The Devil’s Dice: The most gripping crime thriller of 2018 – with an absolutely breath-taking twist. Roz Watkins
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was wondering how on earth to deal with Craig, when Jai appeared. ‘I don’t think Meg’s as fascinated by Ben’s piercings and tattoos as you clearly are, Craig,’ he said. ‘Have you got some kind of homoerotic fantasy going on?’
Craig swore at Jai and sloped off.
‘You handle him so well,’ I said.
‘I’ve had lots of practice. He’s unpleasant but he’s not that bright, fortunately. Did you find anything out from Ben?’
‘There’s something odd going on at that house. The guy who died ten years ago left a sketchbook full of drawings of the Grim Reaper.’
‘Like the carving on the wall of the cave?’
‘Sounded like it.’
‘And his daughter hanged herself in the Labyrinth where initials of dead people are carved into the wall.’
I nodded. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit sinister. But there’ll be a rational explanation. I’m going to talk to his brother. He’s a doctor. I don’t suppose he’ll believe in curses and witches.’
*
Mark Hamilton’s farmhouse sat at the end of a short, stony drive, surrounded by barns and abandoned machinery. It was in a craggy region to the west of Eldercliffe, and the Peak District hills were visible in the distance, laced over with pale stone walls.
I parked in a gravel area and climbed out of the car, and a bunch of fluffy chickens marched over and gave me a bit of a talking to. They seemed to have something important on their minds, but they scattered when I made my way to the house.
Close up, the house was run-down but lovely, the old stonework held together with crumbly lime mortar and the windows forming odd reflections with their original warped glass. I was just beginning to feel calmed by its demeanour when a ferocious growling erupted from inside and something crashed against the glass of the door. I jumped back. Was he keeping wolves in the hallway?
The door opened a fraction and a man’s face appeared through the gap. He was holding back waves of dogs like an animal-loving King Canute. Tails wagged and tongues lolled. My breathing slowed. ‘Sorry,’ he shouted over the frenzied barking. ‘They’re a bit excited. Hang on, let me get leads.’ But he didn’t actually move.
‘I like dogs,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t worry, assuming they’re friendly.’ One of my senior colleagues in Manchester had told me: ‘If you admire someone’s dog, you own their ass.’ Setting aside the fake Americanism (watching too much CSI), he’d had a point.
The man let the door open. Christ, that was a lot of dogs. Barking and leaping and hurling droplets of slobber at my face. He rushed out after them, flapping his hands. ‘Sorry! Get down!’
His clothes looked like they’d been recycled out of the laundry bin – a look I wasn’t unfamiliar with – and he hadn’t shaved that day.
‘Mark Hamilton?’ I said.
He gave a quick nod. I folded my arms and ignored the dogs, who quickly went from jumping to wiggling and wagging. I showed Mark my card.
He held out a hand, then pulled it back and examined it. ‘No, don’t shake my hand. Just been preparing dog food.’
I smiled and whipped my hand back. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I know it’s difficult but the sooner we can get onto this—’
‘Yes, I understand. Come in. Sorry about the mess. Peter’s death, it’s thrown me. And sorry the place reeks of dog food. I do it in bulk – cook it, bag it up, freeze it. I have so many, it saves money, but it’s a bit gross.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, although there was a rancid smell in the air.
‘It’s taking my mind off things today,’ Mark said. ‘They made me take the day off but I’m not sure it’s good to be at home with my thoughts.’
We waded through dogs into a farmhouse kitchen. I glanced into a pantry rammed full of industrial-looking junk. There were bits of old pallets, the ends of gutters, wellies with their feet chopped off, mouse-chewed cardboard boxes.
‘I can’t throw anything away,’ Mark said. ‘I think it’s almost pathological.’
In the kitchen, piles of papers and cats sat on all the surfaces and more cats covered an Aga. An elderly dog lay in the corner, draped over the side of his basket like one of Dali’s soft clocks. Unwashed crockery filled the sink and a fly graveyard decorated the windowsill. This wasn’t just one day’s worth of mess. Gran would have said he needed a good woman. She hadn’t realised you could no longer rely on women for unpaid cleaning duties.
‘Sit down,’ Mark said, waving his hand in the direction of a scrubbed pine table. All the chairs were covered in papers or cats, some both. Was I supposed to sit on top of them?
‘Oh, you can move her.’ He pointed at a grey cat. ‘Oh no, not her.’ I snatched my hand back. ‘This one. Here.’
I plonked myself down and allowed the ejected cat to climb onto my knee.
‘I’m sorry. I take on far too many animals. Especially the older ones.’ Mark walked to the sink, ran water over his hands and wiped them on his trousers. He’d obviously read the research about excessive hygiene being bad for you. He collapsed onto one of the chairs, lifting and scooping a cat onto his knee in a practised motion.
The formalities out of the way, I said, ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your brother?’
‘You know, I really can’t. He was so normal. Not involved with any dubious characters. Everyone liked him.’
‘There’s been a suggestion he might have been depressed recently? Or possibly drinking too much?’
Mark looked at the cat on his knee and stroked it gently. ‘Yes, maybe he has been a little down.’
‘Do you know why?’
The cat stood, arched its back, and re-settled on Mark’s knee. He rubbed under its chin. ‘Just pressure of work, I think.’
‘And, well, could there be any possibility he was having an affair?’ I tried to say this sensitively but it was hard not to speak ill of the dead when conducting these kinds of investigations.
‘Peter? I’d be really surprised. I don’t know when he’d have time apart from anything else. He was terribly busy.’
‘And what about the relationship with his wife, Kate? Was it good?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’ Mark’s stroking became jerky and the cat looked up at him with an irritated expression.
‘Don’t you work in the same medical practice as Peter’s wife?’
‘Same building, different practices.’
‘And do you get along?’
‘We get along all right, yes.’ He gave a pointed sigh. ‘Look, I’m going to be totally honest here. Peter and I had an argument. I feel terrible. The last things I said to him weren’t nice. But I didn’t kill him.’
‘What was the argument about?’
Mark looked startled as if he was surprised I’d asked this obvious question. ‘Oh, as I said, he’s been very moody recently. It was just about his behaviour.’
‘What had he done, specifically?’
He scraped his chair away from me. ‘Nothing in particular – just general irritability. Work stress mainly, but he shouldn’t have taken it out on Kate or me.’
I spoke very gently. ‘Is there any possibility he could have taken his own life, do you think?’
Mark’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no, he wouldn’t do that.