She beamed back at him. ‘Happy to help. I’d better get back to the bar.’
Sam slid into the seat next to the computer and Marcus pulled up a chair next to him.
‘Nice job,’ Marcus noted, as Sam pulled up the search engine. Sam typed in the name Wayne Cartwright and hit the search button.
Nothing of note came up. Just lots of articles with Wayne or Cartwright in the title – the search hadn’t been specific enough.
He tried again. This time he put Wayne Cartwright in quotes and added in HMP Bristol and the word “death”.
And there is was - the second result down, an article from the Bristol Evening Post, the local newspaper, dated the previous week.
Prisoner death mystery
They scanned the short piece, describing how Wayne Cartwright had been found dead early the previous morning. The prison authorities and police had refused to comment, but an unnamed source claimed he was found hanging in his cell.
Sam shook his head as he read on.
The source said that suicide had been ruled out and that they were working on the assumption that he had been murdered.
‘Wow,’ Marcus said.
Sam re-read the revelation. ‘Do you think that’s likely - that other prisoners did this?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Prison’s a very dangerous place. Believe me; I’ve met plenty of people who were capable of much worse than that.’
Sam didn’t linger on that thought. Instead he thought of Richard Friedman’s drawing. ‘He must have known. Richard Friedman must have known that he was found hanging.’
‘Looks like that,’ Marcus agreed.
‘But how? How did he know?
Marcus shrugged. ‘Maybe the police told him. They might not have wanted to tell the press, but they might have told him more details.’
‘Maybe,’ Sam said. ‘But Victoria Friedman said she didn’t know how he died.’
‘Maybe he didn’t tell her.’
‘I don’t think so.’
I did it. I’m the killer.
Marcus studied Sam. ‘What are you thinking?’
An idea had formed; a possible explanation. ‘What if Richard knew what was going to happen?’
‘You think he could have set up his murder?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
Marcus thought for a second then nodded. ‘It’s possible. There are always people who are willing to sort out grudges or exact justice for those on the outside - for the right price. But he would need to have access to someone in the jail that was prepared to do it. It’s not easy to do that kind of thing without the right contacts on the outside.’
He might have been wrong, but this was starting to make sense. ‘A go-between?’
‘Yeah - someone who knows people in the prison that can do the job. Someone who can set it all up, make sure everything runs to plan.’
‘Did you ever see this happen?’
Marcus waited one beat too long.
‘You did, didn’t you?’
Marcus nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘I saw it happen once or twice. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m trying to forget all that.’
Sam respected Marcus’s wishes. ‘But you think that this could be a possibility?’
‘I think it’s much more likely that this guy made enemies whilst he was inside,’ Marcus replied. ‘And that whoever these people were took their opportunity to punish him. What makes you think Richard Friedman has anything to do with it?’
‘The words on the drawing,’ Sam said. ‘And what he said to me up on the roof. ‘I did it. I’m the killer. Maybe he wasn’t talking about Cathy. He could have been talking about Wayne Cartwright. Maybe he felt responsible for his death.’
Marcus didn’t look convinced. ‘From what his sister said, and from what Louisa said, he doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would do that.’
‘I agree,’ Sam said. ‘But he wasn’t thinking straight. His sister said how he was dreading the possibility that he’d be released. Maybe he panicked, wanted to get rid of the pain, and this seemed like the best way.’
‘But he’d still have to have the right contacts to be able to do that kind of thing.’
‘Just say he did.’
‘Okay,’ Marcus said, humouring him. ‘Say that Richard Friedman did arrange for someone to murder Wayne Cartwright. What has all this got to do with Cathy and the person who has Anna?’
‘I have no idea,’ Sam admitted. ‘But Richard Friedman holds the key to this, I just know it. We’ve got to find out more, and quickly.’
‘How?’
Sam thought back to the artwork. ‘From Richard Friedman himself.’
39
Eric Ainsley returned home barely five minutes after Vincent and his men had left. Shirley was still on the sofa, tears wet against her cheek and head buried against the cushion, as she heard him enter the room.
His face fell. ‘Christ, Shirley, are you okay?’
She didn’t look up.
He knelt down beside her, trying to get a glimpse of her face. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me.’ He was panicking. ‘Is it Alison?’
She turned to look at his tortured face. ‘They’ve taken the money.’
His face flashed horror.
‘They’ve taken the money,’ she repeated, now more an accusation.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. He jumped up and raced upstairs. Shirley could hear him in the spare bedroom, frantically banging doors and drawers.
She rose up and looked at the bag that he had left on the floor. It wasn’t his normal work bag. Instinctively she unzipped it and was met by the sight of yet more bank notes; thousands more. ‘Dear God.’ She felt dirty, contaminated.
‘I’m so sorry, Shirley, so, so sorry.’ Eric swayed at the door, totally shell-shocked. He was crying. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t.’
She looked up, her blood boiling for her dead daughter and missing grandchild. ‘Tell me everything. Now.’
Eric slumped against the wall, sobbing into his hands.
‘Tell me everything, Eric, now,’ her voice deliberately hard. ‘Before it’s too late.’
He nodded, struggling to compose himself as he sat down next to her. ‘It’s all my fault,’ he said. He looked at her through drowning eyes. ‘Everything is my fault.’
She maintained the hard tone. ‘Tell me.’
Shame forced him to look away. ‘I borrowed some money,’ he said, his forehead creasing. ‘A lot of money.’
‘How much? Why?’
‘Fifteen thousand pounds – I lost my job twelve months ago.’
The shock was immense. ‘What?’
‘I should have told you, I know, I should have, but I didn’t want to worry you and I thought that I would find something else. But I couldn’t. No-one wants to employ someone of my age. So I borrowed some money from a man I met in the pub. He said it would be interest free, he said it was a favour.’
Shirley felt sick. ‘Vincent McGuire?’
Eric nodded, his eyes closing. ‘Six months ago he said he wanted the money back, with interest. And if I didn’t pay bad things would happen. Then one day I came home and he was sat there with Jane, smiling at me, and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I tried to get together the money, from friends. Bob lent me some, so did Arthur and Tony. But it wasn’t enough.’
She shook her head, disgusted by what she was hearing. ‘He murdered our daughter, because you needed money.’
Eric started sobbing again, nodding into his hands. ‘It’s all my fault.’
Shirley let him cry for a moment. He deserved to drown in his tears. ‘How long have you known?’
‘I thought he might have done it,’ he mumbled, ‘but I didn’t know for sure. I wanted to believe it was just an accident. But then he said he had Alison.’
Shirley fought to control her anger. She didn’t recognise the man in front of her. ‘My God, Eric, you should have told me.’
‘I thought if I
could get the money together then he would give her back – I nearly had enough.’
‘You’re a fool,’ she said. ‘We need to tell the police, right now.’
‘No!’ he said, ‘we can’t. He’ll kill Alison.’
‘The police will help us.’
He shook his head. ‘He’ll know we’ve done it and he’ll kill her. They’re watching us, Jane, all the time. You don’t understand who we’re dealing with. He has people everywhere. And he doesn’t care who he hurts – he enjoys hurting people. He’s enjoying watching us suffer.’
‘Then what? What the hell do we do?’
‘I don’t know, now they’ve taken the money, I just don’t know.’
‘Do you think they might let her go; now they’ve got what they want?’
‘I don’t know.’
Shirley thought back to what Vincent had said to her just before he left. ‘He said this was just part of something bigger. That it wasn’t really about us. Do you know what he means?’
Eric shook his head. ‘No, I swear, I don’t. Please, believe me Shirley.’
Then Eric’s mobile rang.
He brought it to his ear and listened without replying, before handing the phone to Shirley. He looked confused. ‘They want to speak to you.’
Sam and Marcus retraced their steps back to Victoria Friedman’s house, deciding that it was worth quizzing her again now, armed with their additional information. With it they might be able to unlock some more answers – something that could take them further forward. And although there might be nothing more to be gained, it was worth a shot. Unfortunately this time when they knocked on her door, there was no answer.
‘She was quick to leave,’ Marcus noted.
Sam nodded, placing a hand on the door, turning around to scan the street. ‘Too quick.’
‘You think she knew about what happened and just didn’t tell us?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Who knows. Maybe.’
‘So what now?’
‘We go and take a look at Richard Friedman’s artwork.’
Marcus’s face creased. ‘But I thought…’
‘Not here,’ Sam revealed. ‘Follow me.’
They headed for the tube, travelling towards Embankment, and Sam explained about the artwork at Tate Modern.
‘It’s the same figure as the one in the drawing of Wayne Cartwright, the silhouette of the man with arms outstretched, lurking in the background.’
‘You’re thinking that it could be the man who has Anna, the man who killed Cathy?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you know when he drew it?’
‘Recently - Louisa said all the artworks were produced in the past few weeks, especially for the exhibition.’
‘So there might be clues in it?’
‘Hopefully – I just need something to go on. I can’t stand feeling so powerless.’
‘You’re not tempted to call the police?’
‘I’m fighting my instincts not to call them,’ Sam revealed. ‘But I’m scared that this guy isn’t bluffing. What if I get them involved and he carries out his threat?’
‘I know,’ Marcus replied. ‘I think you’re doing the right thing, for the moment anyway.’
They spent the majority of the journey in silence, and Sam’s thoughts turned again to Anna. It hurt so much to think that someone had her, maybe the same person who had murdered Cathy, and that the police didn’t even know about it. There were no search teams, no rooms full of officers chasing up leads and considering possibilities; just him, Marcus, Louisa and Doug. As the tube pulled into Embankment, he uttered a silent prayer that she was safe. It seemed futile, but there was little else to do.
On the way to Tate Modern, Louisa called to check how things were going. Sam updated her on the revelations about Wayne Cartwright and their suspicions that Richard might have been involved somehow in his death. She was just as puzzled as to a connection with Anna’s disappearance as they were.
Reaching the gallery, Marcus followed Sam through the main hall and up the stairs towards the exhibition space. Both stood in front of the large canvas and took in the powerful feeling of chaos and despair that it exuded.
Sam pointed. ‘See the figure in the top right hand corner.’
Marcus nodded.
Sam examined it carefully. ‘It’s exactly the same figure. Exactly the same pose.’ He glanced at Marcus, whose eyes seemed to be taking in every detail of the piece. ‘It’s disturbing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Sam turned back to the work, looking for anything that might shed some light on things. But he saw nothing that seemed relevant. There was no message, no sign of Cathy’s necklace, just the tortured image of Richard Friedman staring out from a mass of gravestones and twisted faces.
‘I can’t see anything new,’ Sam said. He turned again to Marcus and was shocked to see the expression on his face, drained of colour. His eyes were fixed on the drawing. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Marcus answered unconvincingly. He looked away. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got to be somewhere really important, Sam. I’m sorry; I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.’
Sam watched Marcus walk away at pace and noticed that even before he had left the hall he’d pulled out his mobile phone.
He followed, pulling him back at the shoulder as Marcus reached the stairs. ‘Marcus.’
Marcus turned around.
Sam held on to his friend. ‘You saw something in the drawing, didn’t you? What was it?’
‘Nothing,’ Marcus replied.
‘You’re lying,’ Sam hit back. ‘You saw something, I know you did. Tell me what you saw.’
People were watching.
Marcus tried to shrug him off. ‘Let me go, Sam.’
Sam tightened his hold. He would be damned if Marcus was going to keep something from him that could help them find Anna. ‘Tell me.’
They had now attracted the attention of a security guard, who was watching them from across the hall. He moved slowly towards them.
Marcus glanced across at the guard, then back at Sam. ‘You’ve got to trust me, Sam, please. I want to help, but you’ve got to let me go.’
Sam considered his response as the guard neared. He released his grip.
‘I’ll phone you later, I promise,’ Marcus added. He turned and made for the stairs.
Sam waited until Marcus had disappeared from view before following.
40
Sam spotted Marcus about fifty metres ahead, walking along the side of the Thames, and heading towards the direction of the hospital. He was walking purposefully. Sam hung back and hoped that Marcus wouldn’t turn around. Fortunately, being just after half five, there was a lot of cover, with commuters on their way home or for a post-work drink, mixing with late afternoon tourists enjoying the autumn sun.
Up at the front, Marcus reached Westminster Bridge and crossed, entering the hospital grounds.
Why was he heading back there?
He didn’t head for the main entrance; instead he moved towards the rear of the building – the gardens. Sam thought for a second about following further. The grounds were invariably quiet, and it would be much harder to hide from view. But then he remembered the alternative route. It was around the back, via a small gate that emerged just behind a thick clump of bushes. It would give him cover. He hurried across the road and arced around towards the back entrance, losing sight of Marcus for about half a minute.
Sam entered through the gate and crouched low behind the bushes, watching as Marcus took a place on the very same bench where Sam had been so upset days earlier. It did feel wrong, spying like this, but he was doing this for Anna.
Marcus’s body folded; his head in his hands.
What the hell was going on?
For a good two minutes, Marcus held that position. And then, from the left, came Louisa. She approached from behind, touching Marcus on the shoulder, before moving around and sitting next to him. They exchanged
words – it was too far away for Sam to hear, but from their facial expressions the conversation looked intense. Marcus stood up, with Louisa clinging to his arm. There was a hug, and then a kiss. Not a friendly kiss goodbye.
A lovers’ kiss, full on the lips, held there for seconds.
What the hell?
And with that Marcus walked away. Sam decided not to follow. Realistically, the chances of him being able to pursue Marcus across the city were slim. Instead, stunned by what he had just seen, he watched Louisa as she dabbed at her eyes, before she turned back towards the main entrance. Only when she was gone did he emerge into the main gardens, already rehearsing how he was going to play this.
It was time he found out the truth.
Sam made his way up to Louisa’s office, still trying to decide how to tackle this. He felt angry, betrayed, although in reality there was no real reason for him to be – Louisa had every right to date whoever she liked. But still, she’d kept it a secret, even at Marcus’s flat, when she’d had the chance to tell Sam everything, to bring it all out into the open. He approached the door, spotting Louisa sat at her desk. He knocked and she looked up, startled. Her eyes were swollen with recent tears. Sam opened the door.
Louisa tried to gather her composure. She smiled. ‘Sam.’
Sam closed the door behind him without a word, and stood with his back against the glass. It felt cool through his shirt.
Louisa tensed. ‘What’s the matter? Have you heard something?’
‘I saw you,’ Sam replied.
Louisa looked confused. ‘What?’
Sam held his tongue in check. He needed to approach this in the right way, keep things calm, after all he hoped Louisa would be part of the solution, not the problem. ‘What’s going on, Louisa?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Tell me about you and Marcus.’
Louisa let out a nervous, defensive laugh, but Sam could see the shockwave ripple across her face. ‘What?’
Her instinctive denial angered Sam. ‘I saw you together. I saw you kiss. Now tell me what’s going on.’
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