‘We’re always on the lookout for criminals, Mr Farnaby,’ said Oakley smoothly. ‘And we find them in the most unexpected of places.’
‘Look,’ said Farnaby irritably, ‘I don’t know where James has gone, and I don’t care.’
‘If you don’t care, then why have you taken the trouble to spread rumours about him heading off to some gay paradise?’ asked Oakley.
‘Because I saw him going into a gay bar,’ snapped Farnaby. ‘All right? It was in Clifton – one of those discreet places.’ He smiled nastily. ‘Old Brotherton is pretty peeved about James vanishing, I can tell you! That’ll teach him to favour the little shit. A high-flyer Paxton might be, but there’s a darker side to him.’
‘And on the basis of seeing him at this bar you concluded that he’s taken an overseas holiday with a homosexual lover?’ asked Oakley.
Farnaby shrugged. ‘I’ve been trained to make reasonable deductions. James was seen in a gay bar, then he goes missing. There’s only one conclusion that can be drawn – he’s come out.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Oakley, disliking the arrogant man who kept them standing in the sun. ‘He might have been meeting a client.’
‘Well, he wasn’t,’ said Farnaby sulkily.
‘How do you know? Did you follow him inside?’
Farnaby glared at him, caught out. ‘Yes, because I thought someone should keep an eye on the bastard for the good of the firm. It was a fellow in his late twenties or early thirties. Dark hair. Suit. Sunglasses. A briefcase. Probably a businessman.’
‘Why not a client?’
‘Because I can tell the difference between scum like Yorke and Noble and decent human beings.’
‘That’s a curious attitude to take regarding your firm’s clients.’
Farnaby’s expression hardened. ‘Urvine and Brotherton was respectable until James came along and started to represent lowlifes. Yorke and Noble are his clients, not mine. And I bet old Brotherton wishes they weren’t on our books too – especially Yorke.’
‘Then why did he represent Yorke at the remand hearing?’ asked Oakley.
‘Because James had already accepted his business. But it’s clients like him who damage our image. They may be lucrative, but money isn’t everything.’
‘So you disapprove of Paxton bringing in new and wealthy clients?’
‘Yes. I’m thinking of going to a firm where ethics mean something.’
‘Have you seen Paxton since Tuesday, July the thirty-first?’ asked Oakley.
‘No,’ said Farnaby tightly. ‘I saw him that lunchtime, bragging about how he was going to win the Yorke trial. And I saw him in the gay bar after work. I suppose he must have realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and buggered off before he made a fool of himself.’
‘I thought you said he’d gone off with his homosexual lover,’ pounced Davis, the expression on her face making her dislike of the man obvious.
Farnaby made a moue of annoyance. ‘I don’t know why he’s gone. All I can say is that the firm is a lot nicer without him, and he can stay away as long as he bloody well likes.’
‘And that’s all?’ asked Mrs Paxton, when Oakley called her to say he’d spoken to Farnaby.
‘I don’t think he knows anything about James’ disappearance.’
She hung up, but the news did nothing to ease the uneasy, sinking sensation in her stomach. When days passed, and there was still no word nor any sign of James, her apprehension increased further still.
ELEVEN
Tuesday, 14 August
I was on duty at the hospital that afternoon, watching Emma Vinson, the old woman who’d been beaten during one of the Westbury Burglaries. She was taking an age to die, and while Oakley was still hopeful that she might remember something useful, I thought he was mad. Still, I didn’t mind when he asked me to sit with her, in case she woke again.
He walked with me to the hospital, which was easier than driving in Bristol’s traffic, because she’d asked for him the last time she was alert. While we went he told me about the Orchard Street case, and his growing suspicion that the body wasn’t Kovac. Naturally, I did my best to argue, given that I didn’t want him to start looking elsewhere for a victim, but he remained stubbornly adamant.
‘Of course it’s Kovac,’ I said – almost snapped, in fact. ‘Who else could it be?’
‘You sound like Clare Davis,’ he said, smiling. ‘But there’s something about this whole case … suffice to say that I’m keeping an open mind.’
Bloody man, I thought, gritting my teeth. I was about to argue more, but we’d arrived at the ward. He went in and stood for a long time staring at the woman in the bed, but she didn’t stir, and eventually he went away. Despite his annoying refusal to accept the Kovac theory, I couldn’t help liking him, and I admired him more after seeing him with the old lady. He was a good man, and I wished he’d been my shift sergeant, not Wright. Then I’d have been happy in my work and James would almost certainly still be alive.
When he’d gone, I stood in the corridor so I didn’t disturb the old lady, but I watched her carefully. I could see her thin chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, while the monitor at her side traced endless wavy lines that became mesmerizing after a while. I felt a surge of rage against the man who’d hit her, and hoped Oakley would make Yorke and his gang pay for what they’d done. I hoped they’d pay for what they’d done to me, too – if it wasn’t for their crimes James would never have been in a position where he could blackmail me.
Then I recalled the idea that I’d had in Orchard Street, about connecting the Yorke gang with the murder – a link that was likely to be made anyway when FSS finally got round to analysing the duct tape and partials found on the plastic wrapping from James’ body.
As I stared at Mrs Vinson, my idea of an anonymous letter pointing at the Yorkes seemed to be an increasingly good one. Oakley was moving away from the Kovac theory anyway, so why not point him in the right direction? I was fairly sure the gang didn’t know I was the killer – I’d probably be dead if they had – but there was no question that I’d be safer without them walking free.
Yes, it would certainly suit me to have them arrested. And being hardened criminals they’d never reveal that the body was James, as that would help the police, something no self-respecting villain wanted to do.
I’d do it, I decided. Not only for me, but for Mrs Vinson and her family. And for all the other Mrs Vinsons who’d be hurt if Yorke and his minions were allowed to evade justice. I’d sworn an oath to protect people, after all, and what better way than removing a band of ruthless thugs from the streets? The fact that I’d be safer without them was immaterial. Or so I told myself in my guise as heroic defender of the vulnerable.
Friday, 17 August
‘Maureen Paxton wants to see you again, Guv,’ said Evans, putting his head around the door of the incident room. ‘She’s been here since seven – well over an hour.’
‘What does she want now?’ Oakley was reluctant to deal with her. He’d just finished going through more results from the Solihull lab – they’d been unable to match the DNA found in Orchard Street to anyone on the database. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. More sensitive tests had been ordered, but there was a backlog, so he’d been warned to expect nothing very soon.
‘To see you,’ elaborated Evans unhelpfully. ‘She won’t speak to anyone else, even Taylor. She says that if she has to deal with plods, then she’d rather have one who doesn’t actually look like a Neanderthal, even if we all think like them.’
‘She thinks she’ll get what she wants by being abusive?’
‘She has. Taylor says you’re to talk to her nicely, then get her out of his station.’
‘Great!’ Oakley looked at the pile of witness statements, reports, interviews with cashiers from garden centres and reams of badly printed faxes from the Albanian police, most of which comprised accounts of their surveillance on every ‘suspicious’ academic in thei
r country over the last ten years. Oakley had glanced through a few, and hadn’t spotted Kovac’s name once.
‘I’m due at the mortuary at ten,’ said Evans, looking at his watch, ‘because that’s when Grossman gets in. He forgot to sign his statement – he really is losing it these days. But I’m free until then, so I’ll read some of that stuff, and highlight the page if I spot anything relevant.’
‘I’ll be gone ten minutes,’ grumbled Oakley, relinquishing his seat. ‘Not a second more.’
‘About time,’ said Maureen Paxton when Oakley entered the room where she’d been asked to wait. ‘Are you aware that I’ve been in this miserable hole for more than an hour?’
Oakley sat in the chair opposite. He folded his hands on the table and forced himself to be patient. She was just a mother worried sick about her missing son. ‘What can I do for you?’
She slapped a yellow folder on the table in front of him. ‘These are copies of my son’s dental records. I want them checked against the dead body in Orchard Street.’
Oakley blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I need to know.’ Her voice was more desperate than demanding for once, and the tears in her eyes moved him. ‘Please.’
Oakley considered. He didn’t believe for a moment that the body was Paxton’s, as the haughty lawyer was so unlikely to have been in a place like Orchard Street – if he had, he’d have collected samples from the man’s flat and sent them to Solihull for DNA analysis. But Solihull was slow and expensive, and it would take Grossman no more than a minute to compare the records on the table with the body in his morgue. It was old-fashioned, of course, but it would cost nothing – especially as Evans was going over there anyway – and it would calm a frightened mother’s fears.
‘I’ll send them to the pathologist this morning,’ he promised. ‘But is there any particular reason why you think the body may be James? Did he have friends in Orchard Street?’
‘Of course not!’ she snapped. A tear spilled, and she dabbed at it impatiently with a linen handkerchief. ‘It isn’t the kind of road he would frequent.’
‘Then why …’ He nodded at the file.
‘Because I know something bad has happened,’ she whispered. ‘Mr Brotherton said he’s on unpaid leave of unfixed duration. Do you know what that means?’
‘No,’ admitted Oakley.
‘It means they assume he’s dead.’ Her chin trembled. ‘They’d have sacked him by now if they thought he was alive – and they’re trying to protect themselves from looking callous when his body is found.’
‘Are you sure you’re not reading too much into it? Going away without telling your boss is grounds for dismissal by most companies. Perhaps Urvine and Brotherton are actually keeping his job open to give him the chance to explain.’
More tears spilled. ‘I just need to know he’s all right.’
Oakley took the records and stood up. ‘I’ll have this done this morning, Mrs Paxton. But are you certain there’s nothing that’s made you think the man in Orchard Street is James? He’s never mentioned clients there?’
‘No, but you can go to his office, and look at his files. That will tell you.’
‘Let’s take it one step at a time. We’ll see what comes from the dental records first.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Her voice was still unsteady. ‘For taking me seriously, and for not telling me that everything will be all right.’
‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear the results,’ he promised. ‘Whatever they are.’
Mrs Vinson’s plight had moved me, and I’d sent my anonymous note three days before. However, although I took every opportunity I could to talk to the Orchard Street team, I hadn’t heard a thing about it. I’d taken a lot of care over it, so I hoped it wasn’t lost in the post.
First, I’d bought the paper from W.H. Smith, a cheap and nasty pad for fifty pence. A packet of brown envelopes set me back seventy-five pence. I’d nudged them into the shopping basket without touching them and let the cashier put them in a bag for me. Once home, I wore gloves when I touched them. I used a cheap biro I’d found at work and I’d practised writing using capital letters and pressing quite hard. My own writing is light and flowing, and I never leave an indentation on the paper beneath. It seemed a good idea to make one now, to be certain it was as different from my own writing as possible.
I’d thought carefully about what to say. I wanted CID to know that Yorke was involved in the Orchard Street murder, but not that the body was James, lest it led to me. The Yorke mob would deny murder, of course, but why else would they try to get rid of the body? They’d go to prison, and good riddance.
I’d carefully cleaned the table with a hand-held vacuum cleaner, ridding it of any stray fibres that might be traceable. Then I’d placed the pad on it, and written:
BILLY YORKE KNOWS 9 ORCHERD STREET AND HE KNOWS WHAT HAPENED THERE. ASK HIM ABOUT IT AND HIS GOONS TOO. ASK HIM ABOUT FALSE CONFESIONS WHILE YOUR AT IT AND WHY HE WAS PISSED OF BECAUSE HE DID’NT GET BAIL.
I’d been pleased with the result, which I felt was enough to point them in the right direction without giving too much away. I was particularly happy with the spelling mistakes and poor punctuation, which added an air of authenticity. It wasn’t too illiterate, just uneducated enough to have been penned by some thug with a vendetta against Yorke. It crossed my mind that I should hint that Noble wrote it, and thus strike a blow at him, too, but I decided not to push my luck. I could always write another later, if my first try at manipulating an investigation proved successful.
When the murder team started questioning Yorke’s louts they’d think they’d been betrayed by a rival gang. The letter would never be traced to me. Again, I’d told myself as I wrote that I was doing the police, Bristol and Mrs Vinson a favour.
When I’d finished, I folded the note with my gloved hands and put it in an envelope, sealing it with a cloth moistened with tap water – I knew better than to lick it and leave my DNA. I addressed it to Oakley, thinking he’d be most likely to read it. Then I’d found that I didn’t have a stamp, so I’d had to go to the post office. I put the envelope in a plastic bag, bought a book of second-class stamps, and found a quiet corner in which to don my gloves and stick the stamp on the envelope. I dropped the note in the letter box, still wearing my gloves, and went home.
When it was done I’d felt a curious mixture of apprehension and relief. I felt I’d done something good, yet it had been a risk. Mentioning the false confession was dangerous, as it might lead to James – and if he’d told a friend that he was blackmailing me, or had written anything down I’d have some explaining to do. But I sensed that James had been too wise to leave evidence to prove he’d been involved in something untoward.
However, it was now three days later, and I hadn’t heard the merest whisper about it. There were plenty of hoax calls, of course – strange, self-obsessed souls who wanted to believe that they had the courage for murder, and who regularly confessed to all manner of crimes. There were calls about the identity of the body, too, including one that claimed Marko Kovac was an Albanian spy. I began to feel sorry for Kovac, having his life pawed through by policemen, when the poor chap was probably happily making sandcastles on the beach with his children.
But where was my letter? In Oakley’s bin? Lost in the post? Dismissed because it was anonymous? I realized I should have sent it first class, because second class was notoriously slow. Or perhaps I should have shoved it into the station letter box. Should I send another, or leave the whole matter alone?
Oakley went back to the incident room after leaving Mrs Paxton. Evans had gone and Dave Merrick was in his place, reading the Albanian faxes and occasionally scoring a page with an orange highlighter. Oakley began to make tea, using the kettle in the corner, and told him about Maureen Paxton.
Merrick was sceptical, believing that she was only convinced something untoward had happened because she couldn’t accept the fact that her son was in the process of coming out. Glancin
g around to make sure they were alone, Merrick explained that becoming aware of one’s sexuality was a momentous occasion, and struck different people in different ways. Oakley noted how knowledgeable the man seemed to be on the subject, and he regarded Merrick with new understanding as he poked the teabags around in the hot water.
‘Being a gay police officer can’t be much fun,’ he remarked with increased empathy for his colleague.
Merrick hesitated before answering. ‘It isn’t,’ he finally replied.
‘Is that why you transferred?’ Oakley had always thought the ageing parent excuse odd.
‘There was a Wright in my station,’ explained Merrick. ‘It just seemed easier to go. But the point I’m trying to make is that this respectable lawyer, who’s never been overly interested in girls, suddenly realizes that there’s actually nothing wrong with him, and that there are other people who feel the same.’
‘Liberating,’ mused Oakley, heaping powdered milk into the cups.
‘Liberating and frightening. He’d want to do something about it straight away, to test himself. His career, family, friends – all would pale into insignificance, and he’d be desperate to act on his new discovery. So Paxton’s sudden disappearance doesn’t seem at all strange to me.’
‘So you think the office rumour is true, and he’ll turn up safe and sound when he’s decided he’s found the real him?’
‘I do.’ Merrick regarded the tea Oakley handed him in distaste, and added more sugar.
‘Do you have any particular reason for telling me this? For example, have you seen him in one of these clubs? Or perhaps heard that he’s been rethinking his life?’
‘Yes.’ Merrick gave a rare smile. ‘I know I can trust you – you know what it’s like to be different and have men like Wright all over you. Can you imagine what he’d be like with me?’
‘Only too well.’
‘I saw Paxton at a watering hole I go to now and then because I’ve got friends there. It was on a Tuesday evening two and a half weeks ago.’ He glanced at the date on his watch. ‘It must’ve been Tuesday the thirty-first, and it was early evening, because I’d gone there straight after work.’
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