Someone To Save you (35 page)

Vincent turned around, and walked slowly back towards her. She shrunk back as he took her head in both hands and whispered in her ear.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head and fighting back tears. ‘You’re lying, you’re lying.’ Eric wouldn’t do that, he would never agree to that.’

Vincent smiled. ‘Like I said, ask him yourself.’ He went to leave, but stopped at the door. ‘Do you know the really sad thing Shirley? This isn’t about you, or Eric, or your daughter. You’re just part of a bigger plan - one that’s been playing out for a long, long time.’

He turned and left as Shirley slumped onto the sofa, clutching a cushion across her face to try and muffle the pain.

Sam and Marcus approached the café, which they’d passed on the way from the tube to Victoria Friedman’s house. Sam had noticed a customer on a computer by the window, so he’d hoped that it meant the place had internet access. As they entered, someone else, an older man, was on the computer, and he was indeed on the internet. Sam approached the bar and the server, a young girl, probably a student, looked up from cleaning glasses and flashed a smile.

‘Have you got any other computers with internet access?’ Sam asked.

The girl shook her head. ‘We’ve got Wi Fi.’

Sam looked around at the man on the machine. ‘Do you think he’ll be long?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s pay by the minute, and cheap, so he could be a while.’

Sam decided to do something he’d never done before – abuse his position. ‘Look, I’m a heart surgeon, over at St. Thomas’s, and I really need access to the internet. It’s kind of a medical emergency.’

Excitement flashed across the girl’s face. ‘You’re a surgeon? I’m a medical student. At St. George’s. This job helps with the bills.’

Sam couldn’t believe his luck. He tried to hide his joy. ‘Then you’ll know that this is important.’

‘Sure, yes,’ she said, suddenly flustered. She looked over at the man on the computer and then back over to her left, biting her lip. ‘There’s a computer in the back office,’ she said. ‘You can use that one.’

‘Fantastic.’

They followed her around the back of the bar and into a cramped office that was littered with papers. In the corner was the computer. It was already switched on and the girl loaded up the internet. ‘There you go,’ she said, standing back, ‘it’s all yours.’

Sam recognised her expression from that of the many junior doctors who had worked underneath him – a longing for validation that what they had done was worthwhile. ‘Thanks, that’s fantastic. I’m sure you’ll make a great doctor.’

She beamed back at him. ‘Happy to help. I’d better get back to the bar.’

Sam slid into the seat next to the computer and Marcus pulled up a chair next to him.

‘Nice job,’ Marcus noted, as Sam pulled up the search engine. Sam typed in the name Wayne Cartwright and hit the search button.

Nothing of note came up. Just lots of articles with Wayne or Cartwright in the title – the search hadn’t been specific enough.

He tried again. This time he put Wayne Cartwright in quotes and added in HMP Bristol and the word “death”.

And there is was - the second result down, an article from the Bristol Evening Post, the local newspaper, dated the previous week.

Prisoner death mystery

They scanned the short piece, describing how Wayne Cartwright had been found dead early the previous morning. The prison authorities and police had refused to comment, but an unnamed source claimed he was found hanging in his cell.

Sam shook his head as he read on.

The source said that suicide had been ruled out and that they were working on the assumption that he had been murdered.

‘Wow,’ Marcus said.

Sam re-read the revelation. ‘Do you think that’s likely - that other prisoners did this?’

Marcus nodded. ‘Prison’s a very dangerous place. Believe me; I’ve met plenty of people who were capable of much worse than that.’

Sam didn’t linger on that thought. Instead he thought of Richard Friedman’s drawing. ‘He must have known. Richard Friedman must have known that he was found hanging.’

‘Looks like that,’ Marcus agreed.

‘But how? How did he know?

Marcus shrugged. ‘Maybe the police told him. They might not have wanted to tell the press, but they might have told him more details.’

‘Maybe,’ Sam said. ‘But Victoria Friedman said she didn’t know how he died.’

‘Maybe he didn’t tell her.’

‘I don’t think so.’

I did it. I’m the killer.

Marcus studied Sam. ‘What are you thinking?’

An idea had formed; a possible explanation. ‘What if Richard knew what was going to happen?’

‘You think he could have set up his murder?’

‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

Marcus thought for a second then nodded. ‘It’s possible. There are always people who are willing to sort out grudges or exact justice for those on the outside - for the right price. But he would need to have access to someone in the jail that was prepared to do it. It’s not easy to do that kind of thing without the right contacts on the outside.’

He might have been wrong, but this was starting to make sense. ‘A go-between?’

‘Yeah - someone who knows people in the prison that can do the job. Someone who can set it all up, make sure everything runs to plan.’

‘Did you ever see this happen?’

Marcus waited one beat too long.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

Marcus nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘I saw it happen once or twice. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m trying to forget all that.’

Sam respected Marcus’s wishes. ‘But you think that this could be a possibility?’

‘I think it’s much more likely that this guy made enemies whilst he was inside,’ Marcus replied. ‘And that whoever these people were took their opportunity to punish him. What makes you think Richard Friedman has anything to do with it?’

‘The words on the drawing,’ Sam said. ‘And what he said to me up on the roof. ‘I did it. I’m the killer. Maybe he wasn’t talking about Cathy. He could have been talking about Wayne Cartwright. Maybe he felt responsible for his death.’

Marcus didn’t look convinced. ‘From what his sister said, and from what Louisa said, he doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would do that.’

‘I agree,’ Sam said. ‘But he wasn’t thinking straight. His sister said how he was dreading the possibility that he’d be released. Maybe he panicked, wanted to get rid of the pain, and this seemed like the best way.’

‘But he’d still have to have the right contacts to be able to do that kind of thing.’

‘Just say he did.’

‘Okay,’ Marcus said, humouring him. ‘Say that Richard Friedman did arrange for someone to murder Wayne Cartwright. What has all this got to do with Cathy and the person who has Anna?’

‘I have no idea,’ Sam admitted. ‘But Richard Friedman holds the key to this, I just know it. We’ve got to find out more, and quickly.’

‘How?’

Sam thought back to the artwork. ‘From Richard Friedman himself.’

39

Eric Ainsley returned home barely five minutes after Vincent and his men had left. Shirley was still on the sofa, tears wet against her cheek and head buried against the cushion, as she heard him enter the room.

His face fell. ‘Christ, Shirley, are you okay?’

She didn’t look up.

He knelt down beside her, trying to get a glimpse of her face. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me.’ He was panicking. ‘Is it Alison?’

She turned to look at his tortured face. ‘They’ve taken the money.’

His face flashed horror.

‘They’ve taken the money,’ she repeated, now more an accusation.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. He jumped up and raced upstairs. Shirley could hear him in the spare bedroom, frantically banging doors and drawers.

She rose up and looked at the bag that he had left on the floor. It wasn’t his normal work bag. Instinctively she unzipped it and was met by the sight of yet more bank notes; thousands more. ‘Dear God.’ She felt dirty, contaminated.

‘I’m so sorry, Shirley, so, so sorry.’ Eric swayed at the door, totally shell-shocked. He was crying. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t.’

She looked up, her blood boiling for her dead daughter and missing grandchild. ‘Tell me everything. Now.’

Eric slumped against the wall, sobbing into his hands.

‘Tell me everything, Eric, now,’ her voice deliberately hard. ‘Before it’s too late.’

He nodded, struggling to compose himself as he sat down next to her. ‘It’s all my fault,’ he said. He looked at her through drowning eyes. ‘Everything is my fault.’

She maintained the hard tone. ‘Tell me.’

Shame forced him to look away. ‘I borrowed some money,’ he said, his forehead creasing. ‘A lot of money.’

‘How much? Why?’

‘Fifteen thousand pounds – I lost my job twelve months ago.’

The shock was immense. ‘What?’

‘I should have told you, I know, I should have, but I didn’t want to worry you and I thought that I would find something else. But I couldn’t. No-one wants to employ someone of my age. So I borrowed some money from a man I met in the pub. He said it would be interest free, he said it was a favour.’

Shirley felt sick. ‘Vincent McGuire?’

Eric nodded, his eyes closing. ‘Six months ago he said he wanted the money back, with interest. And if I didn’t pay bad things would happen. Then one day I came home and he was sat there with Jane, smiling at me, and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I tried to get together the money, from friends. Bob lent me some, so did Arthur and Tony. But it wasn’t enough.’

She shook her head, disgusted by what she was hearing. ‘He murdered our daughter, because you needed money.’

Eric started sobbing again, nodding into his hands. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Shirley let him cry for a moment. He deserved to drown in his tears. ‘How long have you known?’

‘I thought he might have done it,’ he mumbled, ‘but I didn’t know for sure. I wanted to believe it was just an accident. But then he said he had Alison.’

Shirley fought to control her anger. She didn’t recognise the man in front of her. ‘My God, Eric, you should have told me.’

‘I thought if I could get the money together then he would give her back – I nearly had enough.’

‘You’re a fool,’ she said. ‘We need to tell the police, right now.’

‘No!’ he said, ‘we can’t. He’ll kill Alison.’

‘The police will help us.’

He shook his head. ‘He’ll know we’ve done it and he’ll kill her. They’re watching us, Jane, all the time. You don’t understand who we’re dealing with. He has people everywhere. And he doesn’t care who he hurts – he enjoys hurting people. He’s enjoying watching us suffer.’

‘Then what? What the hell do we do?’

‘I don’t know, now they’ve taken the money, I just don’t know.’

‘Do you think they might let her go; now they’ve got what they want?’

‘I don’t know.’

Shirley thought back to what Vincent had said to her just before he left. ‘He said this was just part of something bigger. That it wasn’t really about us. Do you know what he means?’

Eric shook his head. ‘No, I swear, I don’t. Please, believe me Shirley.’

Then Eric’s mobile rang.

He brought it to his ear and listened without replying, before handing the phone to Shirley. He looked confused. ‘They want to speak to you.’

Sam and Marcus retraced their steps back to Victoria Friedman’s house, deciding that it was worth quizzing her again now, armed with their additional information. With it they might be able to unlock some more answers – something that could take them further forward. And although there might be nothing more to be gained, it was worth a shot. Unfortunately this time when they knocked on her door, there was no answer.

‘She was quick to leave,’ Marcus noted.

Sam nodded, placing a hand on the door, turning around to scan the street. ‘Too quick.’

‘You think she knew about what happened and just didn’t tell us?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Who knows. Maybe.’

‘So what now?’

‘We go and take a look at Richard Friedman’s artwork.’

Marcus’s face creased. ‘But I thought…’

‘Not here,’ Sam revealed. ‘Follow me.’

They headed for the tube, travelling towards Embankment, and Sam explained about the artwork at Tate Modern.

‘It’s the same figure as the one in the drawing of Wayne Cartwright, the silhouette of the man with arms outstretched, lurking in the background.’

‘You’re thinking that it could be the man who has Anna, the man who killed Cathy?’