Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  Highlighted in red were Cohen’s retrospective thoughts.

  Patterson’s thoughts should be investigated. High priority. When the director of Littleworth is removed, which I expect to happen within three months of Michael Hemmings’ move to The Monastery, I will begin dialogue with the new director, and the Home Office.

  Jonathan looked up from his computer, thinking about the inadequacy of Hemmings’ defence. In the eyes of the world Hemmings was guilty; he’d admitted to killing Joe. He was diagnosed with a personality disorder, and had been sent to be rehabilitated. He placed his finger on Margaret’s name, which was written in red on his whiteboard, smudging the M.

  He grimaced.

  —

  Jonathan spent another day finding more history on Margaret Hemmings and Bridget. He didn’t come up with much that he didn’t already know, other than that social services had been called into Sam and Bridget’s home when Michael Hemmings was around six. He had been ‘messing’ with boys and girls in his class at school. When the headmistress had questioned him, he’d made disturbing references to his ‘mother’. It seemed Bridget had played it down, and the incident was quickly forgotten by an overstretched social services system, which probably, thought Jonathan, felt it had bigger fish to fry.

  The next day he called Tom Gillespie.

  The operator wouldn’t put him through.

  ‘Tell him it’s about the Joe Dune case. Something I need to discuss with him.’ He paused for a second. ‘I know it’s early, but it’s important.’ It was before seven; he hadn’t been able to sleep.

  A few clicks and finally he heard Gillespie’s hoarse voice.

  ‘Waters, what the hell d’ya want? If this’s about Rachel – I’ve heard you’ve been sniffing around from Morley – I’m not talking about her. She may not work for me anymore but she’s a friend.’

  ‘Is she, Tom? You’ve hardly spoken to her since she resigned, as I understand.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Gillespie to you. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ll cut straight to the nub of my problem.’

  ‘Please do. Some of us have proper work to do.’

  ‘And would that work include investigating Margaret Hemmings?’ Jonathan heard the sigh.

  ‘What you getting at?’ Gillespie replied edgily.

  Jonathan had his attention. ‘Hemmings admitted to killing Joe, but, as we all know, there was never any hard evidence. All circumstantial, alongside Hemmings’ confession.’

  ‘If you remember, there was evidence that Michael Hemmings mutilated Joe’s dead body. You do remember that, don’t you? He’s been locked up for nearly five years, undergoing fucking expensive rehabilitation. In all those tête-à-têtes, he’s never admitted not killing Joe. What are you suggesting, Waters ... that the grandmother killed her own grandson? Where did you get this? I think you’re reading too many works of fiction, and probably in the columns of that newspaper you work for.’

  ‘I’ve uncovered some facts about Margaret Hemmings – you need to see the notes. No, I’m not suggesting she was responsible for Joe’s murder, or that Hemmings wasn’t, but there’s more to this case than any of us knew. I’m sure of it. I’ve been to see Sam and Bridget Hemmings, found out a few things. Margaret’s visited him in Littleworth, Tom.’ He paused. ‘And I need your help.’

  ‘You done your homework properly?’

  ‘Can we meet later?’

  The line was silent for too long. Jonathan thought he’d put the phone down.

  ‘OK. But not at the station,’ Gillespie said. ‘I’ll meet you at my house, tomorrow.’

  ‘Today would be better.’

  ‘No, I’m in the middle of something. Tomorrow, early.’

  Then he began giving Jonathan his address.

  Jonathan interrupted. ‘I know where you live.’

  —

  Jonathan left his flat at 7 a.m. Nearly two hours later (the traffic was shit) Rosie Gillespie answered the door of their modest modern detached house.

  Her husband had already briefed her. Jonathan saw a shiny application of coral lipstick and short greying hair that had been recently combed, noting a few static flyaway strands.

  ‘Good morning, sorry it’s a bit early.’ He grinned. ‘My name’s Jonathan Waters, I have an appointment to see DCI Tom Gillespie.’ Jonathan couldn’t imagine Tom married. He quickly scanned the entrance of their home, which was more ‘homely’ than he’d imagined.

  Rosie held out a small, manicured hand. ‘I’m an early bird. Have to be with a policeman for a husband. Anyway, it’s not that early.’ She smiled and looked at him. ‘I remember you from the TV coverage of Michael Hemmings’ trial.’

  Jonathan nodded, not remembering being captured on camera. And thinking Rosie had excellent recall. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you. I don’t think Detective Chief Inspector Gillespie wanted to see me at the station.’

  ‘It’s no problem, Tom sometimes does this.’ She led him through to a beige-coloured lounge. Tastefully kitted out. She eyed Jonathan. ‘Is this about Rachel?’

  Jonathan didn’t know how much he should reveal. ‘A little.’

  ‘I’ve been worried about her. Disappearing off the face of the earth. Tom’s been worried too, to be honest. Quietly.’

  Rosie Gillespie carried on, ‘Tea?’

  ‘Would be great.’ He perched on the end of the sofa. ‘Thanks, three sugars please.’ He grinned.

  Jonathan heard the front door open, and, a minute later, Tom Gillespie stood in his own lounge looking completely out of place.

  Rosie entered with two mugs of tea on a tray; she gave one to Jonathan, and then handed one to her husband, rubbing his arm gently after giving it to him.

  Tom smiled at her and then turned towards Jonathan, his smile already gone. ‘What’s all this about? And try to be quick.’

  Jonathan attempted to read the man’s face. Did he know anything?

  ‘I’m going to be upfront with you because we do need to be quick.’ He took an extensive breath, and noticed that Rosie stayed in the room. ‘Tom ...’ He waited a few seconds, ‘Rachel’s in purgatory, literally. All this time she’s blamed herself for what happened that day.’

  Jonathan’s eyes swept over the vanilla-coloured room, and he carried on. ‘I think what Rachel’s doing, the lengths she’s going to ...’ He hesitated. ‘It seems everyone’s abandoned her, and I have no wish to. She needs our help. I’m not here as a journo. This is totally off the record.’

  Tom dropped himself on the armchair, his bulk sinking into it like a body in quicksand. ‘Go on.’ He began to chew on the nail of his thumb.

  ‘I’m looking for Rachel.’ He stared at the police detective. ‘She’s my friend and I want to know what’s happened to her. No one seems to know. What I’ve found out has made it imperative that I speak with you, get you onside.’ He bored into Tom’s tired eyes. ‘She needs help.’

  Gillespie took a sip of tea. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Jonathan began the story: Rachel’s trip to Poland, her surgery, then the school in London. The corruption within Littleworth, including the procurement of young children. He was aware that Tom probably already knew about Littleworth but not in the detail Jonathan gave, including Toby Abbs, his meeting with Patterson, Julian Cohen’s emails. Tom didn’t once ask him where he’d got the information. Jonathan knew he guessed.

  ‘We need to find her, Tom.’ Seeing Tom’s concentration he finished with an extrapolation of what he’d uncovered about Margaret Hemmings, and his visits to see Sam and Bridget.

  Rosie spoke first. ‘I bumped into Rachel just before she resigned.’ She glanced at her husband then got up, moving towards the fireplace. ‘She wasn’t herself.’ She ran her finger around a photograph of two teenage boys and a younger girl that sat on the mantelpiece. Their children, presumably.

  Tom stood. ‘Any investigations have to be “unofficial” at this stage, to protect Rachel ... I’ll start the ball rolling today.’ He paused
for a long moment and then looked at Jonathan. ‘I think Rachel has been in contact with me.’

  ‘Recently?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘I may well have received an email from her. It was anonymous, but I’m certain it’s from Rachel.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Extremely pertinent information regarding child trafficking and pornography. Website addresses, codes, the lot. Rachel would know that I’d suspect it was her. Only a handful of people have this particular personal email address. And I’ve checked with my other colleagues who do have it. It has to be Rachel. She’s given me information that the new op investigating paedophile rings will be very interested in receiving, particularly the stuff about a man called Backhurst.’

  ‘Can’t you trace the address?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘I wanted to ask you that question.’

  ‘She wants you to know. She wants you to find her,’ Jonathan said.

  Tom smiled – sadly. ‘Seems so.’

  Rosie Gillespie, who’d been watching her husband intently, interjected. ‘She needs you, Tom.’

  ‘She’s up in Merseyside, I’m sure of it,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Maybe involve one of your officers, someone you can trust. I’m sure you can use your usual resources.’

  Tom thought for a few seconds only. ‘Brin Leatherby, I can rely on.’ He was already tapping into his mobile. ‘He’ll be pissed off; he’s on annual leave – decorating the lounge.’ He smiled at his device. ‘Brin. Yes, I know,’ he spoke into the phone, ‘this is extremely unofficial ... what? No, I can’t pay you extra, it’s fuckin’ unofficial, remember? Yes, you can have two weeks off after we’ve finished this. Be at mine tonight and I’ll brief you. What? I’ll tell you when you get here.’ He looked at Jonathan. ‘Done.’ Tom carried on. ‘Anything you’ve found out about Margaret Hemmings – I need everything you’ve got about her. And as far as the email from “Rachel” goes – we’ll sort that after this.’

  Jonathan took a pile of notes out of his bag, already printed and ready to go. He handed them to Tom, who asked, ‘And anything about Sam?’

  ‘I recorded what he said, yes. I’ll email all my notes to you,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Good, as I haven’t yet mastered the art of hacking into private email systems.’

  ‘I’m a good journalist. And you know it.’

  ‘I do.’ Tom picked up a battered leather briefcase and pulled out a slim file, handing it to him. ‘Here’s a copy of the email I think was sent from Rachel. Let me know if you can find anything out – about the information she sent me. If we can nail these bastards ...’ Jonathan noted an uncharacteristic tinge of embarrassment cross Tom’s face. He knew Tom had tried hard, after the spotlight eased from Hemmings’ trial, to nail something unsavoury on him and his more clandestine activities.

  Jonathan took the printed email, together with Tom’s account details.

  Tom was already flicking through Jonathan’s notes on Margaret Hemmings.

  ‘Shit. I knew nothing about this. Neither did ... does Rachel. However, I think it’s too big an extrapolation that Margaret is implicated in Joe’s murder. You know about Michael Hemmings, his past and what he was, is, capable of?’ He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You becoming an amateur psychologist now, too? Thinking that Margaret somehow had an influence on Hemmings’ actions?’

  ‘There’s always something more though, isn’t there Tom? If you look for it?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Tom said, ‘but plan to meet in Liverpool when I’ve found out everything I need to find out. I need at least twelve hours, should have all the information I need by then concerning Rachel ... and Margaret Hemmings’ murky past.’

  Jonathan sat in his old Jeep and checked his mobile. There was a missed call from Liam, and a voicemail. He listened to the message. Liam told him Marek had called, and could Jonathan come over as soon as he was able to.

  He started the engine, flicked the gearstick straight into second and began driving.

  Liam answered the door before he had time to press the doorbell. Liam’s new house was only a mile or so from Charlotte’s.

  ‘Come in,’ is all Liam said, as he stepped to one side.

  Jonathan did quick recce of Liam’s newish home. Bare, empty boxes still sat in the narrow hallway. Worse than his gaff.

  Jonathan studied Rachel’s ex. A distant man; comfortable with his own company. A loner. Many characteristics that Jonathan knew he himself didn’t possess.

  Liam had, in the past, maintained a healthy glow about him; clear skin, bright eyes, but today he looked haggard. Surely Liam had suspected something?

  Jonathan had the greatest desire to punch the man in front of him.

  ‘Drink?’ Liam asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ Jonathan said. ‘Gorski’s called?’

  Liam nodded.

  Why hadn’t Marek contacted him? ‘You know?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Gorski’s told me everything. I can’t believe he held onto this. I’ll see him in court...’

  ‘Fuck it, Liam, this isn’t about you, your fucking art, your fucking guilt, pissing about with Buddhism. This is about Rachel, not about you trying to make yourself feel better, looking after yourself.’ Jonathan felt himself travel into full swing.

  Liam responded with a small movement of his head.

  ‘Did you know what she’d planned?’ Jonathan continued.

  ‘Of course I didn’t. We were, are, both suffering, we deal with it, with Joe, in our own – separate – ways.’

  ‘This is serious shit.’

  ‘I didn’t know ... If I had, don’t you think I would have done something about it? I haven’t seen Rachel for a while ...’

  The bloke was clueless. Fucking clueless. Even if Jonathan hadn’t loved Rachel he would still have been elated that she’d divorced him. The fucking shit.

  ‘Why did Gorski finally tell you?’

  ‘He’s worried about her,’ Liam said.

  ‘Thank fuck someone other than me is worried about her,’ Jonathan said quietly. ‘Gorski’s changed the way she looks, completely.’

  ‘He told me. He’s told me so I can stop her attempting to contact Hemmings.’

  ‘It’s being taken care of.’

  ‘Tom’s already called me. I know.’ Liam said, his voice flat, unemotional.

  He really didn’t like Liam Dune.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Jonathan was aware that Tom Gillespie had used every trick in the book to track down Rachel/Amanda. Tom had also discovered another alias: Julia Roberts (this made Jonathan laugh aloud, despite the seriousness of his quest.) Tom had been slowed by the ‘unofficial’ nature of his enquiries, not wanting to bring too much attention to his activities. Only Brin Leatherby knew what Tom was doing; the rest of his team had no idea.

  Tom had found out Hemmings planned to meet ‘Julia Roberts’ in a coffee shop in the centre of Liverpool that afternoon at three. Jonathan arranged to meet Tom and Leatherby outside Liverpool’s town hall at two; they’d made their way separately north eastwards to the city that had spawned The Beatles.

  Toby Abbs had easily admitted to Tom that Hemmings was meeting Rachel/Amanda/Julia in either the coffee shop or the nearby park. Tom had instructed Abbs to say nothing to anyone about Tom having been in touch with him.

  Thinking about Stanley’s photo of Amanda, Jonathan convinced himself there was no way Hemmings would guess who she was. No way. As long as they arrived in time, it was going to be all right.

  Although he still felt there was something that he – and Rachel – were totally missing. What if Michael Hemmings hadn’t killed Joe? Finding this out could destroy Rachel and would be a potentially worse scenario for her in many ways, especially if her mother had, in some way, been involved. He wiped trails of cool rain from his eyes, and in the centre of the humming city he thought of her. She had planned this meticulously. Rachel was diligent and passionate in everythi
ng she did and, although he tried, he could possess no real comprehension of what Joe’s murder had done to her. If Margaret was implicated – something he still didn’t know – that would be when Rachel’s well-constructed defence would be obliterated.

  Something wasn’t hanging together.

  Jonathan carried on walking, and then felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, pulling it out, he answered. ‘Yes, I’ll be there in five minutes – you there?’ He listened for a second. ‘OK, I’ll arrive the same time.’ Jonathan listened intently as Tom carried on talking, and then finally punched the ‘end call’ button on his phone and said ‘shit’ to a woman who was walking towards him. She pulled her beret further onto her head, giving him a dirty look.

  Tom had just told him that Bridget Hemmings’ body had been found at her home.

  Sam had admitted to killing her.

  —

  It was three-thirty and the rain had stopped. Tom had texted that he and Leatherby were now waiting outside the coffee shop, and, to save time, Jonathan should meet them there instead of the town hall.

  As he got closer Jonathan saw Tom and, he guessed, Leatherby, a short stocky man with no hair, standing outside.

  He conjectured that Rachel had cancelled the meeting, or that she and Hemmings were somewhere else. He felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.

  Tom’s bulk was moving towards him as a skinny man appeared in the door of the café. It was Toby Abbs.

  ‘Where’s Hemmings? Rachel?’ Jonathan asked Tom.

  Tom’s face was red and Jonathan saw he was finding it difficult to catch his breath. Leatherby grabbed hold of Abbs’ arm.

  Abbs yelped. ‘She’s just some American slag ... nothing in the rule book ...’ Abbs said, his voice more bravado than his body language. Leatherby tightened his grip and Abbs squawked again.

  ‘Where’s the chaperones?’ Jonathan addressed Tom. Shit, surely they hadn’t let him out without anyone ... apart from Toby Abbs?