Innocent Blood (45 page)

‘But surely you knew your parents would forgive you. They loved you and you’d been provoked beyond endurance. Your actions might have led to a man’s death but I doubt there’s a jury in the land that would have convicted you.’

‘Maybe, but that’s not how you think when you’re a terrified kid with a guilty secret. I couldn’t face all…that coming out. My life was ruined. You have no idea, Andrew, how self-loathing can eat away at a child’s confidence. I was convinced that I was as guilty as Cain and would be despised for ever. I decided to keep running. I had chocolate in my bag, my twenty pounds and the camera my parents had given me for my birthday, together with a few school books.

‘I kept to the footpaths and didn’t see anybody though I heard voices calling once. When I came to Oliver’s farm I realised where I was. I waited until Mrs Anchor went out. I knew that she left the back door unlocked so I didn’t even need to break in. I filled a bag with food and the money she kept on the mantelpiece. Then I looked for clothes. None of Oliver’s would fit me but she was quite small so I took two pairs of jeans and some shirts and socks.

‘I was feeling a bit more confident so I went into her bathroom for a wash. She had this dye shampoo – a blonde tint – and I used it, then stole some soap, a towel and a toothbrush.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘North. I was still hurting quite bad so I could only travel a little each night. In woodland somewhere on the North Downs I found this caravan. I needed shelter so I broke in. While I was there an old man came in. It was his place. I thought he’d be angry with me and call the police but he didn’t. He wasn’t quite right in the head and lonely I think. Jim – that was his name – insisted on cooking me his “special” as he called it: tinned frankfurters, fried with tinned sweetcorn. I was so hungry I ate every scrap. He took it as an absurd compliment and asked me to stay.

‘He wasn’t after anything but company and a bit of appreciation. It was so refreshing. There was no television, just an old radio. I slept most of the time. But on the third day Jim became ill; I think it was a bad bout of flu. I couldn’t leave him after he’d been so kind to me so I stayed and looked after him, making him drink plenty of fluids, trying to coax him into eating something.

‘The van was stuffed with food. It looked like he bought in bulk so there was plenty but little choice. I can’t stand tinned sweetcorn to this day. By the end of a week he was well enough to get up and then he started to potter around. On the Saturday – that would be twelve days after I ran away – he went into the local town. It was market day and he wanted to buy us a treat, he said. He came back with a newspaper.’ Paul paused. His eyes filled with tears. ‘“Is this you they’re writing about, lad?” he asked me. I could only nod. I was so ashamed. He’d thought the best of me, you see, and it was all there, the terrible things they were writing about me.

‘I burst into tears and he comforted me. Then he made me go and wash. He’d bought me new clothes in the market and some trainers. He was so kind and he didn’t want anything, nothing. While I got dressed he cooked us a special supper, fresh steak, new potatoes and tinned tomatoes and there was Coke too, just for me. We neither of us had much appetite but we ate anyway. Afterwards he asked me what I wanted to do. “Stay with you,” I said, but he shook his head. “Much as I’d like that, my lad, you can’t. You need to go back to your parents. I’ll take you.” Well, of course that was the last thing I wanted. So I lied. I told him that I’d do it in my own way. He was a decent, trusting old man and he believed me.

‘He washed my old clothes and while they were drying by his stove he made me sandwiches for my journey. Then we went for a walk in the woods and he told me about the son he’d left behind years before in Cyprus when he finished his National Service and returned to the UK. “I think about him often,” he told me. “He’d be a grown man now and I keep wondering what he’s made of his life. I don’t wish that on your parents for anything.”

‘Back at the van I packed my things. I needed an extra bag and we strapped that behind the bike seat. He stuffed an envelope in my hand as I left. I opened it later that night. Inside was £50 in five pound notes and a picture of Jim. Here he is.’ Paul opened his wallet and took out a dog-eared black and white picture. It was so worn that the face was a pale blur.

‘A few years ago I went back. I was too late of course. The van had gone and when I asked around nobody had heard of him. He must be dead by now, he was over seventy when I met him, but I still look for his face when I walk the streets.’

‘Is that why you became a priest?’

‘No! Jim was as atheist as they come. The reason I’m a priest is because of Father Richard. I ended up in London eventually. I’d dyed my hair and the new clothes from Jim were enough to keep me looking neat. On the way I made sure I travelled in public only outside school hours and hid out of sight the rest of the time. Of course, as soon as I reached London it didn’t matter that I was about in daytime. I was just another runaway living on the streets. By then I looked nothing like my neat school photograph and the weather had changed. People aren’t nearly as observant in the rain. Have you noticed that?’

‘Yes, all the time. It’s a real pain in my job.’

‘I can imagine but it helped me. In London I became invisible, particularly after this.’ He touched his scar. ‘I did what a lot of runaways end up doing, servicing middle-aged men around King’s Cross and Euston. Within months I was out of my skull on crack and giving most of what I made to the dealer who ran us. By the time I was fifteen I worked all the time just to make my fix and I started to starve. Any money I managed to get went on drugs not food. I began to steal, even from charity shops. They were easy targets, or so I thought. I was caught in a Save the Children outlet. Ironic, don’t you think? The woman there was all for calling the police and charging me but one of her customers stopped her. That was Father Richard. If he hadn’t been in the shop who knows where I’d be now – probably dead.

‘He took me straight to hospital. I had blood poisoning. I said I was Justin Smith and that I was a runaway. I refused to name my parents. Nobody recognised me. When I was admitted I weighed five and half stone, what little hair I had left was streaked blond and my complexion had gone. If someone had put my school picture next to my bed no one would have known me.

‘I almost died. I was in hospital for over a month. Father Richard visited me most days and he was waiting for me when I came out. He found me a place at a rehab centre where I spent the most agonising months of my life, even worse than in the hospital. Crack is almost impossible to give up and it tortures you as you try; horrendous. But I beat it; I won with his help. And then Father Richard found me a place in a refuge where they encouraged me to go to back to school. I had a lot of catching up to do but lying there in the centre, realising that I’d been killing myself, had shocked some sense into me.

‘The thought of a future was more scary than dying but I decided that nothing in life, not even in my life, should be a complete waste. I never touched drugs again, or drink or cigarettes. I studied and helped out at the refuge. Then Father Richard asked if I would go to church. I didn’t know what to say. I still had my street cred, you see, because I’d nearly died and the scar made me look tough. Going to church would wreck my rep so I resisted for months. But at Christmas when I was sixteen I finally gave in. I went to the carol service, then midnight mass. Father Richard was so pleased that I went back the following week and the next.

‘I wasn’t a convert, it wasn’t anything that obvious. It was just that I’d found a place where I wasn’t being judged all the time. I took my GCSEs two years late but I got seven and that encouraged me to try for A levels. I passed three. I was nineteen, too old to be staying in the refuge but there was a church hostel where I was allowed to help out for board and lodging.’

Paul stopped. His eyes were clear again, his emotions back under control. Fenwick stood up and made the tea he’d started almost an hour earlier. When they had mugs in front of them he asked Paul to finish his story. He knew it was none of his business but he was filled with curiosity to know whether Paul was a true Christian or just willing to try to be because he was grateful to Father Richard and the Church.

‘What else is there to say?’ Paul took a long swallow of tea and rested back in his chair with a sigh. ‘It was after my A levels that I decided to try for the priesthood.’

‘Excuse me for asking but how did you come to believe?’

Paul gave him a look that penetrated to his soul.

‘Ah, the question of the rational man. You’d be surprised how many people ask it. My answer won’t help you, I’m afraid. It was very simple. I woke up one morning and I knew. I knew that God existed, that He’d been calling me for a long time and that I’d been too deaf to hear. It was as if my ears were opened and I heard His voice.’

Fenwick shook his head.

‘I told you my story wouldn’t mean anything to you. Everyone has to find God their own way but one thing that helps is leaving space for Him in your life.’ He paused, waiting for Fenwick to respond and when he didn’t he smiled.

‘Try going to church more than once or twice a year. It’s a start.’

Fenwick felt embarrassed. Somehow during Paul’s monologue they’d swapped roles. He had walked into the kitchen in command, ready to arrest the priest if necessary, now he almost stood accused. He cleared his throat noisily, trying to work out what to say next and was saved the trouble when his phone rang.

‘Andrew, it’s Nightingale. Traffic have just found William Slant’s car in the village below Edwards’ house. No sign of him but it looks as if he might have taken Sam to meet Edwards.’

‘Any sign of the boy?’

‘No. We’ve searched Edwards’ place and all the outbuildings and he’s not there. We’re starting on the woods but it’s dark; it will take us at least twenty-four hours to work through them, even superficially. And Edwards isn’t talking, at least not yet.’ He could hear disgust in her voice.

‘What is it?’

‘The fucking bastard!’ He’d never heard her use the word before. ‘He’s suggested he might just recover his memory about William Slant if we offer him immunity from prosecution.’

‘No way!’

‘Exactly but…’ She paused and he could hear a deep intake of breath. ‘He said that Slant’s journey involved “tidying up loose ends”. Andrew, he’s virtually admitted that Sam is in serious danger and that we need to move fast.

‘It’s over three hours since Slant left London. We’re checking motorway surveillance but so far we can’t find anything. Of course Sam might already be dead but—’

‘We can’t assume that!’

‘I know.’ She tried to calm him down. ‘But Edwards isn’t going to break. It’s his information and immunity or Sam’s life. That’s the trade.’

‘Dear God!’ Fenwick covered his eyes with his hand and tried to think. ‘Even now he thinks of the boy as his property.’

‘Quinlan’s suggested I call the ACC – in fact he thinks that’s what I’m doing right now.’

‘Don’t do that. He’ll cave in; maybe he won’t offer full immunity but it’ll be pretty close. There’s no way he’d want Sam’s death to be seen as his responsibility.’

‘I know; that’s why I rang you. You’re the SIO. It should be your decision and if you decide to call Harper-Brown I’ll understand but—’

‘Enough, Nightingale, let me think. I have to think.’ He shook his head to clear it. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes.’

He broke the connection to find Paul watching him.

‘Another boy lost?’

‘Maybe but not if I can do anything about it. Sam Bowyer.’ He opened his briefcase and passed the school photo to the priest, who blinked in disbelief.

‘It could be me.’

‘Almost; except for the eyes.’

‘And he’s been abused by Nathan, I mean Edwards?’

‘Almost certainly and now he’s disappeared. An associate was taking him to meet Edwards – we think – but now we can’t find him or Sam. The boy could be anywhere. Did Nathan have a favourite place that he took you?’

‘The pool, or a bedroom in his house with mirrors if the weather wasn’t good.’

‘We’ve searched his premises; the boy isn’t there.’

‘Then I can’t help you.’

Fenwick watched the second hand on the dining room clock click round knowing that he had to call Nightingale or the ACC. There was no point in delay. He shivered.

‘I know, it gets cold in here; it’s because we’re in the basement. With the ovens going its fine but—’

‘What did you just say?’

‘With the ovens on the place is war—’

‘No, before that, the bit about being in the basement.’

Paul looked at him in confusion.

‘That’s all I said.’

‘No, there was more, before that,’ Fenwick leapt up and started pacing in frustration, ‘when you were telling me about your last day.’

‘But that was at the pool and then later with Bryan in the car.’ He frowned in confusion.

‘And in between?’

Paul’s face cleared.

‘The cold room where they locked me up while they decided what to do with me.’

‘And you’re sure it wasn’t in the house or one of the outbuildings?’ Fenwick was standing over him, urging him to remember.

‘Positive. I can remember the walk; it was through the woods.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘I don’t know, it was so long ago…’

‘Think, damn you!’ Fenwick bit his lip. ‘Sorry, Father. I didn’t exactly mean…but there’s a boy’s life at stake. This is very, very important.’

‘I know, I want to help but…I was barely conscious.’ He screwed up his face with the effort of memory. ‘It was through the woods and we lost the sun so I think we went into a dense stand of trees. And there was a stream we walked by, not big, and stones, mossy stones. Alec almost fell.’ He looked at Fenwick in triumph. ‘I don’t think it took them very long to carry me there; find the stream, it must be close by.’

‘What did the place look like?’

‘I was blindfolded but I know it was built of stone and very cold; he was using it as a wine cellar.’