Killing a Stranger (20 page)

Alec's arrival a few minutes later found Clara wiping coffee from the chair and warning him about the damp patch on the rug.

‘Oh, sod it,' she said. ‘Come through to the kitchen, will you? I can still see that toad of a man sitting in that chair.'

For Alec, she made tea. Properly, in a pot.

‘You want to tell me what's happened,' he asked. ‘Or do I have to ask which toad?'

She laughed, sat down opposite and poured out, verbatim, what Jamie Scott had said. ‘And you know what's worst? I missed with the bloody mug.'

‘Maybe just as well,' Alec told her. ‘You might have knocked him out and been stuck with him until he came round.' He smiled at her. ‘Seriously, are you all right?'

She nodded and got up to pour the tea. ‘Oh, bugger. It's got a bit strong, do you mind?'

‘No. Like it that way. And that's the first you've seen of him since you got pregnant?'

‘Yep. I moved a couple of times. Not far, but far enough and we just never crossed paths. Amazing what a difference a couple of miles can make. You know, I really didn't recognize him at first. Makes me wonder how much I've changed. You just don't think, do you? You look at your own reflection in the mirror every day and the changes happen little by little and then, it's only when you're confronted by … well. It's not a comfortable feeling.'

‘You look good,' he said. ‘And I don't give out complements readily.'

‘Thanks. I could do with one right now. But I'm being rude. What brings you here? Any developments?'

Alec shook his head. ‘It's more of a courtesy call, I'm afraid. The CPS have decided that Rob's personal effects can be released. I came to see if I should bring stuff over. We can hang on to things a while longer if you like. Some families … they like to wait.'

Clara shook her head. ‘May as well,' she said. ‘Charlie phoned me, told me what you'd managed to do with the computer stuff. Charlie wasn't hopeful, but, well, I'm grateful.' She paused. ‘They really aren't interested in this any more are they, the police, the CPS, no one. I mean, no one but you.'

Alec shrugged. ‘I'm keeping it alive,' he said. ‘Best I can. It's down to allocation of resources …'

‘Of course. I'm sorry the tea's so strong.'

‘It's fine. Really.'

‘You know, I made him …'

‘The toad?'

‘Yes, the toad. I made him cheap supermarket coffee. How petty is that?'

‘Oh, I wouldn't even have given him that, but then, if you hadn't you wouldn't have got to throw it over him.'

‘Oh, no. That was mine. Still instant, but decent instant.'

‘Now, that was a waste.'

‘Can he really accuse me of assault?'

‘Technically, yes. But don't worry, he tries anything I'll send the boys round.'

She smiled. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘For listening and making me laugh. I need to laugh and yet, I'm afraid to in case anyone sees me. In case they think I'm a bad person, laughing in spite of things. You know, I even close the curtains early when I'm watching television in case someone should think I'm being flippant watching rubbish on the telly. Or they catch me, not crying, not being sad and they think, oh, that dreadful woman. Her son killed a man and then killed himself and there she is, laughing.

‘How long is it before you can laugh and it not matter. Is there a rule, a book of etiquette?'

Tears welled, but Alec didn't try to stop her crying. He sat quietly on the other side of the table and waited until the storm burned itself out and then he filled the kettle again and made more tea. ‘You can laugh,' he said. ‘It's good to laugh and I will personally throw cheap supermarket coffee over anyone who dares object.'

O
nce they knew what to look for it was so obvious they could not believe they'd missed anything. Apart from a few compositions like the one Patrick had found, the other evidence was hidden within the body of essays and exercises. One essay might have several drafts as Rob revised and saved each one, not choosing to merge the changes but instead saving as a separate file each time. Patrick did something similar with his work, always paranoid about losing something that might actually be better than his revisions.

Where Rob's method differed was that within the earlier drafts he had grafted notes and ideas and names. Information accumulated in the search for his father. Anyone just opening files and scanning would see academic work at various stages. Patrick knew from what Alec said that no one had been assigned to look more closely than this. Alec's taking the computer and books from Rob's home had probably been perceived as almost unnecessary. Rob's guilt had never been in doubt.

Even to Patrick's eyes, these notes seemed random and eclectic. He seemed even to have recorded times when he noticed his mother chatting to sales people in shops. Did she know that man, who was he? Was he anything to do with her past?

It was obsessive and it was weird and it had, judging from the dates these observations had been recorded, been going on for quite some time.

‘What was he playing at?' Becky wanted to know. ‘It looks like he was spying on people.'

Patrick and Charlie exchanged a glance. They didn't like the word, but the content certainly led to that conclusion.

‘So, what do we do?' Patrick wanted to know. He left his seat at the computer and sat down on the bed, staring accusingly at the screen.

‘I think we should tell Alec we couldn't find anything,' Charlie said. ‘This is going to make Rob look so bad.'

‘Worse than a murderer?' Patrick asked.

‘Yeah, kind of.'

Becky took Patrick's vacant seat and began to examine some of the newer files. ‘There's a lot about Adam Hensel,' she said. ‘And about
her
.'

Patrick assumed she meant Jenny.

‘It looks like he followed Adam around,' Becky said. ‘This is just one Saturday: “Adam Hensel, 11 a.m at the supermarket. Walks back to flat. 12.30 goes out again in car. 5 p.m home. Jennifer with him.”'

‘What was he doing?'

Charlie sprawling on Patrick's bed, shrugged. It was clear to Patrick that he wanted shut of this whole thing. Patrick was inclined to agree. ‘Look,' he said. ‘We either tell Alec we couldn't find anything or we tell him about this and then let the police do the rest. I really don't feel good about it.'

Charlie sat up. ‘I agree,' he said. ‘What good's this going to do?'

‘Us and Clara, we all said we wanted to know why,' Becky objected.

‘Yeah, but, we didn't know he'd turn out to be a weirdo.'

‘Rob wasn't weird, he was …' Becky chewed her bottom lip. She seemed transfixed by the revelations, opening another file and scrolling down.

‘Alec would never have set us going on this if he'd thought there'd be this much stuff,' Patrick said. ‘He just told me to look for anything that didn't fit.'

‘Well, we found that, all right. We struck the motherload of “doesn't fit”. Look, I don't want to sound harsh, but I can't deal with all this shit. I've got exams to take and a life and … Becks, what's up?'

She got up, grabbed her coat and ran from the room and down the stairs. They heard the front door slam.

‘What? Whoa.' Charlie stared at the screen. ‘Mate, I'd better go after her,' he said.

Patrick nodded, then went to look at the computer file. ‘I like her a lot,' Rob had written. ‘I wish she wasn't who she is. My sister and all that. It's like, that Shakespeare thing, you know wherefore art thou and all that. Well, wherefore fucking art thou Jennifer Ryan. Life isn't fucking fair.'

A
lec looked up at the 1930s block of flats that included the home of the late Adam Hensel. It was a handsome building with a heavy front door set back in an art deco porch. Expensive, Alec thought, and carefully restored to make the most of the original features.

Hensel's name was printed in neat black letters above the bell. Alec hadn't been the one who'd checked out his flat after the murder, and until Ernst had called him an hour ago, not really known where the man had lived.

Ernst released the lock when Alec rang the bell and he found himself in a spacious and airy lobby. The marble floor, though a little scuffed now, and the elaborately panelled walls, reminded Alec of an expensive hotel, an impression enhanced by the presence of a desk like that found in a hotel lobby. Once upon a time there would have been a concierge on duty in the daytime and a night porter, Alec thought. Luxury indeed.

There were two staircases leading off and a lift. Alec chose the stairs. Ernst had told him that the flat was on the second floor and to take the right hand staircase. He arrived, slightly out of breath, to find Ernst standing in the doorway. He looked older, Alec thought, more worn down. He'd looked like that in the days following his son's death, but recently had seemed to recover.

What had happened now to cause such a relapse?

Inside, Ernst led Alec through to the main living room. It was a spacious, well proportioned area with high ceilings and large windows with curiously shaped panes like stretched oblongs. It was dark outside and Alec wondered what the view would be like on a fine day. The flats were high up on a hill almost on the edge of town. On a good day, most like, he'd be able to see Pinsent beach.

The computer was on and Ernst had drawn two chairs close to the oak table.

‘Please,' he said. ‘Sit down. I have something to show you. I don't want you to see, but, frankly, I don't know what else to do. I have run this problem so many times through my head I feel my brain has absorbed so much it can hold no more. I am run ragged with this.'

‘Show me,' Alec said. And Ernst did, bringing up the two files: the one of Angel and the images of Jennifer, posing in only the briefest of bikini bottoms.

Alec said nothing for a moment, then he glanced swiftly round the room.

‘Yes, they were taken here.'

‘Right. How did you come to find this?'

‘I was looking. For answers, I suppose. All I find is questions.' He told Alec how he wanted to look around before the flat was sold. How Suzanna helped him gain access to the computer. How, when he looked again, he found that the machine was more powerful than he had thought. And how he had found these.

‘What do I do now? Do I confront Jennifer? Do I tell her mother that Adam … that Adam may have had …'

‘An inappropriate relationship with his niece?'

‘Inappropriate. Yes.'

Alec thought hard. ‘If Jennifer was sixteen when these were taken and if she gave her full and informed consent, then there may be nothing left to tell. Legally, I mean. It might be … inappropriate to take … glamour portraits of one's niece, but, providing she was of age and provided she wasn't coerced or pressurized …'

‘And if she was not?'

‘The pictures should be dated. Or, at least, we should be able to find out when they were transferred to the hard drive. Probably both.' He frowned, trying to recall how he'd find out, finally got there. ‘August of this year. So she'd be …'

‘Just turned seventeen, but, Inspector Friedman, even so. This is hardly right. What if. What if …?'

‘Did you find anything to suggest there was more going on?'

Ernst shook his head. ‘No, but Inspector,' he took a deep breath, ‘she became pregnant not so long after that. What if. What if Adam was the father?'

There, he'd said it and the heavens hadn't opened and struck him down. Vaguely, Ernst realized he'd almost expected them to.

‘She was still of age. Yes, there would be the question of two close blood relatives … not to mention the moral questions surrounding any relationship where one partner is so much younger, but …' He sighed. ‘The thing that occurs to me as well, and I'm sure must have occurred to you; what if Jennifer told Rob about this? What if Rob decided Adam had seduced or coerced? That would give us additional motive for him attacking your son. Perhaps, the whole motive.'

Ernst nodded again. ‘Do I talk to her?' he asked. ‘What do I say?'

‘I think we have to,' Alec said, choosing to share responsibility with this shocked and anguished old man. ‘We have to for two reasons at least. We need to know what Jennifer told Rob about all this and we need to know too if Adam did have a relationship with her, because if he did, with them being such close kin, the child's welfare becomes a paramount question. And we need to know for a third reason. Ernst, you'll never rest easy until you're sure, one way or another. Grief on top of grief can wear you down until there's nothing left.'

It was late, Harry was thinking about bed. He'd been surprised at Patrick's friends leaving separately and Patrick not coming down to say goodbye. Had they quarrelled?

He made them both hot chocolate, frothing it in the special pot Mari had given him at Christmas. Mari knew how he loved his kitchen gadgets. He stood at the foot of the stairs with both mugs on a tray, wondering whether he should call Patrick down or take his mug upstairs. Instinct induced him to take both mugs and to go up to his son's room.

He knocked.

‘Come in, Dad.'

Patrick was drawing, using the new pens Harry had bought him. He'd been delighted with them as Naomi said he would be. Harry had, at the time, thought it was an odd sort of gift and an expensive one considering they were only glorified felt tips.

‘Good, are they?'

Patrick nodded. ‘Brilliant. Thanks.' He looked up and eyed the mugs. ‘Frothy chocolate?'

‘Frothy chocolate.'

Patrick grinned and for an instant looked about eight years old again. Such a barrel of contradictions, Harry thought. ‘I wondered if you wanted to come down for it.'

Patrick shook his head. ‘No, but Dad, sit down a minute?'