The Lantern Men Read online

  ‘You must be pleased about March,’ she says.

  Nelson sits down opposite her. ‘There are still the other two women,’ he says. ‘Nicola Ferris and Jenny McGuire.’

  Jo stops smiling. ‘Their bodies were never found,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ says Nelson, ‘but March killed them, I’m sure of it. He had a very specific physical type. Jill Prendergast and Stacy Newman were both tall and blonde with blue eyes. Nicola and Jenny were very similar and the same age, mid-thirties. Both women were living in north Norfolk and both attended March’s evening classes. And neither of them have been seen since the summer of 2016.’

  ‘I agree there’s circumstantial evidence,’ says Jo, ‘but without forensics we’ve nothing to link them to March. Their DNA wasn’t found on anything in his house.’

  ‘He’s too clever for that,’ says Nelson. ‘With Jill and Stacy the only DNA evidence was buried in his girlfriend’s garden.’

  ‘We’ve dug up that garden,’ says Jo, ‘and only found the two bodies.’

  ‘They’re buried somewhere else,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘It might have been wiser not to mention it in the TV interview all the same,’ says Jo. ‘It gives false hope to the families.’

  Nelson knew that this was coming. Jo didn’t trust him in front of the cameras. He was too intimidating, she said, not warm enough. He scowled at reporters and barked out one-word answers. Jo thought that all media interviews should be handled by Judy. Or, better still, by Super Jo herself.

  ‘March loved being on trial,’ says Nelson. ‘He loved the attention. Maybe he’ll confess just to get more of the limelight. He’s going to have a pretty dull time of it in jail, even with all those delusional women writing to him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on a confession,’ says Jo. ‘And, hard though it is, we can’t keep on throwing money and resources into the case.’

  ‘So that’s it for Nicola and Jenny? Case closed?’

  ‘We’ll keep on looking,’ says Jo. ‘It just can’t be a priority.’

  Nelson knows that she’s right but he hates unfinished business. He knows that Nicola and Jenny are going to haunt his dreams. Just like Lucy Downey did, all those years ago.

  ‘Go home, Nelson,’ says Jo. ‘Baby George will cheer you up.’

  ‘He’s not a baby any more,’ says Nelson, ‘he’s nearly two and a half.’ But his face does lighten at the thought of his son.

  *

  But, on the drive home, Nelson finds himself thinking about Nicola Ferris and Jenny McGuire. Nicola was thirty-four and single. She lived near Cley, on the edge of the north Norfolk marshes, and taught at the local secondary school. She was also a keen amateur artist and had attended an evening painting course at her local community centre. It was run by Ivor March. In July 2016 Nicola went to the pub for end-of-term drinks with the other students. She left at ten p.m. to ride her bicycle home and was never seen again. Jenny was thirty-six, divorced with one child. She lived in Holt and worked in the gift shop in a nearby stately home. She too had attended one of Ivor March’s evening classes at the community centre, this time in creative writing. One morning in August, Jenny had left for work, cycling through the mist. She’d never arrived.

  Nelson and his team had seen the links immediately. They had questioned March along with the other students and course leaders. He had admitted to knowing both women but had an alibi – his girlfriend – for the dates of their disappearances. Then, in September, another woman had vanished. Jill Prendergast, a thirty-five-year-old teaching assistant from Cromer. Jill was last seen at a bus stop near Cley, on her way to visit a friend. She was, by all accounts, an outgoing, vivacious woman, devoted to her job and to her pet cat, Ferdy. She had a boyfriend, an electrician called Jay, and he was, of course, their first suspect. But Jay had an alibi, working a long shift at the hospital. Then, going through the list of Jill’s friends and relations, Judy had come across the connection to Ivor March. Jill had been friends with March’s girlfriend, Chantal Simmonds. The two women had met at an exercise class and had socialised several times with their respective partners. Jill and Jay had even attended Ivor’s fiftieth birthday party. March had an alibi – Chantal, naturally – for the night of Jill’s disappearance but Judy had got a warrant to dig up the garden of Chantal’s cottage at Salthouse. There they had found not only the remains of Jill but also of Stacy Newman, an office worker who had disappeared five years earlier.

  Stacy, who was thirty-eight and divorced, lived in London, which was why Nelson’s team hadn’t been involved in the case. And it was, arguably, easier to disappear in London than in rural Norfolk. But there was a link, though it had eluded everyone at the time. Stacy had known Ivor March. They had met when he was a student at St Martin’s and had kept in touch over the years. Stacy had also been to one of March’s parties. ‘He’s a wonderful host,’ Chantal told Judy, eyes shining. Stacy had probably also been March’s lover but Chantal would never admit this. What was unarguable was that March’s DNA was on both bodies and on the rope that had bound them. There were also fibres from his house and hairs from his cat, Mother Gabley. March, of course, insisted that the police had planted this evidence.

  From the start Nelson had been sure that March had killed Nicola and Jenny too. He had links with them both and it was true that all four women were of a very similar physical type, tall and blonde with blue eyes. Interestingly, Chantal Simmonds was short and dark. Nelson’s team had excavated every inch of Chantal’s garden, they took apart her house and March’s flat in King’s Lynn. But no trace of the missing women was ever found. Without forensic evidence, there was no chance of March being convicted. Nelson had to be content with charging March for the murders of Jill and Stacy and watching and waiting. The trouble is that patience isn’t his strong point.

  Nelson turns into his drive, enjoying, as he always does, the moment when the garage doors open as if by magic. Michelle’s car is in the drive and he wonders who will win the race to greet him today, George or the family’s German shepherd, Bruno.

  It’s George but only because Bruno hangs back, good-naturedly.

  ‘Daddy!’ George flings himself at Nelson’s legs. He is very pro-Daddy at the moment which, Michelle informs Nelson, is ‘only a phase’. She’s probably right but Nelson is enjoying it while it lasts.

  ‘Hi, Georgie.’ Nelson swings his son up into the air. Bruno watches them both anxiously – there have been accidents involving light fittings before.

  Michelle appears from the kitchen. ‘Be careful, Harry.’

  ‘He loves it,’ says Nelson, throwing George up again. Bruno gives a short bark.

  ‘Bruno knows it’s dangerous.’

  ‘He’s an old woman.’ But Nelson puts George down and pats the dog, whose solicitude for the family does sometimes verge on obsessive.

  ‘How’s your day been?’ asks Michelle.

  ‘OK. Ivor March was found guilty. Did you hear it on the news?’

  ‘I never listen to the news these days. It’s always bad.’

  ‘You’ve got a point there. What did you do today?’ He follows Michelle into the kitchen and looks in the fridge for a beer. He is trying to avoid drinking, except at weekends, but feels that he deserves a small celebration. It is Friday, after all.

  ‘I was working in the morning,’ says Michelle. ‘Then I picked George up from nursery and we went to the park. I met Cathbad there with Miranda.’

  ‘Surely Miranda must be at school now. Want a drink?’ Nelson proffers a wine bottle enticingly but Michelle shakes her head. She isn’t much of a drinker and is very careful about her diet. She says it was harder to get her figure back after the birth of her third child and she’s determined not to lose it for the sake of a glass of Prosecco in the evening. Nelson understands her reasons, and admires her self-control, but it would be nice to have someone to drink with so
metimes.

  ‘Cathbad said that Miranda hadn’t been feeling well that morning,’ says Michelle, ‘but she looked fine to me. You know how soft he is with those kids.’

  Cathbad, Judy’s partner, looks after their children as well as teaching meditation and being, in his own words, a part-time druid. He is certainly more relaxed about school attendance, and rules in general, than Judy would be.

  ‘Cathbad said that Ruth’s enjoying her writing retreat,’ says Michelle, not looking at Nelson. ‘It’s on the fens, in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘I don’t know why she wanted to go a writing retreat in the first place,’ said Nelson. ‘Maybe that’s what they do in Cambridge.’ He puts a certain amount of scorn in the last word. He knows about the retreat because Ruth had asked him if he minded Frank looking after Katie for the week. Nelson had minded but knew that he couldn’t say so.

  ‘I hope Frank got Katie to school on time,’ he says now.

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s not like Cathbad, he’s very responsible.’ She sees Nelson’s face and says, ‘He is her stepfather.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ says Nelson. ‘Because he’s not married to Ruth.’

  ‘They’re living together,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s the same thing.’

  But, in Nelson’s mind, it’s not the same thing at all. Marriage is a union blessed by God and the law and it’s the law that’s uppermost in his mind at the moment. He goes into the sitting room with his beer and turns on the television. George brings over some building bricks for a game and Nelson joins in half-heartedly.

  He no longer feels as if the evening is a celebration.

  Chapter 3

  Whatever Nelson might think, Ruth and Frank are conscientious about getting Kate to school on time. Ruth normally walks her there on the way to St Jude’s, the college where she teaches forensic archaeology. If Ruth has an early meeting, then Frank takes her. He usually drives because his college is slightly outside the centre of Cambridge. Neither of them has taken to cycling, the most popular mode of transport in the city. Ruth hasn’t been on a bike since her teens and thinks that, in her case, it’s not true that the skill is never forgotten. Frank has an American distrust of anything on two wheels.

  Ruth enjoys the walk with Kate. They talk about all sorts of things and pat every cat that they see. On this Monday morning, Kate wants to talk about Fortnite, the online game that has taken the pre-teen world by storm. Lots of Kate’s friends play it but Ruth has told Kate that she has to wait until she’s twelve, which is the official age rating. Kate doesn’t seem too bothered about this but today she wants to start one of the endless circular arguments which make Ruth think that her daughter will grow up to be a barrister. Or a master criminal.

  ‘So what if you’re twelve but you’re not very clever. Is that still OK?’

  ‘It’s not about how clever you are. It’s about what’s appropriate.’

  ‘I’m reading The Subtle Knife. Is that suitable for nine-year-olds?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a great book.’

  ‘Will’s fingers get chopped off. Is that OK because it’s a great book?’

  Ruth sighs and considers her answer. In her opinion, everything is all right if it’s encased within the covers of a book. Well, almost everything. She wouldn’t be that happy if she saw Mein Kampf in Kate’s book bag. And it’s true that Philip Pullman’s books do contain some violent and disturbing scenes but, for Ruth, that is justified because they are well written. She can’t imagine that Fortnite deals with the themes of life, death and organised religion. Or maybe that’s just her prejudice.

  ‘I love the dæmons in those books,’ she says now, referring to the animal familiars that accompany the characters. ‘What would yours be?’

  Kate gives her a look as if recognising this obvious diversion tactic. ‘A cat, of course. What’s yours? You can’t say cat too.’

  Ruth had been about to say cat. She thinks about the animal kingdom as they near the school, a modern sixties block with a brightly coloured façade, incongruous amongst the ancient buildings surrounding it.

  ‘An owl,’ she says at last, ‘because of Minerva. And Hecate.’ Cathbad often calls Kate Hecate. She must phone him.

  ‘And Athena,’ says Kate, who also loves the Percy Jackson books. ‘Not a bad choice, Mum.’

  Kate says goodbye and skips away happily. She hadn’t wanted to change schools but now, after two years, seems settled at St Benedict’s. She has made lots of friends and the teachers all say how well she’s doing, how quick and eager to learn. Ruth is always pleased when Kate is praised. She must get some of her brains from Ruth, surely? But Kate doesn’t get her confidence from Ruth, or her ability instantly to become the most popular person in the class, arbiter of tastes and fashions. Goodness knows where she inherited this. Perhaps it’s Nelson’s professional arrogance translated into a subtler form. Or perhaps it’s a gift from the gods invoked by Cathbad at her naming day.

  Ruth walks on to her college, never ceasing to get a thrill from the sight of the grassy court with the Tudor buildings rising up around it. How did she, a south London girl, end up teaching at Cambridge? By being the best in her field, she tells herself. There’s no room for false modesty in academia. She is an experienced lecturer who has published two well-received books. Soon to be three, with any luck. She has appeared on television and has been involved in several noteworthy digs. It was a wrench to leave the University of North Norfolk, even though she had always complained about the place, its lack of funding and ambition, its flimsy modern buildings and apathetic students. No, she made the choice to move on and, despite initial resistance from Nelson, she and Kate now have a new life in Cambridge. There’s nothing to be gained from thinking about the past.

  But when she gets to her office, the past is there waiting for her in the shape of her old boss, Phil Trent.

  *

  DCI Nelson is standing looking at a long low building with marshland behind it. It’s another beautiful day, the sun is already warm overhead and Nelson is in shirtsleeves, but, to him, the place still looks bleak and inhospitable. The marshes, variegated in shades of yellow and green interspersed with purple sea lavender, are, to him, an uncharted wasteland where an unwary traveller could take a wrong step and become mired in quicksand, a prey to the elements or worse. The building, with its battered sign saying ‘Saltmarsh Community Centre’, looks almost derelict, with its peeling paint and padlocked doors. But Nelson knows that it is still a thriving meeting place, with classes almost every night and events at the weekend. A sign on the noticeboard tells him that, this Saturday, Charlie Bennet, ‘The Norfolk Elvis’, will be performing. As he wanders around the centre, looking for signs of life, Nelson wonders idly how much someone would have to pay him to attend one of Charlie’s performances. A hundred? Not a chance. A thousand? He might be tempted but the thought of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ hardens his heart. You would have to pay him serious money to sit through that and, even then, he would leave before ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ He feels sure that Charlie favours Elvis’s white jumpsuit period.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A woman is standing looking at him, holding a bicycle with a basket at the front. She is tall with blondish hair swept up in a bun. Something, maybe the hairstyle or the bike, gives her a rather old-fashioned air. He guesses her age to be about fifty but it’s so hard to tell these days.

  ‘DCI Nelson.’ Nelson shows his warrant card.

  ‘Ailsa Britain,’ says the woman. ‘I run the classes here.’ She’s casually dressed in a T-shirt and flowered skirt but is still a rather commanding presence. Her voice is commanding too, effortless upper-class vowels that sound as if they come from the days of the British Empire. Nelson runs through the case files in his mind. They must have interviewed Ailsa Britain when they were investigating the disappearances of Nicola and Jenny.

  ‘Is it
about Ivor March?’ says Ailsa. ‘I saw your press conference yesterday.’

  ‘In a way,’ says Nelson. ‘Can we talk inside?’

  He’s not even sure in his own mind why he’s there. He hasn’t been to the community centre before. He’d visited the main locations in the Ivor March case – the garden, the suspects’ houses, the places where the two women had supposedly vanished – but the initial interviews had all been handled by Judy, who had just passed her DI exams. She’d done a great job, everything meticulously checked and double-checked. Even the prosecuting solicitor had been impressed.

  Ailsa props the bike against the wall, unlocks the main doors and ushers Nelson into a large room, empty except for a piano on a dais and a pile of stacked chairs.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ says Ailsa. ‘It’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

  Nelson says yes to coffee. He doesn’t mind instant, unlike Ruth who favours the proper bitter Italian stuff, preferably bought from a shop that pays its fair share of UK taxes. But he mustn’t think about Ruth. Nelson takes two chairs and places them by a window that looks out over the marshes. God, what a desolate view, he thinks. Miles and miles of nothingness. And, when you get to the sea, that’s bloody bleak too: no amusements, no cafés, just acres of grey sand. Nelson was born in Blackpool and still regards the Golden Mile as the perfect seafront.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Ailsa, appearing with two mugs and some custard creams on a tray. Nelson warms to her.

  ‘It’s a bit lonely for my taste,’ he says.

  ‘That’s part of the appeal for me,’ says Ailsa. ‘I came here from London after my divorce and I just wanted to be in a place where I could see nothing but sea and sky.’

  Ruth had come to Norfolk from London and she, too, loved the marshes. But not enough to stop her buggering off to Cambridge. Don’t think about Ruth.