Recently, his thoughts had turned darker. He had begun to fantasise about Bletch being at their mercy — his mercy. The fantasy made him feel in control. He could banish the reality of his own messed-up life; the constant disappointment in himself; the accusation in his wife’s eyes.
How Elsie had heralded him when Clare had first brought him home! He was young, healthy and in a good, steady job as a legal clerk in a bank. He was definitely marriage material — he could see it reflected in Elsie’s welcoming smile and eager gaze. He’d had several girlfriends, but Clare was the first one who’d mothered him, made him feel as though he was some sort of hero in her life. She used to sit and knit jumpers for him, watch him from the freezing stands as he played football for the Blatchington Strikers. And afterwards she’d sit quietly, contentedly, in the pub, listening to him and the rest of the team dissect the game. She loved to cook it was obvious from the little flat she shared with two girlfriends that she was a good housekeeper and although they never went all the way before they married, the sex was enthusiastic and Clare was eager to please him in every way. Loving her was easy. She wasn’t especially pretty — but then neither was he — and Clare made up for that shortfall by adoring him. And so they had married after only seven months of courting. She worked in a clerical position at Caffyns Car Company and he got a small promotion. Life was good, especially when Elsie announced that she and her husband were giving Clare their savings early. They wanted their only daughter to have a roof over her head that she owned.
It was incredibly generous but it came at a price. Elsie now owned Garvan, or so it felt to him. Within a year of their wedding day, Clare had become clucky, talking about children constantly. Although he too yearned for a solid family life — his own had been rocky, with estranged parents and no siblings — he’d soon started to hate the way the desire for a child changed their relationship. He and Clare were genuinely the closest of friends and the affection between them was strong, but as the need to nest turned urgent, and nothing he did produced a baby for that nest, Clare became withdrawn. Garvan started to feel like an outcast in his own home. Arguments increased, and Clare’s parents got drawn into the fray, with Elsie quick to point the finger and demand tests. Tests that showed he was the problem. Now he couldn’t even get a hard-on in front of Clare, let alone get her pregnant. Their lives had essentially unravelled to the point where a separation was considered the only option.
The loneliness hurt. He was sick of staying with friends, and had even slept rough in his car a couple of times. He had no idea how to kill the time between work and sleep, and had taken to driving aimlessly around Brighton and Hove to pass a few hours. It was parked in Hangleton, staring vacantly out of the car window, that he’d first seen the gang tormenting Bletch. He discovered how watching their bullying tactics made him rock hard. He would stroke himself in the car, safe in the knowledge that no one could see what he was doing. His fantasy escalated. He wanted that power.
He filled his mind with visions of Bletch begging through tears as he straddled that pale wobbling flesh and felt his hard prick entering —
A yellow car stopped and a woman yelled at the teenagers. He heard the sounds of the boys’ laughter as they raced off. He started the ignition of his own car, a Ford Cortina, and cruised past Bletch, watching the sad-looking kid in his rear-vision mirror.
Imagining the fat kid under him helped banish Clare’s sorrow and her mother’s accusing stares. How much stronger would he feel if he could turn fantasy into reality?
Kate left London immediately Jack had ended the meeting and reached Diane Sheriff’s house by eleven. She sat at the kitchen table waiting for Diane to return with the photos. A sullen-looking girl was watching television, her eyes red. Kate could tell that this was from tears rather than a cold or any illness.
‘Our Susan’s not well today,’ Diane Sheriff said, bustling back into the kitchen with some dusty photo albums. ‘She’s having a bad day over her dad,’ she added in a whisper. Kate nodded and Diane continued more loudly, ‘These are all I could find in the loft. Mike tended to want to take the photos rather than be in them.’
Kate smiled sympathetically. ‘Thank you. Can I take a flick through them here?’
‘Of course. How about a cuppa?’
‘Am I holding you up?’
Diane shook her head as she filled the kettle, talking over the noise of the tap. ‘This is my day off. I’m glad of the company to tell the truth.’
Kate opened the first book and saw pictures of the Sheriffs’ courting days, which morphed into what must have been an engagement party and then a few wedding pictures, before being turned over entirely to them as smiling parents. The second book was older, mainly of Diane and her family. Mike Sheriff appeared in a few lonely shots.
‘How old was Mike here?’ Kate asked.
Diane walked to stand beside her, the jar of cheap coffee powder and spoon in her hand. ‘Um, well, I was about twenty-two, I think. I didn’t know him then, of course, but I tried to integrate some of his photos from his twenties into mine of around the same time, so I imagine Mike would have been about twenty-six.’
Kate kept flipping but found nothing of interest. She wanted earlier photos. The next book was entirely devoted to pictures of the Sheriff children. She put it aside almost immediately. A black photo album came next, almost all the shots of Diane but also a few photos of Mike as an infant with his parents.
‘These are very sweet,’ Kate commented, more for something to say as Diane placed the mug of coffee in front of her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh yes, that’s the only book he’s ever had. I think his mother put that together. She did one for each of the children.’
‘How many of them were there?’
Kate reached for the coffee she really didn’t want and shook her head when Diane pointed to the sugar bowl.
‘There were four of them. He had three sisters.’
‘Oh, so the spoilt little prince, eh?’ She aimed for levity but it didn’t work.
Diane grimaced. ‘Not really. I think Mike felt he was a bit of a disappointment to his parents from what I can gather. He never talked much about his childhood, but I think he felt a bit . . .’ She searched for the word and then shrugged, her eyes misting.
‘Unfulfilled?’ Kate offered, desperate to stop the woman from breaking down.
Diane nodded, gathered her composure. ‘I think that’s why he worked so hard to be a good father and good teacher. He really was such a decent man. He did far more for the kids in his classes than most would.’
Kate sipped the tasteless coffee. Too much water, not enough milk. But sipping crap coffee was the diversion she needed because she didn’t really know what to say to comfort Diane Sheriff. She could see the woman would be a long time in coming to terms with her husband’s death, and Kate knew herself to be useless at empty platitudes.
‘Lucky last,’ she said, reaching for a cheaper-looking album that had a sunset on the cover. The first page was filled with a series of school pictures.
‘That’s Mike aged eight,’ Diane said, pointing a bitten nail at one old-fashioned square photo. Beneath it someone had written ‘1967’. He was standing with three other children, all of them grinning heartily, save Mike. ‘He wasn’t one for posing,’ Diane said, ruefully. ‘I’d completely forgotten we had these few old photos of him at school.’
Kate felt the first spike of adrenaline hit her system. She was tapping into the right era of Michael Sheriff’s life and she all but held her breath as she turned the next page. Mike was older here, wearing long pants with a dark blazer, no jumper and a white shirt with a tie properly knotted. This was it. This was what she’d come for.
‘This is Mike at his comprehensive school in Brighton somewhere,’ Diane said.
Kate had memorised the photograph of Clive Farrow’s dead face and her eyes ranged across the pages now, desperately searching for similarities.
‘Are you looking for that other man?’
Diane wasn’t quite as dim as Kate had her down for.
‘I was hoping we might make a connection between Mike and him at school, yes.’
Diane shook her head. ‘I can’t help you there. As I said, Mike didn’t really talk about childhood days. He once said he wanted to forget his years of senior school. He said 1974 to ’75 was the worst year of his life. Funny,’ she smiled as she stared out of the window, ‘that was one of my best.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘The odd thing is, he still put his name and photo up on that internet thing.’
‘What thing?’
‘You know, where they bring you together with your old school pals.’
‘Yes, I do. There are a couple of those operating now, aren’t there?’
Diane nodded. ‘It was my fault, really. I registered and felt so elated to suddenly start hearing from people I’d forgotten about that I kept encouraging Mike to do the same.’ Her eyes became misty. ‘I think he only did it to prove to all those people from his past that he had a great job and a family who loved him — you know . . .’
‘That he was successful,’ Kate finished for her.
‘Yes.’ Diane sniffed. ‘And that he was happy.’
‘Mum?’ Susan’s voice came from the sitting room.
‘Oh, excuse me a moment, Kate.’
Diane left the table and Kate used the time to course through the rest of the book, eager to find any pictures dated 1975. The photos were either of Michael or of the whole school, neither of which were helpful to her as Clive Farrow didn’t go to this school. She got to the end of the book and disappointment knifed through her. Nothing here that she could use.
Diane came back in. ‘Any luck?’
Kate shook her head and sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid not. And this is all you have, you say?’
‘Yes. I gave the loft a good long search too, so I don’t believe there are any other photos knocking about. Mike was such a squirrel. Never able to throw anything out, you see, but he was a neat squirrel and kept that loft in very tight order. He had a box marked “photograph albums,” and you’ve seen everything that was in there.’
Kate felt a little lost. She knew a lot was riding on this and her thoughts were already reaching towards Brodie and his forthcoming meeting with Farrow’s family. Perhaps he would have more luck. Something needed to break to give them a lead. She stared at the back cover of the book helplessly, then noticed a brown piece of paper sticking out of the lining. She tugged at it absently just as Diane said, ‘Finished here?’
‘What? Oh, sorry, yes, thank you for the coffee. I never seem to finish a cup. Drives my partner nuts.’
The mug was removed but Kate’s attention was on the small brown envelope she’d fished out of the lining. ‘Look at this,’ she said, pulling it clear. ‘What’s in here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Diane replied, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she approached. ‘Look inside.’
Kate did, her heart hammering as she pulled out a single snapshot of four boys, all grinning this time. She saw Mike Sheriff immediately.
‘Oh yes, I remember that one,’ Diane said. ‘Mike hated it, so he put it out of sight. I can’t imagine this will interest you though. You wanted school photos, right?’
‘Why did Mike hate this shot?’ Kate said, her pulse surging as she stared at one of the figures, a huge teenager, unmistakeably Clive Farrow.
‘Out of sight, out of mind, probably. I think those are the lads he fell in with when he was about fifteen. They weren’t good for him, I gather, although they look harmless enough there.’
Kate had to swallow to ensure her voice came out evenly. How she wished for a sip of the ordinary coffee now to moisten her dry mouth. ‘Mrs Sheriff — Diane — can I keep this photo?’
Mike’s widow gave a soft shrug of acquiescence. ‘Yes, if you want to. Is that what you came for?’
The Yard’s training, years of reinforcement that their people must always proceed with caution, kicked in. As much as Kate wanted to scream ‘Bingo!’ to the rafters, she composed herself.
‘I think this might help us a lot, Diane. You see, Clive Farrow is this fellow here.’ She pointed to the photo, and her thoughts flew to Jack and how pleased he was going to be with her. She missed Diane Sheriff’s response. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said you can keep it. We don’t want it. We don’t even know who those boys are or what they meant to Mike. If it helps find his killer, be my guest.’ Her voice had taken on a hard, emotional edge.
Kate reached out a hand and placed it on the older woman’s arm. ‘You’ve done really well here, Diane, and everyone working on this is going to be most grateful for your help. We’re going to find him for you, I promise.’
It was the wrong thing to say professionally, but Kate felt it was exactly the right thing to say to this widow, who needed to hear that the police were going to help her get justice.
12
Kate could hardly stop herself grinning as she hit the motorway for London, and she’d be back at the Yard in time for a late lunch, too. She wished she’d brought Dan’s car after all — it was so much nippier than the squad car. It could have used the run too; Dan so rarely drove it. He preferred public transport, or taxis, depending on where he had to be. He hated the boredom of sitting in traffic, unable to bury his head in one of the sci-fi books he seemed to consume. He shared his passion for speculative fiction with many others in the nerdy IT community, who did everything from dressing up as Trekkies and attending conventions around the world to taking part in mammoth gaming sessions at each other’s homes or even bigger events arranged at halls. Dan was a little more conservative, confining his gaming to sitting alone at his computer screen and plugging into an international community, or perhaps lying on the sofa playing on his gaming console. Nevertheless, he gave over great chunks of his weekend to lose himself in other worlds. In truth, it hadn’t really bothered Kate until recently, although she found it rather boyish. But since he’d proposed and their relationship had taken on that new, more serious lustre, she’d begun to feel a nagging concern that this was all that was ahead for her. When would Dan grow up?
She knew another woman who’d married an IT consultant — a supremely intelligent man, like Dan, who also became childlike and a fraction obsessive when given the opportunity to stalk otherworldly people on some extraterrestrial plane. Kate had asked the woman how she’d coped with two years of marriage under those circumstances and the woman had laughed and said, ‘I play with him. It’s actually great fun and extremely cathartic to go on a killing rampage after a long day in the bank.’
Kate gave a rueful smile now as she considered this sage advice, which turned into a softer smile as she dialled Jack Hawksworth’s mobile and heard his voice telling her that he couldn’t take the call right now but to please leave a message. Somehow Jack managed to say even that well-worn phrase with charm.
‘Jack, it’s Kate. I know you don’t want me to say this, but bingo! Call me, I’m in the car hurtling back to London.’
It was no more than a few minutes before the phone began playing the opening to Mission Impossible, the tune she’d accorded to DCI Hawksworth for whenever he rang her mobile. She loved the tune — always had, long before Tom Cruise made it famous again — and it suited Jack. She grinned and hit the button that hung from her hands-free earphones. ‘DI Carter.’
‘What was the lucky number then?’ he asked and she could hear the catch in his voice. He too was excited.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said bingo — what was the lucky number?’
‘Number four, sir. Four boys. I’ve got Michael Sheriff and Clive Farrow in the same photograph, their arms slung around a couple of other youngsters about the same age, although one looks small. They’re all smiling, they obviously feel pretty cosy together.’
‘The wrong gang he fell in with,’ Jack murmured, echoing Diane Sheriff’s earlier conversation. ‘Tell me more,’
he encouraged.
‘Mrs Sheriff recognised the picture but no one in it, other than her husband. She did say that Michael didn’t like that photo. I found it tucked away in an envelope inside the lining of a photo album. Her theory was that he hated throwing anything away — I’m gathering he was a bit of a hoarder — but by the same token didn’t want to see it. Ever.’
‘Didn’t want to be reminded, you think? Ashamed?’ ‘Well, that’s the inference I’m drawing,’ Kate said, surging past another slowcoach. ‘I should be there by one-thirty at the latest.’
‘Take it easy, Kate. Get back safely, and well done.’ It was so good to hear his praise that she felt suddenly reckless. ‘Er, Jack!’ She strained to listen, hoping he hadn’t put the phone down.
‘Yes?’
She felt a fluttering of fear in her throat. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Okay. It can’t wait?’
‘No. I need to speak with you alone and I know that will be impossible in the office today.’
‘Alright. Have you got your headset on?’
‘Yes, I can’t be booked by police, I promise,’ she said, desperately trying to lighten the tension she was feeling. Was she really going to do this? He’d probably think she’d really gone off the rails, perhaps regret trusting her.
‘I’m all ears. What’s up?’
Kate took a deep breath. ‘Last night —’
She heard him sigh. ‘Kate, look, I don’t want us —’
‘No, wait, Jack. I meant I wanted to mention this last night but you were in a hurry. I’m just a bit embarrassed actually. It feels crazy but I need to say it aloud.’
She didn’t need to see him to know he must be frowning at her dithering.
‘You’re usually pretty forthright. Just tell me. It’s obviously on your mind.’
‘Well, our murderer — the left-handed, late thirties/early forties bloke with his liking for lips and dicks . . .’ ‘Yes?’
Bye Bye Baby Page 13