Fatal Legacy (33 page)

Wainwright-Smith had aged and had lost weight since Fenwick had last seen him, on the morning after Graham’s murder, and the toughness he had suspected existed behind the deceptively bland exterior was less well concealed. He decided to come straight to the point.

‘There is no easy way to begin the conversation we are about to have, Mr Wainwright-Smith.’

The blood drained from Alexander’s face in shock at his choice of words, and Fenwick wondered whether he too suspected his wife of the crimes against his family.

‘I’m going to tell you a story, Alexander. It’s the story of a young girl of eight, what life throws at her – and what she becomes. You’d do well to listen.’

‘If it’s about Sally, Chief Inspector, I know most of it. She told me before we were married.’

Fenwick recalled his conversation with Sally in the kitchen of Wainwright Hall. She had lied to him again, then, but he still needed to be sure that Alexander knew the full truth.

He told him of Sally’s childhood: the beatings she’d survived from the day she was born; the sexual abuse and the casual way in which her father had shared a girl of eight years old with his friends. He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, simply stating the facts, with no elaboration.

Fenwick extended the story to talk of a brother and sister being born and the increasingly violent abuse towards them. Wainwright-Smith listened, at first with indifference and then in horror.

‘She didn’t tell me she had a brother or a sister. I thought she was an only child, like me.’

‘She is now. Let me tell you what happened. Despite this appalling background, Sally survived. She was smart, streetwise. She stole to survive and to please her father; she mopped up the blood and tidied the kitchen when her father returned from the pub in one of his rages; she pleased his friends. But at eight, her life changed for ever.’

‘Why are you telling me this now?’

‘You need to know. Please listen.’

Fenwick could recall every detail of the police and Social Services reports that he’d read only days before. He described the systematic starvation of the three children; how Frank Bates became more and more violent as they weakened until he grew careless enough to leave marks on the little girl that the teachers saw at school. And he described the social worker’s visit, which produced no action.

‘The girl survived on stolen food. At every opportunity she would take sweets, fruit, anything from her classmates’ bags. She shop-lifted, she ate two school meals and she tried to bring food home for her brother in case she could feed him in secret.’ At the mention of the food Alexander covered his mouth with a hand, but he didn’t interrupt. ‘Her father discovered her attempts to feed them, so he locked the other children in an upstairs room where he couldn’t hear their cries. He beat his daughter so badly that she had to stay at home, and he tied her to a radiator in the kitchen, where she slept on the floor next to the dog’s basket. But the school were worried and they kept ringing her mother.

‘The mother was powerless to go against her husband’s wishes, but she told him that the social worker had tried to visit again and they decided to send their daughter back to school. She hadn’t eaten for over a week and she had chronic diarrhoea from drinking the dog’s water. It was obvious within hours that something was wrong, and the headmistress found a way to call in the police.’

Fenwick described the visit, how George Wicklow had bribed the child with food, and how, just as they were leaving, they had heard a noise from upstairs.

‘The little boy and the baby died. The girl – she was eight at the time – was taken into care. Her father was charged and convicted of murder and her mother found guilty of being an accomplice.’

‘Dear God, poor Sally. She never told me, but it explains so much: her compulsive hoarding of food; her scrimping and saving even now we’re rich; her mood swings; her rages. Poor little kid. I hope that bastard died in prison.’

It was said with an intensity of hatred that surprised Fenwick. There were hidden emotions in this man and a depth of thought and calculation that would be easy to underestimate. He watched now as another thought struck Alexander and a look of revulsion crossed his face.

‘He’s not out of prison, is he?’

‘No, he’s in a high-security unit and is likely to remain there for the rest of his life.’

‘How could he do it? Have you seen him? What did he say; could he explain?’

‘No, his sort of psychopath rarely can. But I haven’t finished my story yet. There’s more.’

He described the foster homes, further abuse, Sally’s own degenerate behaviour that led to her being taken back into care. From Alexander’s comments, it was obvious that he had been told some of the story but not all of it.

‘She left the children’s home at sixteen, found a lover here locally, stole from him and tried to kill him.’

Alexander started to protest, but Fenwick interrupted him.

‘It’s
true
, Alexander. Sergeant Cooper’s spoken to him, and seen his scar. She left the area soon afterwards. We don’t know where but we think she might have lived on the streets or worked as a prostitute.’

‘Prostitution! That’s new, but if it’s true I could understand it. She had to survive somehow. I wish she’d told me, but she probably coped by putting it all behind her and focusing on the future,
our
future.’

‘Mr Wainwright-Smith! For heaven’s sake, can’t you see it yet? I’ve spelt it out for you – the woman you think you know and love is a fabrication. She was conditioned to please and manipulate men from the time she could walk! Your wife is not a normal woman; she’s the creation of an evil, sick-minded man and a mother so weak as to be nonexistent. I’ve talked to the police psychiatrist and they’ve profiled someone with her background for me. Here, I’ll read you some of it.’

Fenwick carefully removed a typed report from the brown envelope and turned to the second page.

‘This is the bit that’s written in the sort of English we can understand. Listen.
A subject of child abuse of this extreme
nature could have grown up with a grossly distorted set of beliefs and values and low self-esteem which will manifest itself in compensating behaviours, and will inevitably have some sort of personality disorder. She will despise herself because she is a woman, like her mother, but may act with a confidence and conviction that will fool even those close to her. She will instinctively adapt to whoever is the most authoritative or powerful person around her (usually male), whom she will seek both to please and control. Given the sexual nature of her abuse, she will probably use sex as her main means of control. It will mean nothing to her physically, although she will be well practised in giving a performance – of pleasure or pain – as demanded or expected by her lover, as she did for her father, uncles and their friends. Her feelings towards the authoritarian males in her life will be a complex mixture of hatred and desire to be “loved” by them. She could also be submissive and easily directed by someone once they assume a position of power over her.

‘“Love” will also be a complex concept for her because she knew none in childhood. It will instead be the provision of whatever she desired most as a child; attention usually, but in this case food and other physical indulgences. The ability to act within a framework of control will be crucial to her sense of balance and she will exert considerable energy to manage all aspects of her environment. Absence of this control will be more than usually destabilising and could trigger extreme reactions.

‘She will have a number of compulsive behaviours, react in ways others find strange or even heartless and will have an erratic reaction to stress. You have asked for a comment on the potential for violence and, in my opinion, it could be high, particularly when sexual relationships fail to deliver what she needs. She was abused, beaten and starved as a child and could be capable of extreme cruelty herself.’

Alexander slumped forward, his face cradled in his hands, as Fenwick read on. When the policeman stopped talking, there was a long silence before he could bring himself to speak.

‘I have to accept what you’ve said about her past.’ Alexander’s voice was low but controlled. ‘However, I don’t agree that she’s the person your psychologist has described.’

‘Did
you
kill Graham Wainwright?’

‘No! Of course not. Is that what this is all about, shocking me into a confession? Really, Fenwick, you’re too—’

‘I’m not accusing you, but someone did kill your cousin with a degree of cunning and forethought that suggests
premeditation
. Your wife does not have an alibi for the morning he died; she made sure that she was left with the body when it was discovered. She wrecked the crime scene and actually lied about her whereabouts on the morning he was killed. And as for motives, only you and she appear to have one.’

‘Oh, come on! For God’s sake, she’s my
wife
.’

‘Who will inherit everything should you die. Am I right?’

‘Are you suggesting that I’m next? That’s absurd!’

‘I didn’t say that; you inferred it. What I am telling you is that your wife is our main suspect for the murder of Graham Wainwright, and she is being questioned right now.’

Alexander shot to his feet and went to the phone.

‘She needs a lawyer.’

‘I’m sure she’s had the opportunity to call Jeremy Kemp.’

‘No, I mean a decent criminal lawyer. Just give me a moment. There’s someone at the club who’ll know how to find the right man.’

Fenwick let him make the call, conscious that any complaint would waste time he could ill afford. As soon as Alexander was off the phone, he continued with the second purpose of his visit: testing Alexander’s reaction to his wife’s suspected affair with his uncle.

‘There’s something else we need to discuss. It’s important. It concerns your wife and Alan Wainwright.’

Alexander looked at him in confusion, but the bizarre sentence had recaptured his attention.

‘We have been told that your wife was having an affair with your uncle before he died. Is this true?’

He had expected shock, anger or denial, but instead Alexander walked away slowly and stared out of one of the huge picture windows.

‘I’ve heard rumours but nothing to substantiate them. Do you have proof?’

‘No.’

‘My uncle’s long dead and buried, Chief Inspector. This is old history – even supposing it’s true. And it doesn’t make her a murderess.’

‘No, but she was seen with Graham on the morning he died. We have an eye-witness.’

Fenwick stared at Alexander’s broad back and waited for some sort of response, but the man said nothing.

‘You’re taking the news about your wife with remarkable calm, Mr Wainwright-Smith.’

‘What other option do I have?’

Wainwright-Smith’s reaction felt wrong to Fenwick, it was just too controlled, and it made him wonder how much of Sally’s past the man had actually known about. Sally had lied to him about it, saying that she had told her husband nothing, but perhaps Alexander was lying too about the extent of his previous knowledge. What if he had known all about her past, including even her affair with his uncle? Supposing he had tacitly encouraged its continuation? Alexander was a major beneficiary of his uncle’s will and had been his heir apparent within the business. Perhaps he had been happy to pay a high price to secure his legacy.

The expression on Fenwick’s face didn’t alter, but he considered the man before him with a new suspicion.

‘We have to interview your wife quite intensively over the next few days, and whilst I appreciate that you will want to arrange the very best legal counsel for her, I would ask that you give us room to do our job.’

‘That was an unnecessary remark, Chief Inspector. Of course you must do your duty, as I must do mine towards my wife. But if your tactics become heavy-handed in any way, you can be sure that I shall intervene.’

Fenwick nodded his understanding and rose to leave. Before he reached the door, Wainwright-Smith called out to him.

‘By the way, we are going to seek an injunction for the return of the papers you retrieved from Arthur Fish’s house, and I expect us to succeed.’

Fenwick merely turned and smiled, confident that Miles Cator would by now have enough evidence to use in order to prevent their return. He knew who he expected to win.

The Hall was in darkness when Alexander eventually returned home. He hadn’t hurried despite the fact that, since his meeting with Fenwick, he had been unable to do any work. Instead he had spent the time considering how to handle the very real police threat, and most particularly what he should do about Sally. If she had reacted badly to the day, she could be in any mood now, from almost catatonic to violent, but whatever state she was in, he would need to talk to her and explain why he had to go away.

He found her in the kitchen, dozing in front of the Aga, a half-drunk gin bottle on the kitchen table next to two empty crisp packets. Her supper, he was sure.

‘Sally!’ He called to her from several yards away.

‘Huh. What?’

‘It’s me, Sal. I’m back.’ He used his friendly father voice, which worked in most circumstances.

‘You’re late. There’s no dinner, I put it in the freezer.’

Relief filled him; she wasn’t yet drunk. Her tolerance for alcohol had increased in line with the amount she drank, and as long as she hadn’t taken any tranquillisers, he would be able to have a decent conversation with her.

‘That’s fine, I ate at the office. We need to talk, about the police.’

‘I didn’t tell them, Alex, I promise I didn’t.’

‘What didn’t you tell them?’

‘About Graham. They asked me lots of questions and I was so confused – sometimes I thought they were talking about Graham, then they’d throw in a question about the will. They were all over the place, but I didn’t say a word.’

‘Good girl. You’re not to worry, because I’ve found you the very best criminal lawyer in the country. He’s coming here to see you tomorrow morning. His name’s Michael Ebutt and he’s going to look after you. He’s already called the police to confirm the interview for tomorrow lunchtime, and he’ll meet you there.’

‘I want you to look after me. I want us to go away. I’ve sort of packed already.’ There were tears in her voice, and he went over and put his arms around her. This was better than violence and a mood he knew how to manage. He had to make the most of it while it lasted.

‘We can’t do that, you know we can’t. Remember, it’s very important that we continue to behave just like normal; we’ve been all through this before. You do what you need to do and I’ll do what I must do. Soon, when Graham’s estate is settled, we’ll be very rich and we’ll be able to go and live on our island together, just like we’ve always wanted.’

‘I’ve gone off the idea of an island.’

‘You always said you’d feel safe on one.’

‘Not any more – you can get trapped on an island. I want a big motor yacht. I can sail and we can trade in the Boston Whaler for something serious. No one can find you at sea. We can hide forever and visit all the islands we like.’

Alexander smothered a sigh and said brightly: ‘A big boat it is, then. Now, let’s talk about what you must do next, because the police will come back, you know.’

‘OK.’ She sounded too docile, and he turned her face so that he could look into her eyes and make sure that she was concentrating. The look of utter fatigue and confusion he saw there made his stomach turn over. She was exhausted and in turmoil, which meant that she would be very close to the edge of her precious control. At that moment she reminded him so much of his mother that he could have struck her. She was meant to be strong-willed, capable, determined. She couldn’t crack up now, not when they were so close. He summoned up his deepest reserves, laid down over a lifetime of subtle manipulation and dissembling.

‘We need to talk about the next few days. Now, what are you
not
going to do?’

‘Talk.’

‘Good girl, that’s the right answer. You’ve always been good at keeping secrets, so you go on keeping them.’ He bent and kissed her smooth forehead, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale cigarette smoke in her hair. ‘And when the police tell you what they’ve found out, you just deny it or say nothing, all right?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was tiny, like a child’s. ‘But I think they know quite a lot anyway.’

‘Like what?’

‘About Graham, about Daddy and what he did, even about Donald – I told you about him, how he attacked me. How do they
know
these things?’

‘They’re policemen; it’s their job to find out things, but they’re also human beings, just like us, so don’t think they are invincible.’

‘They didn’t ask me about Uncle Alan, though.’

‘That’s good, but don’t be surprised if they do.’ He recalled his conversation with Fenwick and decided he’d better tell her. ‘They know about your relationship with him; they told me so.’

Two dangerous spot of colour appeared on her cheeks.

‘I hate them, bastards, every fucking one of them.’ She dug her fingernails into his wrist so that he had to prise them out before she drew blood. ‘Did they say anything about the other thing?’

He had coaxed her away from this once before, and realised with a sinking heart that he would have to do so again.

‘There is nothing else.’

‘But there is, I told you. The night he died, I—’

‘Sally,’ there was a note of warning in his voice, ‘stop it. Remember the coroner’s verdict. Alan killed himself. He’s dead, and nothing remains of him now but ash. Say nothing and it will all go away. History has already written its record of his life and death; don’t change it.’

‘But sometimes at night I dream of him in the car, looking at me, and he’s still alive!’

‘Enough!’ He slapped the back of her hand sharply and she stopped talking at once. ‘Forget your dreams, forget everything about the old man. He’s gone forever.’ There was such anger in his tone that she was quiet at once.

‘Yes, Alex.’

‘I have to go away for a few days – no, don’t look like that – just to keep focused on the company whilst you concentrate on saying nothing. We’ve come through before, Sally, and we can do it again. I won’t be very far away. Just don’t panic.’

She nodded and tried to set her mouth in a determined line. Something of the old Sally returned and he breathed a sigh of relief. She was a chameleon. Her personality was so contorted, her behaviours so extreme that he never knew which Sally would greet him when he returned home. But as long as she could keep control in the police interviews, they would be all right. Ebutt was apparently an amazing lawyer, and all Sally needed to do was to say nothing.

‘Of course we can do it. But when you’re not here, Alex, sometimes things are so difficult, and I think things … Well, you know what I think about. You’re so good for me. You understand me and forgive me when I’m wicked.’

‘You know I always forgive you. Come on, let’s go to bed right now, together, in my room, like the old days.’

Alex made himself breakfast before dawn and tidied away the gin bottle, in case the police arrived early. Since Irene and Shirley had left the Hall had gradually become more faded and grubby, but Sally – once so house-proud – seemed not to notice. Thinking of Irene, he went over to the phone book and found her number, writing it down carefully on a scrap of paper before he left.

Alex wouldn’t be going far, and he certainly wasn’t going into hiding, but it was better to have some distance between himself and Sally right now, for both their sakes. After he’d gone, Sally drove herself to Harlden Park, where she stayed for most of the morning, watching children play on the swings and trying not to think of her next interview with the police. By late morning she had smoked twenty-five cigarettes and she was dying for a drink. If she walked quickly, there would be time to find a wine bar in the centre of town and have a drink or two before one o’clock. As she turned westwards and walked slowly uphill, the thoughts she had managed to keep at bay all morning crowded in on her.

She felt as if she was balancing precariously on a tightrope, and far below her lay a swamp populated by sucking,
flesh-eating
animals. The support behind her was the memory of her father, a rigid, upright figure who had dominated her childhood and whose voice she still heard in her dreams. Ahead of her stood Alex; firm, unbending, sure. He had taken her in, loved her, supported her and forgiven her when others might so easily have stood in judgement. The line of her past and future life stretched between them, silvery thin and delicate, strung taut with the tension of her existence.

Alex had told her to be strong and silent, and she would be, not least because it was easier to say nothing. If she once started to talk, who knew where it would take her? She had a lifetime of words stacked up inside her, unspoken and jumbled together into a confusion of memories and fantasies so strong that she sometimes had difficulty deciding what was truth and what had actually happened. The words were just one of the bundles she carried with her on her precarious journey that stretched out between the only two real men in her life.

To maintain her balance she needed to hold on to her
self-control
; it was what Alex expected, yet it remained her most difficult challenge. Below her in the swamp, monsters snapped at her. They were the creatures of her nightmares: sticky tongues in panting faces, all with the same bestial lust in their eyes, the same lust that she saw reflected in the expressions of men all around her, every day. They were predators all. An image of James FitzGerald suddenly ambushed her. He was a hard and dangerous man, one of nature’s natural predators and a hunter whom she viewed with a blend of fear and careful respect. She had a well-developed sixth sense that recognised power and danger in others, and she felt it strongly in him. He was an unknown and unpredictable element in her universe, and one that she would prefer to avoid.

As if the thought of him had somehow conjured him up, she heard heavy, hurrying footsteps behind her and turned to see FitzGerald bearing down on her.

‘I thought I saw you go by. This is a stroke of luck, it saves me a journey.’

‘Hello, James. I’m very busy, what do you want?’

‘Now that’s no way to treat an old friend!’ His tone was one of mock annoyance, but Sally’s stomach contracted painfully.

‘What’s the matter, Sally? You’ve gone pale.’

‘I’m fine, just in a hurry.’ She stopped abruptly and turned to him, determined to show no fear.

‘What is it you want?’

FitzGerald looked about at the shoppers and strollers who bustled around them in the pedestrianised area.

‘It’s a little bit public here, don’t you think? Let’s go up Castle Hill. It’s only a few minutes away.’

Castle Hill was an area of lawn and walkways that rose up steeply behind the High Street. A wrought-iron kissing gate guarded the path to its summit, on which stood the lovingly restored remains of the castle that had once dominated the valley around Harlden. Thick, close-cropped green grass covered the whole hill, except for the few paths, and urbanised rabbits huddled in bunches wherever early-lunching office workers had left a space.

It was a typical English spring day; sunshine with the threat of sudden showers and enough of a wind to keep coats on people’s backs, but the hill was busy, clearly busier than FitzGerald had expected. He muttered under his breath as she walked silently beside him, and they had reached the top before they found a place private enough for the conversation he clearly wanted to have. They walked into the shadows of the
twelfth-century
keep walls, which rose open to the sky. FitzGerald leant back confidently against the stones and smiled slowly at Sally. She stared back, saying nothing, but a cold dread of the inevitable grew inside her that she recognised from childhood and her father’s late-night return from the pub.

‘You never did ask me how I came to have those photographs of you and Alan.’

FitzGerald spoke with a mock innocence that put Sally on immediate alert. She still said nothing.

‘I’ve had you watched, Sally, on and off since you appeared as Alex’s surprise fiancée. I never did trust the coroner’s verdict on Alan’s death. It was nothing I had planned, so I looked to the next most obvious culprits: you, Alexander and Graham.’

Sally’s stomach was knotted so tightly now that she could
taste bile in her throat. A group of three office girls walked into the hollow keep, chatty, pretty and cold in the shadow of the stone walls. The wind gusted through empty windows and the gaping archway where the grand entrance doors had once stood, impregnable. The girls looked about them, shivered collectively and left. FitzGerald waited until he was sure that they were out of earshot. He was about fifteen feet away from where Sally stood in a slanted patch of sunshine that made her hair gleam like a beacon in the gloomy keep.

‘I didn’t think it was worth having you followed all the time, which was an error of judgement on my part. I had one man cover you, Alex and Graham, because I didn’t want my interest too widely known. Consequently I don’t know where you were when Arthur Fish and Amanda Bennett died, but I can be absolutely sure that Alex wasn’t involved.

‘Similarly I wasn’t having you followed on the day Graham died.’ He paused and scrutinised her face for the faintest change of expression. There was none, so he abandoned his nonchalant slouch against the wall and walked over to her. She stared resolutely over his shoulder, tall enough in her high heels to be almost at eye level. He put a single finger under her chin and tilted her head upwards and around until she could no longer avoid his gaze.

‘As I said, I wasn’t having you followed on the day Graham died,’ he smiled into her wide eyes, ‘but I did have someone following him.’ His smile grew into a snarl that exposed his sharp canines and he dropped his hand. There was no mistaking the menace in his eyes now. ‘Would you like to see the photographs he took? I have a spare set here. The man I used is very good – well you know that, you’ve seen his work before. I’ll give you one thing, Sally, you’re ingenious. I don’t know how you persuaded him to join you for a breakfast picnic – and in such a remote location. You’re amazing.’

She remained silent, remembering Alex’s words. Under no circumstances was she going to reveal to the evil man in front of her that it had been remarkably easy to arrange her meeting with Graham. She had simply refused to go to his hotel, and he had been so determined to confront her that he had agreed to her meeting place. She’d waited for him in the early morning,
having caught the bus into the nearby village first. It had been stupid to bother with the fruit and vegetable order; even more careless to ask him to collect it as she waited, head scarf pulled forward, in the passenger seat of his car. But it had reassured Graham, that little touch of domesticity, and he had been visibly more relaxed after he had returned to the car. She had despised him for his weakness.