The first few witnesses were almost routine, presenting the incontrovertible forensic proof that linked Kenneth McCrae to the murders, and proving beyond reasonable doubt that he was culpable. There then followed a procession of prosecution psychiatrists whose reports demonstrated, in their opinions, that Kenneth McCrae was entirely sane.
Roy Shipley, the man who had handled the letting of Mariner’s cottage to McCrae turned out to be a surprisingly convincing witness. It was the first time Mariner could ever remember being impressed by an estate agent. He’d met McCrae on three occasions while he was implementing his plan, one of which was in Mariner’s presence. He recalled the conversations during which McCrae had behaved perfectly normally, taking information and using it as part of his scheme.
‘Was there anything about Kenneth McCrae’s behaviour that would have led you to think he was suffering from some kind of mental disturbance?’ was Louise’s final question, and the answer was a resounding, ‘No.’
Mariner was gratified too that the defence barristers seemed to let Shipley off the hook quite lightly. A prediction, he hoped, of what was to come.
Mariner, when his turn came, cited the snippets of information that he had unwittingly made known to McCrae, such as the times when murder victim Eleanor Ryland would be alone in her isolated house. Byrne also referred to Mariner’s statement to police describing the conversation he’d had with McCrae in the cellar. When he’d recovered from the initial trauma of the event Mariner had been able to remember the whole conversation with surprising clarity, and could describe McCrae’s intentions and actions in the greatest detail. It all made perfect sense.
Byrne ended on the same question she’d put to Roy Shipley, and Mariner was more than happy to elaborate. ‘On the contrary,’ Mariner said. ‘Kenneth McCrae had thought about every contingency and had a plan that accounted for them all. He was able to adapt to new circumstances as they arose.’
The court adjourned until the following morning, so Mariner was able to prepare himself for the defence onslaught. ‘It went well,’ was Louise’s verdict. But they both knew that the worst was to come. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘A little hotel just down the road. I thought I’d get something to eat before going back there though. You wouldn’t like to keep me company would you?’
‘I’d love to.’ Her smile was apologetic. ‘Unfortunately I need to get back. My fourteen-year-old is on her own and much as she’d like me to leave her that way for the entire evening, I need to check that she’s doing something more productive than texting her friends.’
In the end it was Felicity who joined him for dinner and Mariner found himself telling her about moving to the country.
‘It’s not me who wants to go, it’s Anna.’
‘It sounds as if you’re having second thoughts,’ she said.
‘We’ve been trying for a baby.’
‘So you’ve come round to the idea?’
‘Anna miscarried a few months ago.’
‘That must have been devastating. For both of you.’
‘Yes. It’s affected Anna more than I’d thought. She seems afraid of trying again.’
‘These things take time. You just need to be patient.’
‘Yes.’
When he left Felicity, Mariner went alone to a small bar where the atmosphere was depressing. Too many kids there with the sole purpose of getting drunk. He left before ten, resigned to an early night.
* * *
The following morning the defence cross-examination began by taking the same line with Mariner as they had with Shipley.
‘On how many occasions did you meet Kenneth McCrae?’
‘Five times,’ Mariner replied.
‘And how long did each of these meetings last?’
‘I didn’t time them,’ Mariner said, reasonably.
‘But you must have a rough idea. Was it five minutes, half an hour, an hour? What about the first meeting?’
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘And the second?’
‘About ten.’
After this tedious process had been completed, the defence barrister concluded: ‘So in total you met with Kenneth McCrae for around two hours.’ Mariner confirmed it. ‘And at the time of your last conversation with Mr McCrae you’d been held by him in the cellar for how long?’
‘Three days.’
‘During which time you’d had no food or water and were in temperatures of minus eight degrees, in complete and utter darkness. Do you think you were in a fit state to judge the frame of mind of another person?’
‘Possibly not, but—’
‘I understand that you’ve recently been receiving counselling yourself, Inspector.’
‘Yes.’ In theory.
‘What for?’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Mariner felt a pinch of unease in the pit of his stomach.
‘And when was this condition diagnosed?’
‘About nine months ago.’
‘Shortly after the night when you were involved in the bomb explosion in Birmingham city centre. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’ve been on sick leave for the last nine months?’
‘Not all of it, no.’
‘Indeed, we have all been reading in the papers about the success of your investigation into the abduction of Jessica Klinnemann, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how much time have you had off work during the last nine months, as a result of this diagnosis?’
‘I had a couple of weeks off.’
‘A couple of weeks? That doesn’t sound like much. So, for all but a couple of weeks of the last nine months, while you’ve been suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, you’ve been back at work, and some of that time working on an extremely high-profile case.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a detective inspector. It must be a difficult job at times.’
‘It has its challenges.’
‘And yet, as we saw from the happy outcome of the abduction of baby Jessica, you have been able to function perfectly well in that job, despite having a diagnosis of PTSD. Isn’t it true that the very nature of PTSD is that it affects every individual differently, that it comes and goes, and that with the right kind of treatment it can be controlled?’ The question was apparently rhetorical. ‘You have, by your own admission, been behaving in a perfectly rational way while battling this condition, so isn’t it possible that in the brief times at which you had contact with Kenneth McCrae, he was merely doing the same thing?’
Mariner stalled. He could think of no comeback.
‘Mr Mariner?’
‘Possible, I suppose. Yes.’
Next came the expert defence witnesses; a couple of specialists in post-traumatic stress disorder and its effects, followed by the specialist McCrae had been seeing, who also introduced the stark facts about his early life and the effects of deprivation and the trauma of Tumbledown.
Somehow the defence had also persuaded Kenneth McCrae’s reticent brother to appear as a witness for the defence. During the final, dramatic hunt for Kenneth McCrae, Tony Knox and Jack Coleman had interviewed the man in the garden of his home in a remote Scottish community. Mariner had read the notes. Here he looked uncomfortable, scrubbed up and in a suit and tie. He described, as he had to Knox and Coleman, the extreme maltreatment and physical abuse he and his brother had received during their childhoods with a brutal adoptive father, providing a further layer of reasoning for the jury to feel sorry for McCrae. Louise’s cross-examination, though competent, would have barely dented the jury’s sympathy.
‘Could you tell us what you do for a living?’ she asked.
‘I’m a storeman.’
‘Did you suffer abuse at the hands of your adoptive parents?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And have you ever killed, or felt the urge to kill, another human being?’
‘No.’
A couple of McCrae’s army colleagues were wheeled out to describe the horrors of Tumbledown. They probably left the jury feeling amazed that it had taken McCrae another ten years to commit murder.
As a final flourish the defence insisted that once Kenneth McCrae had realised the enormity of his crimes, he was penitent. Mariner looked across at the defendant. He didn’t look especially remorseful and as the jury was sent out, Mariner left the courtroom feeling empty.
Almost inevitably, it seemed to Mariner, Kenneth McCrae was found not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Sentencing was deferred and would be based on the outcome of further medical assessments.
‘How do you feel?’ Felicity asked Mariner.
‘Cheated, I suppose,’ Mariner said, wryly. ‘McCrae had a tough life, there’s no doubt about that, and I’m sorry for him that he did. But so do lots of people and they don’t end up going on killing sprees.’
She gave him a hug. ‘Give my love to Nelson.’
‘I will.’
* * *
Nelson was enjoying an early morning walk on a dull and drizzly Saturday with Tony Knox. Since the abduction case had finished things had quietened down considerably and Knox’s morning strolls were becoming routine again. The woman Knox had hoped to bump into still wasn’t around. Unless . . . he wondered if this was her, just crossing the far end of the playing field. Hard to tell the make of dog from here, but it was bounding around all over the place, as hers had. Knox stepped up his pace to try and catch up with her, but then his mobile rang. Cursing the fact that he’d left it in his pocket, he nonetheless took the call.
‘Sergeant Knox? It’s Christie, from Jack and the Beanstalk nursery. You said I could call you?’ She sounded distant, but it might just have been the line.
‘Are you all right? Has he hurt you?’ Knox was immediately alert and back in professional mode.
There was a pause, and noises in the background. ‘I can’t talk about this on the phone. Can you meet me, tonight?’ She sounded strung out, breathless even, but maybe she was walking fast.
‘It’ll keep until then?’ Knox had one eye back on the woman who had changed direction and was now walking away from him again.
‘Yeah, it’s okay.’ She sounded calmer. ‘Do you know the Golden Cross?’
Knox remembered seeing the pub a little way down from the nursery, though it wasn’t one he’d ever been into. He agreed to meet her there at eight o’clock. Switching off his phone, he was in time to see the woman exiting the park and disappearing from view.
Walking back up the street towards his house, Knox saw a car pulling away from the kerb, his neighbour, Jean, waving to the passengers inside. The driver was an elderly man.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to manage without your dog-walker for a couple of days,’ Jean said, as Knox approached. ‘Michael’s gone to stay with his grandparents tonight.’
‘That’s okay. Things have eased off at work now and it’s about time I got some exercise again. Does this mean you’ve got a weekend of freedom?’
She grinned. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.’
‘How about a drink tonight?’ said Knox.
‘Oh,’ now she was embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t dropping hints.’
Knox laughed. ‘You don’t have to. I’d have asked anyway. What do you think?’
‘I think it sounds great, thanks.’
‘I’ll call for you at about eight.’
‘Okay,’ she said, though she was distracted, biting her lower lip as she watched the car proceed painfully slowly, Knox thought, to the end of the road.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, casting his eyes in the same direction.
‘Yes. It’s just . . . I worry about Dad driving at his age. I offered to take Michael over but they wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘How far have they got to go?’ asked Knox.
‘Only up to Lichfield. I’d normally put Michael on the train, but there’s nothing running this weekend. “Essential maintenance,” so they say.’
As she spoke the car reached the end of the close, signalled and disappeared around the corner. She sighed.
‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ said Knox. ‘He’s driving slowly, which is better than going too fast.’
She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m neurotic about car accidents,’ she said. ‘It’s how Shaun died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, enjoy your first hours of freedom and I’ll see you later.’
‘I look forward to it.’
Only as he was unlocking the door did Knox remember his appointment with Christie. Still, it was he who had named the time. If he called her back and made it earlier, say seven, he could undertake both commitments. Christie shouldn’t take long. If she was having trouble with Bond and wanted to make a complaint, she’d need to come in to the station to make a statement anyway, and if things were more desperate than that, he could recommend a couple of women’s refuges, and deliver her there if necessary. It would be awkward to cancel the date with Jean, given that he’d only just arranged it and the truth was, he didn’t want to. He’d even, for a split second, allowed himself to speculate on whether they might end up in bed. Unlikely, he thought on balance, but if they did, he wouldn’t object.
He called Christie straight away on her mobile but got only her voicemail. He left a message saying he would meet her at the earlier time. It was the best he could do.
* * *
Knox felt like a dirty old man when he went that evening to meet Christie. All he was missing was the raincoat. It was just that sort of pub too, loud and brash, what passed these days for a typical city pub. He got there ahead of time and bought a coke from a lad who himself barely looked old enough to drink. Seven o’clock came and went, as did half past. Knox heard the same music come round on the sound system, but Christie didn’t show. He found it hard to believe that she hadn’t got his message. Knox really hoped that Bond hadn’t got to her first. Or, maybe it was simpler than that; she’d changed her mind about coming at all. He went for a pee, and out in the corridor tried her mobile again but this time it was switched off altogether. By now it was seven forty-five and he was pushing it to get back in time to pick up Jean. Casting a last look around the bar he walked out.
‘I feel like I’m on my first date,’ Knox admitted, half an hour later as he and Jean were driving out to a very different establishment, the Peacock at Wetheroak, a leafy corner of Worcestershire. He realised what he’d said. ‘Not that I’m treating this like—’
She laughed easily. ‘You mean you can actually remember your first date?’
‘Oh yes. Tracey McAllister. We were sixteen and I thought I was the dog’s boll— I mean, the bees knees in me Sta-Prest and Ben Sherman shirt, monkey boots all polished up.’
‘Where did you take her?’
‘The end of term school disco. It was dire. Girls dancing round their handbags, lads standing round the edges being cool, and the teachers desperately trying to look like they’re having fun.’
‘Thank God we don’t do that anymore. Things have got a bit more sophisticated.’
‘How about you?’
‘Dates? Oh, I was a late starter. Shaun was my first boyfriend. He was working for a big construction firm, only as the tea boy I think at that point, and asked me to rather a grand work’s function at the Botanical Gardens. The thing I remember most was the dress. For some reason I was determined to go looking like Mary Quant. We’ve got some photos somewhere.’
The evening passed, it seemed to Knox, in no time at all and before long he was pulling back onto his drive.
‘Thank you for that. I had a really good time.’ As she leaned across and kissed his cheek, a hand dropped onto Knox’s thigh. ‘You’ll come in?’
‘I’d like to.’ A thought occurred. ‘I should just go and let Nelson out for five minutes though, then I’ll come over.’
&n
bsp; ‘Don’t be long.’
It was with some relief that Knox found a couple of condoms in the bathroom cabinet. He didn’t know what made him check his mobile. There was a message from Christie, left at eight thirty-nine. She must have picked up his earlier message after it was too late. There was a lot of noise in the background. ‘I do need to talk to you. I’m at the Golden Cross now and I’ll stay here till eleven o’clock. Please meet me here.’
The time by Knox’s watch was just after eleven. Even breaking the speed limits he wouldn’t be able to get to the Golden Cross in less than fifteen minutes, by which time she’d have decided he wasn’t coming and left again. He turned one of the condoms over in his fingers. He could phone her, of course, but if she answered and was prepared to wait for him, he’d be committed to going and would have to let Jean down. He listened to the message again. Christie didn’t sound panicked or upset. She seemed calm. In fact from the racket in the background it sounded as if she was having a party. And she couldn’t necessarily expect him to get her message tonight. He’d call her first thing in the morning and arrange to meet her tomorrow.
Jean had left the door on the latch. ‘In here,’ she called as Knox closed it behind him. He went through to the kitchen.
‘Coffee or something stronger?’ she asked.
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