The Sleepless Ones Read online

  James Marrison

  * * *

  The Sleepless Ones

  Contents

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Three

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  The Sleepless Ones

  ‘An Argentinian DCI in the heart of Middle England brings a thoughtful outsider’s viewpoint to a murder that has troubling links to unsolved crimes from the past. Guillermo Downes’s intelligent, intuitive police work keeps the pages turning’

  Sunday Times

  ‘An intriguing debut . . . the plot has a strength and texture that help set it apart . . . taut and told with panache, it ushers in a suitably spiky police hero’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A gripping thriller . . . a readable, complex tale, astutely paced . . . if the mark of a good whodunnit is that you can’t actually guess whodunnit, then The Drowning Ground does its job well. Despite following the plot closely, I was still taken aback by the denouement’

  Herald

  ‘Move over Morse, there’s a new detective investigating crime in Oxfordshire in this murder mystery’

  Oxford Times

  ‘Marrison’s tense debut expertly evokes a sense of place . . . the highly unusual denouement will catch most readers by surprise’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘With an intricate plot with numerous twists and an intriguing cop with a complex history, Marrison rivets the reader straight through to the novel’s chilling conclusion. An author to watch; he scores high with this impressive debut’

  Richmond Times Dispatch

  ‘So many characters with so many secrets and deviant behaviours make this debut mystery by James Marrison a real winner. The author’s complex plotting, haunted characters and gorgeous descriptions of winter are an absolute joy to read even as the action takes one suspenseful turn, then another and then another to an unexpected denouement. When it seems as though all the clues have been resolved, Marrison saves one last shocking revelation for the final chapter . . . expertly setting us up for the next book in the series (I can’t wait!), Marrison writes lovingly of his new hero, Guillermo Downes, a detective plagued by demons both internal and external, yet determined to expose murder most foul whenever and wherever he can’

  curledup.com

  ‘An assured debut which promises much for the future’

  crimefictionlover.com

  ‘A masterful novel . . . the protagonists are wonderfully portrayed. Downes is a bit of a mystery, a man born in Buenos Aires of an Argentinian mother and an English father. What led him to leave his homeland and make a life for himself in this small English town? Perhaps the answer will be revealed in the next novel in the series, something I’m eagerly anticipating’

  marilynsmysteryreads.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  James Marrison is a journalist with a Masters degree in history from the University of Edinburgh. He now lives in Buenos Aires, which provides the inspiration for his lead character, Argentinian-born detective Guillermo Downes. The Sleepless Ones is James’s second novel, following on from The Drowning Ground.

  For Clarisa

  ’Tis the restless panting of their being;

  Like beasts of prey, who, caged within their bars,

  In a deep hideous purring have their life,

  And an incessant pacing to and fro.

  The Dream of Gerontius, John Henry Newman

  PART ONE

  * * *

  Prologue

  January 2003

  It had been a huge relief to be out of London, and now, looking at the country lane outside the pub, he wondered, and not for the first time that day, why the hell he hadn’t come out here sooner. A bit of fresh air, that was all he had really needed. And, of course, to be working again after being stuck inside, feeling sorry for himself. Pathetic, and not like him at all. But, really, just to get out of London had been enough.

  He had felt it the moment he left the city behind: there had been an immediate loosening of tension. His thoughts had become less bleak. It was the beginning of an unexpected optimism, which had grown all afternoon as the strain of the last few months gradually lifted.

  He drained his pint and ordered another one, glancing through his notes as he waited. His mind began to hover around the edges of the story. A few hundred words of background and the pictures, but none of it would be any use unless he could confront Miller and tell him what he thought he knew.

  He had got some more information from the barman, who spoke like a well-heeled university graduate and looked like he spent half his life in the gym. God only knew what he was doing all the way out here in this awful pub and he didn’t ask. He talked about Miller and got the impression of a morose regular with a nasty temper who scared everyone half to death after he’d had a few. He thought of the story as he fed some pound coins into the slot machine.

  Would the story make it through without absolute proof? Or would they hold it until it was watertight? Would someone else get wind of it? And where was he going to try to sell it first? For years, the story had been here. Waiting. There was a sense of sudden excitement which he immediately suppressed, because with the excitement came the old journalist’s fear that it would all be taken away – that even now some bright spark in London was staring at a computer screen or digging in an archive and making all those small connections. Perhaps even now they were reaching for a phone or walking across a newsroom towards the editor’s door.

  He got up and walked back to the bar. The road outside had become very dark. He was now feeling anxious about going out there again. He paid and left, hurrying through the rain towards his car. He got in and drove, slipping quietly out of the car park and on to the main road, and in no time at all he had reached the lane. He parked the car on a verge halfway down the hill and decided to go the rest of the way on foot to walk off the beer before facing Miller.

  Miller’s farmhouse was set back from a lane that turned off sharply and then disappeared from view amongst the fields. Darkness clung to all the windows and the doors except for one, downstairs. The warmness of the pub and the glow of the village quickly faded into a dull, faraway glimmer as his footsteps thudded along the tarmac.

  Down below, the farm stretched out. It was as he had imagined it would be: a ramshackle shell of a place. Some barns. A ragged garden at the back. Broken tarmac and frozen pieces of old machinery which looked like bones in the dark.

  The grim landscape seemed to beckon him forward. He had been holding his breath, he realized suddenly, and now he exhaled deeply. The beginning of apprehension rose like a thread was
being pulled from the bottom of his stomach as the farmhouse stretched out and grew bigger.

  He reached the gate and tapped nervously on the edge of it while he waited for someone to come out to confront him. He called out, but there was no reply. For a whole minute he leant against the gate, but he could see no one. The wind sent a few leaves skittering across the fields as he walked towards the front door. The rain fell.

  He rang the doorbell twice, walked through a small unkempt garden and then peered through a back window into the kitchen. He rapped on the window. Listened, but there was nothing.

  He found that he was pushing against the door. Then, ever so carefully, he pressed down and pushed the door handle. The door swung open silently on its hinges, and he stepped in. There was a smell of fat coming from, he supposed, the stove. On the kitchen table were some plates and a few glasses. Someone had turned the volume off on the TV but a fire was burning in the grate. He ran his hand through his hair as he stood in the middle of the kitchen and listened, then closed his umbrella. He called out. But there was only silence.

  ‘Mr Miller!’ he shouted. ‘Mr Miller! Is anyone at home?’ He called out again. ‘I’m sorry about barging in like this, but I was wondering if I could just have a quick word with you. It’s important.’ Maybe he should go outside and wait for him. The silence of the house suddenly seemed fraught with a waiting kind of menace. He stood absolutely still and waited a little longer, listening. A wide band of orange light poured through the door to the hallway and faintly shone on the kitchen floor. He took a few steps further in. Again he called out, his voice echoing loudly into the silence.

  He stood by the kitchen table, feeling hesitant. His own fear flickered. He should leave. Yes, he would come back in the morning, that would be the best thing. He turned on his heel and pushed the back door open, deciding suddenly that he’d had enough. He had never meant to get this far; had never really imagined that he would be standing alone here in this house. He pushed open the door and then very suddenly turned around. He crossed the kitchen before he could change his mind.

  The lights from the hallway cast only a single yellow glare on to the corridor’s dusty carpet. He was standing poised in the kitchen doorway when he got a whiff of something acrid from the end of the corridor. The smell came to him ever so slightly and then almost immediately became much stronger. He took a step further inside the hallway.

  The door, blown by the wind, suddenly slammed shut behind him. A smell of . . . burning? He peered in more closely and saw a faint orange glow reflecting against the wall. Again, it dawned on him ever so slowly where he was. He was in Miller’s house. Standing right in the middle of it, and the distance between him and his car suddenly seemed very great. He stood completely still.

  Then he took a step forward, towards the stairs, and rested his hand on the smooth curve of the banisters. A shadow rose, flickering along the floor, and then the tiniest plume of coiling smoke pushed its way across the hallway and was gone. The smell instantly became stronger.

  Carefully, he moved further inside the house and began to edge his way along the corridor. He pushed open the door of the living room. It was full of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. The fire was lit in here as well, but it burned much higher in the grate and the television was on.

  Suddenly the room seemed too hot. The glow of the fire was now a glare and the flames flickered greedily in the room while the smoke poured black and thick through the chimney’s throat. Something was in the fire. But he didn’t really want to look at it. The back of the armchair in front of the TV blocked it. With some effort, he looked away from the fire and out of the window. He wanted to go and throw the windows open. But he couldn’t move. He caught his own wild-eyed reflection in a window-pane and thought, Christ what am I doing? Get out. Get out. Get out. The flames threw a sudden bright shadow on to paint peeling from the walls.

  An expression of sudden and acute disgust crossed his face as the smell filled his nostrils and the logs splintered and sent out sparks on to the hearth. His mind turned away from what he was seeing, and he started to think about other fires that had been lit in this very hearth in long-ago dead days. The coals glowing, then cold. The last trace of smoke billowing up and out to a day no one alive now remembered.

  He approached the back of the chair, almost watching himself do so. Digging into the dark material at the back of the chair was a rope. He had thought, as he had seen tongs and a roasting spit, that Miller had been cooking something in the fire, but when he looked closer he realized it was a piece of meat which was burning in the grate. Then he saw a burnt towel lying on the floor. He turned back and finally looked at the man sitting in the chair.

  A scream rose up in his throat and got caught there. It was Miller undoubtedly – he recognized him from the pictures he had seen – but older now. The man’s arms were tied around the back of the chair. His eyes stared upwards towards the ceiling. Blood soaked his shirt, reached all the way down to his lap and collected in a large pool around his muddy boots.

  Miller’s face had been beaten to a pulp. His nose had been split wide open. In the gaping mouth, a ragged stump of flesh was visible behind his teeth. Someone had used the tongs to reach in and pull out his tongue. Pulled it out by the root and then flung it into the fire, where it now lay, burned to cinders. Perhaps Miller had been made to watch, and the last thing he ever saw was his own tongue burning in the grate.

  The noise of the fire suddenly seemed to roar in his ears. Sweat was pouring from his face and down his cheeks and all the way down his neck and his back. He wiped his forehead roughly with the sleeve of his coat. The room was full of the smell of burning meat. He looked down. Miller’s eyes were like two pieces of black polished glass. The reflection of the fire seemed to grow in brightness and spread until two identical balls of flame bloomed large, as if Miller’s eyes blazed darkly into his own. He turned away. And, even as he did so, he was thinking about the story.

  It would be his redemption. The story widened and expanded and he knew right then that all of it had to be true. All his past sins would be forgiven. He could go back. They would have to take him back. He thought of his mobile. Of course. And he began to check all his pockets one by one. It wasn’t there. He’d left the damn thing in the car.

  It was then that a door leading to a hall on the other side of the room began to open. He let out a weak shout of sudden and muffled shock. His mouth moved but nothing came out apart from a low, pathetic whimper. He raised his hand to stop them, to explain. They were looking right at him. Both of them. Their eyes looked almost impossibly dark. Almost like Miller’s. They had been there all along.

  The fire made a dull thundering echo that grew the longer he stood there. He could feel the flames rising in the fireplace, but he just stood there in dazed fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from them. They took a few steps forward; he backed away, not wanting to see them. A few steps and then a few more. He bumped into a small table, almost tripping over, managed to hold his footing, slammed hard into the wall of the hallway and then started to run. They waited for a few seconds. And then they started to run too.

  1

  When I saw Russell and Varley walking out of the station and towards their car, I decided to go with them and got in the front passenger’s seat. I told them I needed some fresh air and could do with the ride, and they didn’t argue. We drove slowly through Moreton-in-Marsh, and Russell put his foot down as we left the town. They told me where they were going and I nodded and didn’t say a word.

  I stared out of the window. We drove and I thought about Powell, still unable to believe it in a way. The rain pouring down the windscreen and amongst the trees made everything worse. It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week. Powell was gone. I tried to make it sink in, but I still could not quite take in the magnitude of it. I would never see him again, and my last memory of him would be his frail shadow and the brown walls of the small waiting room and his son, Alex, pacing up and down outside.
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  Varley moved forward in the backseat. He was young with pale blue eyes and a thin face. He looked, as always, slightly surprised and taken aback. ‘The car’s been there around a week. So we’re just going to take a quick look at it and see what’s up. That’s all. So we won’t be out there long. No one reported it to begin with. You know, they probably thought it had to be there for a reason, or someone would have come along sooner or later to take it away. Not many people about because of the holidays and the New Year. Then a few people started to notice it, and then someone had a proper look. Anyway, no big deal, sir. I can’t imagine that we will be out there long. Of course we can stay longer if you like. I mean, if you want to go off on your own somewhere. That would be fine . . . I mean we’d understand, sir. If that’s what you think you might like,’ Varley added awkwardly.

  Varley kept on talking, but I didn’t pay much attention. There had been an oppressive air in the station all day after word had got round about Powell. And they had both seemed relieved to be heading out and leaving the sombre mood behind them – until I’d decided to come with them, that is.

  The car was parked on a verge halfway down a hill, on a lane which dipped down into the hills. It had a slumped-in look to it, as if it had been sitting in that place just a little too long. Varley got out and started to inspect it, peering through the windows, while Russell, still sitting in the warmth of his car, entered the number plate into the computer and waited for it to come up. It did so almost immediately.

  ‘London,’ Russell said to himself with distaste and stared a little longer at the screen.

  Routine. The kind of things police constables do all the time. I reached for my umbrella, got out and stretched my legs, glad to be outside despite the rain.

  ‘Someone smashed the window,’ Varley said sadly.

  ‘No alarm?’

  ‘No. Bit of an old banger,’ Varley said. ‘Hardly worth it. Kids probably. Just messing about. They didn’t nick the radio you see.’