I zoomed in on one of the final photos. It was Tarquin, lying on the bed on his stomach, naked, his legs bent at the knee with his feet swinging. He casually smoked a spliff and grinned at Guy taking the photo. My last shred of hope disappeared. There was no chance they had been faked – the small mole in the centre of Tarquin’s arse cheek was there. The patch of hair on the back of his right thigh that grew out in a different angle to the rest of his leg hair because of some old scar underneath. If there was one thing that I knew well, it was Tarquin Scott’s naked body. I recognised those marks. Seeing him in Speedos would let you know about the scar, but you’d have to have seen him naked to know to add a small mole on his right bum cheek if you wanted to fake this with Photoshop.
Not to mention Tarquin’s dick looked exactly as I remembered from my many, many, intimate acquaintances with it. These photos were real.
I breathed out deeply. In theory, it was two lads who’d, as horny not-quite-still-teenagers, taken some dirty photos when they were at uni. It meant nothing. But of course, these two faces had been splashed over every newspaper for the past three months. The man whose best friend had murdered his cousin. The culprit in the millionaire murder. The soon-to-be MP and his murderous pal. And now they had the gay sex angle. And tabloids only loved gay sex when it was licentious and tawdry.
Pull yourself together, Arden, I thought. I cleared my throat as if I was about to speak, but nothing came out. I put my phone away and took another deep, steadying breath. This was not the end of the world. I wasn’t evenin the photos. They would have to recognise who the person with Guy was. Then they would have to care enough to go and find that man’s ex-boyfriend. That guy who was awaiting trial for murder. And his ex, who was a famous novelist with a big grinning picture on my Wikipedia profile.
Shit. Okay, get packing.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the house with Kenny’s things. The cats were in the car already, hissing and spitting their way to an early death at the indignity of being put in their carry case. There were a couple of bags of clothes, a laptop, and some snacks. Beside them was a huge pile of dog food and assorted toys. The house was locked up. Now it was a case of driving over a hundred miles with a dog who could barely sit still for ten seconds.
It was almost certain to end with me driving us into the back of a truck while I yelled at Kenny to stop trying to chew the gearstick.
Oh, well. The only way to know for certain was to try. Kenny sat in the back seat and wagged his tail. “Please, stay. Please. Please,” I said, begging. “There’s your blanket on the seat. Just curl up and go to sleep, be a good boy. Please?”
Kenny gave me his happiest, stupidest, tongue lolling-out-est look. “Okay, well, as long as you are stationary.”
He had been in the car a few times, but never very far. We had tried the boot, which was attached to the main part of the car and had no top to separate it. He could stick his head out and look into the front of the car. He could even jump over the seats. Instead, he had howled and cried like I was murdering him the entire way back from the pound on the day I brought him to Lilbury. “Okay, okay,” I’d yelled halfway home as I pulled over and let him out. “Not the boot, I get it.”
We pulled out of the drive, and I had managed to get almost half a mile before the whining started.
“Kenny,” I said plaintively. I needed to concentrate. My mind was racing, and I was upset and not a great driver of long distances at the best of times.
Silence.
More whining.
“Keeeeeenny,” I begged.
There was a rustling, and then the car jolted.
“Kenny!”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the back seat was empty. I felt a pressure on my hand and looked down. Kenny was sitting in the passenger seat, curled up in a ball. His head resting on my left hand, where I was holding the gearstick.
He sat perfectly still and looked up at me with his huge brown eyes. His tail gave some furtive wags.
“Good boy,” I said softly.
He stayed still after that. Every so often, I fed him one of the treats from the bag I had hidden in the glove compartment. Thankfully, he was well-behaved enough for once to not obsessively whine and scratch for them.
As I drove through the rapidly approaching darkness, heading east, I began to think. Who could have sent that email? Why would someone do that to Guy? Was it because they had wanted whichever Tory candidate was in the running to lose, or was it about him specifically?
The Conservative Party had been in power for several years and hadn’t exactly gone out of their way to rake up support from outside their core backers. From austerity to anti-immigration stances, to the Scottish referendum to Brexit, there were a lot of people – including myself, if I was honest – who wouldn’t have pissed on the cabinet if they’d been on fire.
Was it homophobia? Guy had been out in his private life for years, but if his business associates in London hadknown he was gay, I couldn’t have told you. He was somewhat well-known before the Arabella murder. His family lineage and wealth had made him a prized member of the society set. And then there was his rapid fortune-building a couple of years ago, when he had earned a massive windfall that enabled him to leave the financial world at thirty-five. It probably had been in a trade mag interview somewhere – a casual mention that he was unmarried and supported a certain charity. People could have put two and two together. However, in the early days of his campaign (I’d done some reading up on his media coverage over the past two days) he mentioned it often in interviews. Using his preferences to bridge the gap between the metropolitan images of a thirty-something out and proud man – which the Tory HQ probably wanted – and trying to toe the line in a constituency where the average voter was in their mid-sixties.
As I approached the intersection to join the A303, which would take me past Stonehenge and onto the M3 eventually and into Surrey, my mind raced.
A horrible thing to happen. Targeted. Awful. A smear campaign. And on top of the issue with Jed. At his vigil no less…
At his vigil…which might not have been a coincidence.
I had a thought that made my hand jerk the wheel to the side it hit me with such ferocity. What if the attack on Jed and the photos were linked? I almost pulled over to the side of the road.
Christ, could they possibly be related? No, they couldn’t be. The photos had come through to countless people in the village who knew Guy personally, and to members of the press at the same time.
But the thought stayed with me. It made me feel sick.
