Innocent Blood

For Jane and Neil,
with love always,
because family matters.

Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PART FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
PART FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Available from ALLISON AND BUSBY
Copyright

He edged back into a dusty seat on the last train from London to Harlden and let go a sigh that he seemed to have been controlling for the whole of his life. Andrew Fenwick was emotionally and physically drained. All he wanted to do was lay his head back and close his eyes but he couldn’t and it wasn’t the greasy cushion that stopped him, but his conscience. Earlier that evening he had finally found the answer to a neglected crime that had remained unsolved for more than two decades. Instead of feeling elated, success had left him facing the worst dilemma of his career.

As a result of what he now knew, a good man’s fate lay in his hands, and while his duty as a police officer was clear, it was, uniquely, at war with his sense of what was right. The unexpected conflict was eating into him, making him feel too old for his job. He closed his eyes and tried to think calmly about his dilemma but it was impossible. The burden was his alone and no amount of wishful thinking could make it vanish. He had no choice but to decide a man’s future and only the breathing space of his journey home in which to do so.

He blinked hard to keep himself awake and his gaze fell to his hands where they lay loosely on his thighs. For a fanciful moment he imagined the man’s liberty in his left hand and the sentence that society would pass on him were the truth ever known in his right. Revealing it would be a boost to his career at a time when he was being considered for promotion despite a singular lack of sponsorship from the powers on high. The fingers of his right hand started to curl subconsciously as if he were plucking his advancement from the stale air. Then he clenched both fists tight and relaxed his muscles slowly as he acknowledged the futility of his thoughts. His problem remained and the decision he made would be a defining moment in his life.

The train rattled on as it gathered speed, swaying over points, flashing past stations already closed for the night, taking him towards a time in the future when the decision would have been made and fate decided. He stared ahead, trying to discern what that resolution might be but it was a pointless exercise, a way of wasting time and he despised himself for it.

He’d always considered himself a man who could make difficult decisions, had even thought it one of his strong points but now, when he was really tested, he realised that he was no Solomon. So he resorted to a familiar remedy when his mind became recalcitrant and dry; he pulled out a notepad and opened his pen. At the top of a fresh sheet of paper he wrote down the question that had been circling in his mind like a child’s riddle without answer ever since he’d discovered the truth:
When is a murderer not a murderer?

The words confronted him. The crime he had solved was murder after all, not some petty misdemeanour. With an audible grunt of frustration he ripped the page from the pad and screwed it up, stuffing it into his pocket so that his thoughts wouldn’t join the litter on the carriage floor. His watch ticked past midnight as he smoothed his palm across a fresh page, preparing himself.

He wrote down the man’s name – his real one. Beneath it he drew a line down the centre of the page. On one side he listed the harsh facts of his guilt; on the other he wrote out the case for the defence, so strong he needed more paper. Then he stared at his work, imagining he was judge and jury. There were so many reasons to grant a lenient sentence but he had no right to make that decision. Could he betray his years of dedicated, scrupulous law enforcement because – in this instance – he couldn’t trust the law to be merciful? Slowly, the pen moved across the virgin paper, staining it with his thoughts. Even more slowly his decision began to reveal itself. And finally, he arrived at his destination.

On the last day that his parents saw him alive Paul Hill cycled from home on a new bike that he was proud to claim he’d saved up for himself. It was the first day of the school year. He was fourteen but looked twelve, a reality that had begun to eat into his shaky self-confidence over the summer until his customary bravado had worn thin. It was enough to see him through the first day of school though, despite the jealous reaction to his bike and the sniggers behind his back, which he pretended not to hear.

He was on his own when he left the school gates, his sometime friends having run on ahead, shouting snide comments over their shoulders. He hadn’t been inclined to join them anyway, he told himself, as he turned his bike downhill, stroked the elaborate gear mechanism with a fleeting smile of pleasure and raised himself up in the saddle. Before he reached the road he braked suddenly. He had forgotten that he was meant to be meeting someone, despite all the trouble he had gone to constructing careful lies for his teachers and parents in order to give himself the excuses he needed to miss choir practice but still be late home from school. These meetings, which had started as a glorious exciting secret, had become a source of deep anxiety. He wanted them to stop but that idea scared him too. Without consciously making a decision, he turned the bike around and started to pedal towards home, pumping more quickly the closer he drew.

When he got there he would pretend that he had a stomach ache. His mother would have one of her fits and send him straight to bed and his dad would call him a wimp but it would be worth it. If he really played up he might even be able to stay home from school for a few days.

He was taking his usual short cut when a familiar red car overtook him and pulled in to the lay-by ahead. He slowed obediently and watched the driver wind down his window.

‘Where are you going, Paul?’

‘Home.’ He wasn’t in the mood for a detour today.

‘But we had an agreement. I was expecting you.’

‘Don’t want to, not today.’

‘Go on, it’s early; you’ll not be missed.’

‘I’ve got homework and extra reading.’ He shifted his duffle bag between his shoulder blades and refused to meet the man’s eye.

‘Nice bike.’

Paul grunted, a monosyllabic sound that meant ‘So?’

‘Cost a lot I imagine.’

The reminder of how he’d earned his money made Paul’s insides burn.

‘Go away.’

‘Don’t be like that. We’re friends, remember, and friends are nice to each other.’

Paul shut his eyes, then opened them again and stared stubbornly at the dirt beneath his wheels. He didn’t have proper friends, not any more, and it was all this man’s fault.

‘I never want to see you again.’

The man laughed dismissively, as if Paul had made a bad joke.

‘Don’t be silly, of course you do; you can’t stop now.’

The words made him shiver.

‘But I don’t want to.’ He forced his mouth into its sad look, the one that always worked on
his mother.

‘Look, Paul,’ the man said in a firmer voice, ‘it’s not as if you have anywhere else to go. I’m the best friend you’ve got. I’ve never shared our secret, or showed anybody those photographs, have I? Because friends don’t betray each other.’

‘I’ve got tummy ache.’

‘Really.’ The man stepped out of the vehicle slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. With a glance down the empty road he walked around to the rear of the estate car and opened the door.

‘But…’ Paul could feel real tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

‘Pop your bike in, go on.’

The man smiled. It was the first friendly face Paul had seen since leaving home. Reluctantly, he dragged his bike through the gravel and let the man lift it into the car. When he saw the blanket he took an involuntary step back but the man rested his hand comfortingly on Paul’s shoulder and gave him that smile again, the one that was meant to make him feel special.

‘You can ride up front with me today, at least for the first bit. Get in. There’s some chocolate in the glove compartment. We can talk more on the way.’

And, now that the decision had been made for him, Paul did talk, almost non-stop. In the car he didn’t feel so bad; it was familiar, and although he now hated what he was about to do, it no longer scared him quite so much. He told the man about the bad things his friends were saying, the names they called him and how he’d tried to tell them they were wrong.

‘Have you told them about me?’

Paul shook his head.

‘And have they ever mentioned my name?’ The man asked the questions casually but Paul was careful with his answer.

‘No, never.’ He took a bite of chocolate so that he couldn’t talk anymore. The man patted his knee.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort things out. Now, it’s time to hop in the back.’

Fifteen minutes later Paul told himself he wasn’t scared even though the drive was taking a lot longer than usual and the smell of exhaust was making him sick. He clutched his duffle bag to his chest and drifted into a familiar fantasy world where he was brave, and tall and above all popular. Within its comfort he drifted asleep.

Castleview Terrace was tucked economically beside a remnant of Harlden’s ancient city wall, the houses designed to resemble almoners’ cottages with mellow stone and decorative brickwork. Each cottage had an element of individuality, though not so much as to disturb the pleasing regimentation of the sweeping crescent which sheltered beneath the remains of the Norman stonework.

The dark blue front door of the end cottage gleamed in the sunlight. Terracotta pots, overflowing with alyssum, lobelia and scarlet geraniums, flanked the step and gave the house a feminine touch that belied its solitary male occupant. He was taking advantage of the fine morning to edge a handkerchief of perfect green lawn, manipulating the shears skilfully around the picket fence which bordered his property. A rose had started to colonise its woodwork, white blooms mingling with red honeysuckle to fill the air with a welcoming fragrance for the too-occasional visitor.

‘Morning, Major Maidment.’

The man looked up and nodded to the postman.

‘Good morning, George.’

‘Just a bill today.’ George’s hand stretched out respectfully over the fence.

‘How is your lady wife? Quite recovered I hope?’

‘Fit as a fiddle, Major. She said to thank you for the flowers.’

‘My pleasure.’

Maidment waved the postman on his way and popped inside to make himself a cup of coffee. He measured semi-skimmed milk into the pan, regretting that he was no longer allowed the Cornish full-cream variety that had been his favourite since he was a boy. It seemed strange to take such care to extend this solitary life, but his doctor was conspiring to do so and he felt it would have been impolite to ignore his best intentions. He was rinsing his cup and saucer when the phone rang.

‘Maidment.’

‘Oh, Major. Good, you’re home.’

His expression settled into resignation as he pulled a chair closer to the phone and placed a cushion against his back.

‘Miss Pennysmith, how are you?’

It was not an empty enquiry. He knew that news of her ailments would now be described in detail, saving only those of a feminine nature deemed too sensitive to discuss. Ten minutes later Miss Pennysmith finally reached the purpose of her call.

‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a lift to church tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ His heart sank. ‘I’ll be round at oh-nine-hundred hours.’

‘Well, I wonder if you could make it a little earlier. I have two lightbulbs that need changing and I can’t reach them.’

He agreed to see her at half past eight.

Preparing, eating and tidying away after lunch took him through to two o’clock without a problem, though his eyes misted briefly as he dried the single plate, a precious remnant of the dinner service that had been a wedding present. Inevitably he thought of Hilary, even though nearly three years had ticked by since she had passed away. At the end he’d been grateful for that final soft breath. Such suffering as she had endured was surely the invention of the devil himself. He missed her terribly. Her quiet companionship and interest in the minutiae of his day had gone for ever leaving a vacuum that was at times almost unbearable.

He shook himself. This wouldn’t do; he was growing maudlin. Weekend afternoons were the worst. After a brief moment’s deliberation he determined to walk around the castle and then down to the river. It would be busy on a Saturday but that couldn’t be helped. The only other alternative was a round of golf but he rationed the number of times he played to prove to himself that he had not become dependent on the club and all it stood for. Besides, he was inclined to drink too much when he went there and then risk the short drive home.

The next morning, Maidment was adjusting his trilby and checking the trim of his moustache when his doorbell rang. He removed his hat and set it back precisely on the peg before opening the door.

‘Good heavens!’ He covered his mouth in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that—’

‘I know, I’m the spitting image, except that he would be considerably older than I am by now.’

The amiable young man extended his hand, which Maidment shook automatically.

‘Luke Chalfont. How do you do?’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Chalfont?’

‘I specialise in energy cost saving. Now, I know that’s not at the forefront of people’s minds in June but, as I’m sure a prudent man such as yourself will realise, it’s always better to plan properly and be prepared.’

The man’s eyes wandered from the major’s face for a moment as if scanning the hall but he returned his attention quickly. His patter continued as smooth as butter and it took Maidment some while to realise that he was a salesman touting an alternative gas supply.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Chalfont, but I was on my way out when you called and I have no interest in your company’s services.’

‘I quite understand. However, I have a small dossier containing facts and figures comparing our supply with others. Perhaps I could leave it with you to study at your convenience? If you decide that you are interested, just call me.’ He extended his hand. ‘My card.’

The salesman left with a cheery wave and was walking up the neighbour’s path as Maidment double-locked his front door.

Miss Pennysmith was a young-looking 67-year-old with an appetite for life that was being tested by the recent onset of arthritis, but she remained optimistic, believing equally in the healing powers of prayer and a positive mental attitude. She was living, as Jane Austen would have said, in reduced circumstances following the near collapse of the pension fund that was to have been her income in retirement. The one-bedroom flat, in a neighbourhood she would once have walked far to avoid, was all she could now afford following the sale of her house to realise additional capital on which to live.

For church she had chosen to wear a floral dress in pinks and greens that she felt complemented her complexion and strawberry-silver perm. Fresh coffee and home-made scones were ready on the table next to crisp linen napkins. Her sitting room smelt of baking and lavender from the polishing she’d completed the day before. Had it not been for the church her life would have been even harder but friends helped her with invitations to meals that were always over-catered and to shared outings towards which her contribution was reduced in a conspiracy she did not suspect and would have resented had she known.

The major arrived punctually and stood to attention on her doorstep.

‘Major Maidment! Would you like some coffee and a scone perhaps?’

‘I think I should see to the lights first, Miss Pennysmith.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Someone did them for me yesterday shortly after I called you. We have plenty of time.’

Maidment valued politeness above free expression so followed his hostess into her sitting room without comment. She was a silly woman and the little-girl dress she was wearing was unsuitable for someone her age, but in the fresh baking and recent evidence of cleaning he recognised an echo of his own loneliness. Consequently, he endured her chatter and schooled his face to amiability as he drank her excellent coffee and nibbled a scone.

After church, he declined her invitation to lunch and took his customary walk to the municipal cemetery and Hilary’s grave. He bought fresh flowers on the way, despite his lingering scruples against Sunday trading, and spent frustrating minutes trying to tease the white chrysanthemums and pink lilies into the pretence of an arrangement. His eyes grew moist as he thought again about how unfair life could be. Hilary had been ten years his junior, healthy and cheerful until her sudden, shocking illness. She would have been far more adept at coping with this business of grief; he should have been lying here. He should have gone first.

Maidment felt guilty for such selfishness immediately and chided himself for wishing this pain on her. God had a purpose in keeping him alive and God alone knew that he had sins enough to expiate before his soul was judged. Perhaps that was why he was still here, though he knew no amount of good works in the winter of his years would atone for the sins of his lifetime. The idea of hell terrified him and the cemetery suddenly became an awful place. Chastised, scared, he headed for his car and drove resolutely to the golf club where he would attempt to silence his conscience with excellent claret and the distraction of convivial company.