Innocent Blood (37 page)

‘So now we’re even,’ Maidment said, his voice shaky as he dropped the knife onto the floor. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Cooper.’

‘Cooper saved the major’s life? Well, there’s sweet justice for you.’

Nightingale’s reaction was typical as word went round Harlden station. Cooper was a modest man but by the time he’d returned to the detectives’ room from making his statement, rumour had inflated the story to the point where the knife was more than eight inches long and Sarah Hill an amphetamine-fuelled giantess. Despite his natural modesty it was hard not to bask in the glow while he drank a strong cup of tea with extra sugar and accepted a homemade rock cake from one of the secretaries.

Although she’d been arrested, Sarah Hill was to undergo a thorough psychiatric assessment and it was Cooper’s opinion that she would be sectioned as a result. For some reason he called Maidment to tell him and could hear the pain in his voice when he responded.

‘I don’t want her in some awful state-run establishment, Sergeant. If she has no money to pay for private treatment then I will see to it.’ He kept insisting even though Cooper knew that he no longer had that sort of discretionary income. Something of his thoughts must have sounded in his voice because Maidment added, ‘I can always sell a painting.’

Cooper knew how much that would pain him but he didn’t miss his opportunity.

‘That’s a powerful guilty conscience you have there, Major Maidment. Why not do something even more valuable and tell us everything you know? Surely you owe it to Mrs Hill to help us.’

But once again Maidment refused to say anything and Cooper was left feeling increasingly frustrated by his obdurate silence.

Fenwick had managed to secure warrants for a tap on Maidment’s home phone but not for Melton Ward and Cooper organised the surveillance rota, determined that one way or another the major was going to give them Paul’s killer.

As soon as Sarah Hill had been arrested, Maidment decided to leave hospital, reasoning that the police would be distracted with her. The ward sister told him that he was putting his recovery, if not his life, at risk but he ignored her and the subsequent protest from the doctor on duty. His hand was shaking as he signed the hospital disclaimer but he left anyway.

DC Wadley, acting on direct instructions from Cooper, followed Maidment at a safe distance as he hobbled towards the taxi rank outside the hospital leaning heavily on a stick. Wadley was parked in a doctor’s space by the entrance and was behind the wheel before the major had settled himself in a cab and closed the door. As he let out the clutch Wadley sneezed in nervous excitement. This was his first real piece of detective work since moving from uniform the previous week. The responsibility felt enormous, a fact that Cooper was relying on. Wadley kept telling himself that if Inspector Nightingale was right they’d have Paul’s killer in custody within hours and that he’d be the one to make the arrest.

The Anchor family farmhouse was deserted when Nightingale arrived. She prowled around the outbuildings, keeping well away from the snapping dogs in their cages. There was nothing to see but dried mud, old tractor parts and cluttered work benches. Oliver wasn’t there, despite his promise, and her spirits sank. She was probably wasting her time but was so keen to question him that she lingered in the yard anyway.

The sun felt good on her face. One of the feral farm cats must have had kittens. Three tabby bundles of fur with blue eyes were playing with an end of baling twine in the doorway to an old shed. She could see the mother half hidden behind a galvanised bucket. The cat stared at her unblinking, then decided that she was safe and returned to licking its back leg as part of a protracted wash.

‘Oh, you’re still here.’ Oliver’s disappointed voice broke her reverie.

‘Of course, waiting for you. Where’s your mum?’

‘Farmers’ market. We have a stall for things.’ He was dismissive. ‘Stupid stuff but it sells.’

‘Where can we go to talk?’

Oliver’s face had taken on a deep red flush. She thought that he was summoning up courage to tell her that he’d changed his mind about talking to her so she hurried on.

‘I’m dying for a coffee. Do you want one here or shall we go into town?’

‘I can make coffee, y’know.’

‘Great.’ The alternative choice never failed. ‘I’ve got some biscuits in the car.’

His face brightened.

The kitchen was less tidy than when she’d first seen it. Dirty breakfast things were stacked in the sink and used tea mugs littered the table. Farmers’ market or not it was obvious that Mrs Anchor was expected to do the washing-up. She was dreading Oliver’s coffee but he was careful in his preparations, concentrating on each step. Nightingale started to question him as he picked up his first biscuit.

‘Did you see
CrimeNight
?’

It was obvious from his face that he had and she continued quickly.

‘We had an enormous response. Lots of people called in saying they knew Bryan Taylor and some of them even said that he’d assaulted them.’

Her words had the effect that she’d expected as Oliver’s face started burning with shame.

‘You weren’t one of the callers, were you?’

‘I never.’ He shook his head shedding biscuit crumbs across his shirt front.

‘It’s a pity. It would have been much easier for you to admit things over the phone.’

‘Things?’

‘Yes, like telling us that you were one of Taylor’s…special friends. I’m sure it was years before Paul disappeared. A strong man like you would have matured early. It probably stopped a long time before the burning car. Isn’t that right?’

Oliver had lost interest in the biscuits and was staring miserably at his clasped hands.

‘It almost doesn’t matter if you don’t tell me, you know. I’m aware of the basic facts, it’s just the details I need now.’

‘How d’you find out?’ he asked her innocently. Nightingale kept any trace of triumph from her expression; he was all hers now.

‘The police have ways of finding things out; it’s our job. Of course, when we learn things indirectly,’ she decided to rephrase, ‘that is, when you don’t tell us stuff yourself, we might get some parts wrong, and that’s not good for you.’

‘Why not?’ It was barely a whisper and she had to suppress an unhelpful feeling of pity.

‘Because people can be cruel. They say things that aren’t strictly true – like saying that you actually enjoyed what you did for Bryan, for example.’

‘I never!’ Oliver brought his fist down hard on the table and the mugs jumped.

‘You never what, Oliver?’ Nightingale asked gently and held her breath.

‘I never enjoyed it. Not ever.’ He glanced at her and she exhaled slowly.

‘I didn’t think you did. But you need to tell me as much as you can in case there are other things that I’ve got wrong.’

He shook his head, eyes shut.

‘Look, would it be easier if I just asked you questions? That way all you need to do is say yes or no. I’ll need to take a few notes, though. You won’t mind, will you?’

Oliver shook his head and gazed out of the kitchen window, a look of terrible sadness on his face that brought a lump to Nightingale’s throat. She swallowed it away.

‘So, you were eleven when you and Bryan started to become friends?’

‘Nine.’ His eyes were back down on his clenched fists. ‘He was workin’ on our barn. My job was to take him drinks without spilling.’

‘And when did Bryan,’ she paused searching for the right words, ‘begin to become friendly with you?’

‘Same week.’ Oliver sighed with ancient wisdom. ‘Said I was special. It had to be our secret. No one’d said I was special before ’cept Mum and that don’t count, do it?’

‘It’s always good to hear the words from someone else. I imagine Bryan was nice to you?’

Oliver smiled. It was so pathetic that Nightingale had to look away briefly.

‘He could do tricks; made an egg come out my ear once, a real one!’ The magic of the moment was still clear in his voice. ‘We were friends.’

‘Of course you were, but he wanted to be more than friends, didn’t he?’

Oliver nodded but said nothing.

‘Oliver, you’re going to have to tell me some of the details but what we’ll do for now is I’ll ask something and you can say yes or no. Why don’t you have another biscuit?’

He took one automatically but then sat crumbling it to pieces. Eventually Nightingale lifted the debris from his fingers.

‘Did Bryan touch you?’

A nod.

‘Did the touches go to private places?’

Eyes half shut, another nod, barely noticeable, his cheeks aflame with shame.

‘And did he make you touch him back?’

‘Yeah.’

She could see tears in his eyes.

‘You’re doing very well, I’m proud of you. Did he make you do more than touch?’

There was a snuffle.

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that.’

‘Yes.’

‘For how long did this go on?’

‘Don’t know; till after school started.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He picked me up one Saturday. Said I could help him, ’cept that there weren’t no job.’

‘It was more of the same?’

‘Worse. He give me sweets and a toy but I was crying and he said I shouldn’t ’cos I was special, and he loved me and the presents showed he did.’

‘Did he ever give you money?’

‘Once when he’d forgotten to buy sweets.’

‘How much was it, can you remember?’

‘Don’t know; all his change, I think.’

Nightingale had to swallow to control her anger.

‘Did you meet often?’

‘Saturdays and when Mum was at market.’

‘Just you and Bryan?’

He hesitated then nodded.

‘Oliver, I need you to tell me the truth.’

‘First it was me and him but…’

‘Go on.’

‘Just before Christmas he said we was going to see Father Christmas. We went to a big house. There was a Christmas tree in the hall taller than Bryan.’

‘Where was the house?’

‘Dunno – he covered my eyes, said it was a secret.’

‘Whom did you meet there?’

‘The room was dark.’ Oliver looked away, the tears stark on his face. ‘Wasn’t Father Christmas though.’

‘Did this man have sex with you?’

Oliver flinched at her words then nodded.

‘I need words.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How often did this happen?’

‘Coupla times but then I got sick. Doctor came to see me. He…he said something to Mum.’

‘He examined you?’

‘I had this rash; it itched like mad. Mum thought it was the measles and he looked and then…he said something to Mum.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Mum had a talk with me.’

‘Did you tell her about Bryan and the other man?’

‘Eventually. She don’t let up, Mum.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t. What did she do?’

‘She went and saw Bryan and I was happy because I never saw him or the other man again.’

‘Did she go to the police?’

‘Don’t know. She was so angry.’

‘You were in the same year at school as Paul, weren’t you?’

The change of subject took him by surprise and it took him some time to think.

‘Yeah. He was younger than me ’cos I missed a year. We were friends. I looked out for him and him for me.’ It was recited like a pledge.

‘Is that what Paul always said?’

‘Yeah. He was my mate.’

‘What did you think when you saw him with Bryan?’

‘I tried to warn him!’ Oliver was distressed, the guilt obvious in his face.

‘Wouldn’t he listen?’

‘Not Paul. He was smart, smarter’n me even though he was younger. Said he could look after himself. I tried to watch out for him, honest.’

The tears were back and she reached over and patted the back of his enormous hands. They were locked together in a tight ball of agony.

‘I’m sure you did your best.’

‘I really, really tried.’ A fat tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek, then another.

‘Of course you did but the trouble with clever people like Paul is that they’re often too smart for their own good.’

‘Paul was special.’ Oliver sobbed.

‘I know and I’m sure you miss him.’

‘Still do,’ sniff, ‘he was my best friend; never had another.’

She gave him some tissues and waited for the crying to quieten. When it did she picked up the questioning quickly.

‘On the day Paul disappeared, you saw a car burning. Tell me about that.’

He wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a slimy trail on the blue denim.

‘It was Bryan’s car.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain positive. I knowed that car. I could see the number plate.’

‘Did you go close to the car?’

Oliver looked up at the ceiling and blinked away a tear before shaking his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Men there watching.’

‘Men? Who were they?’

‘Couldn’t see their faces. They had their backs to me.’

‘How many men and what did they look like?’

‘There was three of them. One was short; one sort of like a wrestler; I couldn’t see the other man proper.’

‘Why were they watching the car?’

Oliver leant forward and put his face in his hands. She could see tears trickling between his fingers.

‘Please, Oliver, you have to tell me, for Paul’s sake.’

‘Just…give me a minute.’

Nightingale waited impatiently until Oliver wiped a hand over his face and looked at her. The raw pain she saw there made her wince.

‘OK, here we go; I can do this,’ he said to himself and nodded, a new look of concentration on his face. ‘The car was burning hot. I could feel the heat where I stood and the trees were scorching.’

He made it sound like an excuse. Nightingale suddenly realised what was coming.

‘Go on, I’m sure there was nothing you could have done.’

‘There wasn’t! If it had just been the men I’d a tried to get him out but it was too hot.’

‘Get who out, Oliver?’

‘Paul.’ Tears ran unheeded down his face. ‘There was a body in the front seat; it must’ve been Paul. It was all burnt, like it was covered in black paint.’ There was an agonising pause then he whispered the final part of his confession.