Grave Doubts (13 page)

She saw doubt in his eyes and took him into the tiny second bedroom that she’d made her study. The computer had timed-out but when she pressed the space bar, the screen kicked into life revealing the photograph from her most recent Email.

Cooper looked at it and sat down heavily in the chair.

‘This is…’

‘The most recent abusive Email I’ve been sent. I opened it shortly before the parcel was delivered.’

‘But how is it your face?’

‘With patience it’s possible to adapt any photograph.’ She stretched over him and clicked on the zoom button until a section of the picture was magnified beyond recognition. ‘You see those little squares? An expert can adjust the colour and tone of every one. Someone spent hours creating and perfecting this.’

‘Why didn’t you report it?’

‘I was going to, tomorrow.’ Something in her icy tone cracked. ‘Honestly. When I opened this today, I knew it had gone too far – and that was before…’

Cooper’s suspicion changed to concern as he went to find her phone and call the crimes in.

‘It’s disconnected, hang on.’ She bent and plugged the line into the wall.

‘You do that a lot?’

‘All the time. Otherwise I’d never get any sleep. The calls can go on all night.’

He spoke to Sergeant Wicklow whom he could rely on to be discreet, then found bin liners and bundled the box and its contents inside, securing the necks tightly. While he waited for officers to arrive he began to take Nightingale’s statement, using a discretion and sensitivity few would have believed he possessed. Now that the immediate crisis was over and someone else had taken charge, Nightingale’s composure started to crumble. When she tried to drink some tea her hands shook so much that she spilt most of it, which gave her the excuse to ask for wine.

Cooper coaxed the facts from her without judgement.

‘Do you have any idea who might be doing this?’

‘None. The silent calls and hang-ups started about the end of the trial I think, then the Emails. I thought they were pranks. When someone put Blackie in my flat it seemed like a stupid practical joke but I changed all the locks and fitted security bolts to the windows even though I’m on the top floor. I was going to report it tomorrow,’ she looked up, willing him to believe her. They were still talking when SOCO arrived with additional officers.

‘It might be a good idea to stay with your brother until all this settles down.’

‘No.’

The statement was non-negotiable. The pouted bottom lip and shake of the head reminded Cooper of his two-year old grandchild just before she had a tantrum.

‘You can’t stay here, Louise.’

The words were gentle but tears filled her eyes.

‘I could book into a hotel.’

‘No way. Not after what you’ve been through. You must have a friend nearby who’d be happy to put you up for a couple of nights.’

Another shake of the head and tears splattered onto her shirt.

‘You don’t understand. I don’t want people to pity me.’

‘That’s silly. There’s nothing wrong with sympathy.’

In the end, Cooper persuaded her to stay with him and his wife for the night while SOCO worked on the flat. He arranged for a WPC to take her there and stayed behind long enough to hear feedback from the officers going door-to-door. No one had seen or heard anything. They found the cat though, munching happily from a bowl of food in another flat while the neighbour protested that they’d had no idea that ‘Sooty’ had another home.

Had the victim not been an officer previously involved in a murder trial Cooper would have written the incident up and left it with the minor crimes unit. As it was he decided to retain personal control. He felt stupid for having missed the signs of Nightingale’s distress, so obvious in retrospect.

Belatedly he recognised that there’d been something almost wilfully self-destructive about her recently, as if she didn’t care about the consequences of her actions or her own safety. He wondered what might have happened to allow her to consider herself as of such little value.

Sergeant Wicklow told Fenwick about Nightingale’s stalker when he arrived at the station the next morning and he bore the brunt of the Chief Inspector’s anger that he had not been called the night before. Anne recognised the symptoms of one of Fenwick’s black moods and brought him in an extra strong coffee.

‘Superintendent Quinlan’s assistant has just called asking for you. He wants to see you immediately.’

The atmosphere in the Superintendent’s office was even darker than Fenwick’s mood.

‘Bloody woman’s resigned! After I’d called Leeds to smooth the way as well. Absolutely typical…women, they just…’

He caught himself in time, perhaps cautioned by Fenwick’s frown.

‘You know what happened yesterday?’

‘Yes but that’s not the point. It’s damned stupid. And she doesn’t even have another job to go to.’

‘She handed her letter to you?’

‘Obviously.’ Quinlan waved a piece of paper under his nose.

‘Just
to you?’ There was something in Fenwick’s tone that made Quinlan answer slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘Who else knows apart from us?’

‘Nobody. What are you suggesting?’ He regarded Fenwick with suspicion, confused that an officer typically so black and white should sound complicit.

‘Why not keep it to ourselves, give her some time to think. If anyone deserves it she does.’

‘But she’s
resigned
, Andrew. And in the most direct terms I can assure you.’ Quinlan was angry as well as disappointed.

‘May I?’ Fenwick pulled the letter gently from the Superintendent’s hand. The words were grouped into three close-typed paragraphs. He read them and winced.

‘See what I mean?’ Quinlan regarded him with baleful eyes.

‘She was angry and frightened. I expect that she’s already regretting this.’

‘The resignation or its tone?’

‘Certainly the latter, possibly the former as well. I think we should offer her an extended leave of absence, with or without pay, whichever you prefer.’

‘And the letter?’

‘Ignore it.’

‘I can’t do that. She’ll expect an acknowledgement and knowing Nightingale she’ll have kept a copy. In her current mood she’s not beyond sending it to the ACC.’

‘I’ll go and see her, try to talk her into postponing her decision for a few weeks.’

The irritation that had puffed up Quinlan like a pink baboon dispersed. He was not a vindictive man. He strutted up and down his office, tapping the folded letter against his cheek.

‘She’s one of our best officers but to write to me like this…’

‘The best, in my book.’

‘She has had a bloody awful year.’

‘Lesser officers would already be on long-term sick.’

‘Hmm. Very well. Give it a try. It would be such a bloody waste – of tax payer’s money if nothing else.’

Fenwick exhaled slowly.

‘I’ll call her to make sure she’s back in her flat and go round straight away.’

‘What am I going to say to Leeds?’

‘You’ll think of something, sir. You always do.’

As Fenwick was driving to Nightingale’s, Claire Keating called on his mobile. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her for over a week and had been ignoring growing feelings of guilt.

‘Hi, Claire. Good to hear from you.’ He forced himself to sound warm and relaxed.

‘Are you free for lunch, Andrew? I know it’s short notice but I’d really like us to talk.’ Her tone made him grimace.

He checked the dashboard clock – eleven forty-five. Lunch was the last thing he wanted. The conversation with Nightingale was going to be difficult enough without having a deadline to work to.

‘I could do a late lunch, one-thirty, say?’

‘No. I have an appointment at two. You couldn’t do an early one instead?’

It was unlike her to be so persistent and his guilt made him concede.

‘OK. I’ll change my plans and see you at twelve, at the Dog and Duck.’

When he called Nightingale again to explain that he would be late she sounded indifferent, already disconnected. He experienced a momentary flash of panic that his delay would undermine his ability to persuade her to stay, then dismissed the thought as fanciful. Nevertheless, he was impatient and inclined to be irritable by the time he saw Claire sitting at their usual table in the near empty pub. Two drinks were on the table: a spicy tomato juice and a glass of white wine.

He kissed her cheek as he sat down and forced a smile.

‘Good to see you. Is there a problem? You sounded anxious on the phone.’

Claire raised her eyebrows in a way that was starting to irritate him.

‘I don’t think I did, Andrew, at least I didn’t feel anxious.’ She paused, a classic psychologist’s trick, but detectives knew even more about the power of silence particularly on the guilty and Fenwick said nothing. The absence of casual conversation grew into an uncomfortable void.

Eventually they both looked up from their drinks and laughed.

‘OK,’ Claire shrugged, ‘this won’t do and we’re both too busy to waste time.’

‘Agreed, but I have no idea what you want to talk about so you’re going to have to start.’

‘I want to talk about us, well you really, Andrew.’

Fenwick felt his face harden.

‘I see.’

‘Do you?’ There was an answering firmness in her expression that reminded him of his mother, not a comforting thought. ‘The trouble is that I’ve grown increasingly fond of you over the past few weeks. I’ve always liked you but now it’s something more and that scares me, because I still have no idea what you think of me.

‘Before things go any further I need to know what I mean to you.’ A trace of hurt had crept into her voice, making Fenwick cringe inwardly.

She looked at him intently but he was even less able to think of the right words now than he had been before. He was sorry for her obvious discomfort but wasn’t sure that he could take it away.

‘Would you like another?’ He pointed to her empty glass. She winced and looked out of the window. When he returned from the bar she was still staring determinedly at the garden.

‘Claire, I’m sorry. What do you want me to say?’

‘I’m not asking for pat answers, Andrew. But some sort of show of emotion, other than acute embarrassment – which you do very well by the way – would be nice. It’s as if you daren’t reveal the real you inside.’ Her voice turned sharp. ‘Or perhaps there isn’t anything there and you don’t care much about other people.’

Fenwick sipped a single malt and water and tried to suppress his irritation. He hated this sort of encounter. However unexpectedly, the friendship that he’d seen as casual and easy for them both, meant a lot more to Claire.

‘I thought we were having fun. I didn’t realise that you saw us as a serious item. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.’

‘But you encouraged me!’ She turned away from the window to fix him with a stare that refused to believe his innocent shake of the head. ‘Yes you did. In bed you… What was I meant to think?’ Her voice broke and he put his hand on her arm.

‘I had no idea…’

‘Absolutely correct.’ She interrupted him, her voice suddenly loud enough to make a couple at the bar look round. ‘You have absolutely no idea. You’re completely closed up. God knows how you manage your job, reading other people’s emotions. You don’t even know your own.’

She finished her second glass of wine in one last swallow and he decided not to offer a third.

‘Come on,’ he stood up and stretched his hand towards her, which she ignored, ‘let’s go outside. I need some fresh air.’

In the garden the sun filtered through lifting cloud raising the humidity to an uncomfortable level in the windless day. As they reached the fence around the car park Claire swung to face him. He was relieved to see that she’d calmed down though her cheeks were still pink.

‘You’re doing it again, Andrew and this time I simply won’t let you.’

‘Doing what?’ He was genuinely confused.

‘Avoiding the issue. As soon as you have to deal with your personal life you’re hopeless.’

He bit back a retort that he was managing single-parenting very well, thank you.

‘I can normally work people out,’ she rubbed her forehead, perplexed, ‘it’s my job after all. And I really thought that I was getting to know you but I was wrong. You’re so manipulative.’

Fenwick’s resolution to remain calm evaporated.

‘That’s unfair. I hate trickery.’

‘I’m not saying it’s deliberate but you’re a past master. I don’t know who you learnt from but they were an expert. You portray this tough-but-broken image, the strong man bearing grief with stoic resolution for the sake of his children. You hint at a warm heart just waiting to respond to the right woman’s love, then when that person tries to reach inside what does she find?’

Fenwick couldn’t speak. Her taunts had provoked an anger in him he could barely manage. Claire took his silence as an invitation to continue.

‘Nothing. Behind the outer wall is an inner one, smooth and impervious.’

‘I thought we could be friends,’ his lips said with control, ‘good companions enjoying each other’s company. I hadn’t meant to imply more.’

‘That’s because you haven’t any more to give. You’re like a brilliant robot with a poor-little-me attitude.’

He heard tears in her voice and reached out his hand instinctively. She jerked away as if burnt.

‘Don’t, please. You’re not worth the heartache. If you’d only once let me see the real you and not the charming stranger then I might have persevered.’

With a bitter shake of her head she stalked to her car and drove away without giving him chance to reply.

Fenwick watched her go, his face expressionless. Inside he felt as if someone had taken his vital organs and pulverised them. She had summed him up as a heartless cipher, a hollow, false man wrapped about with meaningless charm. Because she hadn’t been able to find his heart she had assumed that it didn’t exist. He knew that wasn’t true. Monique had found a way through his armour. For years he’d been helpless, writhing on the barb of her love. Every day, Bess and Chris pierced his protective layers, provoking extraordinary emotions within him – joy, fear, anger, love, protectiveness – sometimes all at once.