Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  “That’s right. Alex. Nick thinks she’s trying to track down the men she blamed for her father’s death. It’s possible that she murdered Nick’s wife.”

  He gasped. “No wonder Ted Wheeler was scared.” He reached over and took her hand, startling her.

  “Roger…”

  “Come to bed.”

  “What?”

  “Please.” He could hear himself pleading, and it sounded pathetic. He tried to pull on her arm and she wriggled free.

  “No.” She stood up. “It’s over. You know that.”

  “Just this once.” It wasn’t even what he wanted, but he was trying to goad her into a response, seeking a reaction to justify the resentment that had been simmering throughout the night. “Or are you screwing him already?”

  She blushed, but held his gaze. “It’s none of your business.” At the door she turned and said, “I’ll pack my stuff and get out of your life.”

  She was gone before he could reply. He immediately felt chastened, his anger forgotten, but pleading with her to stay would sound no less contemptible than the accusation he’d just made.

  ***

  Nick reached the offices of Eastbourne CID at nine o’clock and was shown into DCI Pearce’s small drab office, which she had attempted to brighten with half a dozen professional portraits of her grandchildren, twin boys with golden hair and mischievous smiles. She was telling him about a recent bout of chicken pox when her phone rang.

  Pearce listened intently, a frown deepening on her face. He felt a tingle of anxiety in his stomach. Then she said, “He’s with me now. I’ll put you on speaker.”

  “Nick? Phil Clements. Kent police have just been on. They sent a patrol to check on Ted Wheeler. No one answered the door, but an officer saw what appeared to be a man asleep in the living room. When they tried the front door, they found it was unlocked.”

  “Oh shit,” said Nick softly.

  “His neck was broken,” Clements went on. “There were also signs he’d been tortured.”

  “Tortured?” Pearce repeated, shaking her head in disbelief.

  A grunt from Clements. “Alex Jones is number one suspect, of course. Do you have any idea what information she was after?”

  “Ted was one of the men who arranged for her father to be killed,” said Nick. “I’m sure that was a good enough reason for her.”

  “You don’t think he knew anything of value to her?”

  Nick considered the question. “Unless there are other targets she’s trying to trace.”

  “We’ll probably never know,” Clements said gloomily. “But I hope you’re keeping an eye out.”

  “That’s something I intend to discuss with him,” said Pearce.

  “Okay. One more thing. You realise the media will go nuclear on this?”

  Nick turned to Pearce, who met his gaze and nodded sadly.

  Clements said, “I’ve got a meeting with my superintendent this afternoon, and Kent police are sending a couple of their officers. I expect they’ll want to put out an appeal to find this woman. As DCI Pearce will tell you, the public are often our best hope in cases like this.”

  He sounded almost apologetic, knowing the impact such a story would have on Nick and his family.

  “I realise you may have no choice,” Nick responded. “All I’d say is that as far as I’m aware she doesn’t know we’ve made these connections. It’s about the only advantage we have. If she comes after me, she won’t know I’m expecting her.”

  It sounded braver than he actually felt, and he could see Pearce didn’t approve. “The last thing we want is any more casualties,” she said.

  “Okay, but what if we splash this over the papers and she goes into hiding? All she needs to do is lie low for six months, maybe even a year or two. You won’t have a chance of catching her.”

  There was a gruff laugh that sounded like static. “My argument exactly,” said Clements. “But I can’t guarantee it’ll convince my boss.”

  “With the best will in the world, it’ll leak out anyway,” said Pearce. “I reckon we’ve got two or three days at most.”

  “Then we’d better hope that’s long enough,” said Nick, and in the same moment he thought: Be careful what you wish for.

  ***

  Caitlin was in tears as she packed a suitcase, wondering why she’d been so foolish as to expect any other reaction from Roger. Of course he’d be jealous. Of course he’d lash out.

  In return, she might have told him that she was attracted to Nick, and she had wanted to spend the night with him. What stopped her was not only the fear of rejection, not only consideration of Nick’s recent widowhood, but a genuine sense of loyalty towards Roger: a conviction that she shouldn’t begin a relationship with another man while Roger was still providing her with a home.

  Well, she wouldn’t be made to feel guilty any longer. She’d rather have a sleeping bag on Paul and Maria’s floor than spend another night here. This afternoon she’d go into Brighton and find a bedsit to rent, then sign up with some employment agencies. It was time to grow up, she thought. Thirty-two years old and she had no partner, no kids, no home, no career: just years of disappointment and rejection at the hands of producers and casting directors.

  It all had to end. She’d throw away those silly pipedreams, get a job in an office and try to save for a deposit on a place of her own.

  Shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen years, she thought with a bitter smile.

  There was a quiet cough and she spun. Roger was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She had no idea how long he’d been there.

  “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I know I messed up. I had all day on my own, not knowing what you’d say to Nick, not knowing what was going on… It sent me a bit crazy.”

  She nodded, but her face was resolute. She resumed packing.

  “I meant what I said on Saturday,” Roger said. “You’re welcome to stay here. I promise not to say anything… untoward.” He couldn’t help a grin at the archaic term, and she heard the humour in his voice. It helped to soften her attitude.

  “Stay for breakfast, at least,” he went on. “Make some phone calls. Have a bath.”

  She said nothing, wanting to maintain the tension for a few seconds. Without turning, she said, “Are you implying that I smell?”

  “No. Oh God, no. I didn’t meant to suggest —”

  Now she faced him, a broad smile on her face. She’d always been good at fooling him, and his body sagged with relief.

  “Bath, and breakfast, and then I’ll go.”

  ***

  From her hotel window Alex could see the spot on the beach where she thought her brother had been brought ashore. It troubled her slightly that so many memories had faded. She remembered the wailing of the ambulance but nothing of the crew who had tried in vain to resuscitate him. She remembered Hilda screaming and throwing herself at the crowd around the body, but she couldn’t recall who had held her back. Had creepy Uncle Vince been there at this point? The police?

  She closed her eyes. All of a sudden she pictured the face of a kindly police sergeant, a luxuriant moustache and wild sandy eyebrows. He had led her away from the frantic activity around the body and sat her on a bench on the promenade. She remembered him offering her a stick of Wrigleys chewing gum, something Hilda had forbidden after a lump of it got stuck in her hair.

  He asked her, very gently, what had happened. She smiled now, marvelling at how well she had conjured the necessary shock and incomprehension, teetering on the edge of tears but never quite giving in. Internalising her grief, as today’s moronic counsellors would say.

  Finally he had gripped her hand in his clumsy paw and told her, “You’re a very brave girl. Just don’t forget that it’s all right to feel sad.”

  And she had nodded, just as a very brave girl would do. Probably in that moment she had felt a sense of sadness, if not exactly remorse. Billy hadn’t been much in the way of company, but now it was just her and Mum, no go
ofy sweet boy to ease the burden of antagonism and meanness between them. She knew there would be no affection in her life, no lightness, no respite. She could only knuckle down, focus on the pain to keep her strong, and know that one day she would be free.

  It’s all right to feel sad. So she had. But not for long.

  At the window, a mature accomplished woman of forty-five released a long sigh and shut the past away. There were things to be done.

  She drained her coffee and cleared the breakfast tray from the dressing table. Then she powered up her laptop and surfed the internet. She quickly located the website for Knight’s Accident Repair Centre, and a little more searching on 192.com brought up a good candidate for Roger’s home address. At the same time, she had a delicious idea. A way to bring Knight into the picture whilst keeping her attention on Randall.

  Before going out she checked a few news sites and also ran through the TV channels. This morning both the BBC and ITV had reported the assault on Howard Franks, but only to say that police were continuing to investigate an incident at the writer’s home. There was no mention of the Eddie Randall biography, or of any possible links to Sarah Randall’s death. Nothing about Wheeler either, but given the old man’s hermit-like existence, it might be days or weeks before the body was found.

  The lack of publicity made it easier to return. Not safe, necessarily, but everything she did carried a risk. That was what made her life so exhilarating.

  She’d stay another night here, to be sure, and return to Sussex tomorrow, after a quick detour to the flat in Kingston.

  She switched off the laptop and felt an urgency about her preparations, even though she had a whole day to fill. Normally she was good at this part – the waiting – but the attacks on Franks and Wheeler had made her hungry for more.

  Passing the window, she caught a glimpse of the sea and thought: thirty-two years. Where had the time gone?

  It’s all right to feel sad.

  ***

  Caitlin made sure she enjoyed what might be her last chance to pamper herself for a while. Her friends, both relatively impoverished actors, lived in a cramped flat in Kemp Town, and they didn’t have the kind of bathroom you wanted to linger in.

  Lying submerged in hot water for almost an hour left her ready to face the world again. She’d deliberately steered clear of the many awkward questions facing her and settled for the most appealing: was there any prospect of a relationship with Nick Randall? After much internal debate, she decided there was, but it mustn’t be hurried. That was okay. Living with friends, dating casually, it would be like her college days all over again.

  She dried her hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and descended the stairs to find the smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen. Roger had obviously been sincere in his effort to make amends: he was spooning fluffy scrambled egg on to a plate that already contained bacon, fried tomato, hash browns and baked beans. There was toast in the toaster, a choice of four fruit juices and a pot of fresh coffee.

  They ate in the cosy breakfast room adjoining the kitchen, and for a few minutes there was little conversation. It was Roger who spoke first, selecting what he might have assumed was a neutral topic of conversation. Or perhaps he was still trying to impress her.

  “I spoke to Barry Harper yesterday.”

  Through a mouthful of food, Caitlin said, “Mhnn?”

  “We’re shutting down. Withdrawing the claims that are still open. Returning cheques that haven’t been banked.”

  “Won’t that look suspicious?”

  “Barry says they’ll be so pleased to get the money back, they won’t do anything about it.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  He stared at her, surprised by the question. “I don’t see we have any choice.”

  “No. But if it prompts the very thing you’re trying to avoid…”

  “Prosecution?” He shrugged. “I got myself into this predicament.”

  Afterwards she helped him load the dishwasher. He reached out for her arm and she stopped so abruptly that he whipped his hand away.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t rush off.”

  “It’s best if I go.”

  “What if Paul and Maria can’t put you up?”

  “Then I’ll stay somewhere else. A B&B if I have to.”

  “But that’s ridiculous when I have all this space here. Why waste your money?”

  “Because I need to be independent. We both need that.”

  He let her walk to the stairs before he spoke again. “Is this so you can feel free to see Nick Randall?”

  She had her back to him, which made it easier. “Who knows? Maybe.”

  “I was right then. You are attracted to him?”

  Now she turned. “Please, Roger. Don’t interrogate me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound churlish.”

  She climbed another couple of stairs, and he made no move to follow her. Again she paused and said, “What about Lynn? Have you spoken to her?”

  He nodded. “I told her I want to come up next week. She didn’t seem too unhappy about it.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. For all I know she might have someone.”

  Caitlin shook her head. “She hasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Firstly, she’d have told you. Secondly, she’s still not ready for another relationship.”

  He looked dubious. “Your psychic powers tell you that?”

  “No,” said Caitlin simply. “It’s clear from the conversations you have with her.”

  “It’s not clear to me.”

  “No offence, but you’re a man.”

  She left him laughing and went into the spare room, unplugged her phone from the charger and checked for messages. She thought about sending Nick a text but decided against it.

  When she was done she sat on the bed and prepared herself for the final act of leaving, which she knew would be the hardest of all. There was a footfall on the landing and she jumped to her feet, quickly wiping her eyes.

  “Can I help with the cases?” Roger asked.

  “Please.”

  He insisted on taking them both, leaving Caitlin with only her handbag and a plastic bag containing a few paperbacks and CDs. At the stairs he groaned and pretended to collapse.

  “What have you got in here? Lead weights?”

  “Quite a lot of shoes,” she said. She had already decided to donate most of them to a charity shop.

  She took the stairs ahead of him and reached the front door. As she pulled it open she felt a curious pressure against her hand. A shadow occupied the space that should have been filled with sunlight.

  Kevin Doyle forced his way inside, wielding a long-bladed knife. Before Caitlin could move or even draw a breath to scream, he had it at her throat. She heard the door slam behind her, a sound more ominous than ever before.

  Doyle addressed Roger, helpless with the cases on the stairs.

  “Going somewhere, are you?” he said.

  TWENTY -SIX

  Roger watched Doyle burst into the house, grab Caitlin and slam the door. He saw the flash of the blade against her neck, tiny beads of blood appearing on her skin. In that moment he believed her throat would be cut in front of him, and he froze completely. He’d never been so terrified in his life.

  Then he realised Kevin had spoken. “… are you?”

  It was the weight of the suitcases dragging on his arms that broke his paralysis. In a spasm of panic one of the cases slipped from his hand, hitting the stairs and tumbling down.

  Kevin reacted as if under attack, brutally twisting Caitlin’s body as he shied away from the movement. She screamed and he clamped his free hand over her mouth.

  “No!” Roger shouted. He set the other case down and slowly descended the stairs. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Then listen to me, right? Or I’ll fucking kill her.” There was spittle bubbling on Kevin’s lips, the light of insanity i
n his eyes.

  Roger nodded slowly, palms raised in an effort to placate his former partner. He knew Doyle was more than capable of carrying out his threat, and he meekly obeyed Kevin’s order to lie face down on the hall floor.

  From this position he caught glimpses of Kevin at work, placing Caitlin at the foot of the stairs, tying her wrists to the newel post with a length of nylon rope. He heard a grunt of satisfaction as Kevin completed this task. Now for me, Roger thought. He wondered if he should try to resist, but lying on his front, knowing Doyle held a knife, he couldn’t see what chance he had.

  Kevin marched across the hall, saw Roger peering up at him and growled. He leapt into the air and brought all his weight down on Roger’s left leg, both feet stamping on the shinbone. There was a sickening crack and Roger let out a heavy guttural cry. Caitlin screamed again and Kevin turned on her.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, bitch!”

  Roger felt the world go dark. When he opened his eyes Kevin was crouching at his side, gently running the knife blade down his face.

  “Thought you’d treat me like shit, didn’t you?” he whispered. “Thought I’d just accept what I was given. Fobbing me off with a few lousy quid.”

  Roger could barely hear him. The agony of his broken leg reverberated in his brain, wiping out every attempt at coherent thought. He knew he had to reply, knew his survival depended on what he said. Had to focus on that. And Caitlin. If only he’d let her go this morning…

  “Listen to me!” Kevin bellowed, slicing Roger’s cheek from temple to jawline. It wasn’t a deep cut, but blood poured down his face, filling his eyes and running into his mouth. He spluttered and tried to reach for the wound, but Kevin leant over and pinned his arms to his back.

  “You’ll kill him!” Caitlin shouted.

  “That’s the general fucking idea,” Kevin said. “If he doesn’t give me what I want.” He sat astride Roger and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling Roger’s head back at an unnatural angle. Roger made a gargling noise, blood dribbling from his mouth.