Unforgotten (35 page)
Everything was all right then, yet in his jittery emotional state it seemed to Hugh that they had all been on the brink of some nameless catastrophe and only just managed to pull back in time. ‘You shouldn’t have . . .’
‘But we wanted to come back. Didn’t we, Charlie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Didn’t want you here on your own.’ She stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm.
His throat tightened, his eyes pricked with tears. Putting an arm round her, he kissed her head, then, the tears hot on his cheeks, he reached out his other arm to Charlie and pulled him close. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to say. ‘Thank you for everything.’ Most of all, he thought, thank you for being safe.
Pertusio took the wheel while Hugh and Montgomery sat in the back. ‘Into the city, is it, sir?’ Pertusio asked.
Montgomery looked to Hugh for an answer.
‘Into the city, yes,’ Hugh said. ‘Head for the Carstairs Estate.’
Before leaving, he had made two calls. First to the chief superintendent, a crisp dead-voiced man who confirmed that Montgomery’s investigation was fully authorised, that a witness protection programme was agreed and ready to swing into action, and that every necessary resource would be employed to obtain a successful prosecution in the matter of Lizzie’s death. Next Hugh had called John Emmanuel and heard the chatter of a TV and the roar of canned laughter. Wesley was fine, John reported when he had retreated to a quieter room. He had eaten well and seemed less jumpy. They agreed that John should say nothing to Wesley about the police coming, only that Lizzie’s husband was on his way over to say hello and help find somewhere safe for Wesley to go. John wasn’t sure if Wesley knew about Lizzie’s death, so they agreed that this too was best not mentioned. Then, last thing before leaving, Hugh had taken Lou and Charlie into the kitchen and told them about Wesley and why he had to go with the police to find him. There wasn’t time to tell them about Steadman even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t, not till he could explain properly. He gave them instructions not to open the door to anyone, or, if they had to, to say no one had been there that afternoon, even if those asking were police officers. Lou paled at this, casting him the same worried look she’d given him when he demanded she leave the house for the night. It was Charlie who calmly nodded and repeated the instructions back to him by way of confirmation.
Pertusio drove fast but smoothly. The day had been so long that Hugh had lost track of time, but from the amount of traffic on the main road he supposed it must still be rush-hour. Once, Pertusio put on the concealed siren to overtake a line of stationary cars, but otherwise they drove in silence broken only by the intermittent blare of the police radio and Montgomery’s occasional murmured conversations into his phone.
Finally Hugh said distractedly, as if thinking aloud, ‘We had a break-in not long ago. I don’t suppose you’ll ever know if it was connected to Steadman.’
Montgomery, illuminated by the oncoming headlights, gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Hard to establish now.’
‘Nothing was taken except a bit of cash and costume jewellery. But they knew how to get in without setting off the burglar alarm. At the time I thought my wife must have got it wrong . . .’ Leaving the rest of this thought unspoken, Hugh looked out of the window and waited for the radio to stop one of its periodic bouts of jabbering before going on in the same unhurried tone, ‘I hired a fire expert called Slater. He can prove the fire was arson. But how can you tie Steadman to the fire? How can you prove he was there?’
Perhaps it was the darkness, perhaps it was the tone Hugh had set, but Montgomery confided, ‘We know he called your house from a mobile phone at 20.30 on the night of the fire.’
Hugh kept his gaze on the passing streets and the flicker of lights.
‘Now we’re waiting for the mobile phone company to come back to us with the location of the mobile, both then and later that evening. It’s a lengthy job, but we’re hoping to get something by morning.’
Hugh absorbed this silently. ‘Is it going to be enough?’
‘If there’s more to find, we’ll find it,’ Montgomery declared in an intense way. ‘Anything that fixes him to the house. DNA. A tyre print. We’ll find it. He reckoned he’d covered everything, but the phone was his first mistake. He used a pay-as-you-go phone, the same one he used to contact the Forbes family, but he hung on to it too long, we obtained the number before he threw it away. Same with the money. He must have been on the take for at least four years. You can be clever with extra cash once or twice, lose it around the place, pretend a car’s second-hand when it’s new, say you got the new conservatory at a knock-down price, but you can’t go on hiding it for ever. We’ll get him for perverting the course of justice in the Jason
Jackson murder. We’ll get him on everything we can, Mr Gwynne. However long it takes.’
They had left the suburbs and were entering the city along a street of brightly lit shops and busy pavements.
‘How did you find Wesley?’ Hugh asked.
Wrapped in other thoughts, Montgomery took a moment to answer. ‘Through your wife’s client list at the Citizens Advice.’
‘That was enough?’
‘Along with her phone records, yes.’
Hugh’s first instinct was to baulk at this invasion of Lizzie’s privacy, but of course there was no right to privacy once you were dead. ‘You contacted all her clients?’
‘Not all, no. We matched key dates to her calls, and then it was a process of elimination. We knew he was young. Your wife had told me he was young.’
They were climbing the long hill towards the Carstairs Estate, where the lights of the tower blocks gleamed coldly against the night sky.
‘Go right just before the church,’ Hugh told Pertusio. Then, turning to Montgomery, he asked in the same mild, unhurried manner how Steadman had first got to know there was a witness, but either Montgomery didn’t hear or he didn’t feel like answering because he stared ahead, frowning absently, and made no reply. Then Pertusio was making the turn and Hugh was telling him to pull up in front of the second house on the left, which was one of a long terrace of squat geometric squares built of concrete with metal-framed windows and, going by the misted glass, a condensation problem.
‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’ Montgomery asked.
‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. How did Steadman get to know there was a witness?’
Montgomery gave a sharp nod, as if to acknowledge that he’d heard the question the first time, and, pushing his door open, swung his bulky frame round to climb out. When Hugh joined him on the pavement he was staring at the line of
concrete houses, the streetlight casting a sulphurous light over his heavy features.
‘He found out because I told him,’ he said bleakly. ‘I told him because I thought I could trust him.’ He turned to Hugh, his mouth in a bitter down-turned arc. ‘There’s no way I can undo that, Mr Gwynne, much as I’d wish to. All I can do is nail him. Get the prosecutions. And that’s what I’ll do. However long it takes.’
They stood in silence for a moment, then Hugh walked up the path and rang the doorbell. When he looked back Montgomery was still there under the streetlight.
Then John Emmanuel was answering the door and Hugh was stepping inside to meet Lizzie’s lost boy.
The family courtroom was small and modern and arranged like a meeting room to make it seem less intimidating. The main participants sat on three sides of a rectangular table, Tom Deacon at the near end with Emma Deeds, Linda Deacon with her solicitor further up the table, with court and social services officials opposite. At the far end, behind the clerk, the district judge sat alone at a raised bench. She was a brisk, jolly woman who smiled easily, which Hugh took as a good omen.
She addressed Ainsley, who was sitting in a witness box which looked as if it had been set down at random on the carpeted floor. ‘Dr Ainsley, in your report you state that Mr Deacon is capable of meeting all the children’s emotional and physical needs. Are you saying his illness won’t impact at all on his ability to care for the boys?’
‘Even on his bad days I believe he’ll be able to function perfectly adequately as a parent,’ Ainsley replied easily. ‘His motivation to do his best for the boys is extremely strong. If he has a sleepless night, for example, I’ve no doubt he’ll be up in good time to make the boys’ breakfast and get them off to school.’
‘What about the depression? You say it’s controlled with medication and therapy, but could it recur under certain circumstances?’
From where Hugh was sitting at the side of the room Tom’s bony face was in quarter profile, he could see the muscle in his jaw flickering its message of distress.
‘It could, yes. But I wouldn’t regard the risk of deterioration
as high at the present time. His medication is reviewed regularly. And he seems to be responding well to a new therapy called neuro-linguistic programming. New to him, I mean.’
‘New to me too,’ said the judge. ‘What does it involve?’
‘It’s not a technique I practise myself, but it involves – in the simplest terms – blocking and reframing negative thoughts and building on positive ones. It’s not scientifically proven but anecdotal evidence suggests it has some success with phobias. Tom found out about it himself and signed up for a course of treatments. He’s always on the lookout for ways to improve his condition.’
The judge made a note. ‘And the alcohol abuse? You say he’s able to keep it under control when he has charge of the children. Are we sure about that?’
‘I would say so, yes. He tends to be honest about his alcohol consumption.’
The judge raised an eyebrow.
‘He’s primarily a binge drinker, ma’am. He’s never proud of himself afterwards. He talks about it quite freely.’
‘And when he’s not bingeing, what’s his consumption then?’
‘As I understand it, a beer or two.’
Tom turned to Emma Deeds and whispered urgently.
The judge went on, ‘You say he’s anxious to overcome his dependency, but you don’t state whether you think he’s likely to succeed.’
‘I can’t say he’ll succeed in abstaining altogether, no. But as I’ve stated, he seems to be capable of controlling his problem when he has the boys with him, and I have no reason to think that he won’t be able to maintain that level of control in the future, particularly when the matter of the boys’ residence is settled. He responds well to routine and certainty – and to having the boys with him, of course.’
The judge referred to another document. ‘One report states that Mr Deacon seems to have problems with anger management. Would you agree with that?’
‘He can have problems with anger management, yes, but
it’s almost exclusively directed at people or bodies he regards as frustrating his attempts to regain control of his life. It stems from the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness he experienced on witnessing the death of his daughter. But he recognises the problem, he understands it achieves nothing. He’s working on it.’
‘There’s no suggestion that his anger is ever directed at the children?’
Tom’s jaw muscle went into overtime.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Thank you, Dr Ainsley. You may step down.’
Ainsley came back to his seat next to Hugh.
The judge said, ‘Now, the last matter of concern was the housing. We have a development there. Is that right, Ms Deeds?’
‘That’s correct, ma’am. If I could call on my colleague Mr Gwynne?’
‘Indeed. Mr Gwynne?’
Hugh stood up. ‘I can report that in the matter of Mr Deacon’s claim against the driver of the car that injured him and killed his daughter, a settlement has been reached whereby Mr Deacon will receive damages of six hundred and twenty thousand pounds, with an interim payment of two hundred and fifty thousand, to be paid within the month.’
‘And this money is not ring-fenced in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gwynne.’ She turned her attention to Tom. ‘And it’s your intention to buy somewhere as soon as possible, is it, Mr Deacon?’
Tom straightened his back. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve already seen one place I like for the right money.’
‘Good.’
‘And, ma’am, can I say something else?’
‘By all means.’
‘When I’m caring for the boys I can go for days without a drink. Days and days. I just don’t feel the need.’
The judge was already nodding, as if to discourage Tom from overstating his case. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Is there anything more you’d like to say, Mrs Deacon?’
Linda, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, except to confirm that she was happy for the boys to live with their father, shook her head.
‘Counsel?’ Meeting a silence, the judge announced in a tone of decision, ‘Taking into account the reports, and the wishes of Mrs Deacon and Mr Deacon, and of course those of Matt and Joe themselves, the Court makes a shared residence order in favour of both parents, the boys to spend term-time with their father plus half the holidays, the other half of the holidays to be available for the boys to go to their mother, should she feel able to have them.’
For several seconds Tom was completely immobile, as if the significance of the words hadn’t sunk in. Then, as the judge went into detail on contact and visiting arrangements, he turned to Emma Deeds as if for confirmation, but she was writing busily so he turned the other way and sought out Ainsley’s gaze. Only when Ainsley gave him a broad smile and a firm nod did his face slowly contort with agonised joy.
The judge said, ‘And, Mr Deacon?’
Tom straightened again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘The Court asks that you continue to visit your doctor on a regular basis, so he can monitor your health. Is that acceptable?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘How often shall we say? Is monthly convenient?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Monthly it is, then.’
‘You understand why I’m asking, Mr Deacon? We want to avoid any deterioration in your health going unnoticed and untreated.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And, Mr Deacon? No more persuading yourself you’re better than you really are?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘I appreciate your reasons for doing it, but it didn’t help your case.’