Innocent Blood (34 page)

Hospital routine suited the major; an early start, a limited menu of meals that offered sustenance rather than a lottery of gastronomic experimentation and lights out at a decent hour. It was just like the army except that he had no responsibilities other than to get well. Of course, there was the disturbance of visitors to be accommodated, not that he’d received many in the thirty-six hours since he had been admitted.

Margaret Pennysmith had brought an extravagant basket of fruit that he knew she could ill afford and the gesture had touched him. Her visit had been far more enjoyable than he would have thought a month ago. She wasn’t put off by the ward with its groans and the staring eyes from some of the other beds. And now that she knew him better she no longer indulged in the sort of mindless chatter that had previously passed for conversation. To his surprise they’d discussed current affairs and her opinions extended beyond a reprise of tabloid editorial. From a discussion of the continuing fighting in the Middle East they’d moved easily to the parallels with his own experiences when in the army. She was a good listener. When the nurse came to announce the end of visiting time they’d both been surprised and he’d found himself disappointed when she left.

She gave him a card. Inside he found not only her good wishes but also those of others at the church who still had faith in him, or perhaps who considered him forgiven. There were precious few names but the minister’s was there, which meant that he should expect a visit later. He propped the card up on the nightstand next to the telegram from his son and his daughter-in-law in Australia. Nobody from the golf club had made contact. It saddened but did not surprise him and he was honest enough to know that his reaction in reversed circumstances would probably have been similar.

The doctors had kept the police away to give him time to rebuild some of his strength. They’d told him that they wanted to keep him in for up to six days but he thought that excessive even though he was now dreading a return to the house. Margaret had told him straightforwardly (he would have resented any pussyfooting about) that it had been vandalised. She and the friends who still believed in him had done their best to clean up but she confessed some of the damage was beyond their ability to repair.

No, he was in no hurry to go home. The time in hospital was almost a gift, a respite from an unfriendly world and an opportunity to think. The police would soon be allowed to visit now that he’d had a day of complete rest. Before then there was much to sort out in his mind. He could remember everything of the last interrogation. Each word had cut into him and awoken the guilt he carried. She was smart. Inspector Nightingale had virtually dismissed his involvement in Paul’s death and that had thrown him off guard. None of his prepared defences had worked against her flanking assault. Her accusation that he’d somehow aided a serial child abuser and killer had taken his breath away even before his lung collapsed. If she were correct then no amount of good deeds could wipe out the guilt he must bear.

Was she right? His phone calls had been rash and worse than useless. With no facial expression to provide him with a clue he’d been left straining to detect guilt or evasion in tone alone. As a result he’d ended up analysing every word, every pause or quickly drawn breath. Even now he found himself replaying the conversation over and over again as he lay silently in his bed.

It was the replacement parking permit that disturbed him most. Locker keys were lost regularly but not stickers that attached to the inside of a windscreen. The only time they were loose was when they were newly issued, in August each year. Malcolm Eagleton was taken in August and killed. Even if he could persuade himself that Paul’s death had been an accident the coincidences surrounding Malcolm’s murder wouldn’t go away. And if Malcolm had been taken by someone from Harlden golf club then there was only one man he knew for certain had been involved in Paul’s death. Was it likely that two such men co-existed in a single golf club? He didn’t think so and that meant that…

The major stopped his thoughts from spinning. There was one big question, he told himself, and these other concerns were a distraction. Was he in any way guilty, even inadvertently, of protecting a killer of young boys who’d gone on to abuse and slaughter more?

The question buzzed inside his mind, distracting him from the incidental noises in the ward. When DCI Fenwick had challenged him about his involvement in the other death he’d dismissed the questions easily. He was innocent and at the time could see no connection between Malcolm Eagleton and Paul’s murder but in prison the invisible seeds of doubt had taken root and begun to grow. Prison contained so much pure evil that it had opened his eyes to the fact that seemingly ordinary people were capable of foul acts beyond his comprehension. In battle he had witnessed horror but he’d somehow linked it to the circumstance of war. He could believe that hostilities brought out the worst in people but not peace.

With hindsight he realised that his naïve faith in a fellow officer had been self-imposed. All his rationalisation about duty and loyalty had been so much icing on a bitter, dark cake of guilt that was of his own making. Percy had manipulated him very cleverly. He’d known that he would do him the favour of disposing of the incriminating items because of the hold he’d had over him since discovering his bigamy. Percy had used it well while they were still in the regiment together, to advance his own career and even, on one occasion, to block Maidment’s own advancement. So a phone call asking him to help dispose of some embarrassing items before his wife returned had been a simple matter to accept.

Percy’s thinly veiled threats to reveal his bigamy had been the real reason he’d remained silent despite the growing realisation that he had helped in the cover-up of the death of a child. And now the police interviews had stripped him of his protective self-delusion. When the lady inspector had started her recent attack he’d been without the armour of blind innocence. He groaned.

‘Are you all right, Major? Can I get you some painkillers? You’re perfectly entitled to them, you know.’ The charming nurse paused at the foot of his bed, carrying a urine bottle undisguised by the cloth draped over it.

‘No, I’m perfectly fine thank you, Nurse Shah.’

‘There’s no need to suffer discomfort.’ She smiled at him in a way that brought a lump to his throat and he cursed the loss of control he kept experiencing.

‘Really, no, but thank you.’ He coughed to clear his throat and tried not to wince at the pain that lanced across his ribs.

Dear, oh dear, he needed to get a grip. There were important decisions to be made, and quickly. He’d given his word never to speak about Paul’s death to anyone and he never had, not even to his wife, not even when he’d watched the press conference given by the boy’s parents. Their grief had been terrible, his guilt suitably awful, but he had kept silent, telling himself that there was nothing he could do to bring the boy back.

Over the years the guilt had started to fade and with it the compulsion to reveal what he knew. It was precious little, after all. He’d never seen the body, only the boy’s clothes. A bloody blazer and trousers weren’t proof of death and they had been buried under tons of rubble and concrete before he realised their significance. At the time he’d thought their disposal foolproof, now he cursed the fact that he hadn’t thrown them away at the municipal tip.

When he’d pulled the sack from his car boot and it had torn on the catch he had gone to find another. It had been a cloudy night and the lights for the club car park were on a timer to save money, so he’d walked to the kitchen in the dark, confident of the familiar route. He’d forgotten the builders’ rubble that tripped him up and lacerated his palms so that his blood fell onto the new sack.

When he returned to the car he’d followed its interior lights, his own sight adjusted to the night. That’s when he’d noticed the contents of the bag for the first time. The school crest on the blazer pocket was instantly recognisable, as were the splashes of crimson across it, to an old soldier who was used to seeing blood on a uniform. He’d pulled the jacket out to study and felt the sticky dampness of the felted fabric. One sniff was enough to confirm it was blood. His first reaction was confusion. He knew that there had to be a rational explanation but he hadn’t been able to think of one.

He’d been asked to dispose of some ‘
embarrassing rubbish – so the wife doesn’t see it
’. He’d thought he was removing a kinky costume or sex toys. Confronted by the sight of bloodstained clothing, he’d put everything into the new sack and driven back to Percy’s immediately. He was met at the front door and ushered straight into the study. The radio was on and he’d time to hear a news flash about a missing local boy before it was switched off. It had turned his thoughts to ice and made him decide that he had to be direct.

‘Are you involved in that boy’s disappearance? Did you give me his clothing to dispose of?’

Percy had simply nodded.

‘Good God, man, what were you thinking? We must go to the police.’

‘No. You don’t understand. That boy, Paul Hill, was a nasty piece of work. He’d been blackmailing a friend of mine who was stupid enough to become involved with him. My friend brought him here so that I could persuade Paul to stop. He thought that my authority might impress the boy.’

‘But he’s missing and this blood… Is he dead?’ He’d collapsed into a chair.

Percy said nothing.

‘Is he?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘How did he die?’

‘My friend said it was a terrible accident. Paul carried a knife, a vicious-looking thing, and he started showing off with it, to prove he wasn’t scared, I suppose. I don’t know how it happened but somehow he cut himself and then ran off. It wasn’t a deep cut but about an hour later my friend was back here saying Paul had bled to death right on the edge of my wood.’

As he told his story Percy poured them both large whiskies; he’d thought it odd even then that his friend’s hands weren’t shaking.

‘I promised to help him. He was an old comrade. There was no way I could abandon him.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you go to the police? It was an accident, they would’ve seen that. Your reputation is such that you’d be believed. It’s not too late, we can still call them.’

‘No!’ Percy started to pace. ‘It’s not that simple. There’s a man’s reputation to consider, a decent man who’s done a lot of good for this community. I’ve given him my word.’

‘But he can explain. To do otherwise is madness.’

‘You don’t understand. I said that Paul was a blackmailer, what do you think he’d been blackmailing my friend about?’

‘I have no idea but that doesn’t matter, it will simply help your friend’s case if the boy was a criminal.’

‘My God, you are dense at times. Think, man! What is there between a grown man and a teenage boy that might give rise to blackmail?’

Maidment recalled the shock of those words, the rush of embarrassment and repulsion that must have shown on his face.

‘Exactly. If it came out it would ruin my friend.’

‘How old was Paul?’

‘That’s irrelevant. He was a teenager; a manipulative lying little bastard from a bad home who got what was coming to him and I simply will not let him ruin a decent man’s life.’

‘But it was an accident. The police will realise that when they examine the body; they have ways of telling.’

‘We disposed of the body. What do you think they’ll make of that?’

‘You disposed of it? But that just looks guilty. Why?’

‘It was a panic reaction. I accept that it’s an odd way for innocent men to behave but it was my friend’s idea and I went along.’

‘You can explain all of that to the police.’

‘You really are an innocent, aren’t you? It’s quite extraordinary for a man in your position. Anyway, I told you we disposed of it.’

‘Dig it up.’

‘Impossible, we burnt it.’

‘What? But…but…’ He’d been at a loss for words.

‘Exactly. There is now no proof that his death was accidental. Do you really think the police will believe us?’

Maidment had thought for a long time. His whisky was topped up and he finished the glass without thinking.

‘We must still go to the police,’ he’d said eventually.

‘And tell them what exactly?’

‘What you’ve just told me. It will be difficult, I accept, but there’s no alternative.’

‘What proof do I have to back up the story?’

‘I’ll support you, of course, tell them exactly what’s happened.’ Maidment had looked Percy in the eye to reinforce the strength of his offer. What he saw there made him shudder. Percy regarded him with a mixture of contempt and amusement.

‘What does your word count for, Jeremy? If they knew the truth about your past, about your own little adventure with a girl who turned out to be underage—’

‘She was not, not by the standards of the tribe. And I had no idea…’

Maidment shuddered as he remembered his own lame excuses. Percy had enjoyed his moment of cringing embarrassment, then said, so coldly it had made Maidment shiver, ‘And anyway, why should I get dragged into this at all?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Think about it. You arrive at my house late at night in a state. In the boot of your car you have a sack containing bloodstained boy’s clothing with your fingerprints all over it. You won’t find mine there, I wore gloves. As far as the physical evidence goes, and you know how our police just love “hard evidence”, you’re guiltier than I am.’

‘But you’d vouch for me, surely.’

‘Can’t. I’ve given my word already. Much as I’d like to help you, old man, I’d have to stay quiet. Shall we call the police now? I assume you have an alibi for the whole afternoon and evening to put you in the clear?’

He hadn’t. Percy’s hand had hovered over the phone.

‘Wait. I need to think.’

‘Not so sure about the infallibility of our famed judicial system now, are you?’ Percy had laughed.

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘It’s simple, do nothing. I’ll give you my word never to reveal what you’ve done and you must give me your solemn oath to do likewise. Go home, dispose of the bag, clean out your car and have a good bath before bed.’