A Place of Execution

by Val McDermid

  She took a deep breath and said what she knew Tommy would be thinking. ‘So George Bennett is about to become the father-in-law of the daughter of a man he was responsible for having hanged for the murder of her mother. Except that Helen hadn’t actually been born at the time when her father was supposed to have murdered her mother.’ Put like that, she thought, it made Oedipus Rex sound like an everyday story of country folk.

  ‘So it would seem,’ Tommy said. He drained his glass and reached over to the sideboard for the whiskey bottle.

  ‘I know this sounds crazy…but it looks like Ruth and Alison conspired to have Philip arrested.’

  Tommy slowly poured out another stiff Bushmills. He sipped at it, looking directly at her from under his bushy eyebrows. Then he lowered the glass and said, ‘At the very least, Catherine. At the very least.’ She tipped more red wine into her glass. Her hand was shaking, she noticed. This was more than the best story she’d ever stumbled across—it was a tragedy with the potential to reach out across thirty-five years and blight a second generation of lives who had no idea their history was so dramatically charged. She was in a position at once terrifying and exhilarating. She didn’t think she was entirely to be trusted with the information she already possessed; she was almost glad Tommy was there to act as a brake on her wilder instincts. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Good question,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of those.’

  ‘I think there’s only one real option. I think we have to walk away right now and forget the whole thing. Leave Alison Carter—if it is her—in peace. Let Helen and Paul get married without a cloud on the horizon.’

  ‘No way,’ Catherine protested. ‘I can’t ignore this. It turns one of the most significant legal cases of the post-war years on its head. It screws up an important legal precedent.’

  ‘Spare me all that, Catherine,’ Tommy said angrily. ‘You don’t give a damn about legal precedents.

  All you can see is the scoop of a lifetime and the money you can make off it. Can’t you see how many lives you’re going to destroy if you go public with this? You leave George with his reputation in tatters. You destroy Paul and Helen’s future, not to mention shattering Helen’s life completely. How’s she going to feel when she finds out her sister is really her mother, and the woman she thought was her mother conspired to have her father killed? And then there’s Janis, or Alison or whatever you want to call her. You expose her to prosecution for conspiracy to commit murder. All that just so you can have your fifteen minutes of fame?’ He was shouting now, his presence filling the room and leaving Catherine breathless.

  She swallowed hard and said, ‘So I’m just supposed to write off the last six months of my life? I’ve got a stake in this, too, Tommy. You were the one who talked to me about the importance of justice. How you left the police because you reckoned they couldn’t deliver justice. And now you’re saying, fuck justice, fuck truth, I’m going to protect my reputation and cover up the fact that me and my boss got an innocent man hanged?’ Now she was as angry as he was.

  Tommy tossed back some whiskey and tried to suppress his anger. ‘This is not about me, Catherine. It’s about a good man and his innocent family. None of them deserve to have their lives destroyed over something that should have been dead and buried thirty-five years ago. Listen, you don’t have to waste the last six months. You can still publish your book as it is and let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘But George didn’t want to let sleeping dogs lie. He’s got more integrity than you have, Tommy.

  He wanted the book suppressed because it isn’t the truth.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘He was acting on the spur of the moment. When he’s had time to think things over, he’ll see the sense in letting it go ahead.’

  ‘You mean when you’ve talked him into it,’ Catherine said savagely. ‘That’s not good enough any more. Tommy. I can wipe the e–mail off my computer, but I can’t erase the knowledge in my head.

  I’m going to find out the truth, and actually, you can’t stop me.’

  There was a long silence. Tommy felt his hands bunch into fists and struggled to straighten his fingers. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, ‘Maybe I can’t stop you. But I can certainly trash you when the book comes out. I can tell the press about how you exploited a man on a life-support machine. I can talk about how you deliberately took advantage of George Bennett’s incapacity to stitch up him and his family. You won’t look so much like a crusader for justice when I’m finished with you, I promise. You’ll look as shabby as Philip Hawkin.’

  Neither of them moved, glaring like two dogs in a Mexican standoff. At last, Catherine spoke.

  ‘Neither of us has any right to make the decision without George,’ she said, forcing herself to sound calm. ‘We don’t even know if we’re right. Before we can go any further, we need to speak to Alison Carter.’

  Tommy turned from her eyes and stared at the photographs on the wall. Alison Carter, George Bennett, Ruth Carter, Philip Hawkin. In his heart, he knew she was right. It wasn’t their choice to make alone. And no choice so important should be made in the dark. He sighed. ‘All right.

  Tomorrow, we’ll go to Scardale and get some answers.’

  53

  August 1998

  Tommy stood on Catherine’s doorstep at eight the next morning. When she opened the door, he thought she looked as if she’d had as little sleep as he’d managed. ‘You’re early,’ she said, stepping back and letting him in. ‘Alison’s not going to be thrilled to see us at this time.’

  ‘We’re not going to Scardale yet,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not?’

  ‘No. I promised Anne I’d go back to the hospital this morning. I want to do that first. And I want you to drive me there,’ Tommy said, helping himself to the toast on Catherine’s plate.

  ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ she said, surprised to find herself amused rather than irritated. ‘I get it. You don’t trust me to wait for you to come back. You think I’ll shoot off on my own and get the whole story out ofAlison.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘Funnily enough, you’re wrong. Any more toast?’

  ‘I’ll make some.’

  He followed her through to the kitchen. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s something to do with me not being as young as I was. I drove more yesterday than I do in an average month back home, and I never sleep well in a strange bed. The long and short of it, Catherine, is that I’d rather be driven than have to drive all the way to Derby and back.’ She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and said approvingly, ‘Good pitch, Tommy. I almost believe you.’ She grinned at the hurt look on his face. ‘It’s all right, of course I’ll drive you to Derby. Whatever Janis Wainwright’s got to say isn’t going to change between now and then.’ They said little on the drive to Derby, both lost in their own thoughts. Catherine was still racking her brains to come up with a strategy for the 382 meeting that lay ahead in Scardale. She had stayed up long past midnight, smoking, drinking and thinking. She had always believed that a large part of the success of any interview lay in how thorough the preparation had been. But no matter how she turned over in her head what she and Tommy now knew, she couldn’t think of a way of approaching this story that would actually produce the truth. Janis Wainwright still had too much to lose. Their first surprise of the day came when Tommy told the intensive care nurse that he’d come to see his brother-in-law, George Bennett. ‘He’s not with us any longer,’ the nurse said, consulting a clipboard on her desk. For a moment, Tommy felt his own heart constrict in his chest. ‘That can’t be right. He’d come round last night. I saw his eyes open.’ The nurse smiled. ‘That’s right. We’ve moved him to another ward because he’s out of immediate danger now.’ She directed them to the cardiac care ward where George had been transferred. ‘Tact and diplomacy by the NHS,’ Catherine said drily. They turned the corner of the corridor and found the ward they were looking for. Tommy peered through
the window in the door. There were four beds in the room, two unoccupied. By the window, he spotted Anne sitting by a bed, obscuring the occupant, who appeared to be propped up in a half-sitting position. Tommy turned back to Catherine. ‘I think you should wait outside.’

  Reluctantly, she agreed. ‘There’s a cafeteria on the sixth floor. I’ll wait there for you.’ She took her tape recorder out of her pocket. ‘I don’t suppose…?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘This is between me and George. You needn’t worry, though. I won’t lie to you.’

  He watched her walk off towards the lifts, then he squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.

  As he drew near, he could see George’s face. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had looked one step away from a corpse only the night before. Although he still looked exhausted, there was some colour in his cheeks, and the dark circles under his eyes were less prominent. When he caught sight of Tommy, his face brightened in a wide smile.

  ‘Tommy Clough,’ George said, his voice weak but recognizably pleased. ‘And there was me thinking I’d died and gone to hell when I opened my eyes and saw you staring down at me.’

  Tommy reached out and clasped his old boss’s hand in both of his. ‘I reckon it was the shock of hearing my voice that woke you up.’

  ‘Damn right. I knew I couldn’t trust a ladies’ man like you around my Anne without me to chaperone.’

  ‘George,’ Anne scolded. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say to Tommy when he’s come all this way to see you.’

  ‘Pay no attention to him, Anne, he’s obviously still delirious. How are you feeling, George?’

  ‘Knackered, if you want the truth. I’ve never been so weary in all my born days.’

  ‘You gave us all a bit of a fright,’ Tommy said. ‘Sorry about that. Mind you, if I’d known this was the way to prise you out of your hermit’s existence, I’d have done it years ago,’ said George.

  Tommy and Anne exchanged looks, both glad that George, weak as he was, hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

  ‘Aye, well, I won’t be such a stranger in future. It was Catherine who told me, you know. She drove all the way up to Northumberland to break the news.’

  George nodded, the light in his eyes dimming. ‘I should have guessed,’ he said. ‘Anne, my love, would you do me a favour? Would you leave me and Tommy alone for a bit? Not long, quarter of an hour or so? It’s just that…we’ve things to talk about, love.’

  Anne frowned. ‘They said you weren’t to tire yourself, George.’

  ‘I know. But I’ll do myself more harm fretting than I will by talking to Tommy. Trust me, my love. I’m not dicing with death again.’

  He reached for her hand and patted it gently. ‘I’ll explain it all, I promise. But not now.’

  Anne pursed her lips in disapproval. But she got to her feet. ‘Don’t you wear him out now, Tommy.’ She turned back to George. ‘I’ll go and phone Paul and tell him they should come over this afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks, my love.’ George’s eyes followed her to the door. Then, with a sigh, he told Tommy to sit down. ‘I was afraid she wouldn’t give it up,’ he said. ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘We don’t know much, but I think we’ve more or less worked it out.’ Tommy gave a brief outline of Catherine’s investigation. ‘It doesn’t leave a lot of room for doubt,’ he concluded.

  ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? But I knew as soon as I clapped eyes on her,’ George said. ‘I lived with that face for eight months and it haunted me for years. I knew that whatever she might be calling herself, the woman in Scardale Manor was Alison Carter. And then I realized who Helen had to be.’ His eyes closed and his chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths.

  He opened his eyes on Tommy’s concern. ‘I’m OK,’ he reassured him.

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Take your time. I’m in no hurry.’

  George managed a faint smile. ‘No, but I bet Catherine is. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of stopping her?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She’s a tough cookie. Last night, I got her to promise that she would consult you before she made any decisions about what to do. But the promise had a price.

  I’ve got to go to Scardale with her to confront the woman we all believe is Alison. Catherine’s adamant that we need all the facts, and I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘I don’t care on my own account,’

  George said. ‘It’s Paul and Helen I’m bothered about. We made a terrible mistake before they were even born, but they’re the ones who’ll end up paying for it. I can’t see how they can survive it all coming out. And I don’t see how Anne could forgive me for the damage it’d cause them.’

  ‘I know. And it’s not just them, George. It’s Alison too. Whatever she’s done, it’s already cost her more than we’ll ever know. They could still prosecute her for conspiracy, and I don’t reckon she deserves that.’

  ‘So what’s to be done, Tommy? I’m no bloody use, lying here.’ Tommy shook his head, unable to hide his frustration. ‘I reckon we’ll have a better idea once we’ve heard what Alison has to say for herself.’

  ‘Do what you can.’ George’s voice was growing weaker. ‘I’m tired now.

  You’d best be off.’

  Tommy stood up. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  George nodded. ‘You always did, Tommy. No reason to expect any different now.’

  Feeling twenty years older than he had a mere day before, Tommy walked out of the room towards an encounter he had never expected that side of the grave. The last time he’d felt this burden on his shoulders had been during the construction of the case against Philip Hawkin. This time, he hoped he’d make a better job of it.

  54

  August 1998

  The weather had swung back to the dismal grey skies and intense showers that had been the hallmark of most of the summer. As they turned down the Scardale road, a sudden torrent of water spilled over the car, turning the tarmac ahead into a swirl of shallow flood water. ‘Great day for it,’

  Tommy said laconically. He felt a turbulent mixture of emotions. His curiosity was stirred by the prospect of uncovering the final truth, but he was apprehensive of the possible consequences of those revelations. He was aware of his responsibility towards George and his family, and uncertain if he could fulfil that obligation. And he felt enormous pity for the woman whose sanctuary they were about to destroy. He wished with all his heart that George had never agreed to break his silence. Or that he had chosen a less intelligent and tenacious writer to work with.

  For her part, Catherine refused to allow herself to consider anything other than how she was going to get Janis Wainwright to tell the truth. There would be plenty of time to figure out what she would do with the information once she’d garnered it. Her job now was to make sure that whatever decisions were taken later, they were made in full possession of the facts. She checked her small tape recorder, tucked into the pocket of her linen blazer. All she had to do was to depress the ‘record’ and ‘play’ buttons together and she’d have a perfect record of what Janis Wainwright—or rather, Alison Carter—had to say. They drew up outside the manor, Catherine parking across the drive so Janis couldn’t escape except on foot. In silence, they waited for the shower to pass, then squelched across the grass to the path leading to the kitchen door.

  Tommy let the knocker fall. The door opened almost at once. Without the handicap of the sun, Catherine was able to take a proper look at the woman who faced them, a guarded look in her eyes.

  The scar was incontrovertible. Almost beyond question, this was Alison Carter. The woman opened her mouth to speak but Tommy held up his hand and shook his head. ‘I’m Tommy Clough.

  Formerly Detective Sergeant Clough. We’d like to come in for a chat.’

  The woman shook her head. The door began to inch shut. Tommy placed his large hand against it, not quite pushing, but preventing it closing further unless she lean
ed her weight against it. ‘Don’t slam the door in our faces, Alison,’ he said, his voice firm but gentle. ‘Remember, Catherine’s a journalist. She already knows enough to write one version of the story. There’s no statute of limitation on conspiracy to commit murder. And what Catherine’s in a position to write now means you could still face prosecution.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ she blurted, her face closed down in panic, the hand that wasn’t holding the door creeping up automatically to her cheek.

  Sometimes, Catherine thought, brutality was the only effective route left. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll just have to see what Helen can tell me.’ The woman’s eyes blazed momentary anger, then her shoulders rose and fell in a resigned shrug. She stepped to one side, holding the door open as her mother must have done hundreds of times before her. ‘Better I correct whatever rubbish you think you know than you go upsetting Helen without due cause,’ she said, her voice cold and harsh.

  Tommy stood just inside the threshold as she closed the door behind them. ‘You’ve made some changes here,’ he said, looking round at the farmhouse kitchen that could have featured in a period homes magazine with almost no set dressing.

  ‘Nothing to do with me. When my aunt owned it, she had the kitchen done out for her tenants,’ she said brusquely.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Tommy said. Beside him, Catherine surreptitiously pressed the buttons on her tape recorder. ‘Hawkin was happy to spend his money on his photography—or on you, Alison, but he never spent a shilling on your mother’s comfort.’

  ‘Why do you keep calling me Alison?’ she demanded, back to the wall, arms folded over her chest, the smile on her face attempting to demonstrate an ease she clearly didn’t feel. ‘My name is Janis Wainwright.’

  ‘Too late, Alison.’ Catherine noisily pulled out a chair and sat down at the waxed pine table. If Tommy had decided that today he was playing Good Cop, she was more than willing to take up the Bad Cop role. ‘You should have trotted out the puzzled act when Tommy called you Alison the first time. You just looked shocked, not confused. You didn’t say, ‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong house, there’s no Alison lives here.’’ Alison glared at her. For the first time, Catherine noticed how much she resembled her mother. In the photographs she’d seen, Ruth must have been ten years younger than Alison was now, though she’d looked older. ‘You’re very like your mother,’