Deere Sam,
I dint leeve you without nothing. I put my weding ring in that boxe to. He hit me agen when he see my bear finger. 3 ribs and my gaw got broke. If you have’nt gote it, the nurses must of stowl it, or your foster parence. I cride till I was sick when I red what they done. First yore farther an then them. It broke my hart to putt you their, but I done it becos I din’ kno what else too do. Of corse your’ angry. I don expec you to fourgive me. But I wanto mete you. I no you won’t beleeve Im’ youre muther and not mad, so Ill’ take a DNA test to show you. I don neede it to no. You look jus like my farther. Yor reel names’ Giovanni Daniele. It was his to.
Yore muther, Maria-Teresa Jackson
It was easy to imagine how Sam must have felt as he read the letter for the first time, and just as easy to understand why he didn’t want to have anything to do with the woman who had written it.
‘Do I have to?’ he’d asked Trish.
She had seen his hands ball into fists so tight the knuckles looked as if they might burst through the skin, which had made the bruises look darker than ever. He’d turned his head away, as though he couldn’t bear her to see his face.
‘I spent so much of my childhood longing for a mother that it sounds mad not to want to find out now; but I’ve made myself into something that works. I survived. I’m married to Ceel. My work’s doing well. Do I have to risk it all for this … this person?’
‘No,’ Trish had said at once and she still believed it. No parent who abandoned a child had any right to demand anything from that child in adulthood. ‘Not even if she is your genetic parent. Why is she in prison?’
‘God knows! I haven’t done anything about the letters, so all I know is there on your desk.’
Now Trish examined her uncomfortably lively conscience, aware her views on the subject of deserting parents had been coloured by her own father’s disappearance from her life when she was seven. But she’d had a warm, intelligent, supportive mother, so her loss was as nothing in comparison to Sam Foundling’s.
Trish’s father was a charming, feckless, undomesticated Irishman, who had also tried to re-establish contact after seeing in a newspaper article that his only child had gone on to public success. For years she’d resisted his approaches. She’d got over that, though, and learned to enjoy his company, even acknowledging the parts of her character she’d had from him. Her growing affection had been stunted only by the discovery that Paddy Maguire had also fathered David and abandoned him and his mother to poverty and fear in one of the worst inner-city housing estates.
Had she given Sam the wrong advice? No, she decided, still staring at the letters. However pathetic this woman was, however cleverly she’d phrased her illiterate pleas for his understanding, she had given up her rights on that February morning twenty-nine years ago. And if she were not the woman who’d put him there in the cardboard box, with or without a wedding ring, then she was no more than a manipulative chancer in search of a free ride on Sam’s earnings.
And yet, Trish could also understand why he hadn’t torn up the letters or sent them back unopened. Facing fatherhood himself for the first time, he must have wanted to know more about his own parents and so about himself. But it had been hard to see what she could do for him.
‘I’ll pack these up again for you,’ she’d said and watched his mouth tighten and his eyelids droop. Diagnosing hurt and yet more disillusion, she’d felt a powerful urge to offer amends, to do something that might justify his scary trust in her. ‘Would you like me to see if I can find out a bit more about her? That might make it easier to decide what to do.’
‘Yeah. Maybe. And will you keep the letters for me? I haven’t told Ceel anything about them. She’s got enough on her plate with the baby, so I don’t want her finding them when she’s tidying my stuff.’
‘Does she do that?’ Trish had grimaced at the thought of George or David rifling her papers. ‘Even in your studio?’
‘Sure. She has the run of it, whether I’m there or not.’ Sam had looked oddly at Trish then and said with a quietness that was all the more convincing for its intensity, ‘I trust her too. With everything. But I don’t want her to see these. Not till I’ve decided what to do about this woman and her shitty DNA test.’
Thinking of the way he’d looked then, Trish shivered. The anger in his expression didn’t surprise her, nor the bunched fists, but even the memory of them made her wish she hadn’t volunteered to ask questions on his behalf. Already there were layers of potentially lethal emotional problems in store for him and Cecilia. More information about his parentage might make life even harder for them both. But she’d made the offer so she had to do something about it.
She picked up the phone to talk to Sally Elliott, the trainee clerk who was used as everybody’s gofer, and asked her to resurrect Sam’s old case papers from whatever archive had been used to bury them and also to find out why Maria-Teresa Jackson was in Holloway.
Chapter Four
Sam sat with Cecilia’s broken head cradled in his lap. Rage had driven every thought and memory out of his mind. She was the only person he’d ever loved and she was dying. He’d phoned for an ambulance as soon as he’d understood how bad it was, then tried to keep her alive till help came. In that moment, he would have done anything, given anything – even his talent – to roll back time to the moment before she’d been hurt.
There was no peace in her dying. Snorting through a crushed and bloody nose, she thrashed around whenever he let go of her shoulders. So far he’d been able to hold her down, but if the ambulance didn’t come soon, she might do herself and the baby even more damage.
It had been nearly ten minutes since he’d phoned. She was still breathing, but only just. He wanted to throw up. How could anyone do this to a woman who’d done no harm? And pregnant too? What kind of monster would you have to be?
Fresher blood was seeping now out of the corner of her split mouth. From her lungs? Was there any part of her body that hadn’t been damaged? He saw her grossly distended belly move through the rips in her clothes, as though the baby was trying to kick its way out. Fluid was leaking between her legs.
The spooky two-tone sound of the ambulance siren reached him just in time, and he let his breathing become more natural. The door was open, so he wouldn’t have to get up and leave her for a second until they could take over her care. He delicately picked some of the hair away from her eyes, feeling the sticky weight of the blood that clumped it together. He could hear running footsteps and looked towards the door.
Kind voices, he thought an instant later before the paramedics had even reached her side. How can they have such kind voices when they can see this?
One of the green-suited men held his shoulders much as he’d been holding hers and gently pulled his arms away from her body.
‘When’s the baby due?’ asked the other one, laying competent-looking hands on her belly and squinting up at him.
‘Three weeks.’ His voice was high and reedy. He swallowed and said it again, sounding more like himself. ‘It’s still moving. I saw it. Whatever’s happening to her, the baby’s all right. Physically, anyway. At least I think it is. And there aren’t any wounds there. I don’t think she was kicked in the belly. But—’
‘Okay.’ The kindness was still there in the paramedic’s voice, but there was something else now: dislike; maybe even fear. ‘That’s great. Now, what’s your name?’
‘Sam.’
‘Great, Sam.’ There was a big smile on the man’s lips, but his eyes were full of mistrust. ‘We’re going to get her on a stretcher and take her straight to A&E. Will you come with us?’
Sam nodded, watching carefully as they laid out a sheet that looked like the old picnic tarpaulins his foster parents had used. He was pushed out of the way so the paramedics could move Cecilia onto it, then lift it and her onto their stretcher. Their movements were sure but very slow until she was on the stretcher and strapped in. Then they ran with the trolley towards the do
or.
He’d lost his keys. He could feel the paramedics’ fury at the prospect of waiting any longer. He saw the bunch in the end, in the middle of the messy table, which made them exchange more suspicious glances; then they moved out of the studio faster than he’d have thought anyone could with the weight of a pregnant woman to push.
He followed, taking only a second to look round his shambles of a studio before he locked the door. He felt as though he’d never seen it before. Blood splatters were everywhere; bits and pieces of brittle old maquettes had been flung all over the floor; and his most cherished marble piece, which he hadn’t been able to make himself sell because Ceel had loved it so, had been smashed into a dozen pieces. He hadn’t known blood would look so bright red against matt white marble.
Hours later Sam was aware of the voices outside the room in which he was waiting for Cecilia to die. They’d already told him there was no surgery they could perform to repair the damage to her brain and heart and lungs. The emergency Caesarian had resulted in the birth of a girl, just alive but unable to breathe on her own. She’d been put on a ventilator and whisked away to the Special Care Baby Unit. They’d told him to go along any time he wanted to see her, but he wasn’t going to waste a second he could have with Cecilia.
‘She might speak,’ he’d said to the doctor who had so kindly and so implacably told him she couldn’t survive. ‘And I have to be here if she does.’
‘No,’ the doctor had said once more, patient as a saint. ‘She’s not going to regain consciousness. She cannot possibly speak and there is nothing going on in her brain, except the reflexes keeping her heart pumping and what’s left of her lung function working. She doesn’t know you’re here; she could not hear you if you spoke to her.’
‘But she is breathing.’
‘Only just. It won’t be more than a few hours. Of course you must stay with her as long as you like. The nurses will look in at intervals and if you need anything, there’s the bell. I’ll see you later.’
Sam hated the doctor. But not as much as he hated the owners of the other voices. They were determined to talk to him, and he knew they’d get him in the end. Whenever they’d forced their way in, they’d looked at him as if he were a wild animal that needed to be caged. It was as if they knew about every cruel word he’d ever yelled at Ceel and every single one of the times she’d made him so angry he’d wanted her dead.
He owed his temporary freedom to a tiny little Asian nurse, who’d been fighting their urge to drag him out of the cubicle to face them. She looked too delicate to do anything other than decorate a recruiting poster, but she’d been standing up to them all along and keeping them out.
‘Have patience,’ she said now. ‘And some pity, for the love of God. His wife is dying. Give him this time with her now, whatever you plan to do to him later.’
Sam held on to Cecilia’s hand and felt it growing cooler. He quickly checked that she was still breathing. For a moment he thought she wasn’t, then he held the back of his own hand against her lips and felt the faintest current of air.
Curtain rings rattled behind him and he looked round, furious, to see one of the uniformed police officers. The man’s pink face was eager and he took a step between the curtains.
‘You’re trying to stop her speaking, aren’t you? Take your hand away from her mouth. Now!’
Sam looked away so that he could fall back into the old position of keeping his watch on Cecilia’s eyes in case the lids lifted. He heard the Asian nurse again. She sounded even angrier than he was. The cop was forced to go. The curtain rings rattled again and the material swished. He felt her tiny hand on his shoulder.
‘I am sorry. I keep moving them away and then they come back. Are you all right? As all right as you could be, I mean?’
He nodded without looking round, even though he was grateful. She must know it, he thought, so why bother to say anything? All his energy was focused on Cecilia, trying to keep her from the death he knew was coming. If she couldn’t hear, then maybe she couldn’t feel either, which was the only comfort he could find.
His eyes leaked more tears as he looked back at the pathetic five years they’d had together. A sixth of his life so far; a little less of hers for ever.
They’d met when she’d come to one of his first solo shows in London and bought a bronze. Only one of a planned edition of eight, it had to be cast specially, so they’d had to meet again. He’d delivered it to her flat and she’d given him a glass of wine and shown him the rest of her small collection. He’d liked everything she owned except for one painting, a meaningless pretty bit of landscape with neither depth nor atmosphere. When he’d eventually said he’d better go, Cecilia hadn’t said anything about seeing him again, but she’d had his address on the invoice and used it to invite him to a dinner party only about a month later.
He leaned forward, thinking he’d seen a flicker in one eyelid, but it was only a trick of the light. There were almost no traces of her real face through the mass of blackening bruises and the raw-edged cuts. She’d never been beautiful, but he’d loved everything about the way she looked, from the broadness of her forehead and the strength of her square chin to the steady grey-green eyes and the thick mouse-coloured hair that went wriggly, as she called it, in the rain.
Rubber soles squeaked on the shiny vinyl tiles, then the curtain rings rattled again. He didn’t look round until a faint vanilla scent reached him through the chemicals and disinfectant that filled the air.
‘Gina,’ he said, only half turning.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ He felt his mother-in-law’s hand on his shoulder, much heavier than the nurse’s. In spite of the weight, he could feel her trembling. She tried to speak again, then coughed and tried once more. ‘How terrible for you to find her like this, Sam.’
‘It’s my fault,’ he said and barely noticed the withdrawal of her hand as he felt the chill sweatiness of guilt all over again. Then he understood what he’d done and rushed to say: ‘If I hadn’t gone out this morning, she’d never have … I could’ve saved her. If …’ His brain was shutting down. He couldn’t produce the right words. Tears were easier. They clung to his skin, sliding slowly down his stubbly cheeks until they dripped off his chin.
‘I know,’ said Gina, replacing her hand for a moment. ‘I know. But thinking “if only” always makes horror worse.’ She moved away, walking to the side of the bed so she could lay her hand on her daughter’s head.
She looked as though she was establishing ownership of Cecilia’s dying body. Furious, Sam forced himself to remember Cecilia was her only child. He met her gaze for a second, then couldn’t bear what he saw. Bowing his powerful body over the bed, still clinging to Cecilia’s hand, he tried to stifle everything in the thin torn blanket that covered her.
Every chance he’d had to love and be loved as a child had been taken away. Now he’d lost this one too.
Chapter Five
‘So now you’re launched, Caro,’ said the chief superintendent with a friendly smile. ‘Looks like a simple domestic, although the husband’s trying to deny it. You’ve got a good sergeant in Glen Makins. Use him. And don’t be too proud to take his advice. He’s with your team downstairs now. Go get ’em.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Caro tried not to remember her light-hearted longing for a good juicy investigation. She stood and waited till he’d left, before taking a moment to breathe carefully, check the neatness of her hair in the mirror that hung by her door, grab her phone and make her way to the office that had been designated as her incident room.
The team was waiting. She recognized Glen Makins and several of the DCs, but she introduced herself formally and shook hands with all of them.
‘Now, Glen, what have we got?’ she said, perching on the edge of one of the desks.
‘Cecilia Mayford, guv, beaten to death in a craft studio on Bankside belonging to her husband, Sam Foundling. He’s a modeller, sculptor kind of thing. He phoned the ambulance and went to hospital with her.
Oh, and she was pregnant. Eight months and a bit. Death was certified at 11.05 last night.’
‘I gather the husband’s denying it.’
‘Yup. We haven’t arrested him yet. The hospital called it in as soon as she was admitted and there were uniforms there, waiting to talk to him. He gave a voluntary statement, claiming he was at a meeting on the other side of the river yesterday morning and came back to find her beaten up and dying. Been watching too many reruns of The Fugitive, if you ask me.’ Glen grinned. ‘Although he couldn’t give any reason why she was there in his studio instead of at work or at home, like she should’ve been.’
Caro gave him an answering smile and felt the team relax. ‘They didn’t live on Bankside, then?’
‘No, guv; he worked there. They lived in her expensive house, up in Islington.’
‘So there’s money involved, as well as ordinary domestic stress,’ Caro said. ‘Okay. What else have you done?’
‘Sealed the studio, obviously. Two uniforms are doing house-to-house with the other tenants of the building. There are forty separate units, so someone must’ve seen or heard something. And there’s CCTV, so we’ve asked for the tapes. Here are the photographs and the husband’s statement.’
‘Thanks. Has someone checked his alibi?’ Caro asked as she put the statement to the back of the pile Glen had handed her and looked down at the first of the colour prints. The voices in the room receded in a way she recognized from childhood as a warning of car sickness.
The victim’s body had been laid out on a mortuary slab. Her hair was matted with blood and the right side of her head had been completely flattened. Her face was swollen and blackened and one eye looked insecurely held in the socket, as though it might flop out at any moment. Her breasts were a mass of bruises, too, and cuts. Further down her body, the neatness of her Caesarian wound was like a mocking commentary on the rest.
Trish had no idea what was to come. All that happened was a phone call to chambers from a police station in Southwark, asking whether she could confirm that Mr Samuel Foundling had been to see her yesterday morning.
A Greater Evil Page 3