Waterloo Sunset: A Lake District Mystery #4 (Lake District Mysteries) Read online

  Victor turned up ten minutes later than promised, but his mood had lightened. He handed over the key with a ceremonial flourish.

  ‘Barney and I are off to the Stapledon for a couple of drinks, followed by a meal. You’ll have a free run this evening.’

  ‘An hour is all I need.’

  ‘On my way back, I thought I saw Wayne Saxelby in Water Street, hailing a black cab.’

  Harry and Gina exchanged glances. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree. He might have a lot to say for himself, but he always struck me as a decent fellow.’

  ‘Barney seems less sure.’

  Victor treated them to a libidinous wink. ‘It’s no bad thing to keep a young man on his toes. If you get my meaning.’

  ‘I’ll leave the key behind the front desk.’

  ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for.’ Victor glanced over his shoulder on his way out. ‘Though I’d lay odds that it’s a wild goose chase.’

  When the door closed behind him, Gina said, ‘Wayne Saxelby won’t hang around in the Burning Deck when he realises you aren’t going to show up. We’d better get moving.’

  ‘You don’t have to come. For a solicitor to trespass in someone else’s home is bad enough, but…’

  ‘For a cleaning lady, it’s all in a day’s work. No arguing, Harry. You can’t keep me out of this now. If you talk like a schoolteacher, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘Me neither.’ She slapped him playfully on the backside. ‘Come on.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have polished off all that wine.’

  ‘Once we’re done in John Newton House, I expect you to buy another bottle.’

  ***

  He felt light-headed as they walked along the Strand. Partly the effect of booze on an empty stomach, partly the adrenaline rush of venturing into the unknown. He shouldn’t be doing this, far less bringing Gina along. But he couldn’t help himself. Beneath the giddiness, his insides churned with rage. Jim had been battered to the brink of death, and now it seemed that Wayne Saxelby was responsible. Nothing could excuse the attack on Jim, nothing at all. Whoever did it deserved to be hunted down and made to pay the price.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Gina asked as they crossed the road at the lights.

  ‘Fine, why do you ask?’

  ‘There’s an odd look on your face. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘What sort of look?’

  ‘I dunno, sort of hard and intense. Focused, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah, you won’t see me looking focused that often. Not in the office, for sure. Ask Jim Crusoe, he’ll be the first to say so.’

  They arrived at John Newton House and Harry let them in. The lobby was quiet, but for the never-ending gush of the waterfall. Victor had abandoned the desk with its forlorn array of blank screens. The lift whisked them up to the top floor. He remembered his last visit here, and his expulsion on to the balcony. It seemed to belong to a different lifetime. When Wayne Saxelby still acted like a saviour. Before Ceri Hussain tried to kill herself.

  As they stepped out on to the landing, he realised that he was exhausted. The events of the day had taken a toll, and the booze hadn’t helped.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked again.

  The silence up here was eerie. Down the corridor was the door to Juliet’s penthouse, but she was out with Casper. He imagined Wayne in the saloon bar, consulting his watch and drumming his fingers on the table in irritation.

  ‘Never better.’

  Untrue, but who cared? He fitted Victor’s key in the lock. It turned easily and the door to Tamara Dighton’s penthouse slid open.

  The place was as tidy as he remembered from his last visit. Ahead of them, the door to the room where Wayne kept his laptop stood ajar.

  ‘Lead the way,’ Gina whispered.

  ‘No need to keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody around.’

  He strode forward, pushed at the door and moved into the room.

  The moment he stepped inside, something hit his head with tremendous force. He felt a searing pain and lost his balance, groping blindly for something to hold on to as he crashed to the floor.

  Gina screamed and he heard rapid footsteps. Then she screamed again, in agony this time.

  ‘Nobody around?’ Wayne Saxelby’s voice enquired as his head swam. ‘Uh-uh, Harry. Wrong again.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  As he came round, everything was fuzzy. His face was wet and his head hurt. He felt dried blood on his cheeks, and he wanted to groan. But he couldn’t make a sound. Adhesive tape stretched tight over his mouth.

  He prised open his eyes, only to find that he was in the dark. Flickering candle-light relieved the blackness, but he didn’t have a clue where he was. A long way from Tamara Dighton’s penthouse, for sure. The atmosphere was dank and he heard a sound like a leaky tap. The plop, plop, plop, of rainwater from a roof he couldn’t see.

  He was underground, in a cave or tunnel, couldn’t be sure which. His ankles were bound together by thin strands of wire that bit into his flesh, and his wrists were tied behind his back. He’d been trussed up and dumped on a floor that was damp, cold and rocky.

  This must be what it felt like to be a slave. Not in control, your life no longer your own. At the mercy of others.

  As his eyes adjusted to the feeble illumination, he glimpsed a sodden, bunched-up towel lying on stony ground, inches from his feet. No wonder his face was moist. The towel had been wiped over it.

  ‘Harry.’

  Somewhere in the shadows, Wayne Saxelby whispered his name. He might have been greeting a lover as she awoke from her slumbers. Harry heard footsteps and saw the familiar face in the candle’s flame. Wayne ripped the tape from his lips with a force that made his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Harry,’ Wayne said again.

  ‘Uh?’

  Harry’s voice creaked like a cellar door. He felt as though he’d spent the whole day knocking back the booze, not just shared a single bottle of cheap plonk with Gina Paget.

  Shit. Gina, what had happened to her?

  ‘Sorry about the bang on the head. I needed to make sure I could transport you here without your making a nuisance of yourself. You will behave for me, won’t you?’

  Harry remained motionless.

  Wayne stamped on his ankle.

  ‘Won’t you?’ Wayne repeated.

  Harry made a fractional movement of his head.

  ‘I’m prepared to punish misbehaviour, make no mistake. I’m in no hurry. There are hours to go before the end of Midsummer’s Eve. I won’t knock you unconscious again. It would defeat the whole object if you finished up a cabbage. As Jim nearly did. I’ve been looking forward to this, and I’d hate to mess up at the last moment. You’ll have a splitting headache, of course. But don’t fret. That won’t last for too long.’

  Wayne bent down again, and Harry saw him fumble in a shoulder bag. He pulled out a flask and put it to his lips. When he’d torn the gag from Harry’s mouth, his breath had smelled of whisky. He needed Dutch courage to do whatever he had in mind.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. Don’t get your hopes up, I’m not pissed out of my brain. Just…excited. I feel like a traveller at the end of a long journey. I suppose you’d like to know where I’ve brought you and why?’

  Harry didn’t move.

  ‘You don’t fool me, Harry. Your curiosity is the stuff of legend. Welcome to the Waterloo Railway Tunnel. My father brought me here when I was a boy. It was built to connect Edge Hill Station with the docks. The Philistines of British Rail closed the Waterloo thirty-odd years ago, a wicked waste. Now they want to use it again.’

  Harry recalled the news coverage. The Waterloo Tunnel might be opened up to ease traffic congestion. Pity this was Saturday night, and there was no chance of Merseytravel engineers shinning down a vent to rescue him.

  ‘Look,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ll shine my torch
.’

  A thin beam danced along stone walls, catching the tails of stalactites that slithered down from the roof. Two arched openings gave into short passageways, beyond was a brick-lined chamber. Ahead, the tunnel curved away and disappeared into darkness.

  ‘Smoke flues and a boiler room.’ Wayne sounded like a tour guide. ‘Round the corner is the shaft where I brought you down. There’s all sorts of debris too, even an old smashed-up wagon. You’d never believe the things that are left to lie and rot for years underground.’

  He paused and said. ‘My father died on Midsummer’s Eve, you know. Same day of the year as my mother, but twelve months later.’

  The torch beam wobbled. Wayne’s hands must be trembling. Harry caught sight of Gina. She was tied up, like him, and her thin frame was wedged against the opposite wall of the tunnel. She was still in her stripey top and absurdly short skirt. Her legs were spread and the beam lingered on a glimpse of white thighs and dark knickers. Her head lolled on her left shoulder, her eyes were shut, and her mouth sealed with tape. Harry couldn’t tell whether she was awake or sleeping, alive or dead.

  ‘Why did you have to bring her along?’ Wayne asked. ‘It’s your fault she has to suffer too. Collateral damage.’

  To the best of Harry’s knowledge, Wayne had never kept a girlfriend for long. Yet he’d pretended to be Tamara Dighton’s lover. How careless to fall for his fantasy.

  A few yards further down the tunnel, steel glinted in the torchlight. The beam jinked over a bulky piece of equipment, tempting him to guess what it might be. Then Wayne switched off the torch and the moment was gone.

  ‘My parents were married for years before I came along. Mum had one miscarriage after another. My birth was like a miracle, she said. I was the apple of their eye. You’ll say they spoiled me, but I wanted to please them. I scraped through the degree and law finals, but after that it got even harder. Which is why I ended up working for you and Jim. The bottom of the barrel.’

  Wayne shook his head. ‘I was desperate to keep my clients happy. That’s why I told Mrs. Birch I’d negotiated such a good settlement. I meant to repay the money once I’d sorted out a loan. I was the loser, not her. You and Jim could have turned a blind eye. Nobody would have been any the wiser if you hadn’t made such a fuss.’

  Until the next time, Harry thought. But he kept his mouth clamped shut.

  ‘Mum was desperately ill by then. Dad couldn’t cope, that’s why she moved into the Home. You told me I was finished with the firm and I wrote out my resignation rather than be sacked. Afterwards, I drove for miles round Wirral, wondering how I’d break the news to my parents. My mobile was switched off when Dad was frantically trying to ring me, to ask me to join him at Mum’s bedside. I should have been there, it was my duty as a son. I finally turned up after the ambulance had taken her body to the mortuary. It was Midsummer’s Eve. Not that you will remember.’

  No, Harry hadn’t the faintest recollection. His only concern had been sorting out the mess that Wayne left behind. He hadn’t known that Mrs. Saxelby was sick.

  ‘When I lost her, I sort of crumbled. No job, no money. I’d failed and let my parents down. I got it into my head that if I’d kept my job with Crusoe and Devlin, Mum might have lived.’

  Better say something.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry muttered.

  Wayne didn’t seem to hear. ‘You know why I loathe hospitals? Because I’ve seen too much of them. The psychiatrists worried about me, they thought I was a danger to myself. Especially after Dad died. He killed himself, did I mention that?’

  Harry shook his head. He didn’t know what was coming next, but was sure he wouldn’t like it.

  ‘He never got over Mum’s death, of course. They didn’t spend a single night apart in forty years of marriage. Want to know how he died?’

  Harry was more concerned about the girl who lay a few feet away, hidden in the darkness. He must save Gina, even if it cost his own life. But though the wire bindings felt crude and inexpertly fastened, he could not work himself free. At least not while Wayne watched him. And he dared not squirm out of the glow cast by the candle-light.

  Wayne took a step forward. His fist was balled.

  ‘You do want to know, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘He was a carpenter by trade, he’d served a long apprenticeship. A real craftsman, that was Dad. He took a pride in his work.’

  Gina groaned and Wayne spun round. The torch beam fell on her pale face. It was made ugly by a grimace of pain.

  ‘Coming round? Good, I want you to hear this too.’

  ‘Let her go,’ Harry mumbled.

  ‘Even by your standards,’ Wayne said, ‘that’s a very stupid request. Tell you what. She can die first. Trust me, I’m doing her a favour.’

  Gina groaned again and Wayne slapped her on the cheek. The coarse sound of his hand on her skin echoed in the tunnel.

  ‘Where was I? Oh yes, my father. While I was in and out of mental hospital, he spent a lot of his time in the garden shed. His private kingdom, where he used to make bird tables and such-like. I had no idea what he was doing in there. Next Midsummer’s Eve, I found out.’

  Harry waited.

  ‘I’d been to see my psychiatrist. She thought I was making progress. I’d not talked to Dad about the anniversary of Mum’s death. I hoped the day would pass without him saying how much he missed her. Kidding myself, of course.’

  Wayne cleared his throat. ‘The minute I got back home, I knew something was wrong. You know how it is?’

  Harry nodded. Less than twelve hours had passed since he and Ken Porterfield had broken into Ceri Hussain’s house. Since then, his life had changed, not once, but twice.

  ‘I found him in the living room. His body was in one place, but his head had rolled across the floor. What he’d built in his shed was a purpose-made guillotine. marvelous craftsmanship, with a timer and the sharpest blade I’d ever seen. He bent under the blade and pulled the switch, and everything worked, exactly as he’d planned.’

  Harry swallowed hard as Ceri’s voice murmured in his brain.

  ‘People find all sorts of imaginative ways to kill themselves. In the past two or three years alone, we’ve had death by antifreeze poisoning, by circular saw, even by a home-made guillotine.’

  ‘You’re honoured,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ve never spoken about my father’s death before. That worried the psychiatrist, she thought I wasn’t dealing with it. I was hospitalised for six months after Dad decapitated himself. Until it dawned on me there was one way I could make things right.’

  He frowned at the memory. ‘I realised you and Jim were to blame for everything. Okay, I wasn’t the world’s best solicitor, but work gives us self-respect, and you robbed me of mine. Mum was poorly, but you’d stopped me from being with her when she passed away. And I hold you responsible for what happened to Dad. A whole family, destroyed. What gave you the right?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry said again.

  ‘Too late. I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want to live. Suicide runs in families, they say, and I guess it’s true. But it stuck in my gullet that, if I killed myself, you’d carry on without a care in the world. As if you weren’t to blame.’

  Harry’s heart pounded. With infinite caution, he tested the wire ties that held his wrists behind his back. There was some give, but nothing like enough. If he tried to free himself, Wayne would be on to him straight away. A phrase from their conversation in Tamara’s flat stuck in his mind.

  ‘Best of luck, Harry. I have this feeling you’re going to need it if you keep sticking your neck out.’

  No wonder Wayne had smiled.

  ‘You talk a lot about justice, Harry. As it happens, I’m with you one hundred per cent. That’s why I decided you should face a spot of poetic justice yourself.’

  The torch beam danced again, to allow Harry a proper look at the apparatus he’d glimpsed.

  In the middle of the tunnel was a rickety old table. On top
of it stood a wooden guillotine. The glint of steel in the light came from the blade. Wayne was right, its cutting edge was as sharp as any Harry had seen.

  He retched convulsively. Wayne pulled a face and switched off the torch. He picked up the towel to mop Harry’s jaw.

  ‘This isn’t going to be pleasant, get used to it. You’d never believe how hard it was, persuading the Coroner’s office to let me have the guillotine back. But it’s my property, I was sole heir to my father’s estate. And since you insisted on bringing the girl along, I thought she should be the first to test the blade. Give you an idea of what lies in store.’

  ‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’

  ‘Begging, eh? I ought to thank you, really. You gave a purpose to my life. I managed to pull myself together well enough to create a new identity, without even changing my name. You’d be surprised how easy it is to convince people that you are rich and successful. Of course, I took risks. It’s what entrepreneurs do. Trust me, I read management books till the bullshit was leaking out of my ears.’

  Harry was thinking about Gina. How to get her out of this in one piece?

  ‘Persuading Tamara to let me house-sit for her was a stroke of luck. It was easier to be on the spot as Midsummer’s Eve drew near. I always wanted this to be your last day. There’s a symmetry about it. I wanted to rattle your cage, make you realise something bad was going to happen. The fake press clipping about your death, the message on your home answering machine, the mess I made of your room. Childish, perhaps, but I knew your imagination would fill in the gaps.’

  ‘And Jim?’

  Wayne frowned. ‘He has no imagination whatsoever, no point in twisting his tail. I didn’t much care whether he lived or died. The only essential was that, if he survived, he shouldn’t be able to identify me. As Fate would have it, Victor Creevey called on me. He dropped a hint that you were planning to visit when you thought I was safely away at the Burning Deck.’

  Bloody Victor. He’d lied about seeing Wayne catch a cab, as well.

  ‘My only fear was that someone would spot me dumping you both down the tunnel vent. It’s a quiet spot, and covered in undergrowth, but you can never be sure someone won’t stick their nose in. Thank goodness, there wasn’t a hitch. I’ve spent a fortnight flirting with Victor, and today it paid off. He’s really taken a dislike to you, Harry. You ought to be more careful about making so many enemies.’