Fatal Legacy (4 page)

‘You were sent a memo, Chief Inspector: here, see for yourself.’ He thrust a piece of paper at Fenwick, who had no option but to look at it. The note was dated only the day before. At that moment it was probably sitting in his morning’s post with a sticker on it from Anne, his secretary, marking it for his immediate attention.

‘I see, sir. When in the morning do you need it?’

‘First thing. The meeting’s at two thirty and I’ll need to have my report bound before I leave at one. Nine thirty at the latest.’

The journey from HQ to Harlden normally took just under an hour, but there was an accident on the bypass and Fenwick waited an additional forty-five minutes in a tailback. He was so tired by the time he’d cleared the traffic jam that he drove on autopilot straight home.

It was only later, after he’d murmured a quick hello to the live-in nanny on his way to find a hot shower, that he
remembered
the complaints report for the ACC. With a smothered expletive he reached for the phone by the side of his bed and called the station. The duty sergeant was an old friend and ally.

‘George, it’s Fenwick. I’ve got a problem.’ He explained his predicament and exactly where the complaints file could be found in his office. His secretary was frighteningly efficient when he allowed her to be, and it was one file he’d never had cause to open.

‘Could you send someone over with it? I know you’re
short-handed
, but … any chance?’ If there was one person Sergeant George Wicklow would do anything for, it was DCI Fenwick.

Fenwick finished his shower and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a cold evening. He still had a tan from the half-term break he’d taken with the children, and the slight shading of grey in his black hair was stylish enough to look deliberate. All of which was an irrelevance to the man who gave the face that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror a cursory glance before turning to take the stairs two at a time in search of his dinner.

He’d almost reached the bottom step when there was a hushed call from the upper landing.

‘Andrew! Hang on.’

A lithe twenty-year-old body leapt down the stairs, landing lightly at the bottom, right beside him.

‘Hi. You didn’t give me time to talk when you came in. There’s been a bit of a problem.’

Fenwick’s heart sank. He thought immediately of the
difficulties
they’d had with his son Chris the year before, and gritted his teeth in anticipation of terrible news.

‘In here.’

The nanny led him into the kitchen. On the table were the half-assembled parts of a wooden box, with a pile of shiny pebbles beside it.

‘Chris’s been collecting those stones all week. Each of the children was given a box to fill and take in to class tomorrow. But he’d collected so many that when he tried to cram them all in, the box fell apart. And he’d spent ages finding, washing and polishing them.’

‘I’m sure I’ve got a shoe box somewhere that’ll do, Wendy.’

He realised from her expression that it was the wrong answer.

‘He’s absolutely sure he has to take the original box back tomorrow, and it needs glueing. I told him his daddy would be able to fix it. It was the only thing that stopped him crying!’

Fenwick looked at the rough pieces of wood, from which his six-year-old son, with absolute faith, expected him to create a suitable setting for his precious stones.

‘This is going to take more than a bit of glue. Look, I’ll have my dinner, then I’ll take this lot out to the shed. Are you in for the rest of the evening?’ It was already half past nine.

‘Yup, Tony’s coming over.’ She blushed suddenly and Fenwick’s heart sank. Wendy was such a great nanny, and he dreaded hearing the news that had so obviously thrilled her.

‘Go on, what is it?’

‘He’s proposed,’ she whispered shyly.

‘And what have you said?’

‘Yes!’ she said with a small squeak of excitement. Fenwick gave her a quick hug and kissed her cheek. ‘
Fantastic
. Congratulations. I’m so pleased for you both. He’s a great guy.’

He made himself a hasty supper of pasta with a basil and tomato sauce and a green salad, and resisted the idea of a glass
of wine. He had too much to do and it was already ten o’clock. The complaints file still hadn’t turned up by the time he’d finished his meal, so he decided to mend Christopher’s box first. Before going out to the shed, he crept upstairs to check on the children. They still shared a room, despite the fact that they could have had one each. It was as if they clung together even more closely now that their mother had gone. It had been nearly two years, but every day without her still hurt him. He just hoped that they didn’t miss her as much as he did. He banished the thought and pushed open the door.

It was always the same, always. That moment of listening intently for an indrawn breath; waiting for Bess’s half-snore or the merest rustle from Christopher. Moonlight filtered around the edges of the curtained sash window, casting a blue glow over their twin beds.

A little grunt from Bess, an answering sigh from Chris, and his heart relaxed. They had become accustomed to seeing very little of him during the week, but for Fenwick it was a daily sacrifice and he felt its cost dearly. He bent and kissed Bess’s smooth forehead, unable to stop himself from brushing her curls back and away from her face, despite the risk of waking her up.

She smiled faintly in her sleep and his heart turned over. At least she didn’t look too much like her mother with her eyes closed. Chris was tucked into a ball, head burrowed deep in a fold of the duvet. Fenwick gently tugged the quilt away from his face and kissed his cheek. His son didn’t stir. Fenwick straightened and walked carefully back to the door. A loud squeak disturbed the silence and he cursed inwardly as he bent and removed one of their latest toys from under his left foot.

WDC Nightingale was let into the surprisingly neat sitting room by Wendy. She tried not to stare as the slim dyed-blonde with a stud in her nose removed the fireguard from the hearth.

‘It was so cold I lit a fire earlier,’ she said, in an unnecessary explanation that left Nightingale even more curious as to her precise place in the Fenwick household. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ she added.

Nightingale looked around the room curiously, but the only
hints of his family were in the framed photographs on the bookshelves. Nightingale wasn’t wearing her glasses so she couldn’t make out the faces without walking right up to them and peering. Acutely conscious of the open door behind her, she risked a quick look but was only able to make out a strikingly beautiful brunette holding a baby in her arms.

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour and a block of ash fell soundlessly into the embers. After a moment’s hesitation she bent down and threw a small log on to the fire. It crackled and blazed at once. Minutes ticked by. There was a CD player in the corner and she went to investigate. It was modern and expensive – she knew because she had one exactly like it. She bent and peered at the loaded CD, and the glass cover opened automatically in response to her movement: Schubert. She resisted the temptation to press Play. There was a faint creak and the door opened behind her. Nightingale snapped upright, her cheeks burning, and turned round.

A little girl of about seven years old stood in the doorway, staring up at her curiously, the toes of her tiny bare feet wriggling beneath the hem of a long cotton nightdress.

‘Hello.’ It was a confident little voice, almost that of a hostess welcoming an unexpected guest.

‘Hello.’

‘Who’re you?’ Deep brown, almost black eyes stared up at her from under a wayward mop of curly black hair.

‘I’m Nightingale. Who are you?’

‘I’m Bess.’ A further appraising stare. ‘Police?’

Nightingale suppressed a smile. ‘Yes.’

‘With my daddy?’

‘Uh-huh, sometimes.’

‘You’re not in uniform so you’re a detective, then.’ It wasn’t a question. Bess sat on the sofa to one side of the fire and pointed to another. ‘Sit down.’

‘Thank you.’

‘He’s late, I suppose.’

‘No, I’m just delivering some papers but I was told not to leave them. I have to hand them to him personally.’

‘Umm.’ Legs swung inches from the floor. ‘He’ll be in the shed, I bet, mending Chris’s project. Shall I get him?’

‘No, he knows I’m here. Your … the lady went to tell him.’

‘Wendy. Good.’ Another restless glance around the room.

‘That’s Daddy’s music,’ she said, pointing towards the CD player. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

Before Nightingale could answer, Bess was out of her chair and standing on tiptoe to reach the controls of the machine.

‘Should you … I mean, is it all right?’

A haughty glance back over one shoulder.

‘I’m allowed.’

The whisper of the opening notes of a Schubert piano sonata filled the corners of the room and crept up to Nightingale.

‘This is one of my favourites, Bess. Good choice.’

‘It was already in there. Daddy likes it too.’

Nightingale felt unaccountably uncomfortable. She stood up and started to pace the room.

‘Do you know any stories?’ asked Bess with more than a hint of appeal in her tone.

‘Ah – no, not really.’

‘You must know
some
!’

‘Well, perhaps a few, but not very good ones.’

‘Tell me some.’

‘Pardon?’ Nightingale’s tone of voice, the raised eyebrow, the shocked stare were timeless. Bess reacted as if programmed.

‘Tell me some,
please
.’

‘That’s better. Well, I’ll need some time to think about this. What sort of stories do you like?’

‘Adventures are best, they’re my favourite.’

Bess patted the sofa and Nightingale obediently sat down beside her. At once, the little girl settled into her lap and stared up at her expectantly, one hand stroking and twisting a thick black curl of hair.

‘Right, well then …’ Nightingale took a deep breath and had made it as far as
Once upon a time
… when the
sitting-room
door opened wide and Fenwick came in. He stared at Nightingale and Bess in astonishment; words of apology for keeping her waiting died on his lips.

‘Bess! What are you doing out of bed? It’s nearly eleven o’clock and you’ve school tomorrow. Get back upstairs this instant.’

The tone was severe and Nightingale saw Bess’s face cloud in surprised misery. It was obvious that her father didn’t usually react so fiercely, and Nightingale realised with a flash of insight that it was because she had met one of his children that he was so annoyed. That was unfair on Bess and it was no big deal that she’d seen this side of him.

‘It’s my fault, sir,’ she said, rising and placing Bess gently to stand on the floor. ‘Bess was good enough to keep me company and I should have sent her to bed.’

‘I didn’t want her to wait on her own, Daddy.’ Bess rushed over and hugged her father’s thighs.

‘But I’ve told you before about talking to strangers.’

‘Even nice ones?’

‘Yes, even nice ones. Now, go on, upstairs to bed.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Oh, all right, come on. Nightingale, you can go, there was no need for you to wait. Good night.’

Nightingale watched as the DCI bent automatically and lifted his daughter in a single, practised motion, so that she could cling on to his neck. She felt an unexpected lump in her throat and tried to swallow it discreetly. Bess heard her gulp and grinned over her father’s shoulder.

‘Night-night, Nightingale,’ she whispered.

‘Good night, Bess, sleep tight.’ Nightingale let herself out into the chill night, closing the door firmly behind her.

Much later that same night, Fenwick sat stiffly in front of his personal computer and put the finishing touches to his report on the Harlden complaints procedure. He had meant to produce a cursory one-page summary, but something – his habitual pride in his work, or a determination not to let the ACC get the better of him, he didn’t know which – had compelled him to do a thorough job. Harper-Brown wouldn’t even read it, but
Superintendent
Quinlan would, and he’d be pleased. They needed to tighten up procedures to reach the new standards set by HQ and Sergeant Warner had never risen to the challenge.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning but he was still wide awake. This house had been an extraordinary and
unexpected
inheritance from his great-uncle the previous year, but
the income from the capital sum he had also received only just covered its upkeep and Wendy’s wages. She was a good nanny, despite her dyed hair and nose-stud and her tendency always to be late. She hadn’t demanded a huge pay rise to compensate for the inconvenience of living in the country, because it meant that she could be within a few miles of her boyfriend, Tony. If she decided to leave, Fenwick would never be able to afford an equally well-qualified replacement.

He tried to make an effort to compensate for being a single parent. Ever since the children had lost their mother after a suicide attempt had led to her irreversible coma, he had done everything he could to help them forget the terrible trauma. Everything except give up his job, because he couldn’t afford to. He knew that if he ever had to decide between his children’s welfare and his career, he would choose them, a thousand times over. He just hoped he would never be faced with that choice. He closed the file, switched off the computer and went to make himself a cup of tea before heading for bed.

On the day after he had delivered his report on Harlden’s complaints procedure to Harper-Brown, Fenwick was surprised to receive a call from the Assistant Chief Constable concerning Alan Wainwright’s death. There had been a lot of public interest in the investigation, enough to make the ACC uneasy and keen to see the whole case closed as quickly as possible. It had been handled by a colleague of Fenwick’s at Harlden, DI Blite, a man he both disliked and distrusted. The investigation had been brief, and when the coroner’s verdict was returned he had confirmed the cause of death as suicide. That the ACC should call him now, two months later, caused Fenwick to frown with unease. He doubted that this was going to be a welcome conversation, and he was right.

‘Fenwick, I’ve had a call from Graham Wainwright, the deceased’s son. It seems that he has his doubts about his father’s death and the coroner’s verdict.’

‘Did he voice these at the inquest, and if not, why not, sir?’

‘No he didn’t. At first he says he trusted the verdict but now, it appears he’s been hearing rumours. He wants us to have a quiet look, that’s all. Wainwright’s was in the news quite enough when his father died.’

‘I see.’ It didn’t take a genius to work out why the ACC had called him now. Harper-Brown was too shrewd to show his intense dislike for Fenwick in obvious ways but he never hesitated to single him out for a potentially difficult and damaging case. He was handing him an impossible task: satisfy an influential and worried man who has just lost his father that his suicide is not suspicious, oh, but by the way, don’t you dare stir up trouble now that we have successfully closed the case. It
was suddenly obvious why the ACC hadn’t called Blite, who would have been the logical choice. Handling this one without either upsetting the family or rekindling public interest would be a miracle.

‘Graham Wainwright is an important man, his concerns have to be taken seriously but the last thing we need is the press forming any sense that we are unhappy with the verdict,
which we are not
. I told him you would call today and that you were renowned for your discretion.’

The ACC gave him Graham Wainwright’s number and hung up. Fenwick studied the fingertips of his left hand briefly, deep in thought, then called his secretary.

‘Anne, call Records and have them send up the file on the death of Alan Wainwright; it will be dated sometime in January this year. Then find Sergeant Cooper and ask him to join me.’ Cooper could be relied upon to be absolutely discreet, reliable and above all unexcitable. Just the man for the job.

The report arrived quickly. It was brief and Fenwick’s heart sank as he read the few pages and waited for Cooper to arrive. Blite’s team had interviewed family, friends and business colleagues of the dead man. At the time, no one could think of a reason for Wainwright to kill himself and only one
acquaintance
had raised concerns that his death might not have been suicide, concerns that were neither commented upon nor investigated, according to the papers in front of him. In the pathologist’s report, attention had been drawn to unexplained abrasions on Wainwright’s arms, knees and back and to further bruising down his left-hand side. It was all consistent with his having suffered several heavy falls shortly before his death.

There were traces of mud on his clothes and grit in his shoes that suggested he had walked in the wood before killing himself and one of his gloves, thick with mud, had been found in the clearing. There was no sign of the other. However, in the absence of any police suspicions, the coroner had had little difficulty in recording a verdict that Alan Wainwright had taken his own life whilst the balance of his mind was temporarily disturbed.

As he was about to close the file, Fenwick noticed a brown envelope tucked into the back. He opened it and read the two pages of closely typed notes it contained carefully. His secretary
came in unbidden with fresh coffee as he refolded the papers and put them back in the envelope. ‘Anne, please have DC Nightingale come up at once. If she’s not in, find her.’

He remembered Nightingale vividly. She was a young policewoman still under training, and they had worked together on a case the previous year. She had impressed him then, but he hadn’t seen much of her since. Sudden memories of that previous case crowded out his immediate concerns and he was frowning by the time there was a tentative knock on his door.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ As she tapped on Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick’s half-closed door, Nightingale’s heart beat faster.

‘Yes?’

DCI Fenwick looked up, neither welcoming nor dismissive, his expression serious. Sight of his carefully neutral face did nothing to calm her nerves.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Come in. It’s about the Wainwright case. You were part of the team?’

‘Yes, sir, I was first on the scene and then I did some of the interviews.’ She had been given the less important ones: the housekeeper, gardener and maids on the Wainwright estate.

‘And what was your conclusion?’

Nightingale blushed brick red and tried to think what to say.
Her
conclusion! It was a highly irregular question, particularly as she had disagreed so strongly with the officer in charge that she had gone so far as to put her own feelings on file. Still, she trusted Fenwick absolutely, so she said, without preamble:

‘It wasn’t suicide, that is to say I wasn’t convinced that it was suicide.’

‘Did you voice this opinion to the investigating officer in charge at the time?’

‘Yes, sir, but …’ How did she say politely that Blite and his team had all enjoyed the rare opportunity to laugh at her? Her professionalism and competence usually made her a
disappointingly
elusive target for ridicule – malicious or benign – so her continuous questioning and concerns about this case had exposed her to more teasing than she’d ever had to face before. Yet she had still persisted, which was typical of her if she thought that she was right.

‘Well, quite honestly, he and the others thought I’d got worked up over nothing.’

Fenwick suppressed a grin. He had forgotten her absolute honesty.

‘And yet you felt strongly enough about it to risk DI Blite’s displeasure and to add your own note to the file?’ Fenwick studied her closely as he waited for her answer, noting the tension in her shoulders and around her mouth. He remembered that off-putting intensity about her from the previous case. It was obvious that she was preparing herself to receive a reprimand from him, and he spoke quickly to reassure her. ‘It’s all right, you’ve done nothing wrong. Tell me why you had your doubts.’

‘There were details that came up in the investigation that worried me, like the missing glove and the footprints all around the car. They looked as if they’d been made after the car was parked there.’

‘That could be the result of the morbid curiosity of a
passerby
without enough sense or civic duty to report the death. It happens.’

‘But there was the bruising too – and the mud all down one side of his coat.’

‘Remind me what the path. report made of the bruising?’ He knew, having just read it, but he was curious to see how she supported her suspicions.

‘That they were consistent with heavy falls just before his death. But if he’d driven to the clearing, what chance would he have had to fall down? It was a bitter night, so he wouldn’t have been tempted to take a walk in the woods.’

‘He might have stumbled as he went to attach the hose.’

‘I thought about that, but he’d have used the car to steady himself.’

‘Hmmm.’ A few bruises and a missing glove proved nothing. ‘It’s weak, Nightingale. Was that all?’

‘But there were the barbiturates, sir. His doctor was adamant that he didn’t prescribe them and we’ve never been able to find the chemist who dispensed them, despite all our appeals. There was no label on the bottle in the car and I went through his rubbish three times looking for a receipt.’

Fenwick was forced to smile. Only Nightingale would be persistent enough to wade through a suicide’s garbage so many times.

‘And then there was the matter of his car keys. His
housekeeper
had been prepared to swear in court if need be that the keys I found in the ignition were the spare ones that he never used, whilst his main set had been on top of the chest of drawers in his bedroom, where he always left them overnight.’

Fenwick nodded, as if to acknowledge she had a point, then dismissed her with a curt ‘thank you’.

‘Might I ask why you were interested in my opinion, sir?’ Nightingale knew that she should just go, but curiosity won out over discretion.

‘No, you might not.’ Fenwick watched the constable go with a determinedly expressionless face, but as soon as she had closed the door, his frown returned and he called Anne again.

‘Have you found Cooper yet? I need him urgently.’

‘He’s on his way up to you right now, sir.’

Cooper arrived, breathless and pink-faced, moments later. He had just started an interview when he had received the Chief Inspector’s message, and had hoped to wrap it up quickly rather than rearrange for another time, but it had dragged on and now he was late, something Fenwick hated.

Sure enough, the briefing he received was clipped and to the point. They had a difficult job to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Fenwick gave him the file and a list of people to interview that afternoon.

‘The problem is, Cooper, that Graham Wainwright is
convinced
that his father did not commit suicide, whatever the evidence might say.’

‘So why hasn’t he come forward before?’

‘Good question, and one that we will be asking him when we see him tomorrow morning – I’ve called him and he will be expecting us. Before then, I want you to talk to all the officers involved in the case, except DC Nightingale. I’ve already spoken to her.’ He noted Cooper’s surprise. ‘You’ll see why when you read her note in that file. She wasn’t happy with the verdict at the time.

‘This isn’t going to be an easy one. We’re going to have our
work cut out to keep this out of the papers whilst we do enough to satisfy the son that his father’s death wasn’t suspicious. I hate these cases involving aggrieved and vindictive relatives at the best of times, but when they have influence as well …’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence, Cooper was already nodding and grimacing at the same time.

‘I’ll report back again tomorrow morning then, sir?’ Cooper eased his tweed-clad bulk from one of Fenwick’s notoriously hard visitor’s chairs, trying to keep the look of despondency from his face as he did so.