Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  He walked to the door. The things that remained unspoken lay like a mountain between them. ‘I believe the police will be here in about two hour’s time,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll feel up to answering a few questions. I don’t think there’ll be a problem. You don’t need to give anything more than the bare facts. Nothing about being related. You were clearly a victim. When are you having your second op?’

  ‘On Friday morning, I believe. I hate these anaesthetics. They give me the most dreadful hallucinations.’

  He cracked his knuckles, slowly, one by one. ‘I hope you make a speedy recovery.’

  With his hand on the doorknob he turned and looked at her. A sorry sight. He opened his mouth, then closed it without saying what he wanted to say. That even if Smith were still alive she must know it was a futile relationship. Nothing could ever have come of it. By the time he was released, he could never have been rehabilitated into normal society. But Julia would not have accepted this. She would have thought he was being cruel. But it was true, so for her sake, and for society’s, he felt sure it was best that he was dead. He hoped that in time she would agree.

  ‘Nice view of the cricket ground,’ he blurted out, then quickly closed the door.

  THURSDAY

  - 115 -

  Paul took his beer mug in both hands and swallowed the last drop, then signalled the barman to fill it up. He had a quick look around the room, thinking that of all the downtown Manchester pubs the Café Rouge in Deansgate was perhaps the most foolhardy of choices for a clandestine meeting with his colleague.

  ‘How d’you think it went this morning, Kev?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘It’s early days, boss. But I’m cautiously optimistic.’ Resting his elbows on the bar counter he gave Paul the gist of his part in the day’s proceedings. He’d been emphatic, when questioned, that in his opinion DS Moxon’s insistence on being armed was merely a residue, you might say, from his time leading the firearms team and that he’d had no intention of actually using the weapon. He was quite sure too, that firing the MP5 had been a reflex action in response to Smith’s action, rather than one of premeditation. Regretting that lack of space in the small helicopter had made it impossible for him to go with DS Moxon as planned, he felt it was a stroke of genius that DS Moxon had sent the rest of the team ahead in the direction of the Cat and Fiddle, from where the phone call to Mrs Grant was made, so that by the time he had the details of Smith’s recorded telephone conversation it had been an easy matter to radio the exact pick-up point to the firearms van.

  ‘Thanks, Kev,’ Paul said, ensuring that without spelling it out he was more than grateful to Kevin, though still wondering how he was going to present his case when it was his turn to give evidence tomorrow morning.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see, boss. It’s a good thing there are no relatives who might want to do something about Smith’s death at the hands of the police.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul said, slowly nodding. ‘And in a macabre roundabout way that’s the reason I asked you to meet me today.’

  Kevin looked at him askance. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me, boss.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But first, there’s something you should know. Another coffee?’

  ‘Thanks. Then I must get back to Chester House.’

  For the next ten minutes Kevin listened to Paul, not saying a word.

  ‘She’s convinced he was her brother,’ Paul went on. ‘She’s being torn apart by guilt. She could easily spend the rest of her life blaming herself for all his ills. For having all the good things in life when he had nothing. For killing him as she is stupidly insisting, when all she was doing was defending herself. That clever bastard had twisted her round his little finger. I still can’t believe that ever since his escape she’s been carrying a gun. The one solicitor you knew would never do anything underhand or against the law. He warped her thinking, then put the fear of death into her.’

  ‘Steady on, boss. I can understand your feelings. But she may be right. He may have been her twin brother. And of course he’d be entirely different because of the way he was brought up, or dragged up in his case.’

  ‘That’s still a matter for debate,’ Paul said. ‘The latest thinking is that nature has it over nurture.’ He took a large swig of beer. ‘Actually, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care a damn if he is her twin. Was her twin. Just because an accident of birth may have linked that scum to her doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to my opinion of her. We can’t choose our siblings any more than we can choose our parents. She is what she is, regardless of who her family were. It’s her I’m worried about. And for God’s sake she has no positive proof the bastard was related to her.’ He took another swill of beer.

  ‘For some unfathomable reason she seems unwilling to talk about it, except when I more or less forced her to give me the barest facts. I’m sure there’s something she’s holding back. Something she doesn’t want to talk about. Something she’s scared as hell to talk about.’

  ‘It must have been an awful shock for Mrs Grant when she first realised he was her brother,’ Kevin said. ‘That was enough to make anyone scared, even though there might be something else.’

  Paul scratched his head. ‘Or thought he might be,’ he said.

  ‘You really don’t want to believe it, do you, Chief?’

  Paul pushed back his stool. He walked a few paces from the bar then sat down again. ‘Twin brother or no twin brother, Kevin, some time before the Smith file goes into records I’d like to know who he really was. Anything you can find out, for no other reason than to put Julia out of her misery. I don’t think things will ever be quite the same between us, but at least she deserves not to have to live with that.’

  He took a small piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘She finally agreed to pass on the information she’d got last Sunday from her adoptive parents. Her mother’s name was Victoria King. Unmarried at the time. In her teens. Father never identified. Brother’s name Nicholas. When they were a day or two old Victoria King left the twins at St Mary’s church in Manchester, giving no details except her name. Which could of course have been false, and probably was. The nuns took them to the Touchstone Orphanage. Julia was a bit vague about the next ten years but I gather they were fostered by many different foster-parents, the last one being a teacher, whose wife had become an invalid. Then for some reason she wasn’t letting on, the twins were separated and she never saw her brother again. At this point she apparently lost her memory. It was partially regained, but she remembered nothing about the events that led to their separation. And still can’t. According to her,’ he added, closing his eyes and breathing in through his teeth. ‘Well, she landed back in the orphanage for the umpteenth time and was then legally adopted. She was told that her brother had died. But last Sunday, for the first time, her adoptive mother told her this was not true. Something Julia said she had always felt.’

  Kevin finished his coffee, nodding as he waited for Paul to carry on.

  ‘Kev, I know you’re putting yourself on the line by seeing me while I’m suspended, but I’ve got one hell of a favour to ask you. Will you help?’

  ‘I will if I can.’

  ‘Right now I don’t have access to files or computers or anything, so I’m asking you, as a friend, just nick a copy of his criminal record off the system, will you? I’m damned if I can recall the details ─ all I ever concentrated on were the facts of the cases we were bringing. Oh, and can you also get a copy of his DNA profile too? Quick as you like.’

  ‘Only ’cause it’s for you, boss,’ Kevin said. ‘And because you’ll be back in the job again after all this, and you’ll make my life a bloody misery if I refuse.’

  FRIDAY

  - 116 -

  Julia opened her eyes. The door was ajar, letting in the sound of voices, footsteps, bells and buzzers. The patch of sky she could see through her window was overcast again, although at six this morning when they’d prepared
her for theatre, the sun had been shining. Where had the day gone?

  She was sitting up combing her tangled hair when she saw, at the edge of her vision, someone standing motionless in the doorway.

  Ben. And he was carrying an enormous bouquet of yellow gladioli.

  ‘Hi, Ben,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’

  He walked tentatively towards her. ‘I brought you these,’ he said, looking around for somewhere to put the flowers. ‘Yellow’s your favourite colour, isn’t it?’ Finally he put them on a table near the window, then sat down in the chair next to her bed.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Julia said. ‘The nurse will put them in a vase. Thank you, Ben. And thank you for taking over all my cases.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ He reached for her hand. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I need to make a confession.’ And before he could say anything more she told him how she’d been driven to forge his signature. ‘I’d have paid back every penny, Ben. Please forgive me.’

  ‘No. It’s you who must forgive me. I was such a fool not to guess you were under abnormal stress. But now you can forget all that. We’ll get you out of that horrible old house. Start afresh.’ He smiled a big smile that lit up his whole face. ‘I’d wanted to ask you on Tuesday afternoon, you know. When I picked you up from Crown Square . . .’

  Julia felt a wave of pity that started in the depths of her stomach and seemed to engulf her whole body. ‘Oh Ben. You’ve been so good to me. But we’ll always be friends.’

  He drew his lips together, breathed in deeply then smiled again. But this time it was a different smile. A slow, brave, melting, wistful smile that said more than any words could say. It told Julia that at last he accepted that she could never love him as he loved her.

  When he left she collapsed in torrents of tears. What a shit I’ve been. I’ll never forgive myself for being so awful to him.

  And she was still crying when she heard Nicky’s voice.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, straightening her face and wiping her eyes.

  Her pulse quickened as she watched Nicky walk slowly towards her, a small bunch of yellow flowers in her hand. Daisies she must have picked from the garden, Julia thought.

  She took the flowers from Nicky’s outstretched hand. With her other hand she touched Nicky’s cheek and for a few moments remained absolutely still. Then, as though she was drowning, she flung her arms around her daughter and held her close, oblivious of the avalanche of yellow daisies that flew into the air then wafted like sun-kissed snowflakes melting onto the sheets.

  ‘I like that, Mummy. But Mummy, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not crying, darling. I’m just so happy to see you,’ she said, attempting to gather up the daisies.

  ‘But you saw me yesterday. And the day before.’ Nicky squeezed her mother’s hand, her eyes shining with unconditional love.

  Julia couldn’t stop the tears spilling down her cheeks. It had been like this since Tuesday night. Crying for the relief of Nicky being unhurt. For the enormity of the death she had caused. And for the other one she had caused all those years ago. Crying for the slightest reason. Or for no reason at all. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. Ben’s act of kindness had exacerbated it, but it had taken even less than that to set her off. Martin suggested some medication to calm her nerves but she was adamant in her rejection.

  She felt Nicky stir. She knew at once from her daughter’s tense reaction that there was someone else in the room. She opened her eyes and there was Paul, standing at the door, gazing at her and Nicky entwined in each other’s arms, a bunch of yellow roses in his hands which he placed next to the gladioli. Was all this yellow going to make her happy?

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he said

  It was as though someone had thumped her in the stomach, like they’d been taught to do in Mike’s class. Hard. Number ten. ‘I didn’t know you were going away,’ she said, groping under her pillow for a tissue.

  ‘I gave my evidence this morning. The enquiry may take weeks. It’s a good opportunity to visit Tandy. I might not get another chance for years.’

  ‘Australia?’

  He nodded.

  That would mean he would see Jane as well, she thought.

  ‘The roses are magnificent,’ she said.

  He nodded. She wished he would sit down on the bed, next to her and Nicky. She didn’t mind if he said nothing, just as long as he was close to them. The three of them together, like they were in those few precious minutes on that idyllic morning that seemed so distant now. ‘Pull up that chair,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring for some tea. It’s good to see you. And thank you for the lovely flowers.’

  She’d had so many visitors, including Wendy and Alan, Janey, David and Jessie all the way by train from Southport, Geoff Atherton, Fred Kennedy whom she had frantically phoned on Wednesday morning to cancel the transaction, and all the office staff. And of course Martin several times a day. But she hadn’t seen Paul alone since the morning after the shooting. Each time he had brought Nicky to visit he had insisted on waiting outside to give Nicky as much time with her mother as possible. Or so he said.

  He moved a few steps closer. ‘Don’t worry about the tea. I can’t stay long, but I have some news for you.’

  Julia could think of nothing that could possibly be good news. Unless it was that Paul had been re-instated. And it was far too soon for that.

  He stood absolutely still, looking down at her, so close that she could see tiny muscles moving in his neck. He took the chair and placed it so that he was facing her. She glanced at Nicky and was surprised to see that she was fast asleep.

  ‘Yes, Julia,’ he said softly. ‘He was your brother.’

  What was this? More punishment?

  ‘I know. So why are you telling me?’

  ‘I saw what it was doing to you. I wanted to be sure. Tracing antecedents usually takes months, but some years ago when Smith had been charged with robbery and rape, an investigation was apparently carried out to track down any relatives or possible witnesses. I asked Kevin Moorsley to help. He dug deep and in a remarkably short time found some interesting facts.’

  A rash of perspiration burst out on Julia’s face and trickled down between her breasts. Interesting facts? Which interesting facts, she wondered. ‘And?’ she asked. The only person who knew about the worst one of all was dead. So what did he mean? Had Forensics managed to decipher the letter in Smith’s pocket after all?

  ‘He took the name of Sam Woodgate when he was fostered by a Mr and Mrs Woodgate. Mr Woodgate divorced his wife Ada some months later. The authorities slipped up there. The child should have been moved on to a more stable home. Ada Woodgate died when Sam was thirteen, of a stab wound for which no suspect out of many was ever charged. Things get a bit vague here, but some time after that he called himself Smith. Before that his name had been Nicholas King. He had a twin sister called Julia. No further record of Julia was recorded in this survey.’

  Paul’s face was straight, the policeman through and through.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked, her knees shivering under the blanket.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘When he was only ten years old he was sent briefly to a secure unit, but was almost immediately returned to the orphanage where he was kept under observation. Do you want to know why, Julia?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, for how could she say no.

  ‘The report says he had attacked his then foster father ─ Mr Robert St John Spencer, headmaster of a well-known public school ─ with a brass lamp found at the scene. There were multiple wounds, one of which was in his chest, presumably caused by a piece of broken glass from the lamp and which proved to be fatal. The boy and his sister escaped from the house. The forensic report showed there had been a great deal of violence in the bedroom before Mr Spencer died. It appears close neighbours must have called an ambulance, as his invalid wife had been drugged and was still asleep. Mr Spencer was
dead on arrival at the hospital. Police apprehended the two children three days later, in a field, both with serious wounds and bruises. Covered in blood. Starving and freezing cold and delirious with fright. Are you sure you want to hear it all, Julia?’

  Hardly able to breathe, she nodded.

  ‘In hindsight there was an obvious cover-up, though there are no details of how this was achieved. The deceased was clearly a man who’d had power and connection so that letting it out that he had been a paedophile all those years would have caused huge embarrassment in certain circles. The report states the girl was suffering from post traumatic shock and amnesia, and that admissions the boy made were considered potentially to be unreliable, having been uttered in informal circumstances without the benefit of legal advice, never repeated under caution, or in an admissible form. He was therefore returned to the orphanage, but with advice that he should not be offered for legal adoption. Several foster parents threw him out before he was eventually fostered by the Woodgates.’

  Julia felt her chest expanding as if it would burst. Apart from the fact that she had been the one to deal the fatal blows, not Nicholas, there was something in this bizarre report that didn’t quite add up, but she was damned if she could identify the anomaly. ‘And what does that prove,’ she asked, mentally crossing her fingers, ‘apart from the fact that my brother’s life became hell because he had protected me.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Paul said, and Julia was relieved that he did not mention the paedophile reference again, although now that it was apparently common knowledge she would at least be spared the indignity of revealing it herself.

  ‘Nothing surprises us about Smith in this report,’ he said. ‘But you can’t argue against a DNA test that proves you’re siblings.’

  ‘A DNA test? On me?’

  ‘Your doctor, Martin Bedlow, who tells me he’s known you for many years, made a professional decision. He agreed with me that the circumstances warranted it, for your health’s sake and nothing else. In case you’d been mistaken.’