawing room, her breath coming in short, panicky gasps. Nick is left in the hall gazing after her, as the clock chimes away another hour of this dark day.
Nick returns to his room to make a cup of tea – No wonder you don’t sleep well, you’re awash with caffeine, says Harriet in his head – and is startled by a sudden scratching at the base of the door. He cracks it open, and Jingle saunters in, jumping neatly on to the bed where he settles down and launches a purr like a stick rattling on railings. Nick is enormously pleased to see him, not least because the cat is currently the only individual in the entire manor he can trust. He may have a few interview techniques, but that’s all he’s got. He can’t detain anyone, or arrest them, or charge them. All he can do is ask questions. He sighs. He has another unpleasant task ahead.
Up the attic stairs, Colt’s door is firmly closed, and Nick knocks gently.
‘Colt?’
‘Yeah, man.’
Nick is flooded with relief to hear his voice. ‘Just wanted to check you’re OK. Do you need anything?’
‘Nah. I’m good.’
‘Food? A drink?’
‘Nope. Got what I need.’
Nick hesitates, reluctant to abandon the younger man, or let him believe he’s still the prime suspect.
‘Might have a lead, Colt,’ he says through the door. ‘I need to do a bit more digging. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was you.’
A pause.
‘Cheers. It wasn’t.’
‘No. Well … bye, then.’
There is silence behind the door. Nick heads downstairs, convinced he could have handled the brief conversation a great deal better.
If they can all just get through the night, tomorrow, surely, they’ll make it out of Mistletoe Manor. He has to find the killer, and get home in time for Cara’s first Christmas. He misses his tiny daughter with a visceral homesickness.
Nick thinks with yearning of their flat, the innocent scent of Cara’s baby wipes mingling with the soothing warmth of Harriet’s birthday-present Feu de Bois Diptyque candle. This is different from time spent away working. Then, he knows when he’s coming back, he can FaceTime, he can tell Harriet all about his day and listen to stories of hers … but this, snow-bound and fearful, feels like being in a diving bell on the bottom of the ocean, unsure how long the oxygen will last.
With a stab of guilt, Nick remembers Harriet’s disappointment as he headed off. ‘The week before Christmas, Nick! I’ll have to do everything on my own.’
He’d been brusque and thoughtless. ‘It’s work, Harri. It’s not like I’m choosing to abandon you.’
She’d shrugged, Cara in her arms as she watched him throw clothes into a bag.
‘You love getting away, though, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Makes you appreciate us all the more. Whereas I never get the chance to appreciate our home life because I’m always here.’
‘Only till the end of maternity leave.’
Harriet sighed. ‘If I have a job to go back to.’
Oh, stop moaning, Nick recalls thinking fiercely. I’m doing my best, can’t you see that?
It occurs to him now that he’s entirely failed to notice Harriet doing her best, for months. He’ll make it up to her, he promises himself. If he ever gets out of here.
In his bedroom, Nick unplugs his phone from the charger and takes it over to the window. He opens the shutters, and pushes up the sash. Snowflakes swirl into the room, melting against his skin.
He leans from the window in the freezing air, holding the phone up as high as he can reach. Surely by now, the mast has been mended? The main roads must have been gritted too: this isn’t The Day After Tomorrow. He peers at the small, glowing screen, struggling to see amid the whirling snow. Is that …?
He brings it to his face to check, and his body floods with adrenalin. One bar of signal.
Nick dials, but even as he does so, the bar drops away. There isn’t enough for a call. He tries texting 999, but nothing happens. He waves the phone frantically into the frozen night, praying to the gods of technology. Nothing.
Call the police. Get them to come to Mistletoe Manor, on Yorkshire Moors. I’m OK but we need help NOW. Urgent. N x.
He presses send, watching the symbol spin. He imagines Harriet lit by the soft glow of the Christmas tree. She’ll be in front of the TV watching one of their old favourites, perhaps Slow Horses, or Shetland. Fictional murders. So entertaining. In his mind, she hears the soft ding of an arriving message, she scans the screen, then dials 999, rising from the sofa clutching her glass of Merlot as she gives the location … How long will it take the police to get through? They’ll have access to a snowplough. By midnight, this could all be over. Nick draws his numb hand back into the room and looks at the screen again, his heart thudding with hope.
No bars. His desperate message remains unsent.
Nick makes his way downstairs. Branson, who is sitting alone in an armchair, catches Nick’s eye with a complicit half-smile. He seems less grief-stricken now he’s offloaded his suspicions. Or is he simply tired of pretending?
Destiny is brushing her long, shining hair. She smiles at Emily. ‘What will you do till bedtime?’
‘I want to explore, but Daddy says he has to come with me,’ grumbles Emily. ‘It’s boring being with grown-ups all the time.’
Sensible David, thinks Nick.
‘I want to look for clues,’ adds Emily.
‘Clues?’
‘To the murders.’
‘Emily!’ David looks stricken.
‘Daddy, I know about murders. I read books. Anyway, Blessing told me ages ago her cousin was killed in a car-jacking. The men had on masks and they got out guns and they shot him right in the head and blood went everywhere …’
‘Blessing should never have told you!’ David sounds angry and Emily shrinks back.
‘Sorry, Daddy. She didn’t mean to.’
‘You’re too little to know about things like that.’
‘I’m not. I’m nine quite soon.’ Emily’s bottom lip quivers and she stares unblinkingly at the fire.
Destiny puts a gentle hand on her arm. ‘It’s all right, love,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She turns to David. ‘You’ve done an amazing job of protecting her, David, but she’s right. She’s got to face reality.’
‘She’s eight years old!’ Nick hasn’t seen David truly upset before. His whole body is rigid with distress, and his hand is shaking as he holds Emily’s toothbrush. ‘She’s been through enough. Losing her mother, moving to South Africa …’
‘Emily,’ Matilda leans forward, ‘why don’t we go and look at more of my photos? I know you enjoy sorting them out.’ She glances up. ‘If that’s all right, David.’
‘If you’d like to, Em.’
She nods, and Matilda takes her hand, leading the small girl away from talk of murder and mayhem.
Half an hour later, they’re back.
‘Auntie Mattie showed me more photos of her little girls, Joanna and Catherine,’ gabbles Emily. ‘She calls Joanna JoJo. And we talked about her husband and about the clothes people wore in the olden days …’
‘Well, not entirely the olden days.’ Matilda laughs, sitting down. ‘It was the 1980s not the 1880s.’
‘No, but they had really great toys,’ Emily enthuses. She tells Violet, ‘There was a photo of Christmas morning and JoJo was holding a Girl’s World – it’s like a big doll’s head you can do make-up on and style its hair.’
‘Oh, I had one of those!’ Lorraine laughs. ‘Me and my sister were always squabbling over it, and once she scribbled on its cheek with a green felt-tip! Our mum went mad about that …’
‘I wish I had a sister to play with, though,’ says Emily. ‘Like JoJo and Catherine. They were good friends, Auntie Mattie says.’
‘Where are your daughters now, Mattie?’ Lorraine asks, still smiling.
Matilda sighs, and glances at Emily as Violet distracts her with her own memories of the coveted Barbie jeep she once unwrapped as a little girl.
‘A long way away,’ Matilda tells Lorraine. ‘That’s why my photos are so important. I do miss them so, especially at this time of year.’
‘Grandchildren?’
‘Yes. I’m a very proud granny.’
‘Aaah.’ Lorraine puts her head on one side. ‘Can’t you visit? Mind you, plane fares are astronomical now, aren’t they?’
Matilda nods. ‘Yes, and I’m not as young as I was. It’s all such a dreadful faff.’
‘You’re not wrong. Last time we went to Faliraki …’ Lorraine is off on an anecdote. Nick wonders why these beloved daughters don’t visit their aged mother at Christmas. Then again, there’s no understanding other people’s families. He remembers his own dismal festive visits to the grandparents. Perhaps to Matilda’s grandchildren it would feel just as bad: the ticking clock and the careful doling out of gritty mince pies. No wonder they’d rather stay in Brisbane or New York or wherever they are. Right now, he’d give a great deal to be several thousand miles away from here, too.
‘You look terrible, Nick,’ says Destiny, seeing his expression. ‘Want me to run through some yoga basics? In fact, we all should – including you, Emily. It’ll help you feel calm when everyone’s being a worry-bucket. Including your old dad.’ Destiny smiles winningly at David, and he smiles grudgingly back.
‘That’s very kind, Destiny.’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ says Branson unexpectedly. ‘Penny was big into yoga. I wish I’d paid more attention.’
‘I’ll give it another whirl,’ agrees Lorraine. ‘Can’t hurt.’
Matilda and Alan play gin rummy by the fire, occasionally looking over as Destiny shows them how to release the breath, shake out the tension, essay a sun salutation … Nick has joined in for want of an excuse, but he finds the exercise, however mild, is surprisingly helpful. He tunes out Destiny’s intonations about cleansing goddess breaths, and just follows her movements. Harriet would never believe it, he thinks as he contorts himself into a downward dog. He may never tell her.
‘Destiny, that was wonderful,’ says David afterwards. He looks almost healthy, his cheeks flushed from movement. ‘I always advise exercise for my patients, but I must suggest more of them try yoga …’
