Innocent Blood (12 page)

The last weeks of July went on record as the wettest since records began. Bookings for holidays abroad soared as parents faced the awful prospect of being caged with their little dears under canvas or in poorly heated holiday homes across the UK, their only escape steamed-up cars and yet another soggy picnic.

Fenwick had asked his mother to stay and Alice was taking a much-needed break to travel by coach to Germany for a trip down the Rhine with her sister. His mother had left a sunny Edinburgh on the train and woken up to floods north of London followed by a thirty-minute wait for a tube to take her to Victoria. Her mood improved a little on seeing her only grandchildren, whom she adored but would never let it show for fear of making them soft. When Fenwick cooked supper on her first night and opened a bottle of wine to go with it she almost softened.

He was her only child and the only male Fenwick of his generation but they had never been close, or ‘lovey-dovey’, as she would have called it with a sneer of disdain. Respect, good manners and no unsightly shows of affection were what mattered in raising children and she prided herself on her achievement. But one look at her grandchildren convinced her that Andrew wasn’t being so successful. Bess dressed as if she was fourteen not ten and Chris sulked. Alice might be a decent housekeeper but she wasn’t the children’s mother and it was about time her son found himself a suitable new wife for their sake. She said as much as she accepted her second glass of Pommerol with a small sigh of delight that would have evaporated had she known its cost. Her son affected not to hear her comment as he cleared their plates.

‘I said the children need a mother, Andrew.’

‘I heard you but I can’t magic one out of thin air.’

‘And you’re not seeing anyone?’

‘No.’

‘What about this Louise person that Bess talks about incessantly.’

‘Does she?’ He looked surprised.

‘Yes. She told me that Louise comes over for lunch, dinner even. Is she special?’

‘No, I barely know her.’

She recognised the defensiveness in his tone, which had always betrayed him as a child, but there was something else in her son’s face that stopped her from pressing the advantage. There was sadness there and possibly regret. For the first time she realised that her handsome, highly eligible son might not be able to have the woman he wanted, and she knew him well enough to know that he would never settle for second best.

‘This is terrible weather,’ she said and smiled inwardly at his look of relief. ‘What on earth shall I do with the children?’

They debated how to entertain Chris and Bess as they nibbled at cheese and biscuits and finally agreed that a visit to the Natural History Museum in London would suit them both.

‘Keep an eye on them, won’t you, Mum?’

She looked at him incredulously.

‘Of course I shall, whatever next?’ She was genuinely offended.

It was only when she was in bed later that it occurred to her that her son saw more horrors involving children than she could begin to imagine and she forgave him his fears.

‘Have you been praying to your pagan gods again, Fenwick?’

Harper-Brown’s clipped vowels were unmistakable, which was just as well as the voice at the end of the telephone rarely announced itself.

‘Assistant Chief Constable, good morning.’ Fenwick played for time as he tried to work out what on earth the man was talking about.

‘Not only has this wretched rain wrecked the cricket pitch, flooded Mrs Harper-Brown’s garden and done untold damage to our accident statistics, it’s also brought you your wish.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t follow you. What wish?’

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line as the ACC enjoyed his moment.

‘To excavate the terrace at The Downs, of course. Part of it’s collapsed again; bloody architect should be shot. The surveyor’s been in and thinks the whole west side needs to be demolished. If you still want to do some digging now’s your chance. The secretary’s agreed provided you get it over with while the weather’s foul so the members won’t be inconvenienced.’

‘But the case has been passed to Harlden.’

‘I know but both Quinlan and Blite are away on holiday and there’s nobody else there that I’d trust so I’ve told Operations that the excavation is down to you. I think they’re relieved.’

Fenwick begged, borrowed and stole crime scene technicians from across West Sussex Constabulary. Alison Reynolds located a small JCB with driver for hire and he arranged to meet everyone on site.

He put on his boots and Barbour, pulled an old hat down over his ears and stepped out of the car into the slime that had once been the second car park. His trousers were soaked by the time he reached the clubhouse where the secretary was waiting for him.

‘Chief Inspector Fenwick? Daniel Ainscough; Alistair Harper-Brown told me to expect you. At least you’re prompt.’ The portly red-cheeked man took in his visitor with a swift glance. ‘If you don’t mind waiting here I’ll get my coat and umbrella and take you round.’

They didn’t talk as they walked carefully along a gravel path that ran like a stream and then slopped across a quagmire that had once been a well-tended rose garden. When they reached the collapsing terrace Ainscough stopped and gestured to the remains of the stone wall.

‘This is the fourth time it’s fallen down in thirty years. The heat wave followed by this rain has wrecked it. Bloody mess. I think I’m going to propose that we move the whole thing to the other side of the club where we should be able to build on something other than this damned Sussex clay.’

‘When was it last rebuilt?’ Fenwick had to shout above the drumming of the rain.

‘I had to re-lay a section further along three years ago but I don’t think this part has been touched since the early Eighties when the then secretary added reinforcements to the outside as it was relaid within twelve months of the previous renovations. We all thought that his plan had worked but now…’ He bent and picked up a stone to throw. He scored a direct hit and a piece of wall slipped sideways.

‘What are you looking for anyway?’

‘We won’t know until we find it.’

The excavating equipment turned up at eleven. He showed the driver where to start work on the 1980s section of terrace, watched to make sure that he got it right and then went to share a pot of excellent coffee with Ainscough. When he put on his soaking coat and ventured outside again the digger had made little progress. He had insisted that every load should be tipped out onto a separate spoil heap for investigation by the team of five crime scene technicians he’d allocated to the challenge. The next load couldn’t be added until they’d finished searching the previous one as he didn’t want to risk them missing anything.

‘This is going to take for ever,’ the driver moaned. ‘Why can’t I start a second pile and you get some more coppers up here?’

‘Good idea.’

He had to plead for the additional resources but they arrived by two o’clock and the whole process sped up. He left the team to their dispirited searching and returned to his office. At seven he called and agreed they could stop for the night as long as they were back by eight the next morning. A length of terrace a bare fourteen feet long had been removed.

He was at the club early, picking over the spoil in a brief respite between downpours. It looked depressingly ordinary but he refused to be despondent. The CSTs assigned to the search turned up at quarter to eight. They shared takeaway coffees until the digger driver arrived and the monotonous routine started again. The fact that Fenwick had bothered to turn up improved their mood and they promised to call him if they unearthed anything of interest. He sent Clive Kettering out in the afternoon with money to buy them all coffee and buns but it didn’t change their luck.

There was no news on Tuesday or Wednesday when the ACC called and told him to speed things up. On Thursday the digger broke down. There was less than fifteen foot of terrace left and it was the most solidly built in an attempt to overcome particularly weak sub-soil. Fenwick was tempted to give up but instead he hired a replacement excavator and promised the whole team a night out on Friday at his expense provided they finished the job.

The call came at four o’clock on Friday just after he’d sent Alison Reynolds home because she’d been working seven days without a break. The team had erected makeshift shelters over the spoil heaps to keep out the rain. Fenwick stepped under the white plastic and walked over to where all eight technicians and Clive Kettering were standing, a covered bundle at their feet. His heart rate quickened.

‘What have you got?’

One of them, Cook, lifted a protective sheet away.

‘Two waterproof sacks, one inside the other. The inner one is stuffed full of boy’s clothing. I haven’t disturbed them but we could see from the top that there’s a blazer in there with a Downside School crest on the pocket. Is that where Malcolm Eagleton went?’

‘No,’ Fenwick said, disappointed; then he remembered, ‘but Paul Hill did.’

Fenwick knelt down beside Cook and angled his head to one side to keep his shadow from obscuring their view. Although it was still afternoon the bad weather had reduced the light inside the tent to a gloom into which the arc lights threw pools of intense glare. Cook explained what they’d found.

‘The outer plastic looks like wrapping from building material, probably bricks. This one inside,’ he pointed without touching, ‘is an old fertiliser sack, sort you’d find on any farm around here. It’s tough, non-degradable. With luck it’s kept the contents in pretty good shape.’

‘Can I see them?’ Fenwick knew it was a stupid question even as he asked it but the temptation was too great.

‘Best if we transport it to the lab intact, don’t you think? But you can tell it’s a school blazer; look, there’s part of the crest.’

‘I see.’ Fenwick fought the urge to reach out and pull the bag open and clasped his hands together between his thighs.

‘We’ve done a KM test for blood on the bit of blazer that’s showing,’ Cook said almost as a reward for Fenwick’s restraint. He held up a purple-stained cotton bud inside a tube. ‘It’s only presumptive but it’s positive.’

‘That’s something. OK. Send it all over to the lab and tell them to give it priority.’

Behind his back the technicians exchanged pitying looks. The Sussex Forensic Service was down to a skeleton staff because of holidays and sickness.

‘Have you found anything else?’

‘Nothing, just this. We’ve about twelve inches of spoil left to go over but I’m not hopeful.’

‘There must be more. I want the whole east end covered and searched. Clive, stay until it’s finished.’ Friday night drinks were forgotten.

By suppertime on the following Wednesday Fenwick had finally been forced to accept that there were no human remains under the terrace. He went back to the club again to thank the CSTs for their efforts and to tell them to go home and found himself confronted by Harper-Brown on his way out to the driving range.

‘Just the person,’ he said and steered Fenwick into the secretary’s empty office.

He closed the door and started an immediate tirade about the costs of the fingertip search that Fenwick had authorised. It had consumed most of Major Crimes’ third-quarter budget for crime scene work, even though it was only August, leaving him incensed at what he described as ‘sheer profligacy’. Fenwick was saved from trying to defend himself by an embarrassed constable who’d been sent to find him.

‘Yes, what is it?’ Harper-Brown glowered at the poor unfortunate, whose face turned a deeper pink.

‘Sorry, sir. I’ve an urgent message for the chief inspector.’ He turned hopefully towards Fenwick. ‘They’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour but your mobile’s off.’

‘Naturally, I’m with the assistant chief constable and I don’t want to be disturbed. But as you’ve interrupted anyway you can at least tell me who “they” are.’

‘Forensics, sir. They say it’s urgent.’

‘Then you did the right thing, Robin. You can go now.’ He watched the beaky-nosed man depart.

‘Shall I call from here?’

‘You might as well.’

The ACC’s face had returned to the carefully controlled expression of disdain that was customary whenever they were together but Fenwick could sense his excitement. He was put through to the head of the lab without delay.

‘Andrew, at last. Tom Barnes here. I’m sorry it’s taken us so long but we’re very thin on the ground this month and with evidence as old as this we couldn’t risk rushing the work. I think we have something for you.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’ve been able to lift three separate prints from the plastic on the inside of the bag and a partial palm print from the boy’s shirt. The prints will be sent through to your fingerprint team first thing tomorrow marked as a top priority.’

‘That’s very good news…’

‘There’s more. We’ve also managed to separate out the clothes and will start work on them next. The blazer is in reasonable condition but the rest of the material is quite degraded so it’ll be slow work but we’ll do our best.’

‘Tom, thank you. The ACC’s here with me now and I know that he appreciates what you and your team are doing in challenging circumstances.’

‘No problem. I’ll keep you posted.’

Fenwick broke the connection and relaxed into a rare smile of satisfaction as he repeated the substance of the call to Harper-Brown.

‘So, if the clothes aren’t just so much rubbish we might have a lead to go on. Pity you don’t think they belong to the Eagleton boy. Keep me posted.’

Fenwick escaped from the stuffy, pipe-smelling office and stepped outside into the fresh air. After weeks of rain the weather had turned fine for a few hours and it was a beautiful summer evening. He listened to an owl greeting the dusk and watched as its ghostly white shape left the shelter of the trees and flew low over the water hazard by the second tee. Despite his disappointment at the lack of a body under the terrace, he felt curiously optimistic. His skin tingled and his thumbs itched as they did at the start of a big case. As he watched the owl’s crepuscular feeding he knew with absolute certainty that Tom Barnes was going to provide him with a breakthrough. But he didn’t know then of the magnitude of the discovery or of the scandal and outrage it would unleash in the community.