My eyes flitted from Joe to Mark. “She brought him over at lunchtime because he was in some sort of trouble. He’s sixteen. I said he could stay but... Oh no, and to think he was hidden in the basement all that time!”
Mark froze. “Then he’s a witness,” he responded.
“You’ve got to look for him,” I shivered. My eyes were drawn to the woods at the back of the property, the most obvious place he might have fled.
A look of intense curiosity tilted Mark’s features, and at the same time he was nodding. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. There’s enough surveillance in those woods to root out a terrorist cell, so I am sure they’ll find a teenage lad without any problem.”
“Good,” I murmured and charged with reassurance, I slid into his car.
His colleague took control, wheels crunching on the gravel as he reversed the car, ready to ferry us to St Richard’s. Yet something pierced the air, something that suggested this wasn’t quite over, the blare of an ambulance emerging from the opposite direction. Joe stared at me, his mouth dropping open, and in the instant our eyes met, I knew what he was going to ask me.
“Where’s Sam, then?”
“Sam,” I echoed. My lips started quivering. “Sam is dead. The real Sam died years ago, but if you’re referring to the man I was living with...”
Tears splashed from my eyes as I shook my head.
“It wasn’t him, Joe! This is going to take some explaining, but it’s a horrible story.”
“Ssh,” he whispered, sliding an arm around my shoulder. “I won’t let you out of my sight ‘til I’m discharged now, so take as much time as you want.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
St Richard’s Hospital, Chichester
Joe spent a turbulent night with Maisie by his side. Huddled in an armchair under her blanket, it seemed a very long time before she stopped shaking. The horror of her ordeal had left her in deep shock, and even after the nurse administered a tranquilliser, she could not bear to be parted from him.
Side by side in separate beds, they had talked into the early hours. But regardless of Joe’s suspicions, neither could have predicted how close to home their enemies truly were.
Come morning, the first person to appear was DI Fitzpatrick. His steely eyes flashed as he peered around the door, but at the same time he seemed somehow guarded.
“Morning, Joe,” he greeted him, “and Maisie. How are you feeling?”
Unsure who the question was aimed at, Joe eyed him warily.
“I’ll live,” he said. “S’only a couple of knife wounds, but imagine what it was like for Maisie, trapped in a basement with them psychos.”
“I know,” Andrew sighed, “and I am sorry. I’m as horrified over what happened as you are, but before we go any further, there’s someone else who wants to talk to you. Is it okay if we come in?”
Joe nodded, his hand folding over Maisie’s as she rested in her chair by his bedside. But when the door swung open, he was intrigued to see a petite, silver haired woman accompanying him.
“Hannah!” Maisie expressed with a gasp.
Joe frowned.
Hannah, as in her psychotherapist?
“I don’t believe you’ve met Joe.”
She observed him with a smile as Andrew dragged two plastic chairs across.
“It is lovely to meet you, at last,” she said, “after everything Maisie’s told me about you, but to clear up any confusion, it’s Connor I came to assess...”
A shadow passed across her face, and straight away, Joe sensed her unease.
“So I already know what you’ve been through.”
Maisie met her eye with a shiver.
“How is he?” she whispered. “I’ve been so worried about him.”
“Connor is okay,” Andrew intervened, “a very brave young man, to act so fast. Sarah is on her way. But what about you, Maisie, are you ready for this? Because I might as well cut to the chase... we’ve got an awful lot to discuss.”
Joe adjusted his position. With everyone’s eyes on Maisie, he felt an ocean of tears welling that would have to remain unshed for now. The thought of what she had endured shook him hollow, but they were yet to hear Connor’s version.
“You see, it wasn’t just Connor we found in the woods,” Andrew continued, “but the silver camper van Schiller was last seen in, so no wonder it disappeared off the radar. Mortimer was using it as a hideout. But enough about him, let’s go over what Connor witnessed.”
“He’s asleep now,” Hannah said, “after a long session of psychotherapy. By the time the police found him, he was in such a state he couldn’t speak. So I had to calm him down and regress him.”
Connor had, in fact, been in the house all along, curled in a hidden corner at the top of the stairs when Maisie had let herself in. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, and he had nearly crept down to apologise. But a moment later Sam burst through the door and from his startled expression and clipped voice, Connor guessed something was afoot.
Frozen on the landing, he did not dare move a muscle.
He remained there, motionless, until a thud sharpened his senses. From his elevated position, he caught a reflection in the patio door, thinking Maisie must have fainted. Yet if that was the case, then why was Sam dragging her into the basement?
“He said Sam left you there and went out,” Hannah added. “He sped down to the basement and found you unconscious, but before he had a chance to do anything Sam came back, by which time he was trapped. He didn’t panic, though, just hid himself behind some crates along the back wall...”
It was with some difficulty that Connor had described the next scene.
Watching in confusion and with no clue of the ritual about to be enacted, he witnessed the man he knew as Maisie’s boyfriend hammering metal pegs into the floor. He sensed there was something creepy about the star painted on the floor; something creepier still in the way Sam dressed Maisie up in a red satin gown, and bound her hands and feet before securing the cords to each point.
“He even began to wonder if it was for a horror film...”
Hannah’s expression darkened as she glanced from Maisie to Joe.
“You were right to be worried.”
Caught in the midst of something far more sinister than he had imagined, Connor remained hidden until eventually Maisie awoke. She had been hysterical at first. Yet he had tuned into their dialogue; a painful untangling of secrets that left him cold.
“He heard every word, Maisie - from Duncan admitting who he really was to the horrible things his father did - right up to the day they killed Sam.”
It stood to reason that by the time Duncan left her a second time he had been frantic, though ever more determined to seek a solution...
“The next time the trap door opened,” Hannah shuddered, “he saw three cloaked figures approaching, whispering strange words… some sort of chanting.”
“Chanting,” Maisie choked, “I know.”
Her bottom lip trembled and Joe dropped his gaze.
A murderous hate savaged his heart as the truth unravelled, but keeping his thoughts to himself, he relished the next part of the story: how Connor had derailed them, his gaze zooming in on a fuse box.
“He guessed those flickering torches ran off electricity.”
Crouched in the shadows, he had watched the most horrific scene play out, yet not one of those men had detected his presence. So nudging towards the alcove where the fuse box was located, he considered the next part to be a waiting game... Mortimer raising his dagger, the instant in which everything turned surreal.
“He said he felt detached at that point,” Hannah murmured, “as if he was floating on the edge of another world, looking in. I could almost imagine his mind emptying, every emotion suppressed as he calculated the exact moment to turn the power off.”
“So clever,” Maisie whispered, “anyone else would have panicked.”
Joe nodded, Hannah’s covert smile reassuring him.
&nbs
p; “The ring of the doorbell caused panic, but you shouting Sam’s name turned out to be a real game changer.”
He felt the breath stream from his lungs, unsure he could handle much more, although she seemed to be reaching the end.
So Connor flipped the power switch. Maisie screamed; but with the lights extinguished and the basement drowned in darkness, the timing could not have been better for the police to smash their way in.
It had since transpired, however, that this was not his plan.
No one knew he was there, other than Maisie. So he had grabbed a heavy brass lamp and tiptoed a few steps to where he imagined Mortimer to be crouched before pitching his deadly blow.
If only Duncan hadn’t got in the way.
For it was Duncan who took the hit. Duncan who dropped to the floor like a stone, his father crying out his name.
Joe could no longer stay silent, a black mist rising as he pictured his face. “If I ever see that fucker again, I’m gonna kill him,” he snarled.
Andrew, on the other hand, was quick to catch his eye.
“Forget it,” he said. “The ambulance crew pronounced him dead before they got to the hospital. His skull was so badly crushed he would never have recovered.”
“Wait a minute,” Maisie gasped. “Does this mean Connor killed him?”
The inspector’s face turned stony, his mouth pursed into a knot. “I’m afraid so, but there’s more... Duncan McFadden was not the only man who died last night. Cornelius Mortimer passed away too.”
Joe narrowed his eyes, unsure why he felt so deflated.
How he would have loved to see that monster brought to justice.
Although in another way, it came as some relief knowing he was dead, if only for Maisie’s sake. Her face lingered on the shore of his vision, her expression laced with dread, still swimming in the horror she had been put through.
“If it’s any compensation,” Andrew added, “the end was not at all peaceful. He was not just suffering from advanced cancer but sustained a broken back when he fell from the stairs. He was trying to escape when Conner grabbed his ankle.”
Maisie squeezed his hand. Looking at her now, she had regained a little colour in her cheeks, but neither of them could bring themselves to rejoice this news.
“Let’s just say he was the one who died in agony,” the DI finished dryly.
“Right,” Joe sighed, thinking he deserved nothing less.
They took a moment to absorb this, until the wall of silence became crushing. Tearing his eyes away from Maisie, he sensed the weight of Andrew’s gaze, and it seemed obvious he had more to tell them.
He exhaled an uneasy sigh. “So, finally we come to Duncan’s father, Alistair McFadden QC. You were right to suspect him, Joe: a man reputed to be very dangerous and with contacts in the criminal world. It’s even been suggested he played a hand in the assassination of Stephanie Ellis, Sam’s mother, but I digress. By the time we were probing into his affairs, he was on a flight from Inverness to Gatwick. Hired a four-by-four cross terrain vehicle, the last transaction we traced before we lost him. Other than that, mobile phone data suggests he was in the area by five o’ clock.”
Maisie’s eyes widened.
“The same time Connor was hiding in the basement,” Hannah added, “and we know the rest, from the story I extracted earlier...” She broke off with a swallow, her eyes flitting to Andrew. “There’s one more thing we should mention though, and you’re not going to like this.”
“Alistair McFadden is in police custody,” Andrew said stonily, “but threatening to bring charges against Connor for the murder of his son. He has already drafted his own press release.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
I turned to DI Fitzpatrick with a gulp, hit with wave after wave of panic as the contents of the press release sank in. But this story, this vicious slant on the truth, had been tainted with everything I had feared.
TEENAGER MUST FACE MURDER CHARGE
Sussex Police have detained a teenage boy for a series of actions that resulted in the deaths of two men. The sixteen-year-old (who cannot be named for legal reasons) suffers from severe mental problems which have been verified by a professional team of social workers who dealt with his care since early childhood.
On the two occasions he was placed in foster homes, his behaviour was deemed challenging, which at times led to violence. Early warning signs were recorded in 2013 when the police were alerted to an incident. Although no charges were brought, the damage caused inside his foster home could have been life-threatening. He has since been assessed with high functioning autism, but concerns remain that he may develop psychopathic tendencies...
“They can’t print this,” I started spluttering, “it’s outrageous! How dare he twist the truth, when he was trying to save my life?”
Three pairs of eyes zoomed in on me but of all the people in the room, one face stood out in particular: Hannah.
“Tell them,” I urged her. “Tell them about Sam!”
“I will,” Hannah nodded, “but first and foremost, we need to explain what he witnessed.”
A weight closed around my chest, every breath dragged painfully from my lungs while I struggled to grasp this most chilling part of the story.
“The party...” I could hear my voice wobbling, the horror flooding back in a deluge, but they had to know the truth.
Sam.
Suddenly I started crying, as I recalled how this nightmare had begun.
Maisie, Joe and Sam. That’s how it began.
We were three kids in a care home, too young to protect ourselves.
Three kids who were inseparable until the night Sam went missing.
And all we had ever wanted to know was what happened to him.
“Hang on,” Joe interrupted, “I think you’re missing a point here. How does McFadden know so much about Connor?”
Andrew did not move, his expression steely as ever. “Like I said, Alistair McFadden has his fingers in so many pies, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they included the local authorities. If he wanted to dig up dirt, he found a way.”
“Sarah was threatened!” I gasped and as I wiped away my tears, another bubble of memory popped up. “Someone warned her not to go probing into Sam’s case or there would be consequences.”
“When was this?” Andrew frowned.
“The day we met in London, though none of us dared report it. Whoever sent that threat contacted her through Facebook, but they definitely mentioned Connor.”
The DI leaned forward, his stare hardening.
“There’s more,” I gulped as pictures came flashing into my head. “They sent an image of the house in East Grinstead where Sam’s social worker lived...”
“In other words, they used powerful scare tactics,” Andrew finished, “and I’m betting McFadden had something to do with it. Anything to guard his secret. Think about it, they set up this charade with Duncan, so the last thing they wanted was someone like your friend, Sarah, getting too close to the truth.”
The palms of my hands felt clammy as I clung to my blanket, but the more I reflected, the more I realised how deeply Connor had become entrenched in this mystery.
“But you can’t let McFadden bring charges against him,” I uttered aloud.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Andrew nodded, “and I hope what I am about to say will reassure you, but there is no way Connor can be held responsible for what happened. It was a life-threatening situation. You were inches away from being murdered. The former QC might think he’s clever, but he’s not going to pull any strings this time, and I shall personally make sure of that.”
“How?” Joe frowned. “With his power, won’t he just deny everything?”
“He can try,” Andrew muttered and sneaking another glance at Hannah, I saw a glint in his eye. “He assumes Connor has no proof, but he’s wrong. You’ve got to credit that boy’s intelligence. He recorded every word on his mobile app.”
My head started spinning.
Here I was, recalling every scene, every horrible disclosure they had hurled at me: the things Sam witnessed, the despicable way they boasted about killing him... and suddenly we had turned full circle again.
It all came back to Sam.
“Furthermore,” the DI continued, “we have Hannah’s assessment in his favour. Would you like to share your findings?”
“Of course,” Hannah consented. “Connor needs to undergo a full psychiatric assessment, but in the period I regressed him, I delved deep into his emotions and I can assure you he is not unhinged. His greatest anxiety stems from abandonment, from his mother rejecting him when he was small. He is otherwise a well-balanced, perfectly healthy boy and with no psychopathic signs.”
“I never doubted it for a moment,” I said to her.
Her expression turned as serene as I remembered from my own therapy, but I was thinking about Connor, and the special rapport we had developed.
“Even his Asperger’s could be considered a gift,” Andrew intercepted. “From what I understand, kids on the autistic spectrum have a communication barrier, but they see the world through different eyes. In Connor’s case, analytical eyes.”
DI Fitzpatrick left us after that, while Hannah remained a little longer. She too had played an instrumental role in this story, teasing the threads of memory out of me until they fused into something tangible. It stood to reason her notes from my psychotherapy would provide the final back-up if needed.
“Now what about you, Maisie?” she sighed. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and not for the first time.” Her eyes wandered to Joe’s bed. “I guess you both have.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said, “I’m looking forward to seeing Sarah, and my foster parents are on their way, too. They’ve invited me to come and stay with them but...”
I felt a smile lift my lips as I turned to Joe.
“I’m not going to abandon you, Joe, so I’ve sent them a text, suggesting they book a couple of hotel rooms in Chichester.”
Lethal Ties Page 44