A Chief Superintendent
Simon Serrailler Mystery
Susan Hill
Susan Hill’s Simon Serrailler mysteries are among the most acclaimed police procedurals of all time, and in The Comforts of Home, the highly-anticipated ninth book in the series, Lafferton’s Chief Superintendent faces his most treacherous case yet.
Following his near-fatal injury dealt by his last case, Chief Superintendent Serrailler is eager to return to work. As he recuperates on a remote Scottish island, the overstretched local police pull him into a murder inquiry: a newcomer, popular with the islanders, has died in perplexing circumstances, and the community’s reactions are fragile and complicated.
Meanwhile, in Lafferton, a second case arises. A woman whose daughter disappeared some years before is haunting the police station seeking closure. She insists a convicted and imprisoned criminal is the kidnapper, but needs proof to bring him to justice, so Chief Constable Kieron Bright, Serrailler’s new brother-in-law, calls him in to perform a cold-case review. Through the investigation, Serrailler also glimpses new and alarming sides of his family members as he adjusts to his sister Cat’s recent marriage to Kieron.
But when events take an unfavorable turn for the Superintendent and an arsonist goes on a deadly rampage in Lafferton, setting fires closer and closer to the bereft mother’s home, Serrailler’s personal and professional lives intertwine in more complex and devastating ways than ever before. “Surprising and dark” (Kirkus Reviews), The Comforts of Home is the most chilling and unputdownable Serrailler installment yet.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Simon Serrailler Crime Novels
THE VARIOUS HAUNTS OF MEN
THE PURE IN HEART
THE RISK OF DARKNESS
THE VOWS OF SILENCE
THE SHADOWS IN THE STREET
THE BETRAYAL OF TRUST
A QUESTION OF IDENTITY
THE SOUL OF DISCRETION
Fiction
GENTLEMAN AND LADIES
A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER
I’M THE KING OF THE CASTLE
THE ALBATROSS AND OTHER STORIES
STRANGE MEETING
THE BIRD OF NIGHT
A BIT OF SINGING AND DANCING
IN THE SPRINGTIME OF THE YEAR
THE WOMAN IN BLACK
MRS DE WINTER
THE MIST IN THE MIRROR
AIR AND ANGELS
THE SERVICE OF CLOUDS
THE BOY WHO TAUGHT THE BEEKEEPER TO READ
THE MAN IN THE PICTURE
THE BEACON
THE SMALL HAND
A KIND MAN
BLACK SHEEP
Non-Fiction
THE MAGIC APPLE TREE
FAMILY
HOWARDS END IS ON THE LANDING
For Children
THE BATTLE FOR GULLYWITH
THE GLASS ANGELS
CAN IT BE TRUE?
Contents
By the Same Author
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
About the Author
Copyright
This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2018 by
The Overlook Press, an imprint of ABRAMS
195 Broadway, 9th floor
New York, NY 10007
www.overlookpress.com
Abrams books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address above.
Copyright © 2018 by Susan Hill
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
eISBN: 978-1-4683-1678-0
For
HRH The Duchess of Cornwall
‘Simon Serrailler’s greatest fan’
Prologue
For a long time, there had been blackness and the blackness had no form or shape. But then a soft and cloudy greyness had seeped in around the edges of the black, and soon, the images had come and these had moved forward very fast, like the pages of a child’s flip book. At first he could not catch any, or distinguish between them, but gradually their movement had slowed and he had made out faces, and parts of bodies – a hand, a thumb, the back of a neck. Hair. The images had begun to pulse, and balloon in and out, like a beating heart, the faces had swirled together, mingled then separated, and once or twice they had leered at him, or laughed silently out of mouths full of broken teeth. He had tried to back away from them or lift his arm to shield his eyes, but he was stiff, his arm heavy and cold, like a joint of meat taken out of the freezer. He did not know how to move it.
The faces had split into fragments and begun to spin uncontrollably, and he had been looking down into a vortex.
A flash of light. Inside the light, millions of glittering, sharp pinpoints. Another flash. The pinpoints had dissolved.
Simon Serrailler opened his eyes.
It was surprising how quickly things had fallen into place.
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday. It’s twenty past five.’ The nurse turned from adjusting the drip to look at him.
‘When did I come round?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Wednesday.’
‘You’re doing very well. How do you feel?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Any pain?’
He considered. He moved his head and saw a rectangle of pale sky. The roof of a building, with a ledge around it. Nothing seemed to hurt at all though there was a strange heaviness in his left arm and neck. The rest of his body felt slightly detached. But that wasn’t pain. He remembered pain.
‘I think I’m fine.’
‘That’s good. You’re doing very well,’ she said again,
as if she had to convince him.
‘Am I? I don’t know.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Not sure. Maybe a hospital?’
‘Full marks. You’re in Charing Cross ITU and I’m Sister Bonnington. Megan.’
‘The nearest hospital isn’t Charing Cross … it’s … I can’t remember.’
‘You’re in west London.’
He let the words sink in and he knew perfectly well what they meant. He knew where west London was, he’d been a DC somewhere in west London.
‘Do you remember anything that happened?’
He had a flash. The body parts. The hand. The thumb. The mouth of decayed, broken teeth. It went.
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘Doesn’t matter. That’s perfectly normal. Don’t start beating your brains to remember anything.’
‘Not sure I’ve got any brains.’
She smiled. ‘I think you have. Let me sort out your pillows, make you a bit more comfortable. Can you sit up?’
He had no idea how he might begin to do such a thing, but she seemed to lift him and prop him forwards on her arm, plump his pillows, adjust his bedcover and rest him back, without apparent effort. He realised that he had tubes and wires attached to him, leading to machines and monitors and drips, and that his left arm was in some sort of hoist. He looked at it. Bandages, a long sleeve of bandages, up to his shoulder and beyond.
‘Is that painful?’
‘No. It’s sort of – nothing.’
‘Numb?’
‘Not exactly. Just … I can’t explain.’
‘Not to worry. The consultant will be in to see you at some point this evening.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Mr Flint. And Dr Lo is the senior registrar. He’s been looking after you these last couple of days, but we’re a team.’
‘I have a team?’
‘You do indeed, Simon. Is it OK to call you Simon? We always ask, you know, but you haven’t been in any state to answer. What do you prefer? Mr Serrailler? Superintendent? Chief Superintendent?’
‘God no. Simon’s fine.’
The door opened slightly.
‘Here’s a visitor, so I’ll leave you. The buzzer’s there, by your right hand. Press if you need anything.’
‘Hey, you.’ Cat bent over and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re awake again.’
‘When wasn’t I?’
‘Most of the last three weeks.’
‘Three weeks? Until when?’
‘Yesterday. You remember me being here?’
He tried to sort out the confusion of images in his head. ‘I don’t … no.’
He saw his sister’s fleeting look of concern which she masked quickly.
‘I’m told the consultant is coming in soon. Did you know I had a “team” of my own? Are you on it?’
She smiled.
‘Did you bring me grapes?’
‘No. But you don’t really want grapes, do you?’
‘I want to know what happened and why I’m here. Talk to me.’
‘Listen, Si, you have to know everything but I’m not the one to tell you the whole story, because I wasn’t there. Kieron’s coming down again tomorrow, and if they think you’re ready to hear, he’ll tell you.’
‘The Chief’s been here?’
‘Of course he has. He brought me down the day it happened, and he’s been in a few times since, whenever he could make it, and I’ve kept him briefed every day.’
‘You have? Why you?’
‘Because I’ve been here most days and I talk to the medics so I can translate their jargon for him.’
‘No, I meant … I don’t understand how you even know him.’
‘He’s been a rock, Si … when there wasn’t anyone else looking out for me.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah nothing.’
He tried to read her expression but he couldn’t concentrate on that because he was aware of a pain in his left arm, which was getting worse by the second, in waves which crashed over his arm onto his chest and up and down his body, pincers and gashes of pain.
‘Si?’
‘Jesus.’ He looked at all the bandages and the hoist that kept the arm up. If it had been in flames he would not have been surprised. It felt like that.
Cat was on her feet. ‘It’s OK. I’ll sort it … hold on.’
She did not return for an hour. A night. The rest of his life. He was wrapped in pain and pain was all he was aware of. He heard himself cry out so loudly he was afraid they would come and punish him. The faces. The blackness was no longer simple dark, no longer soft-edged, it was scarlet in the centre and the centre was spreading out and out.
‘God …’
‘It’s all right. Someone’s coming.’ Cat was holding his right hand tightly. She was touching his face and then wiping the tears from it, but he didn’t feel shame or embarrasment, he felt nothing beyond the pain.
‘Let’s get this sorted out now.’ A man this time, looming over the bed.
‘Hold on.’
He couldn’t hold on but there was no escape route. He lay convulsed with pain. Cat was wiping the sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth. Angry. She was angry too. Why was everybody angry with him?
A swirl of activity, people coming into the room, people leaning over him.
‘Here you go, Simon … any second now.’
And the infinitely gentle easing away of pain, so that his body relaxed, his head felt cool, his arm seemed to have disappeared.
‘That’s it. You should have pressed the bell. You should have said –’
‘No,’ he heard Cat say, and he recognised her tone though it was one she used rarely. ‘No, it has nothing to do with him, it’s to do with everyone else. There’s a meds regime, and it has to be stuck to or this happens. And it took me far too long to find someone who knew anything at all about him and his case, and then get them to come – and don’t, please, tell me it was shift changeover.’
‘It was shift changeover. I’m sorry.’
‘Christ’s sake.’ The man. He was young and bearded and his eyes were full of concern, compassion and anger.
‘Simon, I’m Dr Lo. Tan. I know you but this is the first time you’ve been awake to see me. Is the pain easier?’
It was like lying on a bed of down. He felt nothing but gentleness and ease. He smiled beatifically at everyone in the room.
He knew that he had slept again and then floated on air and finally on water, but the hands of the clock on the wall opposite his bed went slowly backwards so that he lost all sense of time and even of day. It was light, then it was dark and still he floated.
‘It’s Friday,’ someone said.
He surfaced.
There were two of them, and Cat was there as well. He was propped up and drops of silvery rain slid down the window-panes.
‘Friday.’
‘We’d like to talk you through what we plan to do, if you feel up to it?’
He recognised the younger doctor but not the older one with very little hair and small round spectacles.
‘I’m Mr Flint, Greg Flint. I’m an orthopaedic trauma consultant.’
‘Is this a conference?’
‘More or less. I’m glad Dr Deerbon is here actually … if you’re OK with that? I’ll try to be clear but she’ll be able to translate our jargon for you if I’m not and you can ask her anything you need to. I filled her in briefly while you were still away with the fairies.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘And I apologise that you were left in so much pain – shouldn’t have happened and it won’t happen again. How is it now?’
‘Numb. If you mean my arm.’
‘And the rest of you?’
‘Fine, I think. I’ve had some bad headaches.’
‘I’m not surprised – you had a terrific blow. I’m amazed your skull wasn’t fractured.’
He frowned. Blow? Skull? What? He looked at Cat.
‘It�
�s OK,’ she said. ‘You can’t remember. It’s normal. It’ll come back. Or maybe not but there’s no brain damage, your scans were fine.’
‘I had scans? The things that have been happening …’
‘We’re not worried about your head or the rest of your injuries, they’re mending nicely. If it weren’t for the arm you’d be out of here.’
Simon felt his mind clearing. ‘So … what exactly happened to my arm?’
‘Essentially, it was mangled in the bin machinery.’
Bin? Bin machinery? But he nodded.
‘We did what we could at the time, but we’ve had to wait to see exactly what’s salvageable. You need to go for another scan and when we look at that things should be clearer – these injuries do settle down. I want to be able to save your arm, Simon, and having looked at the last scan, I’m pretty sure I can, though until I actually get you on the table we won’t be certain. Even then, sometimes things look good and then halfway through there’s a problem. But I don’t anticipate that. I never anticipate problems.’
‘When you say “save” my arm …’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean it’ll be as good as new?’
‘That does depend. I’d hope we can get 80 per cent or possibly even 90 per cent restored function – time and a lot of physio will tell. It’s unlikely to be 100 per cent.’
‘Right.’
‘Physio is absolutely crucial and your never failing to do the exercises, not even once. I’ll do all I can and so will everyone else, but after that it will be down to you.’
‘That doesn’t worry me. It was the thought of losing the arm.’
‘I’m confident. But we’ll get that scan and when I’ve seen it I can plan. They’ll have to take off the bandages but we’ll get you down straight away and then you’ll have a new dressing. They’ve been doing that every day anyway.’
He remembered suddenly. They had given him so much painkiller he hadn’t felt anything and she had said, ‘Don’t look at it, that’s my advice. Turn your head. Injuries always start to hurt when you look at them.’
He had turned his head. But everything had been numb.
‘After the scan, how long before you operate?’
‘If it all looks OK, probably Monday morning. I need to clear my list. This sort of reconstruction takes a while.’
It took seven hours, or so they told him, but seven hours which had meant nothing, and now he was back underwater, floating, blissful. His life passed quietly by.