‘What do you make of James? You can be honest.’
Justin shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s handsome, friendly, good at sport and yet...’ He seemed to be searching for the right expression.
‘Weak,’ Matlock said, and sat down heavily.
They sat side by side, Matlock in contemplation, Justin in reverie.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ Matlock said, helping himself to yet more Pernod. He had been drinking it like lemonade, and up till now it had apparently had little or no effect on him.
Justin stretched out his arms and crossed his legs. ‘Well, it’s quite a long story. I was born in France...’
‘You hardly have any trace of an accent,’ Matlock said, his attention waning as he stared at the ocean. ‘Looks like it might get rough.’
‘I was educated, if one could call it that, in England.’
‘Where?’ Matlock still wasn’t interested.
Justin paused a fraction. ‘A children’s detention centre.’
Matlock stopped in the act of raising his glass to his lips. ‘A young offenders’ institution?’
‘Yes. I was sent there at the age of fourteen.’
Matlock was taken aback, but tried not to show it. ‘Drugs was it?’
‘No.’ Justin was enjoying himself, and took his time. He said he had not committed any petty crime and had been only ten years old when he committed it.
‘Ten? Good God! What on earth could you have done at that age for them to put you away?’
‘Murder. The murder of my parents, to be exact. You may recall the case. My father’s name was Martin Moorcroft, my mother Madeleine. I was Child B.’
Matlock had thought he had recognized Justin and Laura when he first saw them together at the island, but had not thought about it again. Until now.
‘I do remember something...’ His mind was spinning but he hid his confusion by drinking, then searching for a cigar.
‘My sister, Child A, came to England with me after the murders,’ Justin continued. ‘We were there as wards of my father’s sister, a widow, Frances Chalmers.’
Matlock clipped the end of the cigar. He couldn’t look at Justin because the truth was dawning on him. ‘We were both accused of the murders,’ Justin continued, in a conversational way, as if he was discussing nothing more serious than the weather. ‘There was also a third murder, the body found in the swimming-pool, but it had decomposed. It had been one of our first nannies, a horrid woman. Everyone thought she had just upped and packed her bags but she hadn’t.’ He giggled.
‘Then there was Camilla Maynard. She came out to look after us much later. You must remember her. Her brother was Andrew Maynard MP. He committed suicide. Well, his sister Camilla had talked to all the journalists about us. Doesn’t ring any bells?’ Matlock took out his lighter, and put it to his cigar. He sucked in too strongly and the smoke burnt his lungs. ‘My mother died in a fire.’ Justin was studying the curling blue cigar smoke.
‘Your sister?’ Matlock asked, his voice sounding thick.
‘Child A was only eight, and they couldn’t find a place in prison for her. She was far too young. According to French law, we both were. Instead we were sent to a specialist psychiatric unit in England by the French government.’ Justin’s eyes bored into Matlock’s forehead. ‘My sister was always highly strung, very dependent on me. Well, we had never been apart and were very close. After a few sweet years of care in the hands of the psychiatric unit and our dear aunt, the whole thing blew up again. She was taken to a hospital for the criminally insane eventually. I think she was twelve or thirteen when they shipped her off there. She was manic, or so they said. She was moved from one place to another. Not a lot of places could accommodate a little girl like that. She was always on some drug or other and she was hardly recognizable because of it. Her name was Laura.’ Justin’s eyes were like slits.
‘I think I do recall something about the case now,’ Matlock said, the sweat dripping from his forehead in beads.
‘You should. It made the headlines for months. Do you recall Lord Chief Justice Bellingham? He handled the case in England. His grandson was over here with his parents, Lord and Lady Bellingham, recently. Now, they threw some good parties. At the last one, poor old Oliver OD’d and choked on his own vomit. Sad, really. He was such a nice kid, about your son’s age, and the amount of drugs young James consumes I’m surprised he’s not overdosed. Or maybe he has, for all we know.’
‘What have my son and this boy Oliver to do with you?’
Justin looked skyward. ‘Ah, well, the sins of the fathers and all that. Anyway, before the nightmare began, we were both happily living with our aunt.’ Matlock bowed his head. ‘You remember the case now I bet,’ Justin said softly. ‘We made your career, didn’t we? You, your alarmist articles and your bestseller. Of course you remember Camilla Maynard. You interviewed her, didn’t you? Yes, of course you did! Oh, did I tell you she died in a car accident? Her brakes failed. Bang! Straight across the dual carriageway she went, into oncoming cars. Hers exploded, I think. Awful to watch anyway.’
Justin sighed, leaning back. ‘After that book of yours and all your headlines about us being devil children they didn’t dare leave us free. We had to be punished. We had to be publicly tried for our crimes. You tried us, Matlock. Your filthy articles and your seedy book tried us. You wouldn’t leave us alone because we made your stinking fucking headlines. We made your career, didn’t we? You are responsible, for Laura’s sickness, for the hell she went through in that asylum, for my wasted years at borstal. You are responsible.’
Matlock could not move. He wanted to get up, move away from Justin and his quiet chit-chat voice, but he couldn’t. ‘Would you like to know about our mother, Madeleine Moorcroft? She was part Argentinian, an olive-skinned woman with large luminous eyes and a hooked nose. She was not plain — ugly, yes, but some people find an ugly woman attractive, don’t they? You used some photographs of her in your book, but they never did her justice.’
The movement of the boat was making Matlock feel queasy. ‘How long before we drop anchor?’ he asked, desperate to change the subject.
Justin stood up, shaded his eyes and looked around. ‘Be a while yet. You wanted a big fish! Ever caught a shark?’ he asked.
‘Not as yet.’
Justin laughed. ‘Nor me, but I will today.’ His face took on a strange, twisted smile. ‘Let me tell you what my mother used to force me to do.’ Matlock didn’t want to hear, but there was something about the way Justin moved closer, invading his space. He almost brushed against him, but then Justin removed his glass. ‘I’ll just top you up. It’s quite a long story and it’s one I want you to hear.’
‘I think I’ve had enough,’ Matlock said.
‘No, you have not, not by a long shot!’ And Justin filled his glass with Pernod and dropped in ice, which rattled against the glass as he handed it back. ‘My mother enjoyed pain. She was a masochistic bitch, a woman who became sexually aroused by giving birth. She described the pain as exquisite, said it felt like her insides were being ripped out.’
Matlock felt his skin crawl. ‘I don’t want to hear this.’
‘You have no option. You see, you’re now my prisoner.’ Justin chuckled. ‘You’re going to listen to every word I say because I have waited years for this moment.’ Matlock rose to his feet but Justin pushed him back roughly. ‘Sit. Sit down and listen.’ He was speaking as if to a naughty child. ‘I shall begin at the beginning. The first time, she woke me in the middle of the night and carried me into her bedroom, where my father was waiting. I wasn’t afraid. They were my mummy and daddy. They loved me. I loved them. They said we would play loving games.’