Mercy Killing (14 page)

Toby had done that very thing, only he had no idea what he had done.

They had been friends for so many years and trusted each other with every aspect of their lives. Leon had no remaining family of his own and little in his life that didn’t involve his
friend and business partner Toby.

The sound of the diesel van alerted Toby to Leon’s presence at the top of the driveway, and Toby appeared at the passenger’s side.

‘Right then,’ said Toby once he had shut the door, ‘Scabby Larry’s for breakfast?’

When he got no answer from Leon, he glanced across and saw in the faint light of the winter morning, signs that his friend had hardly slept all weekend.

‘You want me to drive, Dilly? Would you rather pull over and talk?’

The reply came as a nod of the head.

They continued along in silence. Leon indicated left and drove them to the dead end at the local park’s entrance. As he pulled the van to a halt over the stones and pebbles of the dirt
track, he avoided stopping too close to the few early-morning dog walkers getting out of their cars. Not one of them seemed to pay any attention to the window-cleaning van with ladders atop. Their
attention was taken with wrapping up against the chill and getting their overexcited canines out for their exercise.

Toby sat and waited.

Once or twice Leon released his grip on the steering wheel and splayed his fingers, palms resting at ten to two.

Eventually, above the soft thud of the engine, he said, ‘Can we ever justify what we’ve done?’

‘We spoke about how we—’

Leon’s hands were now off the wheel and in front of Toby’s face.

‘Do you know how hard I have to concentrate to stop my hands shaking?’

Toby placed one of his own hands across his friend’s. ‘You don’t think that for one minute I’m doing absolutely fine after all this, do you?’

Leon gave a sad little shake of his head and made eye contact with Toby for the first time that morning.

What Leon saw there unnerved him more than the hatred he’d glimpsed when they’d first talked about what they were going to do to Woodville. His eyes held an emptiness that
hadn’t been there before. If Leon now felt even marginally better, it was because he at least regretted what he’d done: Toby had long since left that emotion behind. That was clear to
Leon now and that he found almost as sad as his own remorse.

When it got to the point where Leon felt he couldn’t sit in silence any longer, he steeled himself to say what he had spent all of Sunday practising. He had no idea how his friend was
going to react but he wanted to get it off his chest so much that he felt a physical pain deep inside him. He didn’t know what else it could be other than the damning of his soul as it turned
black.

He opened his mouth to speak, he licked his lips, he put his hands back on the wheel.

He fought the urge to say nothing.

‘I need to tell you—’

‘Stop this, Dilly. You’re going to tell me how bad you feel, how you can’t sleep and what it’s doing to your mind. You won’t be telling me about anything that
I’m not experiencing myself. But this is why you’ve got to stop.’

Toby turned in his seat so that he was side on to his friend.

‘Stop fucking feeling sorry for yourself and remember why we wanted to do this. You saw along with me where that dirty fucker chose to live. Next to a primary school. My son goes to that
school and that bastard’s window overlooks his playground. It’s not simply because it’s my son. There are over a hundred kids in that school. If you ever close your eyes and
picture Woodville’s dead face, instead of feeling sorry for the piece of shit, what you do is you replace that image with what he made you do. If that still doesn’t do it for you, then
think about how you’d feel reading in the paper that he’d buggered another child.’

Leon watched Toby, spittle at the side of his mouth, eyes vacant.

After a short silence, he put the van into gear and headed in the direction of the café. His confession would have to wait for another day.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Not just yet anyway.

Once Pierre and Hazel had put their overnight luggage in their allocated car, Pierre offered to drive. Hazel didn’t take it as being a gallant offer, but more of a
practical one: he’d had a head start on reading the file and gleaning what he could on the enquiry they were driving towards.

‘Ask away with any questions you’ve got,’ he said as they pulled out of the yard.

She was silent for a long time, head bent over as she read page after page from the file. Occasionally she would pick up her notebook from the footwell and scribble a couple of words.

She absorbed the information along with the pitiful human element that entwined the police facts of the sexual assault of a child with heart-tugging sorrow.

Several times she paused in her reading and glanced out of the window at the morning struggling to come to life. The darkness not entirely replaced by a weak November sun.

A couple of things in the paperwork bothered her but she couldn’t put her finger on why. It was perhaps her mind playing tricks on her. She had been wrong once before and the feeling still
niggled. No one had actually blamed her but it had been enough for her to leave Major Crime two years ago, thinking that she would never be back. It wasn’t merely a case of time being a
healer; if she was perfectly honest the role she had found herself in after she had left wasn’t one she’d particularly enjoyed.

She became aware of Pierre saying something to her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away and thinking about this little girl we’re about to see.’

‘I thought you might want to stop for a coffee in a bit and take a turn driving.’

‘Yes to both.’

She yawned and stretched out her legs as far as the space in front of her seat would allow.

‘I’ve been told this is your second time in Major Crime,’ said Pierre.

Hazel had known that this was coming and was relieved to get it out of the way. ‘That’s right,’ she answered. ‘I was here for about four years but it was time to move on
and try other stuff. The department was changing too and I’d had a relationship with someone on the nick and felt the need to leave. Give myself a bit of space.’

It wasn’t the entire reason she had gone but she guessed that Pierre wouldn’t want to pry too much on her first day. In her experience, most men usually gave the topic of bad
break-ups a wide berth. Hazel hadn’t reckoned on Pierre.

‘Is he anyone I know?’

‘How do you know it wasn’t a she?’

‘Because I’m gay and statistically it’s highly unlikely that we both are.’

She laughed and said, ‘OK. It was a he and it was Gordon Letchford.’ She watched his face for a reaction and was rewarded with an open-eyed, forward-facing stare.

At last he said, ‘Oh.’

‘Your face is a picture,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, most people react like that but he isn’t a bad bloke. He’s just—’

‘The most boring man on the planet?’

‘You’ve certainly met him then,’ she said. ‘I seem to attract very sensible men. Sensible usually goes hand in hand with dull. Anyway, after him, I thought that’s
my lot for a while, and certainly as far as policemen go. I’ll find myself a nice biker or ex-con.’

He risked another glance and another question.

‘What was the final straw if you don’t mind me asking?’

For a moment, she wasn’t entirely sure whether she did mind him asking her or not. She chewed on the inside of her mouth for a second and said, ‘For my birthday, he bought me screen
wash and antifreeze. I couldn’t take it any more.’

‘It’s practical,’ laughed Pierre. ‘Nothing else? Just that?’

‘Just that.’

‘I don’t want to make it a competition,’ said Pierre, ‘but I can probably beat that.’

‘If you win,’ she said, pointing at the sign for the service station, ‘the coffees are on me.’

‘An ex once bought me a set of bathroom scales and a defibrillator.’

‘That deserves a latte.’

A bad night’s sleep was something that DCI Barbara Venice rarely had to contend with. She was sometimes woken in the night by her police mobile phone ringing, but those
occasions were limited to when she was on call. Now though it was four o’clock on Monday morning and she couldn’t shake off the despair she felt about a mistake made many years ago that
was about to pull her incident room apart.

Something a lot more unpleasant than choosing table arrangements and the seating plan for her daughter’s wedding had been niggling her all weekend. She had tried to put it aside to deal
with which members of the family wanted to sit nearest the bar and which wanted to be closest to the top table. During the daytime, she’d been able to focus and her mind hadn’t wandered
too far but at night when she shut her eyes the familiar stomach-dropping dread would return.

It was stealing into her dreams and bringing about a restlessness that she finally succumbed to, making her way downstairs.

She sat in the dark, head back against the armchair. Eyes open or shut, she could see it playing out in her mind, how years ago she had taken Albie Woodville from his police station cell and
walked him to the interview room.

Barbara hadn’t really wanted to interview him. He was a nonce. A dirty, revolting child abuser. But she was police and she did what she was told.

Along with doing her job went professionalism. She had to be nice to him, not make him feel like the revolting piece of shit he was. She had always wanted children of her own, and long before
either her son or her daughter was born she struggled to see how anyone could allow themselves to hurt or rape children. How could a person do such a thing and then carry on existing? How could
they walk amongst the normal people? How could they look at themselves in the mirror?

These were questions she asked herself over and over again and then forced to the back of her mind before she opened the cell door and looked at Albert Woodville for the very first time.

Sitting in the comfort and safety of her own living room, she felt goosebumps on her arms as she recalled the large metal key on a metal ring with several other keys, the noise as they jangled
together whilst she found the right one to unlock the heavy solid door. The smell of the custody block assaulting her senses with body odour and dead air. The worn brown leather shoes next to the
cell wall that she stepped around as she swung the door open. Her feelings at staring evil straight in the face.

Albert Woodville looked so ordinary. That was what was so frightening.

He looked like any other man, not a pervert and a paedophile. Barbara had thought she would be able to spot one, but it hit her hard that it was impossible to tell. There were probably times she
had sat next to a child abuser on the train, stood behind one in a supermarket queue; perhaps there was even one amongst the police officers she worked with.

Their eyes locked. He was perched on the edge of his bed, cross-legged, dirty white socks, brown trousers and a beige jumper. He appeared insipid in his dull clothing, unremarkable in his
features.

Perhaps they had the wrong man in custody, she thought as she stood in the doorway, unable to speak. Briefly she even hoped that they had arrested an innocent man. That would at least explain
her lack of gut instinct.

It was only when she thought about it later, and then countless times over the following years, that she realised she didn’t want Woodville to have raped and buggered children when she had
sat and spoken to the man as if he was human. She had tarnished herself by spending time in his company and putting him at ease, checking he wasn’t too cold in the interview room, making sure
he had breaks when he needed them, even joking with him about the weather. What exactly did that make her?

And when the interviews were finally over, she had asked him if he wanted something to eat and he had laughed and said, ‘I don’t think much of the food in this place. I hope
I’m not here much longer.’

Her only thought was that she wanted to put an end to his laughing and joking but she was totally powerless to do anything but her job. Her own feelings were the price she had paid for
investigating child abuse.

Detective Chief Inspector Venice allowed herself the luxury of one solitary tear. By the time it had run down her face and reached her chin, she would stop dragging up the past and her first
child-sex-offender interview. She would get ready for her day at work and deal with the murder of Albert Woodville. The man she had despised for so many years and had never completely forgotten
about, despite being one of hundreds she had interviewed over the years and one of thousands she had loathed for the misery they inflicted on other human beings.

She had made a single and honest mistake and now she couldn’t help but feel that it was time she fully paid for it. One error as a detective constable shouldn’t stand in the way of
how she handled the investigation into the death of Woodville. Someone had murdered him and she had more than a feeling who might be responsible. In the meantime, she had her own demons to contend
with and there was one person she could rely on to give her any help she needed.

Try as he might, Harry failed to concentrate. The tactic he had up his sleeve for those of equal or lower rank was to tell them to come back later.

The appearance of DCI Barbara Venice at his door meant a different approach. He decided to annoy her away.

‘Babs,’ he said as he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘Don’t see you for ages then here you are twice in only a few days.’

‘You haven’t become less aggravating over the weekend then?’

‘Do you have time for a coffee?’ he said as she sat down.

‘No thanks. I wanted to speak to you about a couple of things to do with the Woodville murder.’

He waited for her to get to the point as he wondered what it was that she hadn’t mentioned when they’d last spoken.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘I know you’ve read the file. You must have seen my name on the original investigation. I was the DC who interviewed Albert Woodville. I remembered
his name, and of course the allegations of child sex abuse.’