by Jane Adams
‘And that someone in here saw him writing it and knew he’d told you something?’ Charles finished for him.
Mike nodded slowly, not certain that was what he meant exactly, but it would do for starters.
The governor was frowning. ‘That’s a serious charge, Inspector.’
‘But not beyond the realms . . .’ Charles added.
‘No. Regretfully, it’s not.’
Charles rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully, shifting his glasses and massaging where they had pinched the skin.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Have the notebook shipped off to documents, have them run the ESDA. Then tomorrow I want that farmhouse looked at.’
He got to his feet quickly, as though suddenly impatient with the whole thing.
‘Meantime,’ he added, ‘I suggest we all get off home and try and catch some sleep.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday morning
Eric Pearson heard of Fletcher’s death on the local radio news. He heard it over breakfast, the voice of the reader only just cutting through the noise of his wife and children, all talking at once as Johanna served breakfast and poured tea.
Fletcher was dead.
At first the thought came alone; the shock of it driving everything else from his mind.
Then the companion to it, driving hot upon its heels and taking over.
There would be no appeal. Fletcher was dead. The appeal was no longer required.
Eric Pearson’s evidence would not be heard in court.
The overwhelming sense of anger, of failure, was more than Eric could comprehend. Almost more than he could bear.
Fletcher was dead and it was all over.
Across the table Johanna gazed at him curiously. She had been too intent on seeing to the needs of her brood to take much notice of what the man on the news had said.
‘Fletcher’s dead,’ he told her. ‘The news . . .’
He couldn’t continue, the words stuck in his throat. Johanna got to her feet, her eyes fixed on his face, body tense. Then, slowly, he saw her begin to relax. Her shoulders and back unbend as though a weight had been lifted from them. He saw relief in her eyes. A glint of hope appeared that had not been there in such a long time.
‘Then it’s over,’ she said softly. ‘We can forget all of this, Eric. Forget the court case and that damned journal and get on with our lives again.’
Pearson glared at his wife. The muscles of his jaw tightened. ‘Over!’ he whispered. ‘You think it’s over! No, woman, it’s not over. I’ll have my say either in the court or out of it. I’ll not settle until I have.’
He was on his feet now, heading towards the door. The children had fallen silent, surprised by the novel sight of their parents arguing like this.
‘Why?’ Johanna demanded. ‘Why must you go on like this? We could make a new life here, or if not here some other place where no one knows us and we can begin again. I’m tired, Eric. Tired of always being on the outside. Of having no friends, no neighbours, no one to turn to. Of having to be suspicious of everyone who comes near the house.’
Eric turned on her, his body shaking with anger. ‘You think you could make friends round here?’ he demanded. ‘Here? Among the stone-throwing louts and foulmouthed vandals we’ve met so far? Is that who you want friendship from? Those, those . . . nothing people who live round here? Is that who you want our children mixing with?’
Johanna stared at him, stunned and angry.
‘No,’ she said softly, ‘that’s not what I want, Eric. I just want an ordinary life in an ordinary street, somewhere I can let my children play outside without being afraid for them all the time.’
‘And you think you’ll find that somewhere like this?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re crazy if you do, Johanna.’
He took a step towards her, quiet now, but all the more menacing. ‘There’s me and there’s our children, Johanna. We’re the only ones you can depend on; the only ones you need.’ He seemed to soften suddenly, reached out and patted her arm.
‘We must see justice done,’ he said quietly. ‘Fletcher may be dead, but there are still those whom God and the law have not yet punished and it’s in our hands.’
Then he left, pausing only to take his jacket from the peg in the hall.
Johanna sat down once more. The momentary flood of relief had given way to case-hardened despair.
‘Eat your breakfast, loves,’ she said, her words automatic.
Maybe Eric was right, she thought. Things were never going to be simple, never peaceful until this thing had run its course. And maybe she was being selfish. After all, not being charged with something was not the same as being judged innocent. And it was right that Eric should want this thing brought out into the open, want his innocence confirmed.
She sighed. But these last years had been so hard.
‘Eat up,’ she said again, her voice artificially bright. But she sighed inwardly. Dear Lord, she thought, you didn’t tell me any lies when you said that this path was rough.
Mike and his team had been at the farmhouse early, the dew still heavy on overgrown foliage.
He watched as the four men he’d been assigned began to cut back the dense undergrowth closest to the house.
It took the joint efforts of both himself and Price to force the door open on its rusted hinges. Disturbed dust rose to meet them. Upstairs were three rooms. The end of the largest had been partitioned off and converted into a tiny bathroom.
Downstairs, two rooms and a small kitchen. The front door opened straight into the main living room. Built-in cupboards both upstairs and down. Wooden floors on both levels. A layer of dust and cobwebs, which looked as though it had spent years settling, covered everything. Mike glanced around the last room.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here since the last tenants,’ Price commented.
Mike nodded. The house could wait. ‘Let’s get back outside,’ he said.
The day had warmed up considerably and the last of the dew burnt away. Mike was amazed at the transformation. Tall plants, hacked down and raked aside. The full line of the wooden fence exposed. The shape of the once-neat beds now clearly marked and the heavy scent of damp herbs filling the air.
He and Price began to cross the yard when a shout accompanied by a loud crack drew them round to the side of the house.
‘What the—!’
They arrived in time to see two officers pulling one of their colleagues to his feet.
‘You’ve found it?’
The man grinned. ‘Damned near fell into it, guv. Watch your step, sir.’
Mike moved closer. The well was camouflaged by the undergrowth and the officer hadn’t seen the wooden cover, green with slime and partly rotted, until he’d put his foot on it and almost fallen through.
He traced the edge of the wooden cover with his fingers. Overgrown and half rotten it might be, but the edge was clear, his fingers able to slide beneath the lip all around, and when he pulled gently he could lift it free.
He carefully eased the broken wood aside and peered down into the hole. He could see nothing but blackness.
‘So he wasn’t feeding us a line,’ Price said, the expression in his voice somewhere between excitement and awe.
Mike looked up at him. ‘And if he didn’t lie to us about this . . .’
* * *
Andrews’ call came late afternoon. Mike had been back at the office from midday, leaving Price to co-ordinate with SOCO. There was nothing much he could do, bar get under people’s feet, so he’d come back and tried to clear some of the stuff cluttering up his in-tray.
It seemed to Mike that he spent more time these days shuffling paper than he did out on the streets trying to solve crime.
Andrews’ call was a welcome break.
‘I had a visit,’ Andrews told him, ‘from a mutual acquaintance.’
‘Pearson?’ Mike guessed.
‘The very man.’
‘And our friend wanted?’
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‘Mostly someone to shout at, I think. He did plenty of that. Rather narked with Fletcher, he was. Seemed to think Fletcher had let him down in some way, killing himself and all.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Mike said. ‘He’s mad about the appeal not going ahead.’
‘That, and other things. The truth is, I’m inclined to think he’s just plain mad.’
Mike laughed.
‘He brought something with him,’ Andrews went on. ‘Pages from this journal Simon Blake is supposed to have written, implicating Fletcher and others he was supposed to be involved with.’
Pages from the journal. Mike was intrigued. ‘He wants you to publish it?’
‘If he does, he’s on a loser. Paper like the Chronicle doesn’t have the funds to fight the libel case we’d end up with. Anyway, this thing’s just a photocopy and JP Blake died of a heart attack more than a year ago.’
‘You know Pearson claims that Fletcher gave the journal to him?’
‘Yes,’ Andrews said. ‘Supposed to be insurance for Fletcher. He couldn’t be sent down without implicating the rest. So, I ask myself, why wasn’t it produced at the trial? Why wait till the appeal?’
‘The original was burned before the trial. A fire in the solicitor’s office. You remember that?’
‘Hmm.’ Andrews said. ‘So why not produce the copy then? Surely it would have had a better chance of being judged admissible evidence then than now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mike told him. ‘The journal was mentioned during the CPS assessment and so was the photocopy, but there were doubts about either being genuine. The author of the journal was a highly respected JP and it was known he probably didn’t have too much longer to live. His heart had been very bad for a long time, from what I can gather.’ He laughed briefly. ‘And I’m not sure any of us could fathom Fletcher’s motives for half of what he did.’
‘Meet me,’ Andrews said. ‘Say about eight o clock, I’ll be tied up till then.’
‘Suits me fine,’ Mike told him.
He glanced up as the office door opened. Jaques stuck his head round, saw Mike talking and came in quietly. Sat down.
‘At eight, then.’ Mike confirmed. He listened carefully while Andrews gave him the name of a pub he thought would be a good place. Directions for getting there. Mike scribbled them down, then rang off.
‘Just came to tell you,’ Jaques said. ‘They’ve lowered some poor sucker down that well of yours. There’s about a foot and a half of mud in the bottom there. It could take us days to clean it out.’
Unaccountably, Mike felt disappointed. He’d hoped for something sooner. But that, so often, was the way of things.
* * *
For several minutes Jaques stood looking at the telephone, twisting the ring round and round on his finger. Then he picked up the receiver and dialled.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said in response to the impatient reception from the man on the end of the line. ‘I know it’s not the time and place but you wanted to know when he’d be alone. Well, I’ve got a when and a where, but for God’s sake be discreet.’ He took a deep breath, then gave the location of Mike’s meeting with Andrews. ‘He’ll come in on the Fernley Road. That’s the way he’s been told to go.’ Jaques hesitated for a moment, then went on. ‘But look, he knows nothing.’
‘Yet,’ the voice argued, ‘he knows enough to go on digging. Knew enough to provoke Fletcher into spilling his guts. He’d been writing the whole bloody thing down when my people found him, all ready to give to his brief. And take it from me, my friend. We go down, you won’t be far behind us.’
Jaques’ hand was shaking when he replaced the receiver. How had he got into this? It had started so simply. So stupidly. A few photographs. A rather indiscreet episode with a girl who knew what she wanted even if the law told her she didn’t. Somehow it had all gone downhill from there. First he’d been afraid of losing his job and destroying his marriage. That had kept him silent — and, God knows, he told himself, I truly love my wife. Then he’d got in way too deep.
The first one had wanted it. Wanted it as much as he had . . . But then there had been the others.
Jaques closed his eyes trying not to remember.
At any point, early on, he could have backed out. Faced the scandal and walked away with some part of his life intact.
But he didn’t have the courage then. Couldn’t face the blame, the loss, everything that would have gone with it.
And it had been so easy with Fletcher. Supply had been so easy. . . He wiped the palms of his hands across his face.
No more of this. He could take no more. He had to find a way out and he had to find it soon.
* * *
It was well after eight by the time Mike neared the pub Andrews had specified. The last half-mile or so took him along a narrow lane overhung by tall, mature trees, their shadows heightening the twilight.
He halted the car at the junction at the end of the lane, checking Andrews’ instructions. Glancing to the left, he smiled, seeing the pub sign at the next bend in the road.
He was about to slip the gears and make the turn when the sudden roar of a car engine, coming up fast behind him, distracted his attention.
‘What the —!’
The car screamed by him and swept away to his right, its occupants, three youths, shouting from the windows. An empty lager can thrown from the window bounced off the bonnet of his car.
Mike cursed, automatically taking note of the make, blue Sierra, and registration, in half a mind to give chase. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. There’d be a phone at the pub — he could call control from there and report it.
He shifted the car into first and pulled out, watching the pub come into view, sandstone and flint, low, gabled roof. A small garden off to the side with swings for the kids.
Nice, he thought. Quiet, out of the way and pleasant. A good place to meet.
There were no parking spaces in the car park, so Mike pulled the car on to the verge opposite the pub. Another car was drawn up on the grass a little further along.
Andrews? He hoped the journalist had not grown tired of waiting.
The evening air was sweet and warm as he got out of the car. Idyllic English summer, he thought — singing birds and blue skies, greying with the twilight, the distant sound' of cows mooing. Maria said he was a closet romantic; on evenings like this he figured she was right.
He locked the car, his mind wandering distractedly over the events of the day and the prospect of a cool beer. Dimly, he could hear the sound of a car engine. He reminded himself to report the car that had passed him at the junction. He glanced sideways, to his right, as the engine noise grew louder, then stepped back swiftly as the same car came into view once more.
‘Jesus!’
Mike stepped back further on to the verge. The car sped faster towards him. There was a brief moment of disbelief before it hit, sending him reeling backwards, somersaulting into his own vehicle. He heard the metallic clash as the blue Sierra gave his car a glancing blow. Then a sharp explosive pain in the centre of his back as he made contact with the metal.
Blackness pooled in across his mind as the dimming sound of the engine drifted out.
Then nothing. Mike was unconscious even before he hit the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Friday morning
It was so hard to focus. When he opened his eyes the light seemed too bright. Images, swirling just out of reach.
And he had what felt like the biggest hangover life had ever created.
‘Mike.’
He could hear the voice, realized now that he had heard it before, calling his name, but couldn’t quite figure out where it had come from.
‘Mike.’
This time he opened his eyes again. Patterns of light and colour swirled in front of them, slowly coalesced.
‘Maria?’
He felt her take his hand. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ she told him.
He
could hear John now, as well, somewhere off stage. Hear the voice, but not the words.
He made a supreme effort to squeeze Maria’s fingers. Wasn’t certain that he managed it. Then everything faded out once more.
* * *
Next time Mike woke his eyes could focus. It still hurt like hell to turn his head even a fraction, but he had the vague memory of things being much worse.
He inched his aching head sideways to look at the figure by the bedside. Maria sat in a high-backed hospital chair, her head lolling against a balled-up jumper she’d wedged against her shoulder.
He lay watching her for several minutes, trying to figure out where he was and why. Hospital, he decided. The smell alone would have told him that. The why part caused him more problems.
He had a dim memory of an engine, a car engine, the sound rushing towards him. Then Maria woke and looked at him and he stopped trying to fathom it out; concentrated on trying to smile.
She took his hand again. ‘Mike.’ She sounded relieved.
‘You been here all the time?’ he asked her. His voice sounded croaky, as though he’d not used it in a long time.
Maria smiled at him, the relief on her face clear this time.
‘I’ve been here. So has John for most of it.’
‘John?’ Her words hadn’t quite sunk in. He found himself looking around for the older man.
‘He’s not here right now. Gone to have lunch with Tom Andrews.’
‘Andrews?’
Maria waited for a moment. ‘The journalist you were supposed to be meeting,’ she said, filling in the gap that yawned in his memory.
‘Andrews. Yes.’
Mike concentrated very hard, or as hard as the pain in his head would allow. Andrews. Andrews called him, arranged a meeting. He’d driven out there.
‘The car.’ He moved sharply, instantly regretted it. ‘God! My head.’
‘Bad concussion.’
‘The car,’ he repeated. ‘Blue Sierra. I remember the licence number.’