Innocent Blood (6 page)

‘Of course.’ Nightingale was on the edge of her chair already, reading. ‘Malcolm Eagleton, aged twelve when he disappeared from Crawley swimming baths on 16
^th
August, 1981.’ She looked up. ‘He lived in Pease Pottage, that’s only a few miles away.’

‘Look at his photograph.’

She did. He noticed that she stroked the edges with her fingertips and her expression softened briefly before she brought it back under control.

‘A lovely child. He reminds me of someone.’ She paused, searching her memory. ‘But maybe it’s just that old Sussex colouring, dark hair, blue eyes, fair complexion. A lovely boy,’ she repeated.

‘“Like angels’ visits, short and bright, mortality’s too weak to bear them long
”,’ Fenwick murmured, staring out into the dark garden at the children’s swings.

Nightingale looked at him in surprise but he was too lost in his thoughts to notice.

‘Were there any leads at the time he disappeared?’ she asked, to break the mood.

‘None that led to anything; a few reports of him disappearing with a man no one could describe.’

‘And what did you recover from the grave?’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘You mentioned that the lab was still working on something.’

He tried to decide how much he should divulge. He trusted her of all people but he was a poor sharer of secrets.

‘Some scraps but they might be promising.’

It was all he was willing to say and they finished their wine in silence, punctuated by the soft strains of Debussy that was playing on the CD inside. When the piece finished he called her a taxi.

First thing Monday morning he asked to see ACC Harper-Brown in an attempt to buy himself time. The lab and his team had worked around the clock to try and give the ‘scraps’ substance.

‘Go on, Fenwick, you have five minutes to persuade me. After that I have another meeting and if I don’t like what I hear the case goes straight to Harlden.’

‘We found something in the grave.’ He reached over and took Malcolm’s file from his briefcase. ‘Here.’

He pushed it over the polished mahogany of H-B’s desk and tapped some evidence photographs at the front. One of them showed part of a femur poking up out of the ground and a piece of what looked like nondescript rubbish in the same depression.

‘What is it?’

‘A plastic car-parking permit. Unfortunately it’s aged badly where the laminate was cracked and only a piece of it remains, but see here.’

‘It looks like a logo of some sort but only part’s left.’

‘What you can see is the top of the letters T, D and G in a stylised script. On the next page is the crest for The Downs Golf Club, just the initials arranged in an inverted triangle with the C at the bottom. It’s a permit for their car park. We also know that it’s from an old permit because the club redesigned their crest in 1984, so it has to be older than that.

‘What’s more,’ he leant over and turned a page for him, ‘a wider search of the area found this.’ He didn’t wait for Harper-Brown to try and guess this time.

‘A metal locker key.’

‘From Crawley swimming pool?’

‘No, they never issued keys like this. See, there’s a distinctive manufacturer’s mark stamped on one side. We’ve been able to trace the maker. Fortunately they were local though they’re part of a bigger firm now. The original list of clients has long gone but we tracked down the previous proprietor and he still remembers some of his biggest customers. One was in Harlden – The Downs Golf Club.’

‘Hence your continuing interest in the Eagleton boy. But was it dropped at the same time the body was buried? You said you found it in a wider search, not in the grave.’

‘We can’t be certain because the JCB tracks disrupted some of the surrounding soil but it was lying in spoil a few feet away.’

‘So you think Malcolm was abducted and killed by someone from my golf club.’ Harper-Brown played off a handicap of nine and had been a member for twenty years; his uncle had been a club president. ‘Half the great and the good of Harlden play there.’

‘I appreciate that this is going to have to be handled with sensitivity but we’d already identified the club as a potential link in the Choir Boy investigation.’ Harper-Brown raised an eyebrow in surprise and Fenwick hurried on. ‘I don’t think we can ignore this connection. Whoever’s been organising the paedophile ring in Sussex is very clever and has got away with it, according to the American’s witness, for at least ten years. Who knows how long it’s actually been going on? Malcolm’s murder is all I have to work on at present. Please give me a week to look into it more fully.’

The ACC stared at Fenwick, his expression unreadable.

‘Very well.’ The chief inspector breathed an inaudible sigh of relief but Harper-Brown hadn’t finished. ‘I appreciate that you will handle the investigation with delicacy, but Fenwick…’

His heart sank.

‘If you find out anything, I expect you to probe as fully and as thoroughly as for any other case. There are to be no special privileges just because of the club’s membership. Do I make myself clear?’

Fenwick was too surprised to speak but nodded his understanding, forced to admit that at least some of his prejudices against the ACC were proving to be unfounded. Maybe he should push his luck.

‘There is just one other thing, sir.’ Harper-Brown looked up, almost benign, and he rushed on. ‘I’d like to excavate the terrace at the club.’

‘No; preposterous!’

‘It was reconstructed around the time Malcolm Eagleton disappeared. We need to find his clothes, potentially other belongings. Given the other connections with the club—’

‘I said no. Parts of that bloody terrace have been rebuilt almost every year to my knowledge and this coincidence is no grounds to authorise something so expensive and disruptive.’

‘But—’

‘The answer remains no.’

Sometimes it was easy to forget how fortunate he was but all it took was a trip to Mount Ellingham Hospice to remind him. He went once a week, dreading the visit for days beforehand and guilty afterwards that he’d left it so long.

As one of the few fit survivors of his old regiment it had fallen to Maidment to act as unofficial liaison officer with others in the area. One of them, Stanley Elthorpe, was spending his last days in the Mount. A widower like Maidment, his only son had emigrated to Canada and he never saw his grandchildren. On the previous visit Maidment had learnt to his surprise that Stanley also had an estranged daughter. Stanley had never mentioned her before and the major sensed a gulf of hostility between them.

But Stanley was dying and dying quickly. The cancer his doctors thought eradicated seven years before had returned, this time in his lungs. At least palliative care saved him from the worst pain.

The faint institutionalised smell hit Maidment as he walked through the entrance. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, the carers made sure of that, but there was an inevitable miasma of medication, disinfectant and hospital meals that lay in corners and among the cushions in the lounge. He had to wait for a nurse to leave Stanley and spent his time looking at some watercolours with ridiculous price tags that served the dual purpose of decoration and commercial opportunity. He couldn’t imagine living with any of them.

A strip of carpet softened the impact of the corridors but to his exacting eye it clashed with the paisley chairs that lined the walls. Two elderly women, one no more than skin and bone, sat side by side in the lounge holding hands, locked in mute companionship as they waited for the inevitable parting. The thin one plucked at the wool of her cardigan and he could see the beginnings of the hole she was making. The other looked on but said nothing, perhaps recognising that the garment would outlast its owner so any counsel was an irrelevance. He bade them too hearty a good morning and walked back to Stanley.

His old friend was sitting up in a chair beside his bed, looking brighter than he’d seen him for weeks. Were it not for the intravenous drip snaking its way into the vein on the back of his bruised left hand, he would have thought him in better health.

‘Stanley, old chap, you’re looking well!’

They shook hands, the major careful not to squeeze the papery skin too tight.

‘Spot of remission, Major. It’s taken us all by surprise. The poor old priest was hopeful that my imminent departure would prompt a conversion so it’s quite a setback for him.’

Maidment flinched slightly at the words and covered his discomfort by depositing a bottle of Glenfiddich malt whisky on the side table.

‘Had I known, I’d have bought you Bells as usual but I thought this might be your last bottle.’

Stanley enjoyed the gallows humour and laughed until a choking fit returned both men to the practicalities of finding him a glass of water. He was still purple in the face when he pulled another tumbler from the bedside cupboard and poured them two fingers of malt apiece.

‘Steady, I’m driving. Don’t want any more trouble with the Old Bill, thank you very much.’

‘I read about that. You’re a hero in here. There’s some will want your autograph if they find out you’re visiting. Surely the police are going to drop the case?’

‘Oh, bound to.’ Maidment hid his misgivings behind convincing bluster. ‘But they have to go through due process. You know the law.’

‘Waste of taxpayers’ bloody money, if you ask me. The bugger was set to do you and murder that copper.’ It wasn’t clear from Stan’s tone which aborted crime appalled him more.

With practised skill, Maidment steered the conversation gently away from his predicament towards safer subjects. They had exhausted cricket, politics and regimental gossip by the end of the allotted hour and Maidment started a well-rehearsed ritual of departure. It was carefully orchestrated so that at the right moment Stanley would suggest it was time for his nap and his guest would rise to collect his hat. In that way they avoided the embarrassment of his visitor being so impolite as to say that he had to leave.

On this occasion, though, Stanley missed his cue. Maidment coughed, shot his cuffs, stood and looked out of the window but Stan remained lost to his own thoughts. Maidment had reached the point of contemplating a glance at his watch when the other man blurted out.

‘Major, I need you to see my daughter.’ He was staring down at his veined hands, toying with the IV needle in a way that made the major look away. ‘We haven’t spoken in over twenty years. I know she’s alive because the vicar tells me.’

‘Easy to drift apart in these times…’

‘There was no drifting. It was a rift. We argued and we were both too damned proud to bend afterwards.’ It was as if he wanted the brutality of their parting to be understood. ‘But in these last days, since the remission started, I’ve been wondering why I’ve been given this extra time.’

‘And what is your answer?’

‘I think I’ve been granted a last chance to put my life in order.’ The glance he gave the major was almost menacing and Maidment looked away.

‘Why not ask the vicar to do the honours? He’d be far better.’

‘No. She holds no truck with religion, though she was a believer once until her faith was broke. You’d be ideal. You have a way with the ladies. Don’t look like that, we both know the truth.’ Again the look. ‘She’s only a few miles away.’

‘But why me?’

‘She respects authority, you’ve got that, and you’re well spoken. Bless her heart; she always was a terrible snob. Besides,’ there was an ominous pause, ‘I reckon you owe me.’

Maidment didn’t need to ask why. He could feel himself weakening. After all, could he really claim that a dying man’s wish to be reunited with a long-lost daughter who lived nearby was unreasonable? No; in good conscience he could not deny Stanley’s request.

‘I can’t guarantee success, old boy.’

‘I’m only asking you to try. Just get her to read this.’

He thrust a sealed envelope towards him. Maidment noticed how Stanley’s hand trembled and the last of his reservations disappeared.

‘Very well, I’ll do it.’ He put the envelope in his pocket and Stan sank back in his chair, suddenly exhausted.

‘Tell me, why did you fall out?’

‘Best not to talk about that. If you don’t know you won’t be tempted to take sides. She’s tough, my Sarah. If she thinks you’re with me she’ll shred you in a minute. But if she wants to tell you, that’s fine by me.’

‘Her exact address?’

‘On the envelope. Thank you, Jeremy.’ He looked up and Maidment was embarrassed to witness the tears in his eyes.

‘I’ll call you to let you know how it goes.’

‘Good. Well, I think I need my nap now. Perhaps it’s the daily snoozes that are doing me so much good; them and decent whisky!’

Maidment didn’t look at the envelope until that evening. Never one to put off a difficult task, he decided to call round and visit daughter Sarah the next day. When he turned the envelope over and saw the name and address he had to sit down. At first he thought that Stanley was playing a cruel trick on him but dismissed the idea immediately. This wasn’t a joke; it was his worst nightmare become reality. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

‘Oh my God.’

He could barely breathe as he read the few words in Stanley’s spidery hand:

Sarah Hill

26, Penton Cross

Woodhampstead

Nr. Harlden

Sussex

He knew that name, that address. He even knew what her face would look like. There had been photographs of her aged beyond years by emotions no woman should have to face. Semi-digested baked haddock rose up at the back of his throat and he washed it away with a mouthful of wine. If only his sins could so easily be dealt with.

He was bound by his promise and Stanley’s implied threats to see this woman. Yet in doing so his terrible disgrace would become real again. A lesser man would have cursed and wept but one of the many ironies in his life was that he’d been born strong.

Only God could have devised such justice.

The house was set back from the road as if seeking obscurity. An old Ford Fiesta was parked in the drive. Someone, children probably, had written in the dust on the rear window:
‘don’t clean me, grey is my colour
’;
‘Angie luvs Greg’
and some obscenities he pretended not to see. Where there had once been a square of garden, weeds now consumed every scrap of soil. It was impossible to tell where the gravel of the path ended and what had once been a lawn began. The air of determined abandonment and the desire for solitude oppressed the major as he locked his pristine Corsa and opened a gate that creaked in protest against the unwelcome intruder.

He’d timed his journey for late morning when there was a strong possibility that she would be out at work, or with friends, or doing her shopping, so that he would have an excuse to post the letter through the door. But one look at the house told him this woman had no job, no friends and was an infrequent shopper. As he walked up what he took for the path, a grey-green curtain twitched in the front bedroom window. By the time he reached the front door a shadow was hovering beyond the frosted glass. A thought assailed him that perhaps she was still waiting, after all these years.

The door opened before he could knock and the look on her face confirmed his fears. He saw there a dreadful mixture of anguish and hope and he thought he could almost see the words
‘my son
’ stretched onto her open mouth. But it was her eyes that almost unmade him. Even though they were washed out from too many years of tears, they unmistakably belonged to Paul’s mother. At one time she must have been a beauty but grief and self-neglect had aged her cruelly.

‘Mrs Hill?’ It was an unnecessary question but he knew of no other way to begin.

She just stared at him as he held out the letter, her eyes fixed on his face with a look of expectation that broke his heart. Then there was an inward collapse. She had become expert at reading the expressions of strangers in her long years of waiting and saw nothing in his that answered her need.

‘What do you want?’

If a ghost could speak it would sound like this, he thought, and shuddered. For an instant he was afraid that merely by meeting her he might share her doom but then his common sense reasserted itself.

‘I have a letter for you.’ The rekindling of hope in her eyes made him rush on. ‘Not from…ah…may I step inside?’

He was loath to enter her grimy house on that hot July day but realised she might shut the door in his face if he so much as mentioned her father’s name. Sarah Hill turned without a word and walked along the short hall into a sitting room of browns that had faded to the colour of dust. The fetid smell that wafted from her as she moved caught in his throat, forcing a coughing fit. When he recovered, he wiped his face with a brilliant white handkerchief that flickered as a bright flash in the gloom. She was staring at him without expression, the diminishing blaze of her eyes at odds with everything else about her.

Behind her, set on the wall where whatever faint rays from the sun that managed to filter inside would light up his face, was a shrine to Paul. He had been a beautiful child. His smile was cheeky, engaging and so bright it would have been infectious. One large portrait photograph had been reproduced as an oil painting, an effect popular in the 1980s. Beneath it was a sports trophy that had been polished to a smoothness that disguised its origins. A certificate of commendation for a swimming gala hung next to it, beside a child’s drawing framed as if it were a priceless work of art – which to her it was. She caught him staring and he looked away.

‘You’re of an age to remember,’ she said, as if this simple statement exempted their conversation from explanation.

‘I remember very well.’ The sincerity in his voice had an immediate effect on the woman before him. Her stoniness melted and she smiled briefly.

‘Would you like something to drink?’

The odour in the house was making it hard for him to breathe and the idea of something from her kitchen passing his lips made him want to retch. But he’d made a promise to Stanley and gaining the woman’s trust might help him succeed in his mission.

‘Just a glass of water, thank you. It is a very hot day.’

She was gone for a while, too long for his peace of mind. Paul looked at him with a knowingness that forced him to blink hard to clear his eyes. By the time she returned he was wiping his face again and the letter in his hand was damp with perspiration.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’

He declined, certain that he would have choked on the crumbs.

‘This letter,’ he began again, ‘is from an old friend of mine whom you used to know. He wants to see you again.’

She stared at him blankly as she nibbled on a chocolate digestive covered with white bloom.

‘Mrs Hill, Sarah, this letter is from your father. He’s dying,’ he added because he could see rejection already in her face.

‘I’m surprised he’s still alive. He is nothing to me. Go away.’

‘I can’t, not without giving you this. I promised him I would and I’m a man of my word. We served together, you see. It creates a certain bond of obligation.’

‘I could tell you were army the moment you got out of the car. My Paul was a cadet once, when he thought that he wanted to go into the services. Do you think he would have made a good soldier?’

‘I’m sure he would have done.’ Maidment was suffocating in the tiny sitting room as Paul looked on, enjoying the torture.

‘He would have been good at anything, my Paul. He had so much potential.’

The major took a tiny sip of the tepid water so that he could speak.

‘I must give you this letter,’ he repeated, insistent now, but she refused to take it from him. ‘I’ll leave it on the coffee table then.’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why we argued.’

‘No. He said I didn’t need to know.’

She barked a laugh, a sound so devoid of humour that it made his eyes ache.