Innocent Blood (44 page)

Fenwick’s hand was taken in a grip far stronger than he would have expected. He noticed that the priest didn’t look at him but kept his gaze on the crucifix above the altar.

‘What can I do for you?’

It was a light, pleasant voice.

‘I’m looking for a man and I hoped you might be able to help me.’

‘That’s a rather menial job for someone of your rank, isn’t it?’

‘This is a very special person.’ He pulled out a slim Dictaphone and slipped in a mini-cassette of the Well Wisher’s call to
CrimeNight
. ‘Do you recognise this?’

He pressed the button and a disembodied voice filled the nave.

‘It sounds muffled. I’m very sorry but I can’t help you,’ Father Peter said and rose to leave.

‘Please; perhaps these photographs will help.’ Fenwick passed over the stills from the CCTV camera and waited. Father Peter’s body stiffened but still he said nothing.

‘It is you, isn’t it, Father? The recording and these pictures. You’re the one who’s been trying to tell us that Major Maidment is innocent. Please sit down. I could ask you to come to the station at Holborn or in Harlden, and it may come to that, but I’d rather be civilised about it.’

With obvious reluctance the priest sat down, his body angled away from Fenwick towards the altar. His eyes went back to the ornate crucifix upon it.

‘Eighteenth-century silver. It means we have to keep the church locked when no one’s here. It would be gone in a minute if we left it unattended. I want to sell it but I haven’t been allowed to. The proceeds would fund at least three months’ costs at all the recovery centres.’

‘Why wasn’t it a popular suggestion?’

Father Peter laughed. It was a surprisingly bitter sound.

‘The cross was a gift from a noble family to whom I’m meant to be grateful and remember in my nightly prayers but I’m afraid there are so many others more deserving that they come well down my list.’

‘They were benefactors of their time, I imagine.’ Fenwick found himself drawn into debate despite his best intentions.

‘Hah! It was self-glorification not charity that motivated gifts like that. Far better to have given money to the poor who were dying of malnutrition on the streets around their grand houses.’

Fenwick changed the subject quickly.

‘Is this picture of you, Father?’ He pushed the CCTV stills in front of the priest again but Father Peter continued to stare at the cross, his back rigid. ‘Please, sir, we’re talking about the future of men’s lives here, about justice and retribution. You must help me.’

‘There is no must about it, Andrew. I have my work here. It’s what God called me to do and it takes precedence over the future of a couple of well-to-do men who will be elderly by now and who’ve had more in their lives than the boys sleeping in St Olaf’s House can ever hope for.’

‘That is not your judgement to make, surely. The Church isn’t above the law in civil matters.’ Father Peter remained silent. ‘Very well, as you’ve brought God into this I shall also use his name and ask you this: Why did God let me find you? Why has He brought me here to this place if He didn’t expect you to help?’

The priest simply shook his head then lowered it as if in prayer. Fenwick bit his lip and took hold of his temper. His lack of patience had always been an Achilles heel.

‘I appreciate that what you’ve learnt may have been in the confessional, even from one of Edwards’ other victims; a boy who ran away to London and whom you saved perhaps? Could you at least give me their name?’

‘Edwards?’ There was a softening in the priest’s shoulders and his head came up.

‘That’s the name of the man who abused Paul Hill and his friend Oliver Anchor, plus many others.’

‘Edwards,’ Father Peter said, as if Fenwick had resolved one of life’s mysteries. ‘And he abused many boys?’

‘We’re still piecing the evidence together. Now that there’s a name and face we hope to reach other victims. So far we may have found four.’

‘So you don’t need evidence from me to make a case.’

An admission. Fenwick tensed.

‘Maybe not to make the case for abuse but for murder, yes, and to confirm finally what happened to Paul Hill. In order to give his mother, father and grandmother closure, what you know might be very valuable.’

‘Paul’s grandmother is still alive?’

‘Very much so,’ Fenwick chuckled. ‘Quite an old lady.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Yes. She’s living with her son and his new wife and family in Harlden.’

‘Really? It’s a funny world.’ Father Peter flexed his shoulders and rubbed his neck. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but I cannot tell you anything about Paul Hill.’

‘We want to find his remains so that his family can bury him. Father, please, you have to help us.’

‘I shall pray for his family, I’ve done so for many years but that’s all I can do. I’m sorry but you’ve come on a wasted journey. I don’t wish to be rude but I have to go along to St Olaf’s now. I want to be sure those boys are settling in.’

‘I could insist that you accompany me, sir.’

‘To what end? It will make no difference.’

Fenwick knew he was right. Nothing he could say would change this man’s mind. He stood, an admission of defeat.

‘Goodbye, Andrew.’

Father Peter walked to the door. Fenwick followed him, shook his hand briefly in farewell and stepped out into the London dusk. A few paces down the street he stopped suddenly and turned, catching Father Peter unawares as he watched him go. Even in the dying light his eyes shone with a remarkable inner glow.

Fenwick hailed a taxi and directed the driver to Victoria. It wasn’t until they’d reached Parliament Square that it hit him.

‘My God,’ he said aloud.

‘You what, guv?’

‘We need to go back to St Olaf’s,  in Turk’s Head Yard, as quick as you can.’

‘It’s your money.’

The cabbie shook his head as his belief in the universal stupidity of passengers was confirmed yet again but executed a neat three-point turn.

There were flashing blue lights outside the shelter. An ambulance was parked in front with its rear doors flung wide. The front door to the building was open and Fenwick stepped into the hall. Ahead of him to his right there was shouting, the sound of a boy screaming. He was filled with superstitious dread for Father Peter and was about to run forward when a lad no more than twelve made to bolt past him and outside. Fenwick caught him neatly around the waist and lifted him off his feet.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked, avoiding the wildly swinging fists. He recognised one of the boys from the church.

‘You’re Reg.’ Involuntarily, his arms about the boy tightened briefly. Here at least was one boy who didn’t need to disappear again into the night.

‘Let me go!’

‘There’s no hurry – why don’t we go and find someone in charge.’

He was encouraging a reluctant Reg inside when Father Peter rounded the corner. Their eyes met and in that instant the truth passed between them but all Fenwick said was, ‘Reg was having second thoughts. Where would you like him?’

‘In there.’ The priest pointed at the dining room. ‘I’ll be with you soon as I can. One of the boys had an epileptic fit and hurt himself. It’s upset the others but we’ll get him off to hospital and things will soon settle down. I should go with him really.’

‘Not this time, Father,’ Fenwick said quietly but with clear authority. ‘Send someone else.’

Fenwick went into the dining room with Reg to make sure he didn’t run off. The boy looked exhausted, world-weary, very unlike the smiling school photo he was sure graced a missing person’s file somewhere and maybe a living-room wall. Reg looked as if he was still inclined to bolt given the opportunity so Fenwick decided to treat him as he would Chris when he was in need of coaxing out of a sulk.

‘I’m ravenous,’ he said and found a tin of biscuits on the serving counter. Reg watched him, torn between rebellious silence and hunger. Hunger won.

‘Here.’ Fenwick gave him the tin, then rescued it quickly as five biscuits disappeared in thirty seconds.

‘You an Arsenal fan then?’ he asked, pointing to the cannon on Reg’s grubby T-shirt, two sizes too big for him. He could see the remains of bruises on the boy’s bare arms and had to work hard not to reach out to hug him.

‘Yes.’

‘Who do you think’s the best Arsenal player of all time?’ It was enough to catch the boy’s attention, particularly as the biscuit tin appeared in front of him again.

‘Thierry Henry, of course. He was magic.’

‘Ever seen him play live?’

‘Nah, only on the telly.’

‘I have, when they beat Man U at home a couple of years ago. It was amazing.’

Reg’s eyes were alight with curiosity.

‘You really did?’

‘Yup. Are you old enough to understand the offside rule?’

‘I’ve been watching since I was five,’ Reg said with pride and puffed out his chest. ‘S’easy.’

When Father Peter found them the remaining biscuits had been broken into pieces and arranged on one of the Formica tables. Henry was half a jammy dodger. Fenwick and Reg jumped at the opening of the door and the priest burst out laughing.

‘You both look so guilty! Come on, Reg. You can take what’s left and share them with your friend. Andrew and I need to talk.’

‘We’ll catch up later, Reg,’ Fenwick called out. ‘I’ve got a mate who might be able to get you a ticket to Highbury. I mean it.’

Reg scuttled off with one of the helpers.

As the door snapped shut a wave of exhaustion crossed the priest’s face but it was gone quickly. In the bright strip lighting Fenwick could study his features clearly for the first time. He stared at the remarkable, unmistakable eyes.

‘Did you give yourself that scar, Paul?’

The priest didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

‘How did you guess?’

‘You were cursed with beauty so it would be impossible to disappear unless you did something about it. How old were you when you realised you had to do it?’

Father Peter released an enormous sigh.

‘Fourteen; I did it almost immediately. I hated my face so much it actually felt good despite the pain. I dyed my hair too but the roots kept on showing and it nearly fell out. I used the cheapest stuff, you see.’

‘That’s the reason for the grey now?’

‘No,’ he tried to smile, ‘that’s natural. God’s gift to me when I was twenty; came almost overnight.’

‘Will you tell me about it now?’

‘What will happen?’ The priest didn’t sound anxious, more curious.

‘I really don’t know,’ Fenwick said. He had no idea what he would do after he took Paul Hill’s statement.

‘Well, at least you’re honest. Would you mind if I got us something to eat? The kitchen’s just through there and I’m famished. You must be too, despite the biscuits.’

In the spotless kitchen they looked in the fridge and found eggs, butter, tomatoes and microwave chips in the freezer.

‘Tomato omelette and chips in fifteen minutes – how about that?’

‘Perfect,’ said Fenwick. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

The priest talked as he worked at the stove.

‘How much do you know?’

‘Assume nothing; start from the beginning.’

‘The beginning? No, there’s no need for you to understand why I turned out to be a nasty, lying, perverted creature. Just accept that’s how I was by fourteen. I don’t blame anybody for it but myself.’

Fenwick didn’t argue but disagreed within his silence. With a suffocating, neurotic mother and an ineffectual father more concerned with money than his son’s welfare, he could see why he had been perfect raw material for Bryan Taylor’s seduction.

‘I met Taylor when I was in the Scouts. He assisted with the troop and said I could earn money helping him in his business. One way of making money led to another.’ Paul’s face twisted in self-disgust.

‘How old were you?’

Paul leant his head back, as if resting his skull on the top of his spine. Once again a look of utter tiredness crossed his face to be wiped out with one of determination.

‘I must have been eleven. I’d only just joined Scouts, I know that. It didn’t take him long to spot my weaknesses.’ He cracked the eggs into a bowl. ‘Water or milk?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Do you like your omelettes with water or milk?’

‘Er, milk, whatever. Thanks.’ Paul’s calmness was disconcerting.

‘At first Bryan kept me to himself. It was tame stuff he wanted, not like…Edwards, that was his name, wasn’t it?’

It was a rhetorical question. Fenwick knew that Paul would never forget it now that he knew.

‘But then Bryan wanted more: photographs, films, you name it. There was no Internet in those days but he must have made a fortune from the images of me. I got a fiver after each session and considered myself lucky.

‘It went on like that for a long time. I was only one of his boys but unlike the others I didn’t grow hair in embarrassing places and my voice refused to break. Then one day Bryan told me that a friend of his had seen my picture and liked the look of me. Would I meet him? I said, no way. Bryan was one thing; it almost didn’t count with him any more but with some other bloke, well, that was different. There’s sliced bread over there and some sort of spread in the fridge if you don’t mind.’

Fenwick moved to obey. He watched the priest, beat and season the eggs carefully, then add a splash of milk, and was moved by the quiet acceptance that flowed from him.

‘Throw me the spread if you’ve finished with it. Thanks. Where was I? Oh yes, Bryan’s friend. Eventually, I said I’d meet him when he offered me twenty pounds, an absolute fortune in those days. But I wanted to back out when he put me under the blanket in the boot of his car. It stank of petrol fumes and my face was rammed up against the saddle of my bike. But by then it was too late. I was locked in.

‘He drove around so that I lost all sense of direction. When we arrived I could see big gates from the edge of the blanket and there was the sound of gravel under the tyres. He presented me to Edwards as if I were a prize. The man actually ran his hands over me, like you see people do when they’re buying a racehorse. Then he told me to…well, it doesn’t matter. I earned my money and I didn’t cry, not once.’

Paul beat the eggs viciously and took too much care slicing some butter for the pan.

‘Is this Edwards?’ Fenwick showed him the photograph taken by the Met the previous week.

Paul gasped and looked away quickly. He nodded and gripped the edge of the stove until his knuckles were white.

‘Was Edwards a bully?’

Paul coughed to clear his throat.

‘A sadist. He liked it most when you screamed. He wanted to see tears but I never gave him that pleasure. He almost killed me once but Bryan stopped him. Choking, that was his thing, until you couldn’t breathe and your eyes felt as if they were going to burst from their sockets.’

He sniffed and stopped talking, unable to continue.

‘How many slices?’ Fenwick asked, buttering the bread. ‘Two, three?’

‘Ah…just one, thanks. They’ll need it all for breakfast. I suppose you want to hear the rest of it.’

‘Just about the way you disappeared.’

‘Of course you do…well… Bryan took me to Edwards’ house more than once but the last time there were two other men with him. I think they were ex-military; Edwards certainly enjoyed bossing them around. As soon as I saw them I wanted to leave. He scared me enough but these two were really hard men, younger than him, very strong. I was terrified just looking at them and I tried to run away but…they got me. They got me…’ His voice died away, leaving the noise of sizzling butter in the echoing kitchen.

‘Go on, if you can. Just the basics.’

‘Right…the basics.’ He tried to laugh but it was pitiful. ‘Well, the basics are that they stripped me, threw me into the swimming pool and raped me, one after another. I tried to get away… I had a knife in my school bag and I thought if I could reach that I could slash them…or me. I would happily have died.’

Fenwick could smell burning. He went over to the stove and turned off the gas before guiding Paul gently towards the table. He could feel the man trembling under his hands as he eased him into a chair. Paul lowered his head into his palms and said nothing. At some point someone entered the kitchen, took one look at the tableau and left.

‘Can you continue?’

Paul remained silent. Fenwick felt completely unequal to the task he faced. He hadn’t had the special training they handed out these days and he wasn’t equipped to deal with the agony stripped bare before him.

Minutes passed and neither man spoke. Then Fenwick’s stomach rumbled loudly and it broke the tension.

‘I promised you supper.’

‘Never mind that. Are you OK; can you tell me the rest?’

‘I’ll give it a go.’ The uninjured side of his mouth lifted to match the other in an attempt at a smile.

‘Afterwards…after they finished…I could barely walk. Bryan was furious with them. Things had got out of hand, you see, and he was scared. Perhaps he was also concerned for me.’ A look of amazement crossed Paul’s face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that before. I’ve always put his behaviour down to a desire to preserve his own skin but who knows?

‘He helped me dress and they half carried me somewhere. I was out of it; all I can remember is that it was a basement, dark and cold. I passed out. The next thing I remember was standing by his car. I refused to go in the back with my bike so he put me in the front passenger seat. Bryan was angry but he still collected his money from Nathan – I mean Edwards. I wasn’t meant to see. He must have thought I was too traumatised to notice but I wasn’t. He had over £200 and he offered me £20. The thought of him making all that money out of my pain filled me with rage. The more I thought about it the more it consumed me.

‘We drove back the usual way, on narrow lanes through the wood. Before we reached the first houses he pulled off the road into a clearing and told me to get in the back. I refused. Looking back, I think I must have been hysterical. He put his hands on my shoulders. Bryan never hurt me, that wasn’t his thing, but his touch after everything else that had happened pushed me over the edge. I hit him, again and again, and he slapped me with the back of his hand; only once but it was enough to knock my head against the dashboard.

‘I fell into the footwell next to my duffle bag. It’s a cliché but I honestly don’t know how the knife ended up in my hand. I started slashing at him with it. He swore and grabbed my wrists really tight but I wouldn’t let it go. I thought that if I did I’d die. We were struggling close together when I fell against him.

‘It was an accident, it really was.’ Paul looked at him with his giant blue eyes and Fenwick wanted to believe him.

‘I felt the knife push against something firm, then it gave way, whatever it was, and the blade slipped in. I let go and sat back. Bryan and I just stared at it, the silly plastic brown handle sticking out from his stomach. Then he pulled it out and blood went everywhere. He started screaming and I got out of the car.

‘My trousers and blazer were covered in blood so I took them off, threw them somewhere and grabbed my duffle bag. Bryan was crying out for help but I ignored him. My sports kit was in my bag and I put it on. Bryan started the car. I slammed my door and went round to get my bike. I just managed to pull it out and close the hatchback when he put the car into reverse. It almost knocked me over but I rode away. I never looked back, I just kept on cycling until I fell off but I didn’t get far.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘As it turned out I was on a bridle path parallel to the A23. I couldn’t cycle for long because I hurt so much so I pushed the bike. It was growing dark when I found a barn and fell asleep. When I woke up it was almost light and I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I’d stabbed a man and run away. The idea of going home was impossible.’