Sins of the Fathers (14 page)

Obviously. Carlyle stifled an urge to scream. ‘Has he said anything?’

Savage leaned back in his chair. ‘Not yet – not that it matters. We found him with the axe. He’s in Interview Room Six, all lawyered up and ready to go. I assumed you’d want to conduct the interview.’

‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, ‘we’d better go and have a chat with him then.’

When he arrived in the interview room, the inspector was surprised to see a man on the floor doing press-ups.

‘Mr Collingwood?’

The man grunted and went into the Plank position. Carlyle noted with some distaste that sweat was dripping from his brow on to the floor. Standing in the doorway, he shot a quizzical glance at the man’s lawyer, a pretty redhead called Eva Walker. Their paths had crossed several times before and he had found her to be quite sensible – for a lawyer – not so much prone to the kind of theatrical behaviour enjoyed by so many of her peers. That gave her enough Brownie points for the inspector to indulge the idiosyncrasies of her clients. Up to a point.

Sipping demurely from the half-litre bottle of Evian, Walker nodded hello. Carlyle watched the man move into the Downward Dog as Savage appeared at his shoulder.

‘He’s not still doing his bloody exercises, is he?’ the sergeant enquired loudly.

Carlyle self-consciously scratched his stomach. It was a while since he had made it to the gym and he knew he needed to get back in there as quickly as possible. He recalled how the boxer George Foreman had once been asked how he managed to still get into the ring in his forties. Foreman had replied that the trick was never to let yourself get out of shape. Never stop training. Do something every day. Carlyle was currently managing ‘something’ about every other week.

‘C’mon,’ said Savage, ‘let’s get started.’ Pushing past his boss, he sat down at the table.

Grimacing, Collingwood dropped back into the plank before counting out a final ten push-ups. Jumping to his feet, he ducked his head to wipe his brow on the sleeve of his white T-shirt before taking the seat next to his lawyer.

Walker pulled a second bottle of water from her bag on the floor and handed it to her client.

‘Thanks.’ Collingwood flipped open the lid and took a long drink. The inspector noted that he was a short, stocky man, with a well-developed torso and over-developed biceps. Mid-thirties, give or take, with dark brown eyes and wispy, sandy hair that was thinning on top.

Collingwood caught him looking. He held the inspector’s stare while he finished drinking his water. ‘Ah.’ Placing the bottle on the table, he cleared his throat.

‘Ready?’ Carlyle asked.

By way of reply, Collingwood sat back in his chair.

‘Right.’ Savage placed a Portable Digital Recorder on the table. ‘Let’s make a start.’

As he made to switch the machine on, Walker held up a hand. ‘Before we do so, Sergeant, I would like to take the opportunity to say something on behalf of my client.’

The inspector liked the sound of that. It looked like more Brownie points would be coming Walker’s way. The lawyer looked tired, flushed, as if she was going down with the flu.
She wants this to be over as much as we do
, he thought. ‘Feel free,’ he said, waiting to hear what she had to say.

‘Off the record.’ For the benefit of her client, the lawyer shot a look at each policeman in turn. All three of them knew that this was a charade – everything that went on in the room, both word and deed, was being recorded by the CCTV camera on the wall behind the inspector’s head. However, a bit of theatre was often necessary to get the suspect comfortable with spilling his guts, and if this got them quickly done and dusted, the inspector was more than happy to play charades.

‘Off the record,’ he agreed.

Walker took another sip of Evian. ‘Thank you.’

Leaving the machine where it was, Savage waved a hand in the air. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Okay.’ Placing her hands on the table, Walker stated: ‘My client admits responsibility for the killing of Kevin Wakefield, Calvin Jacobs, William Toms and George Fleming.’

There was a stunned silence in the room. Carlyle looked at Collingwood, whose face remained impassive, apparently oblivious to the conversation that was taking place around him.

‘Four murders?’ Out of the corner of his eye, the inspector could see Savage biting his lower lip in an attempt to stifle a whoop of delight. The look on the sergeant’s face was that of a man who has just been told he has won the lottery.

‘Yes.’ Walker’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘That is correct.’ The lawyer looked like she was about to throw up.

Shaking his head, Savage let out a low whistle. ‘So far, we’ve only found parts equating to approximately two and a half bodies.’

Walker nodded as she took another swig from her water bottle.

‘Presumably Mr Collingwood will tell us where the rest of them are?’

‘Mr Collingwood will provide all the assistance he can,’ Walker replied. Taking a couple of careful breaths, she ploughed on: ‘However, it is important to him that his actions are put into their proper context.’

Here we go
, Carlyle thought.

‘These acts were committed under the most extreme duress. My client believes that these men were responsible for the gang rape and subsequent death of his daughter.’

His daughter? Carlyle belatedly made the connection with the girl who had been knocked down by the mail van.

‘The girl who was run over on Rosebery Avenue?’

‘Yes.’ Walker’s voice was now scarcely a whisper.

What was her name?

His mind was completely blank.

It’s funny the things you forget.

Finally, Collingwood tuned back in to what was being said. ‘Pippa.’

Meeting his gaze, Carlyle thought he could make out the mixture of hurt and defiance in the father’s eyes. ‘Pippa, yes.’ Now he realized why there had been the media scrum outside the station. Even if this guy was the least celebrated celebrity you’d never heard of, the press would have a field day with the story for ages.

More than that, there would be a lot of popular support for the man who had – allegedly – chopped up the vile creatures that had violated and destroyed his daughter. What father, Carlyle mused, wouldn’t want to do the same thing? Make the bastards pay for what they did. It was a natural human emotion.

The inspector felt a stab of empathy, maybe even admiration for the man sitting opposite him. Then again, Carlyle wasn’t sitting in this room because he was a father; he was there because he was a cop. He turned his attention to the lawyer, who still looked like she wanted to puke on the table. ‘With all due respect, Ms Walker,’ he said gently, ‘your client does not appear to be under too much stress now.’

‘I have done what I needed to do,’ Collingwood said, his tone even. ‘It’s over now.’

‘If these men were guilty,’ Savage asked, ‘why not let justice take its course?’

Collingwood looked at him defiantly. ‘This
was
justice.’

Savage snarled, as if he wanted to reach across the table and smack him: ‘Who made
you
judge and jury?’

Shrugging, Collingwood dropped his gaze to the table. ‘I’m not judge and jury,’ he said quietly. ‘Even if those bastards had been arrested, tried and found guilty, then what? The average term for rape offenders is eight years. Many get four years or less. The rules allow automatic release halfway through a sentence.’ Looking up, he fixed his gaze on Carlyle. ‘A couple of years – where’s the justice in that?’

The sky was changing constantly as the clouds scudded past on the gusting wind. Sitting morosely on the bed, Paul Fassbender watched a seagull hover outside the open window. Inside the room, the atmosphere was on the cold side of fresh. Realizing that he could smell the sea, Fassbender breathed in deeply; a simple pleasure, infinitely enjoyable despite the circumstances.

After an indefinite time, they had arrived at the coast. He guessed they were in one of the main Channel ports: Calais, Dieppe or maybe Zeebrugge. He knew that this would be the difficult part of the operation for his kidnappers, getting him back into England. There was a part of him that was genuinely curious to see how they would try to do it.

After a few moments, the seagull floated away. Using his free hand, Fassbender pulled the thin duvet around his shoulders. His other hand was handcuffed to the metal bedframe. Apart from the bed, the room in which he was being held captive was empty of furniture. There was no carpet on the floor and the garish patterned wallpaper looked as if it hadn’t been changed in many decades. On the torn linoleum sat a tray containing the remains of his breakfast, croissants and coffee, which he had greedily demolished a little while earlier. Beyond that, as far away as he could manage to push it, sat the pot that served as his toilet.

Sitting on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, he started to laugh. His body ached. He was tired and unshaven. He needed to brush his teeth and his body odour was most unpleasant. His soiled clothing had been taken away and he had been dressed in a cheap nylon tracksuit that made him look like the prisoner he was. Meanwhile, his wife, working on her tan in Marbella, probably didn’t even realize that he was missing. It was an outrage. At the same time, he was fuelled by a sense of euphoria. For the first time in years, maybe decades, Paul Fassbender felt as if he were alive.

Initially, lying in the boot of the kidnapper’s car as it sped north, his fury had known no bounds. Then he understood that he was being taken on a mission. This was the endgame. Perhaps he would arrive in England, perhaps not. Either way, he would face down his nemesis for a final time. Daniel Sands had played right into his hands. Once this little drama was concluded, it would be Sands who would end up in jail while he would be free to resume his gilded – if rather dull – retirement in the Italian lakes.

If the best revenge was a long and happy life, Fassbender was comforted by the near certainty that he would make it well into his nineties. His genes were good; his father and his uncles had made it to ninety-two, ninety-three and ninety-six respectively. And his grandfather had made it to a spectacular hundred and one. His mother’s side of the family were rather less sturdy but still regularly made it into their late eighties. Fassbender had plenty of time left – twenty years minimum. There was no need to get worked up about what might happen over the next few days.

What was the worst-case scenario? A few more days of discomfort and a brief appearance in front of an English judge before being released in time to enjoy Sands himself being arrested on various assault and kidnapping charges.

He was distracted from this happy prospect by the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door opened and the same man who had invaded his home stepped into the room. Dressed in a navy fleece and camouflage trousers, he looked at Fassbender from behind a pair of large aviator sunglasses.

‘Have you finished your meal?’

What does it look like?
Fassbender watched the man retrieve the tray. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Where do you think?’ The man stepped back towards the door.

‘You know you will go to jail for this?’

‘We’ll see.’

The door closed. The key turned in the lock. Fassbender looked at the sky, perfectly content to wait.

Eva Walker finished the last of her water. ‘The attack on Mr Collingwood’s daughter took place two months ago,’ she explained. ‘The police have already mothballed the investigation. There appeared to be no prospect of any justice for Pippa’s family.’

Carlyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Who was in charge of the investigation?’

The lawyer mentioned an inspector who worked out of the Islington station. The name did not register with Carlyle. He made a mental note to speak to Jill Hughes, the sergeant that he had met on Rosebery Avenue when Pippa Collingwood had been run down. ‘The family home is near where she died,’ Walker added, as if reading his thoughts.

The inspector looked at Walker and Collingwood in turn. ‘Do you know for a fact that these men did it?’

Saying nothing, Collingwood just nodded.

‘They were all known to the victim,’ said Walker. ‘They were team-mates of Mr Collingwood last season.’

‘In that case,’ said Carlyle, summoning up his most formal, bureaucratic tone, ‘you should really have left the matter to us, rather than resorting to such a violent, vigilante-style attack.’

At this, the lawyer reared up, as if she wanted to reach across the table and give him a slap.

‘The physical evidence was collected late and not processed properly,’ she said grimly. ‘Each of the men produced an alibi. My impression is that the effort involved in trying to pursue a prosecution was just seen as too much like hard work by the officers involved.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle let out a long breath. He felt an overwhelming need to get out of this room, out of the building, and breathe some fresh air. ‘Sergeant Savage will take your statement and write up a preliminary report to go to the CPS.’ Even the Crown Prosecution Service couldn’t mess this one up. However, rather than take a manslaughter plea, they might push for the unnecessary circus of a murder trial. ‘It will be up to them to decide how they want to proceed.’

Neither Walker nor Collingwood responded. She knew how these things worked. He had no interest.

Getting to his feet, Carlyle patted Savage on the shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he said to no one in particular, before scuttling out.

Assuming that the press would still be camped outside the front entrance, he ducked out of a side door and slipped onto the Strand, heading for home. When he reached the flat, he was surprised to see his father still sitting in the living room, slumped in front of an old episode of
The Sweeney
on an obscure satellite channel. Appearing from the bathroom, Helen gave her husband a hug and pulled him into the kitchen.

‘We went to see the undertaker this afternoon. I think it knocked your dad a bit sideways.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Carlyle felt washed out. He just wanted to grab a bite to eat and flop into bed. Empathy was a struggle.