Innocent Blood (43 page)

‘Good point. Can’t be too careful.’ Cooper watched Edwards pick up a brocade cushion from a chair.

‘Now, if you’ll just—’

An electronic version of Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ from
The Four Seasons
echoed around the room. Beneath Cooper’s posterior there was a curious vibrating sensation. Maidment and Edwards looked at each other and automatically felt for their mobile phones but the noise wasn’t emanating from either of them. It was coming from behind the sofa.

‘What the—?’ Edwards stepped over to glance down at Cooper and laughed. ‘Ah, it’s my sleeping policeman. I should have realised. I’ll be with you in a minute, Sergeant,’ he said grinning, ‘don’t go away.’

He was still laughing when Maidment lashed out with his walking stick and flung himself to the floor. Edwards brought his gun round and fired but missed the moving target. Maidment was already hunched on the rug, swinging wildly with his cane as he crawled towards him.

Edwards fired again and chipped the marble of the fireplace behind Maidment’s head. The ricochet thudded into the wall above Cooper’s shoulder. As Edwards squeezed the trigger a third time Maidment rolled into him, shaking him off balance so that his arms went out automatically to steady himself and the shot went wide. With his left arm Maidment grabbed Edwards’ calves in a rugby tackle that toppled him to his knees but he couldn’t shake the man’s grip on the revolver.

Maidment brought his right hand up to block Edwards’s gun arm and pushed it away from his head. He groaned in pain as the damaged muscles in his chest were forced into action. Another shot ricocheted off the side table and into something soft. Maidment had survived so far against all the odds but what strength his adrenalin had given him was fading rapidly. His breath caught in his throat and the pain in his lungs told him that he’d done terrible damage to himself from his recent injury.

He had both hands tight around Edwards’ gun barrel, trying desperately to keep the muzzle away from his head. Edwards was clawing at his fingers with his free hand. He felt one snap but there was no pain. Maidment held on, willing the gun away with all his dwindling power. Slowly, remorselessly, the barrel lowered towards his left eye. It shook, wavered, but he felt Edwards’ finger tighten on the trigger as the gun inched closer to his face. Maidment had no more strength, nothing left to deflect the bullet ready in the chamber. He was going to die. In desperation he bucked his body beneath Edwards, trying in vain to shake him off as he felt the finger close tight and he heard the preparatory click of the hammer.

‘Police!’

The firearms unit burst into the study as another shot drummed into the floor next to Maidment’s ear. Edwards put up his hands as soon as he saw the rifle aimed at his chest. His arms were pinned behind his back in seconds. Maidment struggled to rise but collapsed back to the floor, his head soaked in blood.

‘Take it easy,’ an officer said and held him down gently.

‘Thank you,’ Maidment murmured, ever the gentleman. Nightingale ran into the room and knelt beside him.

‘Where’s Bob?’

‘I believe you’ll find Sergeant Cooper behind the sofa. I do hope he’s all right.’ Then he fainted.

Two officers pulled the sofa away from the wall as Edwards was handcuffed and led out of the room.

‘Bob!’ Nightingale was at Cooper’s side instantly. She pulled the tape from his lips as carefully as she could and removed the rag from his mouth. ‘Thank God you’re alive.’

She turned and shouted at the door.

‘Get the paramedics now! We have an injured officer in here.’

‘I’m sorry, lass, I let you down. I should never have come on my own.’

‘Don’t talk. We’ll get you to hospital and sort everything out later.’

Nightingale bent down and kissed his forehead, pretending not to see the tears in his eyes.

It was very dark in the cellar, so dark that Sam couldn’t see anything in front of his face. He didn’t know what time it was and wondered how long it had been since William locked him in here. He struggled again with the rope on his wrists, ignoring the pain, until he felt it give and he was able to move his hands more. By wriggling and twisting them he was able to pull the rope up over his thumb and then, agonisingly, slowly over the knuckles of his right hand. After that it took him less than a minute to remove his bindings.

Despite the warmth of the evening outside, it was cold underground and he was dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare since they’d taken his shoes after he’d run away. He shivered. He needed to stay warm until someone came for him. Sam tried jumping and running on the spot. It worked for a while but his head began to spin and he had to sit down to stop himself from fainting. He felt weird. William had left him with a bottle of Coke with a straw but it had made him feel sick so he’d stopped drinking it.

Where was he? William had put a sack over his head and a gag in his mouth, and then carried him from the car. It hadn’t taken more than five minutes so he must still be somewhere in the woods he’d seen as they had driven down the track, but where? He tried again to explore his prison, remembering to count his paces this time: fifteen from where he’d been standing to the rough wood of the door. He pounded on it, shouting until he was hoarse. Nothing. When he leant his ear against it he couldn’t hear anything from the other side so perhaps is was too thick. No wait, maybe there were two doors. Yes.

He tried to remember the sounds that had accompanied his imprisonment. When they’d reached this place he’d heard the jingle of keys, a creak and then they’d gone down some stairs. William had paused and then there had been a change in the air. He could have been opening another door. The idea made him feel worse.

Fifteen paces. He put his right hand out as far as it would go along the wall to the side of the door, facing in towards the room he paced after it. Ten paces and he reached a wooden shelf of some sort. His fingers explored. After a few inches there was an upright, then another one. He counted twenty before he touched the chill stone of another wall. With his other hand he skimmed the surface of the shelving. The rows were close together and every one of them was divided into boxes too small for books. Where on earth was he?

Instead of panicking he turned ninety degrees along the next wall. This too was covered in wooden shelving. His fingers groped on and recoiled suddenly as they touched something cold and slimy; glass. It was a bottle. He pulled it from the shelf and felt along its length to where the neck narrowed and foil capped the end. Wine; he was in a wine cellar.

The thought made him feel better. He wasn’t in some derelict building or abandoned mine shaft. The wine had to belong to someone. William had keys; he would come back; there’s no way he’d just leave him here. But supposing it was an abandoned cellar? It was suddenly very important to know how many bottles were stored there. Sam searched, then searched again.

Only two bottles; nothing else. Maybe the cellar was no longer used. The thought made him whimper. Had he been thrown out like Jack for a reason he didn’t understand? Sam started to cry, the sound echoing in the dark as he began to realise that he had been left there to die.

Nightingale rang Fenwick with news of Richard Edwards’ arrest as soon as she’d seen Cooper safely to hospital and into the care of the registrar.

‘Edwards has already found a lawyer, and an expensive one too. He’s claiming entrapment and police assault, would you believe it? His first line was to deny everything but fortunately we had the surveillance picture you’d sent from London. As soon as he saw it he shut up and hasn’t said a word since.’

‘Well, I’ve got some news that’s going to help even more. The Met has just raided the house here; they waited until peak commuter time and bagged six clients as well as the staff. I’m confident one of them will identify Edwards if they’re offered a deal.’

‘That’s brilliant; why don’t you sound pleased?’ All Nightingale could hear in Fenwick’s voice was disappointment.

‘Sam Bowyer wasn’t there, neither was the manager, a man called William Slant. They left together at five-thirty and Slant lost the tail the Met had on him on the M23. They have no idea where Slant went but I’m leaving the search to them; they have the resources and it was their case. I’ve been on to Brighton though, to let them know and they want to cover the Sussex end of the search, which is fine by me.’

‘They’ll find Sam, don’t worry.’

‘Maybe, but we were so close to getting the boy. If the Met had only moved in earlier…’

‘Look, don’t sweat it. You did all you could… Oh, OK,’ he heard her talking to someone in the background. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Round two with Edwards and I’m going to enjoy this.’

‘See if you can find out about Sam. I’m going to interview the man I’m certain is the Well-Wisher, then I’ll be coming straight back.’

‘Good, because I think we may need our star witness to make the case of murder against Edwards.’

He broke the call, his relief at the outcome marred by guilt that Bob Cooper had almost been killed. Why hadn’t they realised that The Purse was actually Percy, another stupid army nickname for Edwards? No doubt there would be some fall-out because Cooper had ended up in a deadly situation, though if, as he suspected, Edwards was behind Choir Boy, the praise would outweigh criticism for everyone involved. But no matter how many times he reminded himself that he should be celebrating, all he could think about was the fact that Sam was still missing and that he hadn’t been there to arrest Edwards personally. There was no reason why he should have been; after all, he’d insisted on putting Nightingale in charge of the Paul Hill investigation and his decision had been vindicated by her performance. Even so, his mood darkened as he hurried through the crowds.

According to a call from Charlie at the Mission, who had spoken to one of the brothers after Fenwick left, Father Peter was taking a service at a church just south of Euston Road.

Evensong was underway by the time Fenwick arrived so he slipped into one of the ancient pews at the back to wait. He tried to concentrate on the service but instead he found himself biting the skin at the side of his thumb as he worried about Cooper and Sam in equal measure. After the final blessing Father Peter disappeared into the vestry and Fenwick walked briskly down the aisle after him.

When he entered the cramped room only the curate was there. Father Peter had gone, rushing on to St Jerome’s where some potential new residents for his hostel had arrived in need of persuading to come in off the street. The curate pointed out the location of the church on Fenwick’s
A to Z
and he left, trying not to curse the priest on the basis that it would be bad luck.

St Jerome’s was on the far side of Clerkenwell, a short taxi ride away or a twenty-minute walk at a fast pace. There wasn’t a vacant cab in sight so he forced himself into a jog. He could hear a church bell somewhere striking eight.

He paused on Farringdon Road at the corner with Saffron Street and rang the hospital to which Cooper had been admitted. Nightingale had said that the paramedics at the scene were pretty certain his skull wasn’t fractured but he wanted to be sure. He was told by a nurse, whose mood matched his own, that Cooper was being X-rayed and it could be hours before they would know for certain how he was. And when they did, she informed him with some glee, he wouldn’t be told anyway because he wasn’t family. He broke the connection, swore creatively and rang Cooper’s home. Of course there was no one there. Doris and their son would be at the hospital. He left a message wishing Bob well and asked that they call him on his mobile as soon as they had any news.

Then he called the hospital again, conscious that he hadn’t asked about Maidment. This time he ended up with a receptionist who, on hearing that he was a senior policeman, was far more helpful. The news wasn’t good. Maidment had been admitted with a newly punctured lung, an ear that had been virtually torn off by a bullet and other suspected internal injuries. He was in the operating theatre and his condition was described as serious. Fenwick broke the connection confused by his feelings. Like Cooper, he couldn’t help but warm to Maidment; his bravery and common decency was beyond doubt. But he’d protected a child molester and murderer for over twenty-five years and had left Paul’s family with uncertainty that had driven his mother insane. Maidment might have been a hero once but, if so, he was a deeply flawed one.

There was one other call to make and he knew this number by heart so he continued his brisk walk as he dialled. Quinlan was in his office in buoyant mood. Richard Edwards, Purse or Percy to his mates because of his whistling ability (though none of the younger members of the team had ever heard of the real Percy Edwards), was under arrest for the attempted murders of Maidment and Cooper, giving them time to work on wider charges.

‘Thank you for giving Nightingale cover. I’m sure it made a difference.’

‘I did very little. By the time I called Firearms I discovered you’d already been on to them and after Cooper’s car was found everything happened like clockwork.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want a screw-up now. Nightingale will obviously be focused on the murders. Can you make sure she liaises with Clive and Alison so that we cover the Choir Boy angle as well?’ Fenwick was unaware that he was effectively giving orders to his old boss and missed the significance of the laugh as Quinlan answered.

‘Of course. Mind you, once Edwards sees the evidence we have against him it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to do a deal; a lighter sentence in exchange for his full cooperation.’

‘We have ample evidence for attempted murder, child prostitution and paedophilia but we don’t have him for murder. And that bastard deserves everything the system can throw at him; we owe it to Paul, Malcolm and God knows how many other families.’

‘I agree but pursuing the other charges would be a lot easier. And without the Well-Wisher it will be difficult to make a case against him for Paul and Malcolm’s murders, so a plea isn’t as disgusting a solution as one might think – particularly if he gives us the names of some of his associates. Unless you find the Well-Wisher and bring him back as our lead witness for the prosecution I expect CPS to consider a deal if it’s offered.’

‘I’m going to do my best but I think the Well Wisher’s a priest.’

‘Damn.’

‘Exactly; but still, I’m going to try and extract a statement.’

‘You need to,’ Quinlan said in a tone that recalled their earlier conversation and his implied criticism of Fenwick’s ‘London jaunt’. ‘By the way, I haven’t contacted the ACC yet – thought you might want to.’

‘No, I’d like Nightingale to do that. She should have the lion’s share of the credit.’

‘If you insist but he’s bound to want to speak to you. I don’t need to tell you that he’ll expect a bloody good explanation for why you were where you were at such a critical time.’ With those cheery words Quinlan finished the call.

Fenwick reached St Jerome’s and was ushered into the back of a large, dimly lit church. Father Peter sat in a front pew with two teenage boys. Only the murmur of their voices reached him but he thought that he could detect an element of capitulation from the lads so he waited for their conversation to finish. He struggled to identify and shift the grey mood that had settled over him despite his team’s success. To his relief he realised that his feelings had little to do with missing out on the arrest; he was genuinely glad for Nightingale and more confident than Quinlan was of being able to persuade the ACC that his journey to London was appropriate. It wasn’t worry about his career that was eating into him, it was a sense of something being out of alignment despite the successful conclusion to two major investigations.

As he waited he tried to identify what was wrong but it eluded him. It wasn’t just because he needed Sam Bowyer to be found for his own peace of mind; there was something else.

‘There you go, mate.’

The whisper startled him and he almost jumped as a plastic beaker of strong tea was passed over his shoulder by a thickset man who looked about forty, with a scraggly beard and fingernails engrained with dirt.

‘That’s for waitin’ and not interruptin’ ’is work. In my book that makes you OK, even if you are a rozzer.’ He spoke quietly with a thick East End accent. ‘Name’s Gerald, Gerry to me mates.’

‘Thanks, Gerry. I’m Andrew Fenwick,’ he replied in the same hushed tone and watched as the man settled in a pew beside him.

‘Cheers, Andy.’ Gerry clunked beakers and took a slurp of tea that was more audible than his words. One of the boys by the altar looked back over his shoulder.

‘You encouraged them here?’ Fenwick waved his cup in the direction of the huddled group.

‘Yeah, a good catch t’night, so’s to speak.’ He grinned, revealing blackened teeth.

‘How did you persuade them?’

‘Not too difficult. They’re not hooked yet, not the young ’un anyway. Got him off a bus this mornin’, would you believe. Conductor was about to throw ’im to the police for dodging his fare but I paid it for ’im and took ’im to the Centre. Problem is, that older lad; ’e’s already headin’ downhill and ’e’s a bad influence on the other. That’s why it’s taking Peter so long.’

‘Why do you do this?’ Fenwick had to wait for his reply while Gerry choked noisily on the contents of his lungs. He hawked and was about to spit then remembered where he was and took an audible swallow instead.

‘’Fing is, Andy, Father Peter saved my life. ’Ad TB, didn’t I, was nearly gone with it but ’e got me into a clinic and Bob’s yer uncle. Took me over a year to get better, and I didn’t touch a drop the whole time. By the time I was out I reckoned I could do wivout it, and that’s when he offers me this job. It’s not much and I’m a bit old for it now.’

‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Twenny-nine.’ Fenwick’s face remained steady. ‘Young enough to remember what it’s like for them poor kids but I’ll need to move on to saving older souls soon. Kids don’t relate so well to me any more.’

‘They did,’ Fenwick said gently and pointed towards the boys. ‘How many do you reckon you’ve saved?’

‘It’s not me as saves ’em. Andy. That’s Father Peter. I just catches ’em; Gerry the Catcher, I am. ’E’s the one as works the miracles. Not that we always win. For every five I brings in, four ends up back on the streets. Can’t make the change, see, but Peter never gives up. There’s some bin in ’is shelters more’n ten times and ’e still welcomes ’em back with a smile and a hot meal. Only the real troublemakers are barred, those as peddle and pimp are kicked right out. ’E may be small but he’s bloody tough, s’cuse my French.’

‘You said “his shelters”. Aren’t they run by the Church?’

‘Churches. Yeah, that was part of the problem ’e put right. We had Missions competing, squabbling yer could say. Then ’e comes along, only just ordained and as fiery as they come, so I’m told. Before my time but the story’s done the rounds so we’ve all ’eard it.

‘In ’e comes, no mor’n twenny-something and takes each of the Missions to task. Says they need to work together not against each uvver. Took ’im a few years but one by one he wins ’em over. Now it’s all organised, wiv a joint governin’ board, proper fundraisin’, links to the socials and probation, like. You mention it, he’s sorted it.’

‘All his own work?’ Fenwick tried to keep the scepticism from his voice but didn’t quite succeed.

‘No need to be sarky. ’E’s not a saint and I ain’t about to make ’im one.’

‘Sorry, Gerry. It’s just that you made him sound almost too good to be true.’

‘Well, ’e’s not perfect – ’as a wicked temper for one thing – but I swear, wivout ’im you’d have dozens of lads dead now that are leading decent lives, and ’undreds wasting away on the streets instead of ’aving a chance to make their way in the world. ’E’s a leader, see. ’E may be small and quiet when ’e’s not fired up, but my Lord, you should see ’im when ’e wants to get sommick sorted. No stoppin ’im then.’

‘Gerry!’ A clear tenor voice rang out from the front.

‘Can you take Reg and Ben along to St Olaf’s? I’ve called ahead and they’re making room so don’t take any nonsense when you get there. Then tomorrow, sharpish after breakfast, pick them up and bring them over to me. We’re going to do the tour.’

‘Righyerare, Father. Come along then, you lot. You’re in luck you are, best grub around at St Olaf’s. See yer, Andy.’

Gerry ferried them out. Fenwick picked up the empty beakers and stood up.

‘Don’t worry, Chief Inspector, I’ll come to you,’ Father Peter said as he walked slowly down the aisle.

Fenwick would have preferred it the other way. It was lighter near the altar and gloomy back here with the door closed. The first thing he noticed was that Father Peter was indeed short, no more than five foot three; the second was that his thick wavy hair was entirely grey, despite the youthfulness of his voice. It made it hard to guess his age. Then when the dim light fell on his face he noticed the scar. It ran from under the outer edge of his left eye in a vivid diagonal down to the corner of his mouth, which was lifted in a permanent half smile that was ironic rather than sinister.

‘So you know who I am?’

‘Of course, Charlie made sure of that. Good of you to come to me.’