‘Whatever you may think of me, Detective-inspector, and my father, I do love my son very dearly. That’s all that matters here.’
Pyke had climbed the stairs and was halfway along the landing when he heard her whisper his name.
Cathy was waiting for him in an alcove, shrouded in darkness.
‘I had to talk to you away from prying eyes and ears,’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘My husband and father-in-law have made it their business to know who I talk to and what I talk about.’
Pyke could just see the whites of Cathy’s eyes in the half-light produced by a candle. ‘What is it they’re afraid you’ll say?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Why did you tell me I shouldn’t have come?’
Cathy took a deep breath. ‘I’d been drinking. I don’t remember. Please don’t hold it against me.’ She tried to smile.
‘I need to ask you a question, Cathy. Who do you honestly believe has your son?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Scottish Cattle?’ Pyked waited and added, ‘Maggie Atkins?’
That drew a snort. ‘Maggie was a saint. Her problem was that she was too close to me, took my side, stood up to my husband. It’s why they concocted that whole situation and threatened her with the police.’
‘Being treated like that…’ Pyke said, ‘it could make a person bitter.’
‘Not Maggie. You’d know what I mean if you met her. And she loved William, too. She would never do anything to put his life at risk.’
‘Maybe I should talk to her, just to rule her out as a suspect.’
‘You could do, but you’d have to travel to Scotland. She’s working for a family in Edinburgh.’
Pyke considered what she’d said. ‘Any other suspects?’
‘My husband has made many enemies in his years as an iron-master. The same goes for Zephaniah, more so. He’s always been more ruthless than my husband. In fact he treats Jonah with contempt, always describes him as weak and mollycoddled. It agitates my husband greatly, the fact that Zephaniah so clearly prefers his younger brother, Richard, and that spurs him to act in ways that belie his natural disposition.’
‘I asked Zephaniah about your family. He didn’t pretend he had much interest in your son beyond the fact that he’s heir to the estate.’
Cathy’s eyes darkened but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Pyke allowed his gaze to drift from her neck to her cleavage and immediately he saw that she’d noticed this. She smiled and touched his arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Pyke thought about her husband downstairs and the fact that both of them were old enough to be her father.
‘It’s late, I’m tired.’ He looked into her cool, bloodshot eyes and felt the muscles in his stomach tighten.
It took Pyke a good hour to walk from the Castle to the ramshackle cottage near the old quarry but he left at five in the morning and made it there before sunrise, enabling him to slip into the cottage unnoticed. He didn’t know whether the kidnappers — if indeed that was who had sent the second letter — were watching the cottage, but if they were, he didn’t want his arrival to be spotted. By the time John Johns arrived at ten o’clock, to drop off the purse of sovereigns as Pyke had arranged, he supposed that someone would be watching them from the higher ground: they would watch Johns arrive with the purse and watch him leave without it and some time after that, they would venture down to the cottage to collect their booty. Pyke wanted to be there when this happened. He knew he was taking a risk — and potentially putting the Hancock boy’s life in danger by not following the demands of the second letter — but he wasn’t convinced that it had been sent by the real kidnappers.
It was easy to see why the cottage had been chosen as the site for the rendezvous. As a milky lightness appeared at the edges of the sky, Pyke saw that the place was surrounded on three sides by steep-angled hills, green and wet from the previous night’s rainfall. Anyone perched on one of these hills would have a bird’s-eye view of the cottage, and there was no way of sneaking up on it, in daylight at least, without being seen. Pyke peered out of the window. The previous night’s mist had cleared and visibility was good. Farther down the valley, he could just about see the blast furnaces attached to the Morlais works; beyond them the town spread out like a canker on an otherwise pristine landscape. It was seven o’clock. If he could just bring the Hancock boy home, that would be enough.
Through the window of the abandoned cottage, Pyke watched John Johns wander up the mud track. Clouds had rolled in off the hills and Pyke could see the first drops of rain. Johns kept his eyes fixed on the cottage, as Pyke had told him to, his shooting jacket buttoned right the way up to his collar. He didn’t bother to knock, just pushed open the door and entered the dark room. He dropped the purse on to the mud floor and brushed the rain from the shoulders of his coat.
‘I think there are two of them up there.’ He pointed to their approximate positions. ‘One on each hill.’
Pyke nodded. He had suspected this. ‘Do you think you could double back on yourself when you reach Anderson’s farm road, and try coming at them from the other side of the hill?’
‘Depends on how much time I’ve got.’ Johns hesitated then added, ‘And what you want me to do.’
‘Just try to see who they are. But don’t let them see you. That’s the important thing.’
‘Bet whoever comes here to pick up the purse will get the fright of their life when they see you.’
Pyke wondered whether Johns had meant this as a criticism.
‘I should get going.’ Johns peered out at the rain. ‘That is, if you want me on that hill by the time someone arrives to pick up the money.’
They parted without exchanging another word. Pyke watched Johns make his way back along the mud track until he was a faint smudge in the distance.
When someone arrived about an hour later, he seemed nervous and distracted, not at all sure what he was meant to do. Peering into the abandoned cottage, the man waited on the doorstep for what seemed like minutes, perhaps trying to summon up the courage to step inside. Pyke had seen him from a distance and didn’t recognise him. He was dressed as a labourer and walked with a determined stride. Pyke waited until the man was inside the cottage before he revealed himself, stepping out of the shadows behind the door. Startled, the man jumped back and before Pyke could grab him, he’d turned around and bolted for the door. He ran about ten or fifteen yards back down the track then stopped. He turned around and was about to say something when a loud crack echoed around the valley. Pyke watched as a flower of blood exploded on the front of the man’s shirt. His expression froze and he stumbled forward with nothing to break his fall. Pyke raced over to the spot where the man had fallen. Looking up at the hill, he saw that Johns was gesticulating towards the spot where the shot had come from but the marksman was nowhere to be seen. The only sound was the wind blowing in the long grass.
A few minutes later, Johns appeared, red-faced, by the side of the cottage, a rifle in his hand. ‘There were two of them all right. One of ’em must have seen me and decided to leave this behind.’ He glanced down at the body, which was surrounded by a thick pool of blood. ‘I saw they were armed but I never thought they’d turn their rifles on one of their own.’
‘Whoever he is,’ Pyke said, gesturing towards the corpse, ‘he isn’t, and wasn’t, ever one of them.’
‘As soon as the one on the farthest hill had got his shot off, they both ran away.’ Johns held out the rifle that he had retrieved from the mountainside.
Pyke took it from him and looked it over. ‘You recognise either of them?’ It was a new Baker’s rifle, one of the most expensive and accurate money could buy.
‘No, but if I saw the one who fired the shot again, I might be able to identify him.’ Johns looked up at the hill where the marksman had been positioned. ‘To hit a man square in the chest from that kind of distance… you’d have to be a professional soldier.’