Grave Doubts (4 page)

DCI Fenwick’s secretary looked up from her keyboard and gave him a broad grin of welcome.

‘So you really are back. The case at the Met’s finished?’

Fenwick shook his head and the light caught new hints of grey at his temples. That was what a secondment to the Metropolitan Police could do to a man.

‘My part is, Anne, but Commander Cator is the expert on money laundering and he’ll complete the evidence. It’ll take a long time for all the strands to come together and we may never know the whole of it. But the Assistant Chief Constable has finally agreed to my return.’

‘The Superintendent wants to see you.’

Superintendent Quinlan was on the phone but beckoned him into his office. He finished the call abruptly and stuck his hand out.

‘Andrew, good to see you. Place hasn’t been quite the same without you.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Frankly I’m looking forward to some proper police work.’

Quinlan frowned.

‘Shut the door, would you. Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time. Are you sure that you want to turn this transfer down? It could be the making of your career…’

‘I think you mean the
re-making
, don’t you?’

Quinlan hurried on as if Fenwick hadn’t spoken.

‘Commander Cator is going right to the top in my opinion, and he’s asked for you specifically. It’s a compliment and a great opportunity that won’t come again.’ Fenwick opened his mouth to speak but Quinlan hadn’t finished. ‘There’s no such thing as a guaranteed promotion, of course there isn’t, but with a move to his team and your track record, you’d have a shot at making superintendent.’

‘More than I would have here, you mean?’ It was said with one of Fenwick’s attempts at a wry grin but Quinlan grimaced anyway.

‘I won’t be drawn into that,’ he snapped, and Fenwick was sorry for his sarcasm. It hadn’t been aimed at the Superintendent. He knew that his boss was his strongest supporter, but
his
boss, the ACC of West Sussex, Harper-Brown, disliked him intensely and Fenwick knew that he’d never win his endorsement. He simply wasn’t servile enough.

‘Sorry that was a stupid remark, and it wasn’t meant for you. Look, the Met really isn’t for me.’

‘Is it the, er, commuting that’s a problem because…’

‘No, it’s not the children.’ Fenwick substituted the word that was the real point of the question, preferring there to be no prevarication. Everyone assumed that being a single father of a nine- and seven-year-old was a major handicap to his career but he had a live-in housekeeper who managed his household brilliantly. The children appeared to have settled at long last, and some health insurance on his wife had meant that he’d been able to pay off the mortgage more quickly. Even visiting Monique in hospital had settled into a routine, sad to be sure but no longer traumatic.

‘So it was the politics, then. I thought as much. You never will make the extra effort to be a diplomat.’

Fenwick laughed out loud and his boss looked at him in surprise. In the months before his secondment he’d rarely seen him smile. He had changed during the time away and something of the old Fenwick, the one that had disappeared with the onset of his wife’s illness, was beginning to reemerge.

‘I
hated
the politics and the soft-peddling way things had to be done, but I coped because I had to. In fact Commander Cator made a point of congratulating me on my performance. He’d expected far worse.’

‘So what is it then? Why are you turning your back on almost certain advancement?’

Quinlan looked at him in exasperation. He was an old friend and ally and Fenwick realised that he deserved an honest answer.

‘It’s all too remote. The investigations take years and the layers of subterfuge these criminals construct make unravelling the evidence like solving a Rubik’s cube blindfolded. The syndicates are better funded than we are! And anyway I’m not very good at pursuing crime in the abstract.’

He stopped short of adding the strongest negative. The complexity of the crimes frequently baffled juries and the rate of conviction was depressingly low as a result. He was a man who needed to win.

‘Yet Cator says in his note to me that you have a natural talent. He called you “remorseless and determined” I seem to recall.’

‘Don’t misunderstand me, I want to see Wainwright-Smith destitute and in jail. It’s what the bastard deserves.’ The venom in Fenwick’s tone caught both of them by surprise. There was a silence, then Quinlan nodded slowly. He understood.

‘Of course. It wasn’t a faceless crime for you, I was forgetting. Very well,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I’ve said my piece and I won’t mention it again. There’s more than enough for you to get stuck into here.’

‘The Griffiths case must have stretched the team to the limit.’ Fenwick had already noted the new lines of tension on Quinlan’s face. ‘You took charge yourself I understand, towards the end.’

‘The ACC insisted. Derek Blite handled the investigation into the first attack but then that poor girl was killed, in her own home and within days of the previous rape. I had to take over. But despite all our work we were only able to persuade the CPS to prosecute three of the seven crimes we think Griffiths is responsible for. It’s galling to leave the other files open.’

‘But you got a result. He’s been found guilty and he was given life.’

‘Thanks to Nightingale. She did a fantastic piece of work. Without her evidence I think he might have walked. You should have heard the defence’s close. He reminded the jury that they could only convict if they were sure of guilt beyond reasonable doubt and said that in his opinion, her testimony raised very grave doubts indeed.’

‘Doesn’t matter. He lost, we won. She deserves to feel pleased with herself.’

‘Maybe.’ Quinlan looked unconvinced. ‘You know she lost both her parents in a car crash two months ago? Sad business.’

‘I had no idea. How is she coping?’

‘Seems to have taken it in her stride. I offered her compassionate leave but she decided to come straight back to work after the funeral. Sometimes I think she’s too plucky for her own good.’

The following day the object of their shared interest was facing another, entirely unanticipated, test. As she parked her car at the police station, Nightingale was surrounded by a pack of sweaty men carrying notepads, tape recorders and cameras. The press had found her and the idea startled her more than any life-threatening encounter. She froze.

‘Sergeant Nightingale could we have a quote on Griffiths’ conviction, how do you feel?’

‘Look this way, darling. Lovely! And again, good, good.’

‘What was it like looking into the eyes of a serial rapist?’

‘Word is you kneed ‘im in the balls. Did you? Our readers would approve. Shame the damage wasn’t permanent.’

‘Come on, love, just one quote, that’s all we need.’

Nightingale blinked rapidly as if coming out of a trance. Head down, she made straight for the station entrance without saying a word. Two of the men tried to cut her off by running backwards in front of her but she kept going. Their shouted questions echoed off the brickwork in the yard whilst photographers kept clicking away. As she reached the first step one jostled into another who lurched sharply against Nightingale, sending her flying just as a voice shouted from above her head.

‘What the devil’s going on down there?’

She looked up to see Inspector Blite peering from a second floor window, his face puce.

‘Get up here right now.’

Nightingale stumbled into Blite’s office more breathless than the two flights of stairs warranted. Her encounter with the journalists had shaken her. Her privacy had been breached and she felt grubby.

‘Look at this!’ Blite tossed her the day’s edition of the
Daily Mail
. ‘Pages four, five and six. Read it.’

The paper gave detailed coverage of the trial and the police investigation that had finally brought ‘a dangerous criminal to justice’. It was positively slanted towards the police and Nightingale wondered why Blite was so incensed. She found the answer as she turned to page six. Under an ‘exclusive’ banner a profile featured the brave policewoman who had put her own safety at risk when she acted as bait to catch the rapist. Nightingale stared at her photograph and closed her eyes in dismay.

They had made her into a heroine. The correspondent described her role in capturing Griffiths. He hadn’t exaggerated but the details were dramatic enough in themselves for that to have been unnecessary. Then he had linked her
‘extraordinary bravery
’ to her behaviour in two previous cases, pointing out that
‘such courage is characteristic of Sergeant Nightingale
.
Behind her cool beauty beats a steadfast heart
…’

She shuddered. Why would a journalist have bothered to research her brief career? She glanced at the name at the head of the article: Jason MacDonald. Well, that explained everything. She’d arrested him once as he had tried to score another exclusive from a woman she’d been assigned to protect. That had been three years ago but he had looked like a person who would bear a grudge even then. No matter how seemingly positive the coverage, he must know that it would infuriate her superiors and alienate her colleagues. There was bare mention of Inspector Blite or Superintendent Quinlan. Very cleverly, he made it read as if her bravery had rescued the case from previous bungling. Nightingale looked up into Blite’s furious face.

‘I have no idea how he found out all that, sir. I gave no interview.’

‘You expect me to believe that? Your publicity agent seems to have been working overtime!’

Nightingale bit her tongue. There was no point in arguing. If there was a leak in the station it wasn’t her.

‘This is disgraceful conduct, a real black mark. You can’t expect your career to be unaffected by this. There’ll be lasting consequences.’

His voice had a cutting edge that would have left scars on a more impressionable officer. It bounced off Nightingale as she had so little regard for his opinion.

‘I will personally make sure that this goes on your record, you can be sure of that…’

‘Would you excuse us please, Sergeant.’ She looked around to see Superintendent Quinlan standing in the open doorway. Blite’s shouting must have carried far beyond his office. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

By the time she was finally summoned to see the superintendent, Nightingale had already suffered a range of responses to her sudden fame. Most colleagues were satisfied with a teasing comment or request for an autograph but there were enough who were jealous to make the morning uncomfortable. Her shoulders were tense as she tapped on the door to Quinlan’s office.

‘Come in, Louise.’ He looked up and gave her a half smile. ‘Sit down.’

He studied her openly, watching her in silence. A vein throbbed in her right temple. Whilst she met his gaze with ease she looked young and miserable. The officer in front of him was only twenty-seven. She hadn’t distinguished herself academically before joining the Force, barely scraping through college, but he didn’t doubt that she was special. Yet there was something hidden about her, deliberately so, and the thought of that concealment worried him. Fenwick was like that. He had depths that Quinlan doubted anybody had discovered. Pity that he hadn’t found himself a good woman after all this time. He stopped his mind from wandering and refocused on Nightingale.

‘There will be nothing added to your file as you have done nothing wrong.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘However,’ he noticed her jaw tighten, as if anticipating a blow, ‘this case has brought you, and therefore the Division, unhelpful attention. The press love personalities and you should expect their interest in you to continue for a while.’

‘Surely it’s just my fifteen minutes of fame. It’ll blow over tomorrow.’

Quinlan looked at the fine-boned face that they now knew the camera loved, her slender five-foot ten inches, the cool yet mysterious manner, and shook his head, dismissing her hopes. A beautiful young face sold papers on the back of the slightest story. Let that story include sex and violence and sales would double.

‘Who is this Jason MacDonald? The name seems familiar and he knows a lot about you.’

‘He was a local reporter who latched on to the Rowland case just over three years ago. He did an exposé that ruined an opera singer’s career.’

‘Of course. And now he’s made the nationals.’ Quinlan’s faint hope that MacDonald would forget all about them evaporated. ‘You’ll be assigned internal duties for the next few weeks.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked relieved and her face softened into a small smile but it disappeared at his next words.

‘And I’ll need to consider your next posting. If you hadn’t put in a special request to come back after Bramshill and your sergeant’s exams, you would have moved on already. You can’t just stay around here, not someone with your potential. Think about it and come back to me. That will be all.’

Nightingale tried to put Quinlan’s proposals, the trial and news coverage behind her but journalists haunted her for days. When they ran out of questions they took to leaving long silent messages on her answer-phone.

Instead of stopping the calls became more frequent. At night she had to disconnect her phone to prevent its ringing disturbing her sleep. And then the Emails from Pandora started: ‘SONGBIRD, WANT TO PLAY A GAME?’

That was all they ever said but the oblique reference to THE GAME increased her sense of paranoia. Her counsellor had warned her that it was normal to feel vulnerable but Nightingale had dismissed her concerns. She had told herself that she was more robust than that, and her attempt at toughness had become an integral part of her way of coping with the stresses she now lived with every day. A few random phone calls and Emails weren’t going to scare her. She put up with them for a week and then decided to take a break. A weekend with her brother had become the lesser of two evils.

It was strange to walk up to the front door of the old family house and know that her father wouldn’t be on the other side of it, waiting to fling the solid oak wide before aiming a kiss at her cheek. She’d never once been late for Sunday lunch but he’d had the unfailing knack of making her feel guilty from the moment she arrived.