Sins of the Fathers (18 page)

‘I could try,’ Laura said reluctantly.

‘Please, Laura,’ Mower said. ‘And there’s one more thing I need to ask you.’ He hesitated for a moment knowing she would not like the question and he might not like the answer.

‘Was he drinking again before he went away?’

Laura’s eyes filled with tears but she shook her head.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ she said. ‘He was very down,
and I was worried sick, but I don’t think he’d had a drink. I know him well enough now to know. At least I think I do.’ And there was all the uncertainty in the world in her voice.

At more or less the same time that Saturday morning, Michael Thackeray was standing in borrowed wellington boots up to his ankles in muddy brown water in a boggy field in the west of Ireland. As a damp wind blew his hair, he glanced at the stocky, grey-haired man beside him and smiled a rare uncomplicated smile.

‘Times have certainly changed,’ he said. In front of them, on slightly higher ground, stood a ruin of whitewashed walls, green now with damp, and the remnants of collapsed thatch. It was thirty years since Thackeray had stayed with his mother in this traditional single-storey cottage, and twenty, his companion assured him, since it had been abandoned by his mother’s elderly aunt in favour of one of the modern bungalows which had sprouted like mushrooms all round the village of Ballymalone in County Sligo.

‘It was so different from our farm in the hills,’ Thackeray said. ‘Our problem was getting enough water to the animals, yours was too much water everywhere.’ He squelched through the boggy grass and on to the drier ground, and peered inside what had been the cottage door. The chimney breast was the only structure still standing above head height, and he recalled the peat fires that used to burn day and night in the blackened fireplace and the soda bread his aunt had baked there. It was a way of life barely surviving then and long gone now.

‘Sure, it’s not easy land to farm here, either,’ said his mother’s older brother Sean O’Donnell. ‘When we were
growing up the young folk were still leaving in droves. Like your mother did.’

Thackeray nodded. His mother had gone to England to work as a nurse, met his father and stayed for the rest of her too short life. Visits to Ballymalone had ceased when his mother became increasingly sick with MS, and he had not seen his uncle since his mother’s funeral several years before.

‘Is your father still farming, then?’ O’Donnell asked.

‘No, he’s retired,’ Thackeray said. ‘There’s no money in those hill farms any more. It’s a hand to mouth existence.’

‘He didn’t keep in touch after Molly died,’ O’Donnell said non-commitally. ‘And not much before that. It was I myself who always had to make the calls to find out how she was.’

‘He’s still devastated,’ Thackeray said, realising clearly for the first time how true that was. His father, he thought, must have given up his farm after his mother’s death because he could see no reason to continue without her. The light had gone out of his life and there was no way it would ever be rekindled. And all Thackeray had given his parents was bitter disappointment. He shivered slightly and turned back to his uncle, who touched the same raw nerve.

‘Life hasn’t been easy for him,’ O’Donnell said. ‘At least I have my grandchildren.’ Thackeray had played with his Irish cousins in these damp fields for a couple of weeks every summer until his mother became unable to make the journey ‘home’ any longer, and wished now his life had followed the smooth path theirs had into marriage and parenthood. He had long ago stopped expecting life to be fair as he had learned to live with his mother’s increasing disabilities, but there were times when the old wounds still
had the power stop him in his tracks. He turned away quickly and began plodding through the bog towards the lane and the road back into Ballymalone where his uncle had parked his car. Sean, he thought, was venturing down roads he did not wish to follow. The old man should know better, he thought bitterly. Or maybe he should not have come to Ireland.

That evening, the two men returned to Sean O’Donnell’s bungalow after a hearty meal at the local hotel, still geared much more to the needs of the local farmers than to Ireland’s ubiquitous tourists, Thackeray noticed, and sufficiently unreconstructed to still carry the huge painted advertisement in faded colours on its gable end for passages to New York and Boston, which he had gazed at uncomprehendingly as a boy. His uncle offered him a whisky, raised an eyebrow when it was refused, and watched him in silence for a moment, puffing on his pipe and sipping a Jamesons, from his favourite armchair beside a gas log fire.

‘So why are you really here, Michael?’ he asked at last. ‘I’m not for flattering myself that it’s just for old time’s sake.’

‘I was told to take a holiday,’ Thackeray said, truthfully enough.

‘And Ballymalone suddenly became a top holiday destination, did it? And the Pope’s a Protestant?’ the old man said.

Thackeray smiled faintly. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said.

‘In this country?’ his uncle asked sharply.

‘He may have been in this country, but more likely in the north. But not now.’

‘And what makes you think I could help?’

‘Come on, Sean,’ Thackeray said quietly. ‘I used to come here summer after summer when the north was in flames. You never made much secret of where your loyalties lay.’

‘My father was a volunteer,’ O’Donnell said. ‘I saw enough of all that when I was a boy. A civil war’s a vicious thing. I never got involved, then or later, although there were some who tried to persuade me, including my own da.’

‘Exactly,’ Thackeray said. ‘You must know someone who could help me. I only want a name, an identification. I don’t even know which side this man was on. I’m not even certain he was here at all. But someone you know may recognise him. That’s all I want.’

‘That’s all, is it? D’you not realise how dangerous it is for you here, asking questions like that? You’re a British police officer.’ O’Donnell’s fleshy face looked rigid and pale, and Thackeray realised perhaps fully for the first time that this visit might be a serious mistake.

‘I thought, with things so peaceful now…’ He hesitated.

‘Peace is a relative thing in Ireland. You should know that,’ O’Donnell said, his voice low and harsh. ‘Memories are longer than you can possibly imagine.’

‘We’re twenty miles from the border,’ Thackeray said. ‘I can be in the UK in less than an hour.’

‘And you think you’d be safe there? It shows how much you know. Was the man you’re seeking safe in Yorkshire?’

Thackeray did not reply. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that this trip was a wild goose chase and, worse than that, a very dangerous one.

‘I’ll go back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you in any way. It was a stupid idea. Forget it.’

His uncle sighed and gazed at the fire.

‘What happened in the north in the Seventies raised all the ghosts again,’ he said. ‘Here, so close to the border
especially, they rise up from the graves fully armed. Go to Dublin, or Kerry or the east coast and you’d know nothing about it. They’re watching their house prices rise, fleecing the tourists, building their ranch-style bungalows, stuffing their faces at classy restaurants where a meal costs more than I used to earn in a month. But here everyone knows the men of violence and who’s got away with what. And what they might get away with again.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Thackeray said again. ‘Leave you in peace.’

‘Stay a while,’ Sean said. ‘You look as if you really need that holiday. Go fishing with your cousin Patrick. You used to get along well enough with him when you were a boy, didn’t you? Relax. But don’t talk about your job. You’ll be fine if you keep a low profile, just another emigrant’s child visiting. It’s not unusual. And I’ve never mentioned what you do for a living. Have you got a photograph of this man you’re seeking?’

Thackeray nodded cautiously.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sean said. ‘But carefully. And you keep out of it. Right out. And if I tell you to drive to the border, then you drive to the border and ask no questions. D’you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Thackeray said. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed his uncle a copy of the photograph of Gordon Christie taken at the school fête. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘He may be Irish. Or he may have been British army, SAS even, security services of some sort. I don’t know and no one will tell me. But he was running from something or someone, and there may be an Irish connection. It’s a long shot. A very long shot.’

‘But there are people here who never forget a face,’ O’Donnell said.

In spite of Kevin Mower’s request, Laura did not attempt to trace Michael Thackeray that morning. Kevin might want to talk to him, she thought miserably, but she was not at all sure that she did. Let Sergeant Mower use the official resources at his disposal if it was that urgent, she thought. She was sure Michael could not be that difficult to find if someone tried hard enough.

In an attempt to subdue her own demons, she worked herself into a frenzy cleaning the flat from top to bottom, and when she had reduced herself to exhaustion with that, she showered, dressed and drove into Bradfield’s new
out-of
-town mall. But as she hunted frantically through the shops for new clothes she did not need, she knew that what she was doing was merely distracting herself from problems she did not want to face up to. It did not work, and by mid-afternoon she had gone home, hurled her purchases on the bed without even opening the glossy bags, and flung herself into a chair with a vodka and tonic.

Before she had taken more than a sip she was interrupted by the phone.

‘It’s Janine,’ a voice she vaguely knew said. ‘Janine Foster, at the Fox and Hounds?’

‘Of course,’ Laura said, her brain grinding very slowly into gear as she placed Janine behind the bar of Gerry
Foster’s pub in Staveley. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve been trying to get you all day,’ Janine said. ‘I couldn’t think who else to contact. Gerry didn’t come home last night.’

Laura recalled the speed at which she had seen Gerry Foster drive out of the village the previous day and did not feel greatly surprised by Janine’s news.

‘Hasn’t he contacted you at all?’ she asked, with as much sympathy as she could muster, which was not a lot.

‘Not a peep,’ Janine said. ‘I’ve been trying to keep this place open right through Friday night and Saturday lunchtime, our busiest times. He’s gone off on his own before, if we’ve had rows, but he’s never stayed out all night. His mobile’s switched off. I’m worried sick.’

‘Have you told the police?’ Laura asked.

Janine seemed to hesitate for a moment before she answered.

‘I don’t know whether he’d want me to do that,’ she said. It was Laura who hesitated then.

‘What do you mean,’ she asked at length.

‘I don’t know what the hell he’s been up to, if you must know,’ Janine said. ‘There’s a man I’ve never seen before sitting outside the pub in a car. He’s been there all day, just sitting and watching, talking on his phone occasionally. When we opened at midday he came in and asked for Gerry, so I just told him he wasn’t there. He had a pint, on his own in the corner, and then went out again, back to the car. He’s still there.’

‘You think he’s waiting for Gerry?’

‘What else could he be doing? It’s obviously not me he wants.’

‘You must tell the police,’ Laura said.

‘But what if he is the police?’ Janine objected. ‘I told
you I was scared. I told you about the odd phone calls. I’m wondering now if Gerry was mixed up in something dodgy and he’s trying to get away from the police. He’s been behaving very strangely lately, long before the murders.’

Laura hesitated again.

‘I might be able to find out if the police want to talk to him,’ she said cautiously. ‘But if the man outside’s a policeman I can’t see why he wouldn’t identify himself. I don’t think he can be.’

‘Could you do that?’ Janine asked, and Laura could hear the desperation in her voice.

‘I’ll call you back if I get an answer. In the meantime, keep trying Gerry’s mobile. He’s bound to switch it on eventually.’ Laura put as much confidence as she could into her reassurances, but she did not wholly believe them herself. Gerry Foster had been scared, she thought, when they had realised someone might be hiding near Moor Edge cottage. And he had driven out of Staveley very much like a frightened man. She did not think he would be back any time soon.

Her mind fully engaged at last, Laura called Kevin Mower on his mobile and asked him if CID were watching out for Gerry Foster, but he denied all knowledge of any surveillance.

‘Have you found out where the guv’nor is?’ Mower asked, slightly impatiently.

‘Not yet, but I will call his father,’ Laura promised. ‘I’ll let you know.’ But she was more interested now in finding Thackeray for her own reasons than in helping the police. She suddenly felt an overwhelming need to talk to him. After last night’s debacle, something had to be resolved between them. And this seemed as good a time as any.

Sergeant Kevin Mower mooched around the CID office that afternoon, unable to concentrate and yet sure that there was something he had missed at the heart of the Christie case. He had checked with the hospital as soon as he had arrived in the office that morning: Emma, it appeared, was still fighting for her life. There was still no one available to tell him why she had relapsed so dramatically, and unlikely to be before Monday. He was left with his worst fears unconfirmed but no less real for that. Uniformed were fully occupied with a Bradfield United match, a local derby with trouble expected, and Superintendent Longley seemed to have stood most of his detectives down for the weekend, no doubt anxious about his overtime budget, and had retired to the golf course once he had passed on his fury about Vince Newsom’s story in the
Globe
. The lack of urgency spooked Mower. It seemed unreal.

After a pie and pint lunch in the nearest pub, he had found himself drawn back to the office again and had been only mildly surprised to find DC Val Ridley sitting at her desk looking pale and drawn.

‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ he asked.

‘Ditto?’ she replied, her voice sharp. They were both single and their more-or-less happily married colleagues would have said unhappily so, although they would both have denied it vigorously. There had even been a time when the cool and rather distant Ridley had set her cap at Mower, only to be hurtfully rebuffed. They had kept each other at a distance since.

‘Have you been in to see Emma?’ Mower asked. Val nodded, as he knew she would.

‘She’s unconscious, poor little devil,’ Val said. ‘I don’t believe it’s just bad luck. It can’t be.’

‘What are you saying? Someone got to her? You need
some evidence for that,’ Mower said, half agreeing with her but knowing they would have to wait for that until the medics concluded their tests.

‘After this morning’s little effort in the
Globe
anyone would know she’s beginning to remember what happened. I talked to the staff on the ward and no one saw anything unusual before she collapsed. Not that that means much, the nurses are always so busy. And it really wouldn’t be hard to get into that children’s ward. In spite of the super’s faith in them, I think the so-called security officers are useless. The place is seriously understaffed, especially at weekends. If you had a white coat on, or a nurse’s uniform, you could pull the curtains around the bed and do what you liked. No one would notice.’

‘What do the staff say? They wouldn’t tell me anything much on the phone.’

‘She’s no physical injuries that anyone can see but one of the nurses said they’d been looking for puncture marks. The trouble is the poor kid’s so full of puncture marks they can’t be sure if there’s a fresh one there or not. But it gives an indication of what they suspect. She seemed to be on the mend when I said goodnight to her yesterday. They’re testing her blood for absolutely anything that shouldn’t be there, but that could take forever.’

‘And is she going to wake up again?’ Mower asked, his eyes bleak. Michael Thackeray would take the death of another child very hard, he knew, and Val Ridley did not look much more robust than their boss at this moment, although she hid her feelings well behind her cool,
ice-maiden
mask. What, he wondered, was she doing saying goodnight to this sick child anyway, as if she were a relative. It would be Auntie Val next and where could that possibly lead?

‘They don’t know what will happen,’ Val said, looking steadfastly out of the window as she spoke. ‘It’s touch and go.’

‘It can’t be her father,’ Mower said. ‘There’s no way a man on the run could plan an operation like that, get the right kit so as not to be noticed, sneak in and out without arousing attention. It’s not feasible.’

‘So who else wants her kept quiet?’ Val said. ‘Someone else who was there and was seen to be there when the family was shot? Someone else who was involved in the shooting? A different murderer, not her father at all? The man Emma said she saw and we’re not investigating in any way at all? If she dies it’ll be Longley’s fault. He’s lost the plot and I just don’t understand why.’

The two officers looked at each other for a moment, both evidently deep in thought, but the train was lost as the phone shrilled. Mower picked it up and found himself talking to one of the officers at the regional forensics lab who sounded pleased to have made contact.

‘Peter?’ Mower said. ‘Have you got something for us?’

‘I was doing a bit of overtime,’ the officer said. ‘I hoped I might find someone in. Of course, I’ll give you a full report on Monday but I thought this was a titbit which might intrigue you.’

‘Go on,’ Mower said, his spine tingling now, his brain kicking into gear.

‘You know we found unidentified DNA at the Christies place? Which is not unusual in anyone’s house, of course. Folk come and folk go – friends, visitors, delivery people, and he had clients, didn’t he?’

‘And?’ Mower prompted, not wanting to be sidetracked into a discussion of the Christies’ lifestyle.

‘Well, I checked all the unknown samples against the
national database and came up with nothing at all. Clean as a whistle, all the family visitors, apparently, which must be pretty unusual in the greater scheme of things. But then I remembered we’d been looking at the body in Christie’s Land Rover. That didn’t come up on the database either, as it goes, but you know that already…’

‘Go on,’ Mower broke in. ‘Get to the bloody point, Peter.’

‘One of the samples matches.’

Mower drew a sharp breath. ‘Just let me get this straight,’ he said, and realised that he had Val Ridley’s full attention too. ‘The man in the Land Rover, at present unidentified, had been in the Christies’ house as well?’

‘No doubt about it, mate.’

‘But you’ve no way of telling when, I suppose?’ Mower asked, feeling caution was called for here.

‘No, but one of hairs we picked up from this person was found on Mrs Christie’s sweater. On top, not underneath, so unlikely just to have been picked up from the floor, where it could have been lying for days or weeks.’

‘Recent then? Very recent?’

‘We’re going through all the other samples to see whether we’ve got more traces that could tell us where he went in the house and workshop, and possibly some indication of when. But if you’ve got anyone else in the frame for this I’d certainly be wanting to find an ID for this character. I reckon someone else was there around about the time of the murders, and now he’s in Manchester, burnt to a crisp. All you’ve got to do is find out who he was.’

And that, Mower thought, as he thanked his caller and hung up, might be easier said than done, especially with a superintendent in charge who seemed to have already made
up his mind who the killer was in this case. He knew that the Manchester police had so far drawn a blank in their efforts to identify the body in the Land Rover. Lists of missing persons had turned up no likely possibilities, criminal intelligence had provided no intelligence and forensic science had been no help so far. But Superintendent Longley had effectively stalled similar investigations on his side of the Pennines, for reasons he could not understand, and seemed to have put another child’s life at risk in the process. Find Christie, Longley had said, that’s all that matters. Well, maybe the answer was to take Longley at his word, Mower decided, and organise an inch by inch search of the moors around Staveley for Monday morning – dogs, armed officers, helicopters, the lot. If an assault on his budget of that magnitude didn’t shake the super out of his complacency he didn’t know what would.

‘Come on, Val, cheer up,’ Mower said. ‘We’re getting somewhere at last. There’s a link with the Manchester body that nobody can ignore. First I’ll push Jack Longley’s blood pressure through the roof by organising a full scale search over the moors for Christie on Monday, on the basis that someone saw a prowler up at the cottage yesterday. Then I’ll give him a get-out by dropping the forensic report on his desk. And in the meantime I’ll see if we can persuade the boss to come back off leave and make sure this thing is investigated properly. It’s the least we can do.’

Val shivered suddenly.

‘Are you all right?’ Mower asked.

‘Someone walked over my grave,’ she said. ‘And how are we going to get Mr Thackeray back, d’you suppose?’

‘We’ll ask the lovely Laura Ackroyd if she’s tracked him
down, of course,’ Mower said confidently. ‘What I want you to do is take Sunday off, get some rest. You look like death warmed up.’

‘Thanks, sarge,’ Val said.

‘I mean it,’ Mower said, and in the end Val agreed that perhaps she needed a break.

‘If anything happens at the hospital, I’ll call you,’ Mower promised as she shrugged herself into her coat, picked up her bag and walked slowly out of the office to face the Saturday afternoon shopping crowds with her shoulders sagging. This case is wreaking havoc round here, Mower thought as he flicked on his mobile again. But for all his confidence, when he called Laura Ackroyd on her mobile he found it switched off, and as the afternoon wore on he became more worried. It was not until after seven, when Mower was back in the pub with a bottle of lager in front of him, that she finally picked up.

‘Where are you?’ Mower asked, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. Mobile phones, he thought, were supposed to be an aid to communication but today they were proving a barrier.

‘Dublin airport,’ Laura said, to his surprise. ‘Don’t worry, Kevin, I know where Michael is. I’ll let you know when we’re coming back. Isn’t that what you wanted?’