Innocent Blood (17 page)

‘They were bound to notice the absence of the guard. The charges were primed, timers set. I sent the others back to a rendezvous point while I reduced the time delay on one charge to a minute. That way we could take out some of the new arrivals and create a diversion, allowing us to escape.’

He paused and closed his eyes. The smell and noise of the jungle came back to him. He could recall the sweat on his hands, making his fingers clumsy as he fiddled with the final timer.

‘I don’t know how it happened but as I was leaving the munitions pile I heard a gunshot. It wasn’t one of ours but that didn’t make any difference. Another one followed and I heard my lads returning fire. I was down on my belly and crawling so fast you wouldn’t believe it. It didn’t matter about noise as all hell was breaking loose. One of the bastards switched on a searchlight, another lit a flare. It threw the jungle into relief like a lightning bolt and caught Jimmy in the open. I think he was coming back to find me, against my explicit orders. Whatever, he was shot instantly. The round caught him in the right shoulder and spun him flat less than fifty yards from me.

‘He was conscious when I got to him but bleeding badly. Together we managed to reach the others and we set off along our original track. One of us would stay and give covering fire while the other two would help Jim. Then the coverer would peel away to the side and we’d take over firing till he joined us; a classic retreat, except that poor old Jim slowed us down. He must have been in agony but he didn’t cry out once.

‘When the first of the charges went up we managed to give our pursuers the slip. It took us an hour to cover the distance we’d done originally in half that and I knew we wouldn’t make the border before daylight, but we had no choice but to keep going or Jimmy would die.

‘I blame myself for what happened next,’ he said and stared at Nightingale as if daring her censure. ‘Some time around four in the morning we paused to rest and apply new dressings to Jimmy’s shoulder. He could barely stand because of loss of blood. We’d been moving fast so I thought we had a good chance to stay ahead of them and keep going in daylight if we could only find some way of carrying Jim. We found a thick patch of undergrowth and I sent Archie off to find wood that we could use to make a sling. Meanwhile Stanley and I changed the dressing on his shoulder. We couldn’t risk any light but I could tell from the feel of the wound that the bullet had gone straight through and that it was still bleeding. Between us we did the best we could for him and gave him a shot of morphine.

‘Archie came back and I made them eat and drink as I tied Jim to the poles, using webbing to strap him so as to avoid pressure on his shoulder as much as we could. Still it must have been agony for him despite the drugs. Then we set off again. I estimated that we had at least three hours’ travel left before the border and more like five to one of our camps. We went in single file, the two carriers leading. Dawn came about six and I had to make a decision – hole up and wait out the day or keep going. I took one look at Jim, who was semi-conscious, and we kept going. We stopped again briefly after two hours to rest from carrying Jim. He was unconscious by this time and had started groaning. I’m afraid we gagged him to stop the noise. It sounds repulsive, I know, but we couldn’t risk him betraying our location.’

Again he closed his eyes. There was silence in the room but for the faint whirr of the double tape recorder.

‘The border was less than an hour away when one of their search patrols found us. We were bent down adjusting some of the webbing on Jimmy when an Indonesian soldier almost fell over us. Archie slit his throat but he let off a round as he died and half a dozen of them emerged from the trees less than twenty yards away. There was no real cover. We let fly at them and they fired back at us. Archie was by far the best shot; he took out two immediately; Stanley and I downed three between us but we missed the sixth man and he fired straight at us.

‘The bastard caught Archie in the face before I could kill him. Archie was still alive when he hit the ground.’

There was a stunned silence. The three men swallowed audibly but Nightingale simply asked, ‘And how old were the boys in your patrol, Major?’ She sounded cool and dispassionate in the silence of the room.

It was impossible to tell which of them gasped at her callousness, perhaps they all did. Nightingale merely raised her eyebrows to emphasise her enquiry. Maidment swallowed hard and answered her without bothering to disguise his contempt.

‘Jim was the youngest; twenty from south London. He was the wild one, always a step ahead of the MPs, but he wrote to his girlfriend every chance he had. Let me tell you what happened to Jim. He was lying on the ground when the fire fight started. A stray bullet hit him, entering his groin and travelling up and out of his back. The exit wound was so big I could have put a golf ball in it. It killed him instantly.

‘The next oldest was Archie; he was twenty-two. He was skinny as a rake, with crazy red hair and freckles so he suffered miserably in the sun. Archie was a quiet man, thoughtful but as tough as old boots. The bullet took half his face off, jawbone, ear and the side of his mouth. Do you know what it’s like to stare at the inside of a man’s mouth, to see the tongue desperately trying to talk with cheeks and lips that no longer exist?’ He stared pointedly at Nightingale who for once didn’t have a ready answer. ‘No, I didn’t think you would.

‘Stanley and I were older. He escaped with a head wound, a graze really.’

‘And you?’ Fenwick’s tone was gentle.

‘Relatively minor wounds; Archie took the bullet that was meant for me.’ Maidment had to look away but then he turned back, his face betraying his anger. ‘So to answer your earlier question, miss, about what it’s like to see the eyes of the men I killed and to hear their last breath, I can’t tell you. But I saw my men as the sun broke through the clouds, so red I thought it was gorged with their blood. I saw them slashed open, mutilated, eviscerated and still breathing. And I see them still in my dreams, or on bad days even when I’m awake. Don’t you dare imply that I enjoyed that slaughter. The men I’ve killed all died in a fair fight and I would kill again if called upon to do so by my country because that is my
duty
, Chief Inspector, and not my crime.’

Fenwick was stunned into silence by the passion of Maidment’s words but they had no impact on Nightingale.

‘You’re not under arrest for those deaths, Major Maidment,’ she said, ‘but for the abduction and murder of a young boy.’ She actually managed a smile.

Maidment was speechless, his solicitor furious and ready to complain.

‘I think we’ve all had enough for now,’ Fenwick intervened quickly. ‘I’ll have you escorted back to your cell and we’ll start again tomorrow. Yes, our twenty-four hours isn’t up, Major, and you’ll be enjoying our hospitality tonight.’

He and Nightingale watched as the two men left. When the door closed he turned on her.

‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’

She shrugged, indifferent.

‘Good cop, bad cop. You’ve obviously decided to become best mates with our prime suspect so I need to play the hard bitch.’

‘Play? It seemed to come quite naturally. The old guy was clearly shaken and you just put the boot in – with relish!’

‘I can assure you I remained dispassionate throughout the interview, which is more than you did. Falling for the old soldier’s sob story. He’s a kiddie killer! May I speak frankly?’

‘Please do.’ Fenwick’s voice was like ice but she appeared not to notice.

‘I think your attitude was more dangerous to the interrogation than my detachment.’

‘That was not detachment, Nightingale, that was cruelty. You were close to the line and with his solicitor present.’

‘Going close to the line is part of our job, remember?’ Suddenly she was angry. ‘And as for cruelty, don’t you dare lecture me. I can assure you I learnt it from a master.’

They glared at each other under the harsh fluorescent light, her look daring him to read everything into her words that she’d intended.

‘I’ll ignore that last remark,’ he said eventually and angled his face away from her as he made a show of gathering his notes.

She grabbed her bag and flounced out, slamming the door behind her and leaving Fenwick alone with his doubts. Had he gone soft on the major because of his war record? He was an easy man for another man to like but he was old-fashioned, arrogant and – yes, she was right – a bit too good to be true. But, no, he wasn’t fooled. The major had shown himself to be a robust professional. Whatever demons haunted him he’d learnt to cope with them, which meant that he could as easily conceal his involvement in a crime, even one as hideous as the abuse and murder of a child. If he had been involved in Paul Hill’s murder it was going to be difficult to squeeze any information out of him. He had few hopes for the interrogation the following morning and, in the event, was proved right.

The police interview tactics changed as Maidment entered his second day in custody. Overnight Fenwick had decided to be blunt and confront him with the evidence rather than try and coax a confession out of him. Although he wouldn’t admit it to Nightingale, he’d concluded that his previous approach would get them nowhere. Maidment was too practised in handling interrogations and had almost perfect self-control so he couldn’t afford to waste precious custody hours in the hope of softening him up.

He ignored the look of disapproval on Nightingale’s face when he told her that he’d asked Sergeant Bob Cooper to join him in the interview room at eight o’clock. Strictly speaking it was her case and she should have been there but as he had been given the lead on the interviews he reasoned to himself that it was his call who participated. And anyway, he thought, it would give Nightingale more time to concentrate on the inquiry.

By nine o’clock neither Fenwick nor Cooper had succeeded in squeezing another word from their suspect. At nine-thirty the DNA results arrived and Fenwick stopped the interview. Nightingale was waiting for them in the detectives’ room and the look of triumph on her face told him all he needed to know before he opened the file.

The lab report confirmed that the blood on the sack was Maidment’s, as were microscopic spots on the collar of Paul’s shirt. Traces of Paul’s own blood had been found on the inside of his shirt sleeve but the blood on the blazer came from more than one person and there was no way of telling whose it was, or whether Paul’s blood had been on the blazer and then contaminated by another’s. The findings were a bitter blow to Fenwick as the blood from the shirt alone wouldn’t be enough to support a charge of murder as it wasn’t sufficient to indicate that Paul bled to death.

Blood removed from the trousers was neither Maidment’s nor Paul’s and there was no match in the system. Hairs taken from the blazer were visually identical to those taken from Paul’s hairbrush but Fenwick asked Nightingale to have the lab extract DNA from the root for confirmation as without it they might not be able to prove at trial that the blazer was his.

As SIO it was up to Nightingale to decide on strategy and Fenwick left her to it, knowing that if he sat in he would be unable to keep quiet. They had a lot of work ahead of them and he hoped that she wouldn’t be arrogant enough to be over-confident. Although the forensic evidence was strong it wasn’t conclusive. The prosecution wouldn’t be able to rely on it alone given the suspect’s character and impeccable past. Building the case was also going to be complicated by the fact that in 1982 the police had another suspect, Bryan Taylor, a man they never found and a perfect gift to the defence. Fenwick was frustrated that he couldn’t be more involved but he consoled himself with the thought that he would soon be busy enough with Choir Boy now that there were fresh leads to follow up. The only thing left for him to do in Harlden was to try to connect Maidment to the Choir Boy ring. He rejoined the interview and watched with interest as Cooper interrogated the major with all the subtlety of a JCB building a sandcastle.

‘Where were you on the afternoon of 7
^th
September, 1982?’

‘How is my client supposed to remember that?’ Stenning looked exhausted despite his night’s rest but his voice was spirited enough.

‘It’s all right, Stenning. In 1982 I was retired from the army after more than thirty years and started working at The Downs Golf Club as secretary. In September 1982 I would have been engaged in overhauling the membership records, which I found to be in a poor state, approving plans for an extension and new terrace, and dismissing one of the groundsmen for moonlighting, petty theft and inappropriate behaviour.’

‘Who was it you dismissed?’

‘A man called Bryan Taylor.’

Fenwick ignored Cooper’s meaningful glance.

‘And on the 7th?’

‘What day of the week was it?’

‘A Tuesday.’

‘In the afternoon, you say. Well, that’s easy. The membership committee met on the first Tuesday of every other month and I acted as secretary.’

‘At what time?’

‘Five o’clock, finishing at six-thirty unless we had a particularly tricky matter to address.’

‘And you would have been at this meeting?’ Cooper tried to hide his scepticism.

‘It will be simple enough to check. The diaries from that time are in my loft at home.’

‘And after the committee meeting?’

‘Typically I would have written up the minutes, had a drink in the bar and a late supper in the club restaurant.’

‘At what time?’

‘I left for home at twenty-one hundred hours.’

‘Did this routine ever vary?’

The major paused, his face a picture of careful consideration.

‘When my wife became ill it was different. Her appointment with the specialist was on a Tuesday afternoon. If it coincided with the membership committee then someone else stood in as secretary. I think that happened three or four times but that started in 2001.’

The questioning reached a dead end, and Fenwick took over.

‘How do you explain your fingerprints on the sack containing Paul Hill’s blazer and shirt?’

Stenning blanched but the major’s expression remained calm.

‘I can’t.’

‘Are you surprised that they are there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fingerprints are unique, Jeremy. If yours are on the sack containing his clothes you must have touched it.’

‘Maybe someone took a sack belonging to me and used it.’

Stenning nodded vigorously, some of the colour returning to his face.

‘Then how do you explain your blood on the inside of the sack?’

For a brief moment the major looked surprised, then there was a fleeting look of calculation and an almost imperceptible nod before his face folded into its customary neutrality.

‘Surely that is consistent with someone taking the sack.’

‘But spots of it were on Paul’s clothing as well.’

‘Perhaps they were transferred from the sack to the clothing.’ The major shrugged and shook his head as if mystified. ‘Check my diaries; I’m certain that you will find I have an alibi.’

His sustained self-confidence was infuriating but it encouraged his solicitor into a rare intervention as if he suddenly realised that he had an active role to play in the process.

‘The major is renowned for his prodigious recall. He is also a most honourable man, as any number of character witnesses will testify.’

Maidment smiled at him briefly in thanks and Fenwick decided it was time to test that prodigious memory further.

‘Do you know anyone by the name of Joseph Watkins?’

Maidment was startled by the abrupt change in questioning and wrinkled his brow in concentration.

‘Member of the club since 1987; I don’t really know him; we never socialise.’

‘Really, are you sure? Because we’ll be checking up. Better you tell us than we find out from someone else.’

‘If you must know, I was against Watkins’ membership but as secretary I didn’t have a vote on the committee and others were supportive.’

‘Why weren’t you keen?’

‘Wrong type. Johnny-come-lately with more money than taste. Not even a particularly good golfer; didn’t play often enough.’

‘Who nominated him?’

Maidment hesitated. It was only brief but it was enough for Fenwick to be on the alert.

‘Richard Edwards. He was chair of the membership committee for a number of years and had a lot of influence.’

Fenwick made a note of the name.

‘And is he still a member?’

‘Very much so, president year before last.’

‘Do you know somebody called Alec Ball?’

‘No.’

‘Are you a member of Burgess Hill Gentlemen’s Club?’

‘That place? Good Lord no. Used to be all right but very run down now. What is this all about?’

Fenwick ignored the question. For the next hour he tried every tactic he knew to press Maidment into revealing anything that might connect him to Choir Boy. Eventually he had to admit defeat and the major was returned to his cell.

Fenwick and Cooper went to the canteen to buy an early lunch.

‘He’s an arrogant so-and-so isn’t he?’ Cooper remarked as he asked for extra poppadoms with his chicken curry.

‘Yes. It’s no wonder Nightingale can’t stand him but I bet he gets on well with his cronies.’

‘Too right. She called me last night to ask me to dig into his background and talk to his mates. I was meant to be starting on that this morning.’

Both men looked a little guilty as they acknowledged that Fenwick had arbitrarily overridden the wishes of Nightingale as SIO on the case but it didn’t affect their appetites.

‘She’s made the right choice. Are you going to add this man Edwards to the list?’

‘He’s already on it. They were in the army together; it was Edwards got him the job at the golf club when he came out.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Too early to say, really. I’ll give you a call when I’ve seen him if you like.’

‘Thanks. I’m going to leave you to it and get back to MCS. I’ll probably have another go at Maidment later this week.’

‘No problem. You busy?’

‘There’s lots on as always.’

‘Anything special? Only I wondered why you were so interested in the Maidment case, that’s all.’ Cooper took a large forkful of rice and curry as if to emphasise that his question was only casual.

Fenwick wondered whether rumour of Choir Boy had reached Harlden but decided to keep quiet.

‘The possibility of a connection, that’s all. Nothing really special. Don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest cricket score, have you?’

Nightingale found them drinking coffee in the canteen when she returned from a search of Maidment’s house. They looked relaxed and friendly.

‘I rushed back,’ she said, slightly breathless from her run down the stairs. ‘We found a long knife that looks foreign and a whole pile of press cuttings about Paul Hill.’

‘Have you brought his diaries back with you?’ Fenwick asked before draining his coffee.

‘Diaries? Oh you mean the journals we found in his attic. There were about fifty of them; they’ll be processed in the normal way.’

‘Even the ones for the years covering Eagleton and Hill’s disappearances?’

Nightingale flushed but kept her temper in check.

‘Let me speak more clearly, perhaps words of few syllables will help. Yes, we found them. They are coming here with the other items we recovered.’

‘Good. Well, I need to be heading back.’ Fenwick stood up, not quite looking at either of them. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

Nightingale sat down as Cooper went, unasked, to fetch her a coffee and a bun as a peace offering. She stared for a moment at Fenwick’s retreating back but then decided that life was too short to allow him to get under her skin. It was a good resolution but one she found hard to hold on to as she sipped her coffee and discussed with Cooper her plans for the investigation.

Fenwick was late for the briefing but Alison had made use of the time by distributing a copy of her notes from the night before. The Choir Boy team was clustered around the boards in animated conversation which died when he walked in.

‘This is good work,’ he said without preamble. ‘Well done all of you involved.’

There was a moment’s sheepish silence, then Clive said, ‘Actually, this is all down to Alison, sir. She’s the one who did the hard slog.’

There was muttered agreement and Alison shrugged.

‘Everyone was involved somehow.’

‘Whatever,’ Fenwick had little time for false modesty, ‘it’s given us something concrete to work on. Who are the regular buyers of the dodgy goods?’

Clive answered, automatically taking the lead as he did given any opportunity but Alison didn’t appear to mind.

‘There are three main repeat purchasers: these two blokes that we haven’t identified yet and, guess who?’ He paused dramatically but Fenwick waved him on impatiently. ‘Joseph Watkins!’

‘At last.’ Fenwick grinned, as if he could already taste Watkins’ conviction. But instead of offering congratulations he asked critically, ‘Why didn’t we pick this up during surveillance?’

Clive looked uncomfortable. A significant part of tailing Watkins had been his responsibility but he had his answer ready.

‘We had a look at that this morning, sir. When Watkins went to the stall he typically spent less than a minute there. A little bit of casual browsing and then one purchase. He always stopped by in the middle of his visit to the market and by the time he reached Ball’s stall he had other packages and bags so it wasn’t even obvious sometimes that he’d bought something. Honestly, there was nothing in the least remarkable about his behaviour.’

‘Obviously. Go on. Tell me more about Alec Ball.’

‘Alec Ball keeps his stuff in a storage depot north of Brighton, goes there about once a week. We’ve never gone for a warrant to check his store because we didn’t want to alert him to our surveillance. Maybe it’s time to go in there. If we find stuff we could bring him in and he might give us something under interrogation.’

‘It’s a big decision,’ he said, not as dismissively as he felt because he owed them respect. ‘Once we do that there’s no way back. No, I think we’ll keep that up our sleeve. What I’d like to do is set up a watch on the depot itself. If Ball goes there who knows who else uses it.’

‘That’s a third surveillance team,’ Clive said mildly. There was a rustled murmur of support.

‘I know, and we’ve already blown our overtime budget for the month, but it’s now or never with this investigation and we’re going to give it every effort.’

Work was divided up, a conference time agreed for the following day so that they could compare results and the team dispersed. As the others left Alison hung back by one of the boards.

‘Is there something else?’ Fenwick asked.

‘It’s these missing children, sir. Are we just going to ignore them?’

He joined her, his back to the photos.

‘Unless we can find substance to support the Choir Boy allegations we have no basis for continuing.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I know, it’s hard to walk away but they wouldn’t be ours to find anyway, unless there was some sort of conspiracy behind their disappearances. But you know that’s highly unlikely. These are runaways, missing persons; sad social statistics not police cases.’