Innocent Blood (4 page)

‘But when we raided Watkins’ home his computer was clean. Don’t ask me how he knew we were coming but he did. We put surveillance on him – cost a bloody fortune and I had to drop it after a month. All that time he was as good as gold – I was never able to pin a thing on him.’

Even when other investigations had taken priority Fenwick had kept a small team on the investigation, codenamed Choir Boy. It wasn’t a popular assignment, deemed a lost cause by those who worked on it and a joke by those who didn’t.

Joseph Watkins was fifty-five, married, retired with a good income – all of it clean. Rumour was that he’d been a mercenary and before that in the services but that was all they had. Fenwick had put a watch on him and his acquaintances. None of the men visited any of the known areas of child prostitution in West Sussex and they all had respectable backgrounds, but even so Fenwick refused to give up. After a month, he had narrowed the list down to Watkins and one man – Alec Ball. There was nothing unduly suspicious about Ball’s actions but everyone on the team agreed that he looked guilty, didn’t like him and refused the idea to drop the surveillance on him. Over the following weeks they’d come up with a list of places that Watkins and Ball visited – though never together. They included a club in Burgess Hill and, to his surprise, Harlden’s golf club – The Downs.

He didn’t have enough to request warrants, only suspicions, so he was now concentrating on building a log of activity. It was painstaking work but Fenwick could be patient when he needed to be and the MCS department was large enough to cover his semi-official work.

In parallel, he had another of his team collate missing persons’ files and then review all cases involving sexual abuse against Caucasian boys between the ages of nine and fifteen. So far none of the men’s names had been mentioned in any way.

Then Sam Bowyer had disappeared and the theoretical work had taken on a new urgency, though the search for the boy had criss-crossed the county without success for the past four days.

As he’d watched the child’s remains being removed, and realised with relief that it wasn’t Sam, Fenwick had wondered which of the cheeky faces in the ageing school photographs in the missing persons’ files had once clothed the skull that was on its way now to a morgue in London to be measured and probed in the search for justice.

Fenwick bent down and picked up a handful of dirt, squeezing it tightly into a ball in his palm. It was light and friable, a superficial skin on the bones of chalk that made up the North Downs. He opened his hand, scattering the earth as if into a grave, and brushed his palms clean. He sighed deeply, thinking of the boy who had been left to rot here in an unmarked grave, leaving his parents to mourn in a vacuum, perhaps hoping against hope that he might still be alive. If he was able to match the dental records from the well-preserved jaw to those on a missing persons’ file he would have to destroy their hope. He felt his melancholy returning and decided it was time to leave the scene.

He walked up the hill slowly, lost in his thoughts, and didn’t notice a green Peugeot pull up behind his car, so he was surprised when a voice close by called out his name.

‘Chief Inspector Fenwick!’

He turned to see Blake Bowyer, Sam’s father, standing by the Peugeot, his wife strapped into the front passenger seat, her window wound down to hear their words. Bowyer’s face was marked by signs of unbearable pain that yet had to be endured, the lines around his mouth deep cuts in his badly shaven skin, the hollows beneath his eyes so dark they looked bruised. But his visible agony was nothing compared to his wife’s. Fenwick almost winced when he met her eyes and the dread in them lanced through him.

The men shook hands quickly and Fenwick walked over to the car, resting his hand briefly, gently, on Mrs Bowyer’s shoulder.

‘It’s not Sam,’ he said at once, not asking how they knew about the body, not blaming them for being there at the scene.

‘Thank God.’ Bowyer kept repeating the words, an incantation, as his wife wept silent tears of relief.

Fenwick had no news for them, had used up all his words of sympathy in their first meeting and had nothing left to say. He walked away to his car.

‘I’m glad all that nasty business is over and done with for you, Sergeant.’

Cooper tried to back away but a sturdy oak support beam hemmed him in. It was bad enough bumping into Major Maidment in the Hare and Hounds, worse still to have had a fresh pint of beer thrust into his empty palm before he could say no. He’d been in the pub since five with Dave McPherson, the Police Federation representative who had stood by him throughout the inquiry that was dragging on for the worst weeks of his career.

He was already light-headed and had been trying to reach the Gents before leaving for home, having bought Dave three large whiskies as a thank you. He’d matched him drink for drink, ending up tipsy with the excess and too slow to think of a way to extricate himself from the major’s company, despite the fact that he shouldn’t have been within a mile of the man. Maidment sensed his embarrassment.

‘Of course, you can’t discuss it. I perfectly comprehend. I stand accused – by you!’ He laughed as if the idea were nothing more than a shared joke.

Cooper wanted to tell him that he was in serious trouble. Chalfont, real name Henry Luke Carter, had almost died. The medical reports showed that the bullet had nicked a major artery. Only prompt first aid and excellent medical care had prevented him from dying of shock because of loss of blood. That it was Maidment who applied first aid was irrelevant to the Crown Prosecution Service, who saw it as a poor attempt to minimise the original crime. As he gulped his pint, Cooper reflected that he’d never arrested a less guilty man. Perhaps it was remorse that prompted him to try and finish the oaty brew.

‘I have one question, Mr Cooper. I understand why I had to be fingerprinted but the swab they took from my mouth…was that for DNA?’

‘It’s routine.’ Cooper squirmed at the return of the conversation to the case. ‘There’s a national database of millions of people so you’re not alone, Major. Still, if you were found innocent—’

‘When
, not if. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me, I just found it curious. Now, what do you think of England’s performance yesterday? Eighty-one for five, I ask you…’

Cooper breathed a sigh of relief at the change of subject and started to taste his pint, but he declined the invitation to lunch with Maidment at his golf club that weekend.

‘Once this is all over I’ll look forward to it but right now, well, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

‘Oh I see, of course. But you won’t be investigating my case, will you, given all the fuss?’

‘No.’

‘Pity, you’d have done a thorough job. Please tell me they haven’t put an imbecile in charge.’

‘Inspector Nightingale is one of the best officers in Harlden. I think you’ll be very impressed.’

‘Good. I look forward to meeting him.’

Cooper smiled. Nightingale was going to enjoy this.

She stood in front of the door and noted the pristine paintwork and freshly polished brass. Everything about the house and garden was immaculate. The major was going to be a challenging man to prosecute, the sort who would appeal to a jury no matter how guilty. She was pleased to have been asked by Superintendent Quinlan to take the case regardless of its sensitivity. Perhaps it demonstrated his growing confidence in her despite her problems the previous year. He said that he trusted her to ‘dig deep with diplomacy’ and she was determined to do just that.

‘Yes?’

‘Major Jeremy Maidment?’

Nightingale had expected a taller man. She extended her warrant card but he was too busy scrutinising her to notice. Nightingale found her eyes drawn to the bald spot on his crown, carefully concealed by the abundant silver waves around it to everyone save those taller than himself. She tried not to smile. Bob Cooper had told her that she’d find the interview interesting. ‘Nice bloke,’ he’d said, ‘but a little bit old school if I’m not mistaken.’ He hadn’t been.

‘I think you must have the wrong house. And if you’re selling something I’m not interested.’

He made to close the door on the tall woman who looked at him as if they had already been introduced, then noticed a man lurking behind her and squared his shoulders as if for an assault.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Nightingale, from Harlden CID. This is Constable Watson. Might we come in?’

He completed a perfect double-take, then studied her warrant card carefully.

‘Humph. Very well, but I wasn’t expecting—’ He broke off suddenly.

As she stepped into the hall, Nightingale was surprised to see a modern still-life hanging on the wall. She stepped closer and noted that it was an original. Her father had bought one quite similar at an auction she’d been forced to attend as a teenager.

‘Do you like it?’

‘A Peploe, isn’t it? An early one too; lovely colours.’

Maidment’s surprise was obvious. He was still struggling with the concept of a female police inspector and clearly found the idea that she might be cultured as well too much.

‘My wife loathed it. She couldn’t cope with what she called my abstract rubbish.’

‘Hardly rubbish.’

‘I know. What do you make of this one?’

He was pointing to a startling picture above the faux Adams fireplace in the sitting room.

‘I’m not so sure… Is it a Crosbie?’

‘Yes, painted by William Crosbie.’

‘I’m amazed the insurance company lets you hang them in full view like this.’

‘Oh, I’m not insured. The premium was ridiculous and I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing them, so what would be the point?’

‘No wonder Luke Chalfont risked a second visit when he accepted your invitation. We now know that he was quite an expert and had links to a number of well-connected dealers.’

‘So he’s cooperating, is he?’

‘Let’s just say that our interviews with him have been productive.’

‘And I’m still under investigation, am I?’

There was a suggestion of belligerence in his manner that she doubted would have been there with a male officer. It made her think that despite his confident demeanour he was more worried about the pending prosecution than he was willing to admit. Good.

‘Shall we sit down, Major?’

Without waiting for a reply she took the seat she judged to be his favourite and pulled out her notebook. The young constable who’d followed her into the house stood unnoticed by the sitting-room door.

‘I’d like to start by reminding you that you were cautioned on your arrest and that anything you—’

‘Yes, yes. I know all that! For heaven’s sake, get on with it.’

After completing the caution anyway and reminding him again of his right to have a solicitor present, which he waved aside impatiently, she questioned him for over half an hour, going over his original statement in painstaking detail. Within minutes she could see that he was finding it hard to accept her authority. Had she been in need of his protection there was no doubt she would have experienced a different man but instead it was obvious he resented having to submit to her questions. There were times when her own irritation almost surfaced because of his behaviour but she held her temper, determined to make him condemn his actions with his own words.

As the interview progressed she succeeded in finding minor inconsistencies in his statement but he was too defensive for her to gather anything really useful. Whilst continuing to pay attention to his answers, another part of her mind was calculating how to adjust her style and open him up. He’d be mistrustful of her because of her sex but after half an hour, she decided to opt for a ruse that was an old favourite. She stumbled over her questions a few times and then raised a hand to her forehead.

‘I’m so sorry, Major, but I have a terrible headache. Could I trouble you for a glass of water so that I can take some aspirin?’

He was unsure how to respond to this shift in roles.

‘We could stop for today and arrange another appointment for later in the week?’

That was the last thing she wanted. She turned her mouth down in a small moue of regret.

‘Oh, I’d love to but my superintendent is a stickler for deadlines. He’d be very cross if I went back with my job half done.’

By making herself appear the mere instrument of a man, she might reassure Maidment that power lay in the hands of the appropriate gender and perhaps offset his distrust in her. Nightingale told herself that the end justified the means and avoided the constable’s eyes. She was brought water, then tea and dutifully took her medicine.

‘I’ve only a few more questions.’ She made it clear that she was as keen to be gone as he was to see her go. They rushed through her checklist, fellow conspirators now, eager to go through the motions in as short a time as possible. Imperceptibly, he started to relax. When she asked him to describe the way he’d spent the evening before the incident he told her about finding, cleaning and loading the gun. At her prompting he explained the difficulty he’d had in deciding where to hide it before deciding that the bread bin would be most accessible.

The more he said the stronger the case against him grew. By the time he’d made a second pot of tea Nightingale almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

‘But why did you aim at him and not fire a warning shot?’

‘He was a dangerous man, my dear, I had little choice. If I’d warned him he might have killed Bob Cooper.’

‘Did he threaten Bob’s life?’

‘Not with words, no, but he looked very menacing and he was holding that knife.’

‘Right, I see. Now, how close was he holding it to Bob?’

‘I’m not sure I can remember exactly.’ He creased his brow in thought. ‘He didn’t hold it still. In fact, yes, I recall now.’ He slapped his thigh, pleased with himself. ‘Chalfont was waving it about, quite wild.’

‘So not right up against him then?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I shot him. I aimed for his leg. It was bad luck that the bullet nicked the femoral artery. Twenty years ago he’d have suffered the flesh wound I intended.’

‘Were you a good shot when you were in the army then, sir?’

‘Excellent!’

He beamed at her. For a moment she saw the man his wife had fallen in love with but as she returned the smile she reminded herself that he had almost killed a man.

‘And now, how is your aim?’

‘Inevitably not quite as good as it once was, I suppose.’

‘Only I noticed a slight tremor when you poured my tea. Did you realise that might affect your aim?’

It was asked so gently that Maidment nodded yes automatically (as noted by the constable at the door) before he realised the significance of her question. There was silence, into which fell the chagrin of an old fool and the fleeting shame of the young pretender. The mood was broken. His expression closed. Nightingale stood up.

‘Thank you for your time, Major Maidment. We may need to ask you further questions so please don’t leave Harlden without checking with us first. And thank you for the tea. We can see ourselves out.’

He watched her go, her black hair, straight back and long legs reminding him of an American girl with whom he’d had an affair during his posting to Washington. She’d been almost as beautiful and certainly as devious; Hilary had never suspected, but then, why should she? He had always been adept at covering up his indiscretions, the consequences of his appetite as a younger man. His spirits were heavy as he cleared away the teacups and untouched biscuits. What a fool he’d been to trust those beguiling green eyes and listen to the nonsense from lips that looked as if they had been made for kissing, not deception.

His revised statement was damning but he couldn’t take it back and he would no doubt have to sign it as a true record the following day. Ironically, he was a man conditioned by upbringing and environment to aspire to follow his own moral code of right and wrong, so he would be unable to deny it. If only he had been more careful and kept his mouth shut. By his own rules silence did not count as a lie, particularly in a good cause. He could no more lie to save his skin than he could tell the truth if it would breach an oath given to a friend or one of the elite band of men with whom he’d served.

No civilian would ever understand the power of shared experience: waiting through slow nights expecting death with the morning; fighting shoulder to shoulder through the blur of action; burying the dead with inner tears that calcified into the guilt of survival over the years. And then there were the compensating spells of recreation when the reality of being alive had been the most powerful drug of all, an aphrodisiac that compelled men, married or not, to satisfy their most basic desires in ways they would never have dared at home.

Although it was early he poured himself a whisky, sipping steadily during televised coverage of the cricket. It was a long game and the bottle emptied as the evening progressed and a televised Prom concert replaced the match. He woke up in the early hours of the morning, slouched in his chair and stiff in every joint. It was the first time since the night of Hilary’s funeral that he’d fallen under the influence in his own home and the sense of degradation was almost as bad as the memory of the policewoman’s cunning. Groaning into the empty room, he rose and made his way slowly to bed.