Blood of the Innocents (35 page)

A pattern amongst the messages quickly emerged. The people who bothered to leave them all had one thing in common: like Stephen Lamb, they all had shiny, successful lives. Invariably, the message started off with career details:
working as a stockbroker/lawyer/managing director for
. . . There was a distinct dearth of window cleaners, bin men and unemployed. This was always followed by a description of family life:
married with four children/wife Cordelia, children Dominic (10) and Pandora (8) etc.
Occasionally, someone was bold enough to admit to a second marriage, but even that came across as twice the achievement. Generally speaking, life’s failures didn’t draw attention to themselves. It was all sickeningly up-beat and did nothing to lift Knox’s own blackening mood.

For a little light relief, Knox switched to reading the notice boards where former pupils could post their opinions on anything from their former schooldays. Usually it was the teachers who’d become the subject of perceived injustices and occasional downright victimisation, prompting outpourings of resentment and angst. This was more like it, Knox thought: bitterness to match his own. He was busy marvelling at the human capacity for blame when he almost overlooked a name he’d seen before, more than once, in recent days. Bucking the trend, the attached messages indicated relative popularity. One described in great detail an elaborate April Fools’ joke that had been admirably taken. But it was followed by a more cryptic note, posted by someone calling himself ‘Stewey’:
Goody Goodway: did he jump or was he pushed?
There was one response from a Derrick Farmer:
One of life’s eternal mysteries. Gone but sadly missed.

Knox stared at the screen trying to work out what, if anything, it could mean. The school was another local comprehensive where Goodway must have worked prior to teaching at Kingsmead. Running a search, he found Stewart ‘Stewey’ Blake on the list of leavers from ten years ago.

For the sake of having achieved something this afternoon, Knox e-mailed him, leaving his mobile number, hoping that ‘Stewey’ was in the habit of checking his in-box regularly. He waited a few minutes in case there was an instant e-mail reply, but then, unlike Knox, Blake would have better things to do on a sunny Saturday afternoon than spend it hunched over his computer. And it would probably turn out to be nothing. Sensationalism knitted out of a few shreds of circumstantial information: perfect Internet fodder. He looked around the office. Millie was at the Akrams’, Charlie Glover out on a call; no one to enjoy a round of speculation with. He needed a drink. There was also no one to see him leave early, so he picked up his jacket and went.

On the way home, of its own volition, Knox’s brain began composing his own message for the reunion website: ‘Wife has left me because of my womanising, I’m an embarrassment to my kids. Could have made DS or even DI, if I hadn’t screwed a senior officer’s wife.’ What an epitaph.

Slamming shut his front door, the noise reverberated around the emptiness for seconds afterwards. He tried to imagine hearing that same sound every day for the next thirty years, destined to spend the rest of his life alone. He hurled his keys on to the hall table in frustration. What was the point? What was the fucking point?

 

After a couple of hours, the handful of people who’d come back with them for a drink had drifted away, leaving Mariner and Anna alone at the Coach and Horses. The guest beer was a very pleasing Adnams, and the garden was bathed in early evening sunshine, but Mariner couldn’t shake off the gloom that had descended.

‘Maybe you just have to accept this as one you can’t solve,’ said Anna, ever the pragmatist.

‘I’ll add it to all the others waiting for me back at the station.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Anna said.

‘I can’t believe that I’ll never know.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Right now, it feels like the only important thing, but I suppose that will pass.’

‘It has before,’ she reminded him. ‘And, who knows, when you clear the house you may come across something that you’ve overlooked.’

Mariner shook his head. ‘She was too careful.’

‘Why do you think she kept it from you for so long?’

‘Who knows? To begin with, I thought it was because of who he was. She liked to give the impression he was somebody important: someone whose reputation might have suffered if it was known that he’d fathered an illegitimate child. In the late 50s a child out of wedlock was still a big deal. But, later, I used to think that maybe she played on that because thought it would make me feel better to know that he was someone special.’

‘So it could have just been a bloke down the street.’

‘It might help to explain why we moved away from London in such a hurry.’

‘It’s a hell of a secret to keep, isn’t it? There’s no one else you can think of who would know?’

‘As Maggie said, Rose deliberately severed links with a lot of her friends when we moved from London. There may be somebody somewhere, but I wouldn’t begin to know how to find out.’

‘So maybe it’s time to start looking forward instead of back.’

Mariner studied his pint for a moment. He had something to say. He just wasn’t sure if now was the right time to say it. ‘I regret what happened with Millie,’ he said at last. ‘Really regret it.’

She placed a hand over his. ‘I know. And I’m not sure what gave me the right to be so annoyed about it. We’ve never had that kind of relationship.’

Mariner could almost feel Tony Knox sitting on his shoulder, urging him on. ‘I wish we did,’ he blurted out.

She wrinkled her nose, as if trying to make sense of her own feelings. ‘Yeah, me too.’

A horde of small children raced by behind them, shrieking with ear-piercing intensity. Mariner swallowed the rest of his pint. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘Your place or mine?’

‘Yours. Nobody can reach me there.’

Back at Mariner’s house, the phone rang on, unanswered.

 

When Mariner woke the next morning, Anna was already up. He could hear her moving around and eventually she walked past the bedroom door, already dressed and laden with what looked like an entire jumble sale. It was ten past eight. Mariner propped himself on an elbow and picked up the mug of tea she’d left for him. Anna saw him. ‘You all right?’ she asked.

‘Fine. You?’ When she nodded he said: ‘Come back to bed.’

She was unsure.

‘Half an hour, that’s all.’

‘And then you’ll help me?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a deal.’

Standing in the shower a little later, Mariner had a strange feeling. It puzzled him until suddenly he recognised it as contentment. Weird.

‘Shall I come with you?’ he asked when they’d loaded up her car.

‘It’s up to you. I’ll have to man the stall for a couple of hours,’ she warned him. ‘I can’t do anything about that.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to.’

Bournville Festival was an anachronistic affair dating back to 1902, at a time long before the ‘village’ had been greedily swallowed up by the suburbs of the spreading city. Although the surroundings had changed, it remained a real village-style event, held on the vast green playing fields fronting the chocolate factory that were for the rest of the year given over to cricket, football or bowls, depending on the season. Alongside the small funfair, exhibition tents, stalls and games had been erected around a small arena, the centre of which was dominated by a traditional maypole wrapped in bright red and yellow ribbons. At the far end of the grounds, an area had been cordoned off for the pyrotechnic display that would end the celebrations late in the evening.

It took several journeys to transfer everything from Anna’s car to where the stall was being set up. Here, inevitably, Mariner came face to face with Simon. If he’d expected to be let off lightly with a caricature of a mincing queen he was going to be unlucky. Simon was bronzed, muscular and macho, and Mariner found it hard to believe that what Anna had said was true. He saw her watching him.

‘It’s not always the ones you expect,’ she said.

‘No.’

Anna was going to be busy arranging prizes until the festival opened and there were already enough volunteers on hand who seemed to know what they were doing. Mariner felt like a spare part, so he wandered off to see what else was on offer. There were stalls affiliated to every local organisation imaginable. Even the conservation group was represented, he noticed, seeing Eric Dwyer lurking behind a table of soft toys, wooden carved artefacts and the ubiquitous mugs, trying to encourage new recruits to the project.

Even though the festival wouldn’t be officially open for another half hour, people were pouring in. At one end of the field was the West Midlands police trailer. Recognising Keith Watson from the OCU, Mariner made for the home security van. In among the advice posters on home security was a display with photographs of Ricky and Yasmin, appealing again for any information anyone might have. Now that the heat was going out of the investigations it was essential to take any opportunities to maintain the profile of the cases and keep the publicity going, but at the same time, even to Mariner, it felt gruesome and out of keeping with the atmosphere of the rest of the event. Unsurprisingly, few people were giving the display much attention. Mariner spent several minutes chatting to Watson before heading towards the exhibitions tent.

Inside the marquee it was bright and oppressive, with the smell of warm canvas on grass that took Mariner back to those childhood camping expeditions. Long trestle tables were covered with pristine white cloths and a series of displays that reflected every creative pastime open to man: everything from home-made cakes, flower arrangements and jam, to prize-winning pumpkins and marrows. There were art competitions for children and adults for which certificates would be awarded later that afternoon for different categories and age groups. The adults’ theme was ‘Reflections of Birmingham’ and the one that most appealed to Mariner’s taste was literally that: an impressive pen-and-ink sketch of a bank of trees at sunset, mirrored on to what Mariner guessed was somewhere along one of the city’s canals. The view was familiar, not dissimilar to the one from his back door.

‘Inspector, I didn’t know you lived locally.’ It was the artist himself who approached Mariner.

‘My partner does,’ said Mariner, thinking that it was the first time he’d ever referred to Anna that way. ‘And I had no idea that you were so gifted. Congratulations, Mr Goodway, it’s a superb drawing.’

‘Thank you. I’m a bit rusty these days, but suddenly I find myself with some empty evenings to fill. Art can be very therapeutic. Helps to take my mind off things.’

‘Of course.’ An unwelcome reminder to Mariner that there was still unfinished business. ‘Good luck with the competition.’

‘Thank you.’

An announcement over the PA system heralded the opening ceremony, and Mariner moved outside again in time for the arrival of the festival queen, attended by her flower girls, all of whom were selected from children born on the Cadbury estate. Mariner was swept along with the crowds towards the main arena where the maypole dancing would begin. Judging by the number of video cameras trained on the dancing, each child had a minimum of two sets of proud parents and grandparents there. Scanning the crowd, Mariner spotted another familiar face. It took him a moment or two to place Andy Pritchard, especially as today his Ranger’s uniform had been replaced by jeans and T-shirt.

He was reaching up to position a digital camera and Mariner wondered if he had a daughter among the dancers, though he seemed to remember Pritchard as a single man. Perhaps a niece then, or goddaughter. At that moment, Pritchard glanced up and saw Mariner watching him. Mariner smiled and nodded, but Pritchard didn’t reciprocate. Instead, lowering the camera, he turned and began walking away from Mariner, into the crowd. Purely from curiosity, Mariner followed, just to see what he would do, and was interested to note that Pritchard quickened his pace. There were a number of possible explanations. The simplest was that the recognition hadn’t been mutual, or perhaps he just didn’t feel like talking. Being a policeman could sometimes have that effect on people. Mariner gave it up.

Tired of the crowds, he sought refreshment in the beer tent, but after standing in a motionless queue for ten minutes he abandoned that idea and decided to go and find a pub. Being on the Bournville trust, Quaker and dry, the nearest was going to be a drive away. The incident with Andy Pritchard was niggling at him, too. The more he thought about it, the more he thought Pritchard’s behaviour odd. He glanced over to where the Manor Park stall was. Anna was in her element, hidden somewhere behind a heaving mass of people. She wouldn’t miss him for an hour or so.

Mariner’s first stop was Granville Lane. ‘Tony Knox in today?’ Mariner asked the duty sergeant.

‘He was here earlier, but the miserable sod’s done us all a favour and gone home,’ was the terse reply.

Up in CID, it didn’t take Mariner long to find what he was looking for, though: the information Knox had followed up on the indecent exposures. After plotting the incidents on a map, Knox had rightly identified the pattern as being access to railway stations, but when he looked closely, Mariner found another, more subtle pattern. Each of the attacks had also occurred close to a council park or open space: not on it, but close by. Andy Pritchard used his bike to get around, and what better way of covering bigger distances across the city with a bike than on the train?

Mariner switched on his computer. While he was waiting for it to boot up, he sorted through the phone messages in his in-tray. One was an urgent phone message to contact the forensic service. Mariner called back. Most of the scientists were off for the weekend, but the technician on duty was expecting Mariner’s call.