The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  “And that’s all, is it?”

  “What else would it be?”

  Trevor said after a moment of hesitation, “I suppose that’s the real question.” He knew his next remark was iffy, he recognised that it was going to stir up those waters that he’d only just realised might be there, but he needed to take a step closer to those waters, so he said, “I’ve not thought of this before but . . . what’s Gaz Ruddock actually to you, Clover?”

  She stared at him for what seemed like a minute but was probably not. She finally responded with, “What on earth are you asking me?”

  “Nothing more than the words I spoke: What’s Gaz Ruddock to you? Is he something more than someone whose cause you took up because you told yourself you ‘saw something’ in him?”

  “I believe I’ve already explained myself.”

  “Have you? Completely, I mean.”

  “What exactly are you implying?”

  “I’m just asking you a question. It seems you’re in a state about Gaz Ruddock so it’s logical for me to ask about him. Isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” she asked. “We see things differently.” She placed her napkin on the table, crossed her cutlery on the plate. “I think we’re finished here,” she told him. “The Scotland Yard officers are arriving soon. You might want to explore your concerns with them.”

  WORCESTER

  HEREFORDSHIRE

  The DCC lived in a newish housing estate where detached brick houses had both garages and driveways, and front gardens grew lawns that were bordered with colourful flower beds. The Freeman home was identical to the others but in possession only of a sad-looking lawn.

  Upon ringing the bell, they were admitted into the house not by the DCC but by a man who introduced himself as Trevor Freeman, the DCC’s husband. He was a sharp-featured bloke with a shaved skull where the shadow of stubble indicated a deeply receding hairline. He was tall, just an inch shorter than Lynley, but he carried too much weight round his middle like a lot of men his age, which appeared to be somewhere in his late forties or early fifties. That, Lynley thought, probably eliminated Clover Freeman as gran. So if there was a relationship between her and one Finnegan Freeman, it would probably be mother or aunt.

  Clover, Trevor Freeman told them, was just putting together a tray of coffees. If they’d take a seat in the lounge, she’d be with them directly. He indicated an open doorway to their right, where a fireplace held unlit artificial coals and where on the wall a very large flat-screen television with the sound muted was broadcasting Withnail and I.

  They entered, and Trevor Freeman followed. They saw at once that one of the walls had been dedicated to family photos. The couple apparently had only one child, as pictures of a boy throughout the years were arranged, as artfully as these things can be, round a large wedding picture of the late-twentysomething Freemans: Trevor with fine-looking curly hair and his wife appearing suitably radiant. Unexpectedly, the photo brought to Lynley’s mind his own wedding day and Helen and, fleetingly, how it had felt the moment they were made husband and wife: that stab through the heart that was his being’s way of saying yes to something he had not recognised till he’d nearly lost her to someone else. And then he’d lost her anyway. But that did not bear thinking about.

  Havers was saying, “This is your boy, eh?”

  Trevor Freeman was replying with, “Yes, right. That’s Finn, that is.”

  “He’s nice-looking,” Havers noted.

  “He was that. Then he shaved off half his hair and had his skull tattooed. I can’t say it did much for the overall look of him.”

  “Ouch,” Havers said. “But at least he can cover it when he grows the hair back. Presumably.”

  He rubbed his own bald head, saying, “Long as he doesn’t inherit this.”

  Havers looked among the other photos, saying, “He’s your only one?”

  “We wanted more, but it didn’t happen. Might still, of course.”

  “How old’s he, then?”

  “Just nineteen. He lives in Ludlow. He’s at the college.”

  “We’re hoping he finds something useful to do with his life while he’s there. I’m Clover Freeman.”

  They swung round from the pictures. The deputy chief constable stood in the doorway, bearing a tray that held a large coffee press as well as mugs and the rest of the paraphernalia of coffee drinking. Her husband quickly took this from her, which allowed her to offer her hand first to Lynley and then to Havers. Each of them introduced themselves. She suggested they sit, and she poured them each a cup of coffee, along with one for herself. There was no fourth mug, and she clarified why when she said to her husband, “Trev, if you’ve something else to do, there’s no need for you to be here, I expect,” and she turned for verification to Lynley, adding, “Is there, Inspector?”

  Trevor said, “You’ve not come about Finn, have you?” as if their answer was going to dictate whatever he did next.

  Lynley said pleasantly, “Not that I know. Should we have done?”

  Clover said, “I can’t see why.”

  “Then I’ll leave you lot to it,” was Trevor Freeman’s conclusion, and he did just that. A moment later they could hear him climbing the stairs. A moment after that, a television programme blared, but its volume was immediately lowered.

  All of this gave Lynley the time to study Clover Freeman, now that it had been established that she was the mother of the Finnegan whom Havers had referenced and whom Isabelle had interviewed. She wasn’t tall, but she was in admirable physical condition as evidenced by the singlet-style top she wore, which showed the firm arms and developed shoulders of someone who trained with weights. Her cropped leggings completed the picture of her fitness. She was muscle and sinew without a hint of flab anywhere.

  Once they’d all seen to their coffees, she said to them, “How can I help you? Chief Constable Wyatt told me you’d be coming to headquarters. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you spoke with him earlier.”

  Lynley nodded at Havers to give her the lead. She said, “Our guv—DCS Ardery—she took your Finnegan through the paces the first time we were here. He never once said his mum’s a cop. He also never said his mum was the one who gave the order to pick up his pal Ian Druitt.”

  Clo Freeman looked from Havers to Lynley and back to Havers. She said, “Am I meant to comment on that?”

  Lynley said, “We’re trying to clarify all the relationships we’re coming across.”

  “There certainly can’t be many.”

  “This one,” Havers pointed out, “you, your son, Ian Druitt, Geraldine Gunderson, and I s’pose we ought to add Gary Ruddock . . . It’s the one that’s got us wondering the most.”

  “Why?”

  Havers shrugged. “It’s a case of turning over a rock in Ian Druitt’s death and discovering another relationship lying in wait.”

  The DCC picked up a spoon and stirred her coffee. She said, “I see. Well, I have one actual relationship here: with my son. He had a relationship with Mr. Druitt. I never met the man. Everything else is either chain of command or what led up to Mr. Druitt’s suicide.”

  Lynley saw that a Q & A about relationships could quickly become merely a disagreement about how three individual police officers saw things relative to Ian Druitt’s death. He said, “We’re back in Shropshire because Sergeant Havers discovered there was a stretch of nineteen days between an anonymous call and the death of Ian Druitt. But the IPCC’s report makes no mention of that or of what went on during those nineteen days. We know from our conversation today with your CC that there was no enquiry made into the paedophilia allegations during that time gap. Since you were the one who brought the nineteen days to an end, we’re hoping you can tell us why.”

  She’d been listening carefully, her gazed fixed on Lynley as he spoke. She replied with, “That’s quite simple to explain. I knew nothing about an an
onymous call prior to that day.”

  “How’d you learn about it, then?” Havers had taken out her notebook, Lynley saw. So, apparently, had DCC Freeman, and her expression was not one that welcomed the fact.

  Freeman frowned and said after a moment, “I got the word at the training centre, as I recall. We had quite a large meeting there—it’s on the headquarters’ grounds—and at some point word started going round. A deacon of the church, paedophilia.”

  “Do you recall how you yourself heard the word?” Lynley asked.

  “I’m very sorry. There was a great deal going on that day. What I can tell you for certain is that I became aware that a number of individuals were talking about an allegation against this man Ian Druitt. I wish I could be more specific than that.”

  “Why’d you have Druitt fetched in for questioning, then?” Havers asked. “Is that typical when a tip is rung in? I mean, it’s obvious that a tip having to do with an ongoing investigation would be passed along straightaway to the officers in charge, but this wasn’t about an ongoing case at all, far as I’ve been able to suss out.”

  “That’s true,” Freeman said. “But this was a tip about a possible paedophile that had been ignored, and I didn’t like that: either as deputy chief constable or as a mother.”

  “So you rang Gunderson and told her to haul him in.”

  “That would be the short version. I ordered her to see to it that someone brought him in.”

  “How long was this after you heard about the accusation?” Lynley asked.

  “As I’ve said, I rang her that same evening and told her to have someone fetch the man to the station and that’s what she did. But you must have paperwork from the Met’s earlier visit that explains all this.”

  “If you’ll refresh our memories,” Lynley said politely.

  Freeman’s expression altered. It was one of those momentary things: muscles tightening quickly round the eyes, something one might miss altogether if one were not watching for every reaction. This particular reaction told Lynley that the DCC fully understood that neither his mind nor Havers’s mind needed refreshing, that he was only asking her to go over old material in order to rattle her.

  “For example,” he said, “why didn’t you just ring the Shrewsbury station and tell them to handle it?”

  “I did do,” she replied. “But there was no one available as they had a situation going on, so I rang Gerry Gunderson. She’s in charge of the PCSOs in that area. I asked her to have the Ludlow PCSO do the job.”

  “Why the rush?” Lynley asked. “If the Shrewsbury officers were busy, surely this was something that could have waited till they were available.”

  “Indeed, it could have done,” she admitted. “I’m at fault for what happened. Finnegan, you see”—and here she nodded at the wall of photos—“worked with Mr. Druitt. If there was the slightest chance of anything . . .” She picked up her mug and cradled it between her hands. She looked as uncomfortable as she no doubt felt when she went on, saying, “I wanted Finnegan away from Druitt if there was the slightest chance that any part of this paedophilia allegation was true. So I wanted Mr. Druitt questioned thoroughly.” She took a sip from her mug and set it back on the coffee table. She said frankly, “I overreacted, Inspector. Druitt, Finnegan, paedophilia, a children’s club, a tip that Druitt was messing children about. I wanted to know what the actual situation was, because of my son.” She tilted her head in the direction her husband had taken and added, “Trev would be only too happy to tell you that this wasn’t the first time my focus was on Finnegan. Only this time it ended terribly.”

  Havers said, “Gary Ruddock’s told me he left Mr. Druitt on his own in the Ludlow station because he was dealing with other events in town.”

  “He’s not telling you he left the station, is he?”

  “Sorry. No. Just that he left Mr. Druitt by himself.”

  “That’s what I understand happened,” the DCC concurred. “I was told it was a binge drinking matter. But I assume you know this already. I can’t imagine you didn’t learn it the first time you were here.”

  “It’s the nineteen-day gap that brought us back here,” Lynley reminded her.

  Havers added, “Well, that and Clive Druitt, the dead bloke’s dad. No one wants the publicity that’ll go with a lawsuit if he files one.”

  “I’m desperately sorry about it all,” Freeman said. “The ultimate responsibility for when it occurred is mine. I know that. Believe me, if I could turn back time . . .”

  “Like the song says,” Havers agreed.

  LUDLOW

  SHROPSHIRE

  Barbara Havers knew she had to work not to loathe Clover Freeman. The DCC had more than ten years on her, but she looked like a bloody Olympian. Barbara’s inclination was to find her either deeply suspicious or downright guilty of something, although the truth was that the only real thing she appeared to be guilty of was seeing to her health and well-being through working out on the athletic equipment that Barbara had espied within a conservatory that opened off the Freeman sitting room. Bloody woman was probably a sodding vegetarian as well, Barbara thought.

  She made no mention of this as she and the inspector headed back to Shropshire, wending their way to Griffith Hall, which once again would be her lodgings. Instead, she dwelt on one aspect only of what they’d been told by the DCC, and that was her admission of being an overprotective mother. The way she saw it, Barbara explained to Lynley, Clover Freeman’s overprotecting her son could mean one of two things in a situation of alleged paedophilia. Either the DCC was attempting to run interference in case there was truth to the allegation and she hadn’t wanted Finnegan hanging round the bloke, or she was worried Finnegan himself might be involved in some way.

  “He watches Druitt for a while and decides to join in for a round or two of grope and poke,” was how she put it. When Lynley gave her one of his dry glances, she said quickly, “Sorry.” And then after a moment to think more about it, “Or he’s the one messing the little ones about. He gets caught at it and he has to do something, so he makes the call accusing Druitt. He doesn’t live far from the Ludlow station, as it turns out.”

  After a few minutes of silent and—she presumed—meditative driving on Lynley’s part, he said, “I see those are possibilities, as unpleasant as they sound.”

  Then they were silent again. It was now growing dark. North of London as they were—despite the distance not being overly great—the days were longer. Not many structures, less to block the sun, she reckoned. More open land and rolling hills, the panoramas broken by coppices planted long ago.

  Finally, Lynley said, “This issue of paedophilia, Barbara . . .” and he paused. He looked reflective and she wondered why till he went on with, “I knew someone from Eton who was so inclined.”

  “A teacher?”

  “No. An old Etonian. He claimed he’d never acted upon it but he had photos. They were hidden, but in the course of an investigation, I came across them.” He glanced at her and she was surprised to see that for the first time in her memory of him, the inspector looked not only uncomfortable but also troubled.

  She said, “Christ. John Corntel. You covered for him? Did you never think . . . He could be out there right now. Like, this very moment. Like, doing what he only was looking at before. Jesus on the Cross, sir.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m not proud of what I did. He keeps in touch with me. He says he’s clear of it, but the truth is God only knows.”

  “So what is this?” she asked. “Confession time? Might’ve come sooner, considering all the rubbish you’re holding on me.”

  “It’s given me some sleepless nights, Barbara. I’m fully aware of how much I might be responsible for. Among other things I’m responsible for.”

  She knew what that last bit meant: Helen’s death. He should have borne nothing at all on his shoulders for what had happened
to his wife, but he refused to see that. Yet Barbara didn’t go there in conversation, considering what he’d just told her. What he’d done was an abrogation of responsibility so profound on his part that it left her reeling. It also left her seeing him more fully as a human being, which she had to admit was how he had always seen her.

  They were negotiating Leominster before he spoke again, seeking a route to the A49, which would take them up to Ludlow. “What all of that brought to my mind was the idea of photographs. Was there anything among Druitt’s belongings that suggested paedophilia to you?”

  “Photos of naked little kids? Child porn? Nothing like that, if you’re talking about actual photos and the like. But isn’t that gen’rally done with the Internet anyway?”

  “That’s where the trails are, yes. Did Ian Druitt possess a computer? A laptop? A tablet?”

  “We never came across one,” Barbara told him. “Considering that he wouldn’t’ve been rolling in dosh, that’s not too strange, is it?”

  “What about Clive Druitt?”

  “D’you mean did he hand one over? If that’s what you’re asking, the answer is no. ’Course, he could’ve just kept one he came across, couldn’t he? He might’ve needed one. Except . . . he’s probably not hurting for it, so why wouldn’t he just buy one? Why keep his son’s?”

  “If there was something on it,” Lynley pointed out.

  “He would’ve had to check. And that means he would’ve had to know he ought to be looking for something. That doesn’t seem likely, you ask me.”

  “The woman he lived with? His landlady? What was her name?”

  “Flora Bevans. I s’pose she could’ve kept a laptop or a tablet although I don’t know if she would’ve handed it over to Druitt as she’d need it herself.”

  “He could have done his searches on his mobile,” Lynley said.

  “Except . . .”

  “Good God. Are you telling me there wasn’t even a mobile?” Lynley looked over at her. He’d made the turn onto the A49 and now they were on a straight path to Ludlow. He went on with, “That doesn’t make sense. He didn’t live at the vicarage. The vicar would need a way to contact him. Even if he had a landline where he lived, how convenient would that be? He’d have to keep dashing home to pick up messages or someone would have to keep taking them for him. I can’t see it. There must be a mobile somewhere. We need to find it.”