Fatal Legacy (35 page)

‘Twelve minutes exactly.’

Nightingale nodded with fierce satisfaction and looked up at Fenwick. He met her eye and she saw the approval there that warmed her as nothing else could. DI Blite remained silent.
Fenwick thanked Pete for his help and sent him back to the yard.

‘Inspector, I want the outhouses and old farm buildings on the Wainwright estate searched again. And make sure your warrant is water-tight. You know what your team is looking for. Have the exact position of the impressions we found on the ground under the tree plotted against the rope marks, and have the branch rechecked for signs of other abrasions where the pulley might have been. I will interview Sally and oversee the identification parade.’

In effect, Blite was dismissed to his duties. Fenwick wouldn’t forget how he had behaved, and they both knew it.

Ebutt and Sally were waiting for him in an interview room at the station. If either of them noticed his dishevelled state, they said nothing. Fenwick waited for Claire Keating to join them, then turned on the tape recorder and started the interview with the usual formalities. As soon as he had finished speaking, Ebutt replied.

‘My client has decided to say nothing, Chief Inspector.’

‘Naturally I respect her right to remain silent, but the question I’m about to ask has nothing to do with the alleged crime.’

‘So why are you asking it?’

‘Because Mrs Wainwright-Smith’s childhood may be relevant to this case and I would like to make sure we have as full an understanding of it as possible.’

The lawyer and Sally put their heads together and there was a whispered exchange.

‘Very well, but my client may cease to respond at any time.’

‘Understood. Now, Sally, tell me about your father. What job did he do?’

‘He was a mechanic.’ Sally’s voice was a dull monotone. Fenwick wondered if she was mildly sedated and was angry that her solicitor had allowed it to happen. On the other hand, it might help him.

‘What sort of mechanic?’

‘He worked on farms mainly, with tractors and harvesters, bailers, that sort of thing.’

‘Did he always go to the farms or did he bring work home?’

‘Both. Sometimes, if he wanted to stay around home for a
while, he’d drive a tractor home. That was for maintenance or for when he had to do something complicated. He had a workshop at the back of the house, you see.’

‘Yes, I do. Tell me, did you ever help him with his work?’

‘Yes, always. He said I had nimble fingers so I’d have to do all the fiddly bits. I was good at it.’

‘I expect you were, but how on earth could an eight-year-old girl reach inside a tractor engine and find the right parts?’

‘Oh, it was easy. My dad would lift the engine out of the machine and work on it on his bench.’

‘He must have been very strong.’

‘He used a hoist, silly, and to put it back.’

The blood drained from Ebutt’s face at her words, but it was already too late; the tape was running. He recovered almost at once and said with a smoothness that Fenwick could only admire:

‘I can’t see that this is of any material help, Chief Inspector.’

But Fenwick already had what he needed, and he excused himself to go and find out whether the parade was to take place or not. He was back within ten minutes.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. The identification officer has postponed the parade for today as over half the volunteers have left because of the delay. He’ll try to rearrange it for tomorrow, if you could both make yourselves available. He is waiting for you outside to agree a time.’

Once they had left, Cooper switched off the tape recorder.

‘Well done, sir. That was just what we needed.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant, but I bet we still don’t have enough to persuade the ACC that we can arrest her. You handle the
writing-up
of the reconstruction this morning and whatever Inspector Blite’s team discover on the estate.’

‘DC Nightingale did some digging on James FitzGerald, sir, as you requested.’

‘And what was the result?’

‘Basically, he’s very rich and well connected, far more so than could be explained by his financial business alone.’

‘What about the check against HOLMES or the PCN?’

‘They’re running that this afternoon.’

‘What’s Nightingale up to now?’

‘Trying to find the private investigator hired by Graham Wainwright. He’s disappeared, so we still don’t know whether he’s been holding out on us. She’s found out where he lives and the landlady thinks he went off on holiday, so Nightingale’s checking with the travel agents.’

‘Good. Whilst we’ve got this lull, I’m going to go home and spend some time with the children. Call me if anything breaks.’

Sally was silent during her taxi ride back to the Hall. The effects of the pill she had taken were wearing off and she could feel an intense anger threatening to overwhelm her again. She missed Alex, and she wondered whether he would be angry with her for speaking to the police. The pill she’d taken just before the interview had fuddled her, and even now she couldn’t quite remember what she had said. Something about her father and his job, she thought. When Alex called that evening as he had promised, she would have to tell him about FitzGerald’s attempted blackmail and he’d be furious. They both knew now, thanks to Jeremy Kemp’s blabbing tongue, that FitzGerald was a very dangerous man, associated with organised crime
throughout
the south-east of England. Precisely how, Kemp hadn’t told her, not even when she had promised to have sex with him in exchange for the information, so she and Alex had been left to speculate. She had guessed that it could involve either drugs or prostitution – perhaps both. It seemed unfair that FitzGerald was choosing to blackmail her when he must already have all the money he needed, and part of her was tempted simply to say no to see whether he would carry out his threat. One thing was for sure: they wouldn’t pay him. A blackmailer was never satisfied, and all that talk of ‘settling up’ over the coming years filled Sally with dread. The thought of FitzGerald having a neverending hold over her was unbearable. She would need to come up with another way of dealing with him.

There were police cars parked in front of the Hall when she arrived home, and her heart sank. She paid the taxi-driver quickly, without giving him a tip, and ran towards the sound of voices coming from the stable block at the rear. The police were just leaving, led by that odious man Blite. She disliked him intensely but he didn’t worry her as much as Fenwick did.
Those were such odd questions today. Why on earth had he been asking them?

One of the police officers behind Blite was carrying a large plastic sack.

‘What are you taking away?’

‘Possible evidence, madam. We have a fresh warrant, and I have a receipt, here.’

‘What is it?’ Sally regarded the sack with dread. As the officer carrying it passed her, he tripped on the edge of the path and the contents clanked. She recognised the sound, saw the weight and size of the bundle and realised suddenly what it contained. Now she understood why Fenwick had been asking such banal questions. Sally looked at Blite with horror and felt sick as he gave her a slow smile.

‘I think Chief Inspector Fenwick is going to be very pleased with today’s work. You can be sure we’ll be in touch, and soon. Good afternoon.’

Sally ran back to the house and closed and bolted the door behind her. Her hand shook as she poured out the gin she now kept in the kitchen into a mug that was draining by the sink. She took several long swallows and felt the hammering of her heart start to slow. Then she poured more gin into the mug and sat down heavily in the chair beside the Aga to think. She had made another mistake and now she would have to put it right or Alex was going to be very, very angry. The thought of it made her shrink back in her chair as she slowly drained the contents of the mug.

As Fenwick steered his car carefully through the wooden gateway, two eager faces pressed up against the hall window. He didn’t have to make himself smile as he swung the driver’s door closed and locked the car. There was a slap-crunch of slippered feet on gravel and then a thud into the back of his knees as Bess clasped his legs. Then a second shock as Christopher lurched into them both.

‘Daddy!’ High-pitched shrieks of sheer delight buffeted him and he was overwhelmed yet again by the simple miracle of their love for him. He found himself laughing as they clung on, one on either leg. ‘You’re home early!’

‘Careful, you’ll have me over. Gotcha!’ His great arms swooped down and lifted them both up to dangle on either side of his waist, their legs kicking behind him, arms flailing about to the front. The shrieks of laughter intensified as he staggered crablike past his car and towards the front door. They were getting heavier, both of them. Even delicate little Chris was gaining weight at last.

‘They’ve just had their tea, don’t make them sick.’ Wendy was smiling, pleased to see him home early for once.

As he lurched into the hall and deposited both children in a jumbled heap on the carpet, he saw her glance at her watch.

‘Do you want to go out?’

‘I haven’t washed up yet and the kitchen’s a real mess; we were painting.’

It was typical of Wendy. They would have eaten their tea in the midst of organised chaos as she tried, as always, to do too many things at once.

‘No problem. You go on out. We can cope.’

‘Well, there’s a film on that Tony was keen to see this week. If I go now I’ll still be back for ten, as always.’ She was putting on her coat even as she spoke.

She never was. Wendy was habitually late for everything, but that was her only failing and she was great with his children.

Fenwick stopped any more protest and ushered her out of the door, shivering in a sudden chill blast of air from outside.

‘You’re cold, Daddy! Come by the fire and get warm.’ Bess’s commanding little hand dragged him into the sitting room, where a cheerful fire was spitting and sparking behind a fireguard.

‘New wood,’ explained Bess knowingly. ‘Next time, Daddy, you’ll need to buy us seasoned logs.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Now tell me about school today – both of you.’

Delighted to have their father as an audience, they chatted on, Chris for once holding his full share of the conversation. It gladdened Fenwick’s heart to see the six-year-old so happy and normal when a year before he had been close to putting him in a special school because he’d been so traumatised by Monique’s illness.

‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’ Chris sounded concerned, and Fenwick realised his preoccupation must have shown.

‘Nothing, sorry. Say that last bit again while I go and make myself a cup of tea.’

The kitchen looked like a battle zone. Red, orange and green paint splattered the floor and units, which fortunately had been protected with thick sheets of old newspaper.

‘What’s this?’ Fenwick held up a piece of black paper on to which thick stripes of paint had been brushed with obvious enthusiasm.

‘It’s a bonfire.’ Chris was half proud, half indignant.

‘Of course it is. And this bit here?’ Fenwick pointed to some random splodges in the top corners.

‘Sparks, but I’ve got to do the glitter next. Look.’

Sure enough, a pot of paste and five thin phials of
multicoloured
glitter stood ready.

‘How do you do that?’

Christopher’s mouth dropped open and horror filled his eyes.

‘Don’t
you
know?’

Fenwick realised that knowing how to make glittery blobs had become the next of his son’s neverending tests of his omniscience.

‘Yes, I do, but I wondered whether you did.’

Chris shook his head. Bess looked up from her own picture and shook hers.

‘I don’t know, Daddy.’

‘I’ll just make my tea and get changed, then I’ll come and help.’

By the time he was in jeans and sweatshirt, with a strong cup of English breakfast tea to fortify him. Fenwick found himself equal to the glitter challenge. He and Chris blobbed the glue on top of the paint, then scattered the tiny particles freely all over the paper. It looked magnificent. Their only problem was that they’d forgotten Bess’s painting. Hers was neatly drawn, the fire showing precise flames and sticks, and most of the paint had stayed within the pencil lines. All she lacked now was sparkle to finish it off. But there wasn’t any. All five tubes were empty, their contents extravagantly spread over the floor and table, save for the perfect star bursts on Chris’s paper. Fenwick’s heart twisted painfully as he saw his elder child’s eyes fill with tears. He and Chris had just become so carried away. He put Chris’s picture to one side, then took Bess’s and started to dab the glue on very carefully.

‘Do you want to do this?’

A big shrug and a sullen ‘There’s no point. All the glitter’s gone.’

‘There’ll be some, don’t worry.’

Bess and Chris both looked at him in astonishment, and Bess even condescended to dab some glue on to her picture herself. When it was ready, Fenwick gave it to her to hold, moved all the brushes, paints and sticks to one end of the table and carefully folded the newspaper that had covered it into a stiff V shape. The glitter cascaded into an iridescent funnel in the middle.

‘Put the painting down on the table.’

Bess did as she was told, and with arms fully extended, Fenwick salted the picture liberally until the last flicker of glitter had been absorbed by the globlets of glue. Perfect.

He enjoyed being the hero of the hour, every precious second of it. Even when they realised that glitter had gone everywhere and their baths took double time and Chris ended up with some in his eyes, he loved it. When the children were tucked up in bed asleep, he showered and changed again and put the oven on for a pizza. Then he remembered his vow to eat more vegetables and found tomatoes and onions for a salad and some peas as well. He was just clearing the last pea from his plate when the phone rang.

‘Sir? It’s Cooper. DS Gould has had a result. One of the teenagers on the train down to Brighton with Fish has positively identified the woman Francis Fielding met when he arrived. It was Sally Wainwright-Smith.’

‘You’re joking! Is she sure?’

‘Positive. She says she bumped into Sally, who called her a “stupid bitch”. She remembers her clearly. The girl was arrested for causing a breach of the peace this afternoon, and offered to identify the woman in the hope that Brighton would go easy on her.’

‘Is it strong enough to hold up in court?’

‘Gould thinks so; he’s spoken with her directly.’

‘What’s his theory as to why Sally was meeting Fielding?’

‘He thinks it was she who hired Fielding to kill Fish. Money wouldn’t be a problem, but he can’t think of a motive.’

‘Perhaps Fish threatened her right to the Wainwright fortune in some way – it’s the reason we think she killed Graham, after all.’

‘Possibly. I’ll put it to him. Anyway, he’s found a new lease of life, and Brighton Division has suddenly turned very cooperative. Confirming a link between Sally and Fielding has finally convinced them that perhaps Fish’s murder is connected with Amanda Bennett’s. He’s going to stay down in Brighton all night if necessary to find out more.’

‘Excellent. Have him call me on my mobile at any time if something else breaks.’

Fenwick was frustrated now that he couldn’t go back to work at once; he would have to wait until Wendy returned at ten. The rest of the evening stretched out ahead of him like a prison sentence. At quarter past eight the phone rang again; it was
Cooper, telling him that they had found reference to James FitzGerald on HOLMES. He was an associate of a career criminal, Benjamin Harris, who was known to be behind a string of crime syndicates headquartered on Brighton. Fenwick then risked a call to Miles Cator’s office number. The
Commander
was still hard at work, and Fenwick explained FitzGerald’s connection to Harris.

‘So you’re saying that Wainwright’s could be laundering money for Benjamin Harris! Well, that would be highly significant. This is a timely call, Chief Inspector. We’re due in court tomorrow to defend an action by Wainwright’s for the return of the Fish papers, and this will strengthen our case enormously, although I’m irritated that my own team hasn’t already made the connection. I’ll have them run the names of all shareholders and officers of the company against HOLMES, PCN and every other index at our disposal.’

‘Do you think there’s sufficient evidence to warrant a
full-scale
investigation into Wainwright’s, sir?’

‘We’ve had these papers less than a week, Chief Inspector, so that’s a tough call, but my initial assessment is yes, they have a lot of questions to answer. This looks like turning into something very significant.’

Both the children were long in bed and Fenwick was trying to read a very worthy book on criminal psychology when his mobile phone buzzed softly. To his surprise it was DI Blite.

‘Yes, Inspector?’

‘I wanted to run my plans for tomorrow past you, Chief Inspector.’ There was a new respect in the man’s tone that surprised Fenwick, but he was realistic enough to realise that it wouldn’t last.

‘I’m bringing Sally in for questioning again at nine o’clock, and Claire Keating is going to join us. If possible she’s also going to meet with her separately, provided Sally’s lawyer agrees. What did the ACC say when you reported back to him today?’

‘Not a lot. He wants us to get a move on with both the identity parades – for Shirley’s brother and the girl who says she saw Sally meeting Fielding – so that this is sorted one way
or another. I think that he believes a positive ID will make it much easier for him to justify an arrest, particularly if we find her fingerprints on that block and tackle you recovered
and
trace evidence on it that links it to the scene. It will be our first unbroken chain of evidence.’

‘There’s no chance of an arrest tonight?’

‘Now that Ebutt is involved he’s become even more cautious. Whenever I try to push him, he just keeps reminding me about the wrecked crime scene when Graham was found, and the weakness of the initial PM. He says that we’ve given the defence, and I quote: “enough gifts” for one case and he wants the rest of it watertight. You can try if you like …’

‘No, Chief Inspector, I agree with you – it would be pointless. We just need to have the identifications confirmed as a top priority and continue to watch her in the meantime.

‘Could you let Cooper know that I’m stuck here until ten o’clock at the earliest. If anyone’s spare, can he have them send over the latest reports for me to read?’

No sooner had he broken the connection than the phone rang again, and a computerised voice told him that he had a new message. It was Cooper, and Fenwick could hear the excitement in his voice despite the flatness of the recording.

‘Nightingale has traced Beck, the private detective, and he was holding out on us. She’s recovered his full file. It provides us with conclusive proof that Sally was in Brighton before she turned up at Harlden. Nightingale’s bringing it over right now – I thought you’d want to see it straight away.’

Nightingale crunched over Fenwick’s gravel drive as he
unlocked
his front door. He had obviously been waiting for her and she could sense his impatience right away. What she’d found out was the final missing link in the chain connecting Sally to Amanda Bennett’s murder.

‘Come on in and get warm. I’ve just made coffee. Would you like some?’

The embers of a fire glowed behind the fireguard in the sitting room. Kindling and a few lumps of coal soon brought the blaze to life. Nightingale looked around the room,
remembering
her other visits to the house. The year before, she and
Cooper had sat in the cheerful garden sipping wine that the sergeant had called cat’s pee after they’d left, but which she had recognised as a decent Chablis. The memory of that summer morning over a year before was piercing in its clarity and brought a sudden lump to her throat that made her feel foolish.

Nightingale tried not to let her curiosity show as she surreptitiously glanced around the room. It wasn’t elegant, you could never call it that, and today signs of his children were everywhere; in photographs, a colouring book tucked down behind a cushion, and a stack of Disney videos beside the TV. But there was something about the room that called to her and made her heart ache. There was a faint smell of home baking, fresh flowers stood in a heavy crystal vase on a shelf, safely out of harm’s way, and some of the children’s paintings were propped up on the mantelpiece.

With a start she realised that they were birthday cards. Next to these were two more. With the pretence of going to warm her hands she walked over so that she could study their greetings. One was a traditional boating scene and inside she could just glimpse the words ‘love Mother’. The other had a black and white photograph of the Keystone Cops on it, their car falling apart and with a white balloon stuck on to the front: ‘It’s your birthday – call for back up’. It was from someone called Wendy and she recalled the young woman she’d met before. She wondered again just exactly who she was.

Fenwick returned to the room carrying a tray of coffee. He let her serve herself whilst he rummaged in a walnut cupboard and brought out a whisky bottle and glasses.

‘It’s a cold night. Would you like a small glass? I know you’re driving but a sip won’t hurt.’

She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the idea of a drink with Fenwick was compelling.

‘Thank you, sir.’ She sat down on a sofa opposite the fire and removed a huge file from her bag. ‘You were right, that private investigator hadn’t told us everything. I was waiting for him when he landed at Gatwick today and we went straight to his flat. Look at these.’

Fenwick came and sat beside her on the settee so that they could look through the papers together. Nightingale was acutely
conscious of the heat of him, and of his leg, barely an inch from her own thigh. She sipped the whisky and felt warmth spread inside her.