Hugo stopped talking as his arms were grabbed from his sides and pulled behind him. He had no time to resist as the burly constable clicked handcuffs onto his wrists. Hugo looked over his shoulder at the startled look on Pendrith’s face. The old man started forward, but his path was blocked by two constables much stronger and swifter. Hugo turned back to Upton and spoke firmly, trying hard to control the anger rising inside him.
“I’m a security agent for the US Embassy. I am on official State Department business, and I have diplomatic immunity. I don’t like to pull rank, Chief Inspector, but we have two men out here somewhere, one trying to kill the other and happy to shoot anyone else who gets in his way. We don’t have time for this shit, so take these handcuffs off.”
Upton reached up and patted Hugo’s shoulder, a smile playing on his lips.
“That so, Mr. Marston? Well, here’s the thing. You’re in Hertfordshire now, not your US Embassy, so it’ll take a little while to confirm your immunity. In the meantime, we can get a nice cup of tea and talk about it down at the station.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hugo sat in the rear of the police car, watching through the window as Pendrith talked with DCI Upton. Merlyn hovered in the space between, drifting close to the policeman and the politician only to receive “leave us alone” looks, which pushed her toward the car until one uniformed officer or another asked her politely, but firmly, not to get too close.
At first Upton stood there listening impassively, occasionally looking over one shoulder at Hugo, but more often looking over the other to check on the progress of his crime-scene techs. After five minutes of this, one of the techs interrupted Pendrith to make his report. Upton listened and apparently dismissed the man, then looked at his watch. He spoke now, and Pendrith nodded along. Finally, a constable was sent to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. He waited quietly until Upton himself arrived, sitting beside his constable up front.
“What did they find in the car?” asked Hugo. He sat forward and spoke loudly through the plastic window that separated them, not sure how effective the little holes might be.
Upton half turned and looked at Hugo. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
“You already told me,” Hugo said.
“Change of plan. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Marston.”
“Call me Hugo. And you’re referring to Pendrith’s intervention?”
“No. The Rising Moon happens to be my local pub. We’re going to have a beer and a chat.”
Hugo sat back, not wanting Upton to see the relief on his face. “Works for me,” he said. “Does this mean you didn’t find a gun in the car?”
Upton raised an eyebrow. “Pendrith’s right, you are a clever fellow. And he told me a little about your friend Harper.”
Hugo cursed Pendrith silently, but knew he probably didn’t have much option if he wanted Hugo free. Hugo turned his thoughts to what the absence of a gun meant, but spoke aloud. “Either Harper wasn’t driving the car, or he didn’t shoot Drinker, or he did both and …” The next option was his least favorite.
“Right,” Upton finished the thought. “And unless he tossed it into the pond, and we’ll look, he’s out there with the gun in his hand. But whether he did it or not, we have a man with a weapon roaming the countryside. Someone perfectly willing and able to use it. Seems like cause enough for a drink and a chat, doesn’t it?”
“No argument here,” said Hugo.
DCI Upton and the landlord of the Rising Moon greeted each other like old friends, though there was a respect in Jim Booher’s eyes that told Marston their encounters hadn’t always been in the pub. They arrived as Booher was locking up, but he didn’t hesitate to leave the four of them in the bar alone, trusting them to pay now or, should he need a favor from the men in blue, repay him later. Hugo liked that things still worked this way in the country, but he was interested to see that his initial evaluation of Upton was wrong. He wasn’t a by-the-book cop as Hugo had first thought. The man was also results oriented.
Booher had gotten around to lighting the fire at some point that evening, and Pendrith kicked it back to life with his foot and two new logs. Then they stood around a nearby table and looked at Merlyn.
“She may know something that helps us,” Hugo said, seeing Upton’s desire to excuse her from the conversation. “She knows a lot more about Harper than we do.”
Upton nodded his acquiescence, then played barman, not taking orders, just grabbing a bottle of whisky from under the counter and four glasses. As he moved to the table, Hugo was amused to see Upton shoot a questioning look at Merlyn, who looked irritated. Yes, I’m a girl who drinks whisky.
When he’d finished pouring, Upton took a sip without proposing a toast. “I’ll tell you what I know; you fill in the rest,” he said.
Hugo nodded. “Fair enough.”
“I know that old Mr. Drinker is unconscious with someone’s lead in him. I know that you guys are looking for Dayton Harper up here. I know that Harper and his wife ran over Drinker’s son a week ago. The rest,” he shrugged, “you’re gonna have to help me with.”
Hugo looked at Pendrith, who sat back, glass in hand.
“Fire away, old boy,” Pendrith said. “He’s your charge, not mine.”
“Dayton Harper was supposed to be in my care,” Hugo said, and he began with Ginny Ferro and her grisly end.
“That was definitely murder?” Upton said. “Any chance it was suicide?”
“Well, that’s where things get complicated,” Hugo said. “At first we assumed suicide, and then because of the situation with Farmer Drinker, we considered it might be murder. The cloth over her face helped with that. But now it’s possible, just possible, it was an accident.”
“An accident? She was hung from a tree in a graveyard by accident?” Upton looked around the table to see who else was laughing. When he saw nothing but straight faces, he added drily, “What was she doing, pruning?”
“Let me explain,” Hugo said, holding up a calming hand. “As I said, I was supposed to take custody of Harper after his release, to make sure he was safe and to keep him out of the public eye while this mess with Drinker was sorted out. But then he found out about his wife and apparently decided he had business to take care of up here. We were close behind him and tracked him up here to a place called Braxton Hall.”
Upton’s eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard about that place, though God knows what’s true and what isn’t.”
“Probably most of it’s true, from what I saw and heard,” Hugo said, shooting a smile at Merlyn. “Anyway, seems like he and Ginny Ferro, and a little cadre of their friends, were into asphyxophilia.”
“Breath play. I’ve come across it a few times, but normally it’s a solo activity,” Upton said. “Or I thought so.”
“It can be,” Merlyn interjected. “I’m guessing most of your experience comes from finding people dead, right?”
“Pretty much,” Upton said.
“Which explains why you think it’s a solitary practice. Look, the only safe way is to have someone else there because if it doesn’t go well, you end up on the front pages. With someone else there, you’re much safer. Or,” she said with a shrug, “several other people there. That heightens the safety aspect as well as the eroticism. For some people.” Another noncommittal shrug, but this time a little smile went with it.
“So what does this have to do with anything?” Upton looked directly at her and nodded. “Harper and Ferro are into this?”
“Among other things, yes,” Merlyn said. “Regular bondage stuff, mock incarceration. She was pretty wild even for that crowd.”
She told Upton about the cemetery at Braxton Hall, the crypt that was designer-made for guests to enjoy any way they saw fit, including the recreation of death scenes through breath play.