Gone to Ground Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © John Harvey, 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,

  recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work

  should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed

  to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann in 2007

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harvey, John, 1938–

  Gone to ground/John Harvey.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  "An Otto Penzler Book."

  1. Police—Great Britain—Fiction.

  2. Gay men—Crimes against—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6058.A6989G66 2007

  823'.914—dc22 2006037390

  ISBN 978-0-15-101363-0

  Text set in ITC Caslon 224

  Printed in the United States of America

  First edition

  A C E G I K J H F D B

  1.

  EXT. COAST ROAD. NIGHT.

  A blank screen. Dark. Little more than pinpricks at first, then we see two lights amid the blackness, gradually coming closer, until we realize they are car headlights.

  As the car—a dark 1950s sedan—gets nearer and we hear the sound of its engine, the road along which it is speeding begins to take shape and we can just see that it is narrow and winding with dark trees to one side and what appears to be a cliff edge to the other.

  The headlights become larger and brighter until they dominate the screen and dazzle, then the car is gone and for several seconds we are left looking at the empty road along which it has traveled. We hear the sound of the car accelerating away, gaining even more speed, until there is a sudden squeal of brakes, followed moments later by the sounds of the car crashing down the side of the cliff.

  Cut to the car, viewed from above, as it strikes the water and, for a moment, seems to disappear below the surface.

  From a closer angle, we see the car being thrown around by the force of waves, then cut to a close shot of the windshield, which has been shattered by the impact.

  Over this we see the first of the credits, the title, superimposed...

  SHATTERED GLASS

  Behind the title, we see that the water is rising inside the car. A woman's face moves close to the shattered windshield, a strange smile, almost of triumph, on her face.

  The second credit is superimposed over this image...

  STARRING

  STELLA LEONARD

  ...before a wave splashes across the front of the car and it disappears back into the sea.

  Chapter 1

  WILL GRAYSON HAD BEEN AWAKE SINCE A LITTLE AFTER five, the light leaking through the curtains like spoiled milk. An hour earlier, maybe more, Jake had cried out from the middle of a dream, and although Lorraine had stirred beside him, it had been Will who had pushed back the covers and barefooted into the adjoining room. The four-year-old's pajama top was soaked through with sweat, his skin slick to the touch, breath sour on Will's face as he held him close. A dream about wolves. Some animated film to blame, Will thought, wolves, slinky and gray, sliding down between tall silvered trees.

  "It's all right," Will had murmured. "It's okay. They're not real."

  For a moment, the boy's eyes seemed to focus on Will's face, taking in the words, and Will had kissed his damp forehead and lowered him back down.

  "It's early. Go back to sleep."

  He stood there, watching, until he heard the boy's breathing change.

  Nestled against the warmth of Lorraine's back, he fell asleep again almost immediately, only to be woken when the baby began to cry and Lorraine, half-blindly, lifted her from the cot and into their bed, fingers unfastening the nightgown at her breast.

  "I'll go down," Will said. "Make some tea."

  5:09.

  Easing back the curtains, he saw not a wolf but the blurred outline of a fox, tail up, head high, making its dainty way along the edge of open field beyond the garden end.

  By the time Will had showered and shaved, made a fresh pot of tea and some toast, Lorraine, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, hair pulled loosely back, had come downstairs.

  "She's gone off again."

  "And Jake?"

  "Still sleeping."

  Will poured the tea.

  "I saw a fox," he said.

  "The same one as before?"

  "I think so. It's difficult to tell."

  Lorraine nodded, absent-mindedly. "I was talking to Penny Travis. In the village. You know, she does some child-minding. I mentioned her before."

  Will looked at her, set aside the knife.

  "She says she might have a vacancy later in the year; for Susie. Once Jake's started school proper."

  "We've been through all this," Will said.

  "I know. But I still think..."

  "And I thought we'd agreed."

  "You'd agreed."

  Will sighed. "I think you should stay home with her a little longer, that's all."

  "How much longer?"

  "Longer than you did with Jake."

  "There's nothing wrong with Jake. Nursery's been good for him, you've said so yourself."

  "That's not the point."

  "Well, then, what is?"

  "I just don't think Susie should be with somebody else, not this soon. It doesn't seem right."

  "Fine. You stay home with her then."

  "How'm I supposed to do that?"

  "Take time off from your job."

  "I can't."

  "Then get another job."

  "Now you're being stupid."

  "Am I?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, then. That's what I am."

  Lorraine slammed the door behind her, feet heavy on the stairs. Will poured what was left of his tea down the sink. Minutes later he was in his car and driving south, the radio turned up loud, no idea what he was listening to or why. When Lorraine had first become pregnant with Jake they had decided to move out to the country—a larger house, more garden, a nicer environment in which to bring up kids. For Will it meant a longish commute, forty minutes when the traffic was with him, often more, a pain a
t first, but worth the stress.

  Helen Walker's blue VW was in the car park before him, but she was not at her desk. Outside, Will thought, sneaking a cigarette. He had given up himself two years before and no amount of mints could disguise the smell on her breath.

  They had worked together in the Major Investigation Team for close on three years, Helen and himself, and for much of that time they'd been based at Histon, a couple of miles north of Cambridge. The police station there was fairly recent, a brick-built, two-story building with a car park too small for its needs and a stairway that was wide enough for a half-decent game of five-a-side. Now, however, they were close to Cambridge city centre, in a building that was a testament to the ugliness of most mid-sixties architecture in general and concrete in particular.

  Will, as detective inspector, held the higher rank, but, most of the time, that wasn't how it seemed: he and Helen were more like partners; sometimes one would lead, sometimes the other.

  "You look tired," Helen said. She was balancing two Styrofoam cups of coffee, one on top of the other.

  "I'm fine," Will replied.

  "Baby keeping you awake?"

  "I said, I'm fine." Sharp as ice.

  Helen set one of the coffees on his desk and studied his face. "You and Lorraine had a row?"

  "Jesus!" Will exclaimed.

  "All right," Helen said with a grin. "You want me to mind my own business, that it?"

  "Yeah, mind your own fucking business."

  Helen laughed. The phone rang on Will's desk and she picked it up. After listening for several moments, she reached for a pen and wrote a name and an address on the back of her wrist.

  "Right," she said, putting down the phone. "You want something to take your mind off things? This might do the trick."

  Will's first thought when he saw the man's face: it was like a glove that had been pulled inside out.

  The upper part of the face, in particular, had been beaten almost beyond recognition.

  Blood had coagulated around the ridged base of the shower stall and patterned itself in darkening arcs upon the walls; the plug hole was blocked by what Will assumed to be tissue, hair, and skin. The shower curtain, wrenched down from the rail, had become entangled round the man's naked body, entwined between his legs and draped across his chest like a plastic shroud. One hand cradling his sex.

  In the doorway, Helen was talking to the crime scene coordinator, while one of the SOCO team readied a video camera in the adjoining room. The photographer, who had set up his tripod close to the body, had stepped back when Will had arrived and was now waiting patiently to resume. Other officers, clad head to toe in white coveralls, gloved up, were beginning their search of the rest of the house.

  The cleaning lady, who had discovered the body when she started work that morning, was sitting inside one of the neighbour's houses, a police officer in attendance, sipping sweet tea. It had been only her second day at this address, the first time she had used the key. The proverbial wild horses would not have dragged her back inside.

  Helen came and stood at Will's shoulder, looking down at the body. "Lovers' tiff?" she said.

  Will looked back at her, uncertain. "Could be," he said.

  Uncertain or not, the words came easily to his mind:You do this and I never want to see your face again. Not ever.

  It was a two-story terraced house in a road of similar houses just a short distance from the centre of the city, fronts covered in a pastel wash of varying shades, this one a paleish gray. Estate agents, Will reasoned, would describe it as a cottage, going for that homely, almost rural feel. And close enough to most of the colleges for junior lecturers to cycle in at ease, even walk if they'd a mind. Not cheap then, he thought, not that anything in Cambridge was. Not anymore.

  Inside, gentrification had taken hold: the extended kitchen-diner replete with a six-foot Smeg refrigerator and a deep white butler's sink, units faced in brushed aluminum, a butcher's block big enough to bone a side of beef.

  The furniture in the downstairs living room reminded Will of stuff his parents had inherited and then tossed out, all plywood arms and metal legs. Utility, is that what it had been called? Probably worth a fortune now.

  The front room upstairs had been turned into a virtual library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls, one of them crowded not with books but videos and DVDs; magazines in piles on the floor—Cineaste, Film Comment, Sight and Sound. A copy of Shepperton Babylon had been left open, face down, on the arm of one chair, a young Dirk Bogarde in shiny black leather trousers and improbable black hat staring out from the cover. Perhaps the victim had been reading it when he had been disturbed; when someone had called.

  There was a flat-screen TV in one corner of the room, digi-box and other accoutrements alongside. Framed film posters back down in the hall and on the stairs.

  The middle room, with a window looking out over the side passage leading toward the garden, functioned as a study. Will doubted if it was usually in as much disarray. The lower section of a tall, three-drawer filing cabinet had been pulled open and a number of files lay close by on the floor; two of the desk drawers had been upturned, their contents strewn to all corners; papers were littered across the floor.

  Someone searching for something worth stealing, Will wondered, or a wanton act of destruction?

  There was a Hewlett-Packard laser printer to the left of the desk, an empty space where a computer might have stood. A mains lead hung loose toward the floor. Resting against the side wall by the desk's edge were several slim computer manuals, among them the white fronted User's Guide to an Apple iBook G4 laptop.

  Worth stealing certainly.

  But worth killing for?

  The main bedroom, at the rear, had been made en suite, a small dressing room leading into the bathroom where the body had been found. Here again, everything was in turmoil. Cream-coloured sheets had been torn from the bed; the contents of both the wardrobe and the chest of drawers hurled haphazardly across the room. Shirts, jackets, boxer shorts, jeans. Some of the shirts had been ripped almost in two. A small photograph that might once have stood on the bedside table had been pulled from its frame, the glass splintered and smashed, the photograph itself torn in half then half again.

  With care, Will picked up the pieces and reassembled them on the bed.

  Two men in shirtsleeves, arms on each other's shoulders, smiling. Squinting a little because of the sun. One man, the older of the two but not by much—mid-thirties, nothing more—was stockier and dark-haired; the younger man was taller, lean, a fold of fair hair falling over his face, reminding Will of one of the posters on the stairs—Montgomery Glift or James Dean, he was never sure which was which. His mother had once confessed to having had a crush on one of them when she was younger; she had watched his films on the television on weekend afternoons. He thought it might have been Montgomery Clift.

  Will looked at the photograph again, the way the couple's smiles radiated happiness.

  What had Helen said? A lovers' tiff?

  When he went outside, easing off his gloves and reaching into his pocket for a mint, Helen was standing on the far sidewalk, smoking a cigarette. It was cold, cold enough to see her breath.

  "My lungs for your teeth," she said, seeing him pop the mint into his mouth.

  "You can live without teeth," Will said.

  "Clever sod," Helen said and poked out her tongue.

  "Where do we stand with ID?" Will asked.

  "Early days."

  "Wallet? Driving license? Passport left lying around in some drawer?"

  Helen shook her head, "Not so far. No sign of a wallet at all."

  "Neighbours?"

  "First name's Stephen—they think. Been living here less than a year. Keeps pretty much to himself. That's how the cleaning woman knew him, apparently, Mr. Stephen."

  "That's all? No surname?"

  "That's all."

  Without meaning to, Will crunched the mint between his teeth. "How d'you want
to do this? You want to stick around and talk to the pathologist or shall I?"

  "It's Danebury?"

  "Danebury."

  Helen shrugged. "I could stay."

  Edgar Danebury had once made reference, with a nod in Helen's direction, to officers endowed with, as he put it, pulchritudinous plenitude. Next chance she got, Helen had brought her boot down hard enough on Danebury's instep to make his eyes water, since which time he had kept any extraneous remarks to himself.

  Back behind his desk, Will switched on his computer and accessed first the electoral roll, then the council tax records held at the Guildhall: the householder was one Stephen Bryan. Stephen Makepeace Bryan, to give him his full due.

  Some forty-five minutes later, one of the scene of crime officers at the house found a pink British Library card bearing the name Bryan, Mr. S. M., inside one of the books in the upstairs room, and Helen had it biked round to Will's office. The face in the small square photograph matched that of the dark-haired man from the photograph Will had found in pieces in the bedroom. Matching it to that of the murdered man would not be so easy. And, without visual identification by a relative, and lacking any obviously identifiable external marks on the body—scars, birthmarks or tattoos—they could not be one hundred percent certain that Bryan and the victim were one and the same.

  A DNA match with the dead man's mother, or, failing that, with siblings, might give them the desired result, though Will thought dental records could be their quickest and best bet, the lower part of the face not having suffered as badly as the rest. An initial check of dentists in the area, however, failed to show Bryan as a patient, meaning they would have to look further afield.

  All those books on film, Will thought, magazines, DVDs—a hobby or something more? A quick check on Google told him there were more courses in the area involving some kind of film studies than he would have thought possible. Having noted the numbers of the various departments, he began ringing round and struck pay dirt on his fifth call.

  Stephen Bryan had been appointed to the Department of Communication Studies at Anglia Ruskin University in the autumn of the preceding year, and was currently teaching courses in British Cinema, Class and Culture, and Sexuality, Gender and Identity.