Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  No solace there.

  None anywhere.

  Except from Max.

  She sat up, suddenly.

  Max, who had asked her about children going to gaol. Despite her efforts to remain unconnected to the real world, the memory of those small troubled questions had snaked past her defences and was now hissing in her ear. Sending children to gaol?

  ‘Max?’ she called out. ‘Can you come here a minute, lovey?’

  There was no reply, although his room was only down the hall. Perhaps he’d gone downstairs to watch the men working. He was allowed up for brief periods now. That must be it. Throwing the covers back, she got up, put on her dressing-gown, and went along to his room.

  Empty. Not even Albert in sight.

  A little wobbly, she went slowly downstairs. The men in the sitting-room looked up at her approach, and smiled encouragingly. ‘Coming along, ma’am,’ one said. ‘Be back to normal in no time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled, and went on down the hall to the kitchen, where she discovered Mrs Grimble rolling out pastry for a pie. ‘Is Max with you?’ Tess asked, looking around the big kitchen. Mrs Grimble put her rolling pin aside and headed for the cooker.

  ‘No. He’s in the garden with the kitten.’ She came back with a coffee pot and a mug with red and blue frogs on it. ‘Now, don’t you fuss. He’s dressed up warm, and I told him it was only for ten minutes. Can’t come to harm in his own garden, can he? And a few breaths of fresh air will do him the world of good. Here, sit down and have some coffee.’

  But Tess was heading towards the side door.

  ‘Now, stop that. Don’t go out in your dressing-gown, it’s damp and chilly.’ She slapped the mug down on the table for emphasis, but her orders were ignored.

  Tess stepped out onto the damp flagstones of the patio. The garden was garlanded with drifting wisps of mist that had broken away from the thick fog that hung over the roofs and shrouded the treetops of the park beyond the next street. There was a still, dank heaviness in the air – fog was flowing in to weigh down the afternoon. The birds were silent, and the fat brown rosehips glistened with moisture.

  There was a soft touch at her ankle. She looked down to see Albert, his fuzzy kitten-coat glittering with mist, weaving small, intricate patterns around her slippers. She picked him up and nestled him under her chin. He began to purr.

  ‘Max? Time to come in, love. It’s cold.’

  Her voice seemed to hang in the air, the words pegged out like washing drooping limp from the line. ‘Max?’

  She stepped further along the patio, emerging from the shelter of the vine-covered trellis. The garden stretched away to the rear, hedged in by tall laurels on one side, and the weathered brown board fencing Roger had put up on the other. At the far end, the garden gate stood open.

  Wide open.

  And Max was gone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The fog had flowed up the river from the sea, flooding across the Essex marshes and creeping over the city stealthily, silently, under hedges and over rooftops, curling around chimneys and eddying at street corners as the cars moved cautiously through it, their engines strangely hushed, their drivers shadowed and mysterious within. Pedestrians moved, isolated, within the circles of their own limited vision. Sounds were distorted, seemed to come from nowhere, anywhere – a drift of conversation, a ping, a thud, a footstep, a whistle, a whisper – all floated within the moist and suffocating shroud. Untouchable, uncatchable, inescapable: the fog was everywhere.

  And Max was somewhere within it.

  Was he alone?

  ‘How long has he been gone?’ It was John Soame, coming through the front door at a run, followed by Abbott, Nightingale, three other detectives, and several uniformed police officers from the local station. Tess’s call to Scotland Yard had been both rushed and hysterical, but had produced immediate results.

  Mrs Grimble, wringing her flour-covered hands, told him about forty-five minutes. ‘I shouldn’t have let him go out,’ she wailed. ‘But he kept pestering me, and I thought—’

  Already the men from the cleaning firm were out, calling Max’s name, moving away from the house and down the misty streets, but the cotton-wool of the fog deadened their voices, twisted their words into useless echoes that summoned no-one save the occasional curious cat or dog.

  Beyond the next street stretched the park, its great-headed trees hanging still and shadowy in the mist. They were the only things visible within the perimeter of the fence – everything else was hidden, secret.

  Everything.

  Everyone.

  Quickly, Abbott produced a street map, and they divided the neighbourhood up into sections. ‘He may just have gone for a walk, to get sweets or a comic,’ he said. But there was no real conviction in his voice. There was, instead, the bitter awareness of failure, and the memory of all those threats and ‘coincidences’ Nightingale had produced and he’d dismissed. Until now.

  Tess Leland stood in the middle of the hall, as if standing watch over entrances front and back, a slight figure huddled into a faded blue chenille dressing-gown, her arms crossed over her chest. Nightingale watched her throat convulse as a sob struggled with a scream, and felt his own chest tighten – not because of her pain, but because of her courage in trying to overcome it. He had seen a lot of pain over the past few years, had learned to face it without flinching, but bravery always undid him.

  Stable doors, he thought. Regrets, apologies, but the boy is gone and I am here too late, with too little. I can say nothing that will provide either comfort or hope, nothing that she will believe, because I don’t believe it myself. And with all the possibilities we have, all the things we know or suspect, there is the additional ever-present danger of a purely chance encounter with a pervert. Every family it touches once lived in complete certainty that it would never happen to one of their own – until it did. Until its foul darkness fell for ever on them. That chance was as real here as with any other child. All the other dangers that hung over his small tousled head did not provide any immunity for Max Leland from the lying smile, the quick grab, the fumbling hand, the knife, the rope, the shattering blow.

  How long does it take for that twisted hunger to overcome self-loathing and caution, for the fog to offer its rare and cloaking opportunity, to take a child, to rape a child, to mutilate, stab or strangle a small body, to thrust it under a bush, to run and run and run, haunted, breathless, sated for now. But only for now.

  He knew, as every policeman knows, that it takes only a few minutes. Only minutes.

  And they were passing so quickly.

  Abbott was ordering Max’s description to be circulated immediately to all car and foot patrols in the area, with underlined urgency. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tim Nightingale, as unobtrusively as possible, slip a photograph from a frame which still held shards of glass broken the day before, and pass it to one of the patrolmen to take back to the station for duplication. Their eyes met, and Tim’s mouth tightened in a face already pale with anger. He, too, was blaming himself.

  And it was worse for him, Abbott realized. Because there would always be one terrible thought within him – did I cause this by asking too many questions? If I’d left this whole thing alone, would the boy be here now, and safe? This was the bad part, he wanted to tell Nightingale. This is the hard part, where you watch the pain and wonder what you should have done, could have done, to prevent it. You did your best, you scented danger, cried out on discovery, and were not believed. That is my fault, and I’m sorry I let you down.

  Whether here temporarily or permanently, I am your superior officer because I am supposed to know my job. Most of all, I am supposed to listen. But in the busy day, so many dangers walk past us wearing disguises, whistling casually, looking like promises or excitements or security. There isn’t time to follow them all, stop them all, put them through the tests. We
try, of course. And in this pursuit we may even, quite innocently, catch the eye of Death and cause Him to turn our way. He doesn’t notice everyone, but He has a special soft spot for coppers. You might as well learn that now as later. We have a stink He likes.

  He went over to Nightingale, and though he wanted to say that, all he could manage was, ‘I should have listened to you sooner.’ For a moment it seemed to ease the pain in Nightingale’s eyes. But only for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps if I’d—’ he began.

  The phone suddenly rang, louder and more insistent than any phone ever rang, and they all froze where they stood. Tess was closest, and, stiff as an automaton, picked it up.

  It was Richard Hendricks. His voice was casual, relaxed.

  ‘Tess, I’ve just got home from the airport. I’ve been going through my post. I know you won’t like this, but I wasn’t satisfied with what my banker friend found out, so while I was away I’ve had a private investigator looking into Soame’s background, because I never quite—’

  ‘Is Max with you?’ Tess interrupted. Her voice came out in a croak, emerging from a throat that felt as if it were closing forever.

  Richard was silent for a moment. ‘With me? he finally asked. ‘Why on earth would Max be with me? He doesn’t even know where I live.’

  ‘No special reason. Look, Richard, I can’t talk about this now. Maybe if—’

  It was his turn to interrupt. ‘Is Max missing?’ he demanded. ‘I am his guardian, too, Tess. I have a right to know what’s going on. Is he missing?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no point in denying it, and Richard might be able to help. He’d always been so good, before. So strong, so very strong. Why hadn’t she listened to him? Why hadn’t she realized he cared so deeply? ‘He disappeared from the back garden about forty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ There was relief and indulgence in his voice. ‘Well, I would hardly call that missing, Tess. For goodness’ sake, he’s almost ten, he’s quite capable of going to the shops on his own—’

  ‘Not without telling me,’ Tess said, flatly. ‘It’s a house rule he’s never broken. We always say where we’re going, we always know—’ Her voice broke, and Abbott gently took the phone from her. He talked quietly to Richard while Mrs Grimble took Tess over to the sofa and sat down beside her, patting her hands as she wept.

  John Soame, watching her with concern, spoke quietly and firmly. ‘You ought to go back to bed, now, Tess. You’re still wobbly from that blow on the head—’

  ‘No!’ She rose up, braced herself, and her eyes blazed in her wet face. ‘He’s my child, my baby, and if you won’t do anything, I will. I’m going to look for him myself.’

  Abbott had replaced the phone and came over to her. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Mrs Leland. When we find him we’ll only have to come looking for you. It’s best if you stay here, Max may well come home on his own, you know. He’ll expect to find you waiting for him.’

  ‘Let them do their job,’ Soame urged, reaching out to take her arm. ‘They know what to do and how to do it—’

  ‘Oh, yes, they know what to do,’ Tess said, bitterly, shaking him off, backing away from his touch. ‘They know that everything is coincidental, that you have to wait until you have proof, that hysterical women don’t make sense, that there are rules and regulations—’ She knew it was untrue and unfair, but their oh-so-reasonable tones infuriated her. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care now, not with Max gone. She drew in a quick, sharp breath. ‘What if somebody took him?’

  Soame looked uneasy. ‘If you mean Kobalski, I don’t think kidnapping is quite his style.’

  She stared at him. ‘Who?’

  Abbott explained. ‘That’s why Mr Soame’s been with us down at Scotland Yard, Mrs Leland. When I spoke to you yesterday—’

  ‘Did you?’ Tess’s voice was vague. ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘You didn’t make much sense, I agree. But you did say one or two things that needed looking into. Particularly about this Archie McMurdo. He was a puzzle-piece that didn’t fit.’

  ‘It looks like Archie isn’t a McMurdo, after all,’ Soame said. ‘I thought his accent slipped a little the other night – you said he was Australian, but he sounded more like Brooklyn to me – so Sergeant Nightingale arranged for me to look at some pictures. We aren’t sure, but we think the man who claimed to be Archie McMurdo was actually an American named Kobalski. He’s . . . ’

  ‘A twisty son-of-a-bitch,’ one of the other detectives muttered, then stifled a grunt as Nightingale kicked him in the ankle.

  Tess had heard his comment, though. She looked at the circle of men around her. ‘You mean he’s some kind of criminal?’

  There was a brief silence, which Abbott finally broke. She might as well have the truth, she would go on demanding it, more and more loudly, anyway. ‘It’s remotely possible, Mrs Leland. And now that we know about Kobalski, there could be some kind of pattern showing up here. Possibly something to do with the drug trade.’ He looked at her, and there was compassion in his eyes. ‘Were you ever aware of your husband having any connection with drugs?’

  She was astonished. ‘Drugs? You mean . . . real drugs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  On this she could be completely clear. ‘Absolutely not. You see, Roger’s younger brother was a registered addict and . . . well, he died. Roger loathed drugs and everything to do with them. Why would you think he had any connection with drugs?’

  ‘Because of Kobalski,’ Nightingale said. ‘If this man who calls himself “Archie” really is Kobalski, then there has to be some drug connection. He is a bright and ruthless operator, and he works for one of the main American drug syndicates. They use him over here because he speaks several languages, and can mimic dozens of accents.’

  Tess took a long breath. ‘Such as Melbourne and Sydney?’

  ‘That would be easy for him,’ Nightingale said. His tone was almost apologetic.

  ‘I see.’ But she didn’t. She didn’t want to see.

  ‘We think Kobalski was sent to pose as Archie McMurdo by a third party. Perhaps with the help – unwitting or otherwise – of someone who knows all about your work and your life and the boy and all the rest of it. Someone who would know where you were at all times, and possibly had access to your house keys.’

  Irresistibly, Tess found herself looking at Mrs Grimble, who had gone white as a sheet and was sinking down onto the telephone bench, horror in her eyes. And Tess knew she was thinking of Walter.

  Nightingale hadn’t noticed – or if he had, he gave no indication of it. ‘It may be someone who is involved in drugs in some way, either using or distributing. Perhaps someone who has got into financial trouble and is looking to you to get them out of it. Someone who is desperate. Someone in need of money. Someone you trust.’

  The doorbell rang and Mrs Grimble, her steps unsteady and her face stricken, went to answer it. They all turned and went to the archway that led to the hall, waited as the door swung back.

  Adrian Brevitt stood on the top step, dapper in his fur-collared overcoat, his pale pink and white striped shirt gleaming behind his rose silk tie, his white hair silvered by the mist. In his hand he carried a colourfully-wrapped parcel, banded and bowed in blue ribbon.

  ‘I have come to visit my godson,’ he announced.

  The stunned silence by which this was greeted puzzled him. He frowned, then caught sight of the faces behind Mrs Grimble. He brightened. ‘Are we having a party?’ he asked.

  ‘I tell you, it’s impossible!’

  Tess was precariously seated on the edge of her recently- reassembled mulberry chair, and she was outraged at the suggestion that Adrian Brevitt was the mysterious person behind all her persecutions, leading up to and possibly even including Max’s kidnapping. ‘Why you might as well accuse Simon Carter!’

  ‘It’s interesting you should mention him, Mrs Leland.
We’re looking into the very helpful Mr Carter, and the recently solvent Mr Walter Briggs,’ Abbott said, smoothly. ‘In fact, we’re looking into the background, whereabouts, and habits of everybody who has been in this house or had anything to do with you or your family over the past six months. We have a great many people to do this, but it still takes time. At the moment we are interested in Mr Adrian Brevitt.’

  John Soame, although obviously angered by the sudden and rather rough reception that had been visited on his ex-brother-in-law, was nonetheless listening to Abbott’s explanation. Tess seemed to have stopped just short of clapping her hands over her ears.

  ‘He knows you well, and his company is in financial difficulties,’ Abbott pointed out.

  ‘Companies like Brevitt Interiors are always in financial difficulties, until they make the big breakthrough or until they find a backer who will cushion them,’ Tess snapped, briefly distracted by this attack on another pillar of her existence. ‘We work on long-term arrangements, and all too frequently our creditors do the same. Adrian has come up the hard way, with just his talent to work with. No private fortune, no titles in the family, no millionaires willing to sponsor him. At least, not any more – there was one, but Jason took her with him when he went solo. I suppose Adrian has been struggling a bit since then, but I’m certain that if there’s a problem it’s only temporary and can be straightened out. He works for his keep. He’s a genius, not a businessman. And he’s one of my oldest and dearest friends.’

  ‘But are his friends your friends?’ Abbott asked, in a reasonable voice.