by Jane Adams
‘Never?’
Shaw hesitated. ‘I didn’t want to think it. By the time the boys died I’d been away for six months or so and had seen no one from the group. I’d spoken to no one. In that six months things went seriously wrong, but I didn’t realize how wrong until it was far too late.’
‘How convenient,’ Beckett muttered.
Shaw did not rise to the bait, just shook his head sadly. ‘You don’t know me, Inspector, and so I’ll let that pass. I wrote, I called. I tried to keep informed by contacting those not living at the Markham house. The month before the explosion I managed to talk to Bryn. He and Irene had moved away from the Markham house to be closer to Irene’s mother. She had cancer and didn’t have long to live. When Franny told me that they’d gone I called them at Irene’s mother’s. Bryn didn’t realize who was calling and once I’d got him on the line I managed to keep him talking for a few minutes. He said that everyone was very excited, that Morgan had a big party planned for a few weeks’ time. That there’d been some kind of breakthrough and everyone was going to celebrate. Then he felt guilty about talking to me and said he had to go. That’s all I knew. That’s really all I still know. Bryn and Irene should have been there that night but Irene’s mother had just died. Irene couldn’t leave her father, so they stayed. And they survived.’ He hesitated and then said softly, ‘I’m not sure that Irene ever forgave her mother for choosing that time to die.’
Beckett regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then he said, ‘And now. Why do you believe it’s Morgan’s son? You just told me that Morgan changed his mind about this so-called chosen one. That he found some other boy. Why not him?’
Shaw was shaking his head vehemently. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It isn’t him. Lee’s angel hated what was going on. He hates it now.’
Beckett stiffened. ‘What exactly are you telling me?’ he said.
‘That I’ve had contact with the boy since the night they all died. It isn’t him.’
‘Contact? What kind of contact? You didn’t think to mention this to anyone?’
In reply Shaw pulled the folder he’d brought with him across the table and extracted several sheets of paper.
‘Bryant knew. Bryant spoke to him. Bryant was kept informed all the way, but once he’d arrested Lee and closed the case he wouldn’t listen any more. He’d had enough. He was sick and tired, he told me. Physically sick and genuinely exhausted. He had a heart condition and I understand that’s what finally killed him.’ Martyn Shaw sighed and then shoved the papers across the desk to Beckett. ‘He promised to pass the information on and for all I know he did. Maybe it’s filed away somewhere in that archive of yours, I don’t know. But I did all I could to warn your people of this. I could have done nothing more.’
‘And this boy, Lee’s angel as you call him, where is he now?’
Martyn Shaw did not know. ‘I’ve not spoken to him or known exactly where he is in over three years,’ he said. ‘He’s an adult now, he goes his own way.’
‘And how does he live? Does he work, draw dole, have friends? Family?’
‘No, there is no one. He’s had a problem forming relationships. After what happened with Lee, he finds it hard to trust anyone.’
‘Except you?’
‘I doubt he even trusts me. Not really. I helped him, but Lee’s angel is like . . . something wild. It’s like trying to define smoke, pin it down. As to how he lives, I give him money, transfer it into his account. He draws what he needs.’
Beckett pushed a pad and paper across to Shaw. ‘Account number,’ he said. ‘Bank details, method of transfer.’
‘So you can do what? Freeze the account? Trace the withdrawals?’
‘Got it in one.’
Martyn shook his head. ‘It’s a US account,’ he said. ‘Transferred through a Swiss trading company. You can’t have access, I’m afraid, not without a warrant from all three states. I’d guess you’d need to involve Interpol and I have no intention of giving you any details.’
He spoke with a quiet confidence and Beckett felt his pent-up anger flare. He leaned across the desk, only just preventing himself from taking the Prophet by the throat and squeezing hard.
‘Three kids have died, maybe four by now, and you’re trying to protect the man who might have done it. You disgust me. You make me want to puke. I could have you arrested for obstruction. I could have you hauled up in court tomorrow morning and your face splashed right across every national paper in the country. Every news bulletin. I could hold a press conference and tell the world that you have information that could lead me to the killer and you’re choosing to withhold it. I could . . .’
‘And you won’t, Inspector. You won’t do those things because innocent people would be dragged in. You accuse me, you accuse my people and you’re already convinced that most if not all of them are innocent. And they too have children. I don’t believe that you’ll forget that. You won’t do it because you know that you can’t prove a thing about Lee’s angel and you’d look like shit if it were proved that you’d chosen to persecute an innocent man. Someone who’d already been traumatized enough, had his entire life ripped apart by the unscrupulous bastard that killed the first three boys. You won’t do it because something tells you that I’m right and he’s not the one who killed those children and, most of all, you’ll do nothing that could make the public aware that the police had been warned — over and over again — that this would happen once Lee was dead. That Bryant knew and held his tongue.’ Shaw leaned forward, matching Beckett’s gesture and body language. ‘Lee scared the life from him, Beckett, both ways. When Bryant arrested him Lee cursed him. Did you know that? At first Bryant shook it off and chose to laugh about it. He was a tough old bird was Bryant, but Lee told him, first your wife will die and then your child and then, when I’m gone, I’ll come for you. Six months later his wife dropped dead. Inside a year his son was killed in a hit-and-run accident; no one was ever charged. And I’ll make a bet that the night he died Bryant saw something and claimed that it was Lee.’
‘And how do you know all this, Mr Shaw?’
‘It’s in the reports, Beckett. It’s all in Lee’s statement. And I know because Ray Flowers told me.’
‘Ray told you?’
Shaw nodded and leaned back in his chair, the tension draining from his body. He looked very tired. ‘Bryant suffered from nightmares. My letters to him, my phone calls, they did nothing to help. I didn’t know what Lee had said until long after. When Bryant’s wife died, and then his son, he suffered some kind of breakdown. Ray went to see him — this was before Bryant retired, while he was just on sick leave. He told Ray about my letters and reminded him about Lee’s curse. Ray had been out at the Markham house by then, he wasn’t present for that part of Lee’s statement, and though he had read the statement he’d not taken it as seriously as Bryant. Ray contacted me, asked me to stop bothering Bryant. He explained that he was ill and suggested I write direct to Bryant’s superiors. Before I had the chance to do that, Bryant had taken out the injunction. I forwarded everything to his solicitors and asked them to act, but I left Bryant alone. I felt he’d been through enough.’
‘And did Ray take your warnings seriously?’
Martyn Shaw shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Ray was up to his ears by then. Some blackmail and extortion thing. Shortly after that he went on secondment to the Met, I believe; he was away for quite a time and we lost contact. I think he was like Bryant and wanted to put this behind him. As time went on I suppose it drifted out of his mind. Until Lee died and took Bryant and three children with him.’
‘I want to know about Morgan’s son,’ Beckett said.
‘Then let me talk to Farrant. He’ll just fob you off, but we know one another. He hates me just about enough to tell the truth.’
Beckett was not convinced but finally he nodded. ‘Take George Mahoney with you,’ he said. ‘I can’t spare anyone from here and he may as well earn his keep. I’ll give you one try, and if
you don’t deliver you and Farrant will both end up charged with obstruction. I don’t give a damn how I look, Shaw. None of that cuts with me.’
Martyn Shaw smiled slightly. ‘I’m sure Ray Flowers likes you,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re two of the same kind.’
* * *
Ray had been unable to settle. He knew that Beckett was due to meet Shaw and had hoped to be included, but he guessed that Beckett was finding it hard enough dealing with his superiors’ disapproval as it was without calling him into what was already a controversial meeting. George had phoned him to say that he had left Shaw there and was to pick him up later on. ‘Provided our friend Beckett hasn’t locked him up.’
‘For what?’ Ray had asked.
‘Mood he was in when I left, I don’t think he needs much reason.’
It was the sound that drew Ray to the window. Sharp and rasping, straight-through pipes doing little to muffle or modify the exhaust note. He looked down. The bike was parked beneath a streetlamp, the sodium lights harsh and garish on the red and chrome. The rider, black-clad and all but invisible.
Ray saw him lift his visor and look up at the window, his face pale against the black of his clothing and jaundiced by the yellow light. He gazed at Ray for a moment and then beckoned.
Pausing for just long enough to scribble a quick note to Sarah, Ray grabbed his coat, fishing in the pockets for his keys even as he ran downstairs. As he reached his car, the biker was already moving off. Ray wrenched open the door and scrambled inside, firing the engine and shifting into gear even before he’d put on his lights or fastened his seat belt. They picked up speed towards the end of the street, the biker stopping only to make certain he was still there before riding out onto the main Welford road and through the city.
Traffic was light, the rush hour long gone and the cold and intermittent rain keeping people indoors. Even so, it was hard to keep up with the biker, who was forging ahead.
Once they had passed out of the city centre and Ray was certain they’d be heading towards Mallingham, he called Beckett on his mobile. He still found it awkward, even with the hands-free set, to concentrate on his driving and deal with the phone. The scars on his hands made fine movements awkward and, at the end of the day, his fingers were always stiff. Then someone else answered. Beckett, he was told, was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.
Ray cursed angrily. He spent precious time explaining to the officer who he was and what was going on, then lost the signal as he hit a dead spot and had to go through the entire procedure again.
This time, to his relief, Beckett answered him.
‘We’ve turned off the A47 and are heading towards Mallingham on the B459. Our ETA is about fifteen minutes.’
‘Got that, Ray. How do you want to play this one?’
‘I want to get to Katie. I figure he’s leading me there but I don’t know why. Don’t move in, not yet. Wait until we reach our destination.’
He felt Beckett hesitate. In Beckett’s place he’d most likely have insisted they move in now, grab the biker and think about Katie later. He knew that Beckett was half convinced that she was dead already.
‘I’ll hold back,’ he told Ray, ‘but once we’re in Mallingham, I’m closing down fast. I want him, Ray. We can’t afford the risk.’
It was the way Ray himself would have played it and he felt he couldn’t argue. ‘Give me as much time as you can,’ he said. ‘You’ve got units all over town ready to mobilize. I’ll keep the commentary going.’
He entered the outskirts of Mallingham, passing the newly built housing estates and plunging without break into the streets of back-to-back houses and Victorian factories that he had known since childhood. Twin rivers converged in Mallingham, one, the Lir, straightened and made navigable in the 1820s, now slicing the town across its centre. For a stretch the main road ran parallel to it and the biker took this route, Ray following close behind. He turned sharply beside St Augustine’s Church, Ray almost overshooting the bend. Beyond this lay urban wastelands — redevelopment sites presently a battle-zone of rubble and half-demolished walls, with the odd warehouse still standing, marker points for what had once been thriving centres of trade. Ray could recall a time when the chimneys of the small town belched black smoke twenty-four-seven, when the first sound you heard in the morning was the factory siren, the last thing you heard at night was the sound of the late shift making its way home and the ten-till-sixers taking their place. Some of the warehouses were being converted into flats, most too expensive for the locals to afford. Some of the factories too. Vast spaces that had housed machines and employed half the population now empty shells ready to be filled by partition walls and stainless-steel and polished-wood floors. Ray was glad that they were using these markers from his youth, but he was sad to see his home town like this, empty and silent and somehow betrayed.
Since the streets and the factories had gone it had become more difficult to navigate, more difficult to commentate upon their route. ‘Past the old bakery on Pindar Street and into Saxon Street,’ he told Beckett. ‘Saxon Street’s now a pile of rubble with what remains of a pub on the corner. You can still see what’s left of the Marston’s sign.
‘Next left into Martindale. St Augustine’s primary school just before the junction.’ He could hear Beckett talking, consulting with others and the rustle of the map. Then, ‘Bugger!’
‘Ray?’ Beckett demanded. ‘Ray, what’s wrong?’
‘Bollards. The end of the street’s blocked off with fucking bollards. They’re supposed to stop kerb-crawlers. The bike’s gone straight through. I’m going to have to follow on foot.’
‘Stay put. I’ve two units within a couple of streets of where you are.’
‘And he’ll be long gone. This place is a warren of one-way streets and alleyways. A bike can get through, but not a car.’ He grabbed the mobile phone from its stand and hauled himself out of the car, then began to follow the bike, keeping up his commentary to Beckett and hoping that the batteries would last. Already the phone was indicating low power, the LED blinking at him every second or two. ‘I don’t see him and I don’t hear him either, so he must have parked.’
‘Watch yourself,’ Beckett warned. ‘Look, Ray, wait for backup.’
‘Why get me to follow if he planned to lose me? He must have clocked your people, either that or known I used the phone.’
He moved forward between the houses and out into the narrow street beyond. There were cars parked on both sides of the road and passages leading to the rear of the houses, their position shown by a deepening of the shadow. The streetlights helped little, inadequately placed and now fogged by the more rapidly falling rain.
‘Any sign?’ Beckett demanded.
‘Nothing. No, wait a minute.’ He sensed rather than saw movement in the narrow cut-through which led onto what had been another street and was now just another bombsite. Ray moved forward again, reluctant to go into the deeper blackness, even more reluctant to walk away. Behind him he could hear a car pulling up beside his own and common sense told him that he should hold on. Wait for the officers to get to him. A crunch of feet on gravel or broken glass and then footsteps running away towards the ruined buildings overrode what common sense had said and had him in hot pursuit. ‘I see him,’ he told Beckett, shouting hoarsely into the mobile as he cleared the alley and broke once more into the open. ‘He’s . . .’ But he never finished what he’d been about to say. The man emerged from the shadows, detaching himself like a piece of the darkness springing into life. He turned on his heel and kicked, the booted foot catching Ray painfully on the knuckles and sending the mobile spinning into the air. Ray heard it land and shatter against broken brickwork. He almost had a chance to shout, but the hand was across his mouth and something hard pressed against the small of his back, the fragment of darkness that had attacked him solid and hard-muscled and armed.
‘Stay quiet and stay very still.’ The voice was soft, seeming to insinuate itself straight into his head.<
br />
Ray then found himself being moved gently back into the shadows between the broken walls. It was in his mind that this was a bluff, that the man held nothing more lethal against his back than a length of pipe or piece of wood, but even as he thought that he knew he would not take the risk. Images of Sarah flooded into his mind and he realized that this was no time for misplaced heroics. What if this madman really had a gun? Even a knife held there just above his kidneys could be fatal. He heard footsteps thunder past only yards away and the radio crackle into life.
‘Don’t move and don’t even breathe,’ the voice whispered. ‘I don’t want to talk to them, only to you.’
They waited until the officer ran back the other way, his companion hurrying over to join him, their voices conveying bewilderment and, through the crackle of radio static, Ray heard Beckett’s fury.
Then the man led him away, slowly, gently, one hand on his arm as though in consideration of the rough ground, the other holding whatever it was tight against his back, pressing painfully through his clothes hard against his spine.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Farrant, leader of New Vision, lived about eighty miles from Mallingham. George drove fast on deserted roads while Martyn Shaw, stressed and jet-lagged, dozed in the seat beside him.
Farrant’s house was in the middle of fenland out beyond Peterborough and towards the Wash. It sat on a small headland, the driveway crossing a bridge over a broad dyke and between flat empty fields of winter grain. The house was squat and grey, looking out over the bleak flatness of the fenland, and George guessed that on a good clear day Farrant might even be able to see the grey waters of the Wash as it flooded out into the North Sea.
George reached over and nudged his passenger back into wakefulness. Shaw murmured an apology for going to sleep, then stretched as best he could in the cramped confines of the car.
