Innocent Blood (11 page)

Fenwick’s heart sank.

‘When was it due in?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

‘The day we get back.’

‘But that’s five weeks away – why the rush now?’

‘Because I want it to be the best project ever in the whole school,’ she said righteously, prompting Chris to mimic her until Fenwick told him to stop.

‘Good for you,’ he said, hoping that he didn’t sound as relieved as he felt. He’d burnt the midnight oil on too many school projects to hear the word without wincing.

‘But,’ she sighed dramatically and leant back in her chair, ‘I’ve only just started and I need to do at least ten sides to get a good mark. Mrs Parry said so.’

‘Do you need help?’

She twisted her head and smiled up at him from under her fringe, looking exactly like her mother.

‘Would you? I need some stuff off the Internet, and I’ve got to have at least a page in my own handwriting so that will take ages, and draw a picture, and trace a map…’

‘What
is
this project? It sounds enormous.’

She turned to the front page and pointed to the beautifully designed graphics, which must have taken her hours to create. He read the colourful title:

‘Did you make that up?’

‘Yes.’ She glowed with pride. ‘I invented the alliteration myself,’ she said, trying unsuccessfully to make her choice of vocabulary sound casual.

‘Good word.’

‘Oh, I know lots more. Do you want to hear them?’

‘Boring!’ Chris gave an exaggerated yawn.

‘Perhaps another time. Here’s your chocolate.’

And despite the sugar rush they both remained calm and well behaved until bedtime, turning the evening into one of those that reminded Fenwick of why it was worth trying to be home at a reasonable time occasionally.

But after the children were tucked up in bed his mind returned to work. He couldn’t get the faces of Malcolm, Paul and Sam out of his mind. He’d been forced to hand the investigation into Malcolm’s death over to Harlden but he’d kept a copy of more than the poor boy’s photograph. A duplicate of the whole file lay in his desk drawer; in his mind it was as current as the Choir Boy material that now swamped MCS. There was a link, his gut told him, and he felt certain that The Downs Golf Club, with its illustrious members, was involved somehow.

As he drained the glass of the wine he’d allowed himself with his solitary dinner, he made a silent promise to the boys’ families that he was not going to give up on them, no matter what it meant, nor how many rules he would need to bend to live up to his commitment.

The congregation at Harlden parish church, St Magnus the Martyr, was considerably larger and noisier than usual despite the weather. Instead of quiet conversation or contemplative prayer, the nave was filled with sounds of righteous indignation. One of their most respected members had been accused of attempted murder and all for saving the life of a bungling policeman!

Sympathetic glances were cast surreptitiously, like loose change to a beggar, at Major Maidment’s back as he sat three rows from the front in his customary pew. Margaret Pennysmith sat beside him like an overprotective poodle. From time to time someone would walk down and pat him on the shoulder or shake his hand. The gestures of support provoked a brief smile from lips that were drawn too tight but his eyes remained shadowed.

The atmosphere was similar but the outrage more explicit at the golf club, where expletives against the police were loud despite the assistant chief constable’s presence at a corner table.

Maidment was served extra roast beef and two of the chef’s excellent Yorkshire puddings. He was plied with drinks and wasn’t allowed to buy a round. While he could manage the alcohol the food was an embarrassment. The foil-wrapped parcel of pink sliced beef that was thrust into his hands as he left the table wouldn’t be used ‘for a nice sandwich’ at suppertime but rather to feed next-door’s dog, a dachshund that was gaining weight almost as quickly as the major was losing it.

The whisky in the bar afterwards went down too easily and by five o’clock he wasn’t in a fit state to drive. Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards, an old friend, offered him a lift.

‘No thank you. I remember when you took me home in 1982 after we’d celebrated England’s win over Australia. By golly, Broad was on good form; I can still remember his 162. I also recall that we almost ended up in the river because you were plastered. Just because you can walk and talk straight no matter what you drink doesn’t mean you can still drive straight!’

‘You and your bloody memory, Maidment. Don’t you ever forget anything?’

‘I can’t remember.’

It was his first attempt at a joke in a long time.

The following day the major visited Stanley, driven by guilt and duty in equal measure. His old comrade was back in bed, a drip in his arm. Stanley’s eyes flickered open when Maidment arrived but closed again almost at once. Remission, that fickle visitor, bringer of hope laced with fear, had departed without warning as suddenly as it had arrived.

An orderly brought tea in thick green cups on matching saucers. The major drank his while Stanley’s cooled on the bedside locker. He finished his cup and waited another fifteen minutes before he stood to leave. Stanley woke with a start and stared at him in confusion. Then his eyes cleared and his lips twitched in a warm smile at odds with his pallor.

‘All present and correct, sir.’

Maidment couldn’t tell whether it was a joke or morphine-induced hallucination.

‘Not a peep out of the bastards all night, Captain.’

Maidment rallied quickly.

‘Very good, Sergeant. Keep those eyes open.’

‘They won’t sneak past me, sir!’

‘I’m certain they won’t; good man.’

Stanley’s eyes closed as abruptly as they’d opened and Maidment eased his way around the bottom of the bed towards the door.

‘She hasn’t come, you know, my girl.’

Stanley was back in the present, speaking with none of his previous bravado.

‘Hasn’t she? I tried, old man, I really did.’

‘Would you see her again for me, Major? Please?’

He could see the suspicion of tears on Stanley’s lower lashes.

‘She was my own special girl, my little rosebud.’ Stanley’s voice broke and he coughed in an attempt to cover the breach of etiquette. ‘Do it for your old pal.’

Maidment thought of the dreary house with its miasma of decay and of the woman inside it with manic eyes. Most of all, he thought about her eyes. God could be cruel in his choice of punishment.

He’d expected to be able to serve his penance by doing good deeds for whatever remained of his life but it was obvious now that much more was required. He was being forced to confront a mother’s agony born out of endless uncertainty for which he felt responsible.

‘I’ll go back and try again.’ He patted the old soldier’s dry hand and watched the blue lips whisper a thank you.

It was the last time he saw Stanley alive. Around lunchtime the next day, before he could revisit the daughter, news reached him that his old friend had died. He was surprised to learn from the relative who called him that the funeral had already been arranged for the coming Thursday. Apparently, a cousin worked in the funeral trade and had been planning ahead, with only the date to ink in.

On the day of the funeral he pulled his dark suit out of the cupboard, brushed it, pressed the trousers and tied the regimental tie over a laundered white shirt. He pinned a black armband around his sleeve. His medals stayed in the drawer. No doubt some would be worn today but he thought it a touch pompous for the occasion. There was an element of routine in his dressing, the gestures increasingly practised in recent years. He gave a last buff to his shoes and left the house, clasping his hat in his hand.

The chapel of the crematorium was full with the rustle of dry whispers as old friends shook hands too firmly and exchanged platitudes they’d used too many times before.

Maidment tried to ignore the hush as he moved forward. He’d been asked to speak. His addresses in memory of departed comrades had become something of a tradition at their funerals. A perfect memory meant that he was able to conjure up the ghost of the younger man as he recalled jokes, acts of bravery or compassion, and anecdotes that briefly brought the deceased back to life.

Despite the nerves he suffered beforehand and the effect they had on his digestion, he was usually grateful for the opportunity to pay a final compliment to an old friend. Today, the guilt and fear that had been eroding his spirits since he’d learnt that Stanley was Paul Hill’s grandfather had robbed him of the gift of spontaneous, kind reminiscences. He tapped the pages of notes in his pocket and tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t freeze when he rose to speak.

‘Maidment! Over here.’

He turned to see Edwards beckon him to an empty seat at the front; he was wearing his medals.

‘Bin saving it for you. Expect you’re speaking? Me too, a few words as his senior officer, y’know.’ He had reached the rank of lieutenant-colonel, a fact to which he drew the major’s attention whenever the opportunity arose.

The major swallowed bile. He looked across at the family mourners in the opposite seats, didn’t recognise anyone and started to breathe easier.

Stanley’s coffin was close by. Maidment concentrated on it and closed his eyes. His silent prayers for forgiveness were interrupted by a flutter of excitement. Faces turned towards the back of the chapel and swivelled forward again with expressions of disapproval. Sarah Hill had arrived. She was wearing an old camel-hair coat and worn boots. A plastic shopping bag was clutched to her chest protectively.

A woman stood up and helped her carefully into the front pew, easing aside other relatives reluctant to make room. Maidment snapped his eyes front and focused on the blue curtain that screened the hole that led to the fire. His bowels constricted and he had to concentrate hard to bring them back under control.

Throughout the service he could feel the woman’s eyes on him. When he stood up his knees were shaking. He unfolded his notes and uncharacteristically read from them. His voice choked slightly and he noticed sympathetic glances. He started by reciting a poem that Stanley had written on his retirement from the regiment, an easy trick but it got them laughing. After that the words flowed more easily. Edwards stood up later, sounding suitably grand as he offered condolences to the family. Then there was a hymn and a prayer and it was all over. As the coffin slid along the rollers and the blue curtain parted the major closed his eyes.

Edwards gave him a lift to the White Harte where the wake was to be held.

‘Can’t believe this rain,’ he remarked, as he sliced through standing water and turned into the car park. ‘You were amusing once again, Maidment, though I was surprised to see you upset.’

‘He was honest and decent, and no more inclined to swing the lead than any other man.’

‘Yes, but he had a cruel sense of humour. D’you remember when he switched Sergeant Cole’s vitamin pills for senna tablets. Poor bugger thought he had dysentery.’ Edwards’ shoulders juddered as he laughed without sound.

‘Now Cole
was
a bastard. I seem to recall that nobody bothered to tell him about the switch until the bottle had run out and he thought he was dying. Lucky for Stanley he’d moved on by then otherwise we’d have been attending his funeral a long time go.’

‘Too true.’ Edwards turned into the car park, narrowly missing a teenage girl who clearly hadn’t dressed for the rain. ‘Bloody hell! Your type, wouldn’t you say?’ Edwards leered at the major who averted his eyes.

Maidment scanned the room as he entered and exhaled in relief. There was no sign of Sarah’s distinctive mane of unruly greying hair. There were a few muckers and mates from the regiment. Inevitably, they’d congregated around the stairs that led to the bar as Stanley’s niece, the organiser of the wake, was a rigid teetotaller and had arranged soft drinks and tea only. Undeterred, a supply chain had been established and reinforcements flowed along it with comforting regularity.

The major drank freely; he wasn’t driving and his appetite for alcohol had grown recently. The whisky dulled his reaction to Edwards’ increasingly off-colour jokes. After an hour he decided that he’d had enough. There was a bus that he might catch if he left at once. He bade a solemn goodbye to the principal mourners.

She was waiting for him in the shelter of the porch outside.

‘Major, wait; I need to talk to you.’

‘Mrs Hill, my condolences but I’m in somewhat of a hurry.’

‘I must talk to you; I think you can help me.’

‘Madam, I am equally certain that I cannot.’

‘That’s so typical of your sort,’ she almost spat at him. ‘All fine words but I should’ve known you’d be as bad as the rest.’

Maidment felt the heat of embarrassment in his face.

‘If I thought I could assist you in any way, I would – but really, I can’t.’

‘But I need you to find him. These are the papers about his disappearance: press cuttings, the book that bastard wrote – terrible things he said in there about my boy but I kept it anyway. Here.’

She thrust the carrier bag towards him but he ignored it.

‘My dear woman…’

‘Don’t you “dear woman” me! You’re rich and privileged. If I’d had your advantages I’d’ve found my Paul by now.’

‘Mrs Hill, the police looked into Paul’s disappearance very thoroughly. If they haven’t found him in the last twenty-five years then there’s nothing left for me to do.’

‘The police? Oh sure, they were all over it at first but then…’ Her eyes filled and she scrubbed at them with her sleeve before opening her handbag in a fruitless search.

Maidment offered her a square of laundered linen that made her white blouse look grey. His bus was long gone but he was still desperate to leave her, to return to the privacy of his house where he could pour himself a whisky in an attempt to silence his own demons.

‘I’m sorry, it’s difficult still but it’s important you know everything if you’re going to track him down.’

‘I…’

She ignored him and carried on.

‘They did look for him at first but then the stories started. I don’t know where they came from; wicked lies but they kept repeating them. I blame the school, that headmistress never did like me and Gordon – that’s Paul’s dad as was. Useless man; he gave up searching after a year. It’s as well he went away. If he’d stayed I don’t know what I’d have done, seeing him sitting in that chair all day.’

Her eyes radiated hatred. He understood now the ripple of unease that had greeted her arrival at the funeral. Over the years she must have approached every member of the family, convinced that they would be able to succeed where she had failed in the quest to find her son. It was better after all not to become involved, to be strong now.

‘I regret that I cannot help you, Mrs Hill.’

‘But you must.’ She clutched his hand, which he withdrew fastidiously.

‘No.’ The old firmness of command was back in his voice and she recognised that she’d lost. The light that had flared briefly in her eyes died and they went flat again.

‘At least take the papers and read them. You’ll agree the police failed me and my boy. Please?’

Her pleading was pathetic. It had more impact than her anger but he hardened his heart.

‘They’ll be better looked after if you keep them,’ he said gently but she thrust the ageing carrier bag into his arms and let go.

He caught it reflexively then realised what he’d done. She was too defeated to acknowledge her small victory and he walked away without another word.