The Fourth Cart Read online

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The warming rays of the sun fell across Magee’s face as he lay in bed, blissfully content, day-dreaming sweet nothings. He could tell, instinctively, that his wife was fussing around the bedroom, but, for once in his life, rebellious thoughts kept him from stirring.

  ‘Are you going to lie there all day?’ Jenny asked. ‘It’s well past eight. You’ve never slept in so late in your life. It’s a lovely day, what about going for a run, since you’ve got time on your hands?’

  Magee knew he wouldn’t be allowed to get away with such selfish behavior, especially on a Monday morning. ‘I might go later. Meantime, it’s wonderful just lying right here, doing nothing. It must have been all that fresh air and exercise, walking up Kingston Ridge with the kids yesterday. We really must do it more often.’

  ‘You mean you must do it more often, Jack. You’re the one that needs to get more involved with them. It won’t be long now before their childhoods have gone forever.’

  ‘I know,’ Magee sighed. ‘But what can I do? Get a new job?’

  ‘Maybe, not that I’m suggesting it, mind you. Your work is what you love, I know that. But perhaps you should take it a little easier, like you are at the moment.’

  ‘That would be nice. I’ll work on that idea.’

  ‘In the meantime, are you coming down for breakfast?’

  ‘Yep, I’ve got a few important things to clear up today.’

  Thirty minutes later, as Magee was finishing his second cup of tea at the kitchen table, the telephone rang. He tried to ignore the obtrusive sound, leaving Jenny to answer it.

  ‘It’s Melissa for you, Jack,’ she called out.

  Reluctantly, Magee rose from the table and sauntered into the hallway to take the call. ‘Hello?’

  A low, discreet voice said, ‘How's your holiday, sir?’

  ‘Wonderful, Melissa, absolutely bloody wonderful.’

  ‘Really? That’s good, though surprising. I thought you’d be at your wits end by now. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know that you're missed here. No joking, honest to god, sir. The whole office will be signing a petition for your reinstatement at this rate. Jackson is being a real jerk. A real pain in the proverbial. He had us in all weekend going over the case. There was nothing to be learned, of course, it was all done just to please him and to prove he has authority over us. I suppose he doesn't want anyone accusing him of taking it easy, but honestly, sir, your good nature is sorely missed.’

  ‘That bad is he?’

  ‘He's that bad, sir.’ Melissa paused momentarily before continuing, ‘You’re sounding chirpy. I feared you’d be depressed.’

  ‘Far from it, I can tell you. To be honest, I'm glad I've had the break; it's been really enlightening. I'll be back soon, you can count on that, but don't tell anyone I said so. I haven't stopped fighting yet.’

  ‘Good for you, sir’

  ‘I need some support though.’

  ‘You've got it, sir. Just name it.’

  ‘Well, for now, I need names and addresses of the victims’ relatives. I copied large sections of the reports before I left, but I didn't think relatives’ addresses would be important.’

  ‘And they are important?’

  ‘Maybe, Melissa, maybe. I can't say at the moment.’

  ‘You cunning old sod! You're up to something aren't you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you're going it alone?’

  ‘Hmm, I’d better not answer that. But I’m not taking this lying down, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘You crafty old fox! What have you got?’

  ‘Best I don't tell you. Not if you're serious about seeing me back.’

  ‘Sure. I understand. Give me ten minutes. I'll phone you back.’

  ‘I’m at home until you call.’

  ‘Right. Whoops, must go. Jackson's on the prowl,’ Melissa cut off the call abruptly.

  Two hours later, armed with nothing more than a hastily scribbled note, Magee found himself standing outside Cherry Tree Cottage, a quaint flint faced house halfway up The Street in Kingston, a village on the outskirts of Lewes. An elderly woman opened the door.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Gibson. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jack Magee. You telephoned me last Friday afternoon, about the unpleasant package you received.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Gibson. I really don’t wish to cause you any more distress, but there are a few points I need to clear up with you. I was wondering whether you could spare me a few minutes. If it's convenient, that is.’ Magee prayed she wouldn’t ask to see a warrant card.

  ‘Yes, of course, Chief Inspector. Do please come in. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle has only just boiled.’

  Magee knew all about little old ladies whose kettle had just boiled. ‘I would love a cup, thank you.’

  ‘Follow me then, Chief Inspector. My, my, I’ve never met a Chief Inspector before. Isn’t this exciting?’

  Magee followed the old lady through to her kitchen, playing right into her hands.

  ‘You have a lovely house, Mrs Gibson. And it’s so spacious. I live on the Neville Estate. It’s a bit crowded up there. I’ve only ever dreamt of living in a house like this. I know my wife would love to live in this village, we come over to the Juggs Arms quite often, and walk up the Ridge, but the house prices here are a little bit beyond our means.’

  ‘Oh yes, Chief Inspector. I well understand. But then Keith bought this house a long time ago. It was large enough for Keith and ourselves to live in without getting on top of each other. My husband died twenty years ago, and Keith spent most of his time overseas, especially during winter. But he would stay here for the summer though, and help with the garden. It really is too big for just me on my own now, but I don’t have the energy to move.’

  ‘Where did Keith go overseas?’

  ‘Well, Tibet was the country he loved most, but he hadn’t been there for a very long time. India, he enjoyed. And Thailand, lots of temples to explore there. He loved studying ancient religious cultures. He was a very educated man.’

  Magee waited patiently as Mrs Gibson fussed about in her kitchen.

  ‘Now then, will you take the tray into the lounge for me, Chief Inspector? Please sit down on the sofa, make yourself comfy.’

  And so Magee spent an hour listening to Mrs Gibson recount her memories. She was in a league of her own when it came to small talk about her son. She was so proud of him. Keith had accomplished such a lot in his life. He had been kind and generous and thoroughly devoted to his dear old mother. However, like so many young people, he’d gone off the rails at some stage in his life and resorted to drugs for comfort. That had been the eventual cause of his death.

  As Magee had hoped, it wasn’t long before the family photo albums came out. The pages turned slowly and another cup of tea was made. At one o’clock Mrs Gibson insisted on making Magee some sandwiches, arguing that he was a working man and needed his sustenance.

  After lunch, Magee managed to get the old lady’s attention focused on the period that Keith had been abroad. She remembered it well, Keith having sent back hundreds of photos and letters of his travels, as well as segments for his doctoral thesis whilst at university.

  At length, Magee said, ‘I’m particularly interested in the period that Keith was in Thailand. Would it be possible to have a look at photos from that time?’

  ‘Of course, Chief Inspector. Oh! Just a second, where are they now? Oh, yes, Keith got very emotional one day when he discovered that I’d kept things from his past. He threw everything out, said I was silly keeping old rubbish. Most unlike him it was. Still, I rescued it all from the bin and hid it in a box. I didn’t want to lose those precious memories.’

  ‘I understand,’ Magee responded in sympathy.

  ‘Now then, where is that box? Oh, I suppose it must be up in the attic. Would you mind getting it down for me? I
t's a bit difficult for me to get up there these days.’

  ‘Yes, of course. No problem. I'm sorry to inconvenience you so much.’ Magee followed Mrs Gibson up the stairs. He stood staring at the attic hatch for a few moments, his stomach in knots, and offered a short silent prayer to any deity that was able to influence his fate. He drew in a deep breath, lowered the hatch, maneuvered down a set of ladders and climbed up into the black void.

  ‘There's a light switch to your left, Chief Inspector. Down on the floor.’

  ‘Got it!’ Magee called down as the attic lit up.

  ‘Look for an old cardboard box,’ Mrs Gibson called up. ‘Over in the corner to your right, I think. Sorry about the dirt and cobwebs.’

  ‘There’s a large Co-op supermarket box here, with red ribbons around it,’ Magee called down.

  ‘That's it,’ Mrs Gibson replied. ‘Bring it down will you. I’ll keep it downstairs now. No need for it to stay up there.’

  Magee switched off the light and put the ladders back up before carrying the box downstairs to the kitchen where Mrs Gibson had laid out sheets of newspaper on a table. He laid the box down, taking the greatest of care with the historical treasure trove.

  ‘Clean your hands over there, Chief Inspector, I'll just wipe the box down.’

  At the sink, Magee turned to watch Mrs Gibson. He grinned with satisfaction, his plan so far working a treat. He bit his lip, desperately hoping that Keith’s mementos included information vital to the case.

  ‘You can use the towel on the radiator, Chief Inspector. That’s right, the blue one. Now then, will you get a knife out of the drawer by the sink, please?’

  Magee did as instructed.

  ‘That's it, a nice sharp one. Thank you.’

  The box was opened, the ribbon being cut with all the ceremony of a time-honoured ritual. Magee stood quite still, feigning patience, leaving Mrs Gibson to pull out various objects for which only she knew the history.

  ‘His first Teddy bear, Chief Inspector. I can still remember him as a baby. He was so cute then. Do you have children?’

  ‘Two. Carolyn is eight years old. Jason is five.’

  Mrs Gibson sighed. ‘Cherish their childhoods, Chief Inspector. It goes so fast. Soon you'll only be left with vague memories.’

  Magee wasn’t sure how to respond. The glaze in Mrs Gibson’s eye told a sad story. He decided it was best not to intrude.

  A dozen or so childhood ornaments came out of the box and then a stack of airmail letters, written by a loving son to a worried mother thousands of miles away. She pulled out a pile of papers, looked at them and said, ‘No. These are about Tibet. He was there during the fifties, you know, he even got to meet the Dalai Lama. He was passionate about studying Tibetan culture.’

  Magee asked, ‘When did he go to Thailand?’

  Mrs Gibson put the pile of papers down on the kitchen table and said, ‘Let’s see now. He was in India briefly in nineteen sixty nine. I remember that well because he’d disappeared for the ten years prior to that. It was a very distressing time for us. I thought he’d met an untimely death. It took me years and years of correspondence with the Foreign Office before eventually discovering he was still alive. Can you imagine ten years without as much as a postcard? It was heartbreaking.’

  Magee frowned as he tried to place that piece of information in the right slot in his mind. ‘But he’d been all right during that time?’

  ‘Oh no. Not at all. Those barbaric Chinese soldiers that took control of Tibet in nineteen fifty-nine had put him in prison. He suffered terribly at their hands. They tortured him, starved him, made him do backbreaking manual work. It was awful for him. Ten years in prison nearly killed him.’

  ‘But he got out okay?’

  ‘Oh yes, eventually. He said it was my persistent campaign with the authorities that eventually got his case noticed.’

  ‘So Keith left Tibet, went to India and then moved to Thailand?’

  ‘Yes, indeed he did.’

  Mrs Gibson delved back into the box, withdrew several more stacks of papers and spread them over her kitchen table. Magee picked up each one in turn and examined the contents. Most were academic works, predominantly research on Tibetan religion and culture. One pile of papers, though, caught his eye. It looked very different to the others. He thumbed through the pages, reading odd passages, noting the scribbled penciled remarks in the margins.

  ‘This appears to be a manuscript for a book, Mrs Gibson. It’s titled The Fourth Cart. Was Keith writing a novel?’

  ‘He was indeed.’

  ‘Is it an autobiography or fiction?’

  Mrs Gibson frowned. ‘I’m not sure, Chief Inspector. It was the last thing Keith worked on before his accident. I remember him spending hours every day shut in his room, the persistent clackety-clack of his old typewriter. I do remember him saying it was a story that needed to be told.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Keith had a lot to get off his chest. He was involved in something very bad out in the Far East, I’m sure of that. I can only assume he needed to explain to the world his version of events.’

  ‘It’s not fiction then?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. I’ve never read it. I haven’t the heart. To be honest, I don’t actually want to know what it says.’

  ‘Did Keith ever get it published, or approach a publisher?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he even finished it. I remember he got more and more emotional as the days went on, typing it. I tried to get him to stop. I tried to make him see sense, that it was doing him more harm than good. One day, he just ran out of the house, crying. It was the last time I saw him alive.’

  Magee fell silent for a few moments out of respect, before asking, ‘May I borrow it?’

  Mrs Gibson snuffled into a handkerchief and replied, ‘By all means.’

  ‘I’m sorry if this is upsetting you, Mrs Gibson.’

  ‘That’s quite alright. I know you have to do these things. Take it with my blessing, but I’d rather not know what it contains, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now then,’ Mrs Gibson said as she peered into the depths of the box. ‘We’ve nearly finished. Just this left.’

  The last thing to come out of the box was a photo album. Magee's heart gave a jump. His expectation leaped to such a new high he could barely resist the urge to grab it.

  They sat down with the album opened on the kitchen table in front of them. Magee let Mrs Gibson turn over the pages in her own good time, each page at an agonizingly slow pace. But he knew there was no point rushing her, especially now that he had come so far. He patiently let her talk through Keith’s life in picture, whilst he desperately scanned the notes that had been tenderly written alongside each photo.

  Mrs Gibson halted on one page in particular, a picture of Keith with a young Thai woman on a beach. ‘I had hopes for him, when he sent this photograph. He wrote saying that he’d never felt so happy in his life.’

  ‘Did he marry her?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. It was such a shame, really. I would have loved to have had grandchildren. And I think Keith would have been a better man for it.’

  ‘How long did Keith stay in Thailand?’

  ‘About four years. He seemed to have settled down to a life of sorts, but then it all ended so abruptly.’

  Magee was just about to ask why, when Mrs Gibson turned to the last page of the album. The photo on that page took him by surprise. Most of the others had been of Keith visiting temples or picturesque sites in the country. This one, though, was different. Very different. It showed ten men and one woman, in two rows, the back row leaning against a bar, the front row squatting on the floor. All, except one, were young. All were cheering, arms around each other's necks and holding up beer cans. All were dressed roughly, many in army khaki. And the bar, he thought, lined by mirrors, looked the seediest he’d ever come across.

  Magee pointed to the photo and said, ‘Do you know where th
is was taken?’

  Mrs Gibson lifted the photo out of the album, turned it over and read aloud the slogan scrawled by Keith eighteen years ago. ‘March nineteen seventy-three, the lads at Lucy’s Tiger Den on Silom Road.’

  ‘Is that in Bangkok?’

  ‘I assume so.’ She looked closely. ‘A pretty rough looking bunch aren't they, Chief Inspector? They were his friends though, or so he said.’

  Magee’s attention was caught by what was written below the caption. ‘Are those their names?’

  Mrs Gibson replied, ‘I suppose they must be,’ and read out ‘Todd, Mike, Robert, Me, Ronnie, Des, Jeff, Sean, John, Mal and Nick.’

  Bells seemed to ring in Magee’s head. ‘May I take a closer look?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Gibson said, handing over the photo.

  Magee read the first three names again. Todd, Mike, Robert. Were these Todd Conners, Mike Harwood and Robert Harrison, he wondered? He flipped the photo over and took a close look at the faces. He nodded as he took in the face of the lad sitting in the bottom right hand corner. It was an all too familiar face; Nick Price. There was no mistaking his features. He’d found what he’d come for. He let out a deep sigh.

  ‘It was the last photo Keith ever sent,’ Mrs Gibson said. ‘It came within a large parcel of personal mementos, and I believe he had decided to come back at that stage. He returned a few weeks later.’

  ‘Unexpectedly?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. Over the years, Keith's letters had described all sorts of adventures he and his friends had been up to. Some of them were quite outrageous, I'm sure he shouldn't have told me. Still, you know what boys are like. I expect he was deliberately trying to shock his mother. But by the end, something bad had happened, I do know that. You see, he changed inside. Something in him had died, I believe. He never did tell me what, but it was around that same time.’

  Magee’s eyes misted up in the emotion of the moment. He stared down into the smiling faces of mere boys. Four of them were now dead, of that he was sure. Three of them had died in the last fortnight alone. Oh, you silly, silly boys, he thought. What did you do? What went wrong? Was it so bad that you deserve to die now?

  Briefly, Magee thought back to his own youth and of the capers that he had got up to with his pals. The photo could easily have been of him and his old police cadet classmates. He knew all about youthful enthusiasm and what risks lads took seeking adventure. He found himself turning aside to brush away a tear that was running down the side of his face.

  Magee's reaction to the photo sent Mrs Gibson into a flood of tears. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and said, ‘Yes, Chief Inspector. It takes me like that as well when I think about it.’

  Magee coughed a couple of times to hide his embarrassment and tried to regain control of his emotions. ‘Do you know the surnames of these lads by any chance, Mrs Gibson, or their addresses?’

  ‘Not really. Keith mentioned just their Christian names in his letters, certainly no more information than that. I'm not sure whether he knew them anyway. I remember him saying that the company he kept preferred anonymity. Just part of the games boys play, I suppose.’

  ‘Did he write after sending this photo?’

  ‘No. It was the last I heard from him while he was away. The next thing we knew he was telephoning from Heathrow saying that he was back. It was quite a shock. He’d been away for the best part of twenty years. I didn’t expect him back just like that, without any notice. His previous letters certainly gave no hint at all about coming back. I assumed something must have happened to upset him, but he dismissed the notion. He said he just got bored one day and jumped on the next airplane. He wouldn't talk about it after that. Very strange, it was, I remember. He was on edge for months. Years even.’

  ‘Mrs Gibson, I'm going to ask you a tremendous favour. This photo is extremely important to me. Would you trust me to borrow it for an hour or so? I want to take it into a photographic shop in Lewes and get it copied.’

  ‘It's that important is it, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gibson. It’s seriously important.’

  ‘It's to do with those recent murders, isn't it? I've been following the cases in the newspaper, so I know of your involvement. That horrible note implied Keith would have been the fourth victim. You think this photo will link them together, don't you? You think someone’s murdering them for revenge, isn’t that what you’re here to see me about?’

  Magee didn't want to reply, but was caught out by Mrs Gibson's perceptiveness. He nodded in response. She may have been nearly eighty-three years old, he thought, but she was no one's fool.

  ‘I don't want to know what happened, Chief Inspector. Keith is dead, I can't bring him back, but I can preserve his memory. I always knew something dreadful must have happened in Bangkok. Call it a mother’s intuition, if you like. For months after his return, I could see fear in his eyes along with a nervous shifty look, as though he expected someone to creep up on him. He had the look of a haunted man for a long time. He got mixed up in something terrible; I've always known that. I'm not naïve; one doesn't come into a fortune overnight by honest means. Copy the photograph, Chief Inspector, find his friends and save them if you can.’

  Magee pulled his chair closer to the crying woman and put his arm around her. She turned and cried hysterically into his shoulder.

  ‘I'm sorry, Chief Inspector. I prayed the truth would never come out. Will you promise me one thing, though? Promise me you'll keep the story out of the newspapers. I don't want my son labeled a criminal by the press. Having a dead son brings sympathy, but having a criminal in the family would be too much for me to bear.’

  ‘I just pray it won't come to that, Mrs Gibson,’ Magee responded. ‘But I can't promise that the details won't come out. For all I know, one of the others might speak to the press. If it's not relevant, then there's no reason for it to come out. However, I can promise you that the story won't come from my lips, and I promise I won't mention it to anyone else.’

  Mrs Gibson snuffled. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’

  Magee took hold of the photo and studied it more closely. All of the men, except one, must have been in their late teens or early twenties. The odd one out, Keith, looked much older and had a haggard face rather than a youthful one. Magee’s eyes rested on one of the other men.

  Magee exclaimed, ‘God good, it’s Paul Mansell!’

  Mrs Gibson looked perplexed. ‘I'm sorry, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘This lad, down the bottom at the front. It’s Paul Mansell.’

  ‘Paul? I don't remember there being a Paul in his letters, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘No,’ Magee replied. ‘You're quite right, Mrs Gibson. I’m wrong, the Paul I know would have been too young at the time this was taken. So who is he?’

  ‘What name does it say on the back?’

  ‘John,’ Magee replied having flipped the photo over. Was this Paul’s missing elder brother, Magee wondered? If it was, then Paul Mansell's involvement in the murders may not be innocent after all. He couldn’t believe what he was staring at. At last, he had evidence that showed Nick Price and Paul Mansell were connected to the recent victims. He stood up and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must move on this fast. Are you sure it’s alright to borrow it?’

  ‘Take the photo with my blessing Chief Inspector. I just hope you can use it to save someone’s life.’

  ‘I'll be back within the hour, Mrs Gibson.’ On his way out of Cherry Tree Cottage, photograph in hand, Magee’s mind worked furiously on the countless possibilities of where it might fit in.