Sins of the Father by Graham Hurley

Author:Graham Hurley [Hurley, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime & Mystery Fiction
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2014-11-19T11:00:00+00:00

Minutes later Houghton managed to make contact with Nandy. In her judgement the video evidence warranted a swift return to Middlemoor for Amber’s SIO. Nandy, still in Plymouth, listened without comment then said he’d be back within a couple of hours. Houghton, putting the phone down, suggested Suttle and Golding take an early supper break.

Suttle had other ideas. By now it was nearly half six. He knew that Scenes of Crime were close to releasing the house by the river, and before that happened he wanted to spend a little time in the place, preferably alone. Lifting the phone, he put his request to the Crime Scene Manager.

‘No problem. One of the CSI’s still finishing up. I’ll make sure he waits for you.’

Suttle drove down to Topsham. The CSI had readied a forensic suit and a spare set of keys. If Suttle could leave the keys with the scene guard when he was through, he’d be grateful. In the meantime, help yourself.

‘What are you after?’ he added as an afterthought.

It was a good question. Suttle said he didn’t know, not exactly, but interviews over the last couple of days had wised him up about just how dysfunctional this family had become, and there were maybe ways in which the house could tell him more.

The CSI seemed to understand.

‘The place is spooked,’ he said. ‘You’d never want to live here.’

You’d never want to live here. Suttle waited for him to leave, then slipped into the suit under the eyes of the uniformed officer acting as scene guard. The front door was still open, and the house lay in darkness beyond. Suttle stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The acrid scent of forensic chemicals hung in the chill air and Suttle stood motionless for a full minute before feeling for the light switch in the hall.

At first he could hear nothing but the mad chatter of dozens of clocks, then, very faint, came the call of a curlew from the mudflats beyond the garden wall. For Suttle the curlew had always been a special bird. Its long liquid burble spoke of solitude, of loss, of something beyond sadness, and Suttle found himself wondering whether Neil felt the same way. Was this the company he kept on long winter nights? The soundtrack to the anguish of his years beside the river? Banged up with a father he hated? Trying to revive a novel the old man had so casually trashed? Plotting video ambushes as some kind of revenge?

Suttle’s gloved fingers found the light switch. The life-size carving of a human figure, ebony black, made him jump. He stared at it for a long moment, surprised he hadn’t registered it on his first visit. The eyes, crudely carved, seemed to be watching him as he edged slowly past. He spared it a nod and then a smile. You’d never want to live here. Too right.

The sheer weight of the old man’s past pressed heavily on the house. Across the hall was a flight of stairs.

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