Sins of the Fathers (12 page)

‘They do now,’ Umar admitted. ‘One of the uniforms spilled the beans.’

The inspector was disappointed but not surprised. ‘In that case,’ he groaned, ‘we’d better get up there, sharpish.’

Rebecca Schaeffer sat on the sofa eating a toasted teacake covered in butter and strawberry jam. She chewed slowly and deliberately as she turned the pages of a paperback –
Tasha the Tap Dance Fairy
. Carlyle recognized the cover. It was one of a series called
Rainbow Magic
, featuring the adventures of two girls, Rachel and Kirsty, and their fairy friends.

It was amazing what stuck in your brain.

When Alice had been Rebecca’s age, or maybe a bit younger, she had devoured the various series which, in total ran to something like sixty or seventy books. At £3.99 a pop, there was something like £250-worth of fairy books stuffed in various boxes in Carlyle’s cramped flat. The inspector had often daydreamed of bumping into the author – the wonderfully named Daisy Meadows – and giving her a piece of his mind. He was extremely relieved when Alice discovered Holborn Library and moved on to the delights of older, ‘tweenage’, fiction, such as the
Vampire Diaries
and
Zombie Blondes
.

‘Do you like the book?’

Keeping her eyes glued on the pages of the book, Rebecca’s nod was almost imperceptible. Picking the teacake from the plate next to her on the sofa, she took a small bite and chewed thoughtfully.

‘My daughter used to like the
Rainbow Magic
stories,’ Carlyle persevered.

Frowning, Rebecca turned the page, hoping that he would take the hint and go away.

‘When Rebecca gets into her book, she doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

‘So I see.’ The inspector looked up at the old man who had appeared from the kitchen with a steaming mug in each hand. ‘They’re nice books.’

‘There’s certainly a lot of them.’ Ronald Connolly didn’t quite manage a chuckle. ‘Here you are.’ Handing Carlyle a mug, he wrapped both hands round the one he had kept for himself.

‘Thanks.’

Connolly looked tired and drawn. At least he was in better shape than his wife. Anna Connolly had retreated to her bedroom immediately after the first police officers had arrived. Several hours on, she showed no signs of coming out.

Connolly looked at the girl and smiled sadly. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, Grandpa.’ Still Rebecca didn’t look up but Carlyle could see the look of determination in her face that she was not going to cry.

Connolly took a hand from the mug and gestured towards the doorway. ‘Maybe we should go and talk in the back.’

‘Good idea.’ Taking a sip of his tea, Carlyle let his host lead the way to a large kitchen with French windows, which opened out on to a small patio garden. Sitting at the kitchen table, Umar was munching on a teacake of his own, while scribbling down some notes onto a sheet of paper.

Placing his mug on the table, Connolly pulled out a chair and gestured for Carlyle to follow. ‘Take a seat, please.’

Carlyle sat down and Umar shovelled the last of the teacake into his mouth, saying, ‘That was lovely, thank you.’

Somewhat miffed that he had not been offered a teacake, Carlyle shot his sergeant a dirty look.

‘You’re most welcome,’ Connolly smiled. Somewhere in his late sixties, he looked fit and comfortable, notwithstanding his difficult day. The man was, Carlyle observed, a pretty good poster boy for the retired Baby Boomer generation, people who had spent their entire lives living beyond everybody else’s means. Wearing brown corduroy trousers, a white shirt with blue check and a grey cardigan, he had the healthy glow of a happy retiree. ‘Would you like another one?’

Umar contemplated his empty plate and was about to say ‘yes’ when he finally caught the disapproving glare of his boss. ‘No,’ he said somewhat reluctantly, ‘I’m fine. One was plenty. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ Connolly turned his attention to Carlyle. ‘I’m sorry about my wife not being down here, Inspector. But I can assure you she’s in quite a state. Please don’t hold it against her.’

‘That’s fine, sir,’ Carlyle said stiffly. ‘Obviously we will want to talk to Mrs Connolly at some point but we understand that she needs some privacy right now. Everybody reacts differently to this type of situation. I know she will do whatever she can to help us in our investigation.’

Connolly nodded. ‘Of course. But obviously this is a lot harder for her than it is for me.’

Carlyle glanced at Umar. The boy had a ring of crumbs around his mouth. The inspector gestured for him to wipe them away.

‘Anna and I married nine years ago,’ Connolly explained. ‘I am her third husband. Julian came from her first marriage.’

Ah yes
, thought Carlyle,
the joys of the ever-evolving family unit
.

‘Julian’s father died decades ago, before I’d even met Anna. He was their only child but she had twins, a boy and a girl, with husband number two.’

‘I have all the details,’ Umar interjected, more for the old man’s benefit than for the inspector’s. ‘The other family members are in the process of being informed and we will talk to them as we make our enquiries.’

‘Good.’ Carlyle was relieved that his sergeant could at least occasionally
sound
efficient. He turned back to Connolly. ‘Why don’t you just explain to me what you know about what happened in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Of course.’ Connolly took a mouthful of tea and placed the mug on the table, as he composed himself. ‘Well, I was out. I’d gone for a swim at the local pool and I got home about six o’clock. When I got in, Rebecca was sitting here at the table, eating her tea. Anna had made her some spaghetti – it’s her favourite.’ He paused to take another mouthful of his tea.

‘Weren’t you surprised when she turned up?’

‘Oh, no,’ Connolly said brightly, ‘we were expecting her.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘You were?’

‘Yes. She had been due to come and spend the night. Julian said he had some work event that he had to attend.’

‘And you believed him?’ the inspector asked.

‘I didn’t really think about it,’ Connolly admitted. ‘We’re always happy to have Rebecca to stay.’

Carlyle scratched his head before turning to the question that had been troubling him. ‘How did she get here?’

Fingering the handle of his mug, Connolly looked at him blankly.

‘You’re in Primrose Hill. Rebecca had to come all the way up here from Coram’s Fields. How did she manage it?’

‘The bus, of course.’

Carlyle was shocked. Alice didn’t use public transport on her own until she was ten. Rebecca Schaeffer wasn’t yet seven.

‘She got a 168 from Southampton Row. It takes about half an hour. There’s a bus stop at the end of our road.’

‘You let her travel on her own?’ Carlyle asked, incredulous. He was all for allowing children greater responsibility as they got older, but this seemed to be taking things too far. Way too far.

‘It’s not the first time she’s done it,’ Connolly explained. ‘Rebecca knows to come here, if . . .’ he paused for a moment, thinking about how far to go, ‘if there is a problem with her parents.’

‘The divorce,’ Umar interjected.

‘Yes, well,’ Connolly gazed into his mug, ‘the separation. I don’t think the divorce has actually been finalized yet.’

‘Amicable?’ Carlyle asked.

Connolly shook his head. ‘Oh goodness me, no. That is not an accurate description of the process at all, I’m afraid.’ Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet. ‘More tea?’

‘No,’ said Carlyle quickly, not giving Umar the chance to respond. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

Connolly tipped the remains of his drink into the sink, rinsed the mug and upended it on the draining board before returning to his seat. ‘I’ve tried to stay out of it as much as possible, but Anna got very upset about it all. I told her that she had to let them sort it out between themselves, but Julian is her son, so she found it very hard to leave alone. And, obviously, she – like me – was very concerned about the impact on the child. It’s all a terrible shame.’

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, injecting as much synthetic sympathy into his voice as he could manage. ‘When Rebecca arrived here yesterday, what did she say?’

Connolly let out a long breath. ‘Nothing in particular. That’s why we were so surprised when we got the news this morning. Anna was hysterical.’

The inspector was beginning to feel a bit hysterical himself.

‘Didn’t you try to ring the parents last night?’ he asked.

‘Anna tried to speak to Julian but she wasn’t surprised when she couldn’t get hold of him. He’s often very busy at work.’

‘And the wife?’

‘Anna refuses to talk to her. Anyway, we knew that Iris was on holiday abroad with her new boyfriend.’

Bloody hell, what a mess.

Carlyle was trying to order the plethora of questions zooming through his brain when the doorbell sounded.

Umar jumped to his feet. ‘That’ll be Social Services.’

A look of alarm spread across Ronald Connolly’s face, prompting the inspector to place a comforting hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, it is only a matter of routine. I’ll make sure that they leave Rebecca with you.’ He nodded to Umar to get the door.

‘Thank you.’ Connolly smiled weakly. ‘I think the poor child has been put through enough already.’

‘That is absolutely correct, sir,’ said Carlyle with feeling. ‘Absolutely correct.’

It didn’t take the inspector long to realize that he liked Ronald Connolly just fine. Here he was, standing in a pile of crap not of his own making, and yet the step-grandfather was just about the only person focused on the sole thing that really mattered here – looking after Rebecca. It was a good effort by the old man.

Which reminded him, he needed to talk to his own father.

Carlyle’s musings were interrupted by the sound of a small altercation coming from the hall. He was halfway to his feet to investigate when the kitchen door flew open and an imperious woman strode in with Umar trailing in her wake.

‘What the hell?’ Carlyle fell back into his chair.

The worried look returned to Connolly’s face.

‘Nice to see you too, Inspector.’ The woman smiled at the old man like a fox contemplating a chicken. ‘Mr Connolly, my name is Abigail Slater. I am Iris Belekhsan’s legal representative. I am here to talk to you about your situation.’

‘My situation?’ Connolly looked enquiringly at the inspector.

Slater made to speak but Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I do apologize, sir,’ he said quickly, his gaze locked on the lawyer’s mischievous grey eyes. ‘This is a highly inappropriate visit by Ms Slater. Perhaps you could go and sit with Rebecca for a few minutes while I deal with her.’

‘Of course.’ As Connolly got to his feet and shuffled through the door, Carlyle gestured for Umar to go with him.

Once they were alone, Carlyle sat back in his chair and folded his arms, making a show of giving the lawyer a good once-over. He had to admit she looked tanned and fit, with her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail and only the slightest amount of make-up. Under a fashionably cut black jacket, she wore a pink blouse, with two buttons undone at the neck, not quite enough to offer up any distracting décolletage. The overall effect was relaxed but professional, not too corporate, a softer, more thoughtful look in which to arrive at a house in mourning.

Slater sat back and let him take it all in. The look on her face said that she could read the thoughts going through his tiny male brain as easily as a six-year-old’s storybook.

‘Long time no see,’ said Carlyle finally.

She arched an eyebrow and said saucily, ‘Have you missed me?’

Despite everything, Carlyle chuckled. He had first come across Abigail Slater when she had tried to stop him from bringing one of her clients – a paedophile priest – to justice. Thankfully, the wretched man had saved them both a lot of trouble by jumping from a church roof. In the years since then, Slater had become somewhat famous for being the mistress of the Mayor of London, Christian Holyrod. The relationship had ended with a fatal heart attack for the mayor while indulging in some al fresco frolics with Ms Slater – in the middle of the centre circle of one of London’s biggest football grounds. There hadn’t been a game on at the time but Carlyle’s amusement could hardly have been greater as Slater had been found wearing nothing but a replica football shirt and a strap-on dildo. The newspapers had a field day. Assuming that she would be too embarrassed to show her face in polite society for a couple of decades at least, he thought that he had seen the last of Ms Abigail Slater.

Not for the first time in his career, he was proved wrong.

‘I thought that you might have left the country,’ he smirked.

Reddening ever so slightly, she shrugged. ‘Poor Christian had a heart attack. What can you do?’

‘It’s tough luck,’ Carlyle agreed, trying not to laugh.

‘Precisely. Anyway, I had to get on with things.’ She shot him a sharp look. ‘After all, I was never a kept woman.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

Slater mentioned the name of a legal firm that he’d never heard of. ‘One of my colleagues is handling the divorce for the mother. They asked me to deal with anything relating to the criminal investigation.’

‘Why should she have to worry?’ Carlyle countered. ‘She was out of the country. She has an alibi.’

Slater tapped an index finger on the table. Her pink nail polish matched the colour of her blouse. ‘Of course she has an alibi, Inspector. But in a situation like this, who wouldn’t be worried? She wants to make sure there are no issues over custody of her daughter.’

You’ve got to be kidding
, Carlyle thought angrily.
You go off on holiday with a new squeeze and expect to come back and pick up your kid like a dog from the kennels?
He looked at Slater with renewed disgust. ‘What do you want?’

Slater looked at her watch. ‘The mother will be arriving at Heathrow in just over two hours. She has asked that I take Rebecca to meet her at the airport.’

Oh, has she now?
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle got slowly to his feet. He could feel the anger rising up inside of him and he welcomed it. ‘The child is being looked after by the grandparents,’ he said, his expression grim.