A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "Ended up on Roydon Common with Felgate… and wound up killing him there."

  Tom frowned, piecing it together in his mind. "Then Felgate must have tipped Haverson off about what he thought happened to Ciaran."

  "But we still don't know how Felgate found out."

  "That was me."

  They both turned to see Greg Beaty standing in the doorway, his arrival unnoticed. Tom was a little annoyed no one had seen fit to stop him edging out of the room.

  "I'm sorry, I was going to the bathroom," he said, a sheepish-looking Eric standing behind him. Tom waved away both the apology and Eric's awkwardness.

  "Go on," Tom said.

  "I have a drink problem," Beaty said, glancing around, "which will come as no surprise to anyone I'm quite sure, and I'm trying to get on top of it… although not successfully at the moment, to be honest. I was attending AA for a while… because… well, I'm an alcoholic. The local group were very supportive and although my sponsor didn't live nearby… two of my outreach people do."

  "Outreach people?" Tom asked.

  He nodded. "People you agree to call every day to provide that support bubble to stop… to stop you falling back into your old habits, you know?"

  "Gavin Felgate?" Tamara asked.

  Beaty nodded. "Yeah… but I had no idea what he did for a living and in these groups you open up, share what's going on in your life, thoughts and feelings."

  "You talked about Ciaran?"

  "Not directly, no, but Gavin was… intuitive, chatty. I recall one day I was talking about atonement; about how my use of alcohol numbed me from the world, from my sins. Gavin had his own problems and we kind of helped each other. That's how it works." Beaty looked up at the ceiling, drawing a deep breath. "I had the feeling he was asking too many questions, more than was normal, and I got spooked, dropped out of the programme but…"

  "The journalist in him just kept on digging," Tom said.

  "Yeah, I guess he did. It's a small town and… maybe he put it together somehow." Beaty supported himself, putting his back against the wall, rubbing at his cheeks with both hands. "What have I done?"

  Tamara indicated for Eric to escort Beaty away and turned to Tom once they were alone again.

  "So, where is Ian Haverson?"

  Tom glanced towards the front room as if he could see Jimmy Haverson through the wall. "Somehow I don't think his son is going to tell us."

  "And David Fysh? Do you think he's already dead?"

  "Haverson must know we put it together, especially now we have Jimmy," Tom said, thinking hard. "But the fact we haven't found David yet…"

  "What is it?"

  "I'm just thinking," Tom said, chewing his lower lip. "From what went on here, I'm wondering whether they intended to kill Greg here? Maybe they were looking to take him somewhere else and that's why we haven't found David?"

  "But they killed Empson in his home."

  "Didn't Eric say Empson put up a fight? Maybe it didn't go down as they expected it to and had to adapt."

  "In that case David Fysh might still be alive," Tamara said. Tom nodded. "But where?"

  Tom looked her in the eye, inclining his head to one side. "Maybe back where all this started."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tom Janssen emerged from the woods, opening the gate at the end of the path and stepping out onto the open ground of Roydon Common. The wind had eased now, the clouds parting to bathe the undulating ground in silver light from an almost full moon. From this distance, approximately a hundred yards, he could make out two figures: one stationary, the other circling. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards them. He'd been here before, two Yew trees standing side by side with open grassland in every direction away from them. There was no chance of sneaking up unobserved, perhaps under the cover of total darkness but even then, not with more than a couple of people.

  But they had no time to conceive of a better solution. There was no advantage to waiting for a trained negotiator. It was now or never.

  As it was, Tom made it to within fifty feet before he was spotted, the darkness of the trees behind him masking his approach. It was David Fysh who saw him first, his startled eyes turning Ian Haverson to face him.

  "Stay there!"

  Tom did as he was told, stopping where he was and raising both hands in front of him to show he was unarmed and convey a lack of threat. Ian Haverson's eyes flitted around in search of others, disbelieving that someone would venture out against him alone.

  "It's just me, Ian. I'm here to talk."

  Haverson continued scanning the ground around them, seeing movement in every ripple of the long grass or twitch of a tree in the distance. The nearby car park was empty, aside from the white saloon that he used as his taxi. Tamara and the rest of the team were spread out in the nearby woods, waiting to rush Haverson if they felt the need, although they would still have too much ground to cover to be effective at stopping David Fysh from dying.

  Fysh was precariously perched on a stepladder, set upon the uneven ground, a noose around his neck tied to the very same branch as Ciaran was found hanging from. Tom edged closer, figuring he would do so until he was again ordered to stop. Haverson was spinning around, scanning the area in a heightened state of hyper-vigilance. Tom could see David Fysh had his hands tied behind his back making it even harder for him to maintain his balance as the ladder wobbled beneath him, trying to shift his weight to keep it steady. Coming within twenty feet, Haverson finally appeared to notice.

  "I said stay back!"

  He brandished a kitchen knife, waving at Tom, his eyes wild and frantic.

  "I won't come any closer, Ian, I promise."

  Tom ensured he kept his tone calm and neutral. There was no way he could know how Haverson was going to react to his presence. Gaffer tape covered Fysh's mouth, sweat beaded his brow and even in this light, Tom could see he was terrified. He looked gaunt, although there was extensive swelling around his nose and eyes, undoubtedly the result of a beating, perhaps several. He'd been effectively missing for days now, so where he'd been held and in what conditions, Tom could only guess at. At this point, Tom decided to ignore Fysh. To speak directly to him would likely enrage Haverson and he had to be placated.

  "This won't bring Ciaran back, Ian."

  "I know!" Haverson hissed in Tom's direction. "That's not what this is about."

  "Then what is it about?"

  "Justice," he snarled.

  Tom pursed his lips. Haverson glared at him.

  "This," Tom said, slowly extending his left hand to indicate Fysh, "is not justice. This is revenge, pure and simple."

  "Yeah, well so be it."

  "Do you mean that, really?" Tom shook his head. "You have another son. What about him? What about Jimmy?"

  Haverson's expression momentarily softened, but then the hard steely gaze returned. "He'll understand."

  "You think so? He lost the brother he cared about, then his mother and finally the two of you reconcile only for you to destroy everything once again. Is that fair on him? Is that justice?"

  Haverson spun on Tom, taking a couple of steps past Fysh and closer to him, still brandishing the knife threateningly with an extended hand.

  "They took everything from us! Everything. Why shouldn't we take it back?"

  Tom splayed his hands wide. "Because it was an accident, Ian. They were kids fooling around."

  "And they deserve what's coming to them."

  "What about Gavin Felgate? Did he deserve it too?"

  Haverson hesitated, blinking repeatedly. Was he high, drunk? Tom couldn't tell but there was an internal struggle going on in the man's head, of that he was certain.

  "He didn't kill your son, so why did he have to die?"

  Haverson took another step, speaking through gritted teeth, snarling. "He wanted to profit from Ciaran's death, to prey on my misery… to make money out of my boy's life, my suffering." Haverson spat in Tom's direction. "He was scum."

  "What happened that nigh
t, Ian, the night of Gavin's death? What were you doing here?"

  "He brought me here… like a lamb to the slaughter. I was doing my job, routine pick-up and he had me drive him out here, told me he could answer my questions… fill in the blanks…"

  "And what? He had it set up?"

  "Damn right, made me relive it, experience it as if I was here when my boy died… and for what?" He jabbed towards Tom with the blade in his hand. "For money… for the story. He thought seeing my reaction firsthand would give him an edge or something. The man was delusional."

  "And?"

  "And he got the story – he became the story."

  Tom shook his head. "But you didn't mean it, did you? You're not a killer."

  Haverson visibly shrank before him, his shoulders dropping. "No, of course not. I didn't want any of this… but when he said, when he told me what they'd done to my boy... I–I just lost it… but I only hit him once, I swear it was just once and he fell a–and he didn't get up."

  Haverson's eyes glazed over. Tom thought he was about to break down but he rallied, steeling himself and blinking away the tears. "It was so easy. He was gone… like I'd switched off a light… just like that." He met Tom's eye. "And then I realised – they all had to pay."

  "Not like this, Ian. This isn't the way."

  "Then what is the way, Inspector Janssen?"

  Haverson stared at Tom. Did he expect an answer? Tom wasn't sure. Even if he did, what could he say to the man?

  "Your lot investigated it and found nothing, did nothing," Haverson said. "So, what now? How am I supposed to get justice for Ciaran? I wasn't there for him in life but I'm sure as hell going to be there for him in death."

  "What does that mean?"

  Haverson tilted his head to one side, raising both eyebrows in a knowing look. "It means this." He spun on his heel and marched towards David Fysh. Tom broke into a run but he was too late, Haverson raised a foot and kicked the side of the stepladder with all his might. It toppled and David Fysh's muted scream followed as the support went from beneath him and he swung from the tree, the branch groaning under the man's weight.

  "No!" Tom shouted but Haverson turned on him, knife aloft forcing Tom to halt his advance as the two men squared up to one another.

  "Too late, Inspector," Haverson said. "It's too late for all of us."

  The waiting officers broke cover and ran from the trees, torches lighting up as they hastened across the rough ground. Haverson shot a glance in their direction and back at Tom, still standing between him and the flailing David Fysh, his legs, taped together at the ankles, swinging from side to side like a violently rocking pendulum. Fysh's eyes were wide, protruding and bloodshot, his face turning scarlet with every passing second. Haverson's expression changed from almost manic to calm and serene. Tom's eyes narrowed; he couldn't interpret it. Haverson stiffened himself upright and smiled.

  "Too late for all of us," he repeated in a barely audible whisper and ran the blade across his own throat. Tom stared, unable to believe his eyes as blood fountained from Haverson's neck. The knife tumbled from his grasp and he reached up clutching at the self-inflicted wound with both hands, eyes wide and fearful, before sinking to his knees. Tom rushed past him to the hanging form of David Fysh whose thrashing movements were lessening. Tom wrapped his arms around his dangling legs and used all his strength to take the bodyweight, releasing the strain on Fysh's neck. Fysh repeatedly kicked out in an involuntary motion, instinct taking over in his struggle for life.

  Time passed slowly; seconds felt like minutes before support arrived but then police officers were all around them. Tamara and two uniformed constables ran to attend to Ian Haverson and, despite his crude attempt to take his own life, he didn't try to push them away, his own survival instinct no doubt asserting itself. Although Tom didn't rate his chances of survival, judging by the length and depth of the knife wound. Moments later, the stepladder was righted and the rope severed from the branch it was tied to, David Fysh was then lowered to the ground. He'd passed out but at least he was still breathing.

  Tom sank onto his knees, looking to the heavens and feeling a sense of relief. Tamara Greave came over and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.

  "You couldn't have done much more than you did, Tom."

  He looked at the team dispensing first aid to both men, an ambulance appearing in the distant car park, lights flashing. Would they be here fast enough? It was over and despite probably saving one man's life, Tom still felt he'd failed.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  "Mum, can I have some of that cake?"

  Tom and Alice broke off their conversation, looking to where Saffy stood on the far side of the kitchen island, a mass of curls, her forehead and piercing blue eyes all that were visible as she eyed a chocolate cake on a cake stand in front of her.

  "Not before dinner, darling, no. But you can have it for pudding, okay?"

  Saffy let out an exaggerated harrumph but accepted the decision and sauntered over to the breakfast table where the snack buffet was set out. Checking first that neither her mother, Tom, or anyone else for that matter, was paying attention she craftily took a handful of crisps and several biscuits before she scurried away to find a quiet corner to eat them. Tom and Alice noticed but pretended not to, even when Russell, Saffy's pet terrier, followed on with nose in the air and tail erect, Saffy dropping crisps for him to pick up as they went – the duo were forming quite an adolescent criminal pairing these days. Tamara appeared at Alice's side.

  "I'm sorry, but could I borrow Tom for a moment," she said. "It's about work but I promise it'll be the last time tonight."

  Alice smiled. "I doubt that very much." She wasn't offended. "That'll be like expecting David Attenborough not to talk about nature. I'll see if your mum needs any help."

  She touched Tom's forearm affectionately and stepped away to where Francesca Greave was beavering away bringing the main meal together. With the culmination of recent events, Tamara decided the team could do with a relaxing evening together to lighten the mood if not to silence her mother's almost continual demand for them to share Christmas. That was never likely to happen but this was a decent compromise and, if the truth be told, a very good one.

  "Thanks for doing this," Tom said, raising his orange juice to Tamara's glass of white wine. She angled her head to one side, noting the re-emergence of Saffy from the adjoining room.

  "How could I disappoint the little one?"

  Tom smiled. It was true, Saffy had been the most vociferous in her support for Francesca's holiday plans, having not let up since it was first raised.

  "I called in at the hospital this afternoon," Tom said, "and it looks like David Fysh will make a full recovery, physically at any rate."

  "Good, he'll need all his strength for what he has coming his way," Tamara said. Tom offered her a quizzical look. "I spoke with the CPS today and they've confirmed Fysh will be facing a raft of charges in relation to his business dealings. In their mind there's more than enough evidence to secure a fraud conviction in relation to the dodgy meat he's been supplying through his various businesses. Do you remember a few years back with that scandal surrounding horse meat in ready meals and such?"

  "Yes, nasty."

  "Well, if they follow that precedent then Fysh will be looking at significant custodial time I should imagine, plus he'll lose his public sector contracts."

  "But he'll still be alive, so you have to weigh things up."

  Tamara smiled. "Yes, there is that."

  "Jimmy Haverson hasn't said a word since we told him his father is dead."

  "He'll have to face up to what the two of them have done by himself."

  Tom nodded. "I feel for him," Tamara looked at him, surprised, "from a certain point of view. He came out of detention and turned his life around, took a tough job and made something of himself. David Fysh probably took him on out of some personal attempt at redemption for what he did as a teenager, but Jimmy put in the graft." />
  "Until his estranged father told him what had happened to Ciaran…"

  "Yes, exactly. Then the pent-up emotion, the frustration of losing his brother, his mother and the disintegration of his whole childhood, coupled with coercion from his father led him to join in with this vigilante justice."

  Tamara shook her head. "He knew right from wrong. He knew what he was getting in to and that's where my sympathy evaporates."

  "True. I can empathise but don't condone it. It's just so tragic, such a waste of life. Are the CPS going to look at Ciaran Haverson's suicide again?"

  She shrugged to indicate uncertainty. "In light of what we found out this week, I should imagine someone will but I don't see any charges that might be levelled at Fysh or Beaty. It was a horrible prank that went tragically wrong. From what Greg Beaty told us it was what inspired Harry Empson to dedicate his working life to helping those less fortunate. Speaking of which, do we know what brought Empson back the night he died yet?"

  Tom frowned. “Not conclusively, no. The day we presume David Fysh was abducted by Ian Haverson, perhaps aided by Jimmy, a phone call was made from Fysh’s mobile to a number abroad which I anticipate will come back to be one associated with Harry Empson. My guess, and with Jimmy not cooperating it remains a guess, is that they posed as Fysh and lured Empson back on some grounds relating to Ciaran’s death, hence the urgency of the trip and the lies to his employers about his mother’s illness."

  “That would explain how Haverson knew Empson would be flying in and when." Tamara exhaled deeply. “Even if Ciaran’s death isn’t reexamined, Fysh and Beaty will have to carry on living with what they did… and it will be even harder now everyone will know. It’s tragic that the one man who really tried to make amends by living a selfless life, Harry Empson, is the one who paid the ultimate price. Not that I think the others deserved to trade places with him."

  "A selfless life? To salve his conscience more like."

  "That's a cynical view, Thomas."

  "And the optimistic counterpoint is what?"