Innocent Blood (40 page)

‘Anyone sleeping rough that you could lean on?’

‘Sleeping rough – yes, there’s plenty doss in the gardens around there this time of year, but lean on, no. They’re out of it by that time of night and even if they did see something we’d be the last to know. We’ve got your details if we do hear anything though, sir.’

Fenwick waited for a couple of stills of the best frames then left. It was just after seven and the weather was perfect. Blue sky, an occasional cloud and enough breeze to freshen the air without chilling the bare arms of office workers who were lingering in sunny spots outside pubs sipping their beer and iced drinks.

On impulse Fenwick started walking towards Russell Square. He cut past the children’s hospital thinking that for all the good it did there were too many youngsters hurting on the streets of London beyond its reach. At the square he stared at the phone box on the corner as if willing the Well-Wisher to materialise. Instead a beggar tried his luck for the price of a cup of tea. Alerted by the smell Fenwick turned around before the man spoke.

‘Spare change, guv? Ain’t had a cuppa today.’ From the smell on the man’s breath he suspected that the man hadn’t had a cuppa for years and doubted whether any money he gave would get near a teabag.

Fenwick’s colleagues would have been surprised to learn that he kept loose coins in his pocket for random distribution: charity tins, beggars, young people sleeping rough. It was something of a lottery whether the recipient received twenty pence or a pound or some number in between because he never looked at what he passed over, but he invariably gave something. The man in front of him looked sixty but was probably nearer forty, worn down by years of rough living. By chance he received seventy pence. Fenwick was rewarded with a knuckle to the man’s forehead, a gesture of gratitude too servile for him to receive comfortably. He made to move on but then paused.

‘Is this your patch?’ he asked the man, not sure of current vernacular because he’d been away from the sharp end of community policing for too long.

The vagrant looked startled at being spoken to but then glanced at the silver shining against his grimy palm and nodded.

‘Some weeks, yeah, but I likes to move on. Roving sort, me.’

‘Is it a popular area?’

‘Fair. There’s a Mission up the road there. Comes in ’andy when there’s nuffin’ else.’

‘Only as a last resort?’

‘It’s dry,’ the man spat the word out, ‘an’ they insist on a bath.’

‘Ah, it’s Salvation Army.’

The man scratched his head, sending a waft of fetid air towards Fenwick who kept his face neutral.

‘Nah, they wear regular togs. They let us smoke, an’ there’s a TV but an evening without a snifter, well…’ He made to nudge Fenwick with his elbow. ‘It’s a longun, in’t it.’ He gave him a friendly grin that betrayed the result of years of lack of basic dentistry.

‘It is indeed. Have you seen this man around here?’

The friendly smile vanished to be replaced with a look of caution. Fenwick rattled the change in his pocket but it had no effect. He pulled out a pound coin. The caution stayed but the man licked his lips as if he could already taste liquor. He glanced at the photograph.

‘Mebbe. Not very clear, is it?’

‘Take a closer look.’

The A4 paper was taken from his hands and studied.

‘’E looks familiar. It’s that coat more’n anything. I’ve seen it around.’

‘Locally?’ Fenwick added another pound to his own palm. The vagrant nodded. ‘Any idea whereabouts?’

‘I’d be lying if I said yes, mister, but I’ve ’elped, ’aven’t I?’

‘A little. Look, if you can suggest someone else who might know him and take me to them I’ll give you the money.’

There was a split second of hesitation.

‘Jacko. Has a berth in the park over there. C’mon.’

The park was a scrap of lawn and a few bushes with benches dotted along a path in need of weeding. There was a bundle of bedding on the farthest bench and it was towards this that they headed. As they grew closer the bundle moved and took on a vaguely man-like shape.

‘’Ere Jacko, bloke’s got dosh if you can tell ’im this geezer’s name. No ’arm telling; e’s not one of us.’

Jacko grunted and sniffed. He said something Fenwick couldn’t make out.

‘’E says money first.’

‘No, name first then money and there’s a fiver in it for you if he cooperates.’

The bundle of rags muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘…’kin rozzer’ but he ignored him. The two men mumbled to each other for a while as Fenwick inspected a nearby bush and tried to manage his impatience.

‘Gi’us the pic then,’ his helper snorted and Fenwick passed it over. There was more grunting then Jacko said, quite clearly, ‘Reckon it’s Peter up at the Mission. He dresses like that.’

Fenwick gave out his meagre rewards and followed their directions to the Mission on Gordon Square Gardens. When he got there he saw that it was jointly funded by a group of churches including, Methodist, Catholic and Anglican. On the board outside the opening times were given as 7:30 p.m. to 11 p.m. in summer and 4 p.m. to 11 p.m. in winter. The door was locked and the windows blank so he pressed the bell to one side. Nothing happened. He tried again, for longer. Still nothing, yet when he bent and looked through the letterbox he was certain he saw movement.

‘Police,’ he shouted through it.

Bolts were drawn back and a chain rattled. A fresh-faced young man with a crewcut smiled at him cheerfully.

‘Sorry, we get so many trying to come in at all times of day and night that I’m used to ignoring the bell. I’m Charles, Charlie to my friends; part of the cleaning crew.’ He stuck out his hand. Fenwick shook it and felt the calluses.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick,’ he said. ‘Is Peter here?’

‘Peter?’ Charlie frowned. ‘Oh, Father Peter. No, he won’t be here until after Evensong. Can I help you? If it’s about the
CrimeNight
programme, we’ve already told a colleague of yours that we can’t help. I’m sorry. Is there anything else?’

Fenwick was pleased that the locals had been as thorough as they’d claimed but decided to test out the picture anyway.

‘Yes. You can tell me whether this is someone you know.’ He passed the still over.

The recognition was obvious on Charlie’s face but it was quickly replaced with a look of confusion.

‘Is something wrong?’ Charlie asked.

‘No, but we’re keen to talk to this man and confirm his identity.’

‘I see, well, perhaps it would be best if you, er, talked to one of the brothers. I’m just a volunteer.’

‘But I think you know this man, Charlie. Look, he’s done nothing wrong but it’s essential I meet him. He could be of great assistance to us in a murder inquiry.’

Charlie looked even more flustered.

‘Well, I don’t know.’

‘I’m sure that the brothers would expect you to cooperate with the police when we’re trying to help someone. And as I say, Father Peter has done nothing wrong.’

Charlie started nodding before he opened his mouth.

‘It’s not a very good picture but I’m fairly certain it looks like Father Peter. Is he all right?’

‘As far as I’m aware. Why shouldn’t he be?’

‘He’s so dedicated,’ Charlie replied. ‘He works all hours, sometimes in very rough areas. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is, he’s always out there.’

‘So why the locked doors?’

‘Here, you mean? For security, sadly. This is only one of the shelters we run and we can’t staff it all day. Some of the others are open twenty-four hours. That’s where Father Peter will be, at one of them but I couldn’t tell you which. All I know is he’ll be here around eight to check everything’s all right, then he’ll be off to St Olaf’s; that’s his real passion. It provides temporary home and help for young runaways. Peter campaigned for it and champions it within the Church. They can look after almost forty now, get them cleaned up, well fed and, if necessary, encourage them into treatment. It’s up near King’s Cross Station. He may be there – would you like the address?’

‘Please.’

Charlie scribbled it down and handed it over. Before he closed and locked the door he picked up a tin from inside.

‘Would you care to make a donation, Chief Inspector, while you’re here?’

Fenwick handed over a ten pound note and cursed the fact that he felt guilty instead of virtuous. He always did.

News of Sarah Hill’s arrest travelled across Harlden faster than a bush fire. It became the topic of conversation in shops, pubs and sitting rooms within hours. Opinion was again evenly divided between those who were glad that she was out of harm’s way at last and others who thought it a shame that she’d failed in her attempt.

Under the cover of its smokescreen Major Maidment slipped out of hospital and away home. As he arrived at his front door it was immediately apparent that Margaret Pennysmith hadn’t exaggerated. The downstairs window was boarded up, his front flowerbeds were denuded of plants and the vestiges of graffiti marred the perfectly pointed brickwork. Inside, something foul had been pushed through the letterbox and cleaned away with disinfectant. The smells of both lingered in the tiny hall. He had deliberately not told anybody that he was returning home. The fridge was bare but a note on the table informed him that there were casseroles and pre-prepared vegetables in the freezer.

‘Thank you, Margaret,’ he said out loud, deeply touched, and crawled upstairs for a hot shower.

As he sat in the hot stream of water, willing the deep-seated aches from his beating into submission, he went over the plan for what he knew he had to do. Even though he was certain that the confrontation wouldn’t result in a physical encounter, psychologically he would prefer to feel in better shape before he made his journey, so he decided to telephone to make an appointment for the following day. He dried himself carefully and dressed in his loosest clothing, shunning the dressing gown behind the bedroom door as too louche, despite his injuries.

There were ten messages on his answering service. The first three were abusive but the fourth was from someone called Jason MacDonald, asking him to call back to discuss ‘some important information’ he had. He’d never heard of the man so he deleted it. Messages five through eight were also full of anonymous hatred; nine and ten were again from MacDonald. This time he introduced himself as a reporter from the
Enquirer
and Maidment’s remarkable memory dragged up the photographic impression formed by the glimpse of headlines he had seen in that paper on the day of his release from prison. There was no way he wanted to speak to the man who’d exploited Sarah Hill so cruelly.

He put the smaller of the meals that had been left for him into the microwave to defrost and turned on the oven to heat it through as he didn’t trust the micro-thing to cook it properly. Then he picked up his hat and walking stick and made his way gingerly to the phone box at the end of the road beside the castle wall. His phone might be tapped; it was the sort of thing that Inspector Nightingale would think of. He knew the number he needed off by heart and dialled. It rang for a long time, then the machine demanded that he leave a message.

‘This is Jeremy Maidment. Percy, if you’re there please answer the phone.’

There was the sound of the handset being picked up.

‘I wondered if you were going to call. You’re out, are you?’

‘Yes. I’d like to see you – tomorrow if possible.’

‘No can do, old chap. Tonight’s your only option, say around seven?’

‘That’s not terribly convenient. How about the day after?’

‘No, I won’t be here. It’s now or never; make up your mind.’

Maidment decided at once.

‘Very well, seven o’clock it is.’

They both rang off without pleasantries that would have been hypocritical. The major realised that he was in no fit state to drive and booked a taxi for six-thirty before returning to the house where he forced himself to finish preparing a meal he didn’t want but knew he had to eat.

The food refreshed him and it made him think. If he suspected that his phone might be tapped shouldn’t he also acknowledge that he could be being followed? He’d seen no one on his journey home but then he’d been concentrating on being as inconspicuous as possible. Maidment stood up from the table, wincing as his back and ribs protested at the movement, and eased his way to the bay window at the front of the house. All but the side panes of glass had been boarded up so his view was obscured.

Cursing mildly under his breath he climbed upstairs, pausing on each step to catch his breath. From behind the curtains of his bedroom window he peered up and down the road. It was empty except for the usual line of parked cars. Most he recognised as belonging to his neighbours but there were three that he did not. From where he stood he couldn’t tell if any of them were occupied but they might be. He decided to take no risks. Despite the protest from his body, he forced himself to walk back to the phone booth. This time he took the local directory with him and made two calls. The pavement back to the house seemed to stretch on for ever but he made it eventually.

He hobbled to his favourite chair and almost collapsed into it as the clock on the mantel chimed three quarters. He closed his eyes. The cushions felt so comfortable that he knew immediately he would fall asleep so he sat up again and set his watch alarm for a quarter past six, time enough to wash up the supper things and be ready to leave at the appointed hour.

Cooper decided to work late. Doris was out at a whist drive so he wasn’t expected home and he was frustrated with his lack of progress. Despite days of hard work he’d had no luck in finding Nathan/The Purse. He’d tried cross-referencing the names to the nine army acquaintances of Maidment that lived locally without success. Two still had to be re-interviewed: Ben Thompson and Richard Edwards. Zach Smart had returned his call that afternoon, full of apologies for not coming in to the station to make a statement as he’d promised. He was just back from holiday, he explained, and invited him round immediately. His open, cooperative response half convinced Cooper of his innocence even before he saw him. By the end of taking his statement he was sure that he could cross him of his list of potential suspects, not least because he had proof that he had been in Germany in 1981 and away on holiday in September 1982. Cooper had left and called Ben Thompson immediately. There was still no reply so he’d driven round to his house and chatted with a neighbour who confirmed that Thompson was out. That left Edwards. His calls during the day had gone unanswered yet again and this time he wasn’t able to leave a message. He thought it odd, then told himself that the machine was probably full.

Edwards lived a few miles outside Harlden. Perhaps he should take a quick drive out to see him again. At least it would be something to do and it would stop him feeling so useless. Cooper glanced at his watch. It was past his teatime and he always worked better on a full stomach so he decided to visit the canteen first and stop off at Edwards’ place on his way home.

He managed to buy the last steak and onion pasty, and there was a slice of strawberry gateau left as well. Consequently, he was in a contented, if sleepy mood, when he strolled back to his desk. It was almost six o’clock and he was inclined to forget his earlier idea and go straight home. When his phone rang, he cursed. It was the operations room.

‘We’ve got Stock on for you, Bob.’ Cooper sat up straight and put his coffee down so that he could pick up a pen. Stock was one of the officers he’d put on surveillance duty.

‘Cooper,’ he said when he was switched through.

‘It’s me, guv. Maidment’s been out and about.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Back in his house but he’s used the phone box at the end of the road twice. That’s suspicious, isn’t it?’

‘Could be.’ Cooper scratched his stomach ruminatively and suppressed a belch. ‘What was he wearing?’

There was a pause as Stock digested this unexpected question.

‘Well, normal stuff I guess.’

‘Outdoor clothes, not a dressing gown?’

‘No, he was properly dressed but he was walking very slowly, leaning on his stick. The second time I thought he was going to collapse.’

‘Even so, he might be going out again later tonight. You call me straight away if he moves. I might still be here. You’ve got my direct line as well as my mobile, haven’t you?’

Stock confirmed that the numbers were programmed into his phone and rang off. Cooper dialled Nightingale’s office then her mobile but there was no reply. With a feeling of disbelief he called her home. The answerphone had time to click in before she picked up. In the background he could hear jazz playing softly as he told her about Stock’s call.

‘He suspects a tap,’ she said, ‘and the call must have been significant for him to walk to the phone box. Do you think he’s arranged a meeting?’

‘I don’t know, maybe, but Stock said he didn’t look well. I would have thought that he’d wait until he was feeling better. I know I would.’

‘So would I but he may be desperate. He’s held his silence for so long he’s bound to be impatient now he’s out. Tell Operations that they’re to call you
and
me if he makes any move at all.’

Cooper replaced the receiver. He was wide awake again and didn’t want to go home but neither did he want to sit and stare at his computer screen. That left only one option. He’d drive out to Edwards’ house, have a mooch around and try to talk to his neighbours. It would be as well to be careful though. Edwards was the highest-ranking officer on Cooper’s list, a lieutenant-colonel, and seemed beyond reproach. People like Edwards tended to be well connected and inclined to complain at any imagined slight. The more he thought about it on his drive out of Harlden, the more comfortable he felt about the plan he was following: a low-key amble without raising any alarm. In retrospect, it was a great pity that he left exactly when he did, as photographs from London arrived on his desk less than five minutes later. Had he seen them, subsequent events would have turned out very differently.

The evening traffic was surprisingly light and he made good time. The local church clock was striking half past six as he drove into the village where Edwards lived. He passed the local pub, making a mental note to himself to return for a chat once he’d nosed around. It sat opposite a small village green with an ornamental pump and a row of pretty alms cottages on the far side. Edwards’ house was at the top of the hill above the village, set well back behind a stone wall and elegant wrought-iron gates. Cooper parked beside the village green within easy walking distance of both pub and house.

The gates were pulled to but not locked. Beyond them a gravel drive led to a late Victorian double-fronted house and then went beyond it to an enclosed area of garden. There was no sign of a car but then there was a double garage to one side of the drive so that didn’t mean anything. The house looked deserted but he pushed open the gates anyway so that he could wander around the grounds. In his pocket he had a copy of the blurred photograph that the Well-Wisher had sent but at any angle he couldn’t make the picture match the ironwork before him.

His footsteps crunched on the drive. Halfway up it security lights, set too early for the summer twilight, flashed on, startling him. He felt conspicuous and was about to turn back when the hall lamp in the house came on, shining from the fan light above the door. Before he could knock it was flung open and a voice that could have cut glass called out.

‘You’re bloody early!’

He stepped onto the stone porch and looked at the man silhouetted against the light.

‘Excuse me?’ he said, recognising Edwards as his eyes adjusted.

A look of surprised arrogance crossed the man’s face and he moved to push the door closed. Cooper’s size nine blocked his way.

‘You’re Richard Edwards.’

The man glared at Cooper’s foot.

‘Get away from my house before I call the police. I am in no mood to buy from a door-to-door salesman.’

It was the voice of a man who expected to be obeyed but the arrogant tone merely served to annoy Cooper.

‘I am the police, sir. We met last month, don’t you remember? Detective Sergeant Cooper, Harlden CID. Maybe you received my messages.’

The look of calculation crossed the man’s face so quickly that Cooper couldn’t be sure that he’d seen it – but his pulse quickened.

‘I’m Edwards, but now is not convenient, Sergeant.’

‘I thought my messages made it very clear that I needed to see you urgently.’ His voice was firm.

Generations of Sussex yeomen had produced Robert Courtney Cooper and he wasn’t about to be ordered around by some jumped-up retired officer. He studied the man in front of him deliberately. They were confronting each other eye to eye and Cooper was not a tall man. Edwards had thinning straight hair that once might have been sandy and affected a prissy moustache that concealed a fleshy mouth and helped to distract attention from a weak jaw. But he was fit, with a precise bearing and well-tailored clothes.

‘May I come in?’

Without waiting for an answer Cooper pushed his way over the threshold into the hall. There were doors to the right and left and a curving staircase on the far wall with a passage running past it to the back of the house.

‘This is extremely inconvenient, Sergeant. I’m expecting guests and have already told you that I cannot see you tonight. I could meet you later in the week.’ Edwards pushed out his bottom lip, Cooper noticed, when he was annoyed. It made him look like an ageing, spoilt schoolboy.

‘I won’t keep you long. A few questions now and we can continue another time. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?’

Cooper instinctively turned towards the sitting room they’d used on his previous visit and was inside it before Edwards could stop him. In the centre of an ornate rug were a trunk and two large suitcases, packed, labelled and strapped. He took a step closer.

‘Off on a trip are we, sir?’

‘Yes I am, which is another reason why I’m very busy. If you insist on asking your wretched questions we can use my study.’

Cooper barely heard him. His near sight might be a bit dodgy but his distant vision was perfect and he’d seen the date and destination on the labels. Years of being in the army had conditioned Edwards to being precise in the direction of his luggage. He was leaving the country the following day.

Cooper’s mind was racing as he walked down the passage towards the study. If Edwards meant to leave within twenty-four hours, why had he suggested a meeting later in the week? That wasn’t the action of an innocent man with nothing to hide. And he was going to a part of South-East Asia that Cooper knew from bitter experience didn’t believe in extradition.