Innocent Blood (26 page)

She had a flash of insight.

‘Of course you do. You saw the television programme, that’s why you’re upset.’

Was that a nod, so imperceptible she almost missed it?

‘I should think you’d want the man who hurt Paul caught as much as I do, don’t you?’

‘Course.’

Nightingale took a deep breath to keep her voice steady.

‘When the police went to the school to talk to people I don’t think they saw you, did they?’

A shake of the head.

‘Why not? Were you away from school?’

A nod.

‘Would you mind talking to me now instead?’

Nothing. She waited, counting to sixty, but the hulking great man in front of her stood stock still.

‘Look, maybe you can’t remember anything; it was a long time ago.’

‘Course I can remember,’ Oliver swung round, his face flushed, and it was Nightingale’s turn to take a step back. ‘I’m not stupid y’know, even if you talk to me like I am. I’m not.’

‘Of course you’re not, I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.

‘Most people do. They ignore me and talk about me as if I’m not there. And I’ve got a good memory.’

‘Good, I’m pleased. So, can you help me by telling me about Paul and the time he disappeared?’

‘You’re pretty.’

‘Thank you. I’m also trustworthy.’

‘Mum said I should never say.’

‘Say what?’

But Oliver shook his head and bent down to gather up the dog food that was lying on the road.

‘So you’re good at keeping secrets?’

A nod.

‘So am I, you know, and there shouldn’t be any reason for your mum to know that you talked to me. I won’t tell her, not unless you let me.’

‘I dunno.’ He finished gathering what pellets he could and lifted the bag up one-handed as if it weighed nothing.

‘You’re strong, aren’t you?’ she said admiringly.

A blush crept up from the grubby collar of his shirt and a sly grin transformed his face.

‘Always have been.’

‘You know, as an adult you can decide what secrets to keep and which to share. It’s not up to your mum anymore.’

That got him. A look of defiance crossed his face.

‘That’s right.’ He stepped closer and dropped his voice to a whisper so that she had to bend to catch it. ‘There was a fire, you know, a big fire. I went and looked and it was a car.’

‘Can you remember anything about the car, Oliver?’

He shook his head and shut his eyes, as if blotting out a bad memory.

‘I think you can. I think you’re clever enough to know more.’

Her use of the word clever had an extraordinary effect. His face cleared and lost its redness. He opened his eyes and then almost stumbled as he took a step towards her. She thought she recognised the look in his eyes and for the first time she realised what an enormous man he was when he lost his slouch and pushed out his chest. He must be at least six foot four and nearer twenty stone; it wasn’t all fat.

‘No girl’s called me clever before,’ he said with a smile.

It could have been sweet in other circumstances but Nightingale barely noticed as she backed slowly towards her car.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Can I be your boyfriend?’

‘I’ve…I’ve got one already, I’m afraid, Oliver. But thank you for asking.’

‘Can we be friends then – special friends like I was with Wendy until she moved away?’

‘That’s a bit difficult. You see, I’m a police officer and we’re not allowed special friends. It’s against the rules.’ She had almost reached her car door when Oliver took a long stride to block her way.

‘They do on telly. On
The Bill
they’re always doing stuff to each other. You don’t like me.’ He scowled.

‘Yes, I do. I also think you’re clever but I really do have a boyfriend and telly isn’t the same as real life.’

He leant a hand the size of a joint of pork against the side of the car, blocking her access.

‘I must go but if you remember anything about the burning car you can call me at the station. Look, see, here’s a card with the number on it.’

‘And you’d see me again?’

‘If you remember anything of course I’ll see you but it would be police business, not because we’re special friends, OK?’ She was surprised at the firmness that had returned to her voice. ‘Now, stand away from the car and let me go back to work.’

He paused for a moment then nodded, docile again.

She opened the car door and sat down, ready to turn the key in the ignition. Oliver tapped on the window and she opened it a crack.

‘I can show you where I saw the fire if you like but you’d need to take me there.’

After a moment’s pause she agreed and unlocked the doors though her heart was racing. She told herself he was slow not dangerous and that his earlier interest was because she’d flattered him, but his bulk beside her made her feel tiny. He directed her back to the road for a mile then left down an unmade track. Her heart rate was too fast for her to pretend that she wasn’t worried but she concentrated on sustaining an air of confident authority.

‘Pull off just here.’

He indicated a lay-by almost overgrown with blackberry bushes on one side. Oliver stepped out into them heedless of their thorns. Nightingale opened her door and followed him down a footpath that was barely discernable as it cut through hedgerows already thick with bright green brambles. The can of pepper spray that she carried in her handbag was concealed in the palm of her hand. Oliver stopped suddenly and she almost walked into him.

‘Over there.’ They were standing a hundred yards from a barbed-wire fence bordering a pasture and small wood. Oliver seemed nervous and wouldn’t venture nearer.

She edged past him and walked to the margin of the field. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other and certainly no sign of a burnt-out car.

‘There’s nothing here,’ she called out. ‘Are you sure?’

But Oliver had stopped talking. Even when she went back to him he remained silent and averted his eyes.

‘It was over twenty-five years ago, Oliver. Are you certain? Please, I need your help and I’m sure you have a good memory.’

‘Certain. Certain positive.’ He was becoming distressed. Sweat beaded his forehead and his eyes were going crazy, looking everywhere but at the area of nondescript land to which he’d forced himself to point.

‘Just a couple more questions. Is this your father’s land?’

A shake of denial.

‘So whose is it?’

It was an innocent enough question but Oliver turned and ran. As he lumbered away up the footpath, spilling dog food as he went, she could feel the shock from his steps through the soles of her feet. She was used to seeing fear and something about this place terrified Oliver. Whatever it was she decided that she had to find out. Oliver had been Paul’s friend, the only one who seemed to have liked him at the time of his disappearance. He’d seen a burning car on the night Paul vanished so he’d been well enough to be outside then, yet the next day he didn’t go to school and for some reason was never interviewed. There was something not quite right about him and his mother hated Taylor. Had Oliver been abused by Taylor? It was pure conjecture as Oliver wouldn’t have been an attractive child. But if he had been abused, and if she persuaded him to talk, she might be able to learn more about the man and his methods.

Nightingale was so disturbed by her new theory that she paused by the field. To give herself chance to think she squeezed under the barbed wire and walked over the lumpy meadow. Oliver had pointed towards a copse and she ambled towards it. There would be nothing there of course, after all this time, but she was curious. Some of Fenwick’s almost superstitious need to immerse himself in the places associated with a crime had rubbed off on her.

There was little to distinguish this patch of countryside from any other. Halfway through the tiny wood, sycamores, hazel and thick banks of nettles blocked her way. She retraced her steps and noticed that the nettles on one side had been trampled down recently in a path that led to the centre of the copse.

She followed the path. Three fresh cigarette butts lay on the ground. A lovers’ meeting place, she thought, and turned away. As she did so she saw several splashes of red on the nettles and bent to look, sniffing carefully. There was the distinctive aroma of dried blood. Some animal caught here by a fox probably, but it was an odd coincidence, this sign of recent violence at a place Oliver associated with Paul’s death. On the day after it was all over the news.

‘What would Andrew do?’ she asked herself out loud then laughed. ‘Probably waste half his crime scene budget digging up the woodland in search of the fire and heaven knows what else!’

But the thought stopped her anyway. She took a latex glove from inside her jacket and an evidence bag from her pocket. Carefully, she lifted the cigarette butts and sealed them inside, then opened a sterile q-tip and rubbed it over a bloody patch before snapping the lid shut. Then she cut off one of the leaves and put it in another bag. It was daft, and she’d feel a fool when the lab came back and told her she’d investigated the death of a pheasant, but she had learnt at Fenwick’s knee and one thing he swore by was paying attention to detail. He would have been proud of her; the idea made her smile and ignore her doubts.

By noon Joseph Watkins was in custody – shell-shocked, his face sickly beneath his ruddy complexion. Fenwick decided to let him stew. He had twelve hours before he needed to go before a magistrate again and was confident that what he’d find at the storage depot would give him enough ammunition to keep Watkins in custody. Clive had gone into the warehouse as Watkins was being arrested and within thirty minutes was able to confirm what they thought. The room he rented was full of child pornography: photos, magazines, films, DVDs and computer discs.

‘It’s disgusting, sir, bloody disgusting. I’ve never seen anything like it. Just let me interview Watkins, please, I’ll have that bastard talking in no time.’

‘I need you there, Clive, someone I can trust. We don’t want anything to go wrong with evidence recovery. And remember, if Ball turns up you’re to keep out of their sight and make sure no one at the depot does anything to scare him off. What you’re doing is vital. Leave Watkins to me; I think he’s ready to crumble.’

Fenwick didn’t want Clive’s nervous energy and emotion in the MCS building. He was gradually starting to respect him, and liked his light-hearted humour, but he didn’t yet trust him to keep his head in a crisis. He asked him to send a PC with sample material back to MCS at once.

At one o’clock Fenwick entered interview room one where Watkins was waiting for him together with a Legal Aid solicitor the police had found for him. Alison Reynolds went in with him; a woman in the interview would increase the man’s shame. Watkins had been adamant that he did not want to call his solicitor, who happened to be a close family friend.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Watkins,’ Fenwick said, placing an evidence bag on the table between them. ‘Lawrence.’ He used the lawyer’s first name deliberately, which annoyed the solicitor and did nothing to help Watkins’ frame of mind.

‘Have you both had an opportunity to read the warrant thoroughly?’

Lawrence Parks nodded, Watkins looked blank.

‘If you haven’t, Mr Watkins, it may have eluded your attention that our powers of search extend to Unit 345 at Storewell & Co, London Road, Harlden. This item…’

But he had to stop. At his words Watkins stumbled up from the table, his hand over his mouth.

‘I think my client’s about to be…oh, too late. Perhaps he’s unwell.’

‘Not unwell, Mr Parks, merely in a state of shock. Constable, see if one of the other interview rooms is free, could you, and have this one cleaned up?’

They moved into room two. Watkins was accompanied to the bathroom to clean himself up and returned looking green, barely able to support himself.

‘We’ll start again shall we, Mr Watkins?’

‘What have you got there?’ Watkins managed to ask, though his voice was barely audible.

‘It’s a USB stick, one of many we’ve recovered from your storage unit. I’m about to send it to our technical support unit so that they can download the material from it as evidence. Mr Watkins, if you’re going to be ill every time I say something we’re going to be here a very long time.’

Fenwick’s tone was cold; he was indifferent to the distress of the man opposite. Alison was looking at Watkins with open disgust.

‘At least behave with a shred of dignity,’ she said. ‘I have a twelve-year-old son; is he the age you prefer?’

The venom in her words would have killed if it could have found a way into Watkins’ bloodstream. Even Lawrence Parks hesitated before he came to his client’s defence.

‘A man’s innocent until proven guilty, remember that.’

‘Does your client look innocent to you?’ Fenwick pointed to Watkins’s slumped shoulders; his head was now in his hands and he was sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Here’s just one picture from the hoard he has stored safely away from his home and family.’ He passed a black and white image over to Parks who tried, unsuccessfully, to keep his face neutral. ‘Now, that’s enough to make a normal man sick but it’s the sort of material your client masturbates over on a regular basis, unperturbed that the children being abused in those pictures are real kids, in agony.’

Lawrence Parks was a Legal Aid solicitor still motivated by the ashes of an ideal that was based on the belief that there should be equal justice for all. He spent most of his time trying to secure hearings for asylum seekers, or preventing recidivist kids from being given custodial sentences that would seal their fate before they reached the age to vote. He studied the photograph again carefully, glanced at his lachrymose client and asked Fenwick whether they might have a word in private.

‘Chief Inspector,’ he said in a half-whisper once they were outside, ‘I’m not sure I can represent this man. You see, I have a family, three small boys, I… Could you find someone else?’

Fenwick was sympathetic but he didn’t want to waste time with a false start and risk Watkins regaining his composure.