by Alex Walters
After what seemed like an eternity of dragging his feet through the uneven mud-covered terrain, he reached it. The dyke was behind it, wider and deeper than the two he had crossed already. He stumbled along its edge, shining his torch down into the murky water.
The pale face of a child, staring.
'Sam!' He had called out before he could stop himself. Realising, he shouted again. 'Graham! It's me. You're safe now.'
He stumbled down the edge of the dyke, struggling to remain upright on the slippery ground. Then he was beside Graham, who was staring back at him, silent, with terrified eyes. It took Winterman a moment to see where Graham had been tethered to the root. Winterman had no keys to the handcuffs, so he grabbed the thick root in both hands and pulled as hard as he could. He had no knife or other implement to cut the thick strands and for an awful moment he was convinced it would prove too tough for him. But finally, to his relief, the root moved, twisted and then broke in his grip.
Just as he had done in the floods, he gathered Graham into his arms and dragged the child's body out of the dyke towards the rain-soaked ground. Both of them were caked in mud, and the ceaseless downpour rendered the slope back up to the field almost unclimbable. It seemed as if it would be impossible to reach solid ground, but then with a heave he succeeded in lifting Graham on to the bank and was able to scramble up beside him.
Pausing just a second to regain his breath, he lifted Graham again and stumbled slowly back towards the lights of the house. 'You're safe now.'
Graham looked to be unconscious, and he knew he was speaking only to himself. But also, perhaps, Winterman thought, he was speaking to another child who could no longer hear his voice.
Chapter 86
'The question,' Spooner said, 'is why do you think you can trust me?'
Winterman watched him from across the table. 'You came highly recommended.'
Spooner smiled as though they were sharing some private joke. 'You can, of course. Trust me, I mean. But there's no way you can be sure of it.'
'I'm not sure it much matters.' Winterman waved his hand towards the files on the table between them. 'There's nothing I can do with this on my own. No one would listen. If I can't trust you, there's nobody else. So I don't see I've got much to lose.'
'That's probably true.'
'And there were a couple of other things I began to think about. First, it was you who sent me out to the back of beyond, supposedly to keep me out of mischief. Yet there were some pretty odd things already happening out in Framley. Why send out someone who's got a reputation for stirring up trouble?'
'Just my lousy judgment, I suppose.'
'Must be. Then, after we'd got Hoxton in the frame for everything, you went to a lot of trouble to warn me off.'
'Much good it did me.' Spooner leaned back in his large leather chair. He was toying with an unlit, expensive looking cigar.
'Some might think it was rank bad tactics on your part, given my well-known dislike for being warned off. Counterproductive, even.'
'I take if you've some point other than criticism of my management style?' Spooner put the cigar to his lips, but showed no sign of lighting it.
'Then, just when I'd almost decided not to rock the boat, I receive a set of photographs implying a different kind of threat.'
Spooner raised an eyebrow. 'Really? Did you report this?'
'Not yet. But again, oddly enough, it proved counterproductive. Started me rocking the boat all over again.'
'Glad it's not just me showing bad judgment then. And your point is?'
'That perhaps you're rather good at delegation.'
'Important quality in a manager. Anyway, however it happened, you've uncovered quite a hornet's nest.' Winterman tapped the uppermost file gently. 'This is big stuff, you know. Goes right to the top.'
'Though much of it's unsubstantiated. It depends a lot on Callaghan's word.'
'Even the circumstantial stuff is pretty strong. Perhaps not something that would stand up in a court of law, but it'll never come to that. This is about credibility. There's enough there to force resignations.'
'Up to the chief?'
'Would that please you?'
Winterman considered the question for a moment. 'I don't think he should carry the can just because it happened on his watch. But if he was up to his neck in it as well, then yes.'
Spooner reached into his desk and pulled out an ornate desk lighter. He ritualistically prepared to light the cigar. 'You know, I've been waiting a long time for this. This place has been rotten for years. I've seen good people – people like you – come in and either get turned or crushed. I've seen the buddying that went on between the chief and the likes of Hamshaw. Even during the war, when we should have been pulling together, they were just lining their pockets.' He finally succeeded in lighting the cigar. 'The best you could hope for is that people like me would keep their heads down. I've spent twenty years keeping my head down.'
'What you going to do with the files?'
'I've already shown them to the local MP, the Labour man. He's fully behind it. The way things are going, the Government's only too keen to find any opportunity to rubbish the old lot. He'll get the Labour councillors on our side. It'll happen.'
'I hope so. What about Hoxton?'
'We've put out a nationwide alert. But I'm not hopeful. Hoxton will be pretty adept at disappearing. I suspect he managed to extract a sizeable sum of money from Callaghan. Probably encouraged Callaghan to think he could buy him off.'
'Before killing him.'
'We don't know that for sure. Everything was consistent with suicide. Callaghan's fingerprints on the gun. The angle of the impact.'
'That was Pyke's judgment, was it?'
Spooner blew a cloud of smoke across the room. 'Doctor Pyke didn't reach a definitive judgment. But yes, everything consistent with suicide.'
'And we're supposed to believe Hamshaw committed suicide the same evening? Some coincidence.'
'Perhaps not so much if they both thought the jig was up. It seems likely Hoxton visited both of them with the aim of extorting money. Perhaps they both realised they couldn't keep the lid on this forever.'
'So that's it? Two suicides, a few discreet resignations or early retirements. We're talking about medical experiments on children, child murders, child molestation.'
'It's the best way. It's the only way. The more this is forced out into the open, the more they'll close ranks.'
'And what about you?'
'What about me, old son?'
'This won't do your career any harm, will it. Clear out a few spaces above you. Make a few new friends in high places. All without sticking your head above the parapet.'
Spooner blew another cloud of smoke, this time closer to Winterman's head. He was unsmiling. 'It's an ill wind, lad. And maybe you're right. Maybe I am good at delegating.'
Chapter 87
Mary sleeping on the far side of the bed.
We need to think about the future, Winterman thought. We need to decide what we're going to do. There must be options. If not divorce, then annulment. Something that would allow him to get free. It wasn't that he wanted to shirk his responsibilities. He was resigned to caring for Gwyneth. But he wanted a future. A future with Mary.
He didn't even know what his own future held. His first thought after his conversation with Spooner had been to resign. Leave the force, try to breathe some cleaner, less-tainted air.
But where would that be? What else could he do? And whatever he might think of Spooner, one phrase from their conversation had lodged in his mind. Those good people – the good policemen – who had been turned or crushed by the force of the culture around them.
Those were officers like Paul Marsh. Perhaps even officers like Bryan Brain, doggedly doing their bit without thanks or recognition. And officers like Jimmy, Mary's late husband. Winterman had no idea whether Jimmy's death had indeed been an accident – yet another coincidence – or whether he was another who had come a lit
tle too close to the truth.
They would probably never know. Just as they'd probably never know whether Gary had really been one of Callaghan's victims, or just another senseless accidental death. But that was the point. All you could do was keep chasing the truth.
Winterman owed it to Jimmy and to Paul Marsh, and to all the others like them, to carry on. Do his bit. Ensure that, whatever else happened, he wasn't turned and he wasn't crushed.
Wide awake, he climbed out of bed and, as so many times before, made his way to the window. The dreams seemed to have stopped. He no longer saw the pale staring face, heard the thin strained voice. No longer endured the ceaseless pounding of the rain. No longer woke with the same empty sense of loss.
The sky outside was clear, reddening with the first signs of dawn over the flat expanse of the fens. Another fine day to come. Behind him, he could hear Mary's calm breathing, content in the depths of undisturbed sleep. Ahead, the landscape stretched out, featureless to the horizon. Winterman stood, his mind for once at rest, waiting patiently for the first bright rays of the sun.
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