by Alex Walters
'Are you saying that some of the evacuees went missing?'
William glanced across at Spooner, then back to Winterman. 'I think so. There were kids I saw in the first few days – when they were all arriving together – that I never saw again. Just one or two.'
'How could you know?' There was something about William's earnest tone that set a chill down Winterman's spine. 'If there were dozens arriving. Surely you can't know who you saw and who you didn't?'
'No, I can't be sure,' William admitted. 'But I think I know. What do you think, DS Spooner? Do you think some of the evacuees went missing?' There was an odd undertone to his words.
Spooner gazed back at him impassively. 'Nationally, I've little doubt that they did. Do you know that we moved nearly a quarter of the population during September '39?' He paused, as if himself contemplating the magnitude of this undertaking. 'But some of it was chaos. Brothers and sisters got split up. Some got put on the wrong trains or sent to the wrong places. Almost every time it was sorted out in the end. But a few cases ended up in tragedy. Parents who never tracked down their children. It's not even necessarily that the children came to a bad end. It might just have been that, if they lost their ID and they didn't know where they'd come from, perhaps they never got back again.'
Winterman felt the nagging of a familiar horror, the images that had dominated his dreams. 'But you're saying more than that, William. You're suggesting that something might have happened to these children.'
'You've seen the bodies,' William said quietly. 'Where did they come from? Who are those children?'
It was an unarguable point. That was the greatest mystery. Who were these children? No one had reported them missing. Even in an insular community like this, surely the loss of a child – of several children – would be noted. But not, perhaps, if no one had known they were here in the first place.'
'You think it's possible?' Winterman asked Spooner.
'Of course it's possible. I was involved in sorting out some of the messes that were made in shipping those kids around. There were all kinds of problems. Kids who weren't on the lists. Kids who were on the list but not there. Usually it was just an admin foul up. But, if it was something more, we wouldn't have known. The question is though, son, just who are you accusing?'
William gazed up at Spooner as though this question hadn't occurred to him. 'What?'
'If you're saying that kiddies went missing, it stands to reason that someone took them. Someone killed them. Who round here would do a thing like that?'
William's expression was blank. 'That's the question, isn't it?'
'I'd say so,' Spooner said. 'Frankly, lad, these are serious allegations to be throwing about. Doesn't seem to me you've got much to support them.'
'Except for the bodies,' Winterman said quietly. 'Three bodies. Three children who came from somewhere.' He leaned forward, ignoring Spooner's expression. 'Tell us about the bodies, William. You dug them up.'
'I went exploring up there one afternoon. Before the snow came. I'd been in the pub at lunchtime. Had a few too many. I wouldn't have dared do it otherwise. And I wouldn't have fancied doing it at night. I'm a bloody medical student as well. Should take this stuff in my stride.'
'So what made you go?'
'I don't know.' He paused, his gaze fixed on Spooner. 'Curiosity, I suppose. It was a miserable afternoon, drizzling rain, cold. If I'd not been half-cut, I'd have given up straightaway. As it was, I wouldn't have persevered for long. But I didn't need to. It was soggy wet ground. Not quite marsh, but nearly. And it looked like someone had been digging there relatively recently–'
'But the bodies weren't recent?'
'I don't know. There was an area, six or seven feet wide, where someone seemed to have been digging. I prodded about a bit around there. Didn't need to go very far down before I found something. Cleared away the earth, and there was the first body. A poor little girl. The flesh was all preserved. Like leather. I dug a bit more, off to one side, and found two more. I think there were other bodies as well. But I can't be sure.'
Winterman was watching William carefully. There was a light buried deep in his eyes, very close to the spark of madness. If he hadn't seen the evidence himself, he wouldn't have believed the story for a moment. 'You dug them out?'
'It was horrible but I'm a medical student. They weren't the first bodies I'd had to deal with.'
'You should have left them. Called the police.'
'I wasn't thinking clearly. It didn't seem right that they should just be left out there in the elements. I cleared the earth from them, and dragged them up to the barn. I left the bodies there covered with some old straw in case anyone should come in – though I don't think anyone's been in there for years. Then I walked back home and called the police.'
'What happened?'
'I was drunk. They thought it was some kind of prank, I suppose. They didn't believe me anyway.'
'But you called again when you were sober.'
'That evening. I was put through to someone – I don't know, someone senior. He listened to what I had to say. Said they'd investigate and that someone would come out to talk to me. But they never did.'
Spooner leaned forward. 'Who did you speak to, son?'
'I don't know. I don't know if he even gave me his name. I went back the next day. I thought someone else had been digging there. After I'd gone. Someone had been digging in a wider area. It was hard to be sure, because I couldn't really remember exactly where I'd been before. But I prodded about with my spade. There was no sign of any more bodies.'
'But you said before–'
'The previous day, I thought there were other bodies. When I came back, there weren't. That's all I can say.'
'But the bodies you'd found?'
'They were still there, still buried under the straw. If someone had been there, they hadn't found them.'
'Did you go back to the police?'
William shook his head. 'You don't understand, do you?'
'We don't know what you're talking about, son,' Spooner said.
William gazed back at him. 'Maybe you don't. But I think it's too late anyway now. They've got their scapegoat. Hoxton did their dirty work for them, and now he can conveniently take the blame. For killing the children, for doing… whatever was done to them. For getting rid of the evidence. He can take the blame for everything.'
'You're saying it was someone else?' Winterman said.
'I grew up with it, though I didn't realise,' William said. 'I don't know who's involved. It wasn't just Hoxton who made sure that my calls were ignored.' William looked back at Spooner. 'Maybe you know better than me.'
'I don't think so, lad. I don't think so.' Spooner pushed himself to his feet. 'Thanks for talking to us. I think we've got all we can.' He gestured to Winterman. 'Shall we go?'
Winterman hesitated momentarily, still trying to fathom the light he could distantly see in William's eyes. 'Thanks, William,' he said finally. Then he rose and followed Spooner out of the room.
Chapter 71
There were no answers.
Pyke was waiting for Winterman in the snug of a down-at-heel pub in one of the backstreets behind the market square. He sat morosely at the bar, two pints of bitter set up in front of him. As Winterman perched himself on a neighbouring stool, Pyke slid one of the beers across.
'Cheers.'
'Cheers.' Winterman looked around the shabby room, catching sight of his own reflection in an age-spotted mirror emblazoned with the name of the brewery. 'Nice place.'
Pyke gave one of his characteristic snorts and followed Winterman's gaze as it passed over the stained and scratched table tops, the cracked leather of the seats, the chipped ashtrays. 'Queer hangout, believe it or not.' He glanced over at the overweight barman who was ostentatiously polishing glasses with a not-noticeably clean rag. 'Or used to be anyway. I've lost touch these days.'
'Going straight?' Winterman asked, sipping at the beer. The quality of the bitter was, predictably,
on a par with the rest of the establishment.
'Not going anywhere very much, old chum, truth be told.'
'How are things?'
'Pretty bloody, overall. But could be a lot worse. At least I'm not in the frame for Howard's murder.'
'Our friend Hoxton seems to be taking the posthumous fall for all that.'
'I imagine that suits everyone.'
'Less paperwork all round. Speaking of which, what about work?'
'Again, could be worse. In the circumstances, Spooner decided to turn a blind eye to the other issue. So no stain on my character and all that. University know nothing about it, and Spooner's said there'll still be police work for me. As long as I keep my nose clean in the future. Not that it's my nose he's worried about, if you get my drift.'
'Decent of him, all told.'
'Aye. Decent of him,' Pyke agreed. 'Again, suits everyone, I imagine.'
'You think? I was afraid that Spooner would see you as an easy addition to his arrest tally.'
Pyke shrugged. 'Maybe. But, as you say, less paperwork. And this way he's got me exactly where he wants me.'
'Which is where?'
'Firmly by the balls, if you'll pardon the expression.'
'Why would Spooner want that?'
Pyke took a long pull on his beer. Finally, as if changing the subject, he said, 'Christ, it's all bollocks, isn't it?'
'What is?'
'All this. Why would Hoxton kill Howard?'
'Because Howard was blackmailing him? It was your suggestion.' To date, they had found no hard evidence to support Pyke's suspicions.
'Why would Howard blackmail a policeman without two pennies to rub together? If Howard really was into that game, he'd have had bigger fish to fry.'
'If he could find bigger fish. Maybe Hoxton was just one among many. We'll probably never find out.'
'No,' Pyke agreed. 'We probably never will. And I'm not going to rock the boat, not now. But it's all bollocks.'
'If you say so.'
'I say so.' Pyke raised his glass. 'Cheers, old chum. Let's all raise a glass to George Hoxton.'
Chapter 72
Mary, breathing softly on the far side of the bed.
He didn't know, even now, whether this was the right thing to be doing. Things had moved more quickly than he could have imagined, and he still didn't know whether he was taking advantage of Mary.
Her house had, mercifully, been spared the worst impact of the flood, although the waters had been literally lapping at the back door. Mary herself, once she had been dried and warmed, showed no physical ill effect. Graham had treated the whole thing as a terrific adventure.
Even so, Winterman suspected that it had all affected Mary more than she wanted to acknowledge. She seemed desperate to move on, to be active, as if the experience had again brought home to her the sense of mortality that hung over her life. On the face of it, her apparent energy seemed a positive development, but to Winterman it seemed brittle.
As a result, Winterman, the supposed ladies' man, had made no attempt to move things forward in their relationship, afraid he might be taking advantage of her vulnerability. A week or so later, when normal working life had more or less resumed and they were alone together in the office at the end of a day of paper-pushing, she had unexpectedly taken the initiative and invited him out for a drink. Feeling that his gallantry was being challenged, he had reciprocated almost immediately by asking her out for dinner.
In ration-bound Britain, the only options for an even half-decent meal were in town. With her mother acting as babysitter, Winterman had offered to put Mary up for the night, assuring her that there was a spare room and that his intentions were honourable. In the event, the meal had been worse than mediocre, both had somehow managed to laugh themselves silly on nothing more than a half-pint of mild and a sweet sherry, and at some point – Winterman was unsure exactly how or when – the honourable intentions had gone out of the window.
Mary, breathing softly, on the far side of the bed.
It was what he had wanted since he had met her. And the warmth, the companionship, was something he had needed for much longer. Something he had denied himself, with his son dead and his wife lost. It felt as if Mary was the one, but Winterman was wise enough to know that in the circumstances he might have felt the same about any attractive personable young woman. It would take much longer before he could be certain.
As for Mary herself, what was she doing here? Was she just making a grasp for life – any life – in the middle of a world that had for so long seemed dominated by death and denial? Did she want him, or would any mildly attractive, personable young man have done? He had no idea, but it seemed worth taking the time to find out.
That one night, that first night, he felt real contentment. It had taken some time for him to recognise the emotion as he lay silently in the dark. In that moment, he had had no notion of what the future might hold, where he was going or what he was doing. But, just briefly, he had managed to relinquish the past, to free himself from the dreams and ghosts that had haunted his waking and sleeping hours. For a second, all that mattered was now.
There had been other nights since then, and their relationship had developed and blossomed. Even Mrs Griffiths seemed to have approved, turning a blind eye to her daughter's nights away. It wasn't the time to begrudge anyone a little happiness.
Winterman was happy. He was happy with Mary, he was happy with what their future seemed to hold.
But he was no longer content. After that one restful night, the dreams had gradually returned, infiltrating his sleep with their images of the rain, the sense of dread.
They were not the same dreams. Something had been resolved. Sam was no longer out there, no longer reaching out his hands for salvation from the rising waters. Sam, Winterman thought, had finally been saved.
But there was still something out there, in the endless teeming rain. Some voices calling. Other lost children, still trying to find their way back home.
There were no answers.
Chapter 73
There were no answers.
'What do you think?' Winterman had asked Spooner, a few days later, as they sat together in Winterman's sparsely furnished office. 'About young Callaghan, I mean?'
'I think he's as mad as a hatter. Out of his tree.'
'He found the bodies.'
'Probably that's what drove him out of his tree then. That and the booze. It wasn't exactly a rational response, was it. Dragging out the bodies and planting them around the vicinity to… what, attract our attention?'
'Because the police took no notice.'
'Because whoever took the call thought, probably accurately, that he was a drunk talking rubbish. It sounds as if we fouled up, but I don't think anyone can be blamed for that.'
'What about his conspiracy theories?'
Spooner turned to face Winterman. 'Oh, for God's sake. I hope you're just playing devil's advocate here. We know what happened. We've even managed to trace Hoxton's convoluted history before he changed his name and moved here. Christ knows how he managed to get a job in the force with that big black hole in his past.'
Winterman had asked himself the same question. They had obtained a warrant to search Hoxton's terraced house and had torn the place apart trying to find some hard evidence. They had found nothing immediately incriminating, other than two hundred pounds in used fivers, carefully wrapped and stashed beneath the floorboards. But they had found a wealth of revelatory documents. Hoxton's birth certificate indicated he had been born in Lincoln and that his real name was Gerald Horton. That had provided enough information to enable them to trace some details of his early life. He had been just old enough to serve in the last few months of the First War. Unlike many, he had lived to tell the tale, but had been diagnosed with severe shell shock at the time of his demobilisation.
They had so far been unable to trace his movements in any detail after leaving the army, but had tracked him as far as Leicester in 1920. Three ye
ars later, a Gerald Horton of Leicester had been convicted of indecent assault on an underage girl. After that, they had discovered no reference to Horton until the arrival of Hoxton in Ely in the late 1920s. He had held various clerical jobs before joining the police, as a uniformed officer, in 1933. He had transferred to CID three years later, and his record since then was unexceptional but unblemished. Just before the war, for reasons that remained unexplained, he had transferred out of headquarters to the sub-station where Winterman had encountered him.
'You think Hoxton's squarely in the frame for everything?'
'What do you think?' Spooner said. 'He's got a conviction as a kiddie fiddler.'
'That doesn't make him a killer.'
'He killed Marsh.'
'Supposedly by accident.'
'Useful accident. Marsh wanted whoever was responsible for the kiddies. Thought his own brother was one of victims. That's why he dragged off young Callaghan when he caught him shifting that body into the graveyard. Thought he was abetting someone. If Hoxton thought Marsh was on to him… well, a convenient accident.'
'What about Fisher and Merriman? That was Hoxton too?'
'Why not? Hoxton got the jitters when the bodies started turning up, which I suppose, in his half-brained way is what Callaghan intended. Probably thought Fisher knew something. As for Merriman, your mate Pyke reckons he was blackmailing someone. If it was Hoxton, then Bob's your uncle.'
'All very neat.'
'Bloody hell, Winterman. Don't start chasing shadows. You're too good for that.'
'Get me back up to headquarters then,' Winterman said. 'And out of this godforsaken dump, sir.' The office was empty and bleak now that Hoxton's and Marsh's debris had been cleared out of the place. 'Just me and Mrs bloody Sheringham.' He had lowered his voice for the last few words, and now he smiled across at the blonde secretary sitting behind her typewriter, apparently unoccupied, regarding him with a steely uninterest. He thought her manner had become frostier, as if she held him personally responsible for everything that had happened.