He had always assumed that Josh was hiding a shady past; he hadn’t reckoned with him being part of a gangland dynasty.
It explained why Josh refused to have his DNA on record. He remembered something Professor Varley had said: when Josh graduated in psychology with distinction, nobody had attended the ceremony. Small surprise, given what he now knew. Josh had been offered a bursary to continue his studies in Nottingham – he might have become a star in his chosen field – yet he had changed courses, chosen to train for a job that would place him under constant threat of exposure. And where he, in turn, could expose miscarriages of justice. Fennimore couldn’t decide if that was perverse or foolish – or the definition of heroism.
He stacked the papers in order and stowed them carefully as the seatbelt lights came on and the pilot alerted passengers to their first views of Aberdeen. It was late evening, and the sun was still a pale shimmer of light, setting to their left. This put him in a dilemma: if he told Josh what he knew, he ran the risk of the student skipping town again. But at least if he hinted at Josh’s circumstances to Kate Simms, it might relieve some of the tension between them, and didn’t he owe it to Kate to be honest? He sighed, fastening his seatbelt; Josh had got out of that life – wasn’t he entitled to keep his past where it belonged – in the past? Torn by two very different loyalties, Fennimore decided on one thing: the student had earned a second chance; he would remain under Fennimore’s doctoral supervision.
22
Manchester, Tuesday Evening
Kate Simms arrived home at just after eight. Her mother poked her head around the kitchen door and Simms could read the evening’s disputations in her face.
Make an effort, Kate. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘You’re late.’
‘Work,’ she said, shrugging out of her jacket. She hung it on the stair newel and started down the hall towards the kitchen, but her mother slipped out, pulling the kitchen door closed behind her, blocking the way.
‘You were supposed to be taking some leave,’ she said. ‘Timmy pined for you, those weeks and months you were in America. He refused to go to bed, scared you’d disappeared off again—’
‘I know it’s late,’ Simms interrupted, ‘but I had some stuff to deal with and then I had to call in to speak to the chief constable.’
‘You’re not in trouble again, are you?’
‘No! For heaven’s sake, Mum – why would you assume—’ Simms took a breath and let it go. I am not going to argue this evening. ‘The chief constable has asked me to do some work on the Myers investigation.’ She felt a slow flush creep into her cheeks; the chief constable – what is this need to impress?
Her mother’s face creased. ‘That poor woman. Is there any news about the child?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, what are you doing?’
‘You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, Mum,’ Simms said. ‘And anyway, I don’t know the details – I’m not directly involved – I have more of a … monitoring role.’
‘Monitoring? Monitoring what exactly? You don’t even seem to know what’s going on. How can you monitor anything?’
Simms regarded her mother. It’s like this, Mum: I’ve been appointed Fennimore’s unofficial minder. She blew air out through her nostrils. Yeah, Kate, that’d go down well. Her mother still hadn’t forgiven her for the press speculation that spiralled around her after Rachel and Suzie’s disappearance five years ago.
‘Mum,’ she said. ‘It’s past Timmy’s bedtime – do you think we could call a truce – just until I’ve got him off to sleep?’
An appeal to her mother’s sense of duty often succeeded when all else failed, and it worked this time, too. Her mother sniffed, but stood aside to let her pass.
As Simms reached the kitchen door, her mother took the jacket from the newel and hung it on the coat rail next to the hall dresser. Simms opened her mouth, shut it before she said something she would regret, and walked into the kitchen with a smile on her face.
Timmy was drawing at the table, tomato sauce smeared on his chin, a fat turquoise crayon in one fist.
‘Wow, that’s a lot of blue,’ she said.
He looked up, but continued wearing the crayon down on the sheet of paper. ‘It’s a swimming pool,’ he said. ‘I been swimming.’
Her mother had followed Simms through, and Tim added as an afterthought: ‘With Nanna.’
‘Well, it’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘But mind you don’t colour over the swimmers – you wouldn’t want them to drown.’
He took the crayon off the paper, a look of alarm on his face.
‘What a thing to say!’ her mother scolded. ‘Mummy’s only joking, Timmy.’
‘I know,’ he said, offended. ‘It’s only a pitcher.’ He lifted it up for Simms to see. ‘That one’s me – at the front. I swum a breath and I beat everyone.’
‘You swam a breadth?’ Simms widened her eyes. ‘My goodness, that is something.’
‘I cooked dinner,’ her mother said, walking past them to the stove. ‘Well, I didn’t know when you’d show up, so …’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Of course, Kieran could have cooked dinner. She almost said it, but a worried look crossed Timmy’s face, and she relaxed her shoulders deliberately and laughed. ‘I can see you’ve already eaten, young Timothy.’ She plucked a kitchen towel from the dispenser and ran it under the kitchen tap before wiping his chin.
He squirmed, dropping the drawing and wiping the wetness off his face with his forearm.
‘I got a badge, Mummy,’ he said, kneeling on his chair. He squinted down at his T-shirt, pulling it out of shape so that he could see the badge and show it to her at the same time.
‘Feet off the furniture, Timmy,’ her mother said.
He wriggled to a sitting position again and snatched up the picture. ‘I beat him and him and him and her and him.’ He was practically shouting now, almost poking holes in the paper as he pointed to each of his competitors. This had become a pattern since Simms’s trip: sensing the tension between his mummy and his nanna, he would get louder and ruder until he collapsed in tears or exploded into a full-blown tantrum.
Diversion worked best and Simms said, ‘Gosh, that’s – how many people, Timmy?’
He counted them three times, just to be sure.
‘I saved something for you,’ her mother said. ‘It’s in the pot – if you haven’t already eaten.’ She made it sound like an accusation.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Simms said. Keep the peace, Kate. Just smile and keep the peace.
Her mother crossed the kitchen to the stove.
‘It’s all right, Mum – I’ll sort it,’ she said, more firmly this time.
‘Suit yourself. It’s only Bolognese.’
‘It smells delicious,’ Simms said. ‘But you must be tired – why don’t you sit down, relax? Is Kieran not home?’ she added, realizing that there were only two dirty dishes stacked next to the kitchen sink.
‘He’s in the shower,’ her mother said. ‘Poor boy has to go back to work.’
No hint of disapproval there.
Simms lit the gas ring to reheat the pasta sauce and ran some water for the washing up, chatting all the time with Timmy. He was still overcompensating, trying in his little boy way to make the bad atmosphere better, showing off his new badge again, telling her how many children he’d beaten again, glancing uncertainly up at his nanna, who hovered by his chair. Simms answered his boasts and excited descriptions of how fast he’d swum, how far, how big the other boys were, with gentle exclamations and soft murmurs. Finally her mother gave up and left the room. A minute later, Simms heard a mumble of voices interspersed with music: she was watching TV. Gradually, Timmy calmed down.
He clung to her neck when she picked him up to carry him to bed. He was warm and soft and at his cuddliest. ‘Bath time,’ she murmured, ‘then I’ll read you a story.’
‘Don’t need a baff,’ he complained, rubbing the back of one han
d across his eyes. ‘I been swimming.’
‘Timmy, you smell of chlorine.’
‘No,’ he whined. ‘I’m already clean.’ He began to squirm and she hushed him.
‘Okay, but you have to brush your teeth.’
The bathroom was steamy and fragrant and she could hear Kieran getting ready in the bedroom next door, listening to music as he dressed. Going-out music, she thought, remembering with a pang the times when they would listen to upbeat tunes together as they duded themselves up ready for a night out.
They almost collided on the landing as she led Timmy to his room.
‘Hello, you,’ he said. He was wearing a suit and tie, and the duty free cologne she’d brought back from her American trip. He seemed happy to see her. ‘Sorry I have to rush out. Prize-giving.’
‘I thought it was the school play tonight?’ she said.
‘That was last night. We had the matinee today – which was a sensation,’ he added, miming dusting off his lapels.
‘Of course it was.’
He smiled. ‘So no performance today?’
‘Prize-giving today, final performance tomorrow,’ he said, still smiling.
‘It’s awfully late,’ she said.
‘Which is why I have to dash,’ he said. ‘Actually, they’ve already given the prizes, but I’ve been asked back for wine and canapés with some of the governors and the board of trustees.’
‘Wow!’
‘It’s a very big deal.’
‘And all very different from state school teaching,’ she said.
He laughed heartily, kissed her on the nose and Timmy on the crown on his head. ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said.
When Timmy had got off to sleep, Simms peeked in on her mother and found her dozing in her chair. She went to the kitchen and poured the pasta sauce into a bowl and ate it with a chunk of bread, barely tasting it as she brooded over her meeting with Chief Constable Enderby.
Deciding how much to tell him had been the hardest part. It seemed that whenever Nick Fennimore was in the picture, she was always having to make these choices, wondering how much she could withhold before it became tantamount to a lie.
She’d had to tell her boss that Fennimore had dropped by the Chorley lab – and that he’d heard about the discovery of Mrs Myers’s body from one of the forensic scientists there, rather than from his family liaison officer.
‘Is he meddling, Kate?’
‘He’s interested, sir. It’s only natural under the circumstances.’
Enderby frowned.
‘The letters, the taunts – the way Julia Myers was found …’ She paused. ‘It’s not unreasonable, is it?’
Enderby exhaled – a long-drawn-out breath, as though he had been holding it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it isn’t.’ His tone was conciliatory.
‘He wondered if the Serious Crime Analysis Section had taken a look at the abductor’s MO,’ she went on, taking advantage of Enderby’s sympathy. ‘Lying in wait in the car like that – it must be unusual.’
‘We looked into the car abduction,’ Enderby said. ‘There were no linked crimes on the books. We’re keeping an open mind about the rest – and that includes any possible links to Fennimore himself. I’ll ask the SIO to brief you if there’s anything significant in the post-mortem report.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Simms looked away so Enderby wouldn’t see her relief that he didn’t know about their trip to the mortuary. Not lying, she told herself, only withholding. ‘I’m sure Nick will be grateful.’
Enderby surprised her with a laugh. ‘I very much doubt that. Look, Kate, I understand your loyalty to Fennimore. You knew Rachel and Suzie, didn’t you?’
‘Becky – my daughter – was best friends with Suzie,’ Simms said.
‘I’m sensitive to that,’ he said. ‘And I’ve allowed you a fair amount of latitude.’ He paused. ‘But I do know what Fennimore is up to.’
‘Sir?’ Simms kept her hands still and her face blank.
‘His communications with Paris police,’ Enderby went on. ‘I know about the photograph.’
Simms held her breath.
‘I know,’ Enderby went on, ‘that he believes the girl in it is his daughter.’
‘Sir, he’s—’
‘He’s a grieving father grasping at straws,’ Enderby interrupted. ‘I know that, too,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘But I also know that you facilitated his communication with the French authorities.’
Oh, bugger …
‘There’s loyalty,’ Enderby said. ‘And then there’s stupidity. I hope you know the difference.’
Simms’s mother went to bed at ten, and soon after, Kieran texted that he would be home late. Her head still buzzing with the events of the day, Simms turned to her computer. There were photographs and video clips of Mr Myers, recorded during a press conference earlier in the day. He sat next to Julia Myers’s father, looking grey and sedated. He remained calm for the first part of the appeal, but then he looked into the camera and said, ‘My little girl can’t harm you. Please, let her come home.’ His voice cracked on the word home. ‘Please, she’s all I’ve got – let Lauren come home.’ He broke down, sobbing, and Simms closed the tab, feeling like a voyeur.
She logged into her work email account, dealt with a few queries and, scrolling down the screen, found something from one of the investigators on the St Louis Major Case Squad. She replied, sending her good wishes to the rest of the team. She touched the screen, ready to shut down, just as the Skype alert sounded. She didn’t share her Skype ID with many people; she squinted at the task bar, expecting it to be someone from St Louis, but it was Becky. Her daughter had accepted an invitation to visit Francine Chabert, a school friend, in London shortly after her exams finished.
Simms hit the ‘Reply’ icon and a second later Becky appeared onscreen. She had styled her hair differently – it was tied up in a loose chignon, revealing the slim contour of her neck. ‘Becky, what are you doing up so late?’
Becky rolled her eyes. ‘Mum, it’s eleven o’ clock and I’m sixteen years old.’
‘Are you all right?’ Simms scanned her daughter’s face for signs of fatigue, but in truth Becky looked more relaxed and happy than she had for months. ‘Nothing’s wrong?’ She peered past her daughter and caught a glimpse of a sofa and table lamp.
‘Chill, Mum – I’m at Madame Chabert’s – see?’ She picked up her tablet; the image tilted alarmingly and Simms experienced a momentary sensation of vertigo. Becky panned left to right; Francine was sitting at the far end of the sofa, texting on her mobile phone. She looked up and waved.
‘So,’ Simms said. ‘Having fun?’
‘Great.’ Becky reappeared in another tipsy blur of movement. ‘We had a ride on the London Eye yesterday and went to watch the skateboarders on the South Bank afterwards – I wish I’d brought my board.’
Simms regretted that they had never made enough time for family excursions when they lived in London.
‘My French has really improved.’ Madame Chabert had been Becky’s French teacher at her old school and Becky had chosen French, German and English for her A-level subjects. ‘They speak it all the time here – isn’t that right, Francine?’
Off-screen, Francine said, ‘Pratiquement’, injecting a novel-length treatise of boredom and sarcasm into the word.
Becky poked her tongue out at her friend. ‘Madame Chabert calls me her “petite Parisienne”,’ she added, pronouncing it in what Simms took to be an authentic French accent – Becky certainly hadn’t inherited her linguistic talents from her.
Francine whispered something and Becky glanced sideways and popped her eyes wide in a gesture that was usually accompanied by, ‘What?’
‘Becky,’ Simms said, ‘what’s going on?’
‘Nothing, just Francine bugging me.’
Her friend whispered, ‘Ask her.’
‘I am,’ Becky said. She seemed flustered, but gathered herself, tucking a hank of hair behind her ear –
a gesture of determination. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘Madame Chabert said I could go with them to Paris on Thursday.’
‘Oh, Becky, that’s very kind of her, but—’
‘Madame Chabert says she’ll take us to dinner on a bateau mouche, and we’ll go up the Eiffel Tower – Francine says the views are amazing. I’d get to practise my French loads, ’cos we’ll mostly be going to museums and art galleries. It’d be sooo-ooh cool.’
‘You mustn’t overstay your welcome, Becky,’ Simms said, thinking, Since when had art galleries become ‘cool’?
Francine appeared in the Skype window. ‘Oh, she’d be very welcome, Mrs Simms – I asked specially. Since living in England, I sort of lost touch with my friends in France and I want someone to hang out with.’
Simms’s cop instinct kicked into high alert. ‘Hang out?’ Simms said. ‘At these art galleries and museums?’
‘Of course!’ Francine widened her eyes a tad too much.
How many petit Parisien boys hung around these places of culture and enlightenment? Simms wondered.
‘It’s only for a few days, Mum,’ Becky put in.
‘Dad and I think we should spend some family time together over the school holidays.’
Becky huffed. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’
‘Becky …’
Her daughter shrugged at the note of warning in her voice. ‘What? He’s never home.’
‘He has to work,’ Simms said, feeling an itch of disquiet. Becky arched her eyebrow and it was like looking in a mirror. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Becky, don’t be rude.’
‘Well, it’s true – if you don’t believe me, ask Nanna.’
The itch became a stab of alarm and Simms, intensely aware that Francine was listening, gave Becky a stern look and said, ‘I’ll talk to your dad about Paris.’
‘Can’t you ask him now?’
‘He’s not here just now.’
Becky treated her to another haughty twitch of the eyebrows.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Simms said, ‘but before we decide anything, I would have to make sure it’s really okay with Mrs Chabert.’
Truth Will Out Page 12