‘And you believed her? I’m not suggesting that she made it up, but if she was truly keen to see her father suffer, is it not possible that she could have told you this just to make sure?’
‘I don’t think so. She never wanted her father prosecuted; she just wanted to be left alone so that she could forget the whole thing. However, I advised her to tell the police, because I was concerned about what Richard Blacklip might still be doing. Also, I knew that it would help her case if she allowed me to tell the court about what had come out in our sessions, particularly if she was then seen to be co-operating with the police in building a case against him.’
‘But the police never followed it up? About the murder, I mean?’
‘Not at the time, no. They said they’d looked into it, but without a body, a location for the crime, any other corroborating witnesses or even an exact date, there wasn’t a great deal they could do. Obviously they questioned Blacklip, but he denied all knowledge of such a thing. In fact, he denied everything and claimed he was a doting father, but a search of the house uncovered pornographic material involving young children, and further investigation revealed that he’d had these other convictions in the past. And now, of course, he can’t be questioned any further.’
‘Did Ann give you a description of this girl?’
Dr Cheney gave a little shake of her head. ‘Only that she was about her own age, and that she had shortish brown hair.’
I wrote this down in my notebook. ‘Have you heard from the police recently?’
She nodded, finishing her coffee. I hadn’t touched mine. ‘Yes. I had a visit from a policeman a few weeks ago, not long after the shootings you’re investigating.’
I was surprised that Dr Cheney hadn’t mentioned this earlier. ‘Really? About Ann? What did he want to know?’
‘He asked similar questions to you. He wanted to know the specifics of Ann’s claims. I explained to him that I’d told the police everything at the time, but they’d chosen to do nothing. He apologized and said he was from the murder investigation . . .’
‘The one into the deaths of Asif Malik and Jason Khan?’
‘That’s right. He said he hadn’t been a part of the original inquiry into Ann’s claims, and asked me to repeat everything. So I did.’
‘What was the detective’s name?’
‘DCI Simon Barron, if I remember rightly.’
‘You do.’
‘You’ve met him, then?’
In a manner of speaking. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t say anything to you about our meeting.’
I was surprised he hadn’t said very much to anyone about their meeting. If he was so interested in what had happened to Ann, why wasn’t her death being treated as suspicious? Had he not shared the information he’d received from Dr Cheney with his colleagues? And if not, why not? Maybe Emma could find out.
But I was satisfied with what I’d heard because it meant I was onto something. The scent was getting stronger. I still wasn’t 100 per cent sure that Ann Taylor’s word could be entirely trusted (after all, she’d been an impressionable eleven-year-old girl), but something had happened, something that someone wanted suppressed very badly. And that someone had a lot of clout.
One thing I’ve learned down the years is that you don’t get answers by asking a few big questions. You have to ask a lot of small ones. It’s the only way you’ll ever finish the puzzle.
‘How long ago, roughly, did the murder of this little girl happen?’
‘Ann had just turned seventeen when she came to me last year. At that point she’d been in care for approximately six years, so it would have been about seven years ago. But I can’t give you an exact date, because she didn’t leave home immediately after witnessing the incident. I think she was too shocked and, frankly, too scared. She thought it might have been a few weeks, even months, later that she finally plucked up the courage to run away. She did say, however, that there had been no more parties. They stopped altogether after that one.’
‘But there can’t have been many children go missing over that period. Not children that age. Did you ever look into Ann’s claims yourself?’
Her expression tightened, the skin stretching with difficulty. I guessed that, like me, she’d had plastic surgery, although I don’t think her surgeon was as good as mine.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I assumed the police would do that. I did try to think back seven years to see if I could remember a child-abduction case that made the headlines, but nothing came to mind. DCI Barron said he’d look into it.’
I put my notebook away and drank my coffee down in one. It was tepid. ‘Thank you very much for your help and your time, Dr Cheney. It’s very much appreciated.’
‘But is it helpful? Without real evidence, it’s going to be hard to prove anything, isn’t it?’
I stood up. ‘If what happened to Ann’s true, then there’ll be evidence somewhere. If I find out anything, I’ll make sure I let you know.’
She stood up as well. ‘That’s what DCI Barron said, but I never heard another word.’
‘I expect he never got anywhere,’ I told her as we shook hands. ‘Or that he didn’t have the time to pursue it.’
‘But you will, won’t you?’
I nodded firmly. ‘If the answer to my case is there, I’ll find it.’
And I would. I’d come a long way for this. I wasn’t going to let it go.
Not now.
33
Was this what it was all about? The murder of a child. Was this what so many had died for? Somehow, it still didn’t seem right. Paedophiles are furtive creatures; capable of forming into well-organized groups, and certainly responsible for some shocking crimes. But to be able to muster this sort of ruthlessness (and against men too rather than vulnerable children); to hire killers to snuff out their enemies, and then snuff out the killers themselves ... I just couldn’t quite buy it.
But at least I now had something to go on. If a girl between the ages of eight and thirteen had disappeared in southern England in the six months before Ann was taken into custody, I would find out about it. Dr Cheney had said she’d tried to think back and had come up with nothing, but by her own admission she hadn’t been putting her life and soul into it. And the police, had they? DCI Barron had come here to see Dr Cheney, but seemed to have left without moving any further forward, since there’d been no follow-up inquiries. Sometimes it’s surprising how often investigating officers can overlook facts that don’t immediately fit with their theories on a crime, and understandably. On first glance, the murder of Asif Malik and Jason Khan had nothing to do with the out-of-date witness account of an alleged murder of an unidentified child seven years earlier. Only when you had my perspective of events was it possible to see the link.
But Dr Cheney was right. Without any real evidence, it was going to be hard to prove anything against anyone. If I could track each of the individuals down, I could impose my own justice, but I was one man operating alone, and if my true identity was discovered, it would take me out of the equation for ever. What was needed was something tangible to point the police in the right direction. And the only people who could provide this were Andrea Bloom and her boyfriend, Grant, both of whom, I was certain, had been told something by Ann, possibly in the days before her death. Something that they were now too scared to talk about.
Outside, a wet blanket of darkness had enveloped the surrounding fields, and it was raining hard. I hurried back to the car, jumped inside, and drove away.
And a single, worrying thought kept going through my head.
Did Tomboy Darke know more than he was letting on?
I got back into the West End at half past six, having endured a nightmare journey up the M3, and dropped the car back at the rental garage. As soon as I’d left there, I phoned Emma, wanting to catch up and let her know what I’d found out.
But when she answered I knew something was wrong.
‘Oh,
Dennis, thank God you’ve called.’ She sounded distraught and it was obvious she’d been crying. I was surprised at the intensity of my concern for her.
‘Emma, what is it? Tell me.’
‘I got a visit today. From two of Tyndall’s men.’
My throat went dry, and suddenly I could hear my heartbeat. ‘Jesus, what happened?’
‘It was when I was leaving work. I was just getting into my car when they came out of nowhere: two big men in leather jackets. They dragged me into a side road and ...’ She stopped for a moment and sounded as if she might cry again, but after a couple of seconds, she composed herself. ‘One of them put a knife to my throat.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’
I silently thanked God.
‘He pressed it against my neck but he didn’t cut me. He was grinning the whole time and he didn’t even bother trying to hide his face. The other one was twisting my arms behind my back. Then the one with the knife told me that this was going to be my last warning. Any more articles about the Malik/Khan shooting and they were going to kill me.’
‘Did they say they were representing Tyndall?’
‘They didn’t have to. I knew they were.’
I didn’t argue. It was difficult to think who else would have threatened her like that. ‘Are you OK? Where are you now?’
‘I’m back at home. I’m fine.’
‘You can’t stay there alone. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.’
‘No, don’t. Please.’
‘Why not?’
She sounded edgy. Not right. ‘I phoned Simon ... DCI Barron ... after what had happened, and he’s arranged police protection for me. There’s two officers in a patrol car directly outside the door and they’re staying there until I leave tomorrow morning. I’m getting out of the city for a few days, Dennis. Going back to my parents’ farm until things die down a little. You understand, don’t you?’
I was gutted. Like the worst kind of lovesick fool, I’d had this idea on the drive back that I’d be spending a nice evening with Emma discussing the case over a bottle of wine before having a repeat performance of the previous night’s lovemaking. But I didn’t say any of this, because she was right. It was best she laid low for a while. ‘Of course I understand. I hope I’m here when you get back.’
‘Do you think you will be? What did you find out today?’
I gave her a brief rundown of the meeting with Dr Cheney and what she’d told me. I also told her that DCI Barron had already been to see her. ‘He never mentioned anything to you about it?’
‘No,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Not a word. I had no idea he was pursuing that line of inquiry.’
‘She never heard from him again, anyway.’
‘So what’s your plan now?’ she asked.
I told her that I was going to see if I could back up Ann’s story by checking whether any girls had gone missing during the period she’d described. ‘I’m also going to go back and talk to Andrea Bloom, Ann’s friend. She knows something, Emma. I’m sure of it.’
‘But why are you so sure she hasn’t told you everything?’
‘I was a copper a long time. I can just feel it. She’s hiding something. So’s her boyfriend. If what they’ve got is good, I’ll try and persuade them to go to the police and make a statement. Then they might start to look more closely at Ann’s past. At the moment it’s the best I can think of. But don’t say anything to DCI Barron about any of this, though. OK?’
She seemed surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘I’d rather it was kept quiet for now. If I get anywhere, you can tell him then.’
‘All right, but be careful, Dennis. You’re sailing very close to the wind. And if they do end up treating Ann’s death as a murder, what’s going to happen with you?’
There were still a few loose ends to tie up, of course. Maybe a visit to Theo Morris of Thadeus Holdings, and even to the enigmatic Nicholas Tyndall. But soon, I hoped, my part in all this would be over. ‘I think I’ll go home,’ I told her.
‘I hope we get a chance to see each other again.’
‘So do I,’ I said, and I meant it.
‘But if we don’t . . . Well, I don’t think I could call it fun, but I’m glad I met you. Take care of yourself, please.’
‘And you, Emma. And don’t be tempted to hang around. I really wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’ I felt like saying something else, something along the lines of how much I cared about her, but I held back.
‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ she told me. ‘Goodbye, Dennis. And good luck.’
‘Goodbye, Emma.’
She rang off and I stood staring at the phone for a while, thinking that fleeting romances were the story of my life. Two years ago, when I’d been in Siquijor Island, I’d met an Australian girl in her thirties who was passing through on her way home. She’d been travelling the world for six years, and was on the last leg of her journey when she shipped up at our place and got a room for a few days. We didn’t see a lot of Western women in the Philippines. It wasn’t really on the backpackers’ trail and it had the sort of moderately dodgy reputation that meant it was usually avoided by women travelling on their own. So Christine had been a breath of fresh air. We’d got talking in the bar on her first night, and I’d taken her out diving the next day. She’d had that relaxed attitude to sex that I’ve always admired in a woman, and since we’d been the only two on the boat, we’d ended up making love amongst the diving equipment. We’d spent the next week very much together, with me giving her a tour of the island, and her telling me about her travels and the places she’d seen. It had been fun. More than fun, it had been one of those blossoming romances that I’d experienced so little of in my life, and I’d even been thinking about finding some way to follow her to Australia.
But I was kidding myself. In the end, it had just been a fling to her, and seven days after she’d arrived, she kissed me on the lips, told me to take care of myself, and walked out of my life for ever. Just one in a long line of goodbyes.
I knew this would be the last I saw of Emma, but in a way it felt right. She was too young, too pretty, and if I’m honest, too good for me; and since there was no chance of anything ever coming of our relationship, it was best that we parted now, before things got serious.
I walked back to the hotel room and had a shower. The water was lukewarm so I was only in there two minutes and was cold when I got out. I got dressed and lay on the bed, and thought about my next move. I was tempted to go out and have a few drinks, maybe back in Ernie’s pub, but I wanted to be fresh the following morning.
I looked at my watch. Seven twenty. I picked up the mobile to call Andrea Bloom, then realized I didn’t have a number for her. I asked myself whether it was really worth a trip over to Hackney now to see her, but the alternative was lying in this shitty hotel room staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and in the end that wasn’t much of an alternative, so I forced myself up off the bed. I needed food. Then I’d be on my way.
34
It had just gone nine o’clock when I turned into Andrea’s street, having walked all the way from Angel underground station, and the night was cold. A biting wind rattled round the pavement, scattering pieces of rubbish and keeping the area’s citizenry behind closed doors. I was wearing a grey beanie hat I’d bought the previous day to replace my ‘I love London’ cap, and a scarf pulled up over my face. Only my eyes were visible.
There was a light on in the living room and several lights up on the third floor, although none on the second or in the hallway. According to Andrea, the house was a squat that she shared with her boyfriend, as well as another couple and a single guy. There didn’t seem to be much activity for so many people.
I approached the door, hoping that my journey hadn’t been wasted, and saw straight away that it was very slightly ajar.
I stopped dead, and listened. The TV was on in the living room. It sounded like a quiz show with plenty of audience particip
ation and the volume was quite loud. I couldn’t hear anything else so I pushed the door open slightly, wondering whether or not to knock. Wondering too whether or not to go inside. People don’t leave their doors ajar in an area like Hackney. They don’t do it anywhere in London, especially not on a freezing cold night like this one.
I pushed it open further and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind me. I resisted the urge to call out.
From somewhere up the stairs there came a creak, and then the clank of pipes heating up. I wasn’t unduly alarmed. This was an old house - 1920s, I’d have guessed. Things creaked in a 1920s place. Again, I listened but there was no other sound.
I had my gun with me but didn’t reach for it. It would have been far too difficult to explain away.
Turning left, I pushed open the living room door and the TV suddenly grew louder. The quizmaster was Chris Tarrant, and he was asking the contestant what the capital of Rwanda was. He gave him four alternatives while I scanned the empty living room, noticing that there were a couple of open cans of beer next to one of the seats. They hadn’t been there the previous day, and since the room was otherwise tidy, I concluded that they’d been opened this evening. Not that this told me much.
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