“Oh, I’ll be googling him, the minute I get back to the office,” she said, getting up. “Which is where I should be right now. Grace will be there already, waiting.”
Jack saw her pause, shake her head. He reached across, put his hand on her forearm.
“I know you hate the idea of keeping this from her,” said Jack. “But, for now, I think it’s the right thing to do. I think she’ll forgive us … if we clear this up.”
“You’re right,” said Sarah. “Not easy — but I can do it.”
Jack stood as she did. “So — plan?”
“You’ll head straight to Banbury, yes? Visit the prisoner?”
Jack nodded. “Guess it’ll take Tony a couple of hours to sort. I’ll go walk Riley first.”
“Thinking time.”
“Does seem to work well for me. The meadow. Riley running. Helps me make sense of things.”
“Okay, well I’m jammed until late morning. No way around it. But then I’ll shoot up to the hospital, catch Lizzie before her shift ends. And, meanwhile, I just hope nobody tells Grace.”
“Me too,” said Jack. “Really. Kid’s going to fall apart when she hears.”
“God, Jack, I know. We’ve got to solve this. This is family.”
“It is. And we will.”
Jack said those words with as much conviction as he could muster. But as he followed Sarah out of the café, he was already thinking …
Based on everything Tony said, Len Taylor’s going down for this — for sure.
And it’ll take a miracle to save him.
4. Memories
Sarah sat alongside Grace at her computer, mug of coffee in hand, reviewing the results of yesterday’s photoshoot, as if nothing more important had happened.
It took all her self-control to not show some sign of the secret she and Jack knew about.
“I’m always amazed how Wayne does it,” said Grace. “I mean — it’s just a farm shop really, right? But he puts a different lens on, gets the light right and then makes it look like — I dunno — paradise!”
Sarah laughed — the dazzling shot across water-drenched tomatoes, lettuces, cucumbers, with the sun setting through the open windows of the store, did indeed look like something out of a fashion shoot.
Certainly not the “Hatchet’s Fruit and Veg” shop she’d known for years, with grumpy old Mr Hatchet weighing potatoes and slinging them in a paper bag.
“You’re right,” she said. “This one for the new home page?”
“Totally,” said Grace. “You happy with the others?”
“Great. Fantastic job. Can’t thank you enough — weekend before the wedding, coming into the office.”
“Hey, not a problem,” said Grace. “Truth is — I think everything’s sorted for the big day. I would just have been sitting around wondering what trouble Nick was getting himself into on his stag weekend.”
“I bet,” said Sarah. Every part of this conversation was awkward.
“You and Jack still on for dinner at the Spotted Pig this week? My treat, remember?”
“Sure,” said Sarah. “Looking forward to it. But hey — can’t it be our treat for you?”
“You kidding? My maid of honour doesn’t pay for the bride!” Grace took a breath. “You gave me a life here, Sarah. I’ll never forget that.”
Sarah smiled, though inside she felt dreadful.
“And you saved my life here more than once, Grace,” she said, giving her a hug, and trying not to cry. “Gonna miss you tons when you go.”
“Hey, cut it out,” said Grace. “No crying this week — least not until the vicar says those magic words. Then I expect it not to stop!”
Sarah laughed and turned back to the computer.
“Come on then, let’s get this site finished, and pack up for the day.”
“You got a lot on today?”
“Oh, plenty,” said Sarah. “Plenty.”
*
Jack sat in the small, airless interview room at the back of Banbury police station, arms folded, plastic cup of coffee on the table in front of him.
So much for giving up coffee, he thought. Amount I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours I should be climbing the walls.
He’d been waiting twenty minutes now, the station undermanned, his hurriedly arranged visit clearly not so welcome, people scurrying around checking what the rule book said.
A buzz from the door. He looked up to see Len enter, followed by a policeman in shirt-sleeves.
Len looked like he’d aged ten years overnight.
He shuffled in, sat in the chair opposite Jack. The policeman went and sat on a plastic chair in the corner.
“Jack.”
“Len.”
“I didn’t expect … How did you—?”
“Tony Standish pulled a couple of favours.”
“Ah,” said Len. “That explains it. I’ve got a meeting with a solicitor later this morning. Tony sorted it. He’s a good man.”
“He is.”
Jack leaned forward.
“But from what he’s told me already, Len, you’re in some very serious trouble here. And even our Tony might not be able to do much more than just fix you up with a good lawyer.”
Jack waited for Len to speak, but all he did was nod and stare down at the table.
“We’re going to have to talk, right? You and me. Seems like you had quite an interesting life before you came to Cherringham,” said Jack. “How about you tell me a little about that?”
“Not really, Jack,” said Len, head still low. “The past. That’s all over. Not even part of my life anymore.”
“Len — it might help.”
“Really? With things looking as bad as you say? Don’t think anyone can help me,” said Len, now looking directly at Jack, holding his gaze. “Not now. Not after thirty years.”
Jack watched him carefully. The eyes deep and mournful. Then he looked across at the cop in the corner. Experience told him he should be careful what he said in here — but his instinct said that nothing could make Len’s situation worse.
“You know why you’re here, yeah?”
“I was told they found Sally’s body. And they think I killed her.”
Did Len know about the knife — the fingerprints?
Jack didn’t ask — yet.
“You knew Sally Hayes? You were there, on the island? This isn’t mistaken identity?”
“Oh, I was there, all right.”
“DJ Spirit,” said Jack.
“Always hated that name,” said Len, shaking his head and half-smiling. “But it had one advantage.”
“Let me guess. When you wanted out — nobody knew you by your real name.”
“Exactly.”
“And Lizzie, Grace — they never knew you as the DJ?”
“’s right.”
“So tell me about Ibiza, whatever you remember,” said Jack. “And what happened that weekend before you left.”
“That weekend, yeah …”
“It’s a long time ago, I know. But I’m guessing in the last few hours you’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”
Jack saw that this questioning was making Len agitated.
As if thinking about all those years ago was too distressing.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Jack? But here’s the thing. I don’t remember what happened that weekend.”
“I’m not talking details, Len. Just the big stuff.”
“I know. But I’m telling you the truth. Big stuff, little stuff, any stuff! I don’t remember. I never have. I never did. That weekend is just … lost. A bloody blur.”
Jack stared at Len across the interview table. Those sad eyes again, now looking ready to tear up.
After all, Len knew how important this week was to his daughter … and to Lizzie.
To himself.
How many times had Jack sat in rooms like this, hearing that same excuse?
“I don’t remember. Don’t remember nothing.”
Nearly always lies.
And here, now, looking at Len.
Jack didn’t know if he believed him.
And if the case was tough before, with Len’s memory a blank it was now looking impossible.
*
Sarah parked in the car park of the Beechwood Hospice and walked across to the new block that held reception.
She’d been out here a few times, the place a haven of peace on the edge of the village. Sometimes for fêtes, or fundraising teas.
Other times — sad times that seemed to grow more frequent — she’d visited friends who were patients. Some, their time up. Beechwood — for lack of a better word — was a blessed place.
Lizzie was already there waiting in reception, chatting to a couple of other nurses. It looked to Sarah like shift turnaround time.
Lizzie saw her, and came over.
“Am I glad to see you, Sarah,” she said, looking tired, but still managing a smile. “Fancy a quick bite to eat?”
“Sure,” said Sarah.
“They do great sandwiches and wraps in the café,” said Lizzie, always a bundle of energy. “Let’s grab some and go sit outside.”
Sarah followed her, hoping that Lizzie at least might have some answers.
*
They found a perfect spot at a little table under the shade of a weeping willow, and got talking straight away, Lizzie desperate to know if Sarah had heard anything from the police.
As they ate their sandwiches, Sarah told her that Jack was there now in Banbury, talking to Len. And — if they all worked fast — they might get Len out, at least maybe on some kind of bail.
But first, Sarah needed to know more. About Len’s past.
A lot more.
“Did Len ever mention his time in Spain? Ibiza?”
“Never.”
“So you didn’t know that he’d been there — or what he did there?”
“Not a clue. In fact, I still don’t know. Len had a way — gentle, mind you — of shutting questions down. Like that door was closed.”
Sarah waited, wondering what to tell Lizzie, but the nurse was too quick for her.
“Wait, Sarah … you know, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“God. After all these years. Well. You’d better tell me.”
So Sarah told her what Tony had revealed about Len’s past. Lizzie listened, her mouth half open in disbelief.
“A DJ? My Len?” she said. “No way.”
Sarah nodded.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“You had no idea?”
“Not an inkling. I mean … Len, he listens to classical. Hates pop. Always turns it off whenever …”
Sarah saw her thinking this through, this crazy discovery of who her lifelong partner might really be.
“I mean, Sarah, sometimes music would come on — on the telly, or radio, stuff we all listened to back then — and he’d jump to turn it off, or even leave the room. The only stuff he liked was more recent. Or the really old stuff. Old jazz.”
“Maybe — some kind of reminder?” said Sarah. “Reminder of a bad time.”
“DJ Spirit,” said Lizzie, shaking her head again. “My Len? I don’t know what to think.”
“Tell me about the Len you do know,” said Sarah.
“The Len I know? It’s like there’s two of them suddenly.”
Sarah waited — for a second, Lizzie seemed to be struggling to contain her anger.
“I met Len twenty-nine years ago this August,” said Lizzie, sitting back and sipping tea from a mug. “Funny enough, I was in a uniform, not unlike this one.”
“So he worked in a hospital?” said Sarah.
“God, no,” said Lizzie, smiling at the thought. “He falls over at the very sight of blood! No, he was a patient. And I was the nurse. Sounds like a comedy, doesn’t it?”
Sarah smiled, so relieved to see Lizzie still able to joke. “So where was that?”
“Oxford. He was in a hell of a state. Trying to get clean after doing pretty much every drug he could get his hands on.”
“Must have been tough.”
“Oh, it was. For him — and for the staff around him, helping him. Addiction — it tears into everybody, you know. Tears really deep.”
“But you saw him, kind of warts and all?”
“Oh totally. Shouting, swearing, fighting. Had him in restraints sometimes. But also — sometimes — so sweet. Soft, like a kid. Damaged. The real Len.”
“He talk about the past?”
“Nothing. Not a thing.”
“Hospital records?”
“He didn’t have any. It was like he’d never been to a doctor in his entire life.”
“And his family — his background?”
“Again — blank. Even when he was getting better, he didn’t ever talk about that. And when he got clean and I asked him about his not talking about the past, he just said — well it was kind of a deal between us really — he said ‘I never want to go back. So the past — it’s dead and we just won’t talk about it.’”
“‘Dead’ — that the word he used?”
Sarah saw her nod.
“It was like he had two lives — the life before we met, and the life after. When he was finally clean.”
“So you two — when did you get together?”
“About a year later. I wanted to be sure he’d stay clean. And he did. We married here in Cherringham. Grace was born a year later.”
“And you never met anyone from his past? Not even a hint of where he was from?”
“No one. Nothing. Funny though, I remember one time when Grace was little, I suggested we had a holiday in Menorca, he got really worked up, said it wasn’t somewhere he ever wanted to go.”
“You never knew why?”
“No. Never suggested it again. Maybe I should have.”
“And thinking back to when he was in hospital — you never got a clue where he’d come from? No visitors, nothing?”
“Sarah, you do realise it’s nearly thirty years ago?”
“I know. But sometimes if there’s something odd, or out of place, it sticks in the memory. You know? Like a thread, waiting to be picked.”
We’re getting nowhere.
Then — “Well, hang on. There is one thing, I remember. I don’t know if it’s important. Maybe not—”
“It might be. Tell me.”
“There was this one night, I was on duty on Len’s ward, it was getting late, visitors’ hour was over. We had strict hours then, not like now …”
“I remember,” said Sarah. “Go on.”
“There was this guy turned up. Big guy, tanned. Quite … well … sexy looking, you know? Tall, confident, couple of tattoos on one wrist. Had a fantastic smile.”
Sarah waited, watching as if the memory was re-forming in the air between them.
“Said he was an old pal of Len’s, only in the country tonight, heading off again, desperate to see him, just wanted five minutes, wish him well, you know? He did a pretend beg, got down on his knees.”
“You bent the rules?”
“I was a kid really. Couldn’t see what harm it would do.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, I had him sign in and all that. But here’s the odd thing. I took him into the ward, nearly everyone was asleep. Len’s little light was on. The guy went over. I saw Len look up and that’s when I thought, ‘oh God, I’ve made a big mistake here—’”
“Why?”
“Len — he looked terrified. Eyes all wide — I mean really scared. And this guy — it was horrible really. While Len was so scared, the guy just grinned at Len, and then he went right up, close up, put his mouth up against Len’s ear, and said something.”
Such a small memory, Sarah thought.
But it’s all we have.
“Just a word — a couple of words, I guess. I couldn’t hear. Then he stepped back and Len looked at him and — his face still looking gobsmacked — he nod
ded. Then the guy turned around, walked right past me like I wasn’t there, like I didn’t exist anymore, like I’d served my purpose. Smile vanished. And something scary in those eyes. Then he was gone.”
“And what did Len say?”
“I asked him if he was okay — he just nodded, turned his light out, rolled over.”
“And he never mentioned it? I mean, ever again?”
“No. At the time I was happy with that. The bloke … I shouldn’t have let him on the ward, you know.”
“You didn’t get a name?”
“A name. Well, yes, I did. It was when Len first saw him, he just said one word, ‘Micky’, like he’d seen the devil himself come calling.”
“Micky. No surname?” Lizzie shook her head. “Lizzie, you said he signed in. The records … what happened to them?”
“Big hospital like that? Must keep them, in boxes, in basements. Might still be there, in Oxford somewhere.”
A needle in a haystack.
But when all you’ve got is that needle …
Sarah sat back. It wasn’t much to go on. Hardly anything. One word. One name. Somewhere, in an old hospital register.
God.
But it was a lead … the thinnest of leads.
5. Name from the Past
Jack sat back, looked over at the cop in the corner, obviously hearing everything, face impassive. No way Jack could claim client-lawyer privileges.
When he looked at Len’s face, he saw a shaken man: cheeks suddenly hollow, eyes rheumy, almost as if Len Taylor had become a different person.
That thought worried Jack, but he had to press the man some more.
Jack leaned close, nodding as if everything he’d heard so far made perfect sense.
Which it didn’t. It was filled with holes and blackouts that made — defence-wise — anything Len said useless.
“Len, I understand that weekend’s a blank for you. I get that.” Len’s eyes, looking so close to tears, were locked on Jack. “But you know I’m here to help. And so is Sarah. Talking to your Lizzie.”
Len sniffed. “She knows nothin’, Jack. She changed my life, and I never looked back.”
Jack sat back, waited a few seconds. He knew that he needed another way in, a way to keep Len talking.
“Len, besides that weekend of July 5th, what do you remember about that summer of 1990? Your work, the people … Sally? Anything at all you remember could be a help.”
Cherringham--Murder under the Sun Page 3