Driftnet

by Lin Anderson

  It was Fiona who told the doctor about the empty vodka bottle and the paracetamol packet. Fiona, who said he had been depressed about his schoolwork, but had brightened up recently.

  The calm before the storm.

  What about his friends? the doctor asked.

  What friends, Morag had said. Jonathan only ever talks to his computer.

  Edward got up and poured himself a whisky and paced up and down the room. Attempted suicide was an ugly phrase. He could not permit such a phrase to be used. He would have to tell Urquhart, but it must go no further than that. His heart contracted at the thought of Sir James finding out.

  If all this had happened before the election! The thought was horrifying.

  Anger began to oust regret. Anger at people who provoked incidents that screwed up his plans. Jonathan had no idea what he was doing.

  But everything was going to be alright. It would be alright.

  Edward climbed the stairs to Jonathan’s bedroom. The window was open and Amy had cleaned up. The bed had been stripped and remade and the empty bottles removed. The stale smell that had irritated him so much earlier, had gone. Edward began to move about, touching things, opening drawers, trying to find out what his son had been thinking about, however bizarre it might turn out to be.

  The computer had been left on. He could hear the buzz. But the monitor was off. Edward decided he would take a closer look at his son’s most prized possession.

  His only friend, Morag had said.

  The screen lit up, revealing a mass of icons. Edward tried double clicking on a few. One opened to reveal a set of revision notes for Physics and Edward was momentarily pleased, until he noticed a line of expletives half way down.

  Fucking school. Fucking physics. Fucking university. Fucking Cambridge.

  It was baby talk. Baby talk with swear words. Typical!

  He tried another icon. The desire to investigate his son’s life was fading. He turned away. He needed to phone Urquhart. Organise those interviews. Get his head in order.

  But something compelled him to turn back.

  Two email messages were listed on the screen. One from Mark, Edward remembered him vaguely as a school friend of Jonathan’s. The other was from someone called Simon.

  Edward read them both.

  Chapter 31

  Bill Wilson’s gut feeling had never let him down before and, he was sure it wasn’t letting him down now. The call from Connelly had convinced him of that.

  Sir James’s fast exit to Paris was too damned convenient. The Super had informed him that he could speak to Sir James’s lawyer during his absence. Sir James was more than anxious to help.

  Oh yes? thought Bill. About as willing as a Protestant is to genuflect.

  Janice was waiting for the next move.

  ‘Right. It’s time to organise a search warrant.’

  Janice was goggle-eyed. ‘Where for Sir?’

  ‘Sir James’s country house. Falblair, I believe it’s called.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Or more precisely, Janice, the cottage at Falblair.’

  ****

  Jim Connelly was not used to daylight, Chrissy thought. He looked like a man who thought trees and green grass belonged on the telly.

  He was walking towards them along the gravel path. Chrissy knew it was him, although she had never seen him before. He looked like a man who needed a drink, she thought. She’d seen that look before. Too often.

  Neil hadn’t even noticed him yet. He was leaning over the bridge staring into the water. He still didn’t like standing upright for long and he was leaning on the railing, as if he was interested in the sluggish brown water below.

  She nudged him gently.

  ‘He’s coming,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, right.’

  She could tell he was still in pain.

  ‘Are you Connelly?’ he said.

  The newspaperman turned towards them.

  ‘Are you the one that phoned?’

  Neil nodded.

  ‘Who’s she?’ He nodded in Chrissy’s direction.

  ‘She’s with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Connelly said as they headed out of the park.

  ‘I know a pub where we can talk.’

  The pub was halfway along the road to Charing Cross.

  Neil nodded at the barman. He and Chrissy went to a booth near the back, leaving Connelly to get the drinks. The barman poured two vodkas without being asked. Connelly ordered a ginger beer with ice.

  Neil took a mouthful of the vodka and licked his bruised lip carefully.

  ‘Someone tried to spoil your looks,’ Connelly said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Want to tell me why?’

  ‘I had some photos. They wanted them back.’

  ‘The bloke you were talking about?’

  ‘His friends.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  Neil was studying the reporter closely.

  ‘I think there’s five of the bastards.’

  His hand was gripping Chrissy’s now, the nails digging into the flesh. She had to stop herself from crying out.

  ‘I’ve only seen one of them, but he talks about the others. They all use different names. One’s called Simon. He’s the one that works the computer stuff. The one I know calls himself Caligula. He thinks I don’t understand why, but he’s wrong.’

  Neil paused and looked over at the door. Someone had come in. The barman returned his gaze and shook his head.

  Connelly was toying with his drink, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Caligula likes it rough,’ Neil said. ‘He’s into tying something round my neck, tightening it till he comes.’

  ‘That’s the way Jamie Fenton died,’ Connelly prompted.

  ‘I know.’ Neil nodded over at the barman and two more vodkas appeared. The barman looked to Connelly for payment. He dug deep in his pocket and pulled out a tenner. Neil waited until the barman had gone before he went on.

  ‘The last time it happened I split when it got too rough. The stupid arse hadn’t tied me tight enough. Too fucking excited.’ Chrissy nodded at him to go on. ‘We go to a cottage in the garden of a big house. He takes me there and brings me back. I don’t get to see where we’re going. He ties something round my eyes and my hands. Likes his fun in the car,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

  ‘Do you know where this cottage is?’

  ‘No.’ Neil stretched the torn lips over perfect teeth in a bizarre semblance of his old smile. ‘But I saw someone leave the place once. A car stopped at the gate. There was a man and a woman inside. I saw their picture in the paper this week. He’s called Edward Stewart.’

  ‘Christ!’ Connelly nearly choked on his ginger beer. He slammed the glass down. ‘I know where that is. It’s Falblair. Country Estate of Sir James Dalrymple, Edward Stewart’s Lord and Master.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So. He could blow us both away.’

  Neil stood up, dragging his hand from Chrissy’s. Expletives erupted from between clenched teeth. Chrissy took hold of his arm.

  ‘Don’t, Neil.’

  ‘You’re just like the rest of them. When I saw that bit in the paper I thought you’d be different, but you’re not. You’re just like the rest of them.’

  ‘Sit down and shut up.‘ Connelly’s anger matched Neil’s. ‘I have to think don’t I? I have to think, how we do this properly. You do want to get them, don’t you?’

  Neil stared at him, then sat down. ‘Fucking too right I do.’

  ‘Good. So do I.’ Connelly smiled. ‘And I want to wipe that smug look off Edward Stewart’s face and stuff it right up his arse.’

  Chapter 32

  Edward rescheduled his interview with Connelly for half past four and cancelled the other one. Then he rang the hospital. Fiona sounded calmer.

  ‘Jonathan’s much better,’ she told him. ‘But there’s still a chance of liver damage. If only you had found him sooner.’

 
Edward ignored the note of blame and told her he would come back to the hospital after his interview.‘What have you told Ian?’ She sounded more like the old Fiona.

  ‘I’ve told him the truth. He thinks he can keep it low key.’

  ‘It would be better for us all if he did.’ She wished him luck and rang off.

  Edward lowered the receiver. He would need all the luck he could get.

  He had wondered whether to tell Fiona about the email, but something stopped him. He didn’t want anyone to know what he had read on that screen. Not even Fiona.

  Besides, he already knew what he was going to do.

  After he’d read the email, Edward had gone to the bathroom and been sick. After that, he stormed about the house, swearing at the top of his voice. The dog crawled into a corner and kept out of his way.

  When he calmed down, he began to reason with himself. He had to inform the police, he told his reflection in the hall mirror. Think, he told himself.

  What would happen to Jonathan if he told the police the whole story? Edward shuddered. It would be terrible. They would question Jonathan about this… this homosexual relationship. It was probably all nonsense. Kids said things they didn’t mean on email. Showing off. It didn’t mean anything.

  Edward went through to the sitting room and poured himself another whisky. No. He had to keep things quiet, for Jonathan’s sake. He must wait until Jonathan was out of danger and they got a chance to talk. It was his responsibility to protect his son.

  He sat down on the couch and the dog crept out from its hiding place and sat on his feet. Edward put his hand down and shooed it away. Jonathan would need peace to get well. He could not cope with a barrage of questions right now. God help us, Edward thought, if the press gets wind of this.

  He didn’t want to hear the small voice that spoke of other children caught in the paedophile net. Children who might be saved, if he told the police what he knew.

  He did not want to think about that. His own child must come first. Whatever happened, he must not panic. He would inform the police, but not yet.

  Jonathan had been worried about school. He’d come in drunk and swallowed some paracetemol to avoid having a headache in the morning. He just took too many and didn’t realise. That was all it was.

  Edward began to relax.

  He would sort it all out once Jonathan was better. For his sake, the family must not be dragged into a scandal.

  Edward could imagine what the gutter press would do with the story. They would have a field day.

  He fought to regain his composure. He would concentrate on this interview with Connelly. He had weathered storms before this, he could do it again.

  But Sir James would have to be told, he realised. He had supported Edward, put his name forward. He would have to tell him.

  Edward left a message with Sir James’s secretary in Paris, asking him to return the call as soon as he was able.

  Then he sat down and began to prepare for his interview.

  Rhona came out of the small back lab and checked the clock just in case her watch was wrong. It was four o’clock. Chrissy still hadn’t phoned. She went back to her bench and tried to ignore the persistent niggle of worry that had been with her since she arrived back at the lab. Where was Chrissy? Rhona had counted on her to talk through her own dilemma. She had been carrying the printout about in her pocket since Monday night. She wanted Chrissy to tell her it was a lot of nonsense, that she was making a fuss about nothing.

  When the phone finally rang, she suddenly didn’t want to answer it in case it was Gavin. Tony picked it up elsewhere in the lab. She was halfway to the door to ask who it was when he appeared.

  ‘That was Chrissy. Says she’s sorry. She’s not very well. She’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ She tried to hide her relief.

  ‘She also said, tell Rhona not to worry.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Tony stood for a moment as if he expected her to say more. When she didn’t, he shrugged and went back to work.

  Rhona felt better. At least she knew Chrissy was okay. From the guarded message, it sounded as if nothing too bad had happened to Neil, either. But the call only disposed of one of her worries. She had still to decide what to do about Gavin, and missed the input of Chrissy’s common sense. He could have seen her awkwardness on Monday night as the result of the computer search. Gavin had realised the child she was looking for had something to do with her own life. He was no fool. But was he evil?

  Evil. The description seemed ludicrous. She felt comfortable with him, she instinctively trusted him. She should have asked for an explanation straight out. Why was she doubting him? She’d jumped to conclusions. Just as she’d done with Sean, she thought. Sean had known that, no matter what he said about the woman in the Art Gallery, he had already been tried and convicted.

  Rhona tried to keep her mind on her work, but it was no good. By five o’clock she was eaten up with a mixture of frustration and fear. She had to do something.

  She phoned Bill Wilson.

  When he came on the line, Rhona stuttered out a story about a man she met at a party called Gavin MacLean who’d said he knew Bill, and she wondered…

  ‘Is this you checking out your dates with me now?’

  ‘Who else can I check with?

  ‘So what do you want to know?’

  ‘He said he worked with the police.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘It is. Though he shouldn’t have mentioned it. Must have been trying to impress you.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Gavin MacLean runs a company called Cyber Angels. He specialises in forensic computing. He analyses what’s been on hard disks, tracks computer fraud, identifies hackers, that sort of thing. He’s working with us on the paedophile case.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ As relief swamped her Bill came back on.

  ‘Is this you changing the man in your life?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Pity. I liked Sean. Good on the sax, too.’

  Mercifully he didn’t wait for a reply.

  In the light of what Bill had said, both the email and the sighting of Gavin at the Gallery of Modern Art could be seen as innocent. If Gavin was helping the police blow a paedophile ring, he would intercept correspondence relating to that. It was obvious. And as for the Gallery. Why shouldn’t he meet a young man at GOMA, she asked herself? He had two nephews, he’d told her so. It had been broad daylight. No one would meet someone they meant to harm, in broad daylight, in a public place.

  At that point, Tony stuck his head round the lab door and made her jump.

  ‘Just wondered if it was okay to go now.’

  ‘Yes Tony. That’s fine. I’ll clear away and lock up.’

  He stood for a moment.

  ‘I take it Chrissy’s dad has calmed down now.’

  ‘What? Oh yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good.’

  Tony smiled his goodbyes and closed the door.

  Rhona heard the main door of the lab bang behind him and then there was silence. She cleared her table and packed everything away. There was a dribble of coffee left in the jug so she poured it into a mug and sat down for a moment to think at her desk. If Gavin phoned again tonight, what would she say? She could just ask him, ‘Was that you I saw outside GOMA today?’ He would sound surprised and say he hadn’t spotted her and she should have honked her horn. You could have come in for coffee with Michael and me, he would say. Meet Michael, my oldest nephew.

  By the time she got home, Rhona had convinced herself. The next time she spoke to Gavin, she would explain why she didn’t want to see him at the moment. She had to sort things out with Sean before she got involved with anyone else.

  On the way home Rhona stopped at the library and went through Which University in the reference section, noting down the names and phone numbers of every university in a big town with a Geology Departmen
t, or which offered Geology in a degree course. The list was endless.

  What was she going to do, work her way through, asking every one if there was a Mr Hope on the staff?

  She laid down her pen, knowing she couldn’t do it this way. If she found Mr Hope, he would guess why she had contacted him. She stared out of the window. If she was an adoptive parent and a woman phoned out of the blue, looking for her son, what would she feel? She would be terrified that someone was going to take her son away from her.

  Hopelessness washed over her. It was no use. It was all too late. Much too late.

  The Librarian was walking towards her. Rhona forced herself to look up and acknowledge the fact that it was closing time and she must leave. She slipped the piece of paper in her pocket and left, hoping no one would notice her tears.

  Chapter 33

  Bill Wilson knew he was taking a chance on this one and he didn’t need reminding.

  ‘You sure about this, Sir?’

  ‘Get on with it Janice.’

  ‘The Super won’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll deal with the Super, Constable.’

  ‘Right, Sir.’

  Janice gave him an odd look. It wasn’t because he was making things difficult for her, he knew that. She was worried for him.

  ‘Just tell them to find something Janice.’

  ‘I’ll tell them, Sir.’

  He had spent most of the day in his office, dealing with paperwork he’d been avoiding since the beginning of the investigation. When the call came through from Dr MacLeod he had been momentarily nonplussed. It was not Rhona’s style, neither the question, nor the manner in which it had been put. It started him thinking.

  He certainly wouldn’t be happy if Gavin MacLean had been talking to anyone about the work he was doing for them. There had been enough of a furore after Connelly’s coverage. That had almost brought the investigation to a complete halt.

  Damn. He was sorry if Rhona had finished with the Irish chap. Folk today just didn’t stick it out, he thought. Not like Margaret and him. Twenty-four years. And, God knows, Margaret had enough reason to leave him, considering the life of a policeman’s wife.

  This investigation had got to Rhona. It had got to him. Crawled into his guts and twisted them about.