by Seb Kirby
He walks another mile before a car stops to pick him up. A blonde driving a black BMW pulls over and calls to him from the open front window. “Need a ride?”
Cargill walks up to the front passenger door and waits for her to open it. She shouts out again. “Climb in.”
He takes his place, fastens the seat belt and turns to give her his best attempt at a smile. “You’re a life saver.”
She pumps the accelerator and the BMW takes off at speed. “You’re my good turn for the day. Where are you headed?”
The closest train stop is twelve miles away. “Southampton station.”
Cargill trots out his cover story. He’s a businessman who needs to attend an important meeting in London. His car has broken down and the rescue service isn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. If he waits he will miss the briefing and too much is riding on it. So, he’s started walking. And here he is.
She believes him. “I can take you into Southampton. I’m heading that way.”
He settles back in the seat and tries to relax. She drives too fast. It’s unsettling. The prospect of being stopped in a speed trap or being caught up in a road accident doesn’t appeal. That would bring police attention, something he can’t afford. “Do you always drive this way?”
She turns her head away from the road for what seems too long and smiles. “Call this fast?”
“You could be done for speeding.”
“Not round here. Everyone knows there are no patrols and the cameras are useless.”
“You don’t care about your own safety?”
She makes a display of caressing the driver’s wheel. “Not in this beauty.”
“And you give rides to people you know nothing about.”
She smiles again. “If I thought you would be any kind of risk, I never would have stopped.”
“How could you tell?”
“Tell what?”
“That I would be no risk.”
“I just knew. Everything about you tells me you’re OK.”
Cargill hides his thoughts. He wants to warn her it’s beyond dangerous to allow men like him into her car. There are people he knows who would be calculating and cruel towards her given such a chance. But he has to let the moment pass.
What matters more is getting to London.
CHAPTER 63
Ives goes alone to Pentonville prison to interview Brian Cooper. It is Lesley’s suggestion. While he’s here, she will investigate Assent Trust.
There is nothing likable about Pentonville. The old Victorian building should have been pensioned off years before but here it is in all its formidable glory. What would it be like to be banged up in here? Ives shivers at the thought. In his time at the Met he’s sent more than a few here. Though they deserve it for what they’ve done, it’s still sobering to witness the outcome.
Cooper is brought to an interview room in C Wing where Ives is waiting.
Ives cuts straight to the chase. “I hear you’re coming up for parole.”
Cooper gives a shrug of his shoulders. “So? Why bother me here?”
“Let’s say it might go in your favor if you answer a few questions.”
He smiles. “I can’t blame you for trying, but do you expect me to believe that when your lot put me in here and are doing everything they can to keep me here?”
Ives doesn’t rise to the bait. “So, tell me, what’s Emma Chamberlain doing for you?”
“She’s been trying to get me out of here.”
“Why?”
“Let’s say she has a thing about freeing people who should never be in here.”
Ives gives him a look that says: you don’t need to try it on with me. “So, she’s some kind of do-gooder?”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“And how has she been trying to help?”
“Gathering evidence to show I was fitted up.”
“And that brought her in contact with Terry Grant?”
“Never heard of him.”
Ives smiles. “Grant. Tony Galbraith’s main oppo.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Inspector.”
“OK. Let me try you with Marsha Kent. Tell me why your do-gooder friend was interested in her?”
Cooper’s face grows angry. “That’s nothing I asked her to do.”
“You were an item, weren’t you? You and Marsha?”
“Yes. So what does this have to do with anything, Inspector? You’d be better off investigating who murdered her than wasting your time here.”
“Who says it was murder? A hit and run, yes, but who do you think would want to kill her?”
“That’s what you should be finding out.”
“So, why was she talking to Marsha?”
Cooper looks away. “Ask her.”
“Emma Chamberlain is one of the last people to see Marsha alive.”
“As I said, why don’t you ask her.”
“There’s nothing more you want to say? If Marsha was deliberately killed, nothing that would help us find her killer?”
Ives has the feeling that Cooper is on the point of opening up to him but in the event, he remains silent.
Ives stands to leave. “OK, you can always let me know.” He pauses. “One more thing. Does the name Evan Cargill mean anything to you?”
Cooper looks evasive. “What’s that to do with anything?”
“You deny knowing him?”
“Means nothing to me.”
Ives smiles again. “I thought it might. Our records show you shared a cell with him here for two years.”
CHAPTER 64
As the train pulls out of Charing Cross bound for Tunbridge Wells, I’m struggling to keep a check on the doubts threatening to overtake me.
By any expectation, there should be some straightforward explanation of why everything has been thrown out of kilter. Something to magic my life back together. But I can’t find it.
I try to dig deep into my journalistic training. In terms of cold proof, what evidence do I have to show I’m not being deceived? What if Cooper and Marsha have been lying? What if, in some way I have yet to discover, Tony Galbraith is part of the deception? After all, they are on the same side when it comes to believability under the law.
What do I have that is tangible, irrefutable?
There are my birth and death certificates. But what do they prove? That there has been a gross deception at my expense? Nothing more.
There are the adoption records from Assent Trust that Tina Parker brought me. Surely they must be dependable. Yet what do they mean? Even if I am one of those to have been adopted and had my name changed without my knowing, what kind of crime is that? Maybe nothing more than a breadcrumb sin.
But, then, what about the Kautek letter? What kind of conspiracy could have dreamed that up? Fuller would need to be involved in fabricating it, knowing about Kautek’s damaged reputation. Impossible to know why, but he might have done it.
And what of the evidence of the memories beginning to emerge? As Berinski warned, I could be populating these with characters from my own present day.
And, the most damnable thing, all this doubt plays into destabilizing feelings of guilt I can’t overcome. If my life is a lie, it must be my fault. Aren’t I responsible for deceiving everyone who’s ever shown trust in me?
I’ve thought more than once of going to the police, of laying what I have before anyone who will listen. But Wilsden is the police. Which means this can never be an option.
I need something more tangible, some more positive sign of recognition, to allow me to see through the veil of lies that is in danger of enshrouding me.
I place my hopes in Dorothy Wilsden and long for the train to arrive.
CHAPTER 65
The BMW drops Cargill close to the train station. But he doesn’t go inside. Instead, he turns and heads towards the center of town.
Taking the train is a bad idea. Surveillance cameras on entering the station are just the st
art. On-board cameras would monitor his every move. It’s more or less certain the police, with justification, could call up real-time footage from intercity trains and in his case it would no doubt be granted. The long and short of it is there would be a snatch squad waiting to pick him up when he arrived in London.
It would be different at the coach station. Longer journey time, cheaper, scruffier than the train, this is the preferred choice of the poor, and the technology on board reflects it. Though there would be one, possibly two, cameras, the chance these were connected to the wider surveillance system in a meaningful way was slight. As such, it would be a much safer option.
Still, reaching the coach station means a walk across town and evading the cameras there. Cargill pulls up his coat collar, lowers his head and presses on.
As he walks he thinks of the BMW driver. As they travelled, more about her had emerged. He now had her name: Megan Phillips. She lived in the village of Lyndhurst. She lived alone since her marriage had broken down. He also had the registration number of her vehicle. Enough to find her if he wanted. He didn’t know what the next few days would bring, if he would escape with his life. But if he did, and he needed a place to hide, spending time in the company of Megan would be a good option.
The coach station is as rundown as expected. The bus to London is waiting but he has time to buy a ticket before climbing aboard and finding a seat next to a window.
There are a number of empty seats yet, just before the coach pulls out, a middle-aged man with unkempt hair chooses to sit next to him. He’s been drinking, even at this early hour. Cargill can smell it on him. And he wants to talk
“You’re a professional man. What are you doing on a rickety old crate like this?”
Cargill says nothing.
The drunken man ploughs on. “Doesn’t take much to respond to your fellow human being, you know.”
Again, Cargill remains silent.
“It’s gonna do you no harm to show some concern for someone who’s down on his luck.”
So, this is it. He’s about to ask for money. This is something of a dilemma. If Cargill weakens and hands over some of the cash Marsha has left him, the drunkard will be pleased. But at the same time, this is just what would stick in his memory. If the police were to interview the passengers on the coach, he would be able to identify him.
Cargill decides on another strategy. The man is the type to be influenced. He reaches down, takes hold of the man’s thigh and begins to squeeze. Hard.
When the drunkard starts to protest, Cargill squeezes harder and looks him square in the eyes. “I’ll say this once. Listen and listen carefully. When I let go, you’ll get up and find another seat. You’ll say nothing, understand? If anyone asks, you’ll deny ever having seen me. Cross me and I’ll find you and I’ll kill you, understand?”
The drunkard’s lips tremble as he replies. “I didn’t mean any harm, mister. You won’t hear of me again, I promise.”
Cargill releases his hold on the man’s leg and he moves away without another word. He will remember but his fear will prevent him from saying anything.
Time to settle back and endure the journey.
CHAPTER 66
Spring Vale is a Victorian property that, like so many large houses in Tunbridge Wells, has been converted for use as a care home. It has landscaped lawns with gravel walkways between blossom trees where the residents can relax when the weather is fine.
The trip from Charing Cross has taken just under an hour. All the way down here, I’ve tried and failed to resist the need to call Sophie. There is so much I want to tell her. But Sophie is in Court. Our conversation will have to wait.
When I ask at reception for Deborah Wilsden, the manager, a balding man with bulging eyes, demands the reason for the visit. I lie and say I’m Deborah’s niece.
“Why didn’t you make an appointment, Miss Chamberlain?”
I produce my best smile. “I was down here on business and found I had a few hours to spare and then I thought wouldn’t it be nice to call in on Aunt Deborah. It’s been too long since I last saw her and I’m sure it will raise her spirits. How is she?”
“Better than expected, today. But she has good days and bad days, as do most of our residents.”
“Then it’s a suitable time to see her?”
He pauses for what seems too long a time. “All right. I can give you one hour. Then she’ll need to rest.”
I’m shown to a lounge on the first floor where a dozen or so well-dressed women sit in upholstered chairs and say little to each other. From the lack of life in their faces, it’s easy to believe each is locked in their own private world most of the time.
When the manager pauses and speaks to the grey-haired woman nearest the window, I have to concentrate. It doesn’t matter that Deborah won’t recognize me, but I would be expected to know who Deborah is. I struggle to hold in my mind the images of Deborah I’ve seen on the phone. This woman looks so much older. That’s what places like this do to you. But I decide to offer no sign of recognition.
The manager moves on. He must have been testing me. It’s clear I’ve passed when he goes to the end of the line and stops beside a frail, thin-looking woman. “Deborah. You have a visitor.”
Deborah looks up without any sign of recognition in her eyes and says nothing. But this is a common enough response here.
The manager turns to me and continues. “You can talk in our sunroom. It’s more private there.”
A nurse comes forward and helps Deborah into a wheelchair. I follow them to the sunroom where, after Deborah is made comfortable, we are left alone.
I begin. “Do you know who I am?”
Deborah looks back at me for a long time without replying. But then a sign of recognition spreads across her face. “I thought you’d come. Why not before now?”
“It’s not been easy to find you.”
She holds out a hand for me to hold. “Well, you’re here now, that’s the main thing.”
I can’t be sure what this means. Who does this woman think is visiting her? I’m careful not to push ahead too hard. “Are they looking after you?”
Deborah looks away and doesn’t reply.
I try again. “You can tell me.”
Still no reply. Deborah looks back with a vacant expression.
There has to be a key to regaining her attention. “Father sends his love.”
Deborah jerks to life. The look on her face is more one of fear than of interest. “He’s not here, is he? I asked them to tell me if he was on his way.”
“No, there’s just me.”
She grips my hand more firmly. “I never meant to let him do you harm, you understand that, don’t you? But he was always so much in control of everything; I didn’t have a chance to protect you. I should have said something. I’m going to carry that with me until my dying day.” She pauses and looks back with more intent. “And when you disappeared, I could only blame myself. I’ve waited all these years for you to come back so I can say how sorry I am.”
I struggle to understand what Deborah is saying. “When I disappeared?”
“They searched and searched and said you’d probably died. But I knew you’d find a way to survive.” She pauses again. “Dearest Jenny, will you forgive me? Tell me it’s all worked out for the best.”
I don’t think twice. It would be cruel not to set her mind at rest. “Of course it has, mother. Of course it has.”
There are tears in Deborah’s eyes. “It’s the happiest day of my life.”
I pull a tissue from my bag and offer it to her. “No need for tears.”
We sit in silence. I try to recall a time when I felt safe and secure in the company of this woman. Secure enough to call her mother.
There are no memories, but there are feelings which, when they come, are fractured and filled not with love but with anguish, guilt and pain.
It’s a past I can only venture into at great cost to my sense of worth in the here and now. Yet it’s
a place I will have to come to terms with before I can move on.
Deborah breaks the silence. “You’ll come to see me again?”
I give her a kiss on the forehead. “Of course I will.”
CHAPTER 67
When Ives returns to Lions Yard, Lesley is waiting. “You made it back from Assent Trust in good time?”
She nods. “Nothing much left to see there, Steve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, how does this grab you? They have no records that predate 2009. There was a fire and all paper records were destroyed.”
“So, what about what they kept online?”
Lesley smiles. “To call their digital set up remedial would be a compliment. They had nothing digitized at the time of the fire. So all they have postdates 2009.”
“They gave you access?”
“Yes. But all that gives us is a listing of recent adoptions. I can’t find any relevance in that.”
“You came away empty-handed?”
“Not quite. I discovered what you might call a significant new person of interest.” She pauses to pull up a list on her screen. “This is the Membership of the Board of Trustees.” She points to the names on the list. “Our three victims, Cavendish, Bishop and Finch are all here, as we already knew. But look at who else is here.”
Ives squints at the name that she’s highlighted. “Wilsden. Raymond Wilsden.” He steps back. “You must be joking!”
Lesley doesn’t smile. “Think about it, Steve. Wouldn’t you say at the very least it’s an interesting coincidence that before she died Marsha Kent was trawling the Assent site looking for something and we have here on the Board of Trustees not just our three victims but also Raymond Wilsden, the copper who put her lover, Brian Cooper, in prison?” She pauses. “Aren’t you the one who always says there’s no such thing as coincidence?”
He turns from the screen. “And then there are times when I wish I’d never said such a thing.” He begins to walk away. “Could be another Raymond Wilsden?”