Justice for the Damned (9 page)

‘No.’

Doctor Advani gave an approving nod. ‘I’ve scheduled another echocardiogram for this morning to determine the extent to which the blocked artery has opened up. I’ll be in to see you again after lunch. In the meantime, I’ve brought you some literature on heart attacks and recovery.’ She placed several booklets on Jim’s bedside table. ‘If you read through them, I’ll answer any questions you have next time we talk.’

She continued on her rounds, leaving the nurse to dole out Jim’s meds. As he swilled them down, DCI Garrett and DCS Knight appeared at the door. Jim almost choked on a tablet at the sight of them.
You’ve got some serious explaining to do, Detective Monahan.
Those were the last words he remembered Garrett saying to him. But he wasn’t ready to do any explaining. First, he had to be sure about Forester. He quickly laid the booklets over the tape recorder. It wasn’t necessary, but he felt a guilty urge to do so anyway.

When the nurse left, the two men approached Jim’s bedside. Garrett wore the look of someone who hadn’t been sleeping well. There was a heaviness about his movements that was made all the more apparent by the Chief Superintendent’s energetic stride. With his clear, sharp blue eyes peering out from under a high-domed forehead, DCS Knight gave off his usual air of purpose and authority. ‘How are you feeling, Jim?’ he asked.

‘Not too bad.’

‘You gave us all a real fright yesterday,’ said Garrett. ‘It’s lucky for you I was at your house when I was.’

‘I suppose so.’

All three men were silent a moment. A question hung unspoken between them.
Why were you at my house?
That’s what Garrett and Knight were waiting for Jim to ask. But he wasn’t about to open that can of worms unless he had to. Garrett looked uncertainly at him as if debating whether to open it himself. The only reason he hadn’t already done so, guessed Jim, was that he’d been warned off talking about anything that might stress the patient.

‘I spoke to Ruth Magill yesterday,’ Garrett said at last. ‘She told me the identity of Mark Baxley’s biological father.’

So he wasn’t at the house because he’d found out I contacted Grace Kirby after all
, thought Jim. Her mobile phone clearly hadn’t been found. That was another piece of luck. It gave him a little breathing space. A trace of a sardonic smile tugged at his mouth as he reflected that a doctor’s warning was no match for Garrett’s ambition. With the connection of Mark to Bryan Reynolds, this had become a career case for the DCI, one that could make or break him.

‘Why did you withhold that information from me?’ went on Garrett.

‘I wasn’t withholding it from you. I just wasn’t sure it had any real bearing on the case.’ Jim’s answer was a half-truth at best. Reynolds might not have been directly involved in the events surrounding Mark’s abduction and Grace Kirby’s death, but he’d played a major role in creating the circumstances that led to them.

‘Whether or not—’ Garrett started to say, his voice rising. At a cautioning glance from DCS Knight, he caught himself, then continued in a quieter, if no less admonitory tone, ‘Whether or not it has any bearing is irrelevant. I’m your commanding officer, and as such I expect to be kept fully informed of all developments. This is a very serious matter. I could have disciplinary charges brought against you.’

‘No, you couldn’t, because you’re not my superior. I quit, remember.’ The words felt good to Jim. Not that they changed anything. Cop or not, disciplinary charges would be the least of his worries when the full facts came out.

‘Ah, so that’s what you meant when you said you weren’t a detective any more. I had wondered.’

‘You’ve just gone through a heart attack, Jim,’ said DCS Knight. ‘This isn’t the time for you to be making major life decisions. This is the time for you to be concentrating on making a full recovery.’ His gaze moved between Jim and Garrett. ‘So, for now, let’s put aside any talk of disciplinary charges and quitting. OK?’

‘OK,’ said Jim.

Garrett nodded his agreement, giving Jim a thin-lipped smile that seemed more like a forced reflex than a genuine expression of emotion.

‘Have you told Mark about Bryan Reynolds yet?’ asked Jim.

‘No,’ said Garrett.

‘Then I think it would be best to keep it that way.’

‘Possibly, but that decision isn’t yours to make.’

Jim turned appealingly to DCS Knight. ‘Mark’s been through so much already. He knows nothing about his father, so telling him would gain us nothing.’

‘Don’t you think he’s got a right to know?’ asked DCS Knight.

‘Yes, of course. But does he really
need
to?’

DCS Knight frowned in thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘I agree that telling Mark at this time would almost certainly do more harm than good. But I’m not ruling out telling him at some point in the future.’

A ripple of relief went through Jim. Garrett’s lips tightened in irritation, but he had no choice other than to swallow his superior’s words. ‘Before we let you get back to resting, is there anything else you haven’t told us about this case?’ asked the DCI.

The bastard just can’t help himself
, thought Jim.
Perhaps he’s more of a copper than I’ve given him credit for.
‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so; does that mean you’re not sure?’

‘It means there’s nothing I can think of right now. But then I’m not exactly feeling altogether with it. They’ve got me on more drugs than a lab rat.’

Garrett stood chewing on his thoughts momentarily. Then, with the air of a man reluctantly capitulating, he said, ‘Well if anything comes to mind, be sure to let us know.’

‘I will. Before you go, sir,’ Jim said the word ‘sir’ as if it tasted sour, ‘can I ask how the investigation’s going?’

‘I don’t think it’d be wise for us to go into all that right now. The doctor warned us to avoid talking about anything that might stress you out.’

That didn’t seem to concern you when you were asking me the questions
, Jim reflected wryly. He didn’t feel the need to point this out to Garrett. But then, the DCI didn’t need to say anything to answer his question. His reticence, his very presence, told Jim everything he needed to know, both about the investigation and about Edward Forester. The investigation was going nowhere fast and Forester hadn’t yet come onto the radar in any shape or form, otherwise Garrett wouldn’t be here prodding him for information, he’d be out there chasing down leads, and perhaps, even more importantly as far as he was concerned, formulating his media strategy.

‘I’ll bring you up to speed when you’re out of hospital,’ went on Garrett. ‘Take care, Jim. Get well. We need you back.’

Jim detected no note of insincerity in Garrett’s voice. The DCI didn’t have much liking for him, that much was obvious. But there was respect, grudging though it may have been. The queasy feeling rose in him again, and again he forced it back down with a hard swallow. It was too late for regrets. It was too late for everything, except seeing his plan through.

‘Too bloody right we do,’ said DCS Knight, patting Jim’s arm. ‘You’re one of our best. We’re not going to let you get away so easily.’

‘Oh, one more thing,’ said Garrett, as the two men turned to leave. ‘Pathology’s backed up because of everything that’s been happening, so it looks like Amy Sheridan’s funeral is going to be delayed. We’re not sure for how long, but it shouldn’t be by more than a week or two.’

By then
, thought Jim,
if everything goes to plan, I’ll be suspended from duty or maybe even locked up.
It was almost a relief to know he wouldn’t be at Amy’s funeral. Just the thought of having to look into the eyes of her children, knowing he may have inadvertently contributed to their mother’s death, was enough to make guilt claw his insides.

‘You should also know that I’m nominating Amy for a posthumous bravery award,’ added Garrett. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree she’s more than deserving of one.’

Suddenly Jim’s breathing felt tight in his throat, so that all he could do was nod. He turned his head away from Garrett and the Chief Superintendent, closing his eyes. Tears pushed at his eyelids.
Don’t you dare cry for her
, said a bitterly recriminating internal voice.
You don’t have the fucking right.

Edward Forester paced back and forth beneath the oak beams of the living-room ceiling, his footsteps echoing on the polished floorboards. The eyes of a shaggy grey wolfhound lazily followed him from where it lay curled up on a silk rug. Behind the dog, smoke curled up a chimney in a grand stone fireplace. In one hand Edward held a cigarette, in the other a cordless telephone. Twenty paces took him from leaded arched windows at the front of the room, to French doors overlooking a patio and landscaped gardens at its rear. ‘This is totally unacceptable,’ he was saying into the phone, his voice angry, but not loud.

‘I’d say it’s a pretty fair price considering what they stand to lose,’ came the reply, its tone uncompromising.

Edward gave an incredulous little laugh. ‘You call two million quid a fair price? I call it extortion, pure and simple.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Edward, but I’m not sure what you expect me to do.’

‘Talk to them.’

‘What makes you think they’d listen?’

‘Don’t play games with me, Charles. You bloody well know you could make them listen.’

‘I think I’ve done enough to help you already, Edward.’

Edward’s voice got lower, more intense. ‘Need I remind you that your name was in Herbert’s little black book too? Along with a whole lot of others.’

‘Yes but you’ve destroyed the book, haven’t you?’ The question was asked calmly, but there was a note of warning in it.

‘Of course I have. I’m merely pointing out that this isn’t only about me.’

There was a brief silence, then, ‘I’ve got to go, Edward. I don’t think we should talk again for the time being, not unless it concerns official business.’

The line went dead. Edward scowled at the phone. ‘Well bloody bugger you too!’

He continued pacing, the cigarette burning down in his fingers. As he passed the fireplace, his eyes flicked towards a clock set in a mahogany case on the mantelpiece. He let out a hiss. It was only a quarter to nine! Fifteen minutes. He still had fifteen more minutes to wait before his next phone call. Time seemed to be stretching out interminably.

Catching the faint sound of an engine, Edward peered out the windows towards a tall yew hedge that had been cut into battlements. At the centre of the hedge stood wrought iron gates topped with spikes. A gold-lettered inscription on the ironwork read ‘Southview Manor’. A long gravel driveway led to the imposing grey-stone house where Edward lived on the all too rare occasions when he wasn’t down in London or obliged to show his face in his constituency. He’d fallen in love with Southview the moment he saw it back in the early eighties, long before Philippa came into his life. It had needed to be extensively renovated. But that hadn’t concerned him – money was no object. What had concerned him was isolation and privacy. And Southview had those qualities in spades. Beyond the encircling gardens and hedges, there was a deep wooded valley to the south, drystone-walled fields to the east, and a high moorland topped with dark gritstone crags to the north-west. The nearest neighbour was a farmhouse half a mile away. He’d never spoken to its occupants. He only spoke to people like them when it was necessary. And since they weren’t his voters, it wasn’t necessary.

There was no sign of passing traffic in the quiet lane that ran parallel to the garden. Edward squinted skyward, thinking maybe he’d heard a plane. But there was nothing to be seen in the cloud-dotted sky either. His forehead twitched. Was it Bryan Reynolds’s goons come to kill him? He dismissed the idea. Few people knew about Southview. It was his sanctuary, his refuge where he went to escape from everything, including Philippa. The same things that had first attracted him to the house, put her off living there on a full-time basis. And that suited him fine. More likely the loathsome fat man who’d returned him to his car was out there keeping tabs on him. It was in that one-eyed bastard Tyler and his goons’ interest to ensure he was safe. After all, he was worth a lot of money to them.

Two million quid!
The number rang out in Edward’s head like a funeral bell. Even for him, that kind of money wasn’t easy to come by. But come by it he must, otherwise he’d soon be joining that crazy bitch Grace Kirby in the mortuary. Of that much he
was
certain. He’d walked out of the farmhouse with the feeling that he’d come closer to his own death than ever before. All the way home he’d trembled as if he was coming down with a chill. He glanced at his hands. Even now, hours later, they were still shaky. He clenched his fingers to steady them, anger surging through him. What would his colleagues, never mind the opposition MPs, think if they saw him like this? They’d think he was coming apart at the seams, that’s what. And maybe they’d be right.
Two million bloody quid!
How had things got so out of hand so quickly?

‘Stephen Baxley,’ Edward muttered, the name lingering on his tongue like the taste of vomit. If Stephen hadn’t been so weak when it came to dealing with Grace Kirby, none of this would be happening. No, that wasn’t quite fair. The blame didn’t just lie with Stephen. It lay with himself, too. He should never have allowed himself to be convinced to let that little slut live. It was the one mistake he’d ever made. And now, fifteen years later, it was coming back to bite him with a vengeance.

Edward ground his knuckles against the glass.
One mistake. Two million quid.
It was a painful lesson, but as his mother used to say, he would learn it, and learn it well. The worst part wasn’t even the money. Money, like the desires that had moulded him, was simply something that was there. The worst part was the phone call he would soon be making. The thought of that brought fat, glistening tears to his eyes.

He wiped them away with a harsh swipe. ‘Get a grip, man,’ he scolded himself. ‘Remember who you are. You’re better than them. Better than all of—’