A Certain Justice (52 page)

Sometimes the track became so narrow that the reeds brushed both her shoulders. She had the sense that they were closing in on her, that soon there would be nothing ahead but a wall, insubstantial but impenetrable, of green-and-pale-gold stalks. The path seemed endless. It was impossible to believe that they were making their way towards their goal, that they would ever reach that far island. But she could hear the sea now, a faint rhythmic rumble that was curiously comforting. Perhaps that was how the journey would end, the reeds would suddenly part and she would see in front of her the grey trembling expanse of the North Sea.

It was just when she was wondering whether she dare ask Ashe how much further they had to go that the island came suddenly into view. The reed beds opened up and she saw the clumps of trees, firm sandy soil, and behind the trees the glimpse of a derelict cottage. There was an expanse of about thirty feet of water, reed-free, between the island and where they stood. It was spanned by a ramshackle bridge two planks wide and supported in the middle by a single wooden post, blackened with age. Once there had been a handrail on the right, but this had rotted away and only the uprights and a foot of the rail still remained. There must once have been a gate barring the entrance to the bridge; one of the posts was intact and there were three rusted hinges embedded in the wood.

Octavia shivered. There was something oppressive, even sinister, about the stretch of still, olive-dark water and the broken bridge.

She said, “So this is the end,” and the words struck chill, as if they were a portent.

Ashe had been wheeling the bike. Now he propped it on its side-stand and moved over to the bridge, walking cautiously to the middle, then testing it by jumping up and down. The planks sagged and groaned but held firm.

Still gently jumping, he spread his arms, and she saw again that happy transforming smile. He said: “We’ll unpack and carry our stuff across. Then I’ll come back for the bike. The bridge should hold.”

He was like a boy relishing a first longed-for adventure.

He came back and unpacked the bike. Encumbered by two sleeping-bags and the leather side-panniers, he handed her one of the rucksacks. Laden with that and her own pack, she followed him over the bridge, then under the low branches of the tree, and saw the cottage clearly for the first time. It had long been derelict. The tiled roof was still partly in place, but the front door hung open on broken hinges, its base embedded in the soil. They moved into what was originally one of two ground-floor rooms. There was no glass in the one high window. The door between the rooms had gone and only a deep sink, stained and scarred, under a tap wrenched from the wall, showed that the further room had once been a kitchen. The back door, too, was missing and she stood looking out over the expanse of reeds towards the sea. But it was still out of sight.

Disappointed, she asked: “Why can’t we see the sea? I can hear it. It can’t be far away.”

“About a mile. You can’t see it from here. You can’t see it from anywhere on the reed beds. At the end of the reeds there’s a high bank of shingle and then the North Sea. It isn’t very interesting. Just a stony beach.”

She would have liked to be there, to get away from this claustrophobic greenness. But then she told herself that this was Ashe’s special place; she mustn’t let him know that she was disappointed. And she wasn’t disappointed, not really. It was just that everything was so strange. She had a sudden vision of the garden at the convent, the wide well-tended lawns, the flower beds, the summer-house at the end of the garden overlooking a meadow, where they could sit in warm weather. It was the kind of country she was used to, English, ordered, familiar. But she told herself that they wouldn’t be here for long, probably just overnight. And he had brought her here to his own special place. Surely this was where he meant to make love.

Now, like a child, he asked: “What do you think of it? Good, isn’t it?”

“It’s secret. How did you find it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he said: “I used to come here when I was in that home outside Ipswich. No one knows it’s here except me.”

She said: “Were you always alone? Didn’t you have a friend?”

But again he didn’t reply. Instead he said: “I’ll go and get the bike. Then we’ll unpack and have some breakfast.”

The thought lightened her spirits immediately. She had forgotten how hungry, how thirsty she was. She watched from the water’s edge as he went back over the bridge, kicked back the prop-stand, and wheeled the Kawasaki backwards.

She called: “You’re not going to ride it, are you?”

“It’s the easiest way. Stand clear.”

He mounted the bike, revved up and drove furiously towards the bridge. The front wheels were nearly on dry land when, with a crack which sounded to her like an explosion, the centre post gave way, the two near planks splintered and fell and the struts of the side rail were flung into the air. At the first crack Ashe had stood up and leapt for the island, reaching it with inches to spare, slithering on the sandy earth. She dashed forward to help him up. Together they turned and watched as the purple Kawasaki slowly disappeared under the brackish water. Half the bridge had collapsed. There was nothing now but the two further planks, their shattered ends sinking in the water.

Octavia looked at Ashe’s face, terrified of an explosion of rage. She knew that the rage was there. He had never shown it with her but she had always been aware of those smouldering depths of feeling held so tightly under control. But instead he gave a great shout of laughter, harsh, almost triumphant.

She couldn’t keep the dismay out of her voice. “But we’re cut off. How are we going to get home?”

Home. She used the word un-self-consciously. Only now did she realize that the house in which for so many years she had felt alien and unwanted was her place, her home.

He said: “We can take off our clothes, then swim for it, holding them out of the water. Then we’ll dress and make for the road. We’ve got money. We can hitch into Ipswich or Saxmundham and take a train. And we don’t need the bike any more. After all, we’ve got your mother’s Porsche. That’s yours now. Everything she had is yours. You know what that solicitor told you.”

She said sadly: “I know what he told me.”

She heard his voice, eager, the voice of a new, a different Ashe. “There’s even an old outside lavatory in the garden. Look, it’s here.”

She was wondering about that. She had never liked squatting behind bushes. He pointed to a wooden shed, black with age, the door almost too stiff on its hinges to open. Inside was an earth closet. It smelt perfectly fresh, the smell of soil and old wood, and sweet sea-scented air. Beyond the shed was a clump of elder and dry half-dead bushes, a gnarled tree and grass almost knee-high. Octavia walked on and saw again the shimmering vale of reeds, saw too another narrow ridge of firm tussock grass.

She asked: “Where does that lead? To the sea?”

“Nowhere. It’s only about a hundred yards long and then it peters out. I go there when I want to be alone.”

Away from me, she thought, but didn’t speak. She felt again a momentary churning of the heart. She was with Ashe. She should be feeling happy, exultant, sharing his pleasure in the peace, the silence, the knowledge that this isolated island was their special place. Instead she was aware of a moment of claustrophobic unease. How long did he mean to stay here? How were they to get back? It was easy to talk about swimming the ten yards or so, but what then?

In the cottage he was unpacking the bags, shaking out the bedding, setting out their provisions on the one shelf to the right of the fireplace. She moved over to help him, feeling at once happier. He had thought of everything: tins of fruit juice, beans, soup, stew and vegetables, half a dozen bottles of water, sugar, tea bags, instant coffee and chocolate. There was even a small paraffin stove and a bottle of fuel, and two cooking-tins with detachable handles. He boiled water for their coffee, cut slices of bread, buttered them and made two thick ham sandwiches.

They took their coffee and picnic outside and sat together, their backs against the wall, gazing out over the reeds. The sun was strengthening now, she could feel it warm on her face. The food was the most wonderful she had ever tasted. No wonder she had experienced that moment of depression. It was due to hunger and thirst. Everything was going to be all right. They were together, that was all that mattered. And tonight they would make love; that was why he had brought her here.

Daring at last to question him, she asked: “How long are we going to stay here?”

“A day, maybe two. Does it matter? Don’t you like it here?” “I love it. I just wondered-I mean, without the bike it’s going to take us longer to get home.”

He said: “This is home.”

K
ate had been afraid that the local-authority records would be incomplete, that they would have difficulty in tracing Ashe’s moves from foster home to foster home. But a Mr. Fender in the Social Services Department, surprisingly young and with a look of premature anxiety, was able to produce a shabby and voluminous file.

He said: “It isn’t the first time Ashe’s records have been asked for. Miss Aldridge wanted a sight of the file when she defended him. Obviously we asked his consent first, but he said she could see it. I’m not sure what help it was.”

Kate said: “She liked to know as much as possible about the people she defended. And his background was relevant. She made the jury sorry for him.”

Mr. Pender gazed down at the closed file. He said: “I suppose you could be sorry for him. He didn’t have much of a chance. If your mother throws you out before you’re eight, there’s not a lot Social Services can do to compensate for that rejection. There were numerous case conferences about him, but he was hard to place. No one wanted to keep him for long.”

Piers asked: “Why wasn’t he put up for adoption? His mother had rejected him, hadn’t she?”

“It was suggested while we were in touch with her, but she wouldn’t agree. I suppose she had some idea of taking him back. These women are odd. They can’t cope and they put their lover before their child, but they don’t like the idea that they’ll actually lose the child. By the time his mother died Ashe had become unadoptable.”

“We’ll need a list of all the people he was placed with. May I take the file?”

Mr. Pender’s face changed. “I don’t think I can go as far as that. These are confidential social and psychiatric reports.”

Piers broke in: “Ashe is on the run. Almost certainly he’s killed one woman. We know he has a knife. He also has Octavia Cummins. If you want the responsibility for a second murder on your conscience, that’s up to you. Hardly the kind of publicity the Social Services Committee will welcome. Our job is to find Ashe, and we need information. We have to talk to people who might know his special places, where he could be hiding out.”

Mr. Pender’s face was a mask of indecision and anxiety. Reluctantly, he said: “I think I could get authority to let you have the records. It may take time.”

Kate broke in. “We can’t wait.”

She held out her hand. Mr. Pender still didn’t push the file towards her.

After a moment Kate said: “All right. Give me a list of all the names and addresses where he was placed, children’s homes and foster parents. I want it at once.”

“I can’t see any objection. I’ll dictate the information now if you’ll wait. Would you like coffee?”

He spoke rather desperately, as if anxious to find something which he could offer without reference to higher authority.

Kate answered: “No thank you. Just the names and addresses. And there was someone called Cole or Coley who apparently spent a lot of time with Ashe. We found a mention of him in the notebook Miss Aldridge used at the time of the trial. It’s important to trace him. He was on the staff of one of your children’s homes, Banyard Court. We’ll start there. Who’s in charge now?”

Mr. Pender said: “I’m afraid that will be a waste of time. Banyard Court was closed three years ago, after it was burnt down. Arson, I’m afraid. We’re fostering children now whenever we can. Banyard Court was for particularly difficult young people but who didn’t require secure accommodation. I’m afraid it wasn’t very successful. I don’t think we have any record of where the staff are now, except the ones who were transferred.”

“You may know where Coley is. He was accused by Ashe of sexual abuse. Haven’t you an obligation in those cases to inform future employers?”

“I’ll look at the file again. As I remember he was exonerated after an inquiry, so we had no further responsibility. I may be able to give you his address, if he agrees. It’s a difficult matter.”

Piers said: “It will be if anything happens to Octavia Cummins.”

Mr. Pender sat for a moment in worried silence. He said: “I went through the papers after you telephoned. They make depressing reading. We didn’t do well by him, but I don’t know that anyone could have done better. We placed him with a schoolmaster and he stayed there the longest — eighteen months. Long enough to do well at the local grammar school. They had hopes of GCSEs. After that he made sure he was kicked out. He’d got what he wanted out of the placement and it was time to go.”

“What did he do?” Kate asked.

“Sexually assaulted the fourteen-year-old daughter.”

“Was he prosecuted?”

“No. The father didn’t want to put her through the trauma of a court appearance. It wasn’t a full rape but it was unpleasant enough. The girl was extremely distressed. Naturally Ashe had to go. It was then that we admitted him to Banyard Court.”

Piers said: “Where he met Michael Cole?”

“Presumably. I don’t think they’d met before. I’ll telephone the ex-headmaster of the court. He’s retired now, but he may know where Cole is. If so, I’ll ring the man and ask if I can give you his address.”

At the door he turned and said: “The foster mother who got closest to understanding Ashe was a Mary McBain. She takes five children of all ages and seems to be able to cope. All done by love and cuddles. But even she had to let Ashe go. He stole from her. Small amounts from the housekeeping purse at first, and then persistently. And he began to ill-treat the other children. But she said something perceptive when he left: that Ashe couldn’t bear people to get close to him; that it was when they began to show affection that he had to do the unforgivable. I suppose it was the need to reject before he was rejected. If anyone could have coped it was Mary McBain.”