Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘They say you can get it off the Internet if you know where to look. Anarchists, terrorists . . . they’ll post up anything.’ He looked to Steadman for confirmation and got none. ‘But if it’s there it’s in a deep, dark place, because I’ve never managed to find it.’

  ‘But the method’s well known in your profession?’

  ‘Oh yes. We share this sort of info, pass it around. Particularly when it’s something sophisticated, designed to pull the wool over our eyes.’

  Another pause. ‘Thank you,’ Hugh murmured. Then again with genuine gratitude: ‘Thank you. Your people must have worked flat out.’

  ‘They did,’ Slater declared with a puff of pride. ‘They stayed late on Tuesday evening. And the lab people dropped everything to help out. But they were glad to, in view of the urgency and importance of the investigation. Oh!’ He made a gesture of memory and plunged his hand back into his case to bring out a charred, vaguely rectangular object in a plastic bag. ‘We found this on the sofa frame as well. Bound in leather, ring-binder. A diary or Filofax. Must have been lying open because all the leaves were destroyed.’ He offered it to Steadman. ‘Need this for evidence, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Everything you’ve got. When will your report be available, Mr Slater?’

  ‘Interim report Monday. Final report two weeks max. Unless you need it sooner?’

  It wasn’t needed sooner, and almost as one they began to move, Slater to pack up his laptop, Reynolds to go back through his notes, Hugh and Steadman to stroll to the front door and stand in the porch, gazing out at the wind-blown garden.

  Steadman said tautly, ‘I owe you an apology, Mr Gwynne.’

  Hugh shook his head. ‘So long as you can get things moving. Find this man.’

  ‘Most arsonists are rank amateurs. They usually make it blindingly obvious. Never seen anything like this before.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. What kind of person would plan something like this? Go to so much trouble to kill my wife.’

  ‘Like I said, if you could think about any enemies your wife might have made, Mr Gwynne. Someone who had an obsession about her. Or a grudge. A local troublemaker . . . A neighbour . . . Someone she’d been kind to who’d got the wrong idea. A road rage incident she’d been involved in, maybe recently, maybe some time ago. A client from the Citizens Advice who started playing the blame game. Any yobs, crackpots, gang members who’d come her way.’

  ‘Well, it’s not likely to be a yob, is it? They wouldn’t have the brains.’

  ‘Ah, but you get bright yobs just like you get stupid ones,’ Steadman said in the tone of having seen it all. ‘And drug users are often the brightest of the lot . . .’

  Hugh shot him a defensive glance, wondering if he knew about Charlie.

  ‘. . . Mrs Gwynne must have met a few in the course of her work. Maybe she encouraged one of them to shop a dealer? Maybe she aggravated a gang member without realising it? That’s what I’m getting at, Mr Gwynne. We can’t rule out anything at this stage.’

  Dazed by this new range of possibilities, Hugh said, ‘What next?’

  ‘The house will have to be sealed off until the SOCOs have had a chance to go over the place. Meantime, we’ll set up an incident room, start gathering statements. We will of course keep you fully informed of any developments.’ Behind the rigid composure Hugh thought he detected a note of pessimism in Steadman’s voice, a sense that the case had got off to a bad start and would continue as it had begun. Or maybe Steadman was simply careworn from a heavy caseload and too few resources. Either way, Hugh made a mental note to keep the pressure up.

  Steadman took out a card and wrote on it. ‘My mobile number. Call me or DS Reynolds if you have any thoughts. Anything at all.’

  A gust of wind hit them. Reaching a pale hand up to smooth his hair, Steadman turned to go back into the house.

  ‘You talked about Lizzie getting noticed for going to the Carstairs,’ said Hugh, following him. ‘But apart from the Lewis family the only people she visited were families wanting to be rehoused or people with mental health issues or old age pensioners too frightened to leave their flats. Why would that have attracted attention?’

  ‘Visiting the Lewis family would have been enough.’

  ‘Even with Denzel in prison?’

  ‘Once a gang member always a gang member. Being inside doesn’t stop them dealing drugs, waging turf wars.’

  ‘And you really think they could be capable of something like this?’

  ‘They’re capable of most things when they set their minds to it.’

  ‘But why Lizzie? What could she have done to upset them?’

  ‘If we knew that, Mr Gwynne, we’d be a long way to finding the person or persons responsible.’

  Hugh hesitated, caught between his instinct for caution, his urge to help, and his reluctance to point Steadman in what might be the wrong direction. ‘There was talk of a witness,’ he said abruptly. ‘Someone who could give Denzel Lewis an alibi.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I thought it was just a rumour, but . . . well, it seems Lizzie might have been in touch with this person.’

  Steadman gave his unblinking stare. ‘Chief Inspector Montgomery know about this?’

  ‘In theory anyway. Lizzie asked him about witness protection.’

  This time there was a marked tension in Steadman’s silence. ‘When was this?’

  ‘At their meeting last week.’

  Steadman turned his face towards the light while he digested the information. ‘And this witness, did she tell you his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about other people? Like the Lewis family? Did she tell them who this person was?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘But they knew there was a witness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone else know?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘But your wife definitely talked to Montgomery about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With a pensive nod, Steadman straightened his back. ‘Right, well, thanks for that, Mr Gwynne. I’ll look into it further.’

  ‘There’s another thing.’

  Steadman lifted his head to the question.

  ‘My wife must have been unconscious.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘Because there was no other way this guy could have undressed her and folded her clothes and put her into bed. No other way he could have persuaded her to stay there once the fire started and the smoke alarm went off.’

  Steadman took his time to consider this idea. ‘There’s nothing in the post-mortem to suggest she was unconscious.’

  ‘Yes, but what about date-rape drugs? They don’t show up, do they?’

  Steadman took even longer over this thought. Finally he offered Hugh a mechanical smile. ‘I hear what you say, Mr Gwynne. I hear it loud and clear.’

  Back in the house, Hugh gave Lizzie’s water-damaged notebooks to Slater for delivery to a specialist document restorer, then left for Oakhill to face the task of telling the children.

  Gone out, Lou’s note said. Back later. The message was so abrupt, so devoid of information that Hugh felt a beat of alarm.

  She answered her mobile instantly. ‘Dad.’

  ‘Sweetheart. You okay?’

  ‘Can’t talk now. Waiting for a call.’

  ‘Anything the matter?’

  ‘It’s Charlie,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘He didn’t come home last night and he’s not answering his phone.’

  It had only been a matter of time, Hugh thought wearily, though that didn’t prevent him from feeling a plunge of disappointment.

  ‘Where are you?’ he demanded. She seemed to be in a car, but it couldn’t be Lizzie’s because that was sitting outside in the drive.

  ‘We’ve just tried the place where Elk was meant to live, but he’s not here any more.’

  ‘Who’re you with?’

  ‘Sarah.’
r />   His mind was a blank. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Koenig. But Dad, I can’t talk now. I’m waiting for a call from Joel. He thinks he might be able to find out where Elk’s gone to.’

  ‘Lou – don’t expect too much.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean . . . if Charlie’s decided to start using again, then there’s nothing we can do about it. Believe me, darling – nothing.’

  ‘Well, if he has started again that’s all the more reason not to give up on him – not when he needs us,’ she declared emotionally. ‘And he needs us, I know he does! I’m going to be there for him – even if you’re not!’

  ‘Lou, I didn’t—’ But she’d rung off, and he didn’t call back. He’d wept for Charlie once on discovering he was into heavy drugs, and again the first time Charlie had relapsed after swearing faithfully, absolutely, cross-his-heart-hope-to-die that he’d given up, but at some point in the succeeding months his tears had dried up. The disappointment, which had seemed so acute a moment ago, had already faded, another fact to be absorbed and somehow lived with, like the fire and Lizzie’s death.

  Heading upstairs, he pushed open Charlie’s door and surveyed the jumble of strewn clothes, cigarette stubs and half-drunk cans of Coke that littered the place. Only the computer table was relatively uncluttered. Wandering over, he saw Lizzie’s mobile phone lying face down with its back removed, and on a stack of papers next to it a handwritten list of names and phone numbers. From entries such as ‘Plumber Dave’ and ‘Electric Paul’ he realised it was a summary of Lizzie’s SIM card. This was what baffled him, how Charlie could make such a neat, methodical list when for so much of the time his mind, like this bedroom, seemed to be in a state of confusion. On the next sheet was a printed list of computer file names, perhaps fourteen or fifteen in number, which, according to Charlie’s handwritten note, had been modified in the last two weeks. In the pile beneath were printouts of the fifteen files. ‘Charlie . . .’ he murmured with a mixture of admiration and despair.

  Collecting up the printouts, he took them to his bedroom and put them on the side table while he went into the bathroom and splashed his face repeatedly in cold water. Then, lying on the bed, propped up on the pillows, he began to go through them, skimming over Lizzie’s Citizens Advice cases, reading the remaining files in more detail. Coming to the file marked ‘Denzel Lewis Campaign’ he skipped to the end to see if she’d had time to write up her meeting with Montgomery, but there was nothing. It was only when he leafed backwards that he found a paragraph headed ‘Meeting with DCI Montgomery’, with notes on the witness protection scheme. The date was some weeks back, which surprised him. Or had he simply got the timescale wrong?

  Reaching the second-to-last document, there it was suddenly. A file entitled ‘Statement’ kept in a folder labelled ‘W’. The heading read: Summary of conversations with W.

  August 1, 6: W first tells me he’s frightened of the gangs because of something he’s seen. Clams up when I ask him for details.

  August 13, 20, 27, Sept 1: Steady progress in winning W’s trust. He seems genuinely terrified of consequences of having seen ‘bad’ thing. Says ‘they’ would get him if they knew. Tells me ‘they’ are local gang, but won’t say which. I passed all this on to Dr S for information. She said it could be an attempt to rationalise his fear of the outside world, i.e. a fabrication.

  Sept. 18: On my return from holiday W is wary and withdrawn, as if to punish me for my absence, but then begins to respond. I feel I’m regaining his trust. I think he’s missed my visits.

  Sept. 23: W told me it was a knifing he saw. I didn’t press him. I feel he’ll tell me more as and when he’s ready.

  Sept. 28: Most positive talk yet re practical issues in his life: occupational training, getting fit, etc. W excited at my idea of theme park outing for his birthday. Something to aim at, if nothing else.

  Oct. 1: Another positive visit, though W still needs a lot of reassurance, encouragement etc. Towards the end, JE dropped by. As he, G and I talked, W became agitated, then aggressive & withdrawn. Reaction made no sense till I worked out only thing that could have upset him was talk of Denzel Lewis campaign.

  Oct. 2: Reassure W. Swear formally on the family Bible that I would never break his trust, that whatever he tells me will always remain confidential. I then ask him straight out if it was the killing of Jason Jackson he saw. His reaction says yes. After a lot more reassurance it all comes out. To the best of my recollection, this is what he told me:

  Three years ago, on the night in question, W had been to the sports centre to watch basketball practice with a view to taking up the sport. He was walking home sometime after nine o’clock. There was a kid ahead of him, also walking home from basketball practice. He knew this kid by sight only; not well enough to walk with him. A distinctive red Ford XR3 with spoilers and white metal wheels went by, then reappeared and stopped alongside the other kid. At first there was some sort of talk between the kid and the people in the car. Then two white guys got out of the car and surrounded the kid. There was a shout, then the guys stabbed the kid. At this point one of the white guys saw W and shouted something, and W ran away in the opposite direction. Hearing the car coming up behind, he dived down an alleyway and made his escape through some back gardens.

  When I questioned W further, he said

  1)

  He was in no doubt the two guys stabbed the kid. (He mimed the stabbing movements for me.)

  2)

  The two guys were definitely white. He saw them clearly.

  3)

  He was certain about his description of the car because he loves cars and always notices them. He said the car belonged to a white gang from the adjoining estate.

  4)

  W couldn’t name the exact date of the attack, only that he’d just turned fifteen, which tallies with the murder of Jason Jackson.

  Oct. 3, 5: W is relieved to have told me, but also very defensive re Denzel being in prison for something he didn’t do.

  Oct. 8: W tells me he recognised one of Jason’s attackers as one of the Forbes brothers, well-known racists and gang members. I talk about witness protection, a new home in another city, but he’s scared stiff.

  Oct. 10: No progress on idea of witness protection.

  Oct. 12: Same.

  Oct. 15: Same.

  Oct. 17: We talk about God and faith and bravery. Could be the way forward.

  Woken by the buzz of the doorbell, Hugh opened his eyes to the featureless neutrals of the Oakhill decor and saw it was one o’clock; he had slept for almost forty minutes, and now Isabel had arrived, precisely on time. He got to his feet, scattering papers over the floor, and hurried downstairs. Swinging the front door open, the smile he’d mustered for Isabel died on his lips as he saw Ray standing at her side. From Isabel’s expression it was obvious that Ray’s presence wasn’t her idea.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Hugh said, suppressing his irritation.

  Leading the way in, Ray hauled off his coat. ‘Just a couple of things to clear with you, old fellow. Thought it would be easier to make it into a visit. And then Isabel told me she was coming, so . . . well, here we are.’

  Isabel threw Hugh a helpless look.

  Hugh said, ‘Well, there are things I need to discuss with Isabel.’

  ‘Fine. No problem. But how’s it going, old fellow?’ Ray asked, with a doleful expression. ‘You’ve seen the police—’

  ‘You came in the same car?’ Hugh cut in.

  ‘What? Well, yes. Didn’t seem much point in bringing two.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to amuse yourself while Isabel and I have our meeting.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . well, it’s the Deacon case you’re discussing, isn’t it?’ Ray asked, looking from Hugh to Isabel and back again. ‘I’d be glad to sit in. You know, throw in some ideas.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s not practical.’

  Ray lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Look, I do actually know the shit’s hit t
he fan, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Isabel widened her eyes to confirm it.

  ‘Oh?’ said Hugh.

  ‘Desmond Riley told me about the, er . . . awkward discrepancy in Deacon’s story. ’

  ‘How did that come about?’ Hugh said with deliberate calm.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That you spoke to Desmond?’

  ‘Ah . . . well, you see, he wanted to talk to whoever was standing in for you and so the switchboard put him through to me.’

  Hugh exchanged another glance with Isabel. ‘I tell you, it’s not practical. We haven’t got time to go through the back story.’

  ‘Well, I could—’

  ‘It wouldn’t work,’ Hugh insisted.

  ‘Well . . . fine,’ Ray said, baffled and a little hurt. ‘I’ll take a turn round the garden . . . or whatever.’

  Isabel held up a carrier bag. ‘I’ve brought some lunch.’

  Hugh delved into his pocket for money. ‘Here . . . let me . . .’

  ‘Raymond paid for it,’ she said.

  For some reason this rekindled Hugh’s irritation. ‘Bung it on my expenses, will you, Ray?’

  ‘Don’t be idiotic, man,’ Ray said, following Hugh into the kitchen. ‘But how did it go this morning?’ he asked urgently. ‘The police getting moving at last?’

  Scooping up some water glasses, Hugh almost bumped into Ray, hovering at his elbow. ‘Looks like it, yes.’

  ‘They’re setting up a proper criminal investigation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ray raised his eyes heavenward and gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that! About time too! Your expert came up with the evidence, did he?’

  ‘Yup.’ Hugh grabbed some mineral water and took it to the table where Isabel was distributing sandwiches. He sat down briskly. ‘So what’s up, Ray?’

  Sitting down next to him, Ray gave another sigh. ‘I still can’t believe it, you know. I can’t—’ He gulped, as if to suppress a sudden upwelling of emotion. ‘I can’t believe anyone could start a fire deliberately, knowing what—’