The Clockmaker's Secret Read online

  Celia looked tense as she smoked her third cigarette in a row.

  ‘I need to know,’ Slim said. ‘It could be important. The last person I need feeding me lies is you.’

  ‘I didn’t kill my daughter or my father,’ Celia said, throwing the cigarette butt into the hedge as she leaned against the bonnet of the Ford Fiesta. The dirty grey-blue car had replaced the Metro, which she said was in for servicing.

  ‘I’m not saying you did. There’s no evidence or motive. Isn’t that what the police might have said? What I want to know is why you waited two days before calling the police.’

  Celia’s hands were shaking. Slim handed her the hip flask which she snatched out of his hand. She took a long swallow before she answered.

  ‘My mother wanted to tidy up,’ she said. ‘After all, Charlotte didn’t officially exist. She wanted to box away her things and hide them in one of the barns where the police wouldn’t bother to look. She told me it would all come down to me, that I’d be blamed for everything. That I’d go to prison.’

  With shaking hands she passed the hip flask back. Slim took a swallow before responding. Then, slowly so to be sure she understood, he said, ‘See, that changes things. That’s a clear attempt to pervert the course of justice. If I went to the police with this it would probably be enough to reopen the investigation, but at this point I’m still willing to give you and your mother the benefit of the doubt. Why hide Charlotte’s things unless you know she’s not coming back?’

  Celia gave a petulant half shrug. ‘The note. We knew he wasn’t coming back because of the note.’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘He left a note. Or at least part of one.’

  Slim stepped away from the car, letting the chill air of the layby diffuse his anger. ‘A note? What the ….’ He clenched his fists, wrung them out. ‘Is there anything else you’re not telling me? Do you have it still?’

  Celia shrugged. ‘You have no idea how hard this is for me. I let all this go. I left it behind me. No, I don’t have it, because my mother burned it on the kitchen stove, but I can remember what it said.’

  Slim pulled his notebook from his pocket and held it out. ‘Write it down as you remember it. Word for word. Don’t miss a single word.’

  Celia scowled like a scolded child but took the pad and pen and scribbled something down. ‘That’s it,’ she said, passing it back. ‘As best as I can remember.’

  Slim read it aloud. ‘“Dear Mary, I’m sorry I have to say this to you. You have come to mean so much to me, but I’m in a bad place right now. I need some time to clear out my head, but I promise—”’ He looked up at Celia. ‘Why the dash?’

  ‘Because that’s where the letter ended. He didn’t finish it.’

  Slim sighed. ‘That’s it?’

  Celia nodded. ‘It’s kind of like a suicide note, isn’t it? Only he didn’t finish it. He was never good with words, my father. Not like he was with his hands. ‘“I promise…” I wondered for years how that sentence might have ended. “I promise to come back.” “I promise never to forget you.” “I promise to take good care of Charlotte.” In the end, it doesn't matter, does it? He was gone, and so was she.’

  ‘Why do you think it was addressed only to your mother and not to you?’

  Celia said nothing for a long time. Then, in a quiet voice, trying to hold back tears, she said, ‘I wondered that for years. At the time … it broke me.’

  ‘Broke you?’

  ‘My mother was Hell on Earth and my personal life was a nightmare. The one constant in my life, the one thing I could depend on, was my father.’

  ‘He took care of Charlotte? In the videos it was never you or your mother holding her. It was always your father.’

  Celia coughed, bending double, her face contorting. Slim heard a reedy whistle like a motorbike’s broken muffler.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Celia looked about to scream, but there was no sound other than the haunting whistle.

  ‘Celia?’

  ‘She never loved me!’ she wailed, loud enough to make Slim jump back. ‘She belonged to him more than me. And because she didn’t love me, he thought I didn’t love her. And so he took her away.’

  38

  In the empty cafe of a 24-hour supermarket off the A30 near Bodmin, they drank laced black coffees, no longer bothering to sober up, only to stay awake until everything was said.

  ‘I think he intended to come back,’ Slim said, aware his voice was slurring. ‘You’ve been reading it wrong. It’s clear from the note what he meant.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he finish it?’

  ‘Three reasons that could have happened,’ Slim said. ‘One: he changed his mind. Two: he decided not to write the note, because he intended to deliver the message in person, something he didn’t do, which rules that out. And three: he was disturbed before he finished it.’

  ‘Michael?’

  Slim shrugged. ‘It’s possible, but you told me yourself you couldn’t have imagined him as a murderer. And having met him, I can’t either.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I have one theory, but it’s unlikely.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘He encountered people out on the moor involved in some other kind of criminal activity, and he was killed to keep him quiet.’

  Celia laughed suddenly, loud enough to make a server look up and frown. ‘Are you serious? Then what happened to my daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she suffered the same fate. Or maybe she was sold. You read all sorts in the news these days, don’t you? It’s unlikely, but it happens.’

  Celia scoffed. ‘Rarely. Do you really believe that?’

  Slim shook his head. ‘No. I think there’s a far simpler explanation. One that’s right in front of our eyes but we’re somehow missing. Is there anything else? Only the note? No more holding information back, Celia. If there’s anything else you haven’t told me, I need to know.’

  ‘Nothing I recall. He left in the clothes he was wearing. He didn’t even pack a bag.’

  ‘Another reason it’s likely some event stopped him coming back.’ Slim reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘I have to say, Celia, that at this stage I’m ninety-nine percent sure your father, and almost certainly your daughter with him, are dead.’

  Celia sniffed. ‘I’ve felt for a long time that the best I could hope to find was their bodies.’

  ‘Here’s another tack,’ Slim said. Despite detesting himself for being drunk again, there was no doubt it was throwing out ideas like an out of control thresher machine. ‘The buried clock I found. No one does something like that without a reason. Perhaps he went out to the moor that night to bury it, planning to come back and finish the note.’

  ‘But what was the point of burying it at all?’

  ‘I haven’t figured that out yet.’

  ‘And the note in the back?’

  ‘Again, no idea.’

  Celia laughed. ‘You’re a pretty pathetic private investigator.’

  Slim shrugged. ‘I was too drunk to get a real job and too lazy to kill myself.’

  Midnight had come and gone. Slim wondered how far Mrs. Greyson’s newfound tolerance for him would stretch.

  ‘We need to leave,’ he said.

  As they were heading back to the car, Celia said, ‘Thanks for helping me. I know this isn’t going the way you’d like, but I appreciate it nevertheless.’

  ‘No problem. I had nothing much going on. It’s keeping my interest, that’s for sure. I can’t promise I’ll find all of the answers, but I’ll try to find some.’

  They had reached the car park. Celia looked up at the sound of a distant siren.

  ‘You know, part of me doesn’t want to find out,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I could handle it. It’s going to be bad news, and I’ve had quite enough of that in my life already.’

  Before he could stop himself, Slim put his hands on each of Celia’s shoulders and gave them a light squeeze
.

  ‘You’re still standing,’ he said. ‘We had a saying in the military. If you can still get to your feet, you can still move forward. And if you can still move forward, you can still win.’

  Celia smiled. For once it contained no anger or bitterness, and the years fell away. Slim saw in Celia’s face the buried memory of a beautiful woman, one for whom life had soured, but one still resilient, still strong.

  ‘You look like you’re going to kiss me.’

  Slim started. ‘No, I—’

  ‘You can, if you want. I mean, it’s not the done thing for people of our age to get drunk and kiss in public car parks at one bloody a.m., but we could start a new trend. And it’s not like I don’t find you attractive. You’re a little more bitter than I generally like, but I do wonder what you must have done to make your wife throw you away.’

  ‘I guess she just spent too much time sober,’ Slim said. ‘I only look good in a certain light.’ He started to move forward. He wanted her, he realised. He wanted this broken doll; he wanted to fix her and make her whole. Images flickered in his mind of a life together like old photographs blowing in the wind, smiles and happiness hiding a lining of pain, two people holding each other up.

  He was holding her without realizing it then pulling out of a kiss he could already barely remember.

  ‘The car’s a bit small,’ Celia was saying, her voice far away, ‘but we could find a field somewhere. It’s warm enough tonight. Not like it wouldn’t be the first time….’

  Slim broke away, unable to see her through the image of rough, manhandling fingers pushing her face into the earth, her mouth filling with soil that stifled a desperate cry for help. He saw her rocking back and forth then hands pushing her aside, footsteps on the road running away.

  And Celia, battered, bruised and violated, forcing herself to stand, because if you could stand, you could keep moving forward. And if you could keep moving forward, you could still win.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Not like this.’ He pushed himself away, putting a couple of parked cars between them. ‘I’ll call you, Celia. I’ll call you when we’re both feeling better.’

  ‘Slim!’ Her eyes flared with a sudden rage, flame-filled, her face contorted with more than just anger, with hate.

  ‘Don’t walk away from me!’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he shouted, breaking into a run as the distant siren blared again like a subconscious warning, not sure if he ever would but afraid not to, aware that he had to choose whether he burned with Celia or drowned without her, while all the time, the only thing he could see was the smiling face of an old man, gently patting the back of a child held in his arms.

  39

  He hitched a lift up the A30 in the cab of a friendly but garrulous truck driver who insisted on recanting a forgettable life story which made the journey up to the Penleven turning feel far longer than it perhaps was. His anger replaced by regret, Slim leaned against the window, nodding or responding when necessary, until the truck pulled off at a roundabout and the driver bid him a safe journey home.

  Determined to avoid such situations again, Slim tossed the bottle and its remaining contents into the hedge just outside the village, at the end of a long downhill march, but, hitting his bed at pence after two, he marveled at a world that had got him home from the butt end of nowhere at a reasonable time, with at least part of his sanity intact.

  His luck was looking up.

  Mrs. Greyson was reticent at breakfast, as though she had slept through Slim’s latest indiscretions. The thumping hangover meant everything tasted of potential vomit and it wasn’t until a few hours later, and following a walk around the village ostensibly to clear his head, but in reality an attempt to recall where he had thrown his leftover whisky, that he began to feel better.

  No longer relying on Mrs. Greyson’s honesty, the village store’s post office cubicle was holding a package for him. Slim took it to a bench on the small patch of parkland that served as Penleven’s village green and opened it up. Kay had returned the video tape, along with a folder of notes. Hands steadied by a single swig of a whisky miniature flicked through the enclosed documents. Along with a handwritten note were several computer printouts.

  He looked at each as he consulted Kay’s notes.

  ‘“I passed your tape to a friend in forensics,”’ Slim read, saying the words out loud as though that would help them to stick. ‘“The quality is remarkably poor, even for the mid-nineties. Something very bottom range, but the cameraman needs a little help working a focus. I couldn’t get everything you wanted, but I got some. The logo on the picture over the desk is the British Clockmaker’s Guild.”’

  Slim lifted the printout of an enlarged version of the logo, with a grainy screenshot in the corner showing the original.

  ‘“And I picked a stamp off that single table shot about fourteen minutes in. Germany. Specifically it’s a picture of Frankfurt Cathedral. Something commemorative? I’d guess you could get a time estimate if you figured that one out. Stamps like that are collector’s items; they’re rarely used for actual mail. And the logo on the side of the box belongs to a horticulturalist company in the Black Forest. You owe me big for that one. My guy got me the name but it took me a couple of days to track that one down. I’ve enclosed a phone number.”’

  Slim flicked over a few more pages, nodding slowly. A German horticulturalist. A wood supplier. Slim’s research had told him that cuckoo clocks had been invented in the Black Forest region of southern Germany. Was it possible Amos Birch had made a pilgrimage to what he might have considered a spiritual home?

  Slim had dialed the number before remembering there was no reception down here in Penleven. He took a deep breath. He was getting ahead of himself.

  ‘“The shoes by the door are a pair of Clark’s,”’ Kay’s notes continued as Slim read. ‘“Hiking boots, but they make good farm boots too. I’ve enclosed a photo of a tread but it might not be exactly the right type. Check with the manufacturer. And the jacket, my contact couldn’t figure it out, but it’s possibly a no-name brand. Supermarket type. That’s all I’ve got, but like I say, you owe me! P.S. damn, that was one creepy video.”’

  Slim frowned, wondering what Kay meant. The video had unsettled him too, but only because it showed two missing people, probably dead.

  He put the package and its contents into his backpack and headed back through the village. He spotted Michael ploughing a field and waited by the gate until the farmhand noticed him.

  Michael continued to work for a few minutes before turning the tractor around and driving over.

  ‘I’ve told you everything,’ he said by way of greeting.

  Slim shook his head. ‘I’m not the police, Michael. Nothing you say is official.’

  ‘You could be bugged.’

  Slim laughed. ‘Do I look that efficient? I guess I could be, but you’ll have to trust me that I’m not. Look, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you killed anyone. I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, in fact. However, I do think you saw something that night, and I want you to tell me what it was.’

  Michael looked everywhere but at Slim. He wrung his hands together, shaking his head.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said again.

  ‘You saw him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Quit the games, Michael. I have places to go and you have work to do. You know who I mean.’

  Michael grimaced. He ran a hand through his hair then turned around as though looking for support from someone hitherto unseen. With a sigh, he turned back to Slim and nodded.

  ‘I was hiding down in the trees by the river. I heard shouting, so I came up to the yard to see what was going on. I heard a door slam. Someone came out, walking fast. They went into that little outhouse, the one he used for a workshop. He was in there a few minutes then he came out. Had a bag over his shoulder and something in his arms.’

  ‘Did you see what?’

&nbs
p; Michael shook his head. ‘Could have been anything. It was wrapped up in a towel, a thick blanket maybe.’

  ‘Was it moving at all?’

  ‘Moving? No. But he was holding it with both arms as though it was really important.’

  Slim nodded. The bundle had to be Charlotte. But was she sleeping, drugged, or even dead when Amos carried her away?

  ‘Now, this is vital, Michael. There used to be two ways out of the yard, didn’t there? The vehicle lane, and a path down through where that hedge is now. I saw that stone wall down there. Your handiwork, wasn’t it? You built it for the Tintons, didn’t you?’

  Michael nodded. ‘Maggie Tinton called me up a year after they bought the place. She didn’t like that people could get in from two directions, even though technically it’s blocking a public right-of-way.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not officially there.’

  Slim rolled his eyes. ‘Pot calling the kettle black,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I had a run-in with her, that’s all.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘She’s spiky, but she’s got nothing on old Mary. How did you know when I built that?’

  ‘It protrudes a little from the rest of the hedgerow to allow for the spread of those trees’ roots. It was clearly built after they were planted, possibly a few years later, because any closer and the lower branches would have got in your face while you worked, meaning you would have cut them back or likely broken a couple, yet the lower boughs showed no signs of damage.’

  ‘Aren’t you quite the detective?’ Michael muttered.

  ‘They found boot prints in the mud heading that way,’ Slim continued, quietly pleased at the grudging note of respect in Michael’s voice. ‘The boot prints matched a pair of boots Amos owned. But there was a concrete path down to the edge of the property. I’ve seen it in … photos. For a keen moors walker like Amos, he’d have known where that path was with his eyes closed and he wouldn’t have risked slipping in the mud, not if he was carrying something valuable. They were your prints, weren’t they?’

  Michael sighed. ‘Damn, you’re good, I’ll give you that. We had the same brand. Common workmen’s boots. Not a lot of shoe shops in Camelford.’