Innocent Blood (46 page)

‘Maybe an old ice house? It would be in keeping with the rest of the estate.’

‘Possibly but your searchers won’t hear the boy if he’s in there. It had double doors and was a long way underground. It might even look derelict by now; they’ll miss it in the dark. I don’t…’

But Fenwick wasn’t listening. He was already on the phone to Nightingale telling her to intensify the search in the woods along a stream she would find there, to look for any building, no matter what condition it was in and to search it, not rely on calling out for the boy. When he’d finished Paul was staring at him, his expression once again calm.

‘You didn’t tell her the source of your information.’

‘No.’

‘It would have been easy to. Why not?’

‘I would have had to explain about you.’

Paul looked at him in wonder.

‘So you haven’t yet made your decision, Andrew. Thank you, I thought it would be inevitable.’

‘Bryan Taylor died.’

‘I know, as a result of a fight with me. I pray for forgiveness many times every day.’

‘Your parents have lived with the uncertainty of your disappearance for a quarter of a century.’

‘That is deplorable but not a crime. You see, the problem is that if I told them I was alive they would destroy my work. My father’s too weak to keep the knowledge to himself and my mother too unstable to handle it. She’d come storming in here, the press would follow, the story about Bryan would come out and I might well end up in prison. If you choose to put me there that’s one thing, that is God’s will, but I will not go there because I have a mother who loves me too well. And before you mention my grandmother, she already knows I’m alive, I made sure of that.’

‘She told me about your visit to her in hospital.’

‘Did she now?’ Paul was surprised. ‘She must have trusted you.’

‘I didn’t believe her.’

‘Ironic. But the night is moving on, Andrew. You’re needed back in Sussex. What is it to be?’

Fenwick was in time to catch the last train to Harlden from Victoria. He edged back into a dusty seat and let go a sigh that he seemed to have been controlling for the whole of his life. He was emotionally and physically drained. He had finally solved the riddle of Paul Hill’s disappearance and thanks to his strategy his team had arrested a man who was behind one of the most organised paedophile rings in southern England; a brothel had been closed down and a supply line of child pornography disrupted if not destroyed. But instead of feeling elated the success left him saddened to his core and facing the worst dilemma of his career.

A good man’s fate was in his hands and while his duty as a police officer was clear it was, for once, at war with his sense of what was right. The unexpected conflict ate into him. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to resolve his problem but it was impossible. He had no choice but to decide a man’s future and only the breathing space of his journey home in which to do so.

His gaze fell to his hands where they lay loosely on his thighs. For a fanciful moment he imagined Paul’s liberty in his left hand and the sentence that society would pass on him were the truth ever known in his right. Revealing it would be a brilliant coup. It would put the seal on a high-profile, successful investigation and remove any hint of criticism for his visit to London. It would also help his promotion prospects, maybe even make him the favourite candidate. The fingers of his right hand started to curl subconsciously as if he were plucking advancement from the stale air. Then he clenched both fists tight before releasing them slowly, letting the futility of his thoughts float free. His problem remained and its solution he knew would be a defining moment in his life.

The train rattled on as it gathered speed, swaying over points, flashing past stations that were closed for the night, taking him towards a time in the future when the decision would have been made.

He had always considered himself a man who could make difficult decisions, had even thought it one of his strong points, but now, when really tested, he realised that he was no Solomon. So he did what he always did when his brain refused to work: he pulled out a notepad and opened his pen. At the top of a fresh sheet of paper he wrote down the question that had been circling in his mind like a child’s riddle without answer ever since he’d discovered the truth:
When is a murderer not a murderer?
The words confronted him, unhelpful. The crime he’d solved was murder after all, not some petty misdemeanour.

With an audible grunt of frustration he ripped the page from the pad and screwed it up, stuffing it into his pocket so that his thoughts shouldn’t join the litter on the carriage floor. His watch ticked past eleven as he smoothed his palm across a fresh page, preparing himself. Half an hour later he almost missed his stop because he was concentrating so deeply on what he was doing.

The house was quiet when he let himself in. Ignoring the meal ready for him in the fridge, he poured himself a small whisky and took it into the study, closing the door behind him. While the computer booted up he sipped his drink and reread his notes. As soon as he’d typed up everything he was going out to join Nightingale in the search for Sam but he needed to have the record straight first and was impatient to finish.

He tapped in his password, opened the word processing package and started to type. The first words struck him as melodramatic and he deleted them several times before deciding to leave them in:

‘THE ENCLOSED ENVELOPE IS TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, BY SUPERINTENDENT QUINLAN OF HARLDEN DIVISION, WEST SUSSEX CONSTABULARY EVEN IF HE HAS RETIRED. IF HE SHOULD PRE-DECEASE ME, THE ENVELOPE IS TO BE GIVEN TO INSPECTOR LOUISE NIGHTINGALE, ALSO CURRENTLY OF HARLDEN DIVISION. SHOULD NEITHER OF THEM BE AVAILABLE TO RECEIVE THIS, FOR ANY REASON, IT IS TO BE DESTROYED UNOPENED.’

He signed the page and started on the note itself, typing quickly. He didn’t share the view of some of his colleagues that the roles of enforcement and judiciary should be combined when needs must in order to protect society. In his opinion no one had the right to be police, judge and jury. As a consequence he found himself struggling with a deep sense of uncertainty as he finished his confession and the defence of what he had decided to do.

His actions were so out of character that part of him wanted to rip up his words, file a regular report and pass the whole business over to CPS. Yet he knew that that would be wrong. Only he had met Paul Hill, watched him work with the runaways and listened to Gerry’s testament. For whatever reason, he was the one to find the man who’d been the boy the world thought long dead. It would be egotistical to think that he had been chosen for the task but the decision that followed the discovery had fallen to him and he had taken it, not easily or willingly, but because he had no other choice.

If he was completely wrong in his assessment of Paul Hill, if tomorrow or some day soon he were to die – his silence guaranteed – then it was essential for a statement to be left that would allow justice to be done. But he couldn’t rely on just anybody because he might die for other reasons. So he was leaving his documented conversation with Paul Hill in an envelope for the people he trusted most.

It was half past twelve when he finished typing. His eyes were sore and the whisky had given him a headache. He was addressing the envelope to his solicitor when his mobile phone rang.

‘Fenwick,’ he answered.

‘Andrew?’ Louise Nightingale sounded tired but elated. ‘We’ve found him alive.’

‘Thank God.’ His mind was too drained to register anything but relief.

‘He was where you said. We missed the building the first time because only the roof shows above ground and it was smothered in brambles and ivy, but when we reached the end of the stream I had the search party double back. You were so insistent that we’d find it, I took the risk.’

‘You did well.’

‘Aren’t you pleased? Without you we’d never have found him. Sam would have died; he was already suffering from exposure when we reached him. You saved his life.’

No, Paul saved his life,
he thought as he pulled the last printed sheet of his statement from the printer.

‘Andrew! What’s got into you? Look, we all want to know how you got the information. It was from the Well-Wisher, wasn’t it?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘You’re kidding me! The ACC won’t let you get away with that even if Quinlan’s inclined to. You’re going to have to come clean. It’s crazy not to. Your star’s riding high for a change; don’t throw it away by turning inscrutable. It will really piss Harper-Brown off. Make the most of your moment.’

‘I’ve said all I’m going to say, Nightingale. Be grateful we have a result; enjoy the night but leave the interrogation of me out of it.’

‘Hey – all right.’

‘Is Edwards talking now?’

‘Would you believe the bastard’s still trying to negotiate. He’s asked if he pleads guilty to child abuse and admits to the manslaughter of Malcolm Eagleton, will we give him a reduced sentence.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘That the best we could do is tell the judge he was cooperating fully and that if he could give us names of other paedophiles it would help his case considerably.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s adamant he didn’t kill Paul though, won’t budge. I’ve had another chat with CPS. They think we have a strong case for the abuse and a good chance on Malcolm Eagleton’s death but ironically they don’t think we have enough evidence to charge him with Paul Hill’s murder. With the other charges Edwards will be inside for the rest of his natural life, however cooperative he is, but it still feels wrong to leave Paul unavenged, don’t you think?’

‘Sometimes that’s just the way things are,’ Fenwick said carefully.

‘You amaze me. I thought you’d be on to the ACC first thing in the morning demanding more resources to finish this off properly.’

‘Not this time. I think we’ve done enough.’

There was a pause. He knew that he’d surprised her for the second time that night and perhaps one day he might explain. Fenwick peeled off a stamp and stuck it to the envelope that he would post first thing in the morning.

‘Well, if you think so,’ she said eventually. ‘It would be a lot easier all round to focus the prosecution where we know we can get a result, unless you’ve persuaded the Well-Wisher to talk of course.’

‘He talked but he can’t help us.’

‘Why not? You need him to, Andrew; a lot of your credibility was riding on finding him.’

‘Thanks for reminding me but, believe me, the Well-Wisher’s testimony won’t help us charge Edwards with Paul’s murder.’

‘So your trip to find Paul’s killer was a waste of time,’ she said dismissively.

‘No; nothing in life need ever be a complete waste, Louise, not if we can help it.’ He licked the flap of the envelope and ran his finger along the edge to seal it.

There was a long silence, which she broke with a sigh.

‘You’re keeping something from me, Andrew, I know it. But I can also tell that you’re not going to reveal whatever it is. You could trust me, you know, you can always trust me – whatever it is.’ She sounded so sad.

‘I know, Nightingale; I know. You’re a good friend – and that’s the reason I don’t want you dragged into something that could…’ He was about to say ‘damage your career’ then realised that she’d never let him rest. ‘Never mind. Forget it.’ The words sounded final.

‘Right. Well in that case I’d better let you catch up on some sleep before all hell breaks loose. You sound exhausted, not yourself at all. It’s been some day, hasn’t it!’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he replied. ‘Goodnight, Louise.’

‘Goodnight, Andrew, and try to sleep well,’

‘Do you know, I think I shall.’

Fenwick switched off the light and put the sealed letter on the hall table to post in the morning. He showered quickly, sloughing off the city’s corruption, scrubbing his skin pink. Then he found some old pyjamas left over from when he used to wear them and a blanket warm from the airing cupboard. He padded on bare feet along to the children’s bedrooms.

Bess was fast asleep, lying on her back with her arms spread wide; confident, smiling, happy even in sleep. He kissed her lightly and walked along to his son’s bedroom. Chris had burrowed down under the covers as usual, with barely a strand of hair showing. Fenwick lay down carefully beside him on top of the duvet, draped the blanket over his legs and his arm across his son. He was asleep in moments. Chris didn’t stir but in the morning, when Fenwick woke with the aches of a strange bed in every one of his vertebrae, he found Chris curled up against his chest fast asleep. He was smiling.

Orderlies were taking down the last of the Christmas decorations as Jeremy Maidment and Margaret Pennysmith came out of the lift on the third floor of the general hospital. A passing nurse recognised the major and paused in her bustling passage to speak to him.

‘Major Maidment! My, it’s good to see you up and about again. How are you?’

‘Mustn’t grumble, Nurse Shah,’ the major said, trying to lean less heavily on a substantial walking stick. He’d been out of a wheelchair less than three weeks and the short walk from the disabled parking bay had made his legs shake.

‘Well, lovely to see you.’

‘She was nice,’ Margaret commented. ‘Now, which way is Camellia Ward? That’s where they’ve moved Hannah. You sit here, Jeremy, while I go and find out.’

She went over to the nurse’s station, walking almost briskly despite her arthritis. It was still there in the twinges of her joints and the winter weather made it worse, but for some reason it didn’t seem to get her down quite as much these days.
Because I can’t dwell on it while Jeremy needs me,
she told herself.

‘We’re here to see Mrs Hill, Camellia Ward,’ she explained.

‘Down there to your right.’ The nurse pointed helpfully.

‘How is she today?’

A look of caution crossed the nurse’s face.

‘You’re not family, love; I know because they’re off skiing and she won’t let us call them.’

‘I’m a very good friend though,’ which was true. A strong bond of affection had formed between the two women after their meeting at the day centre and they’d seen each other regularly until Hannah became poorly after Christmas.

‘Well, she’s awake and has had some lucid moments today,’ the nurse said in a way that made Margaret’s spirits fall, ‘but with pneumonia we’re naturally cautious. The ward sister may be able to tell you more.’

But she wasn’t there. A young trainee directed the major and Miss Pennysmith towards Hannah without volunteering any comment. She was in the bed closest to the nurses’ station and the major, now an expert on hospitals, hoped that Margaret didn’t realise the significance. But one look at Margaret’s face told him that she did and he squeezed her arm briefly. They mustered smiles and approached the patient.

Hannah Hill lay propped up on pillows, a transparent oxygen tube in her nose and an IV drip stuck in her arm. She looked like a raggedy doll, discarded carelessly in a cot that was far too big for her, but when she opened her eyes and saw them her face lit up with a wonderful childlike smile.

‘My dear,’ she said, her Londoner’s voice a pale imitation of itself, ‘this is lovely. And you’ve brought the major; what a treat.’

It was obvious to her visitors that the brief welcome had exhausted her so they started chatting in a way that meant she only had to nod or speak the odd word to join in. At one point an orderly came along and offered to show Margaret where she could find a vase for the silk flowers that she’d brought, leaving the major and Hannah alone together.

‘I wanted to say something to you, Jeremy…something important, before I go.’

‘Ssh, you mustn’t talk like that, Mrs Hill.’

‘Hannah…and don’t shush me…I know what’s what and I’m all right with it.’ She paused and took a few gulps of air. There were tiny bright spots of colour on her cheeks but her lips were almost blue. ‘I read about what you did…with Paul’s clothes…’

‘Please, I…’ The major could barely speak and looked away, deeply pained.

‘No, listen…it’s important… What you did was…dumb…I’ll give you that, but…you don’t deserve to go to prison.’

‘The court will decide that, Hannah, though it’s very generous of you to say so.’

He too had his hopes, at least for a shorter sentence. For some reason, after he’d admitted his part in the sorry affair and volunteered to act as a witness against Edwards, Chief Inspector Fenwick had argued strongly in his favour with the Crown Prosecution Service. He had no idea why Fenwick had chosen to act as his advocate because the man refused to return his calls, but he was intensely grateful, in a way that only added to his burden of guilt. Now here was dear Mrs Hill, close to death and trying to make him feel better; it was too much.

‘Generous my ar…m.’ She stopped again and pointed wordlessly to a plastic tumbler with a straw by her bed. Maidment raised it to her lips and held it for her while she managed a few sips. ‘Thanks…get…very dry. Now listen, I’ve told Margaret but…she don’t believe me, so I’m going to…to tell you too.’ She closed her eyes briefly and he watched in concern as her chest heaved. After a few minutes she opened them again and fixed him with her remarkable bright blue stare. ‘My Paul ain’t dead. No…don’t look at me like that…he’s not.’

‘I wish that were true, I really do, but…’

‘That man they’ve arrested…did he say…he did it?’

‘Well, no, quite the opposite in fact.’

‘And did you…believe him?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded; he was certain that Edwards had told the truth about his part in Paul’s death when he confronted him. ‘But there were others…’ He couldn’t bring himself to go on. Why torture her with the nature of Paul’s murder.

‘No buts…You mustn’t carry…this guilt…about Paul… It’s not right.’ She chuckled, a disturbing chesty rumble deep in her throat. ‘For Margaret’s sake.’

The last words were barely a whisper. A nurse came by and looked at him sternly, then lifted Hannah’s wrist to take her pulse.

‘You’re overexciting her. If you can’t be more considerate you’ll have to leave.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘My fault,’ Hannah mouthed but the nurse didn’t appear to hear.

Margaret returned at that moment with the flowers in a vase and their previous conversation, such as it was, resumed.

‘Once this silly trial is over and Jeremy is allowed to travel I think I’ve persuaded him to go to Australia and visit his son.’

‘Smashing.’ Hannah grinned, her eyes closed.

‘And I’m hoping that Margaret might join me. She has a nephew in Hong Kong, you know, and we could stop off on the way.’

‘Marvellous.’

‘But it’s a lot of money, I don’t know if…’

Hannah’s eyes snapped open and she glared at her friend.

‘Family’s important, Margaret!’

‘Mrs Hill?’ Nurse Shah came up to the bed. ‘Your priest is here, dear.’

‘My priest?’ A look of confusion crossed Hannah’s face but Jeremy and Margaret missed it as they rose to leave.

‘We should be going. I’ll call tomorrow to see how you are and maybe stop by again if they’re allowing visitors.’ Margaret bent down to kiss her friend’s cheek, as soft as a baby’s. ‘Goodbye, my dear. God bless you.’

There were tears in her eyes but she determinedly kept her voice steady.

‘’Member what I said,’ Hannah admonished the major as he took his leave. ‘Family.’

He bowed to her, too polite to argue, and placed his free arm solicitously around Margaret’s shoulders as they walked away.

They could see the priest sitting in the small lobby by the lifts at the end of the corridor ahead of them.

‘It’s odd,’ said Margaret, dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, ‘all the time I’ve known her she never struck me as religious. Still I’m so glad she is, particularly now…’

Neither of them was inclined to finish the thought. Nurse Shah passed as they made their slow progress towards the lifts.

‘Goodbye, Major, look after yourself,’ she called out, as cheerful as ever.

He nodded his head to her in acknowledgement.

‘Major Maidment?’ the priest asked standing up.

‘Yes, Father. Forgive me but do I know you?’ He stared at the uncomfortably familiar face in confusion.

‘No, sir, you don’t but for a while now I’ve wanted to meet you. I believe we have a mutual friend in Andrew Fenwick.’ He stretched out his palm and Maidment grasped it automatically. ‘No hard feelings, eh? Let the past be behind us now.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

But the priest was gone, striding eagerly towards Camellia Ward.

‘What the devil was that all about, Margaret?’

‘I’ve no idea but he was quite young despite the grey hair. Pity about that terrible scar.’

They sat for a moment in the chairs by the lifts so that the major could summon strength for the final stage of their journey to the taxi. He was dreading the medical examination scheduled for the following week to assess whether he could keep his licence. A life dependent on the uncertainty of public transport and the favours of friends was an indignity he had hoped to avoid.

As they waited for him to recover the lift door opened and a man walked out. He was in his early thirties, handsome in a foxy sort of way and smiling as if he had a secret the world would love to share. The major stood up slowly and the movement caught the man’s attention. His smile widened and took on a malicious cast.

‘There you are,’ he said, walking over to them. ‘I tried your home but the neighbour said you were out visiting a friend in here.’

‘And you are?’ Maidment asked frostily, gathering his energy to walk past.

‘Jason MacDonald of the
Enquirer
; perhaps you received my phone calls.’

‘I have no desire to speak with you, now please move aside. We’re leaving.’ He took Margaret’s arm.

‘If you like, Major, but I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ He didn’t bother to hide the implied threat in his words. ‘I would have thought you’d have wanted to put your side of the story.’

‘I am unable to talk about anything to do with the forthcoming trial, you must know that,’ the major said with disdain.

‘Oh, but I’m not interested in the trial, Mr Maidment,’ MacDonald said, his smile revealing too many teeth. ‘It’s your family I want to talk about.’

‘What does he mean, Jeremy, your family? What do they have to do with this?’ Margaret clutched his arm more tightly.

‘Nothing; they’re in Australia out of harm’s way,’ Maidment said firmly but he was looking at MacDonald with growing unease.

‘Oh, you mean your second family; your illegitimate son and daughter-in-law.’

‘Jeremy! What’s he saying?’

He couldn’t meet her eye. Maidment felt his legs going and sat down abruptly. Margaret let go of his arm and folded obediently into another chair as MacDonald towered over them. He took a step closer, lowered his head so that it was inches from Maidment’s face and said in a voice that made people at the reception desk turn around, ‘I was doing some background for the trial. Unfortunately for you, some of your old army buddies can’t hold their drink despite years of practice. It’s amazing what friends will say in an attempt to protect you, quite amazing. It’s going to make a great story.’

Maidment looked up at MacDonald, trapped by his words, waiting for the inevitable. Margaret clutched at his arm.

‘It’s your Indonesian wife and family that I want to talk to you about, Major. The fifteen-year-old girl you married, impregnated and abandoned so that you could return to your cosy life here. I don’t know whether there’s a statute of limitations on bigamy but that will hardly matter after my editor and I have finished with you.’ Spittle from his lips flew into Maidment’s eye and he wiped it away. ‘There’s one thing neither of us can stand and that’s a hypocrite.’

‘Jeremy?’ Miss Pennysmith dropped her hand and stared at him, willing him to rebut the story as a fabrication but Maidment could only shake his head.

‘I’m so sorry, Margaret, so very sorry.’

‘So, you don’t deny that you’re married then?’ MacDonald asked, triumphant. ‘Good, because your long-lost family is waiting for you at our offices along with my photographer. Shall we go and join them?’

Maidment closed his eyes and bowed his head. Beside him he heard Margaret’s first sob of dismay. He realised that whatever the outcome of his trial, this was to be his true punishment: the vestiges of his reputation shattered beyond repair; his past conduct laid bare for public condemnation; and worst of all, the possible loss of the companionship of a woman he had grown to regard with deep affection. He took a deep breath and turned towards her.

‘I have to leave now. You should go home; I’ll call you later and try to explain.’

Margaret Pennysmith burst into tears. He tried to hold her hand but she shook it away.

‘Very well then,’ he said to MacDonald and stood up, squaring his shoulders. ‘We had better go.’

Behind him in the quietness of Camellia Ward, Father Peter was unaware of the vengeance that had been visited on the major, brought about because of his silent defence of the indefensible. He was focused entirely on the tiny bundle in front of him, small as a child and as vulnerable. Her eyes were closed, her breathing laboured but she seemed peaceful. He was too used to death to be anything but aware that she was already on her final journey and he started to pray silently.

An orderly stopped by with a cup of tea and his soft words of thanks caused her eyelids to flutter open. Hannah Hill took a few moments to focus but when she did and saw him her face came alive with pure joy.

‘Paul,’ she said, her eyes bright, her smile wide.

‘Gran,’ he whispered, barely able to speak but his expression reflected her own delight.

A stranger passing at that moment would have had no doubt that they were related.

‘I hoped you’d come… How did…?’ Words failed her as the breath caught in her throat.

‘A friend called me.’

‘Friend?’

‘A man called Andrew; you’ve met him.’

She shook her head slightly, an indication that the reason he had found her was of no consequence.

‘I’m glad.’

‘So am I, Gran.’

They sat wordlessly as he held her hand and watched the faint signs of the rise and fall of her chest. Eventually, she asked, ‘Will you stay…you know…till the end?’

‘Of course, that’s why I’m here.’

Her smile deepened and she closed her eyes. About them the business of the ward continued in its steady rhythm. At some point a nurse drew the curtains around their bed and another cup of tea arrived. Outside it grew dark. Hannah’s breathing was barely perceptible. It was as if she were falling into a deep, deep sleep. There was no desperate struggle for air, just a gradual decline with each shallow breath. Paul prayed.