Lethal Ties

by Christmas, Helen

“The time is 10:30,” a voice broke through the wall of silence. “My name is Detective Inspector Andrew Fitzpatrick and I am accompanied by Detective Sergeant Mike Havers. For the purposes of this interview, could you give your name and date of birth, please?”

  Thomas braced himself. An hour had passed since the police had first approached him, and still he had no idea why. He felt like a suspect already; more so when they had led him into an interview room, the whirr of a tape recorder grating on him.

  “Thomas Parker-Smythe,” he said, retaining his crisp tone. “Born November 3rd 1954. Now what exactly is this about, please?”

  “I am not at liberty to say at this stage, Sir,” DI Fitzpatrick answered him, “but I’ll start by asking if you recognise this building?”

  The photocopy placed before him revealed a sprawling half-timber house. A six-foot fence enclosed the grounds. Thomas frowned. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about that house breathed an air of desolation, windows so dark they appeared black, concealing whatever unpleasantness lurked on the other side.

  But yes, it was familiar.

  “Didn’t this used to be a children’s home?”

  “That’s right, and did you ever visit this home?”

  Peering at it a second time, he felt a river of cold run over him.

  “This is one of many private residential homes I visited. They were established to take the pressure off local authorities, though I had concerns about the children’s schooling.”

  “Concerns? And why would that be, Sir?”

  The more caressing tone of DS Havers allowed him to relax slightly.

  Thomas looked up. “My role was to ensure a reasonable standard of education for all children, including those with behavioural problems. That is why these private homes were set up, to look after the more damaged children in society.”

  “I see,” DS Havers nodded. “So when you visited, who did you speak to?”

  Thomas froze, not liking the nature of this question.

  “Were you familiar with the owner of the home, Mr. Mortimer?”

  “Cornelius!” He released an airy laugh. “Of course, how could I forget? He invested a considerable sum in those homes, and was seeking government funding. My visits were to ensure they were fit for purpose but...”

  “Thank you, Sir,” the DI broke in, “but can I stop you for a second? When you say ‘Cornelius’ you are referring to Mr. Mortimer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So is it reasonable to say you were friends?”

  “Hardly friends.”

  “Alright, moving on, did you talk to any of the children? You describe them as ‘damaged’ but can you be more specific?”

  “What sort of question is that?” Thomas bristled.

  “Calm down,” DI Fitzpatrick cautioned him. “So far you’ve told us you recognise the home and were familiar with the owner, Cornelius Mortimer. All we are trying to do at this stage is gather information; crucial information that may lead to a wider investigation.”

  “What sort of investigation?” Thomas pressed, “and why me?”

  “Let’s just concentrate on the matter in hand, please,” Mike insisted. “Do you remember seeing this girl? She was put into care after losing her parents.”

  The photograph sliding across the table revealed an extremely pretty child; skin pale as porcelain, a dusting of freckles and auburn hair... Thomas swallowed, the ghost of a memory fluttering. He couldn’t quite place her, but the fear in those haunted green eyes sent shivers through him.

  “Judging by your expression, I think you do.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I-I’m not sure. There were so many kids in that place, I can’t be expected to remember every single one of them.”

  “But did Cornelius introduce her to you?”

  “I don’t know... Maybe.”

  The silence swelled like fog. Her face had evoked an eerie sensation but that was all.

  “Okay then,” DI Fitzpatrick resumed, “what about her friends? Did you ever get to meet any of them, like this boy, for example?”

  Before he could draw breath, another image was unveiled. Thomas flinched, jarred by the thin, almost feral face glowering back at him.

  “Now that one I do remember,” he shuddered. “Always in trouble.”

  The inspector leaned forwards slightly. “Go on.”

  “According to Cornelius, he was a proper little tearaway. He referred to him as ‘dangerous’ and the only reason I remember this is because he warned me about him... yet I struggled to understand why.”

  The memory left a nasty taste in his mouth.

  “Interesting,” DI Fitzpatrick muttered. “This ‘boy’ is in his thirties now and yet you remember him. Funny thing is, he remembers you too. Recognised you in the news and I quote ‘he was always turning up at the home for meetings...’”

  With a quickening breath, Thomas studied the boy’s eyes, two simmering dark pools of hate.

  “What else did he tell you?” he whispered.

  “That you harboured an unnatural interest,” the DI taunted. “Staring at the kids, chatting them up, smiling... said he never felt comfortable in your presence.”

  “How dare you,” Thomas spat. “I was trying to be polite! Some of those kids were abused, as I suspect he was! I saw bruises on his arms, and my only intention was to treat those children with kindness!”

  Perched in the chair opposite, the inspector’s face hardened like granite.

  “You say you suspected abuse but did you report any of this?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Cornelius had a grudge. Oh, how that boy cowered in his presence. That’s why I smiled at him. To reassure him not all adults were bad.”

  “Good,” DS Havers said, “you’re doing really well, and I apologise if we haven’t explained the relevance of this, but all will be revealed soon.”

  “As I said from the start,” DI Fitzpatrick added. “The purpose of this interview is to gather material, which may assist us in our investigation and provide evidence.”

  “What investigation?” Thomas dared to ask.

  “Are you aware of the stories in the news concerning a paedophile ring in Westminster? That children in care were driven to sex parties?”

  Thomas felt every muscle in his body turn to ice.

  “Yes, I’ve seen them and before we continue I have to ask... has my name been mentioned in connection with these allegations?”

  “No. But our enquiry concerns a series of parties that took place in 1995. An era in which you were Minister for Education.”

  “But this is outrageous,” he fumed, “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Okay,” the inspector nodded. “Then I suggest we pause the interview at this point. I only wanted to gauge your reaction, Sir, but I see this is distressing you.” His eyes narrowed. “Would you like a few minutes to compose yourself? A moment to consider what else you might remember about that year?”

  “The time is 11:10,” added DS Havers, “and this concludes our first interview.”

  By the time the officers had returned, Thomas was finding it hard to steady his breathing. The detective inspector was a tall man, whose broad shoulders and burly frame set his teeth on edge. Lifting his head, he was further unnerved by the steel in the man’s expression, and the room felt stuffy and airless.

  “So,” he began, “are you ready to continue?”

  Thomas swallowed, his throat dry.

  “Would you like another glass of water?” the detective sergeant asked.

  “No,” he sighed. “I just want this to be over.”

  DS Havers’ serene features and softer grey eyes should have pacified him, but they didn’t. The very nature of the investigation tied knots of fear in his belly.

  “Interview resumed at 11:20. So going back to 1995, you wanted to know why we called you in for questioning. We have reason to believe Cornelius Mortimer was using those homes to run a highly organised paedophile ring. The girl you saw in that
photo is undergoing psychotherapy, and the most serious part of her statement concerns a number of parties Mortimer is alleged to have organised.”

  Thomas averted his eyes. “What kind of parties?”

  “We’re not certain; but the one thing we do know is that children were driven to a remote location and drugged. I gather you were present when Cornelius alluded to one of these parties. Do you remember that?”

  “No,” Thomas snapped, “I don’t.” Cold with dread, he was unaware of his fingers creeping to his lips as he spoke. “It was twenty years ago, for goodness sake, do you honestly expect me to remember every conversation word for word?”

  DI Fitzpatrick raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? She seemed very certain, not to mention the way you were smiling at her. She claims you were quite flirtatious.”

  “This is rubbish,” Thomas replied. “The product of a delusional mind, and this was extracted under psychotherapy? Recovered memories are unreliable...”

  “Lord Parker-Smythe,” the detective inspector interrupted, “no charges have been made as yet, but you must understand our concerns. What I would like to raise, however, is your behaviour towards young girls in general.”

  “To give an example,” added DS Havers, “did you know we’ve received a complaint from the manageress of Pianissimo Café? She’s concerned about her daughter, who you’ve been witnessed chatting up on more than one occasion.”

  “Oh please!” he drawled. “Not Poppy?”

  “Yes, Poppy. A naive fifteen-year-old waitress.”

  Listening intently, he was wounded to hear how his affections had been misconstrued; from the way he smiled at her, to the more serious accusations of ‘ogling her breasts,’ his eyes ‘glued to her bottom as she walked...’

  “It’s been reported you tip her generously,” DS Havers continued, “and that on one occasion you gave her ten pounds.”

  He would never forget the day he had met Poppy, a day on which he had been well and truly fired up with an inflated sense of power.

  “And on another, you invited her to share your taxi.”

  He closed his eyes. “It was raining! I asked where she lived, which was barely half a mile from my home and the driver dropped me off first...”

  A chill rolled over him as the memory came back.

  “Such a sweet girl. I enjoyed her company but that’s all it was, I swear!”

  “Okay, fair enough,” the DI said, “but you’ve had other girls in your home, haven’t you? A pair you hire as cleaners.”

  “Poppy recommended that firm,” he muttered in a tiny voice.

  “I see,” responded the sergeant. “Well, a neighbour caught a glimpse of them through the window, and he claims they did not look like any cleaners he’d come across. What he described were ‘two scantily dressed dolly birds.’”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is starting to sound like a set up! I didn’t ask them to come dressed like that! I suppose you were fed the story I suggested they wore French maid’s outfits...”

  “But was that not the case?” DI Fitzpatrick fired back at him.

  “I was joking! Made some light-hearted comment and they took it literally.”

  “So why didn’t you ask them to change?” he shrugged. “I think that’s what most innocent people would have done. I’m sorry if it sounds harsh, but we’re only trying to corroborate the facts here. Two girls wandering around my home in such costumes is not something I would allow if I were in your position.”

  “No,” Thomas confessed bitterly, “I don’t suppose it is.”

  His heart plummeted, but what could he do? A man on his own, he was vulnerable to their games, two scheming little minxes who had landed him in a right pickle.

  “What are you trying to prove, exactly?” he croaked.

  Hands clasped on the table, he felt utterly powerless under the spotlight, a writhing worm being pecked at by crows. Aspiring to the House of Lords was his greatest accomplishment. He might have remembered that hubris always leads to humiliation. He might have guessed his success would be brief.

  “You’re portraying me as a lonely old man who preys on young girls. That would fit your purpose well, wouldn’t it? You think I’m one of those establishment figures embroiled in your child abuse scandal.”

  “Will you kindly bear with us, Sir?” DI Fitzpatrick responded coldly. “No one is accusing you of anything at this stage, although I do need to ask you about your past relationships. I understand you’ve been married.”

  “Twice,” Thomas said, “and do you want to know why my first wife left me? Well, I don’t mind admitting it, but she had an affair with my best friend.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir, I can see this is upsetting you, but why did your second wife divorce you?”

  Thomas flinched, an icy sweat prickling him all over.

  “You’ve spoken to her, haven’t you?” he shuddered.

  “Yes,” the man nodded, “and we’ve learned of a matter that’s been a closely guarded secret until now. Is it not the case she stumbled across a naked fourteen-year-old girl in your bed?”

  Heart pounding, he lowered his eyes.

  Why the hell were they dredging this up, and why now?

  “Monserrat swore she was sixteen when we employed her. She offered to do some babysitting, a lonely Spanish girl living in London in need of work experience. How could we refuse? We took her on as an au pair.”

  “And what was the nature of your relationship?” the inspector pressed.

  “It’s immaterial,” Thomas said. “Whatever my ex-wife told you is no doubt a vastly exaggerated version of the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That child was looking for a father figure but developed something of an infatuation. We used to watch Disney films together, and she liked me to read her stories... Once I gave her a cuddle but she was clearly after more.”

  Acid bit his throat. As with Poppy, he had fought so hard to stop his eyes wandering over that ripening young body. Yet there she was, sprawled in his king-sized bed without a stitch on - long curly black hair glistening like pitch, and as for her breasts... they resembled a work of art.

  “I know this isn’t easy for you,” DS Havers urged, “but please finish.”

  “I lingered in the doorway and stared. I couldn’t help myself...” Facing the officers with a gulp, he was forced to confess the worst. “I heard the bathroom door slam and froze. My wife had been taking a bath and I was too late to stop her walking in. When she reached the bedroom I was still stood there, mesmerised...” He let out a sob. “But that is my only crime! That I stared!”

  “I see,” the DI nodded, though the disgust in his eyes was evident.

  Thomas shook his head. “Haven’t you demonised me enough for one day?”

  “I sense your frustration,” the DI drawled, “and we are not judging you, but we do need to build up a profile. Your name has been linked to a children’s home that is central to our investigation, but we won’t detain you any longer.”

  “Interview terminated at 11:55,” the Sergeant added. “You are free to go.”

  Confident Parker-Smythe had left the building, Mike Havers let out a low whistle. “Well, well, what did you think of him, Sir?”

  “Arrogant,” DI Fitzpatrick said. “Cagey and at times, openly hostile. That’s what got my hackles up, as if we had no right to be questioning him.”

  “But do we have reason to suspect him?”

  “He’s hiding something. I’ll hedge a bet he was lying about Miss Bell’s account too, as hinted by his body language. Kept touching his mouth, and did you notice how his eyes started flitting, as soon as we mentioned the parties?”

  “Hmm...” Mike exhaled heavily. “Then where do we go from here?”

  The DI braced his shoulders. “He didn’t reveal as much about Mortimer as I’d hoped, so my next question is why, what is he concealing? I suggest we request a warrant to have his home searched.”

&
nbsp; Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I didn’t get to spend as much time with Joe as I’d hoped once the police were involved, though not through choice. My heart ached for him, and in the wake of that terrifying road accident, I had a yearning to wrap him in cotton wool.

  But Jess got to him first.

  She had been all over him like a rash since that day, showering him with affection, so why would he shy away? With stories of a ‘mystery hit and run’ splashed across the Bognor Observer, Spirit FM and social media, the horror of his persecution bounced back with a vengeance. Thank God they hadn’t revealed his name.

  But with a wider investigation looming, I felt little reassurance.

  Jess was loving this.

  Even Joe had suggested she craved a bit of adventure in her life.

  Deep down though, I feared for him, the notion of someone trying to kill him sending wave after wave of panic pounding into me. It seemed wise to leave it in the hands of the police for now. Trust them to do their work. Except they had no idea how every memory associated with Mortimer stirred shivers of dread in me, as if the demons of our childhood were coming for us.

  With the situation out of my control, there was nothing I could do. At least, until the following weekend, when an unexpected call changed everything.

  “It’s Sarah.”

  “Hi!” I gasped. “I’ve been meaning to call. How are you?”

  “We need to talk,” she murmured, “but not on the phone. How about I drive down to Bognor? I could bring Connor with me.”

  I felt a grip of hope in my heart. The weather had been changeable of late with light rains and a colder than average bite to the air. But today the clouds had thinned, allowing shafts of hazy sunlight to pour down.

  “That’d be great. Let’s take him to the beach like we promised. Just one question before you set off, though. Has this got anything to do with Sam?”

  “I’ll explain later,” she answered, her voice deepening, “but you know I said I was going to trace his social worker? Well, I found her.”

  Within the space of two hours we were settled on a stone bench, facing the sea. Sarah wore a faint smile, her eyes on Connor as he bounded towards the shore. It was impossible to restrain him, his boyish frame getting smaller as he moved away from us. Undulating shelves of pebbles created ramparts between the promenade and the sand, but his true fascination lay in the rocks scattered along the water’s edge.