“Which was what, exactly?” Lynley said.
“I told her. Everything that supposedly had happened because for all we knew, it hadn’t happened at all and the girl was lying, which is what I told Druitt at first. I know those boys, I told him. Whatever this girl is saying, it can’t be true, I told him. This is about revenge or something or anger or whatever. You need to speak with her about that. So he did but then here he came with knickers and tights and I knew exactly what that meant.”
“So he had to die?”
“I didn’t think that! I never thought that! I reckoned getting rid of the evidence would be enough, so I handed it over and that was that. But not for her. She had to be sure that no one ever learned what Finn did to that girl when she was drunk. Only, Druitt knew. So—”
“So you killed him,” Lynley finished.
“No! I swear to God that I never did anything to that bloke except fetch him from St. Laurence Church and bring him here to wait. Then I made my phone calls just like I said and in the meantime someone did him in.”
“You’ve forgotten the part about the vestry,” Havers said.
Ruddock licked his lips. The right foot tapped again. Again he stopped it. “What about the vestry?” he demanded.
“It’s where Ian Druitt removed his vestments while you were in the room waiting for him,” Lynley explained.
“I can’t help if he took the opportunity—”
“You were the one who took the opportunity, Gary,” Havers said. “You might’ve turned out to be less of an absolutely pathetic bloody tosser if you’d ever once gone to church in your life.”
“That’ll do, Sergeant,” Lynley said mildly. And then to Ruddock, “You chose the wrong stole. The colours mean something. Ian Druitt didn’t shove the stole he was wearing for the service into his pocket. He would have been wearing a purple one, for Lent. You chose red.”
Silence at this. It would have been quite nice had Ruddock at any point started to look like a truly trapped and finished animal, but that did not happen. This suggested he had cards to be played and he intended to play them. What he didn’t know and couldn’t possibly know was that the ace was in Lynley’s hand.
The back door to the station opened, and Lynley tilted his head in that general direction, indicating Havers should see to it. She rose to do so.
“She pressured me,” Ruddock said when Havers was out of the room. “She wouldn’t let up. Once I told her about Druitt and what he knew about that night from the girl herself . . . She was the one to ask about evidence, so I told Druitt there was nothing could be done unless there was evidence. He went back to the girl and there it was and he gave it to me and I had to tell her I had it at that point. If I hadn’t done, it would be Finn arrested and Finn charged and Finn convicted and all because he made a wretched mistake one night in his life. The girl would heal up. It was bad for her, of course it was bad. But she’d heal and if she only kept her mouth shut, no one would . . . I couldn’t let the boy go to prison. He’d’ve been branded because of what happened, and I knew it and so did Clover. The word would get out and he’d be used by the others. The lags would have him. They would line up, and how the bloody hell was he to survive that when he didn’t have to if there was no evidence of a crime in the first place.”
“I see.” Lynley paused, frowning, eyebrows drawn together. “Making sure that I understand, the evidence couldn’t go to forensics because it had never been worn after that night, so it held DNA. So you either have it still or you gave it to the deputy chief constable because you had to be sure she saw you as following orders.”
“I gave it to her. Just like I said. But Druitt still knew it existed, and she couldn’t let that rest. I had nothing against the man. He was only doing what he saw as his duty. But she didn’t want to risk it.”
“What?”
“That one of them—Druitt or the girl—might not believe the no-evidence story. That one of them might want to take their own story to the Shrewsbury police, ringing up and saying, ‘Here’s what happened, only we’re being told there isn’t evidence and how is that possible when a girl is sodomised?’”
“Ah.” Lynley was silent for a moment. He produced an expression of deep thought: a man considering everything he’d heard and evaluating each bit of it. Finally, he said, “That’s just the problem, Gary.”
“What is?”
“That you know the girl was sodomised.”
“Druitt—”
“No. Not Druitt and not anyone else. The girl never told a soul she’d been sodomised until yesterday. She was too ashamed.”
“She had to have told.”
“But she didn’t. In her culture—or perhaps better said in the culture of her mother—a high value is placed on virginity. And while she was and is still technically a virgin, she couldn’t bear the thought of telling anyone the exact nature of the attack upon her, in part because they might think she was no longer pure.”
“It was Finn. I swear to you. It was Finn.”
“That’s certainly what you allowed the DCC to believe, isn’t it? She needed to be in a panic about her son so that everything could be organised: moving the CCTV camera outside the station here; making a call to the control room that was just vague enough that nothing would be done immediately about it; making that call from here so it could look like someone was trying to frame you; and finally the call to Sergeant Gunderson once a big enough crime was committed that would occupy the patrol officers who otherwise would have fetched Druitt to Shrewsbury when the DCC asked that it be done.”
“I’m telling you—”
“I’m sure you are. But once we got onto Druitt’s mobile, things began to look worrisome for you, so you had little choice but to drag Finnegan into the story as someone Druitt was ostensibly worried about. But Druitt wasn’t worried about anything regarding Finn, as he had both the truth and the evidence on his side. Until, of course, he hadn’t.”
“I was under orders. From her. DCC Freeman.”
“Possibly. But I doubt any order she gave had to do with sodomising a girl. Sergeant?” He directed this last towards the corridor.
Havers came in. She was accompanied by two uniformed officers.
“These blokes’ll take you to Shrewsbury, Gary,” she told Ruddock. “There’s a lovely custody suite waiting for you there.”
ROYAL SHREWSBURY HOSPITAL
NR SHELTON
SHROPSHIRE
Clover arrived in Finnegan’s room round half past nine. She wasn’t dressed for work, and she said to Trevor, “Let me take this watch. You need some sleep.”
Before Trevor could reply, Finn roused himself, saying, “Mum?”
She turned to the bed. “I’m here now, darling. Dad’s going home to get some sleep, but one of us will stay with you till whoever did this is under arrest.”
At Clover’s appearance in Finn’s room, Trevor had felt at once uneasy. He was reluctant to leave. He said, “I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”
“There’s no need,” Clover said. “And if anyone wants to speak with Finnegan, they’ll have to deal with me.”
Finn said in the same drowsy voice he’d had in the wee hours of the morning, “Cops, you mean.”
Clover sat on the chair Trevor had risen from. She leaned towards the bed. “They’re going to want a statement from you, Finnegan,” she said. “Unless you’ve spoken to them already. Have you? About what happened yesterday? About anything else?”
Finn hadn’t been looking at her but rather at the ceiling. Now, however, he turned his head, which showed his mother the extent of the injuries to his face, swollen and bruised and stitched up like a prizefighter. He said to her, “What?”
“They may want to speak to you about something that happened last winter,” she said. “If they do . . . if they bring that up . . . But I’ll be with you, so we won’t worr
y about it just now. Unless they’ve already spoken to you. You haven’t yet answered me about that.” At this point, she turned to Trevor and said, “He hasn’t spoken to the police, has he? Did that Scotland Yard woman manage to get to him at some point last night?”
Finn said, “Scotland Yard?”
Trevor said, “Your mum’s worried you might speak to the Metropolitan Police again. Or for that matter, to someone else.”
“But you said . . . won’t they want a statement . . . ?”
“I don’t mean about what happened yesterday, Finn,” Trevor told him. “I mean the other. What you and I were trying to work out last night.”
“Last night?” He squinted as if the daylight from the window bothered him.
“We talked about the girl . . . in Temeside . . . the assault,” Trevor said. He could feel Clover shooting him a look but he didn’t return it.
“What . . . was there a girl, Dad? Ding wasn’t home when that bloke came at me. Least . . . I don’t think . . .”
“That’s a memory thing, Finn. It’s fuzzy at the moment but the doctor’s said it should clear up over time.”
Clover said quietly, “So he can’t recall anything just now . . . ?” and to Trevor she sounded far too relieved.
He said to their son, “The Met police are going to want to talk to you about a girl who passed out in your house last December. Your mum doesn’t want that to happen as the girl was apparently sodomised.”
Clover straightened from her position bending over the bed. She said to him, “Trevor, you’ll not—”
But he stopped her with, “Your mum doesn’t want you to speak to anyone about last December, Finn, because of where the questions might lead. Which means, I reckon, that she also doesn’t want you to speak the police about who it was attempted to kill you yesterday.”
Clover took a step from the bed. She said, “A word, Trevor.”
But before she could lead him from the room to the corridor where, doubtless, she wanted the word to occur, Finn said, “But . . . who . . . Sodom . . . sodomised . . . Mum?”
Clover’s tone became fierce and low as she said to Trevor, “That was foul of you.”
Trevor said to their son, “You’ll need to try to remember, Finn. Everything you can about that night in December.”
“It’s impossible. He can’t remember,” Clover hissed. “The doctor told us his memory will be faulty for a time.”
“But he needs to try, doesn’t he?”
“What he needs is to say nothing: to anyone. Are we clear, Trevor?”
“Dad . . . Mum . . . ?”
It came to Trevor not only how young Finn sounded, but also—when he glanced at him—how young he looked there in the bed, his head in bandages and his eyes so liquid that it seemed only a superhuman effort was keeping him from weeping in front of his parents.
“Your mum isn’t going to allow you to speak to the police unless you’re able to assure her, Finn, that neither rape nor sodomy is part of your repertoire when a girl is passed out from drink on your sofa.”
Clover hissed in a breath between her teeth. She said, “How dare you.”
To which he responded, “What did you intend to do? You can’t keep him from the police forever. You can be present if he wants you present, but you can’t answer their questions for him.”
“They’ll trick him. They know how to do that. Do you actually think I’m in the dark about how police detectives work?”
“If he tells them the truth—”
“My God, you are impossibly naïve. The truth means nothing. The truth never means a thing. When it comes to innocence or guilt, the truth is the very first casualty in an investigation. If he makes a single wrong step—”
“You think . . .” Finn’s voice cracked as it had done in puberty. They both turned to him. “You think I did it. You think I . . .” He lifted his good arm and covered his eyes.
Clover’s mobile rang. Trevor said, “Let it go.” She looked at the screen and then at him. “I can’t,” she told him. “It’s headquarters.”
That said, she walked out of the room.
COVENTRY
WARWICKSHIRE
Yasmina wasn’t oblivious to the irony of where her parents had chosen to live as pensioners since they had sent her to Coventry directly after she’d revealed to them, during her second year at uni, that she’d secretly married an English boy. They might have come round eventually to the idea of her marrying beyond their wishes, religion, and ethnicity, but that she’d become pregnant by that English boy prior to marrying him was another matter entirely. For a pregnancy declared she’d violated their cultural and religious beliefs regarding the vital importance of a woman’s purity. More important than that, however, turned out to be their fury that—in getting herself with child at her young age—she’d jeopardised her future in medicine. The oldest of her parents’ five daughters, she had been intended to show the way, acting as a beacon to the rest of them who might have had other ideas as to how they wished to spend their lives. All the girls were intended to be educated first, in possession of a career second, and married to suitable and equally educated husbands third. Everything else would follow from there: which meant a home, children, the trappings of success, and a list of accomplishments of which their parents could be proud.
They believed Yasmina would fail at all this once she violated the sexual strictures that had been part of the fabric of her life, so she was cut off from them all. She had seen them only twice in the intervening years: once when she attempted to present them with their first granddaughter and then again when she called upon them after attaining the goal of doctor of paediatric medicine. In neither case had she been allowed into their house. She’d come to Coventry now because there were ghosts she had to lay at rest.
Once Timothy had taken the drugs and gone to their bed, she’d climbed to the attic of the house. There, she’d unearthed an old chest and removed from it the garments. She’d ironed these carefully, and then she donned them. She wore them now in Coventry.
She’d chosen a sari of subdued hue from among those she’d kept for the important occasions that she’d hoped she would be invited to attend, such as the marriages of her sisters or the celebrations of births. Of course, she’d been invited to none of those, but still she had hoped that with time, all would be forgiven and her family would welcome her back.
Her sari was dark green, and she’d draped in the Nivi style. Her fingers had moved along the fabric by means of muscle memory, the pleats neatly tucked into the matching, firmly tied petticoat, the blouse adjusted above it, the gold-threaded pallu positioned over her left shoulder. She wore sandals on her feet and gold bangles on her right wrist. Her left arm was cuffed in a band of gold, and she chose heavy earrings fashioned with green tourmalines. When she’d gazed upon her reflection, she saw what she wanted her parents to see: an Indian woman who had not forgotten her culture.
Now she went to their door. The day was promising to be a warm one and there on the sheltered porch of her parents’ home, she could feel the sun heating the back of her neck. She rang the bell. She had to ring twice before the door opened. Then her mother was standing before her, wearing a threadbare tracksuit and unlaced trainers.
In the years since Yasmina had seen her, her mother’s hair had thinned and its colour had gone completely to grey. She squinted at Yasmina, and Yasmina thought the sunlight behind her was making it difficult for her mother to see her face. She took a step that would put her into the shade of the porch’s gabled roof. She and her mother spoke at the same moment.
“Madhur?” said her mother.
“Mum,” said Yasmina.
As if not hearing what Yasmina had said, her mother went on with, “Madhur, we have no cakes in the house. There is tea but there’s no milk and the house itself—”
“Mum, it’s Yasmina.” Who was Mad
hur? she thought.
“—would not be a matter of pride to me as it is just now. Have you come to speak about Rajni again?”
“Mum, it’s Yasmina. Your eldest. Yasmina. Will you let me into the house?”
“Oh, but I can’t,” her mother said. “You must forgive me. Palash said I must not allow . . . And Rajni . . . did you not know she has long since married, Madhur? She is no longer available although we do not see her. Palash did not approve the match as you had not made it, and he was very angry at the disrespect this showed.” And then on the thin edge of a coin, the subject changed to, “Rajni, is it you who have come? But no. That cannot be. It would not be allowed. Rajni is heavy with a child now unless you have lost the child. Rajni, have you lost the child? Did you forget to take him when you were last here? But you were not here, were you? Is it Bina who has come?”
Yasmina began to understand. She said, “Is Palash here? Mummy, is Dad here?” because she could not imagine that her father might have left her mother alone as she was now.
“Rajni has done well,” her mother said. “She is not what we intended for her but her marriage . . . Ambika says it has brought her wealth. Ambika, though, has done less well, and I had such hopes for her. But something has gone wrong in her head, Palash says.”
“What has happened to her?” Yasmina asked. “Mum, is Dad at home? Please let me in.”
“Oh so very sorry,” her mother said and began to close the door. “Palash tells me I must not.”
“Mummy!” Yasmina pushed lightly against the panels to stop the door from closing altogether.
“Madhur, Rajni, you must not! Ambika is not here. Palash says always—”
“Mummy, let me in!”
Her mother lacked the strength to keep her out, so Yasmina managed to get inside the place, but once inside she wished she had remained on the porch. Piles of newspapers, clumps of half-empty carrier bags, pictures dropped by cyclones on tabletops and floors, furniture stained, post unopened, magazines trampled underfoot, teacups and plates and glasses unwashed.
The Punishment She Deserves Page 73