The Innocent Ones

by The Innocent Ones (retail) (epub)

  No, it was the lack of progress since that plagued him. It had been five weeks and they’d unearthed no evidence that had led to any suspects. No child’s death should go unpunished.

  They’d done the usual stuff, knocking on the doors of known paedophiles, and the town had enough of those, the family fun of the seaside acting like a magnet, the molesters hovering around the arcade machines, offering cigarettes and drink. It had never been about the scenery.

  He’d visited the ones they knew about, and most had been on the clifftop that day. None had cracked though, even when they’d been taken on one of those long drives that used to work in the old days, two large officers crowding him in the back, their hands gripping his knees, just a threat of pain, enough to make most of them start talking. These people hunted in packs, Porter knew that, sharing stories and pictures, but no one knew anything. It was as if the town was moving on, leaving William behind as the skies got bluer and the days got warmer.

  This was the town’s first major event since then, the three rugby pitches in a large park in the middle of town given over to bouncy castles and small rides, a way for the club to make some money for the next season. There’d been talk of cancelling it because of William’s murder, but Porter had promised a stronger police presence, particularly as the focus was on the children. There was a maypole in the centre of the main pitch, local children skipping with the ribbons, the girls in pretty yellow dresses, the boys in black trousers and white shirts, music distorted by a loudspeaker. Morris dancers gathered at one end of the field, some banging their sticks together, pints in their hand, some with their faces painted, bright blue above long beards.

  The crowd wasn’t as large as for the bonfire, and it didn’t attract the drunks. There was the rugby team, of course, but they were in the bar, happy to spend the afternoon singing songs and doing whatever men do when left alone for a few hours. Outdoors, it was mainly families with small children who’d spotted a cheap afternoon, but Porter was still conscious of the crowd. Vigilant, wary.

  The post-mortem on William had confirmed that his death was a crime, not an accident. There were cuts on William’s body, hints of torture, small regular slice marks on his chest and neck. His head had been bashed in with a piece of loose concrete, dust and shards embedded in his skull. There’d been no sign of any sexual assault, which had surprised him the most. If there was no sexual motive, what was the reason behind it?

  They’d looked at William’s father at first, wondering whether his despair was all a ruse and he’d attacked his own son to get back at his mother, but there was no evidence of blood on his clothes or hands.

  Revenge was another possibility, because William’s father was a petty crook, getting by on scams and dodges, like fiddling benefits and doing bad repairs on pensioners’ chimney stacks and overcharging them. That gave him enemies.

  Porter didn’t go with that theory. He’d upset a few people, but they’d go for the father, not the son. What sort of person would target a six-year-old boy for something like that?

  Porter’s own theory was a sexual motive, and, for whatever reason, the attacker couldn’t finish the job. Was William struggling too much? Was he about to escape, a quick bolt up the steps and into the crowds, showing his cuts and crying and jabbing his finger down the steps, drawing the attention of the mob? It was dark on the beach, and the steady crash of the tide would have obliterated the sounds of someone escaping along the pebbles.

  It was the only theory that made sense, but it hadn’t got beyond a theory. No one had seen William go off with a stranger. No reports of a reluctant child trying to get away from an adult. No tips from anyone who’d heard rumours. The forensic trail hadn’t revealed anything apart from some white fibres underneath William’s fingernails. From a shirt was Porter’s guess, which at least narrowed any search down to someone dressed in smart clothes.

  Porter meandered through the crowds, past small children with dripping ice creams and to the background noise of roundabouts and those small cars that rock backwards and forwards when a coin is inserted. It was wholesome summer fun.

  Or so it seemed. As he looked, he thought the parents were staying closer to their children than the year before, their eyes focused, always looking out for the stranger amongst them.

  Perhaps the town hadn’t moved on after all. The local weekly paper updates had dwindled to mentions of nothing to report, but people in the town knew the threat was still there. There were officers patrolling the perimeter, keeping an eye on everyone who left, discreet, not wanting to alarm anyone.

  A scream broke the peace. Porter whirled round, trying to place it, his heart racing, butit was followed by laughter. Just teenagers messing around, throwing water at each other. He thought about going over and asking them to stop, but it was the kind of behaviour he needed to hear. Unrestrained fun. Kids being kids.

  Then he spotted her.

  A woman was rushing around, shouting into the bushes that edged the park, other people joining her. Murmurs spread through the crowd.

  He started to run, the panic in the woman’s expression telling him what was happening before he got there. As he got close, someone grabbed his arm.

  ‘She can’t find her girl.’

  Porter brushed her off and carried on to the woman, who was looking around, her hands clasped to her head, her fingers in her hair.

  ‘Madam, what’s happening?’ Porter tried to keep his voice calm, but he knew the answer.

  ‘I can’t find her. She’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s gone?’

  ‘My daughter, Ruby. She’s only seven. She was just here with me, but she wanted to go on the bouncy castle. I watched her go and then I was talking, and when I looked round, she was gone.’ She burst into tears. ‘Please find her. Please.’

  Porter got on his radio. Every nerve in his body told him what was happening, but that didn’t stop him praying, no, please not again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Present Day

  Dan rubbed his eyes as he waited for the prosecutor to answer her phone.

  He used to like early mornings. Any plans defence lawyers have for the day are always ruined by the chaotic lives their clients lead, getting arrested at inconvenient times, or by court hearings dragging on much later than expected. The time before nine o’clock was preciously quiet, with no interruptions, just the office in silence, allowing him to catch up on all the various bits of paperwork that make up the less glamorous side of criminal law.

  He’d been in his office since seven o’clock, but he was tired, not energised. Nick Connor’s case had kept him awake, a nagging feeling that he wasn’t seeing the whole picture. It had snapped him alert at six o’clock, and any thoughts of a restful start to the day disappeared.

  He’d left Jayne asleep in his spare room. There wasn’t much she could do this early, and he guessed she wanted the sleep. They’d sunk two bottles of wine and reminisced. She’d reminded him that he didn’t laugh enough, as they caught up on their lives since they’d last seen each other.

  But it was morning now and back to business. Another read of the file might reveal something for her to investigate, so he’d read the file again, until it felt like he knew it almost verbatim. The day had got brighter outside, the low sun reflecting back from the shop windows on the other side of the street, starting to get back its normal rhythms, with the rumble of stop‑start traffic and the clip-clop of heels.

  He’d recalled something Barbara had said, and that had driven him into work so early. Since then, he’d been checking his watch and the time was crawling forward. It was time now, he was sure of it.

  He had the prosecutor’s direct dial.

  It rang out a few times, and he wondered whether he’d called too early, but then it was answered with a breathless, ‘Hello, Zoe Slater.’

  ‘It’s Dan Grant, calling about the Nick Connor case.’

  ‘You’re bright and early.’

  ‘And I was up late, too. Can you talk?’


  ‘Yeah, sure. I was about to make a drink, but it’s too busy in the kitchen anyway. Sometimes it feels like people don’t have breakfast at home. They bring it into work.’

  ‘The joys of flexitime. Why dine in your own time when you can do it in someone else’s?’

  ‘What about Nick Connor? Make me start my day with a smile by telling me he’s pleading guilty.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, but I want to know about the place Mark Roberts was renting. Some small holiday rental. Have I got that right?’

  ‘He was staying at a small cottage on the edge of town. Why?’

  ‘I want to know about the search.’

  ‘I thought Connor’s defence was that he was just a curious passer-by, nothing more. Why does a search of the victim’s holiday rental become relevant?’

  ‘If Nick Connor is telling the truth, someone else did it, and there might be a good reason.’

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit last minute? The trial’s next week.’

  ‘It’s just a quick question. What’s on his laptop?’

  ‘Laptop?’

  ‘Mark Roberts was a writer researching a book. He’ll have had a laptop, and there might be something on it.’

  ‘What like?’

  ‘A lead, a clue.’

  ‘And you think the police ignored it? A team of detectives trying to track his murderer, and they didn’t bother following an obvious lead?’

  ‘Come on, Zoe, you know how it works. Once they had Nick, they stopped looking.’

  ‘You’re fishing, Dan.’

  ‘And won’t the jury love it when I ask DCI Hogg what leads they pursued from it?’

  Dan listened as she drummed her fingernails on the desktop before responding, ‘Give me a few minutes.’

  ‘And if the police seized it, we’ll want to examine it.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Keep clawing in desperation.’ She hung up.

  Dan went to the kitchen to make a drink, the office still quiet. As he returned to his office, his mug in his hand, his phone rang. It was Zoe.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said.

  ‘It was easy, because there was no laptop seized. They didn’t find one.’

  ‘Interesting. A journalist is in the north, pursuing a story, and you don’t find a laptop. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘His stuff was taken. His wallet. His phone. Maybe a laptop too.’

  ‘You think he’d have loitered in the park with his laptop? Have you ever been there? It’s not on the way to anywhere. He was waiting for someone.’

  ‘People do strange things. Sorry, Dan, but you’ve hit a dead end.’

  As she put the phone down, Dan wondered for a moment whether Zoe was right. His job was to create doubt, to show that the clear story set out by the prosecution was a little murkier than it seemed. If he could find something to send the jurors on a guessing game, he was on his way to freeing Nick.

  As he put aside the thought of whether that was the right thing to do, he was disturbed by the sound of someone shouting his name from outside. When he looked out of the window, it was Jayne.

  When he went downstairs to let her in, she said, ‘I forgot you like an early start,’ and went upstairs to his office. She threw her jacket onto the sofa in the corner of Dan’s room, kept there for the occasional sleep when he was doing a police station all-nighter and he needed to catch up between interviews. She picked up Dan’s mug, it was still warm, and took a drink. ‘I needed that. I’d been expecting breakfast together, but when I got up, you’d gone.’

  ‘I was thinking about Nick’s case. I’ve just called the prosecutor and she said no laptop was recovered from where he was staying.’

  ‘Unusual, for a journalist.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But if it seems unusual to us, why didn’t the police think that too?’

  ‘But if it’s a mugging gone wrong, wouldn’t Nick take that as well?’

  ‘That’s what the prosecutor said. We need to speak to Nick, try to get him to open up more. I’ll sort out a legal visit for today.’

  ‘Anything else, boss?’

  ‘Get hold of the owner of the cottage. See what he has to say.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And cut out the boss bit.’

  Before Jayne could reply, there was some banging on the front door. ‘Have you got an early appointment?’

  Dan went to the window and looked down. ‘It’s Barbara. Whatever happened last night, she wants to carry on the fight.’

  Dan went downstairs, Jayne behind.

  Barbara was all smiles when he opened the door. ‘Good morning, Mr Grant. I know it’s early, but there was something I had to say.’ She moved past him before he had chance to object, noticing Jayne, who was standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. ‘And that I was sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes, to your assistant.’

  ‘Investigator?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s not my assistant. Jayne is an investigator, her own boss.’

  Her smile became more forced as she looked around Dan to speak directly to Jayne. ‘I questioned your ability. I’m sorry. You’ve got to understand how this is for me. You were following me and it made me angry, because it made it seem as if I was the person who’d done something wrong.’ She turned back to Dan. ‘I know you’d sent her to watch me, and I understand why. I turned up and started interfering. You’re bound to be suspicious. I took it out on her last night.’

  ‘She’s called Jayne.’

  ‘Of course, yes, I’m sorry.’ She looked back to Jayne. ‘I’m sorry, Jayne, I really am.’

  Jayne shrugged. ‘That was last night. This is today. Apology accepted.’

  ‘Oh good. That means we can carry on working together. And I thought this might interest you.’ She handed Dan a piece of paper with a telephone number on it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I found it when clearing Mark’s London flat, pinned to a corkboard, so I thought it must be something important.’

  ‘It might just be an ex-girlfriend or a taxi firm or something.’

  ‘Mr Grant, do you really think I didn’t call it? It was someone called Andrew Porter. A retired police officer in Brampton. I told you Mark had spent a couple of weeks there not long before he came to Highford.’

  ‘What did Mr Porter say?’

  ‘Not much. Didn’t want to talk to me, but I know Mark had spoken to him, because as soon as I mentioned his name, he hung up.’

  ‘How do you know it’s got anything to do with his investigation though?’

  ‘What else can it be? Why would Mark go to some small Yorkshire seaside town and then come here? And I found this as well.’ She handed over a receipt. ‘It’s for a hotel on the harbour. Waves. Yes, very original, but they might remember him. It has to be connected, just has to be.’

  Dan couldn’t help but agree. ‘Can I take them?’

  ‘I brought them for you.’

  She headed for the door but turned to Jayne before she went. ‘Don’t think badly of me. Losing Mark was a shock. It makes me determined to make sure his killer pays. I’m on your side. I want Nick Connor out of prison.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jayne said, but stayed in the doorway as Barbara left.

  Once they were alone again, Dan said, ‘Let me speak to the ex-cop. You never know, you might end up with a trip to the seaside.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cottage where Mark Roberts had been staying was along a narrow lane that ended in a farmyard. It was one of four joined together, with views away from Highford, in a valley that twisted around bracken-topped spurs, so that whoever was staying there could imagine they were in some remote idyll. Jayne was sure it looked great in the brochure, although she suspected that they didn’t show pictures of the approach, past the broken windows of an old factory that was awaiting demolition.

  The cottage was a country cliché, with roses around a wooden trestle that surrounded the door, a mode
rn one mocked up to look like a stable door, and flowers grew out of an old milk churn.

  Jayne had called ahead. There was a man pacing outside, not much older than thirty. In his pinstripe suit and pink tie, he didn’t look like he was from the countryside.

  As Jayne pulled over and got out, he said, ‘Is it Jayne?’ He lifted his arm to display his watch. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere, that’s all.’ His tone was brusque but friendly, but it was obvious he regarded meeting her as a great inconvenience. He gestured towards her clothes. ‘You said you’re from a law firm.’

  ‘I’m an investigator working a case for them, but I won’t keep you. Do you remember Mark Roberts, the man who rented your cottage earlier this year?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not every day I’ve got to deal with stuff like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just the things that are unimportant but seem insensitive. Like, where do I send the security deposit he left? Or do I send it back at all, because the police made a mess when they went searching the place? I had to pay the cleaners extra to make it ready for the next guest.’ He held his hands up in apology. ‘I know, small change when compared to what he suffered, but it means I can’t forget it.’

  She looked towards the house. ‘Can I look inside?’

  ‘Why? It’s just a holiday cottage?’

  ‘Just to get a feel for his last days.’

  He shrugged as he turned to unlock the door and went inside. Jayne followed.

  The cottage was pleasant enough, with a sofa on a deep carpet and in front of a wood‑burning stove, the fireplace ringed by coloured tiles. There were pictures on the wall, but it was chain-store stuff, picked up for a tenner to give it the feel of a home. There were some books in a bookcase against the wall, a random collection of romance and thrillers, perhaps left behind by previous guests.