Grave Doubts (14 page)

He had to admit that Claire was perceptive though. She had discovered his armour-plated shell. The destructiveness of Monique’s madness and her long, slow death had hurt them all. The idea of facing such loss again paralysed him and he was honest enough to admit that he was relieved that Claire had broken off their relationship.

He bought a sandwich and a bottle of water at a petrol station and ate deliberately. The energy of the food worked its way through his system, expelling any effects of the whisky he had half consumed. When he was in control again, calm, professional and correct, his shield once more in place, he felt ready to see Nightingale.

For perhaps the tenth time, Nightingale rubbed at a non-specific grey smudge on her wallpaper left by the SOCO team. Apart from that her flat was spotless again and the prolonged wait was driving her mad. He’d never been here and the initial phone call announcing his intended visit had thrown her sense of perspective.

At eleven forty-five she ground Arabica beans, filtered fresh water and was about to switch on the machine when the phone rang. He was running late. She abandoned the coffee and went for a run.

The park was full of mothers and children. She sprinted around them on each circuit, feeling the hidden sun draw moisture from her body. There were puddles still from the weekend’s rain, and every now and then she would slap into one rather than shorten her stride and break her rhythm. Her pace settled. The drumming of her own blood in her ears was as comforting as a mother’s heart beat, and she matched her arms and legs to its pace, feeling energy course out of her with each step to be sucked back in on every breath.

Sometimes it happened, this almost magical pulsing run that could eat up the miles without a stitch or cramp, as if she could complete a marathon with ease. On her fifteenth lap, her ninth mile, a duck rose flapping and quacking from the pond and the momentum vanished. Suddenly she was hot, tired and thirsty. The enchantment had gone. She remembered to check the time and was horrified to see that she was going to be late. Not just late, she was steamy, muddy, dishevelled and late. With an audible curse she changed direction and headed for home.

He was waiting in the visitors’ car park as she jogged into the drive.

‘Chief Inspector.’ She nodded at him, conscious of her shorts and sweat-stained vest.

‘Nightingale. Is this a good time? Do you want me to come back later?’

His question confused her, as did his expression. There were new lines of strain on his face. She imagined a difficult case interrupted and felt unworthy.

‘Now’s fine. I’m sorry. I went out for a run and forgot the time. Come in.’

She led the way into the vestibule and they waited in silence for the tiny lift. Blood was pumping like a brass band in her ears. She took shallow breaths so that she wouldn’t need to smell her own sweat and could pretend that he didn’t either.

The flat felt empty to her, too clean to be real.

‘Is that fresh coffee?’ The smell of the abandoned beans hung in the air. ‘I’d love a cup. Would you mind?’

For the first time she noticed a trace of whisky on his breath.

‘I need to take a quick shower, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘No problem, I can make it…’

‘No! I mean, there’s no need.’

‘Please, I make great coffee. Trust me.’

He smiled and she gave in. She pointed him in the direction of the kitchen and left him to it.

Ten minutes later she was back, in jeans and a short sleeved sweatshirt, hair towel-damp. He had a pot of coffee ready.

‘I wasn’t sure whether you wanted regular or iced – you looked hot when I arrived but now…’ He stopped and busied himself with putting the airtight lid back on the unused beans.

There was silence as she poured their drinks. It was his usual tactic, forcing the other person to talk and she was usually curious to see how long it would last. Today though she just wanted the conversation over and done with. She had no expectation of anything meaningful emerging and none at all that there was personal motivation behind his visit.

‘You came here to talk to me about my resignation, sir. What did you want to say?’

He seemed taken aback by her bluntness but rallied quickly.

‘Don’t do it, as simple as that. I think you’re making a mistake.’

‘Do you? Well I don’t. It’s not an easy decision and I can assure you that I thought about it long and hard.’

‘You’ve been stressed for months and that’s not a good time to make big decisions.’

‘What stress?’ Her voice was level but Nightingale could feel indignation building at his presumption.

‘You know what I’m referring to – the trial, other cases, health, this stalking thing, ghastly…and your parents. It’s a huge burden to carry on your own.’

‘And who else can carry it? You’ve just described
my
life. No one else can live it for me.’

‘No, of course not, but sometimes it helps to share problems, talk them through.’

‘And you’re assuming I have nobody to do that with – I think that’s bordering on the patronising.’ She turned away and bit her lip to stop her anger.

‘I wasn’t making any assumptions. Look, let me start again. I don’t think you should resign. You are an exceptional officer with a great career ahead of you. You should stay. You’ll be a huge loss to us.’

‘You were losing me anyway. I was to leave Harlden, had you forgotten?’

‘Is that’s what’s behind this? Your first major move? Well I sympathise. I felt the same. No sooner are you settled than you’re urged to move on. It’s understandable to feel a little unwanted but really, it’s the best thing for your career.’

‘A little unwanted!’ She heard the tremor in her reply and took a gulp of coffee as she walked to the window, keeping her back to him.

‘Look, I’m not good with words. If you left the Force you’d be hugely missed.’

‘Would you miss me?’

‘Me? Of course, we all would. I enjoy working with you. You have a very good reputation for thoroughness and delivery.’

‘Thoroughness and delivery. Wow!’ Her view of the trees blurred.

‘Come on, Nightingale, don’t take every word I say and see the negative.’

Fenwick walked over to her and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder.

‘What other words do you want me to use? Professional, brilliant, insightful, tough, a great role model…they all apply, take your pick.’

‘Thanks.’ She had meant to keep the sarcasm at bay but it leapt up unbidden. Even she could feel the sting of its sharpness but she was scared to say any more in case her voice betrayed her.

If he’d only said ‘fun to be with’, ‘a good mate’, even ‘pleasant’ would have done, anything that suggested she was a person with substance behind the role. Had he spoken like that she would have had something to take away with her. Instead, he had simply confirmed that she meant nothing to him beyond their convenient and productive working relationship.

She blinked away the dampness that had somehow accumulated in her eyes and disguised a small sniff in another swallow of coffee. She turned round to face him, momentarily put off by their proximity. He was well over six foot, but she was five ten in socks and their eyes were almost level, his full of barely concealed frustration, hers she didn’t doubt, over bright. For a moment she said nothing, then she smiled, a wry one-sided affair.

‘I really appreciate your concern for me and I know how busy you are…’

‘Nonsense, this is important.’

‘Even so, it’s taken time out of your day, which is very kind…’

‘You’re going to say no, aren’t you. Why? I just don’t understand it.’

‘There’s nothing to understand. People make career choices every day. This just happens to be mine.’ The stone in her throat threatened to choke her.

His mobile phone rang and he checked the incoming details.

‘The station, excuse me.’

‘I think we’re done.’

‘No we are not! Just hang on.’ He stepped away and spoke into his phone. ‘Yes? He’s early…very well. No. I can’t say when I’ll be back… Yes, I’ll call when I’m on my way.’

‘No one important I hope.’

‘The ACC.’

Nightingale’s mouth opened in shock.

‘He’s here to see the Superintendent. I’m only on stand by in case he needs to see me.’

‘Even so, you should go.’ She took his empty coffee cup from his hand. ‘Oh, before I forget, I have a jumper of yours. Wait a moment I’ll go and get it.’

She returned with it washed and pressed.

‘Here,’ she said too briskly, ‘in case I don’t see you again.’

‘I’d forgotten about it. Thank you.’ The frown was back on his face. ‘Nightingale, this just doesn’t feel right. I know that’s not a logical thing to say and you’ll hate it…’

‘No, go on.’

‘Well, I’ve tried all the sensible arguments and you seem as pig-headed as you always are when you’re sure that you are right and the rest of us are too stupid to see it.’

She raised her eyebrows in a question.

‘Am I that bad?’

‘Terrible. Stubborn as the proverbial mule.’

‘You make me sound like a menagerie. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to drum it out of me, or have Sergeant Cooper do it for you.’

‘I’ve thought about it but,’ he paused then shrugged as if he might as well be honest, ‘I like it. It’s part of what makes you so good.’

‘I see. Any other character weaknesses you would like to mention by way of farewell?’ She was smiling now, enjoying the spectacle of him walking on thin ice.

‘How about lack of respect for senior officers, a smart alec with more brains than are good for her?’ He’d caught her mood and was smiling in return. ‘Over zealous, aggressive…’

‘I think you mean assertive.’

‘Whatever. Shall I go on?’

‘I’ve got the idea. And you
still
want me to stay? Why?’

He shook his head as if baffled.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps I like the idea of you in the Force somewhere. Who knows, we may even work together again.’

‘That’s unlikely isn’t it? If I transferred that would be the end, you know that.’

‘Probably. Personally, I hate the idea of your transfer but it’s for your own good.’

‘You’ve never said that before, that you didn’t want me to go.’

‘No, well and I shouldn’t have now. It’s none of my business. But I do care about what happens to you.’

‘I see.’ The conversation was confusing yet she felt elated. She had enjoyed his insults. They had been personal and somehow showed that he cared. ‘I don’t know what to say. I still think I should resign, I really do.’

‘Give it time, take some leave; compassionate, sick, holiday, whatever. Go away and think about it. We’ll hold the letter until you return. Just give yourself the chance to reconsider.’

‘Let me sleep on it. I’ll call you in the morning and let you know.’

Fenwick picked up his laundered jumper and turned to go.

‘Sir… Andrew, thank you. Whatever my decision this conversation means a lot to me.’

He flushed at her compliment and left without another word.

‘Louise Nightingale wishes to see you.’

‘Tell her to come in, Anne.’ Fenwick put the file he was reading to one side and looked up, his smile fading at the expression on Nightingale’s face. Instinctively, he stood up. There were some blows he preferred not to take sitting down.

‘Morning. Cup of coffee?’

‘No thank you, sir. I won’t be taking up much of your time.’ She took a deep breath and continued. ‘I don’t think I can go on working, not right now, but I accept what you said about this being a very big decision and I’d like to take up the offer of unpaid leave. Just for a month or so to give me time to think.’

‘And your resignation is on hold?’

‘For now. Would you tell the Superintendent?’

‘Of course.’

Some of the strain went from her face leaving her looking exhausted. Fenwick felt an inexplicable urge to put his arms around her shoulders and give her a hug. She needed looking after and as far as he knew there was no one else to do it. Something of his feelings must have shown in his face because she blushed. He stuck his hand out.

‘Good luck then. I hope it all works out.’

She shook his hand and looked up at him while still holding it, her eyes full of questions.

‘Yes?’

She shook her head.

‘Never mind. It’s nothing.’

Fenwick watched her leave, straight-backed, precise, and felt that he had missed something significant but he had no idea what it was.

‘Keep in touch,’ he called out, but she appeared not to have heard him. He started towards the door but his phone rang and he automatically reached to pick it up. It was the Superintendent’s assistant, reminding him that he was late for an appointment. He shrugged his shoulders and made his way to the meeting.

Cooper had had no luck tracing Nightingale’s stalker. The computer technicians hadn’t traced the source of the Emails and interviews at the flats had produced nothing. He was used to failure, what policeman wasn’t, and was usually phlegmatic in defeat, but this time his lack of progress was giving him acid indigestion, a sure sign that he was really upset.

He repeated his problems to Fenwick.

‘I just can’t stand the idea of her being terrorised. It’s not fair.’

‘Maybe she’ll be away for a month or so – she’s taken leave of absence. That will give us time to find the bastard.’

The next day Cooper was interrupted with a message. One of Nightingale’s neighbours had heard sounds of a disturbance from her flat.

‘Is it still going on?’

‘It’s quieter now but I think someone’s still there.’

Telling the woman to stay inside he rang Fenwick and the two of them were soon driving through Harlden in a squad car with Fenwick urging the driver to go faster every time he braked. They tried Nightingale’s phone but it was off the hook. There was no answer from her mobile.

Fenwick led Cooper and a uniformed officer at a run up the stairs while another stayed on the door. The neighbour, alerted by the siren, was on the landing with a spare set of keys.

‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday when she gave me her keys and said that she was off on holiday. That’s why I was worried when I heard the noise.’

‘Any sounds from in there recently?’

‘Nothing for the last ten minutes.’

Fenwick asked her to wait in her flat and pushed open the door, noting the smashed locks. Inside was a scene of devastation. Nightingale’s neat, precise hall had been sprayed from floor to ceiling with foul language graffiti. Pictures had been ripped from their frames, pieces of mirror crunched under his feet as he walked in.

He told the officer to stay on the door and beckoned Cooper inside. The kitchen was a mess; crockery and glasses had been broken and thrown around the room. In the living room the curtains and sofas had been slashed with a knife, furniture smashed and the expensive CD player wrecked. There was more graffiti. Only the bathroom had been ignored. His eyes watered from the smell of the bleach that had been poured over a heap of her clothes on her bed.

‘Good grief, I want SOCO here right now. We need to find her. Put out an alert for her car and check with the airports. If she’s gone abroad it might explain why her mobile isn’t picking up calls.’

Cooper listened to his boss trying to talk himself calm. He had never seen him so agitated.

‘She has a brother somewhere. He may know something.’

Cooper called Simon Nightingale’s home using the number he found in a battered address book. A woman answered.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Her flat has been broken in to and we are trying to reach her.’

‘Well she’ll be at work. Why are you calling here?’

He explained about Nightingale’s extended leave.

‘She didn’t tell us. I’m sorry I have no idea where she might have gone.’

‘What was her typical holiday choice?’

‘I’m not sure there was anything typical.’

‘Are there any friends or family she might have travelled with or be visiting?’

‘We’re all the family she has. Apart from this house there’s an old farm but it’s derelict so she couldn’t stay there.’

Cooper was about to finish the call when an idea occurred to him.

‘Mrs Nightingale, have you given Louise’s address to anyone recently?’

‘Of course not! I wouldn’t do something like that.’

‘Please, think hard.’ Cooper didn’t doubt the woman’s integrity but she was the trusting kind. She had taken him at his word when he said he was a policeman and hadn’t bothered to check him out in any way.

‘Well…but that can’t have been significant, it was nothing, an old friend that’s all.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was a few weeks ago. A man about Louise’s age was collecting for the Lifeboats. He came to the door and we got talking. He said, ‘You’re not Louise Nightingale’s sister-in-law by any chance are you? It’s such an uncommon name.’ I said I was and it turned out that they were at school together. He said that he’d like to get in touch with her again. Apparently they’d been good friends but had drifted apart.’

‘So you gave him her address.’

‘Yes, and phone number and Email. Was that wrong?’

‘I don’t know, but somebody has been making Louise’s life hell for the past few weeks and we want to find out who it was.’

‘Oh no.’ Mrs Nightingale sounded close to tears. ‘But he seemed so nice, a really pleasant man.’

‘Can you remember what he looked like?’

‘Vaguely. Attractive, tall, nice eyes. He was wearing smart clothes.’

‘I’ll need a full description from you later. In the meantime if Louise calls, please contact me at the station.’

Cooper went in search of Fenwick and found him staring at the wrecked coffee machine.

‘Another neighbour has been asked to water her plants. Looks like she’d already left.’

‘So she’s safe.’ Cooper sagged with relief.

‘Maybe, for the moment. This all started after the Griffiths’ trial. Look at the hatred and anger in this destruction; it goes beyond vandalism. What if the person behind it is seeking revenge for Griffiths? They’re not likely to give up easily. But I don’t see who it could be. He wasn’t married and didn’t have family or friends.’ Fenwick started to pace. ‘Supposing there
was
someone that we didn’t know about, could they have done this?’

‘It’s a possibility. I remember thinking when Griffiths was interviewed by DI Blite that it was odd there was nobody in his life.’

‘Go through the file again, identify anyone who might have known him personally and re-interview them. I’m going to go and visit the man himself.’

Prisons made Fenwick’s skin itch. The smell of hundreds of male bodies, averagely washed and sweaty in confinement was so strong that he imagined it settling on his face and clothes like fine dust. During the long journey north to the prison he had listened to tapes of police interviews. Griffiths sounded an arrogant man, confident of his superior intelligence. It was as if he had been so certain that the physical case against him was minimal, that all he needed to do was admit nothing and wait for his release.

If Griffiths had a friend or relative he had managed to keep their existence a secret, yet when he arrived he was told that the prisoner had had a visitor. The prison log recorded the name of a man who’d visited twice and had signed his name as Tony Troy. There were hundreds of A Troys in England alone, including one poor man with the middle names of Steven Henry Ivan, but none of them with an address that matched the one given by the visitor.

Fenwick was surprised when Griffiths entered. He was not the man he had been expecting. Instead of intelligence he saw furtiveness and cunning. His eyes were set too close together, the jaw was weak and the top teeth a little too large. He gave the impression of being a scavenger not a hunter and Fenwick felt a deep disquiet.

Griffiths affected boredom to mask his curiosity as Fenwick introduced himself and started questioning without preamble.

‘Do you have any living relatives?’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘Just answer my question. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘Who is Tony Troy?’

A look of genuine confusion appeared on Griffiths’ face.

‘The man who has visited you twice.’

‘Look I don’t need to do this.’

‘It might be in your best interests to cooperate. I understand that you intend to seek an appeal. Declining to answer police questions won’t help.’

Griffiths thought for a while then shrugged.

‘Troy was some weirdo gay ponce. A stranger who read about the case and wanted to be my “friend”. I told him to fuck off.’ Griffiths kept his face angled away but he found something in what he had just said funny.

‘Who is Agnes? You have had letters from her.’

A flicker of concern then calm again.

‘An old school teacher. She befriended me.’

It was a lie but a good one. Griffiths thought quickly.

‘And we can reach her via the address you write to? Odd for a school teacher to use a PO box.’

Real furtiveness now about the eyes but the rest of his face remained impassive.

‘She travels a lot, in a caravan. I don’t think she likes post to pile up at home.’

‘Could I have her phone number?’

‘She’s not on the phone.’

‘A mobile?’

He shook his head.

‘I see. Well, her full name, permanent address and approximate age should be enough.’

‘About sixty now I think. I can’t remember her surname and I only know her post office box number.’

He wrote down the answers, intrigued to see the sweat break out on Griffiths’ forehead. This was not the line he had intended taking but he had caught him out in a lie, which was always a promising start.

‘What family do you have?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You must have had once.’

‘I never knew my father. My mother left when I was a kid. I was fostered after that.’

‘No aunts or uncles?’

‘None that cared to know me.’ It was said with real feeling and Fenwick suspected it was the truth.

‘I’d like their names anyway, please.’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘You must know them if they were your only living relatives.’

‘No. We didn’t exactly keep in touch.’

Fenwick tried other questions but nothing else shook Griffiths and he eventually left to meet with the prison psychiatrist.

Batchelor had a practice in the neighbouring town and was waiting for Fenwick with a look of anticipation on his face. He talked non-stop about the prisoner, how fascinating he was, the intricacies of his mind, his increasing remorse. Fenwick found it sickening and struggled to suppress a growing dislike for the doctor.

‘Do you think him capable of inciting violence whilst still in prison?’

Batchelor flushed with indignation.

‘Certainly not, it would be quite out of character. Why?’

Fenwick described what had been happening to Nightingale. The psychiatrist started shaking his head in denial within half a sentence. By the time Fenwick had finished he was sitting with arms and legs crossed.

‘Impossible. He would never encourage something like that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. In fact, the more I think about it, the more likely it is that this is some hysterical response on her part.’

‘My sergeant saw the blood and offal. It was not imagined, I can assure you.’

A more sensitive man would have recognised the warning in Fenwick’s tone.

‘Even so. She’s a nervy young woman. You never can tell with that type.’

‘And what type is that, precisely?’

‘So straight and correct, always in control.’

‘You’ve met her?’ It was an accusation.

‘Spoken on the phone, just once. She agreed to help me.’

‘Willingly?’ Fenwick’s mouth and the edges of his nostrils were white with self-control as he waited for this vainglorious man to justify himself.

‘Well, er, yes.’

The pause betrayed his lie and Fenwick shook his head in disgust.

‘You deserve to be reported.’

‘Now, see here! It’s none of your business. You come in here, throwing your weight around. He’s behind bars, can’t you leave him alone?’

‘He
deserves
his sentence, for the sick bastard he is.’ Fenwick stood up, reminding Batchelor of how tall he was.
‘She doesn’t
and her punishment is just as real, believe me. If you try and have that psycho out on appeal or medical grounds, you will fail. There’s me and a dozen other officers standing between you and success.’

‘He’s mentally disturbed, not a psycho.’

‘Really? What makes you so sure? He might just be very good at manipulating you.’ He muttered under his breath, ‘It wouldn’t be difficult.’

He saw himself out, angry with himself for losing his temper and depressed that a prisoner as obviously guilty as Griffiths could stimulate sympathy. On his way back to the station he called the prison governor and thanked her for her help. He asked that the next letter Griffiths sent be held for his personal examination. Whilst he couldn’t prove a link to the attacks on Nightingale, his instinct told him that there was a connection, however unlikely, and he felt uneasy, as if he was driving away from something important.