It’s luck, Fletcher wants to tell them. It’s luck of the draw as to whether lightning strikes you and your family or not. The same applies to police investigations. Detectives don’t just turn up at a scene, follow a trail, and discover whodunit. We need luck, too, he thinks, but—and here Fletcher smiles for the first time since this morning—there are ways of maximizing your chances of getting some.
The Lord Mayor’s Chapel has frontage on the busy bit of road opposite College Green, where council buildings form an ungracious semicircle and Bristol Cathedral squats. The chapel’s facade is hemmed in by the modern buildings beside it, but stands out due to its age. The golden stone is pockmarked and stained by pollution and centuries of weather, but it describes three elegant pointed arches on the ground floor and forms delicate tracery above that dissects a vast stained-glass window protected from the pigeon shit and breakage by wire netting. To Fletcher, the chapel has the appearance of a secret building, one of those quiet, ancient places that nestles in the center of Bristol. Just like the river, these places exert a tug on Fletcher, making him think of lives lived over the centuries—good, bad, and ugly. He feels a part of that. He thinks he understands this city and knows its streets and its people. Just as he has traveled through this city’s streets for most of his lifetime, thinking of them as veins and arteries, he feels as if Bristol has somehow got into his blood. Quid pro quo.
Fletcher turns the heavy iron handle on the chapel door and eases it open. The performance is under way. Annabel Collins sits at a harpsichord looking delicate in a black dress. The members of a string quartet are seated in front of her. Fletcher slips into one of the narrow pews at the back of the chapel. The audience is small but the music is exquisite, and for twenty minutes Fletcher loses himself to it.
At the end of the concert Annabel Collins spots Fletcher and makes anxious eye contact during the applause. As the audience stands, she makes her way swiftly down the aisle to greet him. She’s holding a small box. Her face is drained of color. They move aside, away from the other audience members. A pair of stiff stone figures lie immortalized on a medieval tomb beside them. The stone is smoother in places where living hands have touched the figures. Fletcher shudders involuntarily at the sight.
“After you left the other day, Mum was very disorientated when she woke up,” Annabel Collins whispers. “She was talking what I thought was a lot of nonsense. She was going on about Peter Dale. Talking about when they were lovers and then some of the people he harmed. Did he con some people out of money? Am I right?”
Fletcher nods and she continues, her words an urgent tumble: “I couldn’t get much detail out of what she was saying, there was a lot of rambling talk, but she said Peter had a brother who was one of the people he conned.”
This is news to Fletcher.
“Do you know the brother’s name?”
“He was a half brother, apparently. Different surname. I forget what it is. His first name is Terry.” The name rings a bell for Fletcher. There was a Terry amongst the list of Dale’s victims, but no mention of a family connection that he can remember.
“Anyway”—Annabel Collins swallows laboriously as she gets to the point—“Mum has a box full of old stuff. She got obsessed with looking through it after you came round the other day. She got out an old tin I’ve never seen before. Inside it was this little box. She gave it to me. I think you need to see it.”
She hands Fletcher the box. Her eyes are wide. Fletcher eases the top off the box. Inside, a layer of faded pink tissue paper obscures the contents. He removes it with his fingertips to reveal what’s underneath, and Annabel flinches.
“Jesus Christ!” Fletcher says. He replaces the lid quickly. One of the audience members stares at him, but he gives her a look and she turns away. “Is that what I think it is?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Annabel Collins says. “Mum said Terry gave it to her. She said it’s Peter’s.”
Fletcher needs an evidence bag. There’s one in his car. He also needs to get this to the lab. Unless he’s very much mistaken, the object in the box is a mummified human ear.
He promises Annabel Collins he will call her and puts the box in his pocket. He steps out of the church onto Park Street and takes a narrow set of steps down to the warren of streets that used to be the medieval heart of the city. It’s nearing midnight, and the acoustics of the empty streets magnify the clattering of his footsteps as he marches across the cobbles to his car.
FLETCHER ARRIVES HOME at midnight after dropping the box and its contents into evidence and making a few out-of-hours calls to be sure it gets expedited at the lab. If it wasn’t so late, he’d go directly to re-interview Hazel Collins, but she will have to wait until first thing in the morning. He knows he won’t be able to sleep, but at least there’s nobody in the house to give him grief for pulling an all-nighter.
Most of the Peter Dale papers are still on his dining table. He pulls the ones he took to the office out of his briefcase and adds them to the top of one of the piles. He gets a desk lamp from his son’s old room and sets it up on the dining table, where it throws down a bright cone of light. He makes a pot of coffee and begins to work through the papers. He has looked at each one once already, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. This time, he’s after anything he can find on Peter Dale’s brother, Terry.
It’s three A.M. when Fletcher makes a breakthrough, but it’s not the one he expected. The notes tell him that Peter Dale’s half brother was called Terry Taylor. He was scammed out of £40,000, the sum of his life savings plus money he had invested on behalf of his church’s charity, for which he acted as treasurer. He was a bachelor who cared for their mother and lived in her bungalow with her. An internet search brings up an obituary for Terry just a few lines long, from five years ago. Fletcher learns he was unmarried, spent most of his life working on the railways, was an active member of his local church and local bowling club, and died of an unspecified cancer when he was sixty-four years old.
There’s not much more to learn about Terry from the notes and Fletcher is about to give in to his aching neck and shoulders and lie down on the couch when something catches his eye. On the edge of the statement by Terry Taylor, the investigating officer has drawn an arrow from the sentence describing how Terry had invested some of his church charity’s money. By the point of the arrow is the word Lamplight. Fletcher freezes. He thinks he’s heard of this organization before, in relation to somebody else. Somebody relevant. He types as fast as he can, and a list of search results appears. He clicks on the first, titled “Lamplight Trust,” and enters the website. His hands are shaking.
He clicks on the menu and then on “Board of Directors.” He scans the names, but the one he expects to see isn’t there. He curses, then remembers that this is a contemporary list and he is looking for a name from years ago. Stupid. He’s not functioning because he’s tired. He refills his coffee cup, drinks, feels his heart rate increase more than it should, and sits back down to search another way.
A few attempts later, he has found what he’s looking for. Embedded in a newspaper article from 2003, a sentence reads: “Felix Abernathy, a member of the board of directors of the Lamplight Trust, said, ‘I am here today to represent my late mother. This charity was founded by her ten years ago with the help of her church. She opened it because she found herself homeless for a time when we were children. I’m delighted to be in a position today to announce the opening of our first hostel offering beds for the homeless.’”
Fletcher absorbs what he’s reading. He no longer feels tired. His neck prickles and he is suddenly aware that he hasn’t drawn any curtains. Outside the street looks dark and still. He thinks he sees a fox slink between two parked cars, but it’s hard to tell. He snaps the curtains shut and stands in the middle of the room, lost in thought.
Felix Abernathy is connected both to Dale’s brother and to Charlie Paige. It’s a coincidence Fletcher can’t ignore. It’s not a huge leap of logic to wonder if
Felix was involved in all three murders. Fletcher’s not quite sure how or why, but he feels this in his bones and he will find out, and when he does find proof that Felix is involved, the thought of the power that would bring him—Fletcher—is almost delicious. He wonders if Swift has made the same discovery. The thought troubles him, but might explain why Felix asked Fletcher to feed the information about the taxi driver to Cody Swift. Perhaps he wanted to distract Swift from another line of inquiry. Or is Fletcher just being paranoid? He reasons not. Felix has always been one step ahead of everybody. But Fletcher needs to be that step ahead now. His tired brain struggles to make sense of all the variables and their possible outcomes.
Fletcher looks at his watch: 4:00 A.M. He will try to sleep for an hour or two. He wants to see Hazel Collins first thing in the morning to find out more about Peter Dale’s brother Terry Taylor and the ear. He will ask her about Felix, if she heard anything about him at the time of Dale’s disappearance, if Dale himself had met him. There could be stronger connections. Fletcher will need to go it alone. Danny does not know the nature of Fletcher’s connection to Felix, and Fletcher wants it to stay that way. John Fletcher dreams of having power over Felix Abernathy—it’s been two decades since he felt he had any. He and Felix made a deal that felt fair once, but since Fletcher was held back after Tremain suspected he set up Smail, Felix has somehow held all the power. Above all, Fletcher needs to make sure Noyce’s conviction remains secure. If Noyce is cleared, there will be further inquiries and Fletcher will fall. That cannot happen. Not now. Not after so long.
Fletcher lies down on the couch and pulls a blanket over him. He wriggles to get comfortable and stares at the ceiling. Things are a muddle, for sure, but he trusts he will be able to untangle them. He always has done.
“Cheers, mate!” Danny clinks his pint glass against Fletcher’s, and Fletcher feels a sticky slop of beer wet his fingers. Fletcher’s back and shoulders are sore from being slapped by his colleagues. The team investigating the double murders has packed out the back room of the pub and they’re celebrating the news that murder charges will be brought against Noyce. The blood evidence sealed the deal. They will drink hard before they rest and recover from the hours they’ve put in. It’s what you do.
Some of the chat concerns the investigation, but mostly the lads are talking about Smail.
Fletcher kept away from the office when it happened, but he’s getting the details now from a detective constable who has flappy ears and loose lips: “The allegation is that Smail was inappropriate with Jessica Paige when he went to see her—on his own—and that they’d had a previous relationship. She came forward. Smail absolutely lost it.”
Fletcher feigns surprise. “Seriously?”
“He denied it, but apparently she knew the code for the lodgings at Blaise.” The DC’s eyebrows are halfway up his brow.
That’s a nice touch from Felix, Fletcher thinks. Very nice. An allegation of inappropriate behavior is good, but suggestion of a previous relationship is genius, and feeding Jessica the code for the police accommodation was the icing on the cake. Felix must have got it from one of his other girls who’d been there previously. Fletcher smiles when he thinks how it makes Smail look so much guiltier.
Fletcher wants to ask more about Smail, but a round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” has broken out and he’s getting jostled because it’s his solve they’re celebrating. He sees Danny on the edge of the gathering and tries to bring him into the middle so they can stand shoulder-to-shoulder on this because it’s a victory for both of them, but Fletcher gets caught up in the melee and finds himself at the bar. Danny has dropped out of sight. Fletcher’s not worried, though. He’s not Danny’s babysitter. He downs what remains of his pint in one gulp and slams the empty glass down. “Who’s keeping up with me?” he shouts. “Come on!”
Chapter 23
There is radio silence from Olly’s mum and Jess feels like she’s going out of her mind.
Nick has sobered up fast. They sit together on the bed and wait for news about Erica. Jess searches online for flights back to the UK leaving tonight or tomorrow. This is the first time she’s ever had a scare with their daughter. It’s the first time she’s ever left her in anybody else’s care without constant text contact. She feels as if life is getting its revenge on her. She feels as if she was allowed to have a daughter only for a while, but of course it had to end. She doesn’t deserve children. She proved it with Charlie, so why should it be different now she has Erica? She’s been living a fantasy. Nick holds her as she sobs and he mutters reassurance over and over until his words sound as meaningless and strange to Jess as a foreign patois.
“Don’t overreact, darling. They’ll be out having a lark, I remember what I was like at their age,” and so he goes on until she can’t stand it anymore. “Stop! I’m giving it another hour, then I’m going to the airport. Don’t argue with me.”
“All right. But there’s no flight until nine A.M., so be sensible. And I’m coming with you.”
She strips off her dress, scrubs her makeup away, and puts on jeans and a vest top. They’re not sleeping clothes, they’re clothes she can travel in, clothes she feels like a mum in, unlike that dress and those sandals. She packs everything she unpacked earlier back into her case. When she’s done what she has to do, Nick holds her tighter. He whispers, “I listened to the podcast.”
She pulls away from him so she can see his face. In the half-light, Nick looks as if he’s both there and not there. His breath is still musky with wine, but his voice is steady and sober.
“You never did tell me what you did for those seventy-two minutes,” he says.
She catches her breath. “What do you mean?” But she knows. There was much made of the seventy-two minutes her movements were unaccounted for by a reporter at the trial.
“Don’t you think it’s time?” Nick says.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“I’ll lose you and I’ll lose Erica.”
“Jess. Listen to me. Whatever it is, you will not lose us. We love you. We love you so much. Don’t you think it’s time to tell me?” Jess knows an ultimatum when she hears one, even if Nick doesn’t yet know he’s giving one. His desperation for her to be straight with him feels palpable. It’s now or never, she thinks.
“I was at a casino,” she said. “The Paradise. I wasn’t supposed to be there because Felix arranged for me to be somewhere else.”
“With a man?” Nick knows what Felix did and how Jess worked for him.
She shakes her head. “At a clinic. I was pregnant. I didn’t know who the father was. I always took precautions, but something hadn’t worked. It was a problem, obviously, and Felix arranged to have it taken care of. He could do that. He had people who would do things out of hours and on the quiet. There was a doctor who would open the clinic on a Sunday night for Felix, as a favor.”
“Did you not want the abortion?”
“I wanted it and I didn’t want it. I was scared of it and scared of being controlled. I didn’t want the baby. I was struggling enough with Charlie, I knew it was a bad idea, but I hated being told I couldn’t keep it, like it wasn’t my decision. So I didn’t turn up at the clinic when they told me to. I went drinking at the Paradise. I was such a stupid, fucked-up person that my response to not wanting an abortion was to go drinking. That’s how stupid I was, Nick. That’s who I was! I wanted that baby so much and I could have damaged it.” She stares into his eyes, searching for condemnation, but seeing only pity.
“What happened?” he says.
“Somebody told Felix I was there. He came to get me and took me to the clinic anyway. He was so angry.” She feels Nick squeeze her hand a little tighter.
“Why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“Because I was scared. They threatened me. The doctor shouldn’t have been performing abortions out of hours. They told me it was more than my life was worth to speak about it.”
>
Nick mutters something angry, but Jess isn’t sure what it is.
“Felix was so mad at me for not showing up, he dropped me there and left me. The nurse took pity on me. Her husband was a taxi driver, and he dropped me home while they cleaned up the clinic. Everybody thought I was drunk when I got back to the estate, and maybe I was a bit, but mostly I was hurting and faint from the procedure. They rushed it.”
“You poor girl.” She sees Nick’s eyes are welling up, too, and it makes her cry all the more.
“Erica must never know!” she says.
“I’m not going to tell her and you don’t need to tell her, but if she ever finds out, I expect she’ll understand, or she’ll try to, at least. Have faith in Erica and me, Jess. I know you don’t believe it, but we love you.”
The screen of Jess’s phone lights up as a text appears. It’s from Olly’s mum:
Found them. Both safe. Going to collect them. Will call when we’re home.
Jess angles the phone so Nick can read it.
“She’s okay,” he says. He holds Jess and she lets herself cry. They are tears of relief. When her eyes have dried, she lies in Nick’s arms, exhausted, and a thought begins to nag: He believes I’ve told him everything, but what if he knew I was relieved when Charlie died? She turns to him.
“I love you, Jessica Guttridge,” he whispers. “My poor, beautiful girl.”
What if he finds out? Should I tell him?
She puts her hand on his cheek and prepares to whisper the words that could break her marriage or unburden her forever. But before she can, the phone rings. It’s lying between them. They both fumble for it. Jess gets there first. Her hand shakes as she answers. It’s Olly’s mother.
“They were at a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show, would you believe it? Fishnet stockings and all, and that’s just Olly. They’re with me at my house now. We’re about to go to bed. Do you want to speak to Erica?”
I Know You Know Page 25