The Beauty of the End (20 page)

39

W
ith hope comes renewed urgency. As I let myself into the B&B, almost as if she's been waiting for me, my landlady appears.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Calaway?” Ryder's visit has made her twitchy.

“Fine, thank you.” Brushing past her without explanation, I go to my room, lock the door, and text my list of specialists' names to Luisa.

I've a growing sense that what April has found could be bigger than I'd suspected, but I'm no clearer as to where Norton's murder fits into all this.

Then I start to google the parents April met with, some of whom are high profile, their backgrounds available for the world to see. I find work addresses, jobs, for a few of them, even schools; discover a whole new use for social media. The Internet makes what would once have been days of work effortless. Not that I find everyone, but discovering enough that the delicate trace of what I've glimpsed so far slowly gains substance.

But I need to be sure. After snatching up my keys, I'm running back out to my car, a list of addresses in my hand, the darkest of suspicions in my head, and for the next two or three hours, I drive around, checking out each and every one of them. Only when I pull up at the roadside outside the last do I know with certainty I'm on to something.

Out of the babies who died, with the exception of one who was stillborn, all the families' addresses are modest, low-value homes, the Magnolia Ways. The virtual presence of these families is nonexistent. I stare at the facts, black and white in front of me, suddenly chilled, because the inference of the reverse is terrifying.

I'm wondering if April had got this far. Had she discovered that the unnatural selection of the newborns for treatment was based on some form of social hierarchy? If she knew her clients, I'm guessing she at least must have had an idea.

I need to check out Fairview Medical Centre—if necessary, drive there. Then I glance at my watch, because I still haven't heard from Luisa. Anxious, too, about April, I turn my car round and drive back to the hospital.

I go straight to the room April's been moved to, stand at the window, watch her. As always, there's a police constable sitting quietly, away from April's bed. I feel myself lulled into stillness by the mechanical rhythm of her breathing that drifts out through the cracked door. And I don't know where the suggestion creeps in from, but suddenly I realize that this is no life. To just lie, unable to move, unable to speak. Would she have wanted this?

I'm sure I know what her answer would be. Then across the room, Luisa comes in, catching my eye as she attends to another patient. When she's finished, her eyes gesture to me to follow her.

Out in the corridor, away from everyone, she glances around before she speaks. “I spoke to my friend. I didn't tell her your name or why you'd asked, just that you were carrying out some research about the distribution of specialists. Who worked where, how many hospitals each of them worked in. Then I asked her if they all worked here. She said they did.”

She breaks off, momentarily anxious.

Knowing there's more, wondering what she's not telling me, I watch her eyes widen as she looks behind me, but when I turn, there are only footsteps disappearing in the direction of April's room.

“It's him,” she whispers, fear written on her face. “They're all part of his team.”

I frown, wondering who she's talking about. Together we walk back along the corridor and catch the back view of him looking through the window at April. Then as he hears our footsteps, slowly he turns toward us and sees us both watching him.

Luisa melts away and I'm filled with uneasiness as Will strides toward me.

“Noah. Good to see you. You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

And I realize I have, the ghost of a monster who thinks he can manipulate lives.

“It's been quite a day,” I tell him, not yet ready to tell him why. “Maybe you can tell me how it's looking, really, for April.”

Needing him to believe, a little longer, that I'm still holding on to the blackened, burned-down stub of my candle for her.

Even here, in this most fragile part of ICU, it's there in his eyes—that I amuse him. Like the families of the newborns he makes life and death decisions for, I'm being manipulated, too.

Slow motion, more silent questions fill my head, only they're about the moral substance of the man who can do this. About others Will might be manipulating.

“Ryder's been on my back,” I add. “The man has it all wrong.”

Will's look is cold. “As you said to me, the truth will come out.”

It's a double bluff, a standoff. A shiver runs down my spine as, unflinching, I stand my ground.

“I've no doubt whatsoever it will.”

I turn and walk away, leaving him standing there. My unease growing with every step, because I know him well enough. If Will thinks that I know too much, that I'm a threat, then I'm not safe.

* * *

As I make my way back to my B&B, I'm recounting all the times I've seen Will in April's room, considering a new, hideous possibility. If April was on to Will, he won't want her to recover. Far easier for him if she were to die. No one will query the renowned surgeon. Once in her room, he could do anything.

Back inside, the door locked behind me, I call Bea, but she doesn't answer. It's the worst possible time for her not to be there. Feeling time slipping away from me, I leave a message.

Then I can do no more, just wait.

40

S
uddenly I'm caught in a race. Between Will going to Ryder, as I know he will, with a fabricated story containing enough half-truths to satisfy them both and implicate me; and Bea, wherever she is, picking up her messages and calling me. A race against time itself.

But with a flash of insight, I know Ryder won't call me; instead he'll come here, flaunting his status in front of the same people who watched me openly defy him, because he gets a buzz out of it. Quickly I gather up the files and notes, slip them into a bag, grab my wallet and keys, then, as an afterthought, a hoody.

On impulse, I glance out the window just as his car pulls up. Panic surges through me; then I slip out, quietly closing the door. Halfway down the stairs, I freeze in someone else's doorway, out of sight, as my landlady shows him up two floors to my room. Two floors that I've cursed traipsing up and down, but am now so grateful for, as seeing my chance and hurrying down the rest of the stairs, I slip out.

Here, again, I'm grateful. For the anonymity that the bustle of people offers, that in seconds I'm lost among the throng of rush hour. I picture Ryder in my room, furious, searching through my possessions, carelessly, angrily discarding them, as I walk, realizing that all along I was right. At the heart of all of this is Will.

I find a nondescript café by the station, where I wait, increasingly tense, for Bea to call. Another hour passes. It's after seven when, at last, the screen of my phone lights up.

“I got your message,” she says. “I'm so sorry. I've only just got out of work.”

I try to sound jovial. “Working you hard, aren't they? Where's your job?”

“I'm a receptionist—thanks to April really. It was she who suggested I apply. And it's fine, there's just a lot I need to learn at this stage.” Her tone changes. “Your call, earlier on, Noah. It sounded serious. What is it?”

“April was definitely on to something. Look, I know it's a lot to ask, but could you meet me?”

There's a pause. “In Tonbridge?”

“Would you?”

She pauses again.

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

“Okay. Yes. I'll be there. Where?”

“If you park in the station car park, I'll wait for you.”

“This sounds very secretive. . . .” There's curiosity in her voice.

“It isn't meant to be. How long do you think you'll be?”

“About an hour.”

* * *

After fifty minutes have passed, I get up and go outside, watching for the familiar shape of her Golf to swing into the car park, hang back in the shadows as I hear a distant siren.

She pulls in, five minutes late, bright, apologetic. “Sorry I'm late. The traffic was terrible. . . .” She kisses me on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming, Bea. Come on, I'll buy you a coffee.”

We sit at a table in the corner.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Bea looks worried.

I sigh. “I'll try. Most of April's clients were pregnant, only their babies were sick. Most had a type of heart defect, which these days should have been curable. Anyway, she started recording mortality rates. Over time, I think she started to question why around here, specifically at the Princess Royal, so many babies were dying.”

Bea looks shocked. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

I nod. “All the babies were under the same team of specialists.” I pause. “It was Will's team, Bea. And I've got so far with this, but I'm missing something. Something that links this to Norton. I've no idea what.”

Bea shakes her head, struggling to take everything in. “You're wrong, Noah. You have to be.”

“I'm not,” I tell her. “Here's the thing. Will's team was selecting the babies they treated.”

“They would, though, wouldn't they? I mean, if it was hopeless.. . .” I can see where she's going with this, but her voice trails off.

“They weren't using medical criteria to select them,” I tell her. “I'll tell you what they were using. Parents' jobs and incomes. The families from the poshest backgrounds. Social class, Bea. Will's no better than Hitler.”

Her face is ashen. “
Oh my God
. . .”

In her drawn-out silence, the stricken look in her eyes, I feel time running out, as I see that Will's got to her, too. It was in her throwaway comment about being late, her Judas kiss, her conviction I'm wrong.

“When's he coming?” My voice rises. I reach across the table, grab her arms. “Bea . . . How could you do this?”

“He told me that you killed Norton.” Her voice is tiny and very afraid. “That you'd never got over losing April. Never got over what Norton did to her. That all the time, for as long we've known you, you've lied about everything.” Then her voice steadies and she looks at me, deadly serious. “Think about it, Noah. Like that day you ran into her in London. You were still a student. You must have known April was pregnant. It was obvious. And you pretended you didn't. She couldn't believe it.”

But I've no idea what she's talking about. “Bea, you're wrong. We were going to be married. If something like that had happened, she would have told me . . .” I break off, frowning at her.

“God, Noah . . . Even you couldn't have been that naïve. Think back. You were in London. You'd come up from university for the weekend, to go to some law lectures somewhere.... You must have known.”

The light dawns in her eyes. “Or were you drinking? Even then? When you were a student?”

“I didn't . . . I don't drink, Bea. Not in that way.”

But Bea shakes her head, sorrowful. Then I'm staring at her, a sickening feeling in my stomach as a fleeting memory comes to me. I'd been in London and as chance would have it I had, as Bea put it, run into April. At the time, I'd registered nothing, but on a subconscious level, had I known?

“Bea . . .” I pause, trying to do the math in my head. “Oh God, Bea . .
.”

Our eyes meet, mine in horror, hers in disbelief, as behind her I see the unmistakable figure of Ryder enter the café.

“Bea, I swear I didn't know. You have to believe me. . . .” Imploring her, because she's all I have.

Leaning toward her, I lower my voice. “Will's a monster, Bea. He manipulates people. He's manipulating all of this.”

I watch disbelief give way to uncertainty.

“Bea, you have to listen. Fairview Medical Centre,” I tell her urgently. “It's all here. If you have any doubts about Will, check it out.”

“
My bag
,” I mutter as Ryder draws closer. “
Please. Take it. Read what's in it—if not for me, for April. If you still don't believe me, you can give it to Ryder.
”

I stand up, watching her eyes darting, untrusting, uncertain as Ryder looms behind her. His look is pure malevolence. As he starts talking, I know that this time he has something on me.

“Noah Calaway, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Bryan Norton. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

I shoot Bea a last glance of desperation, as he escorts me out.

* * *

Ryder drives in cold, superior silence. At the police station, after the usual formalities, the custody sergeant shows me into a small room, filled with the stale air of cigarette smoke and unheard truths, as all the reasons I fell out of love with the criminal justice system come flooding back. How the small man in the street lacks a voice. That you are guilty, until somehow proven innocent.

I'm expecting to be left alone because there is a system; know it's only a matter of time before Ryder's back.

It's three hours before I'm taken to an interview room, a few more minutes before Ryder joins me. I wonder if the younger man accompanying him will temper his obvious contempt.

His nod is perfunctory. “This is Sergeant Elliot.”

Elliot takes the seat next to Ryder across from me at the small table.

“Right. I don't think you've been entirely truthful with us, Calaway. We'll start with the facts, beginning with the crush you had on Ms. Rousseau—or Miss Moon, as she was then—when you were at school and the fact that you were witness to Norton raping her.”

His words are mocking, slicing like knives into the shroud of my privacy. Twisting the facts to intimidate me further. “I didn't witness anything. What actually happened was that I found her, after.”

That he doesn't question me further tells me that either from Bea, or Will, he knows this. He clears his throat, then carries on. “If you say so, sir. And you maintain you didn't know she'd been raped? Even though, years later, you were about to be married? Sounds a little far-fetched, if you ask me.” Making no attempt to disguise his pleasure in demeaning me.

“Sometimes the truth is,” I tell him. “You're a cop. You should know.”

Ryder glowers. “A witness has come forward.”

My blood runs cold.

“You were overheard saying you wanted to kill him,” he continues. “The witness says you had to be restrained.”

I'm silent. The witness can only be Will, only he didn't witness any such thing. He made it up. It's a measure of the desperation of a guilty man, only no one will believe that. I see us both through Ryder's eyes. The failed lawyer and the almighty surgeon.

“There's also the fact that Ms. Rousseau called you, twice, the evening before the murder—a fact that you deny.”

“She lost her phone. Do you know that?” Interrupting him, wondering if he knows. “She called the North Star the next morning, to ask if anyone had found it. Speak to John Slater.”

Ryder's stare is full of hostility. “I'm talking about her home phone. Perhaps she wanted to tell you she'd set up a meeting with Norton. You'd talked about it, hadn't you? Old flames, discussing how to get rid of him. I think you saw a chance to right an old wrong and you took it. That reclusive life you lead, writing fairy tales about serial killers . . .”

As he says that, I know in a flash that someone's checked out my cottage. I picture a stranger going through my home, my desk, my notes for my new book. Containing the rage that flares inside me, I know, too, that here, I'm powerless.

“I think it's messed with your head, Calaway. You drove all the way from Devon, waited in the car park at the North Star while Ms. Rousseau got him drunk; then when Norton was the last one out of the bar, saw your chance.”

Slowly, terrifyingly, I see that in Ryder's insane little world, he actually believes it.

“That's ridiculous.” Words that stick in my throat. “And how would I have had April's phone? Or her glove?”

He shrugs. “Maybe she'd found her phone. Left it in the pub with a glove and Norton picked them up. Who knows?”

“It doesn't explain why she took an overdose.”

“I'd say—and I'm not alone here—she's a bit of a fruitcake. History of physical and sexual abuse, depression—not surprising.”

But they're not Ryder's words. They're Will's. Between them, they've done what I dreaded.

Ryder goes on. “And there's another problem, because on the actual day it happened, no one can say where you were.” He sits back, staring malevolently across the table at me. “You've got to admit—it stacks up.”

“I can give you the number of Sam—the mechanic. He'll tell you he had my car that day.”

“Yeah.” Ryder's voice is heavy with sarcasm. “This Sam . . . Let me get this right. A west country yokel who would say anything if you slipped him enough. How much did you pay him?”

This time I'm seething, fighting back the urge to reach across the table and grab him by the tie, then punch him in the head.

“Call him,” I say, ice calm. “You have my phone. It's in my contacts.”

Then I sit, silent, using steel strength to maintain my composure, at the same time reading between Ryder's lines. The subtext.

He's convinced he has proof that I'm guilty.

* * *

I'm taken back to my cell, where they continue to hold me on suspicion. Ryder has twenty-four hours, minus the three I've already been here, to make it stick. Twenty-four hours for Bea to work out the truth.