Innocent Blood (23 page)

Fenwick received Clive’s call as he watched his housekeeper put the finishing touches to Chris’s birthday cake. It was in the shape of a cowboy, complete with hat and sheriff’s star, decorated with nine candles. He walked into the study to have the conversation.

‘When did he arrive in London?’

‘An hour ago. He’s just gone into a house south of King’s Cross, off Farringdon Road. I’m outside now.’

‘Have you let the locals know?’

‘Not yet; thought you might want to do that.’

‘OK, leave it with me. What about back-up?’

‘Operations are sending Walsh and someone else.’

‘That’ll take at least an hour. You’re exposed meanwhile if he leaves by another exit or he spots you. I’ll see what the Met can do for us and check out whether the house has a history. You’d better give me the full address.’

Half an hour later he was back on the phone to Clive.

‘The house is clean as far as they know; I’ve asked them to dig out the ownership records anyway. You should be on the receiving end of some help any moment.’

‘They’ve just arrived, complete with unmarked car and camera. He’s still in there; all’s quiet.’

‘What else has been happening in the meantime?’

‘It’s still early – not yet eleven. There was one visitor half an hour ago, respectable-looking bloke; other than that,
nada
.’

‘Well, keep me posted. I’ll be at home all day; it’s Chris’s birthday party,’ he added and was surprised when Clive said, ‘Say Happy Birthday to him from his Uncle Clive, would you? And tell him I hope he has loads of presents.’

‘There are no worries there,’ Fenwick laughed. ‘He’s having a party this afternoon and no doubt he’ll be spoilt rotten.’

Four hours later Fenwick watched with a deep feeling of contentment as Chris and his friends went mad among the makeshift tepees and tents he’d created the night before so that they’d be a surprise. The invitations had specified cowboy and Indian fancy dress and he was astonished at the inventiveness of the mothers of these boys, and the few girls who were honorary boys as far as Chris was concerned and so invited. Fenwick had decided there should be no sign of Raymond ‘the best magician in Sussex (as seen on TV)’ Clark, Desmond the clown (and his charming assistant Zoë), nor hint of a bouncy castle.

Instead there were rubber tyre stockades, tree houses conveniently close to the ground, old blankets strung up on branches and a wooden picnic table groaning with Wild West food (bacon, sausages, cherry tomatoes, bread, crisps and Coke or lemonade).

The idea that a widowed father could organise a children’s party unaided broke unwritten rules of male dependency. Consequently, several mums had volunteered to help. He’d accepted offers from those he thought wouldn’t have a fit of the vapours at the idea of their little dears running around in make-believe battles to the death all afternoon. While he told himself that he could have coped unaided, he was silently amazed at the way they kept the smaller children out of harm’s way, cleared the debris and praised their offspring’s exploits all at once. The afternoon was turning into a great success.

Clive called him to say that Ball had left the house in London and then caught the train straight back to Harlden. He’d followed him and was on the same train. The Met agreed to keep an undercover team on the house and cover it for twenty-four hours, photographing visitors and trying to make sense of the activity. Fenwick had mixed feelings about the news. On the one hand he’d wanted a breakthrough but on the other he was relieved that he would be able to enjoy the duration of Chris’s party.

When it was time for their guests to leave, his son was unusually well behaved. Only after the other children had gone did he notice that Bess was missing. A panicked search found her reading in one of the abandoned stockades.

‘Come on, Bess, the garden’s yours again.’

His daughter refused to meet his eye.

‘What is it, love? Don’t be jealous of Chris on his birthday; that’s not like you.’

Two tissues and a hug later he managed to coax her back to the house but she refused his offer of ice cream. While Alice cleared the remaining paper plates he took her inside, not sure why she was miserable nor what he could do about it.

‘Please talk to me,’ he begged. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘You forgot to invite Nightingale,’ she said, barely audible. ‘She promised me ages ago she’d be here to keep me company and she would’ve kept her promise so it must be that you forgot to invite her.’

Guilt opened inside him, making his stomach twist and his face harden. Bess was right; he had forgotten to invite her. A few weeks previously it would have been automatic but not now. Because of the rumours they’d drifted apart and he simply hadn’t made the effort to see her recently.

‘Perhaps she was busy.’

‘Not so busy that she couldn’t bring Chris a present.’ His daughter glared at him.

‘Are you sure?’ This was news to Fenwick. Bess nodded.

‘She brought it while you were ogling Justin’s mum. Alice took it from her but I saw her. I said hello.’ Bess turned from him again. ‘She bought me an un-birthday present like she did for Chris on my birthday. It was cruel not to invite her in.’

‘I didn’t know she’d come, honestly.’ Whatever guilt he’d felt was nothing compared to the confusion that wormed through him at his daughter’s revelations. Bess shrugged and waved him away imperiously.

‘I’m going to bed early and I don’t want a story, thank you.’

He was dismissed. Fenwick retreated downstairs. Chris was building a kit dinosaur in front of the television.

‘Who bought you that?’

‘Nightingale. It’s wicked. She even brought the batteries. When it’s finished its eyes flash and it roars.’

Fenwick went to find Alice.

‘You could’ve told me that Louise Nightingale called.’ He was too annoyed to be diplomatic.

‘She only stopped by. She looked too busy to stay.’

‘Any message?’

‘No. Pass me that bowl, will you? I think I can just fit it on the top shelf.’

He did so, then waited in protracted silence for Alice to finish loading the dishwasher and to say more. Instead she set the controls, closed the door and went to talk to Chris, leaving Fenwick thoroughly defeated and depressed despite the success of the day.

It was nine o’clock when Alice found him collecting tyres from the garden.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Harper-Brown is on the telephone. He says it’s urgent.’

Fenwick ran indoors.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Fenwick? Good, switch on your television and watch
BBC News
.’

He did as he was told, choosing the small screen in the kitchen rather than risk a fight for the control with Chris. The news item was nearing its close, he could tell by the announcer’s tone of voice.

‘Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘…the question raised by the
Sunday Times
tomorrow is why the West Sussex Constabulary continue to hold decorated war hero Major Jeremy Maidment in connection with the killings of Paul Hill and Malcolm Eagleton when they have received explicit information, with corroborative evidence, which implicates another man. They have apparently not named him
because of the hearsay nature of the information but the
Sunday Times
has been told by their source that the police have been given substantive evidence, yet continue to fail to act upon it.
’

‘Damn!’

‘Precisely. My house, fifteen minutes.’

When he arrived the ACC met him on the doorstep and didn’t invite him in. Harper-Brown held out a videotape of the news coverage like a weapon.

‘What’s going on? You’ve been shadowing this thing; how has this media disaster happened?’

‘I think they must be referring to the letters Harlden received enclosing the school book with Paul Hill’s fingerprints on it.’

‘I recall. Was there a threat from the Well-Wisher to go public?’

‘Not so far as I’m aware. If you remember, the theory is that the letters were sent by one of Taylor’s victims or someone trying to get back at him.’

‘But the BBC report stated categorically that the
Sunday Times
alleges we are not taking this information seriously.’

‘It’s being treated very seriously, sir. Inspector Nightingale sent the book, letter and envelope to the lab for full analysis and is leading the investigation to trace the sender – this Well-Wisher – personally.’

‘And the major remains in custody?’

‘Yes. Two letters don’t counter-balance the weight of physical evidence. Do you think Harlden should release him?’

‘Anything from the interrogation?’ The ACC ignored his trap.

‘He knows more than he’s saying. I’m convinced that he’s hiding something. By the way, are Superintendent Quinlan and Inspector Nightingale joining us?’

‘Can’t seem to track him down.’ H-B ignored the reference to Nightingale. ‘How would you propose to respond to the
Sunday Times
’ allegations?’

‘Me?’ Fenwick was confused; the case had been prised away from him at H-B’s insistence and now he was being asked how to handle the mess it had turned into, through nobody’s fault.

‘I’d follow the guidelines set out, of course.’ There was a well-established procedure that had been introduced nationally following previous unfortunate experiences. ‘The
Sunday Times
are taking a big risk running the piece but their lawyers must have cleared it, which means they have more to go on than we do. I’d make an immediate request for the material that led to their report and its source but they might reject it. If they do, I’d seek a warrant for the information, which will eventually be handed over. But even if the
Sunday Times
knows the identity of the source they’ll claim journalistic privilege and won’t tell us who it is.’

The ACC had stepped outside and was pacing up and down his gravel drive.

‘Precisely. Very well, in Quinlan’s absence you’re to do exactly what you propose. I want you to step in to manage this debacle.’

‘What about Inspector Nightingale? She’s the SIO after all.’

‘That’s as maybe but I doubted her ability to handle a case of this magnitude from the beginning and this cock-up simply proves me right. The matter has become far too hot for her to handle, particularly with her lack of experience. And as Quinlan is inexplicably incommunicado, with Rodney Blite halfway through a personal development course that cannot be interrupted, I have no option but to intercede here.’ The ACC spoke with determination, obviously relishing the opportunity to tell Quinlan that Nightingale had somehow screwed up.

Fenwick opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, knowing there was no point.

‘Just make sure you keep me informed at all times, Andrew. Obviously we will need to make a press statement; I’ll give it but you must have it drafted for me tonight.’

‘Of course.’

‘And, Fenwick.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Nothing dramatic and no surprises. I expect to be involved before any strategic decisions are made. It’s already embarrassing enough. Got that?’

‘Of course.’

Fenwick concealed a smile in the turn of his head. One man’s strategic decision was another man’s tactical solution and he had an awful lot of those.

Her summary dismissal from Chris’s birthday party propelled Nightingale back to the station despite the fact that it was a Saturday. When she was truly furious she did some of her best work. In fact, work was the only remedy for her most extreme moods. She drove into the town centre with scant regard for gear shift or brake.

For weeks she’d been telling herself that Fenwick’s disregard was due to his preoccupation with the Choir Boy investigation and its implications for his promotion prospects. Being barred from his son’s party, when barely a month before she would have been an automatic guest, had forced her to confront reality. Their friendship was over. His recent behaviour towards her should have been clue enough but she’d been deliberately blind. With acceptance of the truth came a deep hurt at his callousness.

At the age of sixteen she’d made a pledge to herself that she would preserve her emotional independence so that she could never be wounded again by the sort of abandonment she’d suffered from her parents. She called herself a fool for relaxing her guard and blinked hard to clear her sight.

The station was quiet, the CID room unusually deserted. She walked into the Hill incident room to find the research officer Shelly hurriedly extracting herself from the close attentions of DC Robin. Robin was married and Nightingale did not approve. She let her feelings show, unaware that her own emotional turmoil magnified her censure.

‘I want the original Hill files in date order set out on that table, ASAP.’

‘Would that be all of them, ma’am?’ Shelly was stunned into a title that Nightingale rarely asked for or received.

‘Yes. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’ She glared at them both and when she heard Robin’s muttered oath told him to shut it. His look of shocked contrition had no effect on her whatsoever.

In the canteen she forced down a cup of tea and a slice of cake then bought a large bottle of water to take back to the incident room. When she returned, the centre table was covered with boxes and files, some of them still dusty, which raised a question as to the thoroughness of the work she’d delegated to others in the past twenty-four hours. It made her even more determined to see through the plan that had formed as she drove away from Fenwick’s house. She was dressed for a boy’s birthday party in an oversized rugby shirt, jeans and trainers, perfect for the hours of hard labour she’d assigned herself as penance for being dumb enough to get hurt yet again.

While Shelly entered information into a computer with more than her customary diligence, Nightingale opened the first box and retrieved a pile of files so large she could only just lift them. She put them to her left, a fresh A4 pad and pen to her right, and rolled up her sleeves, aware that this was hardly the work an SIO should be doing. She didn’t care; she was good at rigorous research, finding patterns in data that could overwhelm others; and anyway, she reflected, she hadn’t exactly had the best role model for delegation in Fenwick. Thought of her old boss merely fuelled her anger and she focused her eyes resolutely on the piles of paper in front of her.

As she opened the first report she was plunged back into the world of Harlden in 1982. Her speed-reading had always been impressive and she quickly developed a routine of identifying relevant extracts to copy from reports and taped interviews. Shelly, eager to re-enter the good books of a female officer she admired, volunteered to help with any photocopying and transcription, which made the work easier.

At the end of an hour Nightingale stopped and studied her notes. She was already saddened by the depressing tale that was emerging from the dusty files. Mistaking the source of her expression, a nervous Shelly continued to work well past her normal departure time.

Nightingale took a long drink of water and started to read from the extracts she had made:

7th September, 1982

8:15 p.m. Duty Officer: Sergeant JJ Atkins:
Call received from Mrs Sarah Hill, 26 Penton Cross, Woodhampstead, Harlden, telephone # Harlden 632390. Reports that her son, Paul Christopher Hill, has not returned home from school and is not at any of his friends’ homes. Atkins advises caller to wait until 10 p.m. and to call again if son still missing.

9:58 p.m. Report by Constable NC Davis:
Sarah Hill arrives at station to report her son missing. Father, Gordon Hill, remains at home. Mrs Hill very distressed, taken to interview room by WPC Alison Major.

10:15 p.m. WPC Alison Major and DS Stephen Ingles interview Mrs Hill.

10:25 p.m. Search authorised by Inspector Quinlan.
Team of officers despatched to Penton Cross and Downside Comprehensive School. 11 p.m. Search team increased to twenty and Chief Constable Windlass advised of possible missing child.

Thorough search initiated of Paul’s home and surrounding vicinity. Separate search underway of school and grounds. The headmistress, Mrs Emily Spinning, and caretaker, Mr Alex Jones, on site until 0100 hours when the search is extended to playing fields and other school grounds. Neither Mrs Spinning nor Mr Jones saw Paul Hill leave the school grounds.

Interviews conducted between 10:30 p.m. and 11:45 p.m. on 7th September with friends of Paul identified by Mrs Hill. Interviews reveal nothing. None of the friends recalls seeing Paul leave school.

Case number: 0816-23 7:30 a.m. 8th September, 1982:
Volunteers join search team of forty-five officers covering two areas: Wasteland stretching from the allotments behind the Penton Cross estate as far as the bypass, the A623. Second search continues in and around the school and into Harlden Park at 8 a.m. Additional officers deployed to question pupils and staff and conduct door-to-door inquiries in Paul’s neighbourhood.

9 a.m. News conference attended by Chief Constable Windlass, the boy’s parents, Sarah and Gordon Hill, and Quinlan. News of the boy’s disappearance was first released to the press at
10:30 p.m. on 7th September and mentioned on local radio as a news bulletin shortly afterwards.

The matter-of-fact style of the first reports was ironic with hindsight. How easy to say to the overanxious mother of a fourteen-year-old ‘give it another hour or two’. Eight-thirty in the evening was hardly late for a teenager. She could understand why Sergeant Atkins had been relaxed and no one could have blamed him, but in reality the investigation had lost precious hours of daylight at a crucial time.

She was certain that the initial police response had been all it should have been. Under Quinlan’s command the energy and determination of the searching officers would have been relentless. Paul had only been missing a few hours and their hopes of finding him alive would have been high. She pitied them and read on quickly, finishing the first box and moving on to the next. Shelly asked apologetically whether it would be OK to leave as she had a date. Nightingale waved her away with a brief word of thanks. Beside her, a fresh sheet of paper steadily filled with more notes as she extracted what she judged to be the most relevant and reliable witness statements from the hundreds bundled into files around her.

Case number: 0816-23 8th September, 1982 WS 52
Extraction from witness statement taken by Constable Justin Daley from Miss Julie Ackers, 20, of flat 26 Midland Court, Harlden.

‘On Tuesday, 7th September, I was working in Stan’s Corner Shop, West Street, Harlden from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Around 4:10 p.m. Paul Hill came in and bought some sweets – a packet of Polos and some crisps.

‘I am certain that it was Paul because he is friends with my brother Victor and he has been round to our house. He was riding his new bike, the red one with flashy handles. I know because he leant it against the shop window. He’s not meant to do that, it makes Stan upset. I spoke to him briefly but he did not say where he was going. I did not see in which direction he went when he left the shop as I was serving someone else, whose name I do not know.

‘Paul came into the shop on his own and I did not see anyone else outside. He was wearing his blazer, full school uniform with long trousers and carrying a bag on his back.’

Case number: 0816-23 8th September, 1982 WS 166
Taken by WPC Alison Major from Mrs Angela Rush, housewife, 63 Whitemoss Drive, Harlden, W. Sussex.

Mrs Rush telephoned the station at 6:35 p.m. after hearing of Paul Hill’s disappearance on the evening news. In her statement she said: ‘I saw a boy that I am sure was Paul Hill in the lay-by at the end of Whitemoss Drive at about half past four yesterday. I am certain it was Paul because I had occasion to tell him off only last week. He and his friend Victor Ackers, plus some other boys I did not recognise, were fighting in the lay-by and one of them knocked the rubbish bin over…

‘I did not see anyone other than Paul. I know the time I saw Paul. It was just after 4:30. I checked my watch to make certain of it in case there was any more trouble and my watch is accurate to the radio. I went to do the potatoes for supper and when I looked again at about a quarter to five he was gone.’

10th September, 1982 Ref 0816-23: WS 251
Taken by Constable Dorian Smith from Mr Daniel Anchor, farmer of Upper Downs Farm, Lower Beeding at 6 p.m.: ‘I was driving my tractor through Wyndham Wood some time after five on 7th September. I had just taken some fresh hay into East Paddock two miles away and I needed to get back for a second load and take it to Three Mile Field before six because I was due at a darts championship at seven-thirty. I am certain that the time was well after five because I was running late for the darts match.

‘The road through Wyndham Wood is narrow, single track in places, and Taylor’s red car came round a bend fast. I had to brake hard but he barely slowed down. There’s a drop at the side of the road, so I was looking over to make sure I didn’t go down it.

‘I did not see Taylor’s face but it was definitely his car. I recognised the make and the number plate. I know the car because he’s done work for me and at the Red Lion public
house, my local. He drives to work in his car so I know it. I can’t say whether anyone was with him in it because I was too busy staying on the road.’

The mention of Bryan Taylor confused her. There was no explanation as to why Wyndham Wood was relevant to police inquiries and yet by day three a sighting of Taylor driving through it had warranted a full witness statement. According to her own research, Taylor hadn’t been considered a suspect for almost a week – three days after this report. Nightingale checked her watch – ten past seven. It was too late to call Superintendent Quinlan at home but there was a chance he might have popped into the station to catch up on the day’s activity; a regular habit.

She was in luck. Quinlan was just leaving as she reached his door.

‘Excuse me, sir; can I walk with you to your car?’

‘Something the matter, Louise?’

‘Just some questions about the Paul Hill case.’

‘I’ve already spoken at length to one of your team, you know.’

‘I realise that but you were SIO—’

‘Briefly. I was an inspector then and the powers that be soon bumped me off when we didn’t get a result.’

He seemed quite matter-of-fact about the implied slur on his leadership. Nightingale was surprised. If it had been her she would have fought to stay as SIO and then resented the demotion intensely. Something of her feelings must have shown on her face as Quinlan laughed.

‘I didn’t take it to heart. There was no point fighting the politics. And as it turned out, I was glad that it passed to Superintendent Bacon. The way Paul’s name and reputation was dragged in the dirt left a very bad taste, I can tell you.’

‘You mean because of his alleged association with Bryan Taylor?’

Quinlan’s face lost its smile and he paused before heading down the stairs to his car.

‘Oh, it was more than alleged, I’m afraid. There was considerable evidence that Bryan was a pimp and Paul one of his boys. It’s all in the files.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately the photographic evidence that supports the witness statements is still missing. What I’m confused about is why Bryan became a suspect so early on. I can’t find his name being mentioned yet we’re taking statements about him from people on day three of the inquiry.’

‘Really?’ He screwed up his face in an effort of memory. ‘Well, he became a suspect when I was still SIO, I’m certain; and that only lasted five days. Then later on it looked like Bryan and Paul might have run off together. There were sightings of them all over, though we never found Taylor’s car, which was strange.’

‘But how did Taylor’s name first come up?’

They were still standing on the stairs and Nightingale noticed Quinlan glance at his watch.

‘Please, sir, it’s important.’

‘I realise that but I was due to meet my wife at the Arts Centre five minutes ago; she has tickets for some concert or other.’

He sounded as if he’d like an excuse to miss the whole evening but didn’t dare. Nightingale wondered briefly what Mrs Quinlan was like and smiled at him encouragingly; she didn’t want to lose her chance. He gave in and continued.

‘I seem to recall that one of Paul’s friends mentioned Taylor quite early in the investigation and we checked with the school. Taylor had done some maintenance work for them so it was possible he could have met Paul there.’ A grimace crossed his face.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve just remembered. It’s funny how one can blot out unpleasantness so easily. I had to interview his parents about it. At first they were eager to confirm that Paul did work for Taylor occasionally but then, when I started to describe the stories that were circulating…well, it became most unpleasant. They ordered me out of their house.’

‘So Bryan Taylor became your prime suspect?’

‘Yes. We obtained a warrant for his house and found the…material that confirmed he was a very active paedophile.’

‘But people later thought they’d gone off together?’