Tick Tick Tick (31 page)

‘Sister Bridget?’

She pushes herself up from the battered armchair, and walks towards me; I can tell she’s troubled.

‘Come with me, Detective Inspector.’ She opens the door, walks out and motions for me to follow her. I sense the other nuns are as confused as I am. She opens another door into a cramped office; the window is cracked and the old faded blue curtains flicker in the breeze. She sits first and I follow suit.
Be calm
, I think to myself.

‘May I ask what you need this information for?’ she enquires.

‘I’m sorry, but it is completely confidential.’ I try to look apologetic; but hell, she really doesn’t want to know what has been going on.

The old arthritic fingers fidget. ‘Has Tim done something wrong?’

I don’t have the heart to tell her; now that she knows his other name, one scan of the newspapers and she would soon connect it. Maybe she doesn’t read the papers, so who am I to break old dreams?

‘You remember him then?’

There is a slight hesitation. ‘I do, yes of course I do.’ Bingo! Mother of Mary – an honest to God lead.

‘Can you tell me if there were any incidents while he lived here at the home?’

‘Oh now, Tim was always up to mischief; a wild one, that boy.’
You don’t know the half of it.

‘Did he have any special friends here?’

She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t say special; he was kind of a loner, as a lot of them were you know.’

‘How about any serious incidents?’ From the look on her face, I’ve just asked the right question.

‘That was such a terrible time; so very, very sad.’ I see the eyes glaze over and immediately feel a blink of remorse.

‘Go on.’ I try not to push her too hard, but I’m desperate for an answer.

‘When he was four, Tim was playing outside with the other children; it was an accident you know.’ I watch her eyes fill up with tears, one spills down her face.

‘Two boys who were best friends were playing on the wall. Tim went over, I know he just wanted to join in.’ Her voice trembles now, the painful fingers, bent and misshapen, quiver.

‘There was a silly argument, he pushed one; but he didn’t mean any harm.’

‘What happened?’ My mouth is dry, the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

‘The boy he pushed, Simon Burrell, slipped; he fell off the wall and banged his head so hard on the playground.’ Her head slopes forward. ‘Simon suffered a massive haemorrhage to the brain – I’m afraid he died.’

Questions race through my mind, like a tornado on a vendetta from hell. If Simon had died then he isn’t the killer. Damn it, I can feel the lead slipping away from me.

‘Who was the other child? The one he was playing with?’ I ask, praying for her answer.

‘I really can’t remember the full name – Nathan… I’m sorry, I can’t recall the last name, it was such a long time ago.’ She struggles to delve into her memory, but eventually shakes her head. Damn it.

I lay my hand on hers to comfort her, it just feels like the right thing to do. ‘Was this Nathan upset? I mean, more so than your average child who was there?’

She nods with some force. ‘He stopped eating, stopped playing with his cards, and he became very reclusive; he only seemed to want to play with the dogs that we had around. He became so introverted, nothing we said or did seemed to bring him back out of his grief.’

Slowly now
, I think, still holding her hand. ‘Was Nathan adopted?’

‘No, not that I know of. I understand he was moved to different homes around the country, to try to give him a fresh start if you like; but what actually happened to him in the end, I just don’t know.’ I know she feels she’d failed the boys. I know the feeling of failure well, I just pray that she’ll never pick up the paper and put the pieces together. Somehow I just know she’d been a good woman who’d tried her best, and I don’t want her to suffer anymore. I stroke the bony hands, give them a squeeze and stand up.

I’m almost out of the door when one question pops into my head.

‘What card game did he have?’

‘Oh, some pack with faces on, I really don’t recall. But you know, he was always playing cards with Simon. It was like a compulsive addiction.’

As I drive home slowly, my mobile phone rings again – Jesus, don’t let it be another body.

It’s David from Forensics. ‘Just to let you know that we’ve had the DNA test results back on that blonde hair.’

My stomach is doing somersaults. ‘Anything?’

‘One blonde male human hair; the DNA doesn’t match up to any known criminals in the computer, sorry.’

‘Thanks.’ I throw the phone across the seat.

I’m gutted. I think of one of Mack’s sayings –
you know the problem with our job? It has little to do with life, and all to do with death.

I wonder if Nathan has any answers to my questions. It’s time I placed a call to one of my favourite ladies in the press archive files.

I’m not going to give in now;
in fact I’m not going to give in at all.

CHAPTER 36

Over peppered steak, roast potatoes, and buttered carrots, I tell Connie everything, leaving not a single detail out. We work well as a team, with her highly-regarded profiling knowledge combined with my murder investigation experience; we bat different questions, ideas and theories about.

I top up her wine glass and refill my own, at the same time thinking perhaps we should be cutting back on the alcohol, or in a few years or I could be looking like Mack. Now there’s a thought to sober you up in an instant.

‘What if Nathan is the killer? Why didn’t he try to get to Fash long before now?’ I ask.

She twisted her wine glass around.

‘Say he was so damaged by the loss of his best friend, that he wanted revenge later on in life?’

I still can’t grasp it. ‘So why not just kill Fash himself?’

‘Because he wanted… justice, not just revenge, but
justice
,
’ she says.

I’m starting to catch her wavelength. ‘What you mean is that because Fash was only a child when the accident occurred, no criminal charges could be brought against him, and there was no proof that he did it with intent; it was found to be merely a tragic accident?’

Connie nods, both of us gathering momentum. ‘Yes, but suppose Nathan had seen the intent in Fash. Perhaps Fash was a twisted little child – if there were only the three of them, and Nathan actually witnessed the killing of his best friend, that could provide you with a motive. As a young child you worship your best friend; more so, I would think, if you’re in a children’s home with no one else.’

I finally catch on. ‘So what we’re saying is that Fash actually meant to harm Simon Burrell, because Nathan and Simon wouldn’t ever let him join in?’

She nods her reply while I gulp more wine.

‘Fash got a little pissed off and pushed Simon with some force; the nun’s didn’t see it, but Nathan did. And his best friend, actually his
only
friend dies; whether Fash meant to kill Simon is something we’ll never truly know, but what we do know is that Nathan believes he killed him on purpose, and he’s never forgotten and he’s never forgiven.’

Connie smiles. ‘Now you’ve got it.’

Yeah, but will I get Nathan?

I need to know more, I need Nathan’s last name. I don’t have time to track down every children’s home in the city on the off chance that someone recognises the first name from years ago. Unusual as the name may be, I’m pretty sure that there was more than one Nathan in the social work system.

The fax whirrs into life;
please don’t let it be another riddle
. I scramble to get it; Connie simply concentrates on her wine, I swear we’re both on the road to becoming alcoholics.

Relief floods through me; it’s from Sammy in the archives. She’s just struck gold and I’m starting to owe favours all over the place now; hell I’ve lost count.

I tear the photocopied newspaper cutting from the machine, and bring it back to the table.

‘It’s from Sammy?’ Connie knows the name.

She inclines her head, straining to get a peek while I devour the page. ‘What does it say?’

‘On the 14th of January 1968 Simon Burrell was accidentally killed in St Trinity playground, with a severe injury to the head following a fall. The tragic death of this child was a shock to both the children’s home and the community. The coroner reports that this was an accidental death, and as such, the case file shall be closed and sealed, with no further action taken. Several of the children at the children’s home reported that Simon was a likeable boy with many good and kind qualities, and he will be sadly missed. One small boy at the burial was so traumatised by the event that he had to be taken from the graveside; he was named as Simon’s best friend Nathan Farrell.’

I kiss the sheet of paper. ‘Thank you, Sammy.’ I’m practically dancing round the room; finally we have the full name, now all we have to do is find the son of a bitch.

‘I’m wondering about the cards,’ says Connie.

All I want to do is run Farrell’s name through the database. I punch in the numbers for headquarters and request a criminal check – the answer comes back negative.

Fuck it, how can you go from a positive to a negative in the space of three minutes?

‘He’s not in the records.’ I’m livid, while Connie just shrugs her shoulders.

‘That doesn’t mean he’s not your killer.’ She flicks her tongue over her lips without thinking.

I still want to rant at anyone, at everyone, but only Connie is handy. ‘I know, I know, but it also means that he could be bloody anywhere. Jesus, just when you think you’re getting somewhere.’

‘The cards…’ she says again.

I thump my fist on the table. ‘What about them?’ She ignores my petulant outburst.

‘What if he got justice through
you
for Simon?’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

I can see her slipping into her professional role, as her brain kicks up a notch. ‘Well if the courts wouldn’t press charges, what if for all these years Nathan has held that grudge in? Then say one day he stumbled into Tim Fash and recognised him; if Nathan was already beginning to slide off the rails, and I suspect he was, this would probably have pushed him over the edge.’

Son of a bitch, it’s all falling into place. ‘You mean he really did want justice – but this time from the police? A perfect way to commit a crime; get someone else to do it for you,
and get the justice that you’ve always wanted for Simon, through the hands of a copper.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why kill all the others? And why keep going now Fash is dead?’ I ask.

‘Because he’s started on a mission. Often when a killer gets the taste for death, they can’t resist the consuming urge to keep on going. But I think your killer has a specific purpose in mind.’

‘Like what?’ I already have an inclination, which Connie confirms out loud.

‘I don’t know, you’re the detective; but I’d start by finding out what pack of cards he had.’

I spend hours on the internet looking at packs of cards; I reckon he probably had the face cards, because he wasn’t old enough to read. What brands were available at that time? I hunt through hundreds of packs; only fourteen of them were available at that time. I pull up the images on screen, and settled back down to work again.

There are cards with families on them and I remember them vaguely from my own misspent youth; I’m sure we used to play Snap. Snap? For a snapped hyoid bone? No, I’m going crazy.

My back is aching, and my eyes are blurry from the hours at the screen. I watch Connie come out wrapped in a towel, fresh from a long soak in the bath, and I suddenly think of nicer ways to make my body ache.

She makes some strong coffee, and brings me over a mug.

‘Any joy?’ She drops a kiss on my head, her hand caressing the nape of my neck.

‘Not yet.’ To be honest I’m not one hundred per cent sure that we’re really on the right track, but Connie is always good with her hunches; although she calls it analytical deduction, it’s still a hunch to me.

I was on my thirteenth pack, when the screen lit up with names that I recognised.

‘Connie!’ I’m shouting, I can’t help it. Jesus, it really is the cards. I print them off; impatient that it’s taking so long. We place the card names on the table – Garland, Brick, Bush, Kitchell, Good, Bun, Law, Bull, Wilson and Sutton. Ten of them.

‘The names aren’t all correct,’ says Connie. ‘And we’re missing one.’

I pull out my notepad, and put a cross through Kitchell, Good and Wilson.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Connie, looking bemused.

‘Mandy Arthur’s maiden name is Kitchell, Lucy Watts’ maiden name is Good, and Sara Mason’s was Wilson.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ shouts Connie, ‘you’ve cracked it; you’ve damn well cracked it.’
I pull her into my arms and hold her face. ‘We cracked it,’ I say.