Innocent Blood E-Book

Elizabeth Corley

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DCI Andrew Fenwick
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 791

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

They watched as the car burnt. A smell of gasoline mingled with the throat-catching stench of melting rubber, almost masking the sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh. No one spoke. The time for recriminations and the appointment of blame would come. For now they were united by the need to cover up a crime and destroy the evidence. As DCI Fenwick investigates a powerful and predatory paedophile ring and Inspector Nightingale is left to deal with an ex-serviceman turned vigilante, they are both forced to ask themselves: when is a murderer not a murderer, and how far are they prepared to go to see justice done?

Leseprobe

For Jane and Neil, with love always, because family matters.

Contents

Title PageDedicationPROLOGUEPART ONECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINEPART TWOCHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENPART THREECHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOPART FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONEPART FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTCHAPTER THIRTY-NINECHAPTER FORTYCHAPTER FORTY-ONEEPILOGUEAbout the AuthorAvailable from ALLISON AND BUSBYCopyright

PROLOGUE

SEPTEMBER, PRESENT DAY

He edged back into a dusty seat on the last train from London to Harlden and let go a sigh that he seemed to have been controlling for the whole of his life. Andrew Fenwick was emotionally and physically drained. All he wanted to do was lay his head back and close his eyes but he couldn’t and it wasn’t the greasy cushion that stopped him, but his conscience. Earlier that evening he had finally found the answer to a neglected crime that had remained unsolved for more than two decades. Instead of feeling elated, success had left him facing the worst dilemma of his career.

As a result of what he now knew, a good man’s fate lay in his hands, and while his duty as a police officer was clear, it was, uniquely, at war with his sense of what was right. The unexpected conflict was eating into him, making him feel too old for his job. He closed his eyes and tried to think calmly about his dilemma but it was impossible. The burden was his alone and no amount of wishful thinking could make it vanish. He had no choice but to decide a man’s future and only the breathing space of his journey home in which to do so.

He blinked hard to keep himself awake and his gaze fell to his hands where they lay loosely on his thighs. For a fanciful moment he imagined the man’s liberty in his left hand and the sentence that society would pass on him were the truth ever known in his right. Revealing it would be a boost to his career at a time when he was being considered for promotion despite a singular lack of sponsorship from the powers on high. The fingers of his right hand started to curl subconsciously as if he were plucking his advancement from the stale air. Then he clenched both fists tight and relaxed his muscles slowly as he acknowledged the futility of his thoughts. His problem remained and the decision he made would be a defining moment in his life.

The train rattled on as it gathered speed, swaying over points, flashing past stations already closed for the night, taking him towards a time in the future when the decision would have been made and fate decided. He stared ahead, trying to discern what that resolution might be but it was a pointless exercise, a way of wasting time and he despised himself for it.

He’d always considered himself a man who could make difficult decisions, had even thought it one of his strong points but now, when he was really tested, he realised that he was no Solomon. So he resorted to a familiar remedy when his mind became recalcitrant and dry; he pulled out a notepad and opened his pen. At the top of a fresh sheet of paper he wrote down the question that had been circling in his mind like a child’s riddle without answer ever since he’d discovered the truth: When is a murderer not a murderer?

The words confronted him. The crime he had solved was murder after all, not some petty misdemeanour. With an audible grunt of frustration he ripped the page from the pad and screwed it up, stuffing it into his pocket so that his thoughts wouldn’t join the litter on the carriage floor. His watch ticked past midnight as he smoothed his palm across a fresh page, preparing himself.

He wrote down the man’s name – his real one. Beneath it he drew a line down the centre of the page. On one side he listed the harsh facts of his guilt; on the other he wrote out the case for the defence, so strong he needed more paper. Then he stared at his work, imagining he was judge and jury. There were so many reasons to grant a lenient sentence but he had no right to make that decision. Could he betray his years of dedicated, scrupulous law enforcement because – in this instance – he couldn’t trust the law to be merciful? Slowly, the pen moved across the virgin paper, staining it with his thoughts. Even more slowly his decision began to reveal itself. And finally, he arrived at his destination.

PART ONE

+EPTEMBER,1982

On the last day that his parents saw him alive Paul Hill cycled from home on a new bike that he was proud to claim he’d saved up for himself. It was the first day of the school year. He was fourteen but looked twelve, a reality that had begun to eat into his shaky self-confidence over the summer until his customary bravado had worn thin. It was enough to see him through the first day of school though, despite the jealous reaction to his bike and the sniggers behind his back, which he pretended not to hear.

He was on his own when he left the school gates, his sometime friends having run on ahead, shouting snide comments over their shoulders. He hadn’t been inclined to join them anyway, he told himself, as he turned his bike downhill, stroked the elaborate gear mechanism with a fleeting smile of pleasure and raised himself up in the saddle. Before he reached the road he braked suddenly. He had forgotten that he was meant to be meeting someone, despite all the trouble he had gone to constructing careful lies for his teachers and parents in order to give himself the excuses he needed to miss choir practice but still be late home from school. These meetings, which had started as a glorious exciting secret, had become a source of deep anxiety. He wanted them to stop but that idea scared him too. Without consciously making a decision, he turned the bike around and started to pedal towards home, pumping more quickly the closer he drew.

When he got there he would pretend that he had a stomach ache. His mother would have one of her fits and send him straight to bed and his dad would call him a wimp but it would be worth it. If he really played up he might even be able to stay home from school for a few days.

He was taking his usual short cut when a familiar red car overtook him and pulled in to the lay-by ahead. He slowed obediently and watched the driver wind down his window.

‘Where are you going, Paul?’

‘Home.’ He wasn’t in the mood for a detour today.

‘But we had an agreement. I was expecting you.’

‘Don’t want to, not today.’

‘Go on, it’s early; you’ll not be missed.’

‘I’ve got homework and extra reading.’ He shifted his duffle bag between his shoulder blades and refused to meet the man’s eye.

‘Nice bike.’

Paul grunted, a monosyllabic sound that meant ‘So?’

‘Cost a lot I imagine.’

The reminder of how he’d earned his money made Paul’s insides burn.

‘Go away.’

‘Don’t be like that. We’re friends, remember, and friends are nice to each other.’

Paul shut his eyes, then opened them again and stared stubbornly at the dirt beneath his wheels. He didn’t have proper friends, not any more, and it was all this man’s fault.

‘I never want to see you again.’

The man laughed dismissively, as if Paul had made a bad joke.

‘Don’t be silly, of course you do; you can’t stop now.’

The words made him shiver.

‘But I don’t want to.’ He forced his mouth into its sad look, the one that always worked onhis mother.

‘Look, Paul,’ the man said in a firmer voice, ‘it’s not as if you have anywhere else to go. I’m the best friend you’ve got. I’ve never shared our secret, or showed anybody those photographs, have I? Because friends don’t betray each other.’

‘I’ve got tummy ache.’

‘Really.’ The man stepped out of the vehicle slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. With a glance down the empty road he walked around to the rear of the estate car and opened the door.

‘But…’ Paul could feel real tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

‘Pop your bike in, go on.’

The man smiled. It was the first friendly face Paul had seen since leaving home. Reluctantly, he dragged his bike through the gravel and let the man lift it into the car. When he saw the blanket he took an involuntary step back but the man rested his hand comfortingly on Paul’s shoulder and gave him that smile again, the one that was meant to make him feel special.

‘You can ride up front with me today, at least for the first bit. Get in. There’s some chocolate in the glove compartment. We can talk more on the way.’

And, now that the decision had been made for him, Paul did talk, almost non-stop. In the car he didn’t feel so bad; it was familiar, and although he now hated what he was about to do, it no longer scared him quite so much. He told the man about the bad things his friends were saying, the names they called him and how he’d tried to tell them they were wrong.

‘Have you told them about me?’

Paul shook his head.

‘And have they ever mentioned my name?’ The man asked the questions casually but Paul was careful with his answer.

‘No, never.’ He took a bite of chocolate so that he couldn’t talk anymore. The man patted his knee.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort things out. Now, it’s time to hop in the back.’

Fifteen minutes later Paul told himself he wasn’t scared even though the drive was taking a lot longer than usual and the smell of exhaust was making him sick. He clutched his duffle bag to his chest and drifted into a familiar fantasy world where he was brave, and tall and above all popular. Within its comfort he drifted asleep.

CHAPTER ONE

JUNE,PRESENT DAY

Castleview Terrace was tucked economically beside a remnant of Harlden’s ancient city wall, the houses designed to resemble almoners’ cottages with mellow stone and decorative brickwork. Each cottage had an element of individuality, though not so much as to disturb the pleasing regimentation of the sweeping crescent which sheltered beneath the remains of the Norman stonework.

The dark blue front door of the end cottage gleamed in the sunlight. Terracotta pots, overflowing with alyssum, lobelia and scarlet geraniums, flanked the step and gave the house a feminine touch that belied its solitary male occupant. He was taking advantage of the fine morning to edge a handkerchief of perfect green lawn, manipulating the shears skilfully around the picket fence which bordered his property. A rose had started to colonise its woodwork, white blooms mingling with red honeysuckle to fill the air with a welcoming fragrance for the too-occasional visitor.

‘Morning, Major Maidment.’

The man looked up and nodded to the postman.

‘Good morning, George.’

‘Just a bill today.’ George’s hand stretched out respectfully over the fence.

‘How is your lady wife? Quite recovered I hope?’

‘Fit as a fiddle, Major. She said to thank you for the flowers.’

‘My pleasure.’

Maidment waved the postman on his way and popped inside to make himself a cup of coffee. He measured semi-skimmed milk into the pan, regretting that he was no longer allowed the Cornish full-cream variety that had been his favourite since he was a boy. It seemed strange to take such care to extend this solitary life, but his doctor was conspiring to do so and he felt it would have been impolite to ignore his best intentions. He was rinsing his cup and saucer when the phone rang.

‘Maidment.’

‘Oh, Major. Good, you’re home.’

His expression settled into resignation as he pulled a chair closer to the phone and placed a cushion against his back.

‘Miss Pennysmith, how are you?’

It was not an empty enquiry. He knew that news of her ailments would now be described in detail, saving only those of a feminine nature deemed too sensitive to discuss. Ten minutes later Miss Pennysmith finally reached the purpose of her call.

‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a lift to church tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ His heart sank. ‘I’ll be round at oh-nine-hundred hours.’

‘Well, I wonder if you could make it a little earlier. I have two lightbulbs that need changing and I can’t reach them.’

He agreed to see her at half past eight.

Preparing, eating and tidying away after lunch took him through to two o’clock without a problem, though his eyes misted briefly as he dried the single plate, a precious remnant of the dinner service that had been a wedding present. Inevitably he thought of Hilary, even though nearly three years had ticked by since she had passed away. At the end he’d been grateful for that final soft breath. Such suffering as she had endured was surely the invention of the devil himself. He missed her terribly. Her quiet companionship and interest in the minutiae of his day had gone for ever leaving a vacuum that was at times almost unbearable.

He shook himself. This wouldn’t do; he was growing maudlin. Weekend afternoons were the worst. After a brief moment’s deliberation he determined to walk around the castle and then down to the river. It would be busy on a Saturday but that couldn’t be helped. The only other alternative was a round of golf but he rationed the number of times he played to prove to himself that he had not become dependent on the club and all it stood for. Besides, he was inclined to drink too much when he went there and then risk the short drive home.

The next morning, Maidment was adjusting his trilby and checking the trim of his moustache when his doorbell rang. He removed his hat and set it back precisely on the peg before opening the door.

‘Good heavens!’ He covered his mouth in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that—’

‘I know, I’m the spitting image, except that he would be considerably older than I am by now.’

The amiable young man extended his hand, which Maidment shook automatically.

‘Luke Chalfont. How do you do?’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Chalfont?’

‘I specialise in energy cost saving. Now, I know that’s not at the forefront of people’s minds in June but, as I’m sure a prudent man such as yourself will realise, it’s always better to plan properly and be prepared.’

The man’s eyes wandered from the major’s face for a moment as if scanning the hall but he returned his attention quickly. His patter continued as smooth as butter and it took Maidment some while to realise that he was a salesman touting an alternative gas supply.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Chalfont, but I was on my way out when you called and I have no interest in your company’s services.’

‘I quite understand. However, I have a small dossier containing facts and figures comparing our supply with others. Perhaps I could leave it with you to study at your convenience? If you decide that you are interested, just call me.’ He extended his hand. ‘My card.’

The salesman left with a cheery wave and was walking up the neighbour’s path as Maidment double-locked his front door.

Miss Pennysmith was a young-looking 67-year-old with an appetite for life that was being tested by the recent onset of arthritis, but she remained optimistic, believing equally in the healing powers of prayer and a positive mental attitude. She was living, as Jane Austen would have said, in reduced circumstances following the near collapse of the pension fund that was to have been her income in retirement. The one-bedroom flat, in a neighbourhood she would once have walked far to avoid, was all she could now afford following the sale of her house to realise additional capital on which to live.

For church she had chosen to wear a floral dress in pinks and greens that she felt complemented her complexion and strawberry-silver perm. Fresh coffee and home-made scones were ready on the table next to crisp linen napkins. Her sitting room smelt of baking and lavender from the polishing she’d completed the day before. Had it not been for the church her life would have been even harder but friends helped her with invitations to meals that were always over-catered and to shared outings towards which her contribution was reduced in a conspiracy she did not suspect and would have resented had she known.

The major arrived punctually and stood to attention on her doorstep.

‘Major Maidment! Would you like some coffee and a scone perhaps?’

‘I think I should see to the lights first, Miss Pennysmith.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Someone did them for me yesterday shortly after I called you. We have plenty of time.’

Maidment valued politeness above free expression so followed his hostess into her sitting room without comment. She was a silly woman and the little-girl dress she was wearing was unsuitable for someone her age, but in the fresh baking and recent evidence of cleaning he recognised an echo of his own loneliness. Consequently, he endured her chatter and schooled his face to amiability as he drank her excellent coffee and nibbled a scone.

After church, he declined her invitation to lunch and took his customary walk to the municipal cemetery and Hilary’s grave. He bought fresh flowers on the way, despite his lingering scruples against Sunday trading, and spent frustrating minutes trying to tease the white chrysanthemums and pink lilies into the pretence of an arrangement. His eyes grew moist as he thought again about how unfair life could be. Hilary had been ten years his junior, healthy and cheerful until her sudden, shocking illness. She would have been far more adept at coping with this business of grief; he should have been lying here. He should have gone first.

Maidment felt guilty for such selfishness immediately and chided himself for wishing this pain on her. God had a purpose in keeping him alive and God alone knew that he had sins enough to expiate before his soul was judged. Perhaps that was why he was still here, though he knew no amount of good works in the winter of his years would atone for the sins of his lifetime. The idea of hell terrified him and the cemetery suddenly became an awful place. Chastised, scared, he headed for his car and drove resolutely to the golf club where he would attempt to silence his conscience with excellent claret and the distraction of convivial company.

CHAPTER TWO

‘This is the second identical burglary this month.’

‘Let me see.’ Bob Cooper passed the report over to Detective Inspector Nightingale, fresh back from training at Bramshill and wearing her new rank with care. ‘A con man; good too. How does he persuade the old dears to trust him?’

‘He’s patient,’ Cooper explained, ‘doing odd jobs and never asking for payment. All the time he’s building up their trust then, bang, he’s gone and so have all their valuables.’

‘What’s NCS got on him?’

Cooper passed her a computer printout from national criminal records.

‘Plenty; he’s been working his way down the country for the past two years. Never does more than three to five jobs in an area. It was only a matter of time before he reached Sussex.’

‘Is this the e-fit? Good grief, he looks just like—’

‘Lord Lucan, I know but no one’s been able to catch him.’

‘It’s because each incident is treated as a minor crime – never gets to us – but if he runs to form we’ll have a chance to nail him before he moves on. Why don’t you go out to this one rather than leave it to MCS? I’ll arrange to have his likeness put in the local papers and distribute information to places pensioners are likely to visit.’

Nightingale perched on the side of his desk, swinging a long leg in an absent-minded gesture which would have been flirtatious in another woman. Cooper thought it bizarre that the most attractive woman in Harlden Police Station also managed to be the most remote.

She had no idea of the effect of her looks, or of the fact that a fair majority of the detectives considered her a hard-nosed upstart who had been over-promoted. Cooper returned his attention to the burglary report in front of him and to his new boss’s suggestions.

‘Seems like a lot of work for two minor crimes.’

‘I don’t call stealing the mementos of a person’s life for scrap value minor. Let’s catch the bastard before he does any more harm.’

Cooper picked up his keys, suitably chastened.

He parked his car in front of a poorly maintained block of flats and walked up to the fifth floor as the lift was out of order. A WPC in uniform greeted him at the door, her face pink with the July heat.

‘She’s inside, very tearful. I haven’t been able to get much from her but I’m hoping the sherry will help.’

Cooper stepped into the hall and recoiled from the ambush of chintz. Three different patterns collided in their demand for attention. It was worse in the cramped sitting room where frills and lace joined in the full-frontal assault. As a beige-and-tweed man it took him a moment to recover, not that the well-preserved lady, sitting among cushions festooned with plump peonies, was in a fit state to notice his discomfort.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cooper, Harlden CID, Miss Pennysmith.’

She dabbed at her eyes, but brightened visibly in the presence of a man, even one as unprepossessing as Cooper. Over a pot of tea he coaxed a familiar story from her. She had been robbed of everything of value: some costume jewellery, her only valuable ring left to her by her mother, her father’s medals and some silver picture frames containing portraits she missed more than the frames themselves. Almost two hundred pounds in cash was missing, the result of a year’s careful saving towards a much longed-for holiday. The proceeds of the theft would be considerably less than a thousand pounds but she had been robbed of more than possessions.

‘He was such a nice young man.’ She sniffed fresh tears away and took a sip of tea.

Her description confirmed that the thief Cooper had nicknamed Lucky had first visited Miss Pennysmith three weeks before when he’d successfully sold her a fictitious new gas supply. The next day he had returned and ripped up the contract before confessing, in tears, that it was a terrible deal and she should never have signed the papers.

Over tea and biscuits he had explained that his young son was ill and he needed to pay for private medical treatment. The commission on the contracts he sold would make the difference between his son’s recovery and a life of crippling illness. She had persuaded him to take a little cash in exchange for doing odd jobs about the flat. Within weeks he was a regular visitor, almost a trusted friend.

Cooper shook his head in frustration. Throughout that time Lucky had been learning her routine. The night before, he had gained entry using a duplicate door key that he’d had the cheek to leave behind after robbing her. Miss Pennysmith had been left feeling betrayed and a fool.

‘Is there anyone we can call on your behalf? Some family?’

‘I have a nephew who works in Hong Kong and my sister lives in Scotland but there’s no point calling either of them.’

She was persuaded to accept the company of a female neighbour, someone Miss Pennysmith had previously tried to avoid. As Cooper left, he heard the woman start a lecture against trusting strangers, which he thought unnecessary as he doubted Miss Pennysmith would ever trust someone she didn’t know again.

Jeremy Maidment pulled up outside Miss Pennysmith’s flat at oh-nine-hundred hours sharp the following Sunday. While he waited for the door to open, he rehearsed his excuses for not being able to join her for lunch. When it did, he was quite unprepared for the make-up-less, strained face that peered over a newly fitted safety-chain. Her eyes filled with confusion.

‘Jeremy, what are you doing here?’ A fluttering hand strayed to her untidy jumble of pink-white curls.

‘It’s Sunday, Miss Pennysmith. We are to go to church. Margaret, are you all right?’

His concern brought forth a flood of tears. Some time later, church forgotten, he assembled the fragments of her story into a more or less coherent whole. He was filled with indignation and a desire to take action but none of his feelings showed in his face.

‘Why don’t you stay with your sister for a few days? Scotland will be lovely at this time of year.’

‘I don’t think she’d welcome me. She and her husband lead busy lives.’

‘Nonsense. When she hears what’s happened she’s sure to want to help.’

‘I doubt it.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘Mary’s always telling me “three’s a crowd”.’

Maidment understood. He could picture Margaret flirting at the breakfast table in Perth, while her sister bit her lip and her brother-in-law swallowed embarrassment with his coffee. But she couldn’t stay here to mope around the flat, too scared to step outside her front door.

‘Let me speak to her. I’ll explain what you’ve been through.’

He retreated to the hall to place the call. The conversation lasted a long time but when he returned he was smiling.

‘That’s sorted. She’s looking forward to seeing you. I’m going to arrange your train tickets and call her to say when you’ll be arriving. Now, I know it’s early but I think we could both do with a sherry.’

Special prayers were said for Miss Pennysmith at the evening service and the major was pressed for news. He made a point of speaking to every woman in the congregation whom he knew lived alone, to urge them to be on their guard.

The matter stayed at the back of his mind until he was queuing to buy stamps the following week. The police poster by the counter brought him up with a start. Errand forgotten, he walked home briskly.

‘A Major Maidment on the phone, Bob. Wants to talk to the officer in charge of the Pennysmith case. Says he has information that might be helpful.’ The duty sergeant put the call through.

‘Detective Sergeant Cooper. How can I help you?’

‘Jeremy Maidment here, Briar Cottage, Castleview Terrace, Harlden. I think I’ve met the man who robbed Miss Pennysmith. He called at my house three weeks ago.’

‘I see. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him since, have you?’

‘No, but he did leave his card. I wondered whether I should invite him round so that you might arrest him.’

Cooper stifled a laugh. Whoever heard of a thief leaving a calling card?

‘Jolly good idea, sir. Why don’t you do that and call me back with the appointment details?’

He was telling his mate George Wicklow the latest joke when the front desk called.

‘Major Maidment’s down here. Says he’s arranged a meeting with a thief for oh-nine-hundred hours tomorrow and wishes to discuss your plans for deployment.’

The laughter had disappeared from Cooper’s face by the time he reached the dowdy interview room on the ground floor that they kept for walk-ins. Maidment was standing with his back to the window, at ease. He was shorter than Cooper and many pounds lighter, despite broad shoulders beneath an immaculate blazer. His face was weathered by foreign suns and the ruddy skin contrasted with sandy-white wavy hair, moustache and pale blue eyes.

His handshake was firm but not overpowering. On the table between them he had laid out a hand-drawn plan of his house with access points marked. Before Cooper had a chance to speak, he tapped it.

‘I thought three men upstairs, two in the garden to the rear, three plainclothes outside plus two downstairs with me.’

Cooper noted the scale of the drawing and completed some surprisingly quick mental arithmetic to deduce that they’d be falling over each other.

‘An interesting suggestion, Major, but that many officers would attract attention. I think we need something more “covert”, shall we say.’ He was rather proud of his subtlety.

They agreed that four officers, plus Cooper, would take up position in and around the house by seven-thirty.

‘You’re absolutely sure that you won’t be armed, Sergeant?’ Maidment looked disappointed.

‘No, sir. We don’t have grounds to request armed back-up. There’s no mention of a weapon being used in his many previous crimes and no one has been hurt during his break-ins.’

‘Hmm; one can never be too careful. You think they’re harmless then, BANG! they’re shooting up the place and you’ve lost a good man.’ His eyes stared back briefly into a past beyond Cooper’s experience. ‘Still, it’s your operation. I won’t second-guess the officer in charge. I’ll see you and your men at oh-seven-thirty sharp tomorrow.’

That evening, as he watched an unconvincing documentary on the Falklands War, Maidment unlocked the case that held his service revolver and cleaned the gun with care. He loaded six rounds, ignoring Hilary’s sceptical voice in his mind. It took him some time to decide where to conceal the weapon, before he chose the bread bin. If the blighter made a run for it, he’d be more likely to go through the kitchen to the back door than out of the front, which he would make sure was bolted. If that crook tried anything, he’d be ready for him, oh yes.

He slept well, as he always did before a mission. None of the enemy he had killed rested heavily on his conscience. When he did have nightmares, and they were thankfully rare, they were triggered by the memory of private transgressions and of one gross sin. But that balmy July night, the major slept the untroubled sleep of a child.

The dawn chorus woke him. He was showered, shaved and dressed before six. His shoes were already polished to a mirror finish, his trousers pressed. The prospect of seeing some action again excited him. He was about to help the police arrest a serial criminal and he was invigorated by a sense of purpose.

That Sergeant Cooper seemed solid enough, though he had never liked elbow patches, and a Prince of Wales check jacket was most unfortunate given the man’s build. But he was old for a policeman, which gave Maidment added confidence despite the shabbiness of his clothes.

Against his best intentions he started to fret about the arrangements. The gun was where he had left it – oiled, cleaned and loaded. He tested putting it in his jacket pocket, but of course it was far too big and he no longer had his holster. So he replaced it in the bread bin, finally deciding that he was ready.

Cooper cast a critical eye over the team he’d been given. The two uniforms, Perkins and Lee, were all right – he’d worked with them before and knew he could rely on them – but he’d drawn the short straw with the detectives who would be undercover outside. DC Partridge was a twenty-year veteran with a drink problem that remained a secret only to the superintendent in charge of Harlden Station. DS Rike had been good until a knife incident the previous year, but he’d only been back at work two months, most of which had been spent safely behind a desk.

Operations must have decided that this was a low-risk arrest, which would help their work records without being too difficult. They were going to confront a non-violent con man with no history of assault. Just the same, Rike looked pasty so Cooper assigned him to cover the service alley that ran behind the terrace gardens.

He watched as the detective donned a council worker’s green overalls and yellow reflective jerkin, before wheeling a cart and broom behind Maidment’s cottage garden. Partridge he consigned to a car parked up the road at the front, where he opened the day’s paper and promptly pretended to fall asleep; at least Cooper hoped it was an act.

The major was waiting for him inside, impeccably dressed in jacket and tie despite the early heat. He looked calm but Cooper sensed a tension about him that caused him a moment’s concern. The last thing he needed was a case of citizen’s heroics.

Cooper, Perkins and Lee drank fresh coffee and waited. There was no small talk; it wasn’t Maidment’s style and Cooper had never mastered the art. Shortly after eight, the two uniformed men disappeared – Constable Perkins upstairs and Lee to the dining room, while Cooper sneaked into the downstairs cloakroom and perched on the lowered toilet seat. He heard Maidment washing their cups and clearing away. Rike and Partridge called in by radio on cue and he was relieved that they sounded alert.

At half past eight Partridge announced Chalfont’s arrival over the radio, which was followed seconds later by a ring from the doorbell. Cooper heard voices, loud in the small house.

‘Ah, Mr Chalfont, come in. You’re rather early.’

‘Never like to leave a potential client waiting.’

‘Would you like some coffee? I’m just making some.’

‘Thought I could smell it, but don’t go to any trouble on my account.’

The plan was that Maidment would close and lock the front door and then lead Chalfont into the sitting room before retreating to the kitchen on the pretext of making coffee. Cooper, backed up by the two uniformed constables, would then arrest the suspect while he was waiting for Maidment’s return.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go according to plan, as Cooper was later to put in his report. Instead of sitting down Chalfont followed the major into his kitchen.

‘Please, I can do this; go and make yourself comfortable.’

‘No problem, I need to see the appliances anyway. Where’s your boiler?’

There was silence. Cooper looked up from his seat on the throne and stared at the appliance in question.

‘Ah…’ The confusion in Maidment’s voice was obvious. ‘I’ve only just moved in. Let me see, it’s—’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’m an expert. I bet it’s in the cloakroom.’

The door opened before Cooper could hide. For a moment the two men stared at each other then Cooper gathered his wits and said firmly:

‘Police! You’re under ar—’

The punch knocked the breath from his body and he doubled over. Wheezing, he heard the sounds of a scuffle in the narrow hall and look up to see Lee land painfully on his behind. There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs as Perkins hurtled down, slamming into Cooper, who was in the process of hobbling along the hall. Perkins tripped and almost fell. Cooper squeezed past him into the kitchen in time to see Chalfont land another punch, this time on Maidment’s nose. Blood spurted out, spattering both men’s jackets. Instead of giving way, Maidment squared up to his attacker and landed a solid right to the side of Chalfont’s jaw.

Cooper struggled to stand straight and rushed at Chalfont but the man picked up a bread knife and started waving it wildly in front of his face. DC Partridge was banging on the bolted front door while Rike hovered white-faced outside the kitchen window. Perkins and Lee were backed up in the hall behind Cooper.

‘Let’s all calm down, shall we?’ Cooper’s voice was laboured and his stomach felt on fire. ‘Take it easy there – Luke, isn’t it? There are five officers here and more on the way. There’s no point making matters worse with threatening behaviour. Put the knife down.’

Both he and Maidment were within striking distance of the blade. Cooper told Perkins to stay out of the room, hoping the lad would have enough sense to obey an order. He heard Lee unlock the front door but there was nothing they could do with the advantage of numbers as the kitchen was too small. In the sudden silence Maidment, Chalfont and Cooper eyed each other warily.

‘I won’t go to prison.’ Chalfont’s voice held a tremor of panic.

‘Who’s said anything about prison? Let’s not jump to conclusions, but wielding that knife won’t help you. Put it down, son.’

‘I’m not your son and who do you think you’re kidding?’ Cooper heard the rising note of hysteria and watched with growing concern as Chalfont’s hand started to tremble. ‘I’m going to leave now and you’re not going to stop me. Open that door.’

Chalfont turned to Maidment and gestured with the knife, then swung back to Cooper, who had risked a step forward.

‘Keep away!’

In the instant the two men confronted each other, Maidment opened the bread bin, pulled out a gun and pointed it at Chalfont’s chest.

‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere, sonny.’

Chalfont’s mouth dropped open. Cooper became aware that his own was agape in shock.

‘Put the gun away, Major. That isn’t going to help.’

He stared at the two armed men and wondered who looked more dangerous. Chalfont was shaking all over as he backed away, while Maidment remained calm except for a small tic at the corner of his eye. Cooper had the horrible impression that he might actually be enjoying himself.

‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, I have the situation under control. I’m not going to let that bastard get away, not after what he did to Miss Pennysmith.’

His words drove Chalfont even further away, unaware of how close he now was to Cooper. The man with the gun was the only thing he was focused on. Cooper lunged for the knife and locked his right hand around the man’s wrist. Chalfont swivelled in his grasp and jerked his left elbow sharply into Cooper’s aching stomach. His hold weakened and Chalfont swung the knife up to Cooper’s neck.

There was a deafening report. An expression of confusion covered Chalfont’s face, then he started to scream. The knife fell as he grabbed his thigh and tried to stop the flow of bright arterial blood that was pumping out over the kitchen units and walls to puddle on the floor.

Maidment kicked the knife away and pulled a tea towel from the drawer to apply pressure expertly on the wound. Chalfont screamed louder.

‘Hold this, Sergeant Cooper, while I call an ambulance.’

‘If you’ll just give me the gun first, sir.’

Cooper stretched out his hand and took the pistol delicately between thumb and index finger before folding a towel around it and passing it back to Perkins.

‘Ambulance is already on its way, sir,’ the constable said, ‘and back-up.’ Perkins was staring anxiously at the growing pool of blood.

‘That compress is already soaked through,’ Maidment observed, still unnaturally calm.

He found another freshly laundered tea towel and applied it to the thigh himself. Chalfont shrieked and passed out.

‘Best way. Blighter would have been in agony. At least now he won’t know a thing until he’s comfortable in hospital.’

He spoke without a trace of emotion, causing Cooper and Perkins to exchange a bewildered look. Cooper cleared his throat.

‘Major, do you have a licence for that gun?’

‘Licence? Hmm.’ Maidment scratched his chin with his free hand. ‘Do I need one? It’s my service revolver. Had it years. Never even thought about it. No, I don’t suppose I do.’

‘You should have cautioned him first, sir!’ Perkins hissed.

The reality of the situation slowly settled on Cooper. His shoulders sagged and he noticed the splashes of crimson about his trouser legs for the first time. Dot would be livid, he thought, and wished for a moment that he was at home with her now having a nice cup of tea. Instead, he forced himself to stand up and address the major.

‘Jeremy Maidment, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder. You are not obliged…’

‘Attempted murder? Good heavens, Sergeant, he was less than eight feet away. I was aiming to disable him, which I did successfully. Had I wanted to kill him, I can assure you—’

‘…to say anything but…’

‘Sergeant! Didn’t you hear me? I disabled a man who was about to slit your throat. I can understand you being a little concerned about my overlooking the need for a gun licence, but to suggest I tried to murder someone is utter nonsense.’

Cooper finished the caution, feeling the blood rise in his face to match the purple in Maidment’s. He was sorely tempted to explain the situation, even to apologise, but he knew that would be very unwise. Instead, they awaited the arrival of reinforcements in silence.

Ten minutes later, Constable Lee helped a still speechless Maidment into the back of a waiting police car while Cooper watched as paramedics strapped Chalfont to a stretcher, before speeding him away beneath the clamour of a siren. The sense of shock that had enveloped him since Chalfont had picked up the knife slowly gave way to foreboding that solidified as an ache in his injured stomach. He had cocked it up. A routine arrest had turned into a life-threatening incident as a result of which a man was bleeding to death and he had been forced to arrest a pillar of the community. There would be hell to pay but meanwhile he had more important concerns.

DS Rike was leaning against the kitchen wall sucking on a cigarette. There was a smell of fresh vomit beneath the smoke.

‘All OK?’

Rike nodded and took a long drag. Cooper noticed that his hand was shaking.

‘Back door was locked; I couldn’t get in.’

‘Right. The kitchen was crowded enough and he could have broken out. You needed to cover the exit.’

Rike nodded but was unable to meet Cooper’s eye.

‘Let’s go.’ Cooper rubbed his face, looking older than his fifty years.

‘What do you want me to say?’ Rike hadn’t moved.

‘Pardon?’

‘What shall we say? Who are we going for – Chalfont or Maidment? I reckon we could put it all on Chalfont; say he jumped the major, forcing him to defend himself. He’ll still have to cough to no licence but that will be a minor charge.’

Cooper realised where Rike was heading and held up his hand.

‘Don’t say any more, Richard. We’re going with the truth. There’ll be an inquiry; it’ll be bloody, but all you need to do is make a statement explaining exactly what you saw.’

Rike stared at him as if he were mad but shut up as instructed and followed him to the car.

Maidment spent a night in the cells and was released the following day after a call by an enraged Assistant Chief Constable Harper-Brown, who tore into Cooper for holding him in custody in the first place. No sooner had the call from the ACC finished than he was summoned upstairs to see the head of Harlden Station, Superintendent Quinlan.

Quinlan didn’t ask him to sit down.

‘This is a bloody farce!’ Quinlan hardly ever swore and use of the mild expletive had a disproportionate effect on Cooper. He felt very sick indeed and looked down at his shoes. ‘What the hell were you thinking of, taking so few men?’

‘I honestly don’t think having more officers there would’ve made any difference, sir, and Maidment gave no clue that he would turn the vigilante on us.’

Quinlan stared at him and shook his head.

‘The arrest of Maidment was poorly handled. We’re lucky that he’s not the sort of man to issue a complaint against us.’

‘He hasn’t?’

‘No, but the ACC has been on the phone and he’s very upset. Have you seen the papers?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘Even without a complaint we’re going to have some very negative PR. Harper-Brown has insisted on an inquiry.’

‘Oh, no.’ Cooper felt his knees sag. The look on his face must have been pathetic because Quinlan took pity on him.

‘It will be by another force and low key; quite a smart move. Should he come under pressure he can say that an investigation is already underway, and by staffing it from outside he can demonstrate independence.’

‘What should I do in the meantime, sir?’

‘Type up your reports and make sure that your team cooperate fully. And I don’t want you involved in the Maidment case in any way. Nightingale can take it forward. Pity you didn’t get her involved in the arrest.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The thought had already occurred to Cooper but the arrest had seemed routine, or so he told himself. At the back of his mind lurked the hint of suspicion that he’d wanted the credit for himself, not shared with the newly appointed inspector, even though he was one of her few fans.

After possibly the worst morning of his police career, Cooper retired to the canteen and sought comfort in food that was as bad for him as possible.

‘Fish ’n’ chips followed by treacle sponge and custard. What’s happened to your diet, Bob?’

Nightingale was standing by his table with a tray of food he just knew would make him feel worse.

‘Mind if I join you?’

He did mind but gestured to the empty seat opposite with his knife, then remembered his manners. He glanced at her plate. As he’d suspected, lots of green stuff. Look at her, glowing with health. He wondered who she was seeing these days. There were rumours that it was Andrew Fenwick but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

As they ate he waited for her to mention the Maidment debacle. He had his defence ready but she just chatted about a film she’d been to see the night before. Eventually, he said, ‘You could make a bloody film out of my life right now.’

‘I heard. Do you want to talk about it?’

He opened his mouth to say no but found himself reliving the previous thirty-six hours instead. She listened without interruption. Skin formed on his custard.

‘I don’t think you did anything wrong, Bob. Perhaps you could’ve had an officer in the kitchen but what good would that have done? Chalfont would only have threatened him instead. What sort of inquiry is it going to be?’

‘Internal.’

‘That’s about as good as it gets. Your guardian angel must be working hard.’

She smiled at him encouragingly as he finished his last chip, chewing on it determinedly, despite the fact that it was stone cold. He refused to be comforted.

‘I’m deep in the doo-doo, trust me. Harper-Brown’s baying for blood…’

‘Unfortunate turn of phrase. Quinlan’s furious now but he’s a fair man. He won’t allow you to be a scapegoat.’

Cooper just shook his head, took a spoonful of congealed custard and then dropped it in disgust.

‘It’s not going to be up to Quinlan, is it? I’m already being tried in the press. There’ll be so much pressure on the ACC to “do something” that I’m dead meat. You wait, I’ll be lucky if I escape unretired.’

‘So you thought you’d eat yourself to death first.’ She laughed to take the sting out of her words and Cooper tried to join in. Despite his determination to be gloomy, Nightingale had made him believe in the possibility of a positive outcome and the flicker of hope brightened his day.

CHAPTER THREE

Andrew Fenwick stared down at the pungent mixture of earth and leaf mould beneath his feet and brought his emotions back under control. The fragments of bone that had been recovered so painstakingly were finally being transferred into rigid containers that would have looked more at home on an archaeological dig. The remains were too small to require a body bag. Despite his years of practised detachment, the grave site moved him deeply.

‘Boy or girl?’

‘I can’t tell you that with certainty until I’ve completed my analysis but I think it’s a boy given the pelvis.’ The forensic anthropologist spoke without rancour despite the premature questioning.

Fenwick didn’t know him other than by reputation; a supposedly exceptional professor who went by the unexceptional name of Grey, who had travelled from London to stand in while Sussex’s only expert was away on holiday.

‘Age?’

‘From the state of the teeth I’d say about twelve or thirteen, but I’m sure you know better than to quote me at this stage.’

Chris, Fenwick’s son, was almost nine.

‘But it’s not Sam Bowyer.’ It was a statement. Fenwick didn’t need a post-graduate medical qualification to work that out. He said it only to relieve some of the sadness that had rooted itself in his eyes and throat since he’d stared down at the top of the child’s skull earlier that morning.

‘Who?’

Fenwick looked at Grey in surprise. Sam Bowyer’s disappearance had been on the news for days but perhaps it had only been a local sensation. Eleven years old, from a good home but a terror at school, Sam had disappeared on Monday, last seen boarding a train to Brighton when he should have been in assembly. That was four days ago and he hadn’t been seen since, despite intensive work by Brighton Division.

‘Never mind. Can you tell how long the body’s been in the ground?’

‘At least two years but frankly it could be a lot more. Look, your best way forward will be to check through missing persons’ records as soon as I send you dental impressions. There’s very little for me to work with; the body’s completely skeletised and there are no obvious signs of trauma on the remains.’

‘Did you recover them all?’

‘Most, not all. Some of the small bones of the feet are missing.’ Grey stood up and removed his gloves with a snap. ‘You’ll have my preliminary report in twenty-four hours; detail will take a lot longer. If I do find anything interesting, I’ll make sure you’re informed.’

A brief shake of hands and the man was gone, threading through trees towards his black BMW parked on the narrow road above, already thumbing his phone and apparently unmoved by the contents in the sterile plastic boxes. Fenwick watched him go, hesitating at the scene though there was no need for him to linger, reluctant to return to the noise and distraction of his base in Burgess Hill.

Around him, the white-clad shoulders of crime scene technicians rose and fell as they subjected the immediate area to fingertip scrutiny. Perhaps they were speculating about why he was committing so much time and money to a search when the crime scene would have been degraded by the passage of time and the impact of the seasons. He didn’t care what they thought, or what his boss would say when he saw the bill for the work.

The thought of HQ made his mouth twist in distaste. The chatter and infantile humour in the team room were driving him mad with irritation, despite his best intentions. The banter seemed to go on nonstop, seasoned with crass jokes that failed to raise a ripple of amusement on his mirror-calm surface. He told himself to relax as he walked downhill to the bed of a stream that split the undergrowth. The casual working atmosphere was his own doing, the result of his experiment with a more ‘personal’ leadership style he had been advised to develop. But the attempt wasn’t working. How could he pretend to be someone he wasn’t, even for the benefit of his career?

He wasn’t considered one of the boys, never had been, never wanted to be and never would be. Having reached the rank of chief inspector without that nicety, it annoyed him that he was now supposed to affect some sort of chumminess so that his team would ‘relate to him more as a human being’. He could remember the words on his year-end performance review even after all this time and was unaware that he sneered whenever he recalled them. Relate. Well, he knew who’s stupid idea that had been.

His new boss, Assistant Chief Constable Harper-Brown, was unfortunately punctilious about assessing performance thoroughly. After years of benign neglect while working for Superintendent Quinlan, Fenwick hadn’t been prepared for the hour and a half interview he’d had with Harper-Brown, nor for the coruscating dissection of his personality that had passed for his assessment. Thinking about the meeting made his face burn with indignation.

He had half listened to H-B’s opening monologue with his customary knowing smile, the one that said, ‘OK you’ve got to go through this, so have I, let’s make it quick’. Unfortunately the ACC had other ideas. After ten minutes, when he was showing every sign of continuing strong, Fenwick tried to make an excuse and leave.

‘You have another meeting, Andrew? Then cancel it. You should have known better than to book something back to back with your review. We’ll need at least another hour.’

Fenwick had been too shocked to respond and started to listen properly for the first time. Naturally, he took the compliments for granted. He knew that his detection rate was excellent, that he inspired people to do their best, had integrity and drove his team to work hard and achieve results. Of course he did, that was his job. It was irrelevant, in his view, that he didn’t ‘nurture’ them even though he could have been ‘an exceptional role model’. So what? Those who had the gumption to learn from him did, and the others didn’t deserve to. What’s more, the good ones wanted to continue working for him and he had no interest in the others. So he’d shrugged H-B’s words aside, crossed his legs and kept his mouth shut. The less he said, he figured, the sooner the wretched meeting would be over.

Perhaps if he had managed to keep to his rule they wouldn’t have argued, but how was he supposed to sit there and listen to the garbage that the ACC moved on to next?

‘Try to celebrate success more, Andrew.’ It sounded like a phrase he’d picked up from one of the management textbooks that filled his bookcase.

‘What do you mean? I take them to the pub when we make a good arrest and I don’t charge the round to expenses like some I could mention.’

‘Yes, but you don’t linger there, do you?’

‘Trust me, the last thing my team wants is some stuffed shirt breathing down their necks trying to be pally after they’ve had a few. I always stay for a couple of hours but after that they’d rather be left well alone; I know I would.’

‘A quick visit to the pub is hardly an appropriate celebration, is it? This constant need for alcohol to play a part in team building is detrimental to the moral fibre of the force and bad for our image with the public.’

Fenwick couldn’t believe what he was hearing and had started to explain to his boss why he was so wrong. Big mistake.

‘Sir!’

One of the technicians was standing, waving something at him. Fenwick ran back up the hill, ignoring the twinge in his knee and pleased that he wasn’t breathless at the top. His jogging routine must be paying off; perhaps it was worth the tedium.

‘What have you got?’

‘A key. It was in the spoil from the grave and there’s some sort of identity tag with it.’

Fenwick peered but of course the scrap of metal meant nothing. It would take days of work to try and identify what the key was made of and from that to produce a list of manufacturers. But the discovery pleased him; it vindicated his insistence on a fingertip search of the ground in and around the grave.

‘Excellent,’ he said, and his spirits lifted.

He had respectful confidence in the Sussex Forensic Laboratory and real hope that the key would turn out to be significant. The advances in the science of crime fascinated him; they complemented his fundamental approach to detection: the belief that detailed, rigorous investigation would yield success in time. But he had to admit that most other aspects of modern policing bored him. The obsession with the latest management theories; the politics local and national; the need to be a statistician just to cope with the never-ending hunger for analysis: did they result in one more conviction? Answers on the back of a postcard, he thought. No, make that a postage stamp.

His problem was that for the past thirteen years he’d ignored the need to identify what it now took to work the way up the ladder, relying on his compulsion to solve crimes to see him through. Beyond that, he’d barely given his career a thought. His marriage, the arrival of two children in quick succession, his wife’s illness and then her slow decline had meant that there’d been no place left for ambition. When Monique had eventually died the year before, it was a blessed release for her and essential for the children, allowing them to grieve properly and move on. But turning off the life support machine had been the hardest thing he had ever had to force himself to do and the personal impact had been more devastating than he would have believed possible.

At first he’d simply been exhausted. Then the hunt for a serial killer – a particularly complicated and deadly case – had consumed him. But once he had the murderer in custody, the grief he had unknowingly been holding at bay engulfed him, though no one, not even those closest to him, would have known. Despair and fury had almost overwhelmed him, would have done probably had it not been for the children, who needed him more than ever. He couldn’t let them down. For more than three months, as the previous autumn declined into winter, he had withdrawn into himself, maintaining a pretence of engagement by swinging violently between the extremes of immersing himself in the children and working too hard.

How long he would have stayed in his semi-vegetative state was anybody’s guess but he had been jolted back to reality by the offer of a transfer to head up West Sussex Major Crimes’ Squad, reporting directly to ACC Harper-Brown. It wasn’t exactly a promotion – his rank remained unchanged – but the previous incumbent had been a superintendent and it was clear from the way the opportunity was presented that promotion might follow if he did well.

At first Fenwick had declined the opportunity, claiming that he couldn’t risk the impact on his family, but his old boss Superintendent Quinlan had refused to accept the decision. He’d dragged him away from the station to a pub in the backwoods of Sussex where they wouldn’t be recognised and proceeded to get the pair of them drunk. In his cups, Fenwick found it impossible to maintain his façade. Once he started talking it all came out. Quinlan had listened without interruption, suddenly sober and wise, an unsentimental man moved by what he heard.