Innocent Blood (35 page)

‘But a boy’s dead.’

‘By accident, not our fault and he’s no loss to anybody, trust me.’

‘His parents…they’ll be devastated. They need to be told. All this uncertainty…’

‘What can you tell them? The boy’s dead but there’s no body? I certainly can’t do anything so it’s down to whatever you think you can say, which is not a lot. You weren’t even there when it happened. No, Jeremy, the best thing is to do nothing and keep quiet.’

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak but had nodded and Percy had insisted they shake hands on their mutual pledge.

During his drive back he’d been terrified of being stopped by the police. When he saw the foundation hole at the club it had been the easiest thing in the world to drop the sack into it and throw a layer of rubble on top. Then he’d gone home, avoided his wife, vacuumed the car and taken a bottle of whisky into the bathroom with him. The next day his hangover had been so bad that he’d barely been able to think. Somehow he’d managed to get through the interminable meetings and a dinner in the evening, and so the first day had passed, almost easily. The following day was the same, then the next and soon a week of silence had gone by.

Weeks became months, months eventually years. He sometimes tried to tell himself it had been a bad dream but his conscience never allowed him to believe that. But he told himself so often that there had been no other way out of the problem that he had ended up believing his own logic. When it came, Hilary’s illness had felt like a punishment for his sins, extracted from her. With her pain and slow, lingering death the guilt returned. He’d retired, giving up an occupation he’d thrived on to be with her. There had been hours of simply waiting by her bedside with only his guilt for company. He thought that he might have a breakdown but he’d survived; to escape into madness was a release he couldn’t allow himself. Instead he’d waited, suffered with her and prayed.

When she died, at two o’clock on one sunny spring afternoon in her own bed, he had sat by her for hours. He told her then what he’d done and begged her forgiveness. Then he’d prayed for her soul, held her for the last long, long time, kissed her and made the phone call that took her away from him for ever.

By her grave he’d made a silent pledge to do good for the rest of his life in some poor penance for his sins and in the hope of avoiding hell so that he could, after his time in purgatory, be with her again.

‘I really do think you should take some painkillers, Major Maidment.’ Nurse Shah was standing beside his bed.

He quickly wiped his face and tried to smile. ‘I was dozing. It was a bad dream, that’s all.’

‘Didn’t sound like it to me. You don’t need to suffer, you know,’ she said as she walked away.

‘Oh yes I do,’ he whispered and closed his eyes.

‘We’ve wheeled him into a side ward so you can have some privacy,’ the nurse said.

Nightingale and DC Stock followed her into the room where the major sat up straight in the only occupied bed.

‘Good morning, Major.’

He observed that she chose not to sit in the low visitor’s chair, nor pretend an interest in his health. Unexpectedly, he started to like her.

‘Good morning, Miss Nightingale.’

Neither of them had need for small talk.

‘I have relatively few questions but they’re important ones.’

He nodded an acknowledgement.

‘I would remind you that this is a murder investigation, the victim little more than a child, no taller than five feet and one inch tall when he died. Whatever you might have heard or been told about Paul Hill you should not take at face value. Consider instead the motives of whomever it is you’ve chosen to protect and think very hard about that person. Can you be sure that they were telling the truth? Are they worth your good name? Do they deserve your loyalty?’

She paused to let the words sink in but he was ready for her. These questions, and others in a similar vein, had kept him awake all night. No, that wasn’t correct. It was the answers that had prevented rest. In the early morning hours he’d finally stripped away comfortable layers of delusion to reveal the straightforward truth: he had been conned by a liar. He no longer believed that Percy had been protecting a friend but his own neck. He’d been a dupe, a fall guy too stupid to realise his mistake, but that didn’t mean he was about to tell the police anything.

They were pretending now that they thought him innocent of Paul’s murder but he suspected it was a ruse. Once he confessed to any knowledge they’d pounce on him, accuse him of killing the boy and have their case made. Percy would do what he’d threatened to do years ago and deny all knowledge while revealing his own crime of bigamy.

He’d been stupid enough to be fooled once in this affair and it wasn’t about to happen again. Overnight he had decided to hold his tongue and settle the matter in his own way.

‘My first question is simple. Do you know who killed Paul Hill?’

In the silence that followed they became aware of hospital noises, the clatter of trolleys, squeaky rubber soles on the linoleum and in the distance what might have been a muffled moan.

‘Do you think this person is capable of other crimes against teenage boys?’

She was determined, he would give her that, but he evinced no indication that he had even heard her.

‘Is there anything you can tell me that will help me find this man and make sure he’s put away for life?’

Controlled too; despite the fact that she’d been forced to delay her interview she showed no emotion as she waited out the next pause.

‘We know what happened in Borneo, Major. We have traced your “wife” – I suppose I can call her that. It was easy, she still uses your name and the regular payments from your bank account led us straight to her.’

Maidment stared at her in shock. Yet again she had managed to wrongfoot him.

‘The crime of bigamy carries a prison sentence, you know, as does sex with an underage girl.’

‘It was forty years ago!’ he managed to say, though he was finding it hard to breathe.

‘She didn’t marry again, despite your money. Apparently, she never gave up hope that you would go back for her and your son. Who knows what she might do in revenge?’

He had to look away, unable to face the contempt in her face. If they already knew his secret did it mean that Percy had told them? Or had they found it by going through his bank statements? He didn’t know what to do and found himself struggling to keep calm.

‘What’s going on here?’ The registrar was standing behind them, looking at Maidment with consternation. ‘I told you five minutes of
easy
questioning, not a full-scale interrogation. Nurse!’

Nurse Shah hurried to the major’s bedside and lifted his wrist to take his pulse. The look she gave Nightingale would have made Maidment laugh if he hadn’t been feeling so weak.

‘He had a very disturbed night, Doctor,’ she said, angling her body to break Nightingale’s visual hold on her patient.

‘You must leave,’ the registrar ordered them.

‘But this man has vital information related to a murder investigation. It is imperative that we question him.’

‘Can’t you see he’s too ill to speak? I will not have him interrogated to the point of collapse again. Out.’

‘But he’s required to—’

‘I don’t care what he’s meant to do, for whom or why. While he’s in hospital he is my responsibility and it is my authority that decides when
and if
he can answer questions. You’ve done quite enough damage for today.’

Nightingale realised he wasn’t going to back down and nodded to Constable Stock to go.

‘We’ll be back tomorrow, Major. Concentrate on getting better, won’t you. We need you alive.’

Nurse Shah placed a protective hand on the major’s arm.

In the car park outside DC Stock couldn’t hold his tongue. ‘Well, that was a total waste.’

Nightingale ignored the implied criticism as Stock’s opinion mattered little to her. It was the sort of error of judgement that she’d learn to correct in time.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She walked to the driver’s side of the car. ‘Throw me the keys, I’ll drive. His conscience almost betrayed him into breaking his word once. He may have stepped back from doing so but it won’t let him rest. If he doesn’t talk to us it’s because he’s decided to handle the matter in his own way. And we’ll be there when he does. Get in.’

She found Cooper as soon as she was back in the station.

‘Bob, I want the twenty-four-hour watch on Maidment to continue when he goes home. You’re to supervise it personally. He’s meant to be in hospital for another few days but I’m betting he’ll check himself out early so be careful you don’t lose him before you begin. I think he’s going to lead us to our killer.’

As always, the
CrimeNight
presenters were professional and determined to do everything they could to help the police. Fenwick was given twelve minutes of airtime. It had taken a combined BBC and MCS team two man-days to prepare – two working hours for every minute on air – but it was worth it.

Woven into the piece were references to the car Oliver Anchor saw burning the night Paul vanished and the abuse of Sussex boys in the early 1980s. He appealed to men who might have been victims to come forward, promising complete confidentiality. The culmination of the slot was an instruction for the writer of the anonymous letters to come forward.

The call-in number received fifty calls within thirty minutes and over one hundred by midnight. Many were from people who suspected neighbours or workmates of abusing children; every one was treated as if it might lead to Paul or Malcolm’s killer. A few were from wives or girlfriends who knew or suspected that their partners had been abused as children. They rarely gave their name or address but the special counsellors Fenwick had organised managed to coax details from two for follow-up the next day. And three calls came from the possible victims themselves. A consistent feature was that they’d moved away from Sussex at the earliest opportunity.

One confessed to being an addict in drug rehabilitation for the third time; another was unemployed and about to be evicted from his home because of debt; and the third had just become a father and was so terrified that he might start to abuse his own child that he’d left his wife shortly after their baby was born and was living in a shelter for the homeless. As he listened to the delicate interviewing of each man Fenwick’s anger grew. Not only had the abusers stolen the men’s childhoods, they’d also ruined their adult lives.

The victims could tell the police little about the men who had abused them other than that Taylor had made the introductions. He was also the one who, in the words of Jeff, the frightened new father, ‘broke them in’ before passing them on to a range of clients, who were often masked and used aliases to protect their identities. Police appointments were made with all the victims for the following day.

Fenwick stayed in the incident room, on hand for any call that sounded particularly interesting. Shortly before one a.m., an officer signalled him over.

‘This man says he sent the letters.’

‘That makes the ninth tonight, Abby.’ He’d been excited the first time but now the news was tarnished with past disappointments.

‘But he knows details we held back. It feels different.’

‘Very well.’ Fenwick sighed and settled the headset and mouthpiece into a more comfortable position.

‘This is Chief Inspector Andrew Fenwick, who is this?’

‘My name doesn’t matter. I saw your broadcast tonight. You mentioned my letters. Why do you need to speak to me?’ The androgynous voice was muffled, as if the caller had placed a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

A tingle of adrenalin bubbled into Fenwick’s system at the question. A hoaxer normally bragged and made fresh claims; this was different. Fenwick gestured for the call to be traced.

‘For the reasons I gave. We believe the man responsible for Paul’s death may still be a danger to children.’

‘You mentioned Bryan Taylor.’

‘He’s still a possible suspect.’

‘You don’t need to worry about him. Taylor is dead. He died a long time ago.’ The speaker sounded more like a man this time.

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw him die, or to be more precise I saw him dying. Technically he was still alive when I left but he was hurt so badly there’s no way he could have survived.’

‘How was he hurt?’

‘That’s not relevant. If it’s Taylor you’re worried about you can relax,’ the voice continued calmly. It
was
a man. Fenwick could hear traffic in the background but tried to ignore it as he concentrated on the words.

‘Did he die as a result of an assault of some sort?’

Fenwick was aware that he was breaking all the rules – going straight for information rather than trying to establish rapport. He needed to slow down.

‘Not exactly.’

‘You haven’t given me your name yet. What should I call you?’

‘Don’t try that. You were doing better before. Let’s just keep it factual, shall we?’

‘Was it suicide or an accident?’

‘Neither. Taylor had no conscience and wasn’t a clumsy man. He was stabbed in a fight. It was his own fault. He tried to take a knife from someone and managed to get hurt.’

‘Did you witness this?’

‘Yes.’

Fenwick chose his next words carefully.

‘Was the fight with you?’

A definite sigh then.

‘Let’s just say that I was involved.’

‘You killed Bryan Taylor?’

‘No, I told you I wasn’t there when he died and the stabbing was the result of an accident.’

‘When and where was this?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It’s irrelevant now anyway.’

‘The details of a killing are never irrelevant.’

‘They are in this case, trust me. Anyway, I only called to tell you to forget about Taylor. Goodn—’

‘Wait! If you sent us the letters you’ll know about the photograph.’

‘Of the house and gates, you mean? Yes, has it helped? The house had a pool, by the way, I forgot to mention that.’

‘It’s not a good picture. The focus isn’t great.’ Fenwick tried to keep the excitement from his voice. They’d never disclosed the detail of the photograph publicly.

‘What do you expect? It was taken in a rush.’

‘On its own it’s unlikely to help us, I’m afraid. We need more.’

‘Like what?’

Fenwick could hear reservation in the man’s tone despite the muffle.

‘Names, an address, more details of what happened to Paul.’

‘And you’ll leave the major alone?’

‘If we can find better suspects; but he was involved. We have physical evidence that links him.’

‘I’ve seen his picture and I can tell you, he wasn’t there on Paul’s last day in Harlden. I’m certain.’

‘Were you there? Come on, you know so much. I need to be able to trust you but you’re not helping me.’

‘I’m trying to, believe me, only…’

Fenwick held his breath.

‘Yes, I was there but I wasn’t really one of the abusers, the men that raped Paul.’

‘But you saw it all. Were you spying on them?’

‘That’s as good a way of putting it as any. Look, I have to go, it’s late and I’m due indoors.’

‘Wait, please. You must help me. It’s a matter of justice, for Paul and perhaps for other boys too.’

There was a long pause. Fenwick could hear the sounds of traffic again despite the time so the Well-Wisher had to be in a built-up area, perhaps a city.

‘I can’t give you an address but I can give you descriptions. Smith, or The Purse, was the oldest, the others were fitter, bigger and tanned, as if they’d worked abroad. Alec had very pale eyes, almost white, and a tattoo of an octopus but I’ve told you that.’

‘But you were close enough to see it. You were doing more than spying, weren’t you?’

‘I must go. I’ve given you more than you need to do your job.’

‘I will do my job but you can help me do it better and quicker, please. We should meet. I can’t make deals over the phone but there may be a way to keep you out of this, despite Taylor’s death.’

An ironic laugh.

‘I’m already out of it. You must do this yourself, Andrew.’ It was definitely a man’s voice, light and with no discernible accent.

‘But I need your help. I may never be able to do this on my own.’

‘You are never on your own. God will be with you and He will help you. Go in peace.’

The line went dead. He looked up expectantly for the trace.

‘A payphone in central London.’

‘Sod it! Get someone local over there right away. He might have left fingerprints or saliva this time.’ Even as he said the words he doubted them.

Despite his success in drawing the Well-Wisher out from cover Fenwick felt deflated. If Taylor were dead he could save manpower and drop the search for him but he already knew that Taylor hadn’t acted alone. Maidment would never have protected a man like him. Despite the success of the programme he felt that he was no nearer to learning the identity of Paul’s killer or being able to make a link to the murder of Malcolm Eagleton.

He sent most of the team home and waited out the early hours with the few who remained. In the lull he started to listen to the mass of less interesting calls. The programme had flushed out a mix of people struggling to disentangle real memory from what they’d seen or heard in the media: attention seekers, the genuinely helpful; the delusional; and the hoaxers. By three in the morning he felt that he was wading knee deep in the flotsam of public curiosity. Somewhere in the miles of tape there might be a point of detail that would prove crucial but he’d no way of knowing where and the unsatisfactory conversation with the Well-Wisher dominated his thoughts. He decided to go home.

In the empty hours driving on deserted roads he wondered who the caller had been – someone who worked at the house where Paul was raped? But why keep quiet? Maybe his silence had been bought? But if so, why break it now and why not simply give him the address where it had all happened? Fenwick puzzled at the riddle for the remainder of his journey and was no closer to solving it when he stumbled into bed and crashed out into a dark sleep.

The
CrimeNight
programme was deeply disturbing. The police knew that Maidment wasn’t guilty and had an informer who might know enough to lead them to him. It was all very inconvenient and would require a change of plan. ‘Smith’ took a sip of whisky and swilled it around his mouth. He’d already drunk the meagre supply in the minibar when the programme had started so he’d made do with the little that was left as he watched it. It put the seal on a disappointing day.

The simplicity of his idea to go away, ignore phone calls and disappear up to London for a few days had vanished in the reality of dawn. There were things he had to do before leaving and they had taken him longer than he’d expected. Even though he knew that the house should be empty of anything incriminating he still felt compelled to check. All his records, financial arrangements and his own supply of child art were kept at a separate location; even his bank statements were innocuous as cash flowed freely within his hidden businesses.

By the time he’d reached London he had been in no mood to visit the house and booked into a hotel on Park Lane that promised luxury and anonymity until the morning. He’d switched on the television as a diversion but the sound of Paul Hill’s name shocked him into paying proper attention. Other than the existence of the Well-Wisher the thing in the programme that worried him most was the intensity of the lead investigating officer. Fenwick. It wasn’t a name he was familiar with and he hadn’t arrested Maidment but it was a name he could not forget. Smith was good at reading people’s characters and had a particular instinct for their weaknesses. Even through the medium of television he could sense obsession; Fenwick wasn’t a man to give up. He would keep on searching for Paul’s killer until he succeeded or retired, whichever came first.

And so he concluded reluctantly that he needed to change his plans. No, not change perhaps, merely accelerate. He’d always intended to spend some time abroad. It would be so much easier to pursue his interests away from the overdeveloped sensitivity of the West. There were still areas of the world where his particular habits were not considered abhorrent and were treated as a legitimate preference, not a crime. In certain countries even when things, very occasionally, went a little too far and there was some tidying up to be done, it was relatively easy to arrange. The boys he used were judged the lowest of the low, almost vermin. He liked to think that he was contributing to the prosperity of the local economy by his interest. Yes, he’d spent some very happy holidays exploring more exotic delights. The fond memories compensated for the inevitable sadness he felt as he realised he would have to abandon England, at least temporarily.

It was inconvenient to hurry one’s departure, suggesting an element of panic that didn’t sit well with his self-image. The sensible thing to do would be to buy a plane ticket first thing in the morning and then return to his house straight away to pack. But the idea grated; he’d come to London for a reason and the idea of running home with his tail between his legs made him angry. But he was in no mood for Sam now so what should he do?

Smith rang down for a bottle of malt whisky and more ice, and then paced the room as he considered his options. The one he favoured was to continue with his original plan. Visit William tomorrow, indulge in Sam for as much of the day as they could both manage and then make plans to spend several months abroad. If tracked down he could make a statement to a local lawyer, even see the British authorities if they insisted on visiting him but they wouldn’t be able to extract him from the island paradise he had in mind. It was a place where the local officials were understanding and English a common language. Accommodation was cheap and came with domestic service in the fullest sense. He’d be able to live for a long time there without exhausting the offshore money he had put aside.

There would be no evidence to support his extradition. Once again he congratulated himself on insisting to Bryan that his real name should never be used in front of the boys and that they should be brought blindfolded to the house by a circuitous route. His one mistake had been to share Paul with Alec and Joe, sadistic bullies who cared nothing about whom or what they hurt as long as it was young flesh. It had been a rare lapse of judgement, one that he acknowledged but didn’t dwell on.

He thought back to the much-regretted day when Ball had phoned to say that he and a friend needed some action while they were on leave in the UK and he’d obliged, wanting to show that he was able to supply whatever they required as well as he’d managed during his various postings. One call to Bryan and it was sorted. Only later, when Ball and his friend had already arrived, had Bryan called to say that the only boy he could find at short notice was Paul.