by Jane Adams
Jaques snorted rudely. ‘No, no, I don’t suppose it will,’ he said. He got to his feet and took the paper back from Mike, folding it tightly before replacing it in his pocket. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know this is not where you want to be, but that’s just the way of things sometimes. You try your best to keep things going and then it all blows up in your face.’ He stood hesitantly beside the bed as though wanting to say more. ‘I just came to keep you informed, Mike. Nothing official, you understand,’ he said at last.
Mike nodded, puzzled now by Jaques’ attitude. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I appreciate that.’
Jaques straightened himself up and shuffled his feet as though impatient to go but still having something left to say.
‘Just get yourself better, Mike,’ he said. ‘Take your time and don’t try to come rushing back before you’re ready.’ He nodded, as though satisfied that he’d got the message right.
‘Just take your time,’ he said again, and then he left.
Mike watched him walk down the ward, listening to the swift footsteps and taking note of the rigidity of Jaques’ back.
‘Now,’ he said softly to himself. ‘What was that all about?’
* * *
The door was forced, the hydraulic ram smashing the lock from the frame. The uniformed officer with the ram kicked the door open. Then he and the other two men accompanying Price streamed ahead of him into the house, two running up the stairs and the third heading towards the downstairs rear.
The front door opened directly into the living room. A second room could be seen beyond and off that, the small kitchen.
The stairs were hidden behind a panelled door leading off from the corner of the room. The windows still had their original sash boxes and the tiled fireplace, now with an ugly modern gas fire sitting in front of the arched grate, also looked untouched from the time of first building.
There was newspaper on the wooden floor, old and yellowed, between the front door and the opening to the other room. His gran had done that, Price remembered. Put newspapers underneath the carpets when they were laid. Said it helped them last longer. Stopped them rubbing against the floor.
He moved through to the middle room just as the third officer came back from the kitchen.
‘Bathroom tagged on to the back of the house,’ he said. ‘Back door’s locked and there’s no sign of a key. Want me to force it?’
A shout from upstairs cut across Price’s reply. He ran up the steep, narrow stairs, his feet echoing on the uncarpeted wood.
‘In here, sir.’
It was the smallest room at the back of the house. There were new locks on the door. On the outside. Price eased himself past the other officers standing silently in the narrow corridor. He pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.
‘Jesus!’
There was very little in the tiny room with its single window. Just the smell of stale urine making the air foul and a single bed with an old mattress lying at an angle across it. A mattress with a wide, dark, brownish stain spread across its width.
* * *
Jaques never quite made it back to his car. He’d not hurried, instead walked slowly across the hospital forecourt with the steady, purposeful air of one determined on a direction but in no major rush to get there.
‘Sir.’ The young PC stepped in front of him, the look on his face almost apologetic as though he couldn’t quite get his head around this arrest of a senior officer.
Jaques glanced up at him, then sideways at the other officer who had suddenly appeared on his other side.
‘I’d like you to come back to the station with me,’ the young officer began. ‘DCS Charles . . .’
‘Would no doubt want the job done properly!’ Jaques glared at him. His mind already pushed beyond reason, this lack of protocol annoyed him excessively.
It was the second, older officer who stepped forward and read him his rights. Who made certain he was cuffed and led to the waiting car with the minimum of fuss. His words echoed in Jaques’ mind as they drove away. ‘Accessory to murder. Accessory . . .’
Sighing, Jaques leaned back as well as his cuffed hands would allow him.
‘Sloppy!’ he announced suddenly, directing his words at the younger officer driving the car. ‘Very sloppy. Don’t read a man his rights, his brief would have a wonderful time with you on the witness stand. That’s if it ever makes it as far as court. Technicalities, you know, always watch out for the technical foul.’
He lapsed into silence then, bemoaning to himself the carelessness of youth, shaking his head sadly in disbelief at it all. ‘Still wet behind the ears,’ he murmured softly.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sunday morning
Maria had stayed over at John Tynan’s after visiting Mike. It was the weekend, nothing for her to go back to Oaklands for, and it cut a full hour off the travelling time to the hospital.
Neither of them had hurried to get up and it was almost nine before they had got round to breakfast.
The peace of the Sunday morning was shattered by the piercing ring of the telephone. John fairly leapt into the hall to snatch it up, Maria following him, their instant, twinned thought that it must be the hospital.
John lifted the phone to his ear, then shook his head at Maria, a puzzled expression on his face. Satisfied that it wasn’t the hospital, Maria went back into the kitchen. From the hallway she heard John say ‘yes’ a couple of times, then, ‘Well, I wouldn’t be too happy about that, my dear,’ then ‘yes’ again and the phone being placed back on its cradle.
‘You’ll never guess who that was,’ he said as he came back in.
Maria raised an eyebrow, her mouth quirking at the corners in a slight smile. ‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Well, that was Johanna Pearson. Wanting to know about our Sam, she was, and if I could give her his address.’
‘I take it you didn’t,’ Maria said.
John smiled. ‘Listening in to my conversations, are you? No, I didn’t. For one thing I didn’t think it would be fair on Sam, to maybe have her turning up with no warning, and the other thing is, she’d have had a hard time getting out there with no transport. It’s not exactly somewhere you can get a bus to.’
Maria laughed wryly. ‘Not many places you can these days,’ she said. ‘So? What are we going to do?’
‘We?’ John said. Then he smiled broadly. ‘We, my dear, are going to telephone my friend Embury and warn him to be expecting visitors. Then we’re collecting Johanna Pearson and driving her out there.’
‘Oh?’ Maria questioned. ‘And you think that will be fair to Sam, do you? Landing us and Johanna Pearson on his doorstep on a Sunday morning?’
John looked thoughtful and began to butter his toast, scraping the knife across the surface, making patterns in the yellow butter.
‘She sounded distressed,’ he said. ‘Said there were things she had to talk to Sam about without Eric being there.’ He looked across at Maria, his old blue eyes slightly guilty, a little embarrassed.
‘She was almost in tears, love. You could hear it in her voice, and a woman like Johanna Pearson doesn’t cry for nothing, I’m sure of that.’
Maria regarded him steadily for a few moments, then she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
‘You’re a nice man, John Tynan,’ she told him. ‘Now, when do we leave?’
* * *
Dora’s Sunday morning mood had been shattered by that single sheet of paper taped roughly to the lamp post on the back path.
She had been on her way to the shops. The big store had started to open on Sundays a few months before, and, despite her feelings that it maybe wasn’t altogether right, Dora had taken to ‘forgetting’ little items on their Saturday shop, just for the pleasure of wandering around the half-empty store.
And now she had found this. This cruel, unfair letter, or whatever it could be called. Taped up here for all the world to see; for all the world to read that man’s accusations.
It wasn’t fair! It was cruel! How could this man say things like that and, worse, tape them up in a public place for anyone to see.
No way could Dora just stand by and let this happen. The police should know. And the neighbours. They couldn’t let that terrible man get away with this.
Dora re-entered the Close just as Johanna Pearson left it. The two women passed within feet of each other, but the distance between them could just as well have been a hundred miles.
Each woman looked the other way, though Johanna couldn’t help but notice the look of anger and distress on Dora’s face.
Johanna glanced back swiftly as she passed through the kissing gate and on to the back path, noting the crumpled paper Dora clutched so tightly in her hand. Trying to dispel the sense of dread closing in on her.
Johanna had told John not to come down into the Close to pick her up. She would meet them, she said, in the car park close to the shops.
Maria and John had said little on the drive there. It seemed hopeless to speculate about Johanna’s sudden desire to see Sam. It must, Tynan had said, be something to do with the things that Sam had brought over to them; but he couldn’t make any guess about what.
‘Maybe it’s all just getting too much for her,’ Maria suggested. ‘Maybe, with Sam being the only family she’s got, she’s looking for some kind of help from him to get her and the kids out of this.’
John shook his head, concern creasing the corners of his mouth.
‘I hope not, love,’ he said. ‘Sam’s got his own life to lead without Johanna and her tribe butting in. And I can’t see Eric welcoming him. He’d see any help Sam tried to give as blatant interference, and the boy could do without Eric maybe causing trouble for him.’
Maria nodded thoughtfully. ‘I guess you’re right,’ she said.
They sat in silence for a few moments longer, then Maria asked, ‘Is that her, John?’
John looked over to where Maria indicated. A woman in a brown skirt, white blouse, and, despite the heat, what looked like a tailored jacket, was advancing on them. Johanna walked quickly, her flat shoes planting themselves firmly on the pavement and her long skirt flapping. She moved anxiously and hurriedly, allowing only the swiftest of glances as she crossed the road and strode towards them.
‘Who is this?’ Johanna demanded, looking askance at Maria.
‘Maria Lucas.’ Maria introduced herself, extending a hand across the back of the car seat.
Johanna ignored her. ‘I hope it won’t take us long,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave the children.’
‘Is Eric not there?’ John asked her.
Johanna’s look was piercing and accusatory, as though he had no right to ask.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Eric’s there.’
Then she turned her gaze to the passing world outside the window and chose not to speak again throughout their entire journey.
* * *
It was around ten thirty when DCS Charles arrived at the hospital.
‘We’ve arrested Jaques,’ he said without preamble. ‘Seems this man Pearson knew what he was about with that damned journal of his.’
‘Jaques was mentioned,’ Mike whispered. Then frowned. ‘But to arrest him just on the strength . . .’
Charles was shaking his head. ‘Suspicion of murder,’ he said. He sat down heavily on the hard plastic chair at the side of Mike’s bed. ‘Led us to a house, back side of those derelict warehouses on Canal Street. We’re waiting for confirmation from forensics, but first impressions are the Sanderson boy was killed there.’
Mike stared at him for a moment, absorbing this. ‘Jaques was here, earlier this morning,’ he said slowly.
‘We picked him up as he left. He said he wanted to confess to you, but didn’t have the nerve for it. Seemed to think that you would understand him . . .’
‘Understand him! God almighty.’
Charles held out a placatory hand. ‘Easy, Mike,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s not exactly what you might call rational at the moment. The police surgeon reckons we’re going to have to get him sectioned.’
‘Sectioned!’ Mike was outraged. ‘So he can plead diminished responsibility? Get a nice easy place in some low-security psychiatric unit!’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘God almighty,’ he said again, as words appeared to fail him.
‘You can appreciate,’ Charles was saying slowly, ‘this puts rather a different light on our Mr Pearson. Looks like he’ll get his time in court, after all.’
Mike laughed bitterly, not sure what to think about that one either. ‘He’ll just love that,’ he said. ‘Just love it.’ He paused and looked sharply at Charles. ‘Jaques wasn’t the only one in the journal, was he?’
Charles took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘No, Mike,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, he wasn’t. This is only just beginning. We’re rounding up everyone named in that bloody journal. Don’t have a lot of choice now, do we?’
He rose to leave and Mike asked him, ‘You’ve seen a copy of Eric Pearson’s so-called Deposition?’
Charles nodded. ‘That I have,’ he said, then frowned. ‘How did you get. . .? Never mind, I don’t want to know. I’ve got Price over at Canal Street waiting for SOCO to arrive, then I’m shipping him off to Portland for a chat with Mr Eric Pearson. Should keep him busy.’
He glanced at Mike’s plastered wrist and the strapping on his ribs showing beneath his open jacket.
‘Seems to me you’ve got the soft option just now,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sunday morning
‘It’s lovely here,’ Maria commented as they walked up the lane towards Embury’s cottage.
John nodded. ‘Last of old England,’ he said. ‘Tall trees and shaded lanes and not a sound except for the birds.’
Maria laughed at him. ‘Bet it’s hell in winter.’
John shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘No stamina, these exotic birds,’ he said. ‘First sign of a little cold and off they fly.’
Laughing again, Maria gave him a shove.
‘Hit an old man, would you?’
‘Might do! And anyway, John Tynan, I’ll have you know I was born and bred in this Merrie England, so I’m entitled to hate the winters.’ She paused, looked at Johanna, pacing out strongly up ahead of them.
‘I think we should get a move on,’ she said. ‘She looks about ready to storm the cottage walls.’
John nodded and they quickened their pace.
‘What’s bothering her, do you think?’ Maria asked him.
‘Blessed if I know, love. She doesn’t exactly give a lot away, does she? Ah. There’s Embury. But not a sign of Sam. I hope he’s here. Embury said he would be by now.’
Johanna stood a few feet from Embury, studiously ignoring his polite greetings.
‘I want to speak to Sam,’ she demanded. ‘I need to speak to him right now.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ Embury told her, not seeming in the least put out by her manner, ‘but Sam isn’t here yet. I expected him back about an hour ago, but you never can tell what’s going to hold him up.’
‘Then I’ll wait,’ Johanna stated flatly. ‘Out here.’
‘Just as you like, Mrs Pearson,’ Embury told her calmly. ‘I’ll have some tea sent out to you, shall I? And John, my friend, good to see you. Come in, come in. And, let me guess. This is Maria.’ He reached out to clasp Maria’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. ‘How is Mike? I read about the accident. Terrible business, of course, terrible.’
Maria exchanged a grin with John as Embury shepherded them into the house.
Johanna remained outside, stiff and immovable as any sentry. Eyes fixed on the distant ribbon of main road, watching and waiting for Sam to arrive.
* * *
The arrests were timed to be simultaneous. The solicitor, roused from his late Sunday lie-in. The young father of two on the tenth floor of the tower block. The middle-aged accounts clerk in his quiet suburban cul-de-sac. There seemed on the face of it
to be no link. A chance meeting. Reply to the same ad in a contact magazine. Same place of work or mutual friends of friends.
All had their rights read and their houses searched. Their neighbours watched and their families protested their innocence, left behind, bewildered and devastated.
Sitting in his car, Charles listened as he was informed of the arrests. He sighed, hoping the searches would turn up the evidence they needed to bring charges.
Experience told him that nothing would be easy to prove.
He could just see the media reports. A police superintendent. A well-known CPS solicitor and evidence that this had been going on for years. He could just see the headlines. No one was going to come out of this smelling sweet.
By eleven o’clock on Portland Close the need to talk had brought people out on to the street. Eric Pearson watched them — small knots of people gathering on doorsteps; standing around at the end of the cul-de-sac, casting knowing, vicious glances in his direction.
Let them do what they liked, he thought. Think what they liked. He’d be ready for them, whatever they might choose to do.
‘We’ve got the hosepipe ready, Dad.’
Eric turned to nod and smile at his son. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
The boy stood uncertainly in the doorway, watching as Eric filled another bottle one third full of petrol, topped it with a layer of oil and stuffed the neck carefully with tightly wadded rag.
‘When’s Mum coming home?’
‘Hmm? Oh, I don’t know, son. Soon, I expect. Soon.’ The boy turned away. Eric could feel his unease, his instinct that today was different from those other days. He called after him.
‘Don’t you worry, now, my boy. It will all be fine. You’ll see.’
Eric turned his attention back towards the window. ‘After today,’ he told himself quietly. ‘After today, it will all be over.’
At length Eric decided it was time to call the police. From his home-made weaponry in the top room of the house he called the local station.