Innocent Blood (25 page)

‘Nightingale…Louise. Look, I’m sorry about today. I had no idea that you’d turned up at Chris’s party.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She bit her tongue, cross with herself for speaking when she’d been determined to keep quiet.

‘Honestly. I was so busy in the garden with the boys that it wasn’t until afterwards I realised you hadn’t been there.’

His words cut deep. He must have realised the implication of what he’d just said because he stumbled around an apology.

‘It’s not that we didn’t miss you, or anything like that, it’s just that…well, like I said, I was so busy…and look, are you free for lunch tomorrow, or perhaps a quick drink might be better? I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Andrew,’ she said, her voice flat and hard, the words painful, ‘forget it.’

Nightingale picked up the files she’d been working on and threw them into a box, then slammed its lid on, missing the first time. She tossed her empty water bottle at the waste bin and missed again.

‘And why, when he couldn’t find Quinlan this evening, did the ACC call you and not me?’

It was a good question and he owed it to her not to prevaricate.

‘Because the brown stuff has hit the fan big time and he wants more than you working on it. We’re dealing with a major problem, Nightingale.’

The seriousness of his expression drove the sense of hurt she was struggling to cope with out of her mind.

‘On one of my cases?’ she asked, her stomach twisting with tension.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

He went on quickly, telling her about the news coverage and what the papers would be saying the following day. It was enough to knock any lingering anger from her system and her natural professionalism took over.

‘I can see why he didn’t turn to me,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘though I could have coped, you know.’

‘I know but it wasn’t my call.’

‘Understood; now, what can I do to help?’

He looked relieved that she was an ally again.

‘We’ve a long night ahead of us,’ he said, taking off his sports jacket. ‘I need to work on the ACC’s press statement so if you can track down the press officer from HQ and get them on the line that would be a big help. Then we must pull together everything we know about the Well-Wisher. Have you made any progress towards tracing him?’

‘None. The lab has nothing on the materials he sent us and the sorting office the letters went through services such a large area it gives no clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘OK, then we have to work with what we’ve got – which isn’t much.’ He pulled out a chair at the end of the table and opened a fresh pad of paper. ‘You may not believe this but I’m pleased that we’re working together again, despite the circumstances.’

She bit her lip to stop herself from adding
‘Me too
,’ and went in search of the press officer.

Superintendent Quinlan received a message to call the ACC during the interval and left the concert at once, much to his wife’s annoyance, it being their wedding anniversary and one of the few evenings to which he had committed. He found Fenwick and Nightingale working together in the incident room, the press officer from HQ in the process of approving the draft statement and everything under control. If he was upset to find that the ACC had intervened and imposed Fenwick above his chosen SIO he didn’t let it show, leaving both individuals to speculate privately as to what would happen the following day.

Fenwick found out when the ACC called him after returning from church on Sunday morning.

‘You’re to remain SIO; Quinlan has agreed.’

‘And Louise Nightingale’s role?’

‘You heard my opinion of her last night. Of course I’m glad she was promoted, although personally I was surprised that she made it so fast, but it was good for us…’

Helps your diversity statistics you mean,
Fenwick thought but said instead. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have the Hill case back but Quinlan has combined it with the investigation into Malcolm Eagleton’s death, which makes it a double murder. And with Choir Boy likely to come to a head this week…’

‘Choir Boy? You really think so?’

Fenwick brought him up to date quickly on the discoveries they had made, conscious that perhaps he should have done so sooner. Fortunately the ACC was too preoccupied with the publicity over the Hill case to be concerned.

‘I’ve been considering what to do next on Choir Boy all weekend, sir, and I think it’s time to take action. What I really want is the man at the top with the intelligence and money to have organised it all. For that I need to break one of the men we have under surveillance. There’s a case conference tomorrow morning at eight-thirty and I’m going to tell the team to pick up Joseph Watkins and secure a warrant for his house and lock-up. I think Watkins is the weak link. He’s married with grandchildren and goes to the Methodist church so he’s got a reputation and family life at stake.

‘Ball’s a loner with a history of ABH and while that might mean that he’s a bully at heart and they can be relatively easy to break, he could just as easily turn out to be a hard nut. I don’t want to risk alerting him before I have to while surveillance remains interesting.’

‘Interesting how?’

Fenwick told him about Ball’s visit to London and the house that remained under watch by the Met. For once, Harper-Brown seemed satisfied.

‘The thing with the Hill case,’ Fenwick continued, ‘is that there are now two separate lines of inquiry to follow up. We need to find the Well-Wisher but we also need to conclude the case against Maidment. The two investigations may lead in different directions and while I’d normally be happy to direct both, with Choir Boy so active I think I’ll need back-up if I’m to become SIO.’

He could almost hear the cogs in the ACC’s brain turning.

‘Very well, Nightingale can be your number two on the Eagleton/Hill investigation, though I’d like you to handle the Well-Wisher and support me personally with the media side of things.’

‘That should work well,’ he said, thinking that it still gave Nightingale a significant operational role as long as he left her room to prove herself.

Sunday was a hectic day for Fenwick, re-immersing himself in the evidence for the Hill case while at the same time preparing for the Choir Boy team meeting the following day. When he had a large workload he instinctively changed to a different mental gear and became almost frighteningly efficient to those around him. He would consume detail rapidly and forget none of it, develop and discard ideas so quickly that others lost track of where he was going; and then he would decide on the eventual strategy suddenly, with absolute conviction. Fortunately for the Eagleton/Hill team at Harlden, he did most of this on the Sunday with only Nightingale for company, who was used to his methods. He called the rest of the team in late in the afternoon so that they would have a head start on the week.

Nightingale was pleased with the way he divided the responsibilities and lived up to her role by preparing meticulously and leading her part of the briefing with a confidence and clarity that even had a few of the old lags taking notes. Only after the others had gone and they were on their own in the incident room did she alert Fenwick to the memo she’d written to him and Quinlan on Saturday.

‘Are you certain Taylor’s and/or Paul’s money was taken?’

‘No, but Black was bent – Bob virtually confirmed it – he worked on the case and signed the inventory from the search of Taylor’s property. Look, I’m not interested in starting a witch hunt. My sole purpose in pointing it out is to emphasise that, if it did happen, then it would increase the probability that Paul was murdered. It also explains why some of the detectives on the original case were so keen to push the theory that Paul was a runaway. Maybe, and I hate saying this, it’s also a reason we can’t find the photographic evidence. Perhaps Black sold it on. I’m more than happy to leave it with you to take forward with Quinlan as you see fit.’

Fenwick said that he would and quickly forgot about it as he returned his focus to his options for tracking down the Well-Wisher as quickly as possible. By the time he reached home the children were already in bed, though not asleep. He read them both a story until he felt his eyelids drooping, then fixed himself a pizza and salad rather than attempt to reheat the Sunday lunch Alice had left for him.

At seven o’clock on Monday morning Fenwick stopped at Harlden to see Quinlan, knowing he was an early riser. He wanted to be sure that the ACC had talked to him and that Quinlan approved the arrangements. He did, particularly pleased that a decent role had been preserved for Nightingale.

Fenwick was in a rush to drive on to MCS for his eight-thirty meeting and kept the conversation with Quinlan short, which meant that he forgot to mention Nightingale’s note. He was on the Harlden bypass when his mobile phone rang, caller-ID throwing up Quinlan’s name.

‘This da…letter from Nightingale; have you read it?’ The superintendent’s tone was clipped. Fenwick recalled that he had been the first SIO on the original investigation.

‘Yes, I spoke to her about it. Sorry, it had slipped my mind. Could it be true?’

There was a pause.

‘She’s speculating but…I think, sadly, there’s a remote chance it might be. I had a few suspicions years ago but there was never any concrete proof and then Black retired early. Thank goodness Bacon’s dead otherwise we might have had to tell IPCC.’

‘So you propose that we don’t?’ Fenwick had expected that he wouldn’t want the Independent Police Complaints Commission sniffing around the edges of a live inquiry but he wasn’t entirely happy about it. As far as he was concerned, the statute of limitations didn’t apply to police corruption.

‘What good would it serve? The Hill inquiry is already a mess.’ Quinlan, as always, sounded eminently sensible.

‘If Black were corrupt it could mean that he was willing to bend the rules on other cases. He might have been responsible for miscarriages of justice. Innocent people could be in prison because of him.’

There was a deep sigh.

‘I think he was greedy, that’s all.’

‘It’s your decision but—’

‘I haven’t finished. I don’t think you’re right about the likelihood of him putting innocent people away. In fact, I recall that his arrest rate was barely average. Trouble is, as you say, if he was bent in one respect, it might have been the same in others.’

‘So?’

‘This is pure speculation on Nightingale’s part. She hasn’t one shred of concrete proof… Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll have a look personally at the old Hill files and at a sample of Black’s other cases. If anything seems in the least…suspect, let’s say, I’ll reconsider my decision. In the meantime, you concentrate on finding the Well-Wisher and keep the ACC off our backs.

‘By the way, what was Nightingale doing going through the original paperwork herself? That’s not the sort of activity I expect from an inspector. Keep an eye on her, will you? It’s time she stepped up to the plate, showed more leadership, rather than bury herself in minutiae.’

Fenwick bristled protectively but none of his feelings sounded in his voice as he said a mild goodbye. His trust in Nightingale’s judgement might have been shaken though had he known what she was doing at that moment.

She was sitting down to a large mug of tea with a Mrs Anchor in the kitchen of the farmhouse she shared with her husband and youngest son, Oliver.

From the road outside the house looked idyllic. It was thatched with exposed beams and a sprawling cottage garden. Closer inspection revealed patches of bare paint, weeds and a broken-down tractor. This was a working farm that had been badly affected by the foot and mouth crisis and had never fully recovered.

‘They’ll be back for coffee well before eleven because we’re due out for lunch. It means a wait for you but they’re in Three Mile Field and it’ll take me as long to reach them and to come back.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Anchor. You could probably help me anyway.’

Wariness entered the farmer’s wife’s face. It wasn’t, thought Nightingale, the law breaker’s caution, just a natural country aversion to getting involved with ‘they Police’.

‘I don’t know what I could tell you, I’m sure.’

Mrs Anchor stood up and started to dry the breakfast plates stacked on the wooden draining board. The kitchen was old but clean, except for the flagstone floor, which had already accumulated an early morning’s worth of muddy boots and paw prints.

‘I’m working on an old case, a boy that disappeared from Harlden over twenty-five years ago.’

‘Paul Hill?’ Mrs Anchor half turned towards her and Nightingale’s spirits lifted.

‘You remember.’

‘Only because it was on the telly again. Apparently you’ve got some army bloke locked up despite letters and proof telling you he’s innocent.’

‘That’s not why I’m here,’ said Nightingale, determined to avoid becoming sidetracked, although the television coverage was a blow, not least because people’s memories would now be less reliable. She cleared her throat. ‘When Paul first disappeared your husband reported seeing a car driven by a man we needed to question in relation to our inquiries.’

‘You’d have to ask him about that.’

‘I will. But shortly afterwards he called the station again, this time to report a theft. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Theft of what?’

Nightingale thought that she saw a flicker of memory in the woman’s eyes but it was quickly masked by caution.

‘Some money, food and a bag of some sort. You used to keep housekeeping in a blue jar on the mantelpiece.’

Both women’s eyes went to the Aga and travelled upwards. There was a willow-patterned jug on the blackened oak beam above.

‘Still do,’ Mrs Anchor put down the dishcloth with which she had been wiping the draining board, ‘though now it’s just some ready cash in case I need it before I can get to the bank.’

‘And you have a large pantry with marble shelves where you keep fresh produce?’

‘Used to; it’s gone now that we’ve got the chest freezer. But maybe you’re right, I think I do recall as some food went missing, with a shooting bag of Danny’s – that’s Mr Anchor. I didn’t know he’d reported it. It wasn’t much: at most five quid, some bread, cheese – oh, and a roast leg of pork I’d done the day before for lunches. I wonder why he bothered you lot with that, even though it was his favourite bag.’

‘He thought that it might be connected with Paul’s disappearance. He told us that Bryan Taylor knew this house and could have helped himself as he was getting away.’

At the mention of Taylor’s name an expression of pure hatred filled Mrs Anchor’s face which she struggled but failed to control.

‘I will not have that man’s name mentioned in this house. I hope he’s dead and rotting with the devil.’ Immediately the woman realised she’d revealed too much. Her face closed up again with effort.

‘Why do you feel so strongly? Did you know him well?’

But Mrs Anchor just shook her head and would say no more. Nightingale decided that she needed to watch a video of the TV coverage to see how much, if anything, it had said about Taylor. It might explain Mrs Anchor’s hatred, but if it didn’t… Her speculation was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up outside.

‘That’ll be them. Now look, miss,’ Mrs Anchor leant forward so that her whisper wouldn’t carry, ‘my Oliver’s a delicate lad. A bit simple maybe but sensitive and he was friends with Paul before he disappeared. I don’t want him upset all over again. We had the dickens of a job getting him straight last time. You just wait until he goes to feed the dogs then ask away all you want.’

Nightingale had finished reading all the witness reports the previous day, including those from the school, and Oliver’s name wasn’t among them. However, she decided to do as she was asked – at least initially.

Oliver was over six feet tall and weighed about seventeen stone. He walked in, picked up a sack of dry dog food and went straight out again without saying a word. The conversation that followed with Mr Anchor was over in minutes and added nothing to his original statements. His reaction to questions about Taylor was to clam up and she left feeling frustrated, certain that there was something the Anchors weren’t telling her. She could feel their eyes on her as she climbed into her car and eased away from the house. On her way down the drive she passed Oliver standing by the side of the road, the bag of dog food spilt at his feet. She pulled over and walked back to him, keeping her distance as if he were a large scared animal.

‘Oliver?’ She said it gently but he started and took a step backwards. There were marks of tears on his face. ‘Oliver, my name’s Louise. I’m a police officer. Can I talk to you?’

He turned his back to her and she heard him sniff. Nightingale tried to remember her early training for handling child witnesses.

‘It’s my job to catch bad people and lock them away so that they won’t hurt anybody. I think you might be able to help me, Oliver.’ Another loud sniff. ‘I’m looking for the man who hurt one of your friends: Paul Hill. You remember Paul, don’t you, Oliver?’