Lethal Ties

by Christmas, Helen

  “I don’t think he’s ever seen rock pools like those,” Sarah commented, “what a very unusual stretch of beach.”

  I nodded, my eyes following him as he raced between the boulders. Ragged with shrouds of seaweed, even from a distance their silhouettes looked mysterious.

  “Bognor Rocks,” I enlightened her. “There’s a sign on one of the beach huts further west that explains their history and geography. You never know, he might even find a few fossils down there.”

  “Great,” Sarah enthused. “He’ll be in his element.”

  As the air fell silent, I caught her eye. “So what have you got to tell me? You said you’d located Sam’s social worker, though you did seem a bit cagey.”

  “It’s a matter I prefer to discuss face to face,” she replied.

  Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she scanned the pavement behind the sea wall.

  “It’s okay, we’re well sheltered,” I reassured her. “No one will hear us.”

  “Good,” she nodded, “but the reason I didn’t want to say too much was down to Connor. You never know when he’s listening. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice kid but his surveillance skills are starting to scare me.”

  She dipped her head a little closer.

  “You know I said he likes hiding? Peter made him a den on the landing at the top of the stairs but it doesn’t stop him sneaking to other places. I’ve found him crouched behind our sofa before now.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  A sigh escaped her lips. “Curiosity. He’s still hankering to know about his real parents, hoping he’ll catch us out. But I didn’t dare run the risk of him overhearing anything relating to your friend.”

  A breeze swept in from the sea, heady with the aroma of ozone. Sarah breathed deeply, as if mentally preparing herself for what she had to tell me.

  “So how far did you get with his social worker?” I kept pressing.

  “She was scared, Maisie. Between you and me, she did not want it widely known we were probing into Sam’s case...”

  ******

  Content that Connor was too busy exploring the beach to care what they were talking about, Sarah began to relax. The spreading rays of sun warmed the bench, the sea air caressing her face, bringing a clarity to her senses.

  She had grown accustomed to people shrinking away from her whenever she raked over the past; opening old wounds, dredging up secrets that were better left buried... but whatever enigma surrounded Sam’s disappearance, she could not resist doing a little extra digging.

  “Her name’s Yvonne Draper and she’s in her fifties now.”

  Her eyes drifted back towards the seashore, lids heavy, as the boy flitting in the distance became a blur.

  But in her mind’s eye, she was seeing a house in East Grinstead, a house that seemed to hide from its neighbours. Untamed shrubs wreathed the windows, masking them in darkness, the porch shabby, the paint flaking in places under a cloak of ivy. Approaching the door, she heard a scurry of paws and barking. Time hung suspended but as the dogs kept yapping, she stood her ground, until at last someone unfastened the latch. A middle-aged man.

  Eyeing her with suspicion, he scowled when she asked if Yvonne was at home.

  “I knew she was there. Something in the air gave the game away, the hint of a woman lingering. It may have been the smell of hairspray or a movement from the kitchen but I was not prepared to walk away...”

  ‘This will only take a minute or two, Mr Draper.’

  The woman who did eventually emerge from the shadows, though, was nothing like she expected. Her eyes possessed an empty look, her complexion so sallow it was as if the very life essence had been siphoned out of her.

  “I tried to reassure her that whatever she could tell us would go no further. That we were desperate to trace a missing friend, nothing more.”

  The shadows in the house seemed to grow as the woman known as Yvonne Draper withdrew into herself like a snail, her voice a shuddering whisper.

  “Of course I remember Sam Ellis. Such a sweet little boy, and to think how he lost his mum. No child should have to live through something like that.”

  “No,” Sarah soothed, “and I know how Stephanie died. She was murdered, wasn’t she? I am familiar with the case, but it’s not the reason I’m here. I am more concerned about what happened to the boy afterwards...”

  Backing into a corner, Yvonne seemed incapable of meeting her eye - and instead of addressing the issue of Sam’s care, kept prattling on about his early life.

  What must it have been like for him growing up with a prostitute for a mother?

  What shocking scenes might he have he witnessed in his tender years and who in God’s name could have killed her?

  Sarah had stood there mesmerised, inclined to let her offload.

  “Oh, to die so young,” she whimpered, determined to evade the real issue. “It’s rumoured a rogue punter killed her, someone she upset, and that’s how he took revenge... that poor child though. How it must have traumatised him...”

  Turning towards the window, she started busying herself filling up the kettle.

  “How rude. I haven’t even offered you a drink.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs Draper, really,” Sarah said, “but I’m not here to talk about Stephanie Ellis. I agree her death was a tragedy, it’s not that I don’t care...”

  Yvonne froze. Sarah stared at the back of her grey head with a frown, waiting for her to respond. Yet an underlying tension clawed the atmosphere, the precise opening she had been waiting for.

  “Is there any chance we can talk about Sam, though? Surely you know a bit about his life, you were his social worker.”

  Still Yvonne would not look at her, sinking deeper and deeper into denial.

  “He was put into care, wasn’t he? A children’s home known as Orchard Grange.”

  Yvonne’s face turned white. “Yes, a children’s home.”

  “Do you know how long he was there for, Yvonne?” Taking a brave step forward, she ran a gentle hand over the older woman’s shoulder. “You can tell me.”

  Yvonne’s muscles hardened like iron, her face pinched. Sarah couldn’t resist feeling a little sorry for her, wondering what she was hiding.

  She let out a sob. “Poor Sam was trapped in that place, just waiting for another family member to step forward.”

  “So did anyone step forward?”

  “Who sent you?” Lowering the kettle to the work surface, her hands betrayed a tremor. “Why are you here, and why now?”

  “Please,” Sarah begged, forcing a calmness into her tone. “I’m not a journalist, I’m just doing this for a friend. She was fostered herself and suffers panic attacks, nightmares, never knowing why Sam vanished. She too was a resident at Orchard Grange and cared very deeply for him.”

  There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere and the next time their eyes met, Sarah finally saw the shutters roll back, allowing a twinkle of light through.

  “Just to reassure your friend,” she relented, “someone did come forward to look after him. We always knew Sam had family, and we were right - but it’s a secret that must never see light of day and that’s all I’m prepared to divulge.”

  ******

  “What?” I breathed. “You mean someone actually did take him away?”

  Hanging onto her words, I could barely take it in. That final sentence brought a rush of blood to my head, and the ground started spinning.

  “Apparently so,” Sarah nodded, “though she refused point blank to name them and that in itself is suspicious. I can’t help wondering who she’s protecting.”

  “But does this imply Sam is alive?” I frowned.

  Sarah’s lips tightened. “It’s not impossible but I wouldn’t build your hopes up until we can find out more. The next obvious step is to research his family tree. See if we can trace those relatives.”

  “We need to find him,” I murmured under my breath.

  “Maisie, I understand where you’re com
ing from,” she sighed, “but as I said from the start, these things take time. In the meantime, how is the police investigation going? You haven’t said much about Joe, either.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “Joe spends much of his time with Jess these days and she’s well and truly got her hooks into him. But the police are monitoring his Twitter account and questioning the politician... There’s every likelihood we’ll be travelling up to London ourselves soon.”

  “Then why not concentrate on that for now?” Sarah smiled. “Leave the sleuthing around Sam’s story to me...”

  I almost smiled back, but in the back of my mind an even scarier thread had started unravelling. “What if our abusers cotton on, though? Sam could be in as much danger as anyone!”

  “I’m doing my best, Maisie,” she protested, “you have to trust me on this...”

  Whatever words followed were gulped into the wind, as a sudden crash of pebbles drew our gaze to the beach. But before she could say another word, Connor sprang into view, golden-brown hair windswept as he struggled up the slope.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I added hastily, “don’t think I’m not grateful.”

  She caught my eye with a grin, and switched her attention back to Connor.

  “Having fun?”

  “Those rock pools are full of creatures!” he panted, and clambering over the stones, flopped down onto the bench next to us. “Amazing! But I’m starving now!”

  “There’s a pub near the pier that does fish and chips,” I piped up.

  A raft of unsaid words hung between us as we walked to the pier. There was no denying Connor’s radiance, and in the lingering afternoon sunlight, his cheeks glowed, the knees of his jeans dark from splashes of seawater. I felt a wave of emotion, something similar to what I felt the first time I’d met Sam. His face reflected the same innocence, which brought the glimmer of an idea...

  “Look,” Sarah murmured in my ear as we ambled up the prom, “I promise I’ll do all I can to find your friend. At least the trail is getting warmer, and you could always launch an appeal - if the police agree.”

  “Yes,” I nodded, “brilliant idea, and I know it’s difficult...” My footsteps slowed as I contemplated my next words. “So would Connor like to stay with me for the occasional weekend? The fostering department do a three day course in respite care and I’d quite like to sign up for it.”

  “Maisie, that would be great but it’s not as if you owe me.”

  “Not just for you, for Connor,” I added warmly. “Anyone can see how much he’s enjoyed himself today. It’s the least I can do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Police Raid Peer’s Home

  Two days after that headline appeared, Thomas was still none the wiser.

  As anxiety hit, his breath rose in shallow gasps. He had always known that the maxim innocent until proven guilty meant little in this savage modern-day world. Yet never once had he imagined it would be himself at the centre of a trial by media. Nothing other than rumours dripping in the ears of prying journalists could have ricocheted like this.

  But then, hadn’t the press always been the secret weapon of the people?

  And that was before social media had spewed its ghastly seed.

  Demonised on Twitter, he was shocked to see his name tagged in posts alluding to ‘Orchard Grange,’ the care home at the heart of a historic child abuse scandal.

  While the @metpoliceuk seek the truth about @Thomas-Parker-Smythe children are being abused every day in #carehomes across Britain #childabuse #paedophile #politicians

  He had initially refused to attend a second police interview, a mistake that brought the threat of arrest crashing down like thunder. While appalled to think his home had been searched, it wasn’t as if he had much choice in the matter; and from the look of disdain on Fitzpatrick’s face, he guessed it was not going to be pleasant.

  “Surprised to see us again so soon?” the detective inspector mocked.

  A ball of rage clenched the pit of his stomach.

  “Isn’t it enough you’ve exposed my personal life? My home has been raided and I cannot step outside without being mobbed by reporters...”

  “Lord Parker-Smythe,” DS Havers chipped in, “it is the findings resulting from the home search we need to discuss.”

  “Which are?”

  “Quite a collection of press cuttings you saved over the years – and we found a highly significant photo...”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “For the purpose of this recording, I present Exhibit A, a news article published on September 12th, 1994.”

  Staring at the press cutting, Thomas said nothing. More than two decades had passed since this had appeared in the London Standard, the day Cornelius Mortimer had proudly unveiled his sixth private home. ‘Oak Lands’ was a clean white house surrounded by evergreen hedging. His heart thumped as he read the caption, recognising himself in the photo. Suited and smiling, he was about to cut the red ribbon, secured to the gate posts like bunting.

  “Oak Lands,” DI Fitzpatrick read out. “So is it fair to say Orchard Grange was not the only children’s home run by Cornelius Mortimer that you endorsed?”

  “True enough,” he responded feebly.

  “I would now like to ask you about this photograph,” he pressed, “one that captured our attention.”

  “This is Exhibit B,” DS Havers announced, “a black and white photo depicting some form of celebration.”

  Thomas felt the breath freeze in his lungs. Unmistakably dressed in the same suit as he’d worn for the Oak Lands opening, his tie askew, his eyes glazed as if drunk, this photo appeared even more damning. It showed him lingering in a garden, accompanied by a group of men, and there in the centre stood a smirking Mortimer. Towering behind Thomas, one arm clamped around his shoulder, there was no mistaking their camaraderie.

  Thomas looked up, heart heavy as he considered the ramifications. A horrible thought was already snaking through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

  “What has he told you about me?” he shivered.

  DI Fitzpatrick raised his eyebrows. “Told us? We haven’t yet had the pleasure of interviewing him. Unless you’d care to inform us where we can locate him...”

  “I have no idea where Cornelius lives.”

  “But you kept a book of addresses,” the DI persisted. “We have it here, another relic our team stumbled across whilst rifling through some old boxes.”

  “I haven’t been through those boxes in years,” Thomas gasped. “You’ve got no right to go delving through my personal belongings...”

  “Exhibit C reveals an address book,” DS Havers stalled him. “Can you confirm this belongs to you, Sir?”

  Thomas clenched his fists under the table top. “Yes, it was mine! What point are you trying to make here?”

  “It lists every one of Mortimer’s homes,” DI Fitzpatrick informed him icily. “Orchard Grange being the largest, followed by Willow Court, Beech House, Chestnut Mews, Elm Grove and finally Oak Lands, which you officially opened in 1994. According to records they were dotted around central London, and I gather Mr. Mortimer kept his HQ in Orchard Grange, location of your secret meetings...”

  “There was nothing secret about them,” Thomas hissed.

  “Strange thing is,” the other man persisted, “those homes were closed down in 1995. Now why do you suppose that was?”

  Thomas shrugged. “He ran out of money. Like I said from the start, Cornelius was after government funding and my only role was to assess the homes.”

  “Fair enough,” DS Havers muttered, “only something else came to light from statements given by the victims. You may recall one of them was a male, someone who identified you from the past. He was twelve at the time, and we cannot name him but he ran away in 1995. The home was shut down weeks after, the kids drafted into council run homes or fostered, as was the girl we spoke of. Seems a little sudden, don’t you think?”

  “I
cannot comment,” Thomas snapped, tiring of the whole topic. “It was always my belief they were closed down for financial reasons.”

  DI Fitzpatrick cleared his throat. “Yes, well that all sounds very convincing. Regrettably, we’ve seen evidence that suggests otherwise.”

  His eyes emitted a chilling, knowing glint.

  “So finally we come to the contents of your computer hard drive.”

  Thomas stiffened, helpless to wonder what they had dug up now. As if raiding his home wasn’t shameful enough. He eyed them with contempt.

  “On what grounds do you have the audacity to search my computer?”

  “In cases like these,” the DI continued, “no stone can be left unturned. How long have you owned this computer, Sir?”

  “Two years,” he replied. “I wanted the latest Microsoft operating system since my web browser was out of date.”

  “We’re not referring to your new computer,” DS Havers said. “That appears to be clean. This concerns an Apple Macintosh stored in a box in your spare room.”

  “My old Performa?” Thomas faltered. “It must have been around 1996.”

  “A time the internet was quite new,” Havers added darkly, “before the widespread use of social media, when internet chat rooms and news groups were the favoured networks for discussion.”

  “What exactly are you referring to?” Thomas pressed.

  “A group that calls itself Babes in the Wood,” the DI enlightened him.

  “I know of no such news group,” he retorted.

  “Yes, you do,” DI Fitzpatrick hurled back at him. “You’ve been a long standing member since 1996. It was set up by someone with the username CM666@hotmail.com. Does that jog your memory? You and I both know of one person with those initials: your friend, Cornelius Mortimer.”