Innocent Blood (14 page)

‘What have you picked up there?’ He pointed to the left arm of the shirt that had been turned inside out from the cuff to the elbow. It was almost free of blood except for a series of droplets that ran in parallel lines laterally across the sleeve.

‘It’s a different pattern of blood entirely, perhaps from a separate wound. The staining is heavier on the inside of the fabric, suggesting that this is blood that bled out but it’s only light so the wounds wouldn’t have been fatal.’

‘Defensive cuts?’

‘Possibly, yes. If the wearer threw an arm, across their face or body say, then the inner skin would be exposed. But again I can’t be definite and that doesn’t explain why the sleeve is intact, suggesting that however the wounds occurred, the shirt wasn’t being worn at the time. Also, there’s some microscopic spotting here on the collar, again a different pattern. It’s possible that this was left by someone handling the materials afterwards, as the pattern suggests it fell directly onto the shirt from a distance away.’

‘What about the trousers, shoes and socks?’

‘Generalised stains, no discernible pattern. There’s no heavy staining on the socks.’

‘Suggesting?’

‘Well, an injured person bleeding as heavily as this would be losing a lot of blood and eventually that would run down their legs and into the shoes, soaking into the socks from the ankles down and spreading from there to the heels and soles of the feet.’

‘Whereas the socks here are clean except for some smudges.’

‘Which look like the sort of marks made by bloody fingers as they were removed.’

‘So, there’s nothing very distinctive?’

He tried to keep the frustration from his voice. It wasn’t their fault the evidence was so inconclusive.

‘Not yet but it’s early days. I’ve a lot more work to do and I’m as curious as you are about the story these clothes are trying to tell us. All I can say so far is that someone in close proximity to these clothes bled a lot and the blood source was in front of them. In addition, we have distinctive spots suggesting a different wound on the left sleeve and drops of blood on the outside and inner lip of the sacks into which the clothes had been placed. There are no stab or cut marks to the clothes so they weren’t being worn when the injuries occurred.’

‘So the boy could have been naked, bleeding and these clothes bundled on top of him.’

‘That’s certainly a possibility, yes and he might well have been wearing his shoes and socks but not standing upright.’

‘Thank you. Can you keep me posted?’

‘Of course.’ Tom walked with him to the changing room where he retrieved his jacket. ‘By the way, what do you think about this idea of a submission unit?’

Fenwick stopped abruptly and Tom almost cannoned into him.

‘What submission unit?’

‘Thought so.’ Tom was enjoying winding Fenwick up. ‘It’s the ACC’s latest brainwave. Apparently it will save money and help keep you lot within your forensic budget.’

‘How?’

‘There’ll be a team that screens items you want to submit to the lab. The idea is that they’ll stop stupid, wasteful requests reaching us, save money and reduce the backlog.’

‘And how will this group know a wasteful request when they see it? If an SIO’s made a judgement how will a bunch of bureaucrats know enough to overturn it?’

‘Good question. Not that I’m against the idea in principle, mind, as we do get some extraordinary demands but usually we can sort those out ourselves. My worry is that we’ll end up working with average people with too much power, making decisions beyond their skills and clogging up the system.’

‘You’ve just described my definition of management. I just hope I never end up there; it’ll be a sign that I’ve passed my sell-by date.’

Tom laughed and slapped him on the back in farewell.

Fenwick didn’t go straight back to Harlden. Sight of the blood-soaked clothes had made the murder of Paul Hill very real and he couldn’t get the idea of Paul at Chris’s age out of his mind. He would have been innocent and trusting, unaware of his beauty and interested in the things small boys were always interested in: war games; tormenting girls in class with insects; and running from their threatened kisses in retaliation. Then that scum Taylor found him. How long it had taken the bastard to groom Paul was anybody’s guess but he had eventually managed to corrupt him into accepting the worst sexual abuse a child could endure. Fenwick was almost glad the photographic evidence had been lost and the thought of what it contained made him feel sick.

My God, how had his parents borne the news? What if someone did that to Chris? Fenwick’s stomach heaved and he had to pull into a lay-by. He needed air and stepped out of the car. Open fields surrounded him; he could hear sheep in the distance. There was a flutter of small birds in the hedge beside him then stillness. The ground beyond the tarmac was still soggy from the heavy rains so he was forced to walk along the narrow road as he thought.

He felt desperately sorry for Sarah and Gordon Hill and for Malcolm Eagleton’s parents. Even after all this time their sorrow would run deep. Maybe they no longer thought about their sons every day but how often did they think ‘my boy would have been this old…a father perhaps…successful and happy. And my grandchildren would look just like him.’ Both sets of parents had split up after their sons disappeared, driven apart by grief and the never-ending uncertainty. They deserved better. Anger mixed with fear for Chris shot through him like a physical pain.

He drove back to Harlden in a chastened mood, slightly ashamed of his earlier irritation with the day.

Clive was waiting for him in his office with two cups of tea and matching slices of fruit cake. He was too used to Fenwick’s brief spells of ill temper to have taken his earlier comments personally.

‘Thought you might be peckish. Court always leaves me ravenous.’

Fenwick looked at his athletic build, without a trace of fat and concluded he must have a good metabolism.

‘Thanks. Sorry about earlier. Sloppiness really gets to me and I took it out on you.’

‘No worries. What did the lab have to say?’

Fenwick told him the bare facts and admitted that he’d left more confused than when he’d arrived.

‘There’s too much blood for it to be from a minor injury but the patterns are inconclusive.’ Fenwick took a contemplative sip of tea. ‘Have you heard of the SIO on the original case, Superintendent Charles Bacon? He ended up at Brighton; maybe he was still there when you joined.’ Clive’s father had been a local superintendent and hero and Fenwick was constantly amazed at what he knew.

‘Smokey? My dad knew him; bit of a legend at one time. A sixty-a-day man with a foul temper. Took early retirement on health grounds and died soon after. Heart attack I think. Supposedly a good copper though.’ Clive picked up the last crumbs of cake delicately with his index finger and popped them in his mouth.

‘Have you read the file?’

‘Yeah, had a flick through it.’

‘What do you think?’

Clive sipped his tea while he considered his answer.

‘I think Taylor killed Paul and panicked. He didn’t plan the killing and scarpered afterwards. He used his cash either to leave the country or buy a new car and set up somewhere else. He was the sort who could blend in easily. All he’d need to do is shave off his beard, grow his hair, lose a bit of weight and he’d look completely different. What about you?’

‘That’s the most logical explanation I’ve heard so far but I still don’t understand why the clothes were disposed of separately from the body.’

‘People do daft stuff like that all the time when they’ve killed someone – that’s why we catch them.’

Fenwick nodded but as Clive left he had an uneasy feeling he was missing something very obvious and could end up looking a fool.

Despite Maidment’s release on bail, Nightingale’s request to be assigned SIO for the Eagleton investigation was turned down by Quinlan. The case had gone to Blite with an inevitability that made her despair of ever crawling out of his shadow. It was small consolation that it had been passed back to Fenwick for the excavation while Blite had been on holiday because she knew he’d be lobbying for it now that he had returned.

Instead of having a murder to concentrate on, her desk was littered with obscure requests for information from CPS to support their prosecution of Maidment. It was obvious that somebody somewhere was taking a very close interest in the case and that that somebody was high up.

As Fenwick drove to the lab she was on yet another call with her CPS counterpart. The man’s questions were driving her mad while at the same time feeding her well-hidden sense of inadequacy. When she stumbled in an answer to a particularly stupid remark he reminded her that the home secretary had vehement anti-vigilantism views, particularly when the perpetrator was a member of the middle class who might consider themselves above the law.

If only Fenwick had still been based in Harlden; it was at times like this that she really missed him. Ever since he’d made it clear to her that they could never have a relationship she had forced herself to banish the fantasies that she’d previously harboured. To fill the aching vacuum they’d left she had started dating again, finding it unfulfilling and insubstantial compared to the dream-life she’d woven about Fenwick, which she knew now was unobtainable. Then she’d met Clive at Bramshill where they had both been training and they had connected instantly. Starting an affair with him was easy and seeing him dulled the misery she continued to feel. It was even bearable to be friends with Fenwick now and she prided herself on the distance she was able to maintain whenever she saw him and his children.

But if her personal life had rebalanced itself somehow since his departure, in her working life at Harlden she still felt the void. Fenwick had been a true ally and it was only since he’d moved to MCS that she realised just how much she had grown to rely on his presence. It wasn’t as if he’d sheltered her, she told herself, it was just that he believed in fair play and had zero tolerance for discrimination. Without him, Harlden was becoming inhospitable to anyone who wasn’t one of Blite’s cronies. Quinlan was a decent bloke but he was remote from the day to day and unaware of the bigotry that was flourishing in the detective room with Blite as a role model.

None of it helped Nightingale’s shaky confidence. She’d taken to keeping a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in her desk and was gulping a surreptitious mouthful as her phone rang. It was Superintendent Quinlan.

‘Louise? Good; I’m glad I found you straight away. I need you to execute an arrest warrant, urgently. It is already prepared, the application signed by the ACC himself.’

The agitation in his voice put her on immediate alert.

‘Shall I come up to your office, sir, for a briefing?’

‘That won’t be necessary. My secretary is bringing the paperwork to you now. You must act quickly. I’m putting a lot of faith in you and, ah, well…’

‘Sir?’ She had no idea what could make him sound so nervous. ‘If it’s such a sensitive case should I come and see you?’

‘No. Best keep a low profile on this one. And if anybody asks you later how you came to make this arrest instead of, say, er, more senior colleagues, I would be grateful if you could simply say it arrived on your desk for urgent attention when there were no other inspectors around. Got that?’

He rang off before Nightingale could answer but her time for speculation didn’t last long as the file arrived seconds later. And when she saw what it contained she understood at once why Quinlan was uncomfortable. The warrant had come directly from HQ and it was clear from the file note that the ACC had expected the juicy bone of an arrest it contained to be thrown to his favourite lapdog, Blite, rather than to a girl some still considered a first-class bitch. With a silent prayer of thanks to Quinlan, Nightingale picked up her keys and literally ran to the operations room for an arrest team.

The drinks at the golf club were an impromptu affair. A hole-in-one meant that the lucky player had to stand a round, no matter if it was the result of a fluke. It had been Jeremy Maidment’s stroke that produced the eagle at the sixteenth, which meant he’d had to buy a drink for all and sundry. It was a short par hole but his achievement was hailed as brilliant despite the curious stroke that delivered it.

The atmosphere in the oak-panelled room was cheerful and loud. The jokes grew saucier as they marinated in whisky and wine. The only person not enjoying themselves was Maidment. He acknowledged congratulations and accepted pats on the back with a half smile that left his eyes unchanged. Whenever Edwards delivered another joke from his well-worn repertoire he would force a laugh but an objective student of human nature might have wondered what had the major so worried.

At six o’clock he decided that it was time to leave while he could still drive. He was engaged in protracted goodbyes when he became aware of a hush settling across the crowd that made him stiffen his spine instinctively before he turned around.

‘Major Jeremy Maidment?’

It was a quiet yet commanding voice. He looked towards it and saw the female detective, Nightingale, standing in the doorway to the bar. Behind her the hall was blue with uniforms.

‘Can’t you lot bloody well leave him alone?’ Edwards’ indignant protest sparked a murmur of support, across which the major said simply, ‘Yes, I’m here.’

The inspector took two steps through the crowd, uniforms filing in behind her in an invading wedge.

‘Jeremy Maidment,’ she spoke without drama, in a steady voice that still carried to revellers outside on the remains of the terrace, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the abduction and murder of Paul Hill on or around 7
^th
September, 1982. You do not have to say anything but…’

The caution rolled on, falling into absolute silence as her words filled the room. One of the officers pulled Maidment’s arms sharply behind his back and he felt the bite of cold metal on his wrists.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he said mildly but the constable clicked them shut anyway.

Edwards stared at him, appalled. The major was pushed towards the door through a frowning crowd, none of whom muttered a squeak of support. Already some wouldn’t meet his eye and looked elsewhere as he passed.

As the police were manoeuvring him none too gently into the back of a marked car, there was a shout from the club.

‘Jeremy, your hat!’ Edwards darted forward and bent down so that his lips were close to the major’s ear. ‘Stiff upper lip, old chap. Remember the regiment. We’re still your comrades-in-arms. We’ve sworn oaths of friendship and absolute loyalty, don’t forget those; we’ll not forget you.’ His words were low but emphatic and carried the unmistakable aura of a command.

The door slammed shut. At the station he was cautioned again and his wallet, watch, braces, tie and shoelaces removed before he was put in a cell in the custody suite. He was allowed to keep his jacket and handkerchief but the inability to measure passing time was disconcerting. He wondered why they weren’t questioning him straight away before disciplining himself against pointless conjecture.

There was dust in the corners of the room and an unpleasant smell that he chose not to identify. The cell wasn’t soundproofed and the commotion outside provided a welcome distraction as he didn’t wish to think. There was no point in rehearsing what he should say as he planned to remain silent beyond a statement that he was innocent of the crimes of which he stood accused. He didn’t even bother to ask for the one phone call to which he imagined he was entitled.

After an incalculable period he was escorted to an interview room containing a table, four chairs and a double tape recorder, but no clock or window. The constable stayed with him as he sat down.

Maidment told himself that he was used to waiting. Army service was made up of long spells of tedious inactivity interspersed with urgent aggressive moments that could bring with them injury or death. Nothing in his present condition could frighten him, not even the threat of trial for murder and subsequent imprisonment. He began to recite poetry in his mind. His prodigious memory had enabled him to consume and remember endless texts since boyhood. As he worked through Shakespeare’s sonnets he estimated the time that was passing.

After roughly ten minutes the door opened and Inspector Nightingale walked in, accompanied by a nondescript, middle-aged officer in a polyester suit and poorly ironed shirt. The detectives sat down, unwrapped and inserted new cassettes into the machine before switching it on.

‘Interview between Detective Inspector Nightingale and Jeremy Maidment, also present Detective Sergeant Watts, commences at,’ she glanced at her watch and the major held his breath, ‘nineteen hundred hours.’

Less than an hour in captivity; he would have staked a wager on closer to two.

‘Am I entitled to a solicitor present?’ Maidment asked because he liked things done properly, not because he particularly wanted one.

Nightingale nodded, looking pleased with the question.

‘In my experience it is usually the guilty ones that ask for their solicitor at once.’

‘In this country a man is innocent until proven guilty, Miss Nightingale.’

‘Technically yes, but with the evidence we have against you I think you will find that is splitting hairs.’

Maidment’s face remained calm but his insides writhed.

‘Just the same, I should wish my solicitor to be present before we proceed.’

She nodded, quite composed, and switched off the tape recorder.

‘Let him make his phone call,’ she instructed, ‘and find me as soon as his solicitor arrives.’

The door closed firmly on her retreating back.

Fenwick declined the seat that Quinlan offered and stood in front of the desk, his face set in an unreadable expression. He had driven to Harlden in record time since hearing the rumour he found impossible to believe.

‘There was nothing I could do, Andrew. You were incommunicado and the ACC rang me.’

‘It was my strategy that led to the recovery of evidence that has linked Maidment to Paul Hill. To give the power of arrest to another officer is despicable. There was no message on my mobile, no attempt to interrupt me.’

‘I left a message with your office for you to call as soon as you were free, Andrew. Apparently this isn’t to be an MCS case after all.’

‘I’m going to fight to have it back.’

‘Don’t be foolish. You’ll achieve nothing and alienate the ACC.’

‘You knew I was working this. Couldn’t you have declined to take the case? I’ve been completely undermined.’

Quinlan said nothing but his expression made it clear that it was a preposterous suggestion.

‘Is the arrest happening now?’

‘As we speak. We’ll detain and charge Maidment here.’

‘Nightingale’s in charge, I understand. I’m amazed the ACC didn’t insist on Blite.’ Fenwick’s sarcasm made the superintendent’s lips twitch into a moue of irritation but his tone remained calm as he replied.

‘I make the staff decisions in my station, thank you, Chief Inspector.’

It was a dismissal and Fenwick stalked out. It was only when he was making his way downstairs that he realised he had discharged his anger at the wrong man. Quinlan was a staunch supporter of his, always had been. In retrospect, his quiet insistence spoke volumes. Handling the arrest here at Harlden had obviously been the ACC’s decision and could not be argued with.

Fenwick opened the door to the custody suite and it swung back with a crash against the wall. It was empty apart from the custody sergeant who gave him a reproving look. He was a prickly individual and Fenwick wasn’t one of his favourites. So it was perhaps understandable that he didn’t volunteer to the chief inspector that Maidment had already been booked, charged and moved to an interrogation room. He watched with something approaching amusement as Fenwick stormed off.

At seven-thirty Maidment re-entered the interview room accompanied by Mitchell Stenning, a semi-retired family solicitor and old friend. He was seated beside Maidment in shock from the gravity of the charge facing his client. Stenning blinked a lot and let out great sighs of tension every few minutes. Nightingale was with the detective whose name he had forgotten – an extraordinary event that told him, even if his insides had been calmer, that he was more troubled than his demeanour would allow.

Nightingale repeated the formalities and looked at the major expectantly.

‘Well, Major, have you thought any more about what you want to say?’

‘I am not guilty. Beyond that I have no comment.’

‘You’ve just been accused of a child’s murder and you have nothing to say? Your lack of cooperation will tell against you at trial; you do realise that, don’t you?’

Maidment remained silent. He noted a slight twitch in Nightingale’s jaw and wondered whether she was irritated despite her apparent calm.

‘Did you know Paul Hill?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure that you never met him?’

‘Positive.’

‘He didn’t come to the golf club?’

‘I don’t believe his father was ever a member so why would he?’

‘Then how do you explain—’

Her question was interrupted as a uniformed officer entered the room and whispered in her ear. Nightingale nodded once and ended the interview with an instruction for them to await her return.

Maidment watched her disappear into the corridor with well-concealed concern. She was confident that she had incriminating evidence and during his long wait he’d worked out what it might be. Modern forensic science was marvellous, or so the
Daily Telegraph
informed him at regular intervals, so he could imagine the case they might construct. He became aware that he was squeezing and releasing the fingers of his right hand compulsively and forced himself to stop.