Know No Evil

by Hampton Graeme

  However, despite Walters’ apparent certainty, something didn’t add up…

  Molly asked: ‘Apart from the assault at work, did Ferguson have any other convictions?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘No. There was nothing on the system. Of course, it’s entirely possible he had committed other violent crimes and we just didn’t know about them, or hadn’t connected them to Ferguson.’

  ‘But there was no previous history of violence, particularly sexual violence? Something must have happened to turn him into a rapist and murderer. It couldn’t have come entirely out of the blue. What did the forensic psychologist think?’

  ‘He said there was probably a trigger point: problems at home, death of a loved one, something like that. Only Ferguson knows the real reason, and I suspect he’ll take that particular secret with him to the grave.’

  Molly cocked her head at Walters and offered him a shy smile. ‘Ken, I appreciate it must have been a difficult time for you, but I have to ask, did you ever have any doubts about the case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though he had an alibi for one of the murders?’

  He stared at her, his eyes magnified by his thick lenses. ‘As I’ve already told you, the right man is in jail for those crimes. And jail is the best place for him.’

  She persisted, gently but with a look that said she wasn’t going to give up easily. ‘Are you absolutely certain there’s nothing that in hindsight could have been missed? Something that may have seemed inconsequential at the time, but looking back now feels significant?’

  He removed his glasses again and polished the lenses with the corner of his cardigan. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, Molly, but we conducted a thorough and detailed investigation at the time. Thousands of man hours were spent going over every little detail, examining whatever evidence had, poring over hours and hours of CCTV footage. I can assure you, nothing was missed.’

  His tone had changed: the smiley benevolent granddad had become the hard-edged detective inspector from twelve years ago. ‘Most of this information can be found on the Police National Computer, you know. Or even the internet for that matter. Perhaps you’d be better off looking there for help with your essay?’ He replaced his glasses and sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

  The implication was clear: their conversation had come to a natural conclusion.

  Molly smiled and thanked him for his time. He politely smiled back and showed her to the front door.

  ‘If you do remember anything else, please get in touch, she said, as he held the door open for her. ‘You’ve got my mobile number.’

  He held onto the front door, tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white. He said he’d give her a call if anything came back to him.

  As she heard the door click shut behind her, she contemplated the long tube journey back to Dalston and the lies she’d told her boss. And not just her boss. She felt a twinge of guilt at misleading an old man who had earned peace in his retirement. Forcing him to dredge up memories he’d clearly wanted to confine to the dustbin of his own personal history had been a form of cruelty.

  She was sure Kenneth Walters was a decent man, but she was equally sure he’d been holding something back. It wasn’t that he’d lied to her, rather she suspected he simply hadn’t told her the whole truth. An alibi, however weak… It was worth chasing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a 1980s estate of narrow, mellow brick houses with short driveways and neat little gardens. A group of children playing on their bikes stared blankly at Denning as he drove past. An ice-cream van tinkled its merry tune somewhere in a nearby street.

  11 Avonbrook Close was indistinguishable from its Surrey Quays neighbours. It hadn’t changed much since he and Claire had purchased it eight years earlier. Except there was a smart new Lexus parked in the driveway, which Denning doubted belonged to his ex-wife.

  He’d dropped Neeraj back at the station with instructions to get hold of Samantha Haddon, and to find out everything they could about Daryl Bailey. Denning hadn’t bought that guff about Bailey preferring the benevolent altruism of school coaching over the giddy kudos of professional football. Something stank like rotting fish, and Denning was determined to uncover the truth behind Daryl Bailey’s fall from glory.

  Denning paused for a second before ringing the doorbell. He could hear voices inside the house, not raised but loud enough to be audible through the double glazing. One was Claire’s, soft and mellifluous, if slightly highly pitched; the other he didn’t recognise, but belonged to a man.

  The voices stopped the moment the doorbell chimed. A few seconds later, his ex-wife answered the door, twitching her face into a tight smile. She was wearing a summery dress with primroses on the front and a pale blue belt tied smartly round the waist. Her strawberry-blonde hair was slightly dishevelled as though she’d just got out of bed. She blinked as the sun hit her face.

  ‘What do you want, Matt?’ Her voice only betrayed the faintest hint of annoyance.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She stood in the doorway for a few seconds, blocking it with her slender frame, throwing a brief glance in the direction of her neighbours, before stepping aside to let him in.

  He made his way into the kitchen/dining room at the back of the house, where the voices had been coming from. A tall, toned man with a heavy tan and a couple of days’ worth of stubble round his chin was standing by the sink, sipping coffee out of what had once been Denning’s favourite mug. He flashed an even-toothed smile, placed the mug on the worktop and extended a hand in Denning’s direction.

  ‘You must be Matt.’ His firm handshake seemed to go with the beaming smile and the burnished features. He was dressed in an expensive D&G open-necked shirt and designer jeans; a silver Rolex, possibly fake, clasped to his wrist. ‘Alan Marsden.’

  Denning reckoned Marsden was in his late thirties, perhaps a well-maintained early forties. He oozed the kind of smarmy confidence that so often passed for charm. It was possible he’d popped round to sell Claire insurance, or a conservatory, or to read the electricity meter. However, Denning suspected Marsden’s relationship with his ex-wife was of a more intimate nature.

  Claire was standing by the kitchen door now; eyes jumping from Denning to Marsden and back again.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Jake,’ Denning said. ‘Preferably in private.’ Looking out the kitchen window, he saw his son chasing a football round the yellow lawn. Jake was young for his age; small and wiry, and prone to mood swings. Every time Denning saw him he was reminded of the fact he was only a part-time presence in his life.

  Marsden nodded at Claire, the smile remaining a fixed feature on his face. ‘I’ll call you later, babe.’ He reached out and kissed her on the mouth, then turned to Denning. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Matt. Maybe we can chat over a beer sometime…?’

  Denning nodded back at Marsden, then sat down at the kitchen table. He heard the front door click shut, followed a minute later by the sound of the Lexus reversing out of the driveway.

  Claire headed to the sink and began rinsing Marsden’s coffee mug under the tap. The kitchen stank of bleach and Cif. His ex-wife hated mess. It was one of the things that had irritated him during their eight-year marriage. These days he and Sarah employed a cleaner and let the mess take care of itself.

  ‘When were you planning to tell me you were seeing someone?’

  ‘That’s really none of your business.’ She dried the mug with a tea towel and placed it down on the worktop with a nervous thump.

  ‘Is he staying here?’

  ‘Now that really is none of your damned business.’

  He took that as a yes. ‘If it affects Jake, then it’s my business.’

  She fussed around the spotless kitchen, refusing to give him eye contact. ‘My private life stopped being your business four years ago on the day you walked out on me and Jake. I don’t ask questions about you and her, so why should I explain my private life to yo
u?’ She was wiping a cloth over the worktops, rubbing at an imagined mark beside the hob. This was Claire’s coping mechanism: whenever she was upset or had to face confrontation, she would clean. Sometimes it was just dusting or emptying half-full wastepaper baskets; other times the vacuum cleaner would come out and any attempts at conversation would be drowned out by the din. ‘Alan’s just stopping here until his place is finished. He’s got building work going on and it’s all running behind schedule.’

  Denning didn’t care about Marsden’s domestic problems, and he was determined to avoid a fight, but he was fully prepared to stand his ground.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got the time or the energy for another argument. I just wanted some clarity with regards to Jake. We agreed I would have him this weekend. I don’t know how much free time I’m going to have over the next few weeks.’ He didn’t go into detail about the murder investigation; he doubted Claire would be interested if he did. ‘Plus, it’s important for Jake to have stability in his life.’ He glanced out the window. Jake was still kicking the football around the compact garden, humming to himself as he played. ‘He would have been looking forward to seeing me. It’s not fair to disappoint him like that.’

  Claire had her back to him now, scrubbing away at the stainless steel sink, obliterating invisible dirt. ‘Alan said he’d take him to LazerWorld in Leicester Square. He told Jake before he checked with me, and we can’t disappoint him now, can we? Besides, he never likes being around Sarah. She always makes him feel unwelcome.’

  It was lie laced with a spice of truth: Sarah made an effort with Jake, but it was obvious she was making an effort and kids picked up on these things, especially kids as sensitive as Jake.

  ‘He could go to LazerWorld next week.’ He looked out of the kitchen window again. Jake was playing with a neighbour’s cat now, stroking it far too hard and pulling on its tail. The cat, a fat ginger beast with white fluffy fur round its ears, didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘He’s going with a couple of his friends. It’s too late to change things now.’ She stopped scrubbing the spotless sink and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. I realise it means messing you around, but Jake comes first. Besides, when I phoned Sarah, she didn’t seem to think it would be a problem.’

  ‘That’s another thing. Why did you phone Sarah? If you can’t get hold of me on the mobile, then leave a message.’ He could feel the anger creeping into his voice. ‘You only phoned Sarah because you knew she wouldn’t kick up a fuss.’

  ‘That’s not true. I wanted to speak to you. I thought you’d have been home from work when I rang.’ He knew she was lying. Claire hated confrontation, and Sarah would have given her a much easier time than he would have done. But he decided to let it lie; there was no point in provoking yet another argument. He’d learned by now which battles were worth fighting, and which ones he should just walk away from. ‘How’s he been lately?’

  Claire stopped cleaning and rinsed the cloth under the tap before squeezing it dry and folding it neatly beside the taps. ‘He’s fine. He’s always fine. The new medication is calming him down. He’s even looking forward to going back to school next month.’

  It had been over three years since Jake had been diagnosed with ADHD and autism spectrum disorder, after the five years of being fobbed off by doctors and teachers and told he was simply ‘disruptive’. A child psychologist had pointed them in the direction of an accurate diagnosis, after which medicine and a change of school had helped turn Jake from a ‘disruptive’ child into a happier and much calmer one. That had been until recently. Having seen the super-smooth Alan Marsden standing in his ex-wife’s kitchen, sipping coffee and oozing oleaginous charm, he began to see why Jake might be feeling a little unsettled of late.

  ‘How does Jake get on with Alan?’

  She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. ‘Jake likes him.’ She twisted her lips into another smile. ‘Alan’s good with Jake. He never had kids of his own. His marriage ended badly, and now he wants to move on and build a new life for himself. And I can relate to that.’ She smiled again, more warmly this time, her expression almost propitiatory, remembering perhaps the good times rather than the bad. ‘You’ll like Alan, if you get to know him.’

  Denning had no plans to get to know Alan Marsden. He only wanted to know what his role was going to be in his son’s life. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

  She tidied a strand of loose hair behind her ear. ‘A couple of months. I was waiting until things were more settled before I told you.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer him; insist it was none of his business.

  ‘He runs a property development company,’ she said a moment later, then adding, ‘he’s very successful.’

  Denning remembered the shiny new Lexus parked in the drive. If material wealth were a qualifying factor for approval, Alan Marsden would pass with flying colours.

  At some level, Denning had known this point was always going to come, as inevitable as it was unavoidable. Ever since their divorce four years ago, he knew it was only a matter of time before Claire found someone else. That someone would be more than just a new partner: he would fulfil a fatherly role in Jake’s life, whether Denning liked it or not. It would mean awkward conversations and perpetual compromise, but he was prepared to jump through any hoops if it meant keeping Jake in his life.

  ‘I’m always here for Jake,’ he said. For the briefest of seconds he thought about reaching across the table and taking hold of her hand, but quickly decided against it. Claire was vulnerable at the best of times, and a well-meant gesture could so easily be open to misunderstanding.

  He stood up and walked over to the French windows. Jake had grown bored with the cat now, and had returned to his football, banging it over and over against the fence that bordered the neighbour’s garden. The neighbour, a widow in her seventies, was tolerant and understanding, but that tolerance would only stretch so far…

  ‘Why don’t you let him play with the other children in the street? I saw two or three of them when I pulled into the close.’

  She looked away and shook her head. ‘He doesn’t like them. They used to bully him, and one of them accused Jake of hitting him. It was a lie, but the boy’s mother kicked up merry hell. Threatened to call the police.’

  In all probability it wasn’t a lie. It was likely Jake had hit the boy, possibly provoked by childish name-calling, but the damage had been done: Jake was already branded an outcast simply for being different.

  After a few seconds Jake noticed him standing in the kitchen. He abandoned the football and ran to his dad. Denning opened the sliding doors and crouched down to greet his son.

  Jake threw his arms round Denning’s neck and shouted in his ear, demanding his daddy give him a piggy back ride round the garden. Denning kissed Jake on the head and gently unwound his arms from his neck. ‘It’s great to see you, little fella, but Daddy can’t stay for long.’

  ‘Aww…’

  He looked at his son. In so many ways he reminded Denning of himself when he was younger: a loner from an early age, preferring the company of books and computer games to spending time with other children. Unlike his older brother, Tom, who got on with everyone he met, and sailed through life without any effort. At least Jake had friends now that he’d joined a new school, albeit with other children who society had deemed as being ‘different’.

  ‘Do you want to beat Daddy at one of your computer games?’

  From behind him in the kitchen he could hear Claire clicking her tongue in disapproval. ‘It’ll be time for his lunch soon.’

  ‘Ten minutes. No longer.’ He followed Jake through to the living room and waited until he switched on the telly and loaded up his PlayStation. After a few seconds the screen filled with images of zombies and aliens. ‘I want to be the aliens,’ Jake said, and who was Denning to disappoint his son?

  After Denning had spent ten minutes trying unsuccessfu
lly trying to stop an alien apocalypse, Claire appeared in the kitchen doorway, announcing that lunch was ready.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to stay?’ she asked Denning. It was clear from her tone that the anticipated answer was ‘no’.

  Denning got to his feet, ruffled his son’s hair and playfully punched him on the arm. Jake recoiled and pulled a face. ‘Daddy’s got to go back to work, little fella, but we’ll go out together soon. How would you like to visit the Planetarium?’

  Jake nodded his approval, though Denning suspected he had little idea of what the Planetarium was.

  Claire told Jake to go into the kitchen and wash his hands. Once he was out of earshot, she turned to Denning. ‘You shouldn’t wind him up like that,’ Claire said sullenly. ‘He’ll be counting the days now until you next take him out.’

  ‘Well, that’ll make two of us.’ He took a deep breath and waited for his shoulders to untense. ‘Look, Claire, I don’t want an argument. I just want Jake to know I’m part of his life, despite all the other shit that might be happening at the moment. I want him to know he’s got a daddy who loves him.’

  ‘What can I say?’ She leant against the kitchen doorway. ‘You walked out on us. It’s just possible he may never forgive you for that.’

  * * *

  Back in his car Denning felt his chest tighten. Thinking about Marsden, and the role he might have in Jake’s life, he considered running a PNC check on his wife’s new partner. But was this bordering on paranoia? Marsden seemed decent enough; smarmy and up himself perhaps, but maybe that said more about Denning’s own prejudice than he cared to admit.

  He no longer had any claim to Claire’s affections: she was a free agent and could see whoever she liked.

  Jake, on the other hand…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Molly poured herself a black coffee and took it back to her desk. Although she tried to keep her workspace tidy, it somehow managed to act as a magnet for clutter. The present assortment of debris included a smattering of Post-it notes; a selection of A5 writing pads, some of which contained pages of scribbled notes she had yet to transfer to her computer; a stack of old Tesco’s receipts; an unopened box of staples; a broken stapler, and a crumpled tissue. The only personal touches consisted of a miniature cactus plant in a bright yellow pot and a framed photograph of her and Jon on holiday in Vegas three years ago. Happy times.