While Ben and Martha were standing in the courtyard by the castle, Timothy Burleigh was explaining for the tenth time what had happened since he spoke to the police officer at his home.
He was sitting on the wall outside Lisa’s house, a detective in a dark grey suit leaning on the wall next to him, his arms folded.
“I don’t know how many times you want me to go over this,” Timothy was saying. “I’ve been here all day. Am I under arrest or what?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” D.C.I Gregg replied. “Just for me, once more, please.”
“I arrived at the house wanting to speak to Lisa. I hadn’t heard from her all day.”
“And that’s unusual because?”
“Because she rings me every day without fail. I’ve already told you all this.”
“And why is that? Why does she ring you every day? You’re not related are you?”
“No, we’re not but I fail to see-”
“I don’t speak to my daughter every day. She’s at university. Sometimes I don’t hear from her for weeks.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m trying to help you here, Mr Burleigh. Think how this looks to us. You turn up at a house you’ve never been to before to speak to someone you’re not related to. Her body is in the bathtub, limbs bound. She’s been there at least a day, maybe longer. Convince me you didn’t do it.”
“Do you think I did it?”
“I doubt you’d have rung us if you did. But who did do it?”
“I told you. Samuel Lyons.”
“The Gamesman? Dead for almost a decade.”
“He’s not dead, that’s the whole point.”
“Do you have any evidence that the body found at the time was wrongly identified as being his? Anything you can share with me? I’m all ears, Mr Burleigh.”
“No. Look, am I under arrest?”
“As I said, not at this point.”
“So I’m free to go?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“But are you going to stop me?”
There was a long silence, the detective looking at Timothy without blinking. “No,” he said at last.
Timothy walked towards his car, not looking back.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr Burleigh,” the detective called after him as he climbed inside and started the engine.
He drove away slowly, needing to weave his way through the assembled emergency vehicles. An ambulance almost blocked the road and he had to mount the curb to squeeze past. Once that was done, he was able to pick up speed.
He thought about the letter he’d read. The police would find it. No doubt they’d go through the house with a fine toothcomb. But by the time they’d realised Martha might be in danger, it would be too late.
He could close his eyes and picture the scene. Samuel tortured Lisa into revealing where Martha was hiding out. He’d then strangled her, dumping the body in the bath, leaving the gaming piece because he couldn’t not do it. Then he would drive to Martha to finish the game.
How long would that take? From Chester to Martha? Was she even there? Timothy could only hope so, the letter from Martha to Lisa saying how she was thinking of “working at the place we always talked about,” how she had an interview lined up. There was no return address on the letter.
His mind went back to the care home. He had just stopped mowing the lawn, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Behind him, sitting on the steps that led inside, five girls.
He knew all their names. He knew the names of everyone who stayed in the home, he considered it his duty to know them despite the fact he rarely spoke to them. Martha was talking, listing all the things she loved about history, moving from the middle ages to the Civil War. He stood for a moment and listened, impressed by the depth of her knowledge. “One day, I’ll work at Helmsley Castle,” she was saying.
“But why?” Sophia asked, leaning back on her elbows and staring up at the fluffy clouds floating past.
“Because then I can dress up as a princess.”
Timothy was amazed he’d even been able to dredge the conversation up from his long term memory. Had she talked about working anywhere else? Not that he could think of. But she’d talked about that castle several times after seeing it in one of the books in the Home library.
He liked thinking about protecting Martha as he drove, about finding her and protecting her. It stopped him thinking about Lisa, about how he’d failed her so badly.
He could have told the police to go to Helmsley, make up for his failure. But he had a sneaking suspicion that detective would arrest him if he mentioned it. If he was locked up because he seemed to know too much where would that leave him? Where would it leave Martha? Would they even visit her? They knew nothing of the link between Lisa and Martha, of the bond they had had.
Let them find the letter, see if they could work it out. By then, he’d already be there. If she was still there, she’d at least have someone watching over her, keeping guard, looking for Samuel, trying to stop the game before he had a chance to play it out. What more could he do?