Innocent Blood (15 page)

‘This is all rot of course, Jeremy,’ Mitchell said, not quite meeting his eye. ‘I’ll have you out of here in no time.’

‘We’ll see. Sometimes life is more complicated than we would either like or expect. But I can assure you, whatever they say, whatever “evidence” they produce, I did not murder that poor boy.’

Mitchell nodded without conviction and glanced at his watch.

‘I’m sorry, Andrew, but the Hill case isn’t within MCS’s remit any more than the Eagleton one is. If you decide to pursue the Choir Boy investigation further – and heaven knows I’d support you if you decided that it was time to call it a day – then that’s one thing, but to divert highly skilled resources into the investigation of two cold cases simply isn’t appropriate.’

So that’s what this was all about. Harper-Brown wanted the Choir Boy team closed down. Even though Fenwick had already concluded it would have to happen he’d hoped that the discovery of Malcolm Eagleton’s body followed by the unearthing of another boy’s clothes would have bought him more time.

‘But we know from the fingerprint evidence that the clothing in the sack is Paul Hill’s and I’d already identified the boy as fitting the profile for the paedophile ring.’

‘Profile! Please, Andrew, we both know that you have arbitrarily defined a five-year age range for the victims and limited your search to Caucasian children because of a passing comment by the Yanks. That is hardly a profile.’

Fenwick took a deep breath and was glad that they were speaking by phone. It infuriated him that Harper-Brown was able to remain calm when he was eaten up with anger. He forced his voice steady. If he wanted to retain a link to the Hill investigation a little grovelling would be in a good cause.

‘Of course you’re right, sir,’ he even managed to force a laugh, ‘and I am reviewing Choir Boy…’

‘Good man.’

‘…If nothing happens in the next week then I’ll be suspending active inquiries pending further developments.’

‘That is absolutely the right call.’ It was rare for Fenwick to hear approval in H-B’s tone and it encouraged him to try his luck.

‘During the next week I’d like to keep an eye on what unfolds here in Harlden.’ He rushed on before the ACC could interrupt. ‘You see, if there is a chance that Maidment was somehow involved in Choir Boy it wouldn’t look good for us to miss it. He’s already high profile and this is going to get carpet coverage in the papers. If it came out later that we’d missed a connection to a wider ring of abusers we’d look foolish.’

‘Hmm.’ Harper-Brown had a well-developed sense of self-preservation and a fine political nose. ‘What role would you want to play?’

‘I’d like to lead the interrogation of Maidment. I think my style will work well with him and it will give me a chance to test out any wider involvement without necessarily alerting him to what we already know.’

‘And Choir Boy is to cease in a week?’

It was a trade.

‘Yes, unless there are new developments.’

‘Very well then but tread carefully in Harlden. You can take the lead in interviewing but in everything else it’s Blite’s call.’

Fenwick decided not to mention that it was Nightingale who had made the arrest. The ACC would find out soon enough.

‘Er, understood. Harlden will lead the investigation into both Malcolm Eagleton and Paul Hill’s murders.’

‘It’s irritating that we have the body of one boy but scant evidence, and ample evidence for the other boy but no body. Are you absolutely sure that Eagleton didn’t go to Downside? It would be a lot neater for the two discoveries to be linked.’

‘The first thing we did was check Malcolm’s school records and he never went there; his parents are sure he never owned the clothes we found. But DNA tests are being run against both boys so we will – or rather Harlden will – be able to confirm our assumptions as soon as the results come through.’

‘Hmm. Well, if we really can’t make a connection…’

The ACC’s voice trailed away and Fenwick decided for the second time to apply discretion; so he didn’t insist that there could be some sort of connection between the two boys and that he was still determined to find it in the week of freedom on Choir Boy remaining to him. He had won his right to be involved in the Maidment interrogation and that was result enough for one phone call.

‘Well, at least I didn’t blow up at the ACC this time,’ he muttered as he left the visitors’ office in Harlden, startling a passing administrator. In the stairwell he paused and then climbed up a flight rather than down. Quinlan was about to leave when he caught him.

‘I’ve come to say that I’m sorry, sir. I was out of order.’

‘I’m glad you’ve realised. You’ve got to watch your righteous indignation, Andrew. It’s an Achilles heel and you know it.’

‘You’re right but the ACC gets under my skin.’

‘Get over it. He won’t be there for ever; he’s far too ambitious. Think of it as a temporary challenge not a permanent problem.’

‘Is that what you do?’ It was a cheeky remark and he expected Quinlan to treat it as a joke so he was taken aback by his response.

‘Push the door to.’ The superintendent waited until it was shut. ‘Sit down. I’m going to give you two pieces of advice and I’m not going to elaborate on either, you understand?’

‘Sure.’

Fenwick shrugged but didn’t feel concerned. He’d received the lecture that he was sure was about to follow too many times before.

‘Number one, your attitude will get in the way of your promotion if you don’t manage it. I thought you’d improved since working with the Met – they even complimented your political skill, which is a first – but when you go off the deep end like you just did with me you undo all your good work.

‘Off the record there are three other candidates from West Sussex up for promotion to superintendent, all of them strong contenders, but the ACC and the chief constable are going to advise the appointments board to make up only two.’

Fenwick’s mouth went dry and the smirk he’d been trying hard to disguise vanished of its own accord.

‘Why?’

‘The local police authority has concerns about our ratios. Compared to the average for England and Wales we are “over-managed” to use their term. It’s nonsense, of course, averages mean nothing but the authority doesn’t want
anything
to attract attention to West Sussex given the mood the home secretary seems to be in these days.’

‘How do I stack up, sir, if you can tell me?’

Quinlan paused then nodded as if answering his own question, not Fenwick’s.

‘I know I can rely on your discretion so I’ll tell you, but if this ever leaks out…’

‘It won’t; I give you my word, sir.’

‘You can’t tell
anyone
, Andrew, understand, particularly someone else in the force.’

Fenwick nodded vigorously then stopped suddenly, confused by the emphasis.

‘Of course.’

‘On paper you come out as the leading candidate. Your arrest and conviction records are strong, your management experience is good and your recent work with MCS has really raised your profile. Also the Met gives you a good write-up, though that can be a double-edged sword at times.’

‘You said “on paper”.’

‘Spoken words count for as much as written reports. As well as your record and the assessment programmes you’ve been on, the board will take verbal references. Given the quality of the competition it’s my personal judgement that the verbals will count a lot.’

Fenwick tried to swallow but found he had no saliva.

‘Who will they consult?’ His voice sounded thin in his own ears.

‘Me, MacIntyre, Cator I should imagine as he’s written to them already, and of course the ACC.’

There was a silence loaded with significance. Both men had faces for poker so their expressions didn’t change but inside Fenwick felt sick. When Quinlan remained silent he said the only thing he could think of to break the tension.

‘You said you had two pieces of advice?’

‘Ah yes.’ To his surprise Quinlan flushed. ‘This is hard for me to raise, Andrew, and it’s all I’m ever going to say on the matter. For
both
your sakes, be very careful about how you act with regard to Inspector Nightingale. It does neither of you any good when you act as her advocate; in fact it does the opposite by creating and fuelling unhelpful conjecture. As to the reality of the situation, as you have moved to MCS, I have no interest whatsoever – that is your own…affair.’

‘Sir?’ Fenwick was completely baffled and let it show in his face. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ve said all I intend to on the matter. Think about it.’

‘But…?’

‘Enough. I’m already late and I’m told you have a suspect to interview. Let me know how it goes.’

Fenwick walked down the stairs slowly, pausing frequently as his thoughts went so deep as to stop his steps. The news about his promotion prospects was a shock but not a total surprise whereas the reference to Nightingale just confused him. But he wasn’t a stupid man and he was used to solving puzzles, so by the time he’d reached the security door that opened onto the interview rooms he’d worked it out. There was nothing between them but an easy friendship, or so he told himself; they met up sometimes for a drink, and she came to supper with the children about once a month. But of course people were going to talk; of course there would be speculation about the nature of their relationship. It was ironic that it should be now.

No wonder he’d just been warned off, particularly with his promotion in the balance and hers the subject of jealous comments about preferment. He’d been an idiot to assume there wouldn’t be rumours. Perhaps she had been naïve as well but he was the senior officer and he should’ve known better. It had been self-indulgent of him to continue to foster their friendship just because he enjoyed it so much. If he really cared about her, and to his surprise he realised that he did, very much, it was up to him to put a safe distance between them as quickly as possible. His emotions were in turmoil and his face grim as he punched in the code and made his way towards interview room three.

He found Nightingale waiting outside the interview room. Her body language radiated impatience.

‘Is there somewhere you can brief me?’ He ignored Nightingale’s rapid blink at his tone.

‘Here.’ She signalled an empty interview room opposite.

‘I’ve spoken to the ACC and it’s agreed that I will be directing interview strategy personally.’ Nightingale looked shaken but remained silent. ‘What’s happened so far?’

‘Nothing. He insisted on a lawyer so I’d only just started. So far he’s told us that he’s not guilty and has nothing further to say.’

‘Have you confronted him with the evidence?’

Nightingale tried to meet his eye, obviously confused by his abrupt manner and distance. Fenwick took a sheet of paper from a folder he was carrying and studied it instead. It was the fingerprint results that had prompted Maidment’s arrest, a copy of which had found their way prematurely to the ACC while Fenwick had been in court.

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. We don’t want to be premature, particularly if he chooses not to cooperate. What background have you gathered?’

‘His service record is impeccable. He was decorated after action in Borneo and went on to become military liaison officer in France before a posting to Washington of some sort. There’s not a lot about that on his file. He retired his commission twenty-three years ago and became secretary at The Downs Golf Club on the recommendation of his one-time commanding officer who was a member, a Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Edwards. He was also a non-executive director of three private companies until he retired three years ago when his wife became ill.

‘He’s an active member of the Baptist Church, has split a substantial proportion of his wealth between his only son and daughter-in-law and a number of cancer charities, and purchased a small house with the balance. He tithes one tenth of his income to the church, lives modestly and has no debts.’

‘A perfect citizen,’ Fenwick remarked. ‘But I don’t believe in perfection. Has he no vices?’

‘There are rumblings that he had a mistress before his wife contracted cancer,’ Nightingale said.

‘Not all rumours are true, we need proof.’ Fenwick avoided her eye and continued to look at the fingerprint evidence.

‘There are three sets of prints on the outer sack, only Maidment’s on the inner one,’ he read out. ‘But we haven’t received the DNA analysis from the blood yet and may not be lucky enough to get a positive match. Apparently the blazer was soaked from several sources so it may be impossible to extract usable DNA. Were you running the interview before I arrived?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, then you can join me but I’ll take the lead and decide if and when to use the evidence against him. Send somebody to make sure the lab knows we need the DNA analysis urgently. And I want to see a copy of their report as soon as it’s available. There’s been one cock-up in keeping me informed and I won’t tolerate another one, for any reason. Understood? Good.’ He turned towards the interview room then paused.

‘Oh, will you be involving Bob Cooper on this one now that he’s been cleared by the internal inquiry?’

‘Ah, yes, I could do. I see no reason why not.’

‘That’s good because you’ll need someone of his experience on this one.’

Fenwick ignored her sharp intake of breath at the implied insult and put his papers in order, leaving Nightingale with flaming cheeks. If his back was burning as he walked away he gave no indication that he felt it.

Alison Reynolds sat in the middle of the conference room and stared at the photographs the surveillance team had taken over the previous months. It was the third time that she’d rearranged the boards looking for patterns. The first time the pictures had been set out in the order in which they’d been taken; then she had re-grouped them by location. Neither arrangement had produced any new insight. She had grown so familiar with the scenes that she was no longer seeing them so she told herself to take a break and went to buy a cup of tea in the canteen.

This was her fourth consecutive night of overtime. The money was welcome, particularly as that bastard husband of hers had stopped paying child support yet again and she was back to being the sole source of income for her little family. But her prolonged absences were causing pressure at home. She was lucky that her father and son got on as well as they did, but one was infirm and the other a typical twelve-year-old, which meant neither of them was very good in the kitchen or at keeping the house in order. They’d run out of her standby food from the freezer – good- quality home-made meals they enjoyed and that stopped James becoming so hyperactive – and were now relying on cheap ready meals. The additives weren’t good for either of them and she felt guilty.

Alison forced herself back up the stairs at seven o’clock. There was no sign of Fenwick but then she was aware that he’d charged off to Harlden and wasn’t expected back, whereas Clive had disappeared with no explanation and that annoyed her. They both knew they only had five days left to find something new or suspend the case and his apparent indifference had shifted the responsibility for handling Fenwick’s expectations onto her shoulders. Clive was behaving as if he’d started another relationship, which was a bit quick seeing as his wife had only left him two months before and he’d supposedly been gutted by her infidelity.

‘You’re just jealous,’ she told the empty room.

She hadn’t had so much as a sniff of a steady boyfriend in the past twelve months and despaired of finding another partner. When would she ever have the time to begin looking?

‘Right. Boards,’ she said and turned to confront them yet again.

This time she arranged the pictures almost on a whim, without any logical sequence but based on photos she thought ‘went together’ rather like sorting a giant album. Looking at the hundreds of images it went through her mind that she must be mad to keep looking. There was nothing to help her eye through the deliberate chaos she’d created so her gaze skimmed the images, stopping briefly on aspects she hadn’t noticed before.

In one picture Alec was selling an old Eurhythmics LP that she’d bought when it came out. It had been a favourite and seeing it again tugged a smile from the corners of her mouth. In another, she saw him pass over a single copy of the D–E part of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
and wondered what on earth someone would want with that.

Alison walked along the boards grazing on the minutiae, indulging her curiosity. When she came to a picture of Alec selling the Eurhythmics LP again she was about to take it down as a duplicate when she paused in the act of pulling out the pin. He was wearing gloves and a scarf. She hurried back to the first board and found the image again. Here he was in a short-sleeved T-shirt; it was summer. The photos had been taken at different times.

With a building sense of excitement Alison went through every board and pulled out those where products appeared to have been sold more than once. After an hour’s solid work she had five piles. The same Eurhythmics LP had exchanged hands five times; she knew it was identical because there was a stain on the cover. A battered hardback of the
Wind in the Willows
had been sold ten times
; Lord of the Flies
six times; an obscure punk band LP – Vomit Psycho II – had been bought by the same person on three occasions; and a Stevie Wonder special edition single appeared a grand total of twenty times.

For every item she confirmed with the aid of a magnifying glass that it was the same piece being resold. She put each set in date order and then concentrated on the purchasers. After five minutes she needed pen and paper to keep track. At nine she called Fenwick at home, ducked his nagging about working late and told him she had some news.

‘Alec Ball’s using his market stall as a front for something. Some of his sales aren’t legit.’

‘But that’s too obvious. It was the first thing the previous team checked out. And we’ve browsed his stuff time and again since as “customers” – it’s all cheap books and old LPs. He’s never taken the bait when we’ve trawled for porn or paedophilia.’

‘So how do you explain him selling the same copy of some records repeatedly in the period we’ve had him under surveillance?’

She talked Fenwick through what she’d found; her excitement was contagious.

‘But this is incredible – how did I miss it?’ he asked, unconscious of his arrogance.

‘Wasn’t just you. We all overlooked it. It’s your point about wood for the trees. And to be fair, there was always a gap before the item was resold so it wouldn’t have been in recent memory, even assuming we’d spotted it.’

‘So what’s inside those covers?’

‘Exactly. And who’s buying them?’

‘Are there any repeat purchasers?’

‘A few. Again, they don’t come very often but there are enough to follow up.’

‘This is excellent work, Alison. Tell the rest of the team I owe them a beer.’

‘Er…right.’

‘First thing in the morning I’ll be in Harlden interviewing Maidment…’

‘I thought we’d had to pass that on.’

‘I’m directing the interviewing while Choir Boy’s still live and thanks to your breakthrough that could be for longer than anyone’s expecting.’ He chuckled, sounding remarkably relaxed. ‘As soon as I’m done there I’ll come back for a team briefing. Can you set it up for one o’clock?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

‘And Alison, you don’t need to be in much before then, OK? This could be a long haul and you need to pace yourself.’

You’re a fine one to talk,
she thought but didn’t say as she finished the call.

Despite his explicit instructions to go home Alison went back to the conference room and finished making notes to use in the morning briefing. Then she placed the photos in groups on the boards and annotated them so that she wouldn’t forget anything. It was gone eleven when she’d finished and she felt exhausted. She’d have to be up at six to do some ironing and see to her father before preparing breakfast and lunches for the day. Even so she hesitated before she left.

There were some boards that she hadn’t yet studied with fresh eyes; the ones with all the recent missing boys from West Sussex. It broke her heart to look at them. So many; such a waste of life. Of course most would be runaways, nothing more sinister, but even so she thought of them as victims – maybe of their families, society, or their own characters. Her son was twelve, same age as the youngest on the board. If he ever ran away…her heart skipped a beat.

Maybe she
would
come in late tomorrow. She’d walk him to school, making sure not to do any embarrassing ‘mum stuff’, as he called it, and then she’d go shopping for their favourite foods. They’d have a bang-up supper tomorrow and she’d make sure she was home in time to cook it.

Sam didn’t have to work again for a week. He was allowed to stay in bed as long as he liked. William visited regularly, bringing little treats that had Sam more confused than grateful.

On the day after Nathan’s visit he’d brought him a giant bar of chocolate but Sam felt too ill to eat it. His body ached and he could barely swallow the sips of water that he craved. Most of the time he slept, deep, dark draughts of sleep that plunged him into nightmares from which he couldn’t wake.

Somebody came to see him on the second day, a man he didn’t recognise who carried a black bag and examined him. He was barely conscious. Despite his thirst his throat was too swollen to drink the water William tried to force on him. Sam was moved to a room of his own and the man stuck a drip in his arm. He could see him talking to William and once he thought he shouted but he couldn’t understand the words and had no interest in them anyway.

Sometime later that day William changed the bag above the drip. Sam was awake enough to notice and starting to feel hungry. He still couldn’t swallow properly but William brought him a cold yoghurt drink and he managed it all. In the evening he had mashed potato with gravy and some ice cream.

When he woke up the next day he had a headache but the pain in his body had eased. He was very hungry and although he still couldn’t eat properly he sucked down scrambled eggs and chopped up the bacon so that he could swallow without too much discomfort. William came to see him again. This time he brought comics and a radio as well as sweets. He sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and ruffled his hair gently. Not a lot was said but Sam got the impression that William was pleased with him. He managed sausages and chips for lunch and a burger for tea. There were no more drugs and Sam wondered whether the man with the bag had insisted they be stopped.

Next day he started to worry about when he’d have to work again. The bruises round his throat were greeny-yellow but other than that he looked OK. When William stopped by for one of what had become his regular visits, Sam waited with trepidation to be told that he was due in the room that evening. It didn’t happen. Instead William started a long monologue about life; how sometimes things happened that weren’t meant to but could turn out for the best; about how it was important to recognise these events as opportunities and make the most of them.

The lecture went over Sam’s head. Once he knew he wasn’t expected to work he concentrated on eating his way through the jumbo pack of sweets that William had brought, saving the liquorice wheels till last because they were his favourite. But when William mentioned Nathan’s name he stopped chewing and concentrated.

‘…Not a bad man really. In fact he’s been very good to us. He’s got connections, you see.’

Something in Sam’s face must have betrayed his feelings because William put his hands on his shoulders, not threateningly like normal but in a soft kind of way.

‘I know he hurt you a bit, Sam…’

‘A bit!’

The words were out before Sam could stop them and he flinched instinctively at the anger in William’s eyes. He tensed, ready for the blow but it never came. With obvious effort William kept his cool. Sam was amazed.

‘He didn’t mean it, Sam. It’s never happened before, not even with Jack when he went mental on him. It’s just that…well…it’s you. You’re his type. The word’s out, you see. If any of us end up with someone with your looks we’re to let him know. And he really liked you.’

‘But I’ve been here weeks, William,’ Sam said, emboldened by the apparent unwillingness to hurt him.

To his surprise William flushed and looked guilty.

‘He had Jack.’ He paused uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, best not mention that to him when you next see him.’

‘He’s coming back?’ Sam’s voice held a note of pure terror. ‘He can’t be. He nearly killed me! You don’t let people do that to us. I’ve heard you, kicking men out that go too far, telling them to fuck off and never come back.’

‘Nathan’s different.’

‘He’s a killer, that’s what he is!’ Sam shouted, ‘He…’ but his voice cracked and his throat hurt too much for him to continue.

‘Enough.’ William hit the back of his head hard with his fist so that Sam saw stars. ‘Just because I’ve been decent to you doesn’t mean you can take liberties. Got that?’

Sam felt tears on his cheeks and looked down at the bedding that covered his legs.

‘I said, got that?’ William hit him again.

‘Yes, William,’ he whispered.

‘What? Can’t hear you?’

‘I said, “Yes, William”.’

‘Good boy.’ William ruffled his hair and patted his arm, his temper disappearing as quickly as it had come. Sam continued to cry quietly.

‘Come on,’ William put an arm around his shoulders, ‘it’s not that bad.’

‘He scares me.’

‘He won’t hurt you again, he’s promised me. He got a little bit carried away, that’s all and he’s assured me it’ll never happen again.’

‘But why, William?’ he asked timidly. ‘Why are you letting him back after what he’s done?’

‘Because he’s a very important man, Sam. You don’t know how lucky you are that he’s taken a fancy to you.’ Sam flinched at his words but William continued, unaware. ‘One word from him and a house is either made or it fails. Him liking you is going to be very good for us.’

‘Did he like Jack as well?’

Sam remembered Jack in the days before he disappeared, hunched against the wall, sometimes muttering to himself, avoided by the other customers. There’d been something not right about Jack that made everybody keep their distance and Sam now thought he understood why. William shrugged but answered his question.

‘For a while he liked Jack, though not as much as he likes you. He called you perfect when he rang me yesterday. He wanted to know how you were.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That you were almost your old self, of course.’ William glanced at Sam’s neck and then looked away again quickly.

Silence filled the small room, punctuated by an occasional sniff from Sam.

‘I’m giving you the rest of the week off,’ William said eventually.

Sam wasn’t fooled.

‘When’s he coming back?’

But William didn’t answer. Instead he stood up and patted him on the head.

‘You just relax and enjoy your rest, young man. Don’t worry, we’re going to take extra special care of you.’

When he went out of the room Sam heard a key turn in the lock on the other side of the door. He jumped out of bed and tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge. He shook it anyway and then hammered on the door, kicking it with his bare feet when his fists started to ache. It was no good. He was locked in tight and there was nobody out there who would risk letting him out.

He slumped back on his bed, crying. When the tears ran out he put his head under the bedclothes and sulked, but that became boring after a while and eventually he started to read the comics that William had brought him. By seven o’clock, when his supper was brought to him, he was fast asleep, the remains of a liquorice wheel stuck tight to his hand.