Chasing Innocence (41 page)

Ferreira smiled encouragingly at him, the mother now still, her stare fixed on him.

‘Just tell me what you know, Kevin. Anything Andrea might have told you.’

SEVENTY-EIGHT

The deafening noise of generators fell away and Adam emerged onto the quay, a wide expanse of water away to his left, a long low ship at the far side with cranes busily lifting containers that looked in the distance like small blocks of Lego. He could see the dock tower illuminated in the centre horizon like a lonely version of Big Ben, and to his immediate right a line of shuttered brick workshops a road’s width from the water’s edge. The whole scene was whitewashed by floodlights, the light and long shadows tripping over the concrete and out across the sparkling water.

At the end of the quay was a very large boat, sleek and darkly reflective. The furthest workshop and the one nearest the boat was open, the light glowing from inside, creating a moving shadow, which Adam assumed was Simon.

Full of apprehension, he made his way behind the nearest of the workshops, into the gap between the back and a fence. He stepped cautiously over gravel and refuse blown into the gap, could hear distinct noises as he moved closer, the sound of heavy boxes being moved and stacked. It seemed to take an age as he nervously made his way behind the line of square buildings, finally coming to a stop beside the last workshop. He heard the sound of a trolley wheel away.

The rear wall was brick with a peeling window frame above. It was devoid of glass but out of reach. He looked around but there was nothing to stand on. The fence would be too noisy and was too far from the wall. He ran his fingers over the wall; some of the bricks were corroded and crumbling, leaving holes he might use to climb. He tried a few, managing to push in his foot and reaching to find a handhold to pull himself up. The trolley bumped back and the stacking resumed. He waited still and quiet until the wheels rolled away again.

During their honeymoon cruise he had great fun one afternoon climbing a fake rock face, this looked vaguely similar. He wanted to know what was being loaded and importantly how long it might take. So he rehearsed the movements in his mind as he waited again for the heavy rattle of the trolley to fade. Then he manoeuvred his foot into the lowest hole, just below waist height, took a deep breath, and threw himself at the wall, pushing up through his leg and searching out the handhold, clamping into the hole, fingers scrabbling and sticking and pulling, immediately throwing up his other hand and getting his fingertips onto the ledge. He hung suspended for a second with his feet blindly searching for leverage, then pulled himself up to the window.

Silently elated, he worked at catching his breath and keeping quiet, while taking in the scene. The workshop was twice the width of a normal garage, opening at the front on to the quay. Stacked across the floor into just about every space and at least head high were boxes of all sizes, mostly sealed in transparent plastic. He tried reading the wording. Those he could fathom were not just the staples of water and tinned food, bleach and toilet rolls, but electrical supplies and plumbing, engine parts, filters and refrigeration, a load of supplies for a long journey. It occurred to him as the trolley reappeared that it would take some time to load all of it onto the boat.

He ducked down beneath the window and waited on the trolley, hanging with his arms burning and his legs aching. He carefully lowered himself and slowly made his way around the building between interludes of stacking, keeping close to the fence, moving beyond the boat and to a series of worn concrete steps that dropped down into the water.

As he peered over the top step back towards the boat, Adam was already trying to figure how he would get onto it. And if Sarah and the girl were there, how he would get them off and past Simon to safety.

SEVENTY-NINE

The heavy metal door slammed closed and silence reigned once more. Brian immediately started counting down from ninety, as he did deciding which hand to choose. His right hand was stronger, he was right-handed, although intricate movements were a problem amid the static of tortured nerve endings. His left hand was fine but weaker. It was not even a debate, just some way of preparing his brain for what was to come.

He turned his left wrist within the confines of the plastic and placed the thumb on the flat of the chair, taking the stretch of the plastic to its limit. Once the thumb was in place he tested the movement and finished the ninety-second count. He started another and without finishing violently pushed down through his left shoulder, angling the thumb and not stopping until the plastic cut deep into his skin. He shouted out load, the pain jarring through his entire body, the thumb out of joint. He got it wrong. A few seconds and the ligaments popped it back and he shouted louder and doubled over, a mixture of pain and frustration.

It came down to one single simple fact. He could not be in the chair when the metal door next opened. He placed his thumb on the flat of the seat, pushed the joint flush with the edge of the chair and shifted his weight. He closed his eyes, breathed out and pushed down hard again, harder and quicker. A different kind of pain, he got it right. Something gave in his hand, a sensation like a solid branch snapping. He screamed at the ceiling, this time tinged with jubilation that quickly faded, knowing the real pain was now to come.

He dared not stop and think. His thumb was now pushed back away from the hand, pointing back towards his wrist. He could feel it. It needed to be flat across the palm. If his hands were closer he could quickly lift the sheered bone over, scream some more and get on with it. But his hands were fastened each side of the chair. There was no easy way to do it. So he used the plastic to cut into his wrist and the blood to lubricate the skin, pulling up through the narrow diameter of plastic, the plastic tie moving up over his wrist, shifting the thumb back across the palm.

Brian knew pain, had even come to welcome the battle. He might even tell you of times that equalled this pain. Those times would be few, little competed with moving a fractured bone across the break. Desperation pushed him on, his face red and spit on his lips and eyes bulging, fixed madly on the door, moving his wrist in small motions side to side and gradually upwards. Tears ran down his cheeks and his voice high pitched and distant and pleading as the plastic moved, over the joint and swelling flesh, the thumb slowly shifting and grating. Then at last the plastic freed and his hand slipped through, stopping at the ridge of knuckle. His vision was failing, his brain searching for escape, his determination keeping him conscious. He used blood from his wrist again, already thickening, to shift the plastic over the ridge of knuckle, now the widest part of his hand. The plastic slid and his left arm swung free and he blacked out.

EIGHTY

Ferreria turned to a fresh page of her notepad. She drew two circles, writing into the first:
Andrea
and the second:
Secrets
. She joined them with a curving line and looked up at the stepfather. He was looking right at her, lest he glimpse his wife’s eyes burrowing into him. And then he spoke.

‘At first I did pass everything on to Beth because when you have a little girl in your care who’s not your own, well, it’s difficult for a man. You worry about secrets between the both of you because it’s so easy for them to be misconstrued. You can see it in people’s eyes, as if they’re waiting for the slightest hint something ugly is hidden. So at first I passed on everything to make sure there was no confusion at all. And I still do, in the main. Now we have our own two it doesn’t seem so important.’

His eyes never left Ferreira. ‘So sometimes I judge there are things that are best kept from Beth, she can…she can care a little too much sometimes. Especially where Brian is concerned. And nobody could ever accuse Beth of not caring about her children.’

All four of them waited as he searched for more words. ‘So yes, Andrea does sometimes confide in me and I do sometimes keep that to myself.’

The mother without moving loomed over him. ‘Like what, Kevin?’

‘Mrs Smith, if you could please…’ began Ferreira.

She did not listen. ‘What, Kevin, tell me, what have you done?’ Her voice rose in pitch. ‘What have you not told me that has caused this?’ Her eyes glistened. She turned back to the table, her frustration becoming tears. She reached beside her chair and tossed tissues onto the table, falling silent again as she wiped away the tears, as keen to hear what her husband had to say as everyone else. He started talking, still fixed on Ferreira.

‘It’s not much really. Andrea asked me questions about what I was like before I met her mother. Did I wash my own clothes, did I cook? Did I iron and tidy the house, buy food? That sort of thing. Did I like to drink, how much I drank.’ The stepfather gained confidence as he spoke. ‘So I told her. And of course I guessed she was comparing the answers against what her dad was doing, so I pitched my answers. She was just trying to suss what was normal and what was not.’ He stopped and tapped the pad of his index finger on the polished table, studied it and then turned to Ferreira. ‘And the more she told me, I realised she had started doing some of this stuff for him. Cleaning the house. Asking me how to…asking if she could borrow some money so her dad could wash his clothes.’

Sitting beside him the mother sounded like she was about to choke. The words came out in a rush. ‘You gave Andrea money so Brian could wash his clothes! How do you know it was used for that? Buying drink more likely. You fool.’ She almost spat. ‘I’ve been struggling to make ends meet and you paid to do his washing! Keeping the truth from me.’ She dabbed at her eyes.

Ferreira waited. ‘And?’

‘I knew Andrea wasn’t giving him the money, she was washing the clothes for him. She wanted to know how to work the machines in the laundrette and then I started hearing about the neighbour she goes with, a woman who lives upstairs. In the last year I think I heard most of what goes on. How often he works and that he leaves her by herself Saturday afternoons, and Saturday nights. And yes I deliberated a great deal on the rights and wrongs. What was I to do? If I told anyone I can only imagine what social services would do. And in my heart of hearts I can’t believe it would be for the best. It would destroy Andrea not to spend time with her father.’

‘Or she could see her father for what he really is!’ The mother’s spit peppered the side of his face, which he wiped away after a moment. ‘You’re just as much to blame as he is.’ The words peppered him again. She collected herself as if suddenly remembering they were not alone. She sat back in her chair.

Ferreira made a mental note and turned her attention back to the husband. ‘So did you know Andrea waited for her father outside Boots?’

He moved his head from side to side. ‘I promise you, I had no idea. I knew she waited for him in the afternoons. I knew she often picked up his prescription or he would leave it to the last minute or forget completely. That would really worry her. The when and where wasn’t the nature of what she told me. It was probing, not conversational. She was trying to work things out. I half admired her and of course I worried like hell. I gave her a phone so she could ring if she was scared or something happened. She mostly forgot it and lost it completely in the summer. I think the phone was for me more than her.’

Ferreira flipped a page and continued writing. Then looked back up when she had finished. Kevin shifted his gaze to the wall.

‘And you knew none of this?’ directed at the mother.

‘Obviously the man I married is not the man I thought I knew.’ Her anger brought colour to previously ashen cheeks, her eyes dug holes in his flesh but he refused to look sideways at her.

Ferreira made sure she had her attention. ‘But you didn’t know any of this?’ she repeated.

‘No!’ snapped the mother. Their eyes met mid-blink and there it was, the subtle flaw in the perfect veneer. A lie.

Ferreira picked up her tea with hands that suddenly wanted to tremble, calming herself by thinking how Boer would prise open this flaw. The mother had lied. Ferreira now realised why Boer had endlessly ringed the stepfather’s name. Not as a suspect, but as the one most likely to lead her to the truth. She studied her notes longer than necessary, euphoric and wary. Then she looked back to both parents. Both were now separated by a chair’s width and no longer holding hands, the crucifix looking down over the empty space between them. The mother’s arms were folded on the table, looking at the reflection of something in the table. The stepfather still fixed on the wall beside Ferreira.

She took Boer’s lead, could almost hear his voice in her mind. Knowing now how she would prise open that subtle flaw. ‘Tell me what you know about Brian,’ she asked the stepfather.

EIGHTY-ONE

He jerked conscious at a sound, his panicked eyes immediately going to the door and seconds of anticipation. It stayed closed and the cause of the sound stayed outside. He looked over his shoulder and judged the distance and angle to the gnarled workbench. He had no idea how long he had been out. His left arm hung loose at his side, his hand throbbing with a vengeance, his back busy with its needling dance. He needed to turn the chair.

Turning was near impossible. He tried jumping the chair around but gave up almost immediately, instead he rocked precariously onto his feet, stooped and managing to shuffle around in very small increments, the chair legs scuffing and unbalancing him, his free arm knocking against the chair. Finally he faced the bench and immediately started rocking from side to side, each sideways movement rewarded with a small step forward. A modernist hunchback gradually moving from the view of the metal door.

He stopped with the top of his head pressed against the wood, eyes on the floor. He swung his free arm up onto the surface, searching blindly, each bump and contact causing a schism of pain which he ignored, using alternate movements between the ball and heel of his feet to shuffle sideways, the sweat dripping from his nose and chin, tracing his path on the dusty floor. His senses were on constant alert for any sound, aware of each passing second, his fingers bumping over the metal of the knuckledusters, the bat and across the fabric of his kitbag, to their destination. He struggled with four fingers to get a grip on the blade. Each time he managed to lift it, the weight caused the knife to fall. So he gave up and used his hand to drag it over the edge.