by Alex Walters
Winterman looked back for a last time before stepping out into the wet night. 'I'm sorry. But I don't think I can take the risk.'
Chapter 84
Winterman drove back into the village, conscious he was driving too fast on the wet roads, and pulled to a skidding halt outside Mrs Griffith's cottage. The only lights were those he had left burning in the hallway and front room. It occurred to him, initially with a touch of irritation, that he had not remembered to bring a door key out with him. He would have to wake Mary or her mother to get back into the house.
Then it struck him he also had no recollection of securing the back door of the house before leaving. That thought sucked the breath from his lungs.
He jumped out into the rain. It was coming down even harder, sweeping coldly in from the fens. He pulled his hat low over his forehead and hurried into the garden, heading for the rear of the house.
As he turned the final corner, he stopped. The back door was wide open to the night and the rain.
It had been closed when he left, he was sure. Perhaps Mary or her mother had come downstairs for some reason, had peered out into the rain. But the kitchen was in darkness.
Winterman stepped forward. He felt in his pocket for the small police torch he always kept in his overcoat. As he reached the door, he banged it wide open, flashing the torch beam around the kitchen, trying to ensure that anyone inside would be disadvantaged by the sudden light.
'Out here, guv.' The voice came from behind him, only just loud enough to be heard above the rain. 'You were quicker than I expected. Should never underestimate you, should I?'
Winterman turned, aiming the torch into the rain.
Hoxton was dressed in a filthy torn cycle cape, a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. He held out his hands to demonstrate that he wasn't armed.
'We best go in out of the rain,' Hoxton went on. 'I've a few things to tell you.'
For a moment, Winterman contemplated seizing Hoxton by force. But he knew he had to play out the scene, see where it would lead. He nodded and followed Hoxton into the kitchen. Hoxton was already closing the internal door into the hallway. Winterman switched on the light, momentarily dazzled by the glare. 'If you've touched–'
'Everyone's safe. For the moment. I just want to talk.' Hoxton lowered himself to sit at the kitchen table. There was a waterproof canvas bag on the table in front of him.
Winterman dragged out a chair and positioned himself opposite Hoxton. 'Everyone assumed you were dead.'
'I nearly was. I'm not a swimmer. While you were dealing with the boy, I was caught by some sort of undertow. Dragged me off downstream. I thought I was a goner, but I got thrown ashore half a mile or so outside the village. Even then, I should probably have died but I'm a tough old bugger.'
'Where've you been since then?'
'Living rough, round and about. Stole some clothes. Stole enough to live on. Came back here.'
'Why come back? You could have made the perfect escape.'
'I still will. But I had to finish things off first. Get what I was owed.'
'Who owes you anything, Hoxton?'
Hoxton seemed to be looking straight through him. 'I imagine I've become the scapegoat for all this? For everything?'
'You're a killer, Hoxton. Why wouldn't you be the scapegoat?'
'Don't be too hard, guv. I'm not a saint. But I'm just small fry. I was always going to take the fall if anything went wrong. But they should have paid me for it. That was the deal.'
'Who should?' Winterman was beginning to weigh up his options, wondering how he could detain Hoxton.
'All of them. Callaghan. Hamshaw. The rest.' Hoxton pushed forward the canvas bag across the table top as if it contained the explanation for his presence.
'You're making no sense, Hoxton. I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of–'
Hoxton held up his hand. 'Can if you like, guv. Won't make no difference. Better if you listen to what I've got to say first.'
'Five minutes. Then I'm taking you in.'
'They welshed on the deal. Callaghan and Hamshaw. They shouldn't have done that. I kept my side. Couldn't even get back to the little stash I'd tucked away at home. There was enough cash there to tide me over. But the floods had cut it off. You lot'll have claimed that by now.'
Winterman said nothing. As far as he could recall, there had been no mention of any cash being found at Hoxton's house. Someone's pocket had been lined, Winterman had no doubt.
'What is it you're saying? That this is all some grand conspiracy?'
'Not very grand. But yes, something of a conspiracy. You must have already worked that out, guv, smart bugger like you.'
'I thought it was just you. George Hoxton. Child molester.'
'That's how they've got me labelled, is it?'
'You've got a conviction. Or least Gerald Horton has. Sexual assault on an underage girl.'
'You have been busy. Don't suppose it mentioned she was a streetwalker. Could have been twenty-five, turned out to be fifteen. Wasn't that long ago it would have been legal.'
Winterman's expression showed his distaste. 'It was assault.'
'She tried to steal my wallet. I tried to stop her, and she cried rape. Then let on she was only fifteen. Serve me right for being wet behind the ears. It doesn't make me a kiddie fiddler.'
'What about these bodies then? You're saying that wasn't you?'
'Aye, that was me. Finished 'em off, any road. Some might have said it was a blessing by then.' Hoxton was speaking as if this was something he had to say, something he had to get off his chest. 'I'm not proud of it, any of it. But I was just doing a job. Just doing what I was paid for.'
It was a mantra Hoxton kept repeating, Winterman noticed. He wondered how much of Hoxton's mental state had its roots in the First War. Soldiers witnessing and perpetrating atrocities, telling themselves they were just doing a job. 'Tell me,' Winterman said.
'You called me a child molester. It wasn't me though. It was Hamshaw, he was the one who was that way inclined. Him and some of his odd mates. You go check. You'll see Hamshaw's history. Patron of children's homes. You know how some of them places were run. Nobody cared. Nobody cared what Hamshaw and others got up to.'
'Are you saying–?'
'You know what I'm saying, guv. I got into doing dubious errands for Hamshaw's cronies. Some of 'em in the force, as well. That was how it started. Someone found out my record wasn't quite as unblemished as it might have been. Turned the screw a bit, got me doing some of their dirty work. Didn't matter much to me if it brought me in a few extra quid.'
'What sort of errands?' Winterman had half an eye on the canvas bag, noting that Hoxton was keeping his hands firmly across it.
'This was before the war. Some of them in the force were a bit closer than they should have been to some of the big villains. Money changed hands to help keep the right noses clean. You know that, guv, more than most. I helped the money to change hands. In those last days before war broke out, there was all kinds of stuff. Dodgy contracts for supplies. Illegal imports. Black market. Christ knows what it cost the war effort.' He smiled. 'Though it was supposedly all in the name of patriotism. That's what Hamshaw always said.'
'What about Callaghan? Where does he fit into this?'
'I feel almost sorry for Callaghan, truth be told. He was probably the only half-decent one among them. At least he really believed all the patriotism guff.'
'I heard he was involved in germ warfare. Had some falling out with the bigwigs at Porton Down.'
'That smart brain of yours again, guv. It'll get you into trouble. You heard right. This was all hush-hush, the way it was told to me. But there were things going on even before the war that nobody'll ever talk about. Experiments with gases. Far worse than that bastard stuff we faced last time around. And experiments with germs. All kinds of stuff. Even the plague, I heard, if you can believe that.'
'Callaghan was involved in some of that?'
'That's what I heard. And what
I heard was that Callaghan was less squeamish than most. That he'd started testing some of his products out on real people. That was what led to the bust-up. He'd gone further than some of his colleagues felt was quite proper. Usual bloody story. These bigwigs don't care what happens as long as they can keep their hands clean. Callaghan thought they were just being hypocrites.'
'You're saying that Callaghan continued his work up here? On human guinea pigs?'
'Callaghan wasn't one to take no for an answer. He wanted to be proved right. With Hamshaw's help, he could get hold of the right – material. At first, children from the homes. Then, after the war started, evacuees. Kids who were already lost in the system.' Hoxton paused for a moment, his eyes blank. 'You should ask your friend Dr Pyke what else was wrong with them poor little kiddies that turned up. But Pyke's another one who's been encouraged to turn a blind eye.'
'Pyke?'
'I don't know for sure, of course. I was just a humble servant. But I know what was wrong with some of those kids, and none of it showed up in Pyke's reports. Yes, the poor little buggers were suffocated in the end. I know that because I did some of them myself. But my job was to put an end to their suffering, not cause it.'
'You can't expect me to believe this.'
'Frankly, guv, I don't much mind what you believe. But it's in your interest to know who your friends are. Nothing much wrong with Pyke, apart from the obvious, but he's another one who's taken his pieces of silver.'
'What about Merriman? Who killed him?'
'You got me bang to rights on that one, guv. I wouldn't want you to think that Pyke was capable of the likes of that. All Pyke's done is kept his mouth shut when it mattered.'
'Pyke thought Merriman was blackmailing someone.'
'Aye, and Pyke had a good reason to think that. Because Pyke was the one who'd let slip what Callaghan had been up to.' He paused, and was smiling again. 'And I was the one who fed Merriman the evidence.'
'You did? Why?'
'I'm no fool, guv, as you've probably noticed. Playing both sides against the middle. When I found out Merriman was trying to put the squeeze on Callaghan, I did a deal with him. Fed him some more concrete evidence in return for half the takings. That's what funded my little personal stash.'
'So why kill him?'
'When things started going belly up, it was my job to get the lid back on. Anyway, I didn't want anyone finding out what I'd been up to with Merriman, did I?'
'And Fisher? He was yours as well?'
'All my own work. Nearly got caught with that one. I got him in the garden, had a cloth with some chloroform on it, nice and discreet. Thought I might even manage to make it look like natural causes. Then young Callaghan turns up, three sheets to the wind. Realises Fisher's dead, but collapses on the couch while I'm still lurking outside in the bloody cold. So I wiped Callaghan's prints all over that knife and stuck it in Fisher's body while he was still just about warm. It put Callaghan in the frame for a bit and help muddy the waters, though I didn't really think anyone would buy Callaghan as a killer. But the reverend was always a risk. I was never sure how much he really knew. I think his wife found out something about Hamshaw and Callaghan's little games when she was living with Callaghan. That was why she tried to go back to Fisher. Didn't want her own children to be anywhere near that world. I don't know how much she told Fisher before he threw her out. But she told him something. All that stuff about the ghosts of children.'
'Perhaps that was exactly what he saw.'
'One way or another, you might be right, guv. They paid him off with that cottage and a nice little pension but he was still a risk. After he found the child's body, he said a few things in his cups that got them worried. I was sent to find out what he knew. Never really did because he saw me in the garden, came at me with that bloody knife. I'd rather not have killed him, but it did the job.' He paused, as though reflecting on this last phrase. 'And I did my job, and those bastards welshed on the deal.'
'So you came back and killed Callaghan tonight?'
Hoxton's expression was impossible to read. 'Callaghan's dead, is he? I can't say I'm very sorry. However he died, I'd say he killed himself, wouldn't you?'
'Not if you pulled that trigger.'
'All a bit academic, anyhow. I'll soon be gone from here. You'll never find me.'
'We've had this discussion before,' Winterman said. 'I can't let you go.'
'Can't see as you've much choice.' Hoxton pushed the canvas bag across the table towards Winterman. 'But if I were you, I'd forget about me. I'm small fry. Concentrate on what's in there.'
Keeping his eyes fixed on Hoxton, Winterman slowly opened the bag. Inside where two large ring-bound files, each filled with typewritten papers.
'He was a meticulous man, Professor Callaghan,' Hoxton went on. 'Kept copies of everything. His own form of insurance policy. If he went down, he was going to make sure everyone else went with him. I stole one of his files when I broke into his house last year. I gave a few critical bits to Merriman to help him with his cause. But that was peanuts compared with what's in those files.'
Winterman pulled out one of the files and flicked through its pages. It was a mix of stuff – scientific papers, reports, letters, some yellowing photographs. None of it made any immediate sense to Winterman, but he recognised some of the names mentioned.
'Some interesting names, eh?' Hoxton said. 'One or two you came up against last time you went tilting at windmills. If you try again with that lot in your hands, you'll stand a much better job of knocking them down.'
It was true. Even his cursory glance had told him this was potential dynamite. All his suspicions about corruption had been true, had in fact been only a fraction of the truth.
'I've burned my bridges,' Winterman said. 'No one would believe me, whatever evidence I produced.'
'Go to Spooner. He might surprise you. But do it. You and me and him – we've got different reasons for wanting to bring them down. But we all want to do it. It's all yours.'
That was the issue. Hoxton was offering this as the price of his own freedom. The unspoken deal was that Winterman would take the evidence and turn a blind eye to the self-styled small fry. But Hoxton was a murderer. Whatever his state of mind, whatever his reasons, he was a killer of adults and children alike. Winterman had no right to let him go.
'I can't do it, you know. I can't let you walk free. You can't buy me off with this.'
'Never imagined I could, guv. Seen enough of your scruples to know how they work. That's why I had to make sure it was you got this. Spooner might have the clout to do something with it but he'd never have the balls to stick his head above the parapet alone.'
'So I'm placing you under arrest for–'
'Don't waste your time, guv. I'm going. You can't keep me here.' There was something in his tone Winterman found chilling. 'You got other things to worry about.'
'I told you, Hoxton, if you've touched–'
'I've done nothing. Everyone's safe. For the moment. But you might have been wondering where I was coming from when we found each other in the garden. Grand lad, that young Graham. I reckon he was bloody brave with his mam in that car. Even braver tonight.'
'What the bloody hell have you done with him?'
'He was very co-operative. Hardly awake when I took him from his bed. I brought him down here, got him to put on his wellingtons and took him over the road into the fields.'
'Tell me what you've done with him.'
'I took him across a couple of fields to one of the dykes. Spent a bit of time earlier reconnoitering and found one with some handy tree roots coming in to it. Would you believe I still had my police handcuffs? Meant I could cuff him to the roots at the bottom of the dyke – some water in there already so it's not the most comfortable place. I left him with his head well above water.' Hoxton glanced at the window behind him. 'But in this rain I don't know how long that'll last. Then there's the exposure to worry about. Poor kid was just in his pyjamas.'
'
You bastard.' Winterman was already rising from the table.
'I think we already knew that,' Hoxton agreed. 'But always practical. I reckon you've half an hour or so, but I wouldn't waste any time.'
'Tell me where he is.'
'You'll find him,' Hoxton said calmly. 'Two fields out to the south. There's a large tree. He's perhaps ten feet west of the tree. You'll find it even in this weather. If you're quick.'
'You're coming with me.' Winterman reached out to grab Hoxton, but the older man slipped back adroitly.
'I don't think so, old chum. I'm on my way. You try to stop me, you'll just waste more time.' Hoxton rose and, with infuriating calmness, made his way to the kitchen door. 'Good luck.'
Winterman was already pushing past him out into the pouring rain. Hoxton followed him out. This time, wary of what else Hoxton might contemplate, Winterman had taken the key and locked the door from the outside. 'Okay, then,' he said, 'if you're not coming with me, just go. Now. Before I do something we'd both regret.'
'Very wise, guv. I knew you were a smart one.' Hoxton thrust his flat cap back on his head. 'But good luck. I mean that. Good luck with everything.'
Chapter 85
It was the same dream. The same dream, yet again. Over and over again.
He could hear the child's voice echoing in his head. A strained voice, caught momentarily on the gusting wind. Calling out. A voice in need. Perhaps in pain. He stood in the back garden, the rain ripping through his clothes, straining his ears, peering into the darkness for some sign.
Then he was rushing out into the lane, jumping across the dyke – the same dyke where the second child's body had been left – stumbling across the uneven, mud-bound field. Peering into the dark for the tree that Hoxton had described. Listening for the voice he knew he must have imagined.
It was slow going on the sodden earth, but he finally reached the end of the first field and scrambled across another dyke, his feet dropping into the chill water. There was more mud, another field. At first he could see nothing. But at last he made out the angular branches of the tree, barely visible against the rain-filled sky. So early in spring the foliage was hardly grown. In the dark, the tree resembled a twisted skeleton, angled against the wind, buffeted by the rain.