Chapter 8 Playing Hunches
Playing Hunches
Mist obscured the view from Skylar’s living room window, dulling the acres of glass that—on a normal day—reflected water and sky.
“This is not the view I paid for,” Skylar grumbled, clinging to his mug of coffee.
He’d spent the previous days alternately napping and wearing himself out so he could nap more, roaming London’s streets in the dead of night and swimming far too many laps in the downstairs pool.
His mind had failed to get the message, even when his body was sagging with exhaustion.
By Tuesday morning, with the jetlag fading, Skylar had decided to never again accept jobs in Los Angeles, Melbourne, and New York in the same fortnight.
The high-speed back and forth had clobbered him like a three-day bender.
“And now I’m awake when it’s nothing but miserable outside.”
Fate hadn’t even granted him a slow awakening. Instead, he’d jerked to consciousness and had sat in bed breathing as if he’d been running. Rude awakening, indeed. Now to figure out what his mind thought was burning…
Skylar sipped his coffee and tried to remember his dream.
Screams. There’d been screams. The screech of glass breaking. Someone swearing. Beyond that…nothing.
Annoyed, he scrubbed his free hand over his face before taking another sip of coffee. Dreams stay with you for reasons, and they blow away for reasons, too. He knew his mother’s saying, but when he couldn’t discern those reasons, the words didn’t help.
Skylar frowned at the non-existent view outside his floor-to-ceiling window and the vague outline of his hair, looking like a rat’s nest, when it came to him. Reflections. That was what had bound all the parts of his dream together. He’d been dreaming about reflections.
He reached for his phone and dialled.
“Yes?”
Aidan Conrad sounded as unmoored as Skylar felt. Was he in court this morning and had spent all night preparing? Skylar sighed. He’d snuck into the gallery at the Royal Courts of Justice a time or two to watch Aidan perform. That raspy voice was something else, and the jury was in for a treat.
“Payne, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. That coroner’s report you quoted at me—do you have photos?”
“Good morning to you, too. Photos of what?”
“Mrs McTavish? Wake up.”
“I’m awake,” the barrister grumbled. “And I’d wager at least two coffees ahead of you.”
“You’d lose that bet. I’m fucking jetlagged. Now. Photos?”
“Why? Have you found something?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” He drew a deep breath, then expanded on his vague answer before Conrad deluged him with questions. “I don’t know, okay? There’s something that doesn’t add up. I thought if I could see the woman, it might click.”
Aidan didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask or argue. “I only have a copy of the written report,” he said. “But I can ask. You’re not about to disappear to the other side of the world again, are you?”
“Not this week. And my next job’s in Paris.”
“Right. Leave it with me, then. I’ll make it happen.”
He ended the call, and Skylar went back to staring into the mist, wondering what he’d seen in Margot McTavish’s flat that was bothering him.
The law moved at its own pace. By Wednesday evening, Skylar was still waiting for photographs of Margot McTavish’s autopsy, and the itch in his brain was driving him nuts.
He hadn’t called Aidan again, having learned long ago that Aidan had a memory like an elephant.
If he hadn’t sent the photos, it was because he had no photos to send, and no amount of prodding would produce them.
The only thing left for him to do was to head over to Seven Dials, go through the flat once more, and hope that this time his conscious mind would notice what his subconscious had already seen.
Nothing had changed in Margot McTavish’s spacious flat.
Skylar found the same silent rooms, their contents neat and orderly, the air musty and lifeless. No longer loopy from jetlag, Skylar had the urge to throw open the windows, invite enlightenment along with fresh air. Anything to scratch that itch in his brain.
He didn’t dare disturb a thing.
On his first visit, he’d been seeking evidence Margot McTavish hadn’t died in her bed. Like the police before him, he’d come up empty.
Today was different. He knew the evidence he sought was here. He’d already seen it without recognising it for what it was.
Skylar went over the flat again, but this time, he photographed every inch.
Colours, light, patterns, arrangements… his strengths all leaned towards the visual. One reason Aidan had sent him here. The other was his obsession with detail, which had started his association with Aidan and his unconventional firm.
Skylar remembered Thrapston House, the creamy Caen stone facade, the moulded plaster ceiling with its accents picked out in silver, and the fabulous green salon on the second floor with its display of archaeological pencil sketches and a collection of ancient pottery.
Half of the crowd had matched the surroundings, elegant and suave, there to be seen.
The other half—tweed jackets, rollneck jumpers, and more beards than a folk festival—had come for the pots and sketches.
Aidan Conrad, elegant, imposing, and fawned over by too many of the guests, had seemed to belong to the posh crowd.
Until a sketch had gone missing, Aidan had barred the door like an avenging angel, refusing to let anyone leave, and Skylar had enjoyed pointing him towards the man in the expensive, ill-fitting puce suit jacket.
Aidan had laughed so hard, he’d almost choked.
Once the sketch had been restored and the thief handed to Thrapston House Security, they’d ended up in a Thai restaurant Aidan loved and hadn’t left until the place closed many hours later.
By which time, Aidan had learned Skylar’s life history and had recruited him to his firm.
And if he didn’t want to return to Aidan and tell him he was too blind to see what was in front of his eyes, he’d better find what was causing the itch in his brain.
Jack wasn’t the only adult who arrived to watch the dance class that Friday afternoon.
“When I heard what happened last week, I knew you’d be making an appearance,” Melissa Farnway told him. She had a daughter in the same class as Nico and Daniel and she appeared, if anything, apprehensive rather than angry.
“How do you mean?” Jack asked as he took his seat beside her.
“When the girls started complaining about Manville, a few of us decided to drop in to watch,” she said. “We thought he just needed—”
“A shot across the bow?”
“Exactly. That’s why nobody mentioned it to you.”
Jack made a noncommittal noise. He’d met most of the parents since Nico and Daniel had enrolled in the school. He’d vetted quite a few of them, too, but he still much preferred his own observations. Especially since—in his opinion—most people closed their eyes to what didn’t affect them.
“We thought only the girls were in danger,” Melissa told him in a low voice once the class was underway. “Listening to tales from the previous years, you know? Nobody thought he’d grope the boys, too.”
Jack wondered how Gareth—so much better at the interpersonal stuff that baffled Jack—might respond. Would he say something soothing or placating that would make Melissa feel better about herself?
Jack didn’t flannel, but he also knew that not everybody had his background. Not everybody knew how predators operated. Women dealt with inappropriate behaviour all their lives. They’d learned to watch out for each other. It might not occur to them that boys could be in danger, too.
“Predators aren’t necessarily after sex,” he explained in as calm a voice as he could manage.
“Or not just after sex, I should say. They want the power rush they get from inflicting fear, pain, and damage on someone smaller and weaker. Some exclusively target girls. But boys are just as vulnerable.”
She held his gaze, even though her cheeks were pink. “Noted.”
They watched the class in silence and Jack took careful note of every sidelong glance Barrington Manville sent their way. The man knew why he and Melissa were there and put on a show.
Smiling. Reassuring. Supportive.
Creepy in the extreme.
Daniel stayed as far from Manville as he could, and Nico and Carol had positioned themselves so they could interfere if necessary. They weren’t the only ones to arrange themselves in small teams of protection, either.
“Can you see it?” Melissa asked him halfway through the class. “Not that Manville’s doing anything with us here.”
“I see it. Did you teach them?”
“No. Your Nico did that. He watches out for everyone, or so I’m told.” She considered him over the rim of her fashionable glasses. “That can’t be easy for you.”
“We got them as teenagers and knew nothing about parenting. We handle things as they come at us.” And Jack would rather teach Nico to fight and worry about him than have him helpless.
“I can only hope mine turn out as well as your two,” Melissa said as Manville started the last waltz of the afternoon, and Jack made a mental note to tell Nico.
“We’re out of lemon curd,” Jack said as he dropped Daniel off outside Rachel’s deli. “And that herb-coated ham you brought home the other day is almost gone.”
Daniel waved him off. “Don’t worry. I have the shopping list. I also know what I’m cooking.”
“Does Gareth?” Jack called after him, but Daniel had already slammed the car door and trotted up to the deli’s entrance.
Nico climbed over the centre console and settled in the passenger seat, pulling the seatbelt across. “What are we doing?”
“We need to get paint and a few other supplies,” Jack told him as he pulled into traffic. “And there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
“Okay.” Nico asked nothing else.