Frank gave an icy grin. ‘That’s as maybe, but I’ll work with him if that’s what it takes.’
‘This one’s a bad one, Frank.’ Forsyth raised a finger and shook it from side to side. ‘This man you’re after is not your average villain.’
‘I know. I’ll be careful.’ He glanced around at a room that was both familiar and comforting. Little had changed in the past few years. Forsyth’s wife had died of cancer just a few months before his retirement, yet despite the bungalow being too large for a single man, selling had never been an option. The office, with its beech furniture and subtle lighting, had always been Frank’s favourite room in a sumptuous home that was the bricks and mortar version of a pair of old slippers.
‘How’s Nancy?’ Frank asked, his gaze falling on a large photograph set in a silver frame that stood on a nearby desk.
‘She’s very well. I’m a grandfather now.’
Frank smiled, genuinely pleased for a man he had once thought of as a surrogate father. ‘That’s terrific. Did she have a boy or girl?’
‘One of each. Born just seven minutes apart.’
‘Twins! I bet they’re a handful.’
‘They are.’ Forsyth gave a happy nod. ‘They are.’
Nancy was Forsyth’s daughter. For years he had tried to get her and Frank together, regarding Frank as the son he never had and wanting him to be a part of the family. Though they had spent many hours together, a relationship had never quite formed. Then Frank met Janet at a party, and Peter Forsyth’s idle dreams had been swept aside.
‘Have you got time for me, Peter?’ Frank asked now.
‘I’ve always had time for you, my boy. Always.’
Frank pursed his lips. ‘Not always. Not when I quit the job.’
Forsyth put back his head and sighed. ‘It was such a waste, Frank. If you’d stayed, fought it out, you could have risen higher in the ranks and actually had some influence. You could have still been in the thick of it, doing the job you were born for.’
‘It wasn’t the battles, Peter. You must know that. I always enjoyed a scrap.’
The other man chuckled. ‘We had one or two of our own, as I recall.’
‘That we did.’ He and Forsyth had argued often, sometimes fiercely about a number of issues, but it had never affected either their working relationship or personal friendship. Now he wanted to explain his decision to leave the Force. ‘The hierarchy would never have allowed me to rise too far, and I accepted that. I worked within the system and sometimes outside it, not worrying about whose toes I trod on. But eventually I had to put my marriage and my family first. I had to do what was best for us all, not just Frank Rogers. I had to quit in order to save my marriage.’
‘Then what the hell was your wife doing in another man’s home? Why were your children not with you, Frank?’
He had missed this kind of direct speaking. Only Nicky ever really got this involved, but even he never took things as far as the old guv’nor.
‘What can I say, Peter? Shit happens.’
‘Don’t be so flippant.’ Forsyth’s tone suggested only a mild rebuke. ‘Don’t mask your true feelings and thoughts with false humour.’
Frank regarded his friend for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’d left it too late, Peter. Janet had met another man. We’d grown too far apart to stop the rot. Somehow, great detective that I am, I’d missed it. As simple as that, I’m afraid. The man she fell for was successful, much more the kind of man her father approved of, in a line of work the old bastard could appreciate and understand. Janet met the guy at some social function she’d organised. A six-month fling was enough to convince her that she could walk out on the years we’d had together.’
He paused for a moment, reflecting, then added, ‘Actually, I think she was right. Not the affair – I never forgave her for that. But our marriage was essentially over. Perhaps she was the brave one in ending it.’
‘Such a shame. I quite liked Janet.’
Frank barked a sharp laugh. ‘No, you didn’t, Peter. You endured her for my sake.’
The other man merely shrugged. ‘You said you came here looking for some clarity. What did you mean by that?’
Frank spread his hands. ‘I feel as if I’m being crushed under the weight of thoughts inside my head. Always with me is the memory of what happened to Gary, and of course the situation with Laura. But I’m concerned about my business, and how my office manager will cope if this drags on too long. I’m putting undue pressure on Nicky, just by being around, by my involvement. I have a relationship with one of Janet’s closest friends, and I’ve no idea how to move forward with that, yet don’t want to hurt her feelings by pushing her away. I’m neglecting my home, and myself. I suppose what I’m saying is, I feel lost for the first time in my life, and I don’t know which way to turn.’
Peter Forsyth held the coffee cup to his lips with both hands, his piercing, intense eyes focused on Frank. When he set his cup down on a small, round wooden table, he nodded twice before sitting back in his chair.
‘An old teacher of mine once brought a cardboard box into the classroom with him. When we were still, he took out a large empty glass jar. Into the jar he tipped some rocks, as many as he could squeeze in. He then held the jar aloft. He asked us if we considered the jar to be full. Well, you couldn’t get another rock in there, so we agreed that it was. He proceeded to pluck a bag out of the box, and from it he poured some coarse gravel into the jar. He held it up again for our inspection. ‘This time it’s definitely full, isn’t it?’ he asked us. Now, Frank, I have to tell you this was a strange beginning to a lesson, even for old man Carter, but as one we nodded and told him the jar was, indeed, full.’
Forsyth hooked one leg over the other, obviously enjoying himself. ‘Our teacher then poured in some fine sand right to the brim, spun the lid back on and held it up one last time. ‘This jar represents your life,’ he told us. ‘The rocks are the important things: your family, your wife, your children, and your health – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. Add the gravel, that is to say your job, your friends, your home, your moments of joy, and your life is now stuffed with goodness. The sand represents all the other tiny nuggets that go to make up your existence. If you fill your life with sand, there won’t be room for the important things. The rocks must come first, then the gravel. The jar would then be almost overflowing with everything you need. The rest … well, the rest is just sand’.’
The man shook his head at the memory and regarded Frank intently. ‘We knew exactly what he meant, too. That was more than forty-five years ago, and it’s still fresh in my mind. Occasionally it slips away – as it did when I was petty enough to cut you out of my life after you quit the job – but the lesson remains with me, close at hand whenever I need it. Perhaps it will help you, too.’
Frank had listened with increasing wonder, imagining some bespectacled old teacher, wearing a mortar-board and gown, performing this metaphor for life with a few simple items.
‘So, what I need to do is prioritise,’ he said to Forsyth. ‘Get the most important things in place, and let the rest flow in around them afterwards.’
Frank ran his own words through his mind once more, then shook his head. ‘But one of my rocks is missing, Peter.’
‘Precisely.’ Forsyth edged forward in his chair, wagging a finger. ‘So, if you worry about the gravel and sand, you’ll leave no room for the last rock. Frank, your business will still be there for you, and if it isn’t, you know full well you’ll make a living in some way or another. Your friendship with Nicky is solid enough to withstand almost anything. And if this new relationship of yours is worthwhile, it, too, can wait until its time is due. Laura first, Frank. Then the other things can follow.’
‘And anything else is just sand.’
‘Exactly.’
Frank grinned. He regarded his friend fondly. ‘You’re a wise old coot, Peter.’
‘The advantages of
a private education, old son. Had to be more to it than just torture and buggery.’
‘I would hope so. But really, thanks. It helped.’
Forsyth gave a bow and said, ‘So ends your lesson for today, glasshopper.’ He got to his feet and stretched. ‘Another coffee, Frank? You hardly touched yours.’
‘Got anything stronger?’
‘Tut-tut. I thought you knew me better than to ask that. Single malt?’
‘Sounds just about perfect.’
The two men sat and drank their shots of whisky. About to drain his glass, Frank held it up and said, ‘Does this count as sand or gravel?’
Peter Forsyth laughed. ‘Now, that depends on the individual concerned. Speaking personally, a fine malt is and always will be one of my rocks.’
23
Frank poured himself a brandy. Drinking had become something of a ritual for him during the past few days, and he was a hair’s breadth from taking up smoking again. Nicky refused a refill, placing a hand over his tumbler.
‘You going to empty that bottle?’ he asked. Nicky’s tone was disapproving, but there was concern and understanding in there, too.
Frank smiled evenly and raised the glass. ‘Eventually.’
They sat at the table in Frank’s dining room, its chairs well-worn and moulded to certain shapes. He was all too aware that the room no longer bore the marks of a feminine presence, and lacked its previous charm because of that. Not neglected, exactly, but not cared for either. Like a once favourite toy gathering dust on some top shelf.
Nicky shook his head. ‘Don’t let it get to you, mate. When we get Laura back you have to be here for her. I mean really here, fit and healthy, ready for the challenge of seeing her through tough times.’
The glass now poised close to his lips, Frank said, ‘You know what they say, Nicky. When the going gets tough, the tough get pissed.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘No.’ Frank let out a sigh of resignation and lowered his hand. ‘No, I don’t. But you talk about getting Laura back as if we’ve actually got something to work with. In fact, the very opposite is true. This fucker’s laughing at us, Nicky. Me in particular.’
‘That’s shit talk! We do have things to work with. The information we got from Karen Redbridge, for instance. More important, perhaps, is that the prick’s in contact. For some reason, he’s latched on to you, Frank. That could be the break we need. Make it work for you. For us.’
‘How?’
Nicky nodded at the crystal tumbler, now held loosely by Frank’s side. The light caught its edge, sparkling in a myriad of colours. ‘A bit less of that these past few days and you’d see it for yourself.’
Frank set the glass down without sipping from it. He met his friend’s steady gaze, his tone firm but understanding as he said, ‘You think this is a matter of self-pity, or drinking to forget? Well, you’re wrong. All this drinking is purely a defence mechanism, Nicky. It’s just a way of passing time, of getting through the long hours. If I have a drink in my hand then maybe I won’t think about my son lying in the mortuary with God knows how many stab wounds covering his poor little body. If I have a drink in my hand then maybe I won’t think about my wife in the same sorry condition. And if I have a drink in my hand then maybe, just maybe, I won’t think about Laura … somewhere out there, wondering how it is that all her nightmares somehow managed to be real. I’m not drinking to forget, just to stop me thinking about anything other than getting my daughter back.’
Nicky nodded once, gave him a moment, then said, ‘When he calls again – and he will call again, Frank – I think you should tell him you won’t play along unless he offers you proof that Laura is still alive.’
‘I’ve considered that. But what if he tells me to go fuck myself?’
‘You’d be no worse off. He already has you by the balls. But I don’t think it’d go that way. He’s on a power trip. He needs this hold on you. It means a lot to him.’
‘Maybe. Maybe.’ Frank yawned. He’d had precious little sleep, his eyes felt gritty, and his head pounded. ‘Okay, let’s take a final look at what we have. The more we go through it the more we may see. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘So, aside from the physical aspect, what else do we know, or think we know about this sick fuck?’
Nicky sat forward, the springs beneath him groaning. ‘Donald Cooper, the forensic psychologist who heard the tape and went through our notes, thought that bit from Karen Redbridge about him being the dark was really interesting. He thinks it’s a sign that the man spent a lot of time in the dark. Probably as a kid. A bad record with pets is also likely. He also agrees with you about the crucifixion.’
‘Yeah.’ Frank nodded to himself. ‘I gave that some more thought. He might not actually be a religious freak, but rather some anti-religious nut.’
Nicky gave a faint grin. ‘Don said that, too.’
‘Good for Don. Did he happen to tell you how our man knew the name of Karen’s cat?’
‘No. It didn’t come up. Could be he heard someone out in the garden calling for it.’
‘Could be. Doesn’t feel right, though, does it?’
Nicky shook his head. ‘No. It feels as if he got the name elsewhere.’
‘Neighbour?’ Frank suggested. ‘A friend?’
‘Did you see the stickers along that cul-de-sac? A real neighbourhood-watch area. I don’t think they’d give information to strangers.’
‘Simon Redbridge dismissed the idea that it could be a workman, but perhaps someone called when only his wife was there, gave an estimate, something like that.’
Nicky pulled a sceptical face. ‘Doubtful. We can check back with Mrs Redbridge, but it’s reaching. We’ll also check through Paul Clarke’s accounts, but again, I’m not expecting anything from these lines of investigation. Strikes me this man wouldn’t leave such an easy pattern to follow. On the other hand, we don’t have too many people left to ask questions of.’
‘True. And now that I think about it, it’s also a bit too obvious. Our man is smarter than that. I agree that he wouldn’t have left such an easy trail. Still, let’s have it checked anyway. Can’t afford to overlook anything. So, what about young Karen Redbridge? Do you think she really had seen this bastard somewhere before?’
‘I don’t think she made it up. She didn’t appear confused, either. But I get the distinct impression that both of these things could be important.’
Frank nodded. He threw back the last of his brandy and re-capped the bottle. He placed it by the side of his chair. ‘Something just occurred to me. If our man was abused as a child then maybe he was on an ‘at risk’ register with social services.’
‘Possibly. How does that help us now?’
‘We could have it checked out.’
Nicky looked doubtful. ‘But we don’t have anything concrete for them to go on. No name, age, or even location.’
Eager now, sensing another path to follow, Frank edged forward. ‘So, let’s see what we can give them. White male. Thirty to thirty-five. Abused, both mentally and physically. Locked away in the dark. Hurt or even killed animals as a child. Father possibly a carpenter or handyman or locksmith. Parents may be devoutly religious.’ He counted them off on his fingers.
‘It could just ring a few bells with someone,’ Nicky agreed. ‘I wouldn’t imagine they’d still have details or files going back that far, but someone who was around at the time might just remember something.’
‘It’s another avenue, that’s all. We check in the areas we know he’s been in. Seven altogether. Begin with the first, and move on to the others. The first murder is usually the most telling. Circulate the approximate description. Also, we try areas just south-west of London. That accent …’
‘I’ll get someone on it first thing tomorrow.’
Nicky leaned back into the chair, stretched out his legs, and looked around the room. Frank followed his friend’s gaze. Newspapers, envelopes and letters lay scattered ev
erywhere. There was an electric bill among them, printed in bold red letters and figures. On the coffee table stood a half-eaten tub of Pot Noodle, a fork embedded in the centre. Next to it was an apple core that had turned brown and was veined with wrinkles. The carpet was spotted with biscuit and bread crumbs, and the wastepaper basket overflowed with wrappings.
‘I’d fire your cleaning lady if I were you,’ Nicky said.
Frank grinned sheepishly. ‘It’s a mess, right enough.’
‘It looks as bad as you do.’
‘I’ll clean it. And me. Anything else?’
‘Eat more. Drink less.’
‘Yes, mother. What with you and Peter Forsyth, I’ve got no chance’ Frank had told Nicky about his visit to Canvey Island. Nicky had also been a great admirer of Forsyth.
The two men smiled, totally at ease. They both knew that anything could be said by either one without any offence being taken. They trusted one another implicitly. A rare thing in their line of business. Nicky reached out, snatched up the electric bill and waved it in Frank’s direction.
‘You really need to get back to work. We all have to make a living. The bills still need paying. Just come into the annexe after you’ve finished for the day, or whenever he calls.’
Frank shook his head, eyes vague as his mind began to drift. ‘Zoe can handle things for a little while yet. I can also bring someone in to help out on a temporary basis.’
‘But your business …’
Frank cut him off, his voice stern and determined. ‘My business is to see that Laura comes back to me unharmed. To help her recover, to see her through the grief I doubt she’s had time to give in to. To give my daughter some kind of stability and comfort. The rest is just sand, Nicky. Just sand.’
‘Sand?’ Lines converged on Nicky’s forehead.
Frank shook his head. ‘Just something a wise man once told me. Look, I have to see it through with you and the team right now. But I won’t lie to you, mate. When I have enough to go on, I’m going to work it through on my own. I’m going to have the bastard for what he did to my family.’
Degrees of Darkness Page 13