“Yes. I told you this.”
“You mentioned that Mick ‘always had drink stashed away on the estate’.”
“Yes, but this was thirty years ago. Why is it now so important?”
“Just take my word for it, it is. Did you mean that there was a place on the estate where your husband and Mick Brewer used to go to drink.”
“I believe there was. From what my husband said, Mick Brewer had a secret place, somewhere that his employers did not know about, where he kept a supply of drink, where he could hide for a few hours if he felt like it. I believe also – ” Madame Coleman’s thin lips set in a moue of disapproval – “that Mick Brewer also sometimes took girls there.”
“And did your husband ever say where the place was? Did it have a name?”
The permed head shook with the effort of recollection. “No, I don’t think…or was there a name? It is so long ago that…Oh, the name was strange, I remember that. Something to do with illness or…It had to do with – Oh.”
“Yes. Leper. Leper’s something – Leper’s Copse. Yes, that was the name. Leper’s Copse.”
Thirty-Seven
In the hire car outside the home, Jude rang the number Inspector Pollard had given her. She tried again and again, but it was resolutely engaged.
“Don’t worry.” Gaby took out her mobile. “Pollard said Uncle Robert was working with the West Sussex police. I’ll see if I can get through to him.”
She called a number from the phone’s memory. “Uncle Robert, hi. It’s Gaby. No, I’m fine. Listen, we’ve been talking to Grand’mère, and she may have given us a lead on where to look for Michael Brewer. It’s something she remembered from ages ago when Grandpa used to go shooting with him. I think it’s somewhere on the estate – or near the estate where Michael Brewer used to work. And it’s called Leper’s Copse’.”
She listened to her uncle’s response, said goodbye and turned to Jude, her eyes gleaming. “I think we’re nearly there. Robert’s going to check with the local police. If anyone knows Leper’s Copse, or if it’s on any map of the area, then I think everything’s going to be all right.”
There is a finite time that one can stay at a pitch of total panic, and Carole had found she was, if not relaxing in the cellar, at least occasionally thinking of subjects other than her own imminent demise. It was after six in the evening. Another night of enforced proximity to the murderer approached. Then, the next day, Gaby and Jude would be back. That would be the time of danger, when Michael Brewer required something of her. Until then, in spite of her discomfort, frustration and sheer boredom, Carole reckoned she would be relatively safe.
He had left the cellar again, on another unexplained mission. He took the mobile phone with him. If he was going to use it, Carole deduced, then it must be to call someone who represented no threat. The police, she knew, had means of pinpointing the exact location from which a mobile call had been made. Which must mean that Michael Brewer had some friends out there, at least one person who he knew would not betray him.
Because she was on her own, and bored, Carole felt empowered to check out her enforced environment. She looked at the laptop first. A sudden spark of hope glowed within her. Maybe he’d linked it up to the internet. Maybe she could send out an email for help.
But such optimism was soon crushed. Even with her limited knowledge of computers, Carole knew that an internet connection required a phone line of some kind. Maybe he could hook the laptop up to his mobile, but he had that with him. And, anyway, she had to admit to herself, she’d never sent an email in her life. She wished she hadn’t been such a Luddite when it came to new technology.
She tried summoning something up to the laptop’s screen, but it remained blank. A password was needed to access Michael Brewer’s computer files.
But his other files – the cardboard ones in the plastic boxes – there was nothing to stop her from accessing those.
For a moment she was assailed by middle-class doubt. After all, the files were his private stuff. She shouldn’t really be snooping at the personal documents of Carole quickly realized the stupidity of that knee-jerk reaction; after the way Michael Brewer had treated her, she owed him nothing. She picked up a cardboard folder and opened it.
The contents were computer printouts, newspaper cuttings and handwritten notes. From a quick glance it was clear that all the material related to the murder of Janine Buckley.
Carole heard the scrape of the rafters above, and went quickly to replace the file in its box. Too quickly. In her haste she dislodged the whole box from its shelf. Files and their contents scattered over the cellar floor.
Carole looked up guiltily towards the oncoming torch beam.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Michael Brewer harshly. “Have you been looking at that lot?”
In his hand was the gun, and in his eye a look of murderous intent.
Thirty-Eight
“Time you moved,” said Michael Brewer. He stepped back into the outside world. Even though dappled through the trees, the early evening June light dazzled Carole as she climbed the steps out of the cellar.
“Get in the car.”
“No, I don’t want – ”
“Get in the car!” His voice snapped out like a whip-crack. The gun was still following her every movement.
Trembling, she inched towards the Renault, which had not been moved since she left it the previous evening. Instinctively, she went towards the driver’s door. But was that right? The bodies of the other strangled victims had been found on the back seats.
It seemed ridiculous even to be thinking of such niceties, but Carole found herself asking, “Do you want me to sit in the back or the front?”
Michael Brewer opened his mouth, but the reply never came. Suddenly he hurtled forward, as a body burst through the trees and cannoned into his back.
The gun went flying. As Brewer scrabbled forwardto recapture it, the other man leapt on to his back. With huge relief, Carole recognized the white hair of Robert Coleman.
“I’ve got you now, Mick,” he shouted. “Give yourself up. The police are on their way!”
Brewer was the bigger man. And the stronger. He’d kept himself in shape – perhaps he’d had to keep himself in shape – in prison, and kept tough during the past few weeks of living rough. He lifted himself off the ground, and turned around at speed, shaking off the lighter Robert Coleman, who crashed to the ground.
Ignoring the gun, Brewer pounced on his winded opponent. Grabbing hold of his lapels, he dragged the man up off the ground. But Robert was not completely out of commission, and managed to thump a punch into Brewer’s midriff.
The taller man recoiled, but did not lose his grip. “You bastard, Robert!” he gasped. “Don’t worry, though, now you’re going to get what’s coming to you!”
Keeping one hand tight on the lapel, he drew the other one back for a punch, but Robert was quick enough to butt his head hard forward. He was too short to catch Brewer’s chin, but the thud into the base of the throat made the man choke and release the jacket.
Surprised by his sudden freedom, Robert Coleman swayed, and at that moment Michael Brewer’s bunched fist caught him hard on the mouth. He flew backwards into the undergrowth. Brewer moved forward to tower over him.
Carole Seddon had never hit anyone over the head with a gun before, but since she had picked the thing up, she thought she might as well have a go. She’d never have a better opportunity – or a more important one. Holding the gun’s barrel tightly, she reached upwards, and brought the butt crashing down on to the back of Michael Brewer’s neck.