by Linda Coles
A sandwich was pushed in front of her and she felt the barman hovering by her side again.
“Can I get you anything else?” he said, his voice full of concern.
Ruth was tempted to ask for a lawyer, but refrained. With a weak smile, she gave her thanks and he left her be. She was halfway through the first sandwich when her phone rang again— Amanda. She stared at the image of her that flashed up but didn’t answer.
“I want to pick it up,” she whispered miserably. “I want to talk to you. I want to ask you some questions.” Her voice broke as the first of her tears slid down her cheeks.
But how could she talk to Amanda without giving the game away?
She let the call go to voicemail again and watched the world outside go about its business without her.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Lawrence Dupin wasn't stupid at all, despite what people thought of him. As soon as Jack had left his office, he’d put two and two together and come up with a four. If Jack had been out to the prison to see McAllister and discuss an old case, he’d also then found out about and seen Hardesty. It didn't take the brains of the Archbishop of Canterbury to put together what Jack had been working on in his own time. His own personal situation was similar to that old case, and that's where Jack had made the connection. No, Dopey he was not. Auguste Dupin, however, he could be.
Jack Rutherford was wasted as a DC, Dupin knew. He should have been promoted to a DI long ago, but he’d never wanted to climb the ranks, was always happy to be an excellent detective solving cases rather than playing politics and doing paperwork. It was Jack's dogged detective work in deducing that the two cases were similar that was sending Dupin on his journey to a certain address now, surprisingly, one not that far away from his own. In fact, as the crow flies, it would be less than a mile on foot through nearby fields.
He drove out of Croydon and its grey concreteness and on to Caterham, which had seen its fair share of police interest over the past week or so. He tossed thoughts around in his mind, wondered about all the possible reasons for why he was headed there at all, and kept arriving back at the same one. He had to be sure, though, and that meant seeing the whites of his eyes when the man admitted it.
Narrow, leafy lanes came and went as he turned up to what had once been a council estate on the edge of town. Many of the residents had since bought their own places when the government had sold them cheaply years back. Others had turned their homes into flats to rent out privately, and it was one of those flats that he was headed to now. He cruised slowly down the road to the address at the end. There wasn't a house that he passed that didn't have a Sky dish on the front wall. Some homes had flowers outside and neat postage-stamp-sized lawns. Some had menacing-looking dogs chained up, pink wet tongues dangling from their mouths. It was a real mishmash of inhabitants: those who couldn't afford to live in the more salubrious part of the village and those who chose not to.
He pulled up outside what looked like a semi-detached property but was in fact four flats. A discarded shopping trolley lay on the front pathway; it sported only three of its four wheels. Dupin checked the address even though he knew he was in the right place. He locked the car door and headed up the path. There were four buzzers, three of which had names on and one that hadn’t. It didn't matter. He needed flat 1A, which he assumed was on the ground floor. Kids’ graffiti and the smell of urine filled the porch, and Dupin wondered why at least one of the four residents hadn't bothered to clean it up. The ammonia smell burned into his nostrils. Dupin held his nose while he waited for someone to answer the door. Eventually it cracked open, held back on a security chain, and half of a face belonging to a man he recognised peered out. Even half hidden, there was no mistaking, even after all these years, the haggard face of Eddie Edwards.
“I wondered when you'd find me. What took you so long?” Edwards said through the partially opened door. The man’s voice sounded like a work boot rubbing on gravel. Too many cheap cigarettes.
“Let me in, then. I think it's time we talked.”
The man stared back at him, deciding what to do. Finally, the door closed momentarily while the chain was removed. Eddie reopened it about six inches and moved away from it. Dupin touched the bottom of the door with his boot to save his fingers coming into contact and did the same on the other side to close it. He didn't want his fingers touching anything in the place unless they absolutely had to. The odour in the dark hallway wasn’t much better than the porch he’d just been stood in, though there was an added fragrance of stale curry lingering in the air. He wanted to open a window; the smell made him want to gag. He followed Eddie Edwards through to the tiny kitchen at the end and took a quick glance around, noting the squalor the man was living in. The offending smell lingering in the air was the remains of several takeaway containers still lying on the draining board. They'd been there some time; a once-red smear of tandoori was now a dull dried dark brown, looking more like blood from a crime scene. A baby cockroach wiggled its antennae at him.
Dupin stayed standing; he wasn't going to risk his clean clothes by sitting down, and since Eddie was hovering by the back door, arms loose like he was about to flee, he got straight down to it. This wasn't a social call.
“How have you been keeping, then, Eddie?” Dupin asked.
“How does it look like I've been keeping?” said Eddie sarcastically. “It’s hardly palatial, is it?”
“You could tidy up a bit,” said Dupin. But Eddie wasn't interested in his domestic advice. “Anyway,” he carried on, “did you think I wouldn't bother to find you?”
“Oh, I thought you'd find me. I just didn't think it would take you so long.” There was a sly grin on the man’s thin lips; a cold sore in one corner looked angry and red. “So, what did take you so long to put it together?”
“It doesn't matter. I want to know why. I want to hear it from your own lips why you set me up,” Dupin said, more calmly than he felt inside. If he could have his way, he’d have punched Eddie in the stomach by now, but it would serve no purpose, except maybe to make him feel better.
“I took advantage of an opportunity that came my way. It wasn't planned. I was merely out for a walk, minding my own business, then lo and behold, there you were in the middle of a punch-up. And it must have been my lucky day when that young guy died. I thought I should go and buy myself a lottery ticket because you, Dupin, were so far in the shit it wasn’t funny. Well, not to you, anyway. Was for me, though. So, I did my neighbourly bit and told them who and what you are. I thought you’d be off to prison yourself.”
“Just like the old days, eh? And someone keeping their mouth shut at another man’s expense?”
“I couldn’t resist it; it was laid out ready for me to take, and I did.”
Dupin wasn't surprised; he’d figured as much. But what did surprise him was Eddie's ugly attitude and the venom of his words. He would happily have let Dupin go to prison for the death of the Parker boy. Had the pathology results been different, he could well be on his way to awaiting trial—all at Eddie’s hand.
“Well, I'm not going to prison. I didn't kill that man; it was a freak accident.”
“It was a damn cover-up, and you know it,” screamed Eddie suddenly. His eyes blazed and spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. “It’s all a load of bullshit.”
Dupin leaned in as close to the man’s face as he dared. “Like Hardesty? Was that bullshit, Eddie?”
Eddie pulled back, a look of confusion on his face. “What made you bring that up?” he spat.
“It was the exact same thing with Hardesty: guy gets into a simple traffic accident and ends up in prison—except he should never have gone to prison, should he, Eddie?”
Eddie fell quiet. Dupin stumbled on. “So, tell me, how much did McAllister pay you? Or was it the foreman that got the verdict over the line for you all? Which of the two of you was playing rugby with a man’s life? Eh?”
Eddie looked up from his boots at the mention of the foreman.
“Yeah, I know about him, too,” Dupin said. “Well, I hope it was worth whatever you got for it, because Hardesty is still rotting in prison. I managed to save my own ass, no thanks to you. But I wanted to see your face so you knew I was on to you. And to think I’d believed your tale of woe back then! You spun me a line, and I sucked it up like the novice DI I was. But not any longer.” Dupin started for the front door; his lungs needed clean air. Eddie Edwards and the foreman had been up to their arses in it and Dupin had let it happen on his watch. He needed to figure out how to put it right.
Eddie called after him, but his voice failed to hold any power. “Well, if that's all you've come to say, you've done it. Now get the hell out of my house.” Eddie’s attempt at kicking him out was as pathetic as the bitter man he’d allowed himself to become.
At least Dupin now had the confirmation he needed. But could he do anything about it?
Chapter Sixty
Dupin's blood was boiling in his veins by the time he made it back into his car. His wheels squealed as he left the quiet avenue and the filth and squalor of Eddie Edwards behind. He felt as dirty as the man’s kitchen, if that were possible. So, it had been Eddie Edwards who’d dropped him in. But he was only confirming what he already knew deep down. And all the mess that had followed was over money and Eddie's greed years ago when he’d needed to pay off his debt. He’d got mixed up with McAllister's mob, and then everything had got out of hand.
Eddie had been pissed that Dupin had been promoted to DI when it should have been his position for the taking, and he’d never let it drop. Dupin had known what was going on in the McAllister case—that the foreman had been bought and that Eddie had been bought—but for the sake of his own career he hadn't reported it. He’d only been a DS at the time, the same as Eddie, and had then been promoted over him. He hadn't wanted to rock the boat at the time; he’d been more eager to get on and please his new bosses than to punish Eddie. And he was just as far in the wrong as Eddie was, he’d known, for not speaking out. So, he’d made DS Eddie Edwards a deal: kicked off the force with no pension in exchange for no prosecution over tampering with the case. Added to the burden on his conscience was the fact that an innocent man lay in prison. It was less grief all round if Eddie simply resigned with immediate effect. It hadn’t taken the man long to decide; he had left the same day.
Dupin had figured that would be enough to serve him right. What he hadn't expected was for Eddie to take a chance and dredge it all back up, tit-for-tat, as the opportunity presented itself. Judging by the squalor the man lived in and his obvious ill health, the lack of pension had hit him hard, but that was not Dupin's concern. The problem now was if it all came out—if Jack could place him back in the case, or if he found Eddie and spoke to him for some reason. Eddie would be bound to tell Jack of his involvement, and smile doing it. Dupin was up to his eyeballs just as much as Edwards was.
The stress surrounding his pending disciplinary hearing and the protesters outside had been hard enough, and he was also tired of Lyn moaning on about it. He couldn't deal with it. And he didn't want to remain under scrutiny himself; even if he resigned his post now and called it quits, there’d still be an investigation. No one liked a dirty copper.
He didn't feel much like going back to the station yet. Glancing at the clock on his dashboard, he noted it was a little after 2 PM. He estimated he’d have to be back for around 4 pm to do some catch up on the landscaper body case before he interviewed Gordon Simpson later. So, he still had a couple of hours to burn. Knowing Lyn would be out at work, he turned towards home and pulled up in his own driveway. The silence of his house was what he needed now, a place to sit and close his eyes and think things through. He let himself in, poured a finger of whiskey and sat in his chair in the lounge to mull things over.
He was woken by the front door slamming and a woman's voice calling him—Lyn was home. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly 5.30 PM. He’d fallen asleep.
“Bugger, shit, bollocks!” he shouted as Lyn came through the living room door.
“That's no way to greet your wife,” she said caustically.
Dupin was out of his chair, searching for his car keys and ignoring her remark. He hadn’t the time or the inclination.
“I've got to go. I'll call you later,” he said, and flew out the front door towards his car. He’d call Amanda on the way and let her know that he wasn't far off, that he'd been delayed; he'd figure it out. He'd make something up. It was not her concern.
He hadn't been in the car for five minutes when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and groaned. He had no choice but to take the call and clicked the button on his steering wheel to accept.
“Yes, Amanda,” he said in as normal a voice as he could muster, hoping that the sleepiness had left his vocal cords.
“Are you on your way somewhere? Only Gordon Simpson is waiting for his interview, and his brief isn't fond of hanging around.”
“I'm twenty minutes out. Keep them entertained,” said Dupin. “But since I'm running late, you'd best fill me in. I hate going in without proper preparation, but sometimes needs must.” He listened while Amanda ran through what they knew, which wasn't much different than what Jack had already said earlier on. They were banking on the fact that either Mr or Mrs Simpson or both of them had committed the murder. One of them. And since Madeline Simpson was herself lying in a grave, that only left Gordon. It was far from ideal, and it might be tough to get through the CPS, but if Gordon had no alibi and no reasonable way of explaining how the body had got there, he would be the favourite and would no doubt be arrested. At the very least it cleared another case off, ticked another box. The commissioner would be grateful.
It felt like old times. Almost.
Chapter Sixty-One
Jack slumped down in his swivel chair and twiddled with the whiskers of his moustache, deep in thought. How the hell had Dupin known what he was working on? And how the hell did Dupin know that he been to the prison? There was obviously a grass, somebody on the inside who’d felt it necessary to call the DI and let him know that he’d been. The box of chocolate biscuits had not been enough, apparently, and someone hadn’t been able to keep their gob shut.
He swivelled slightly from side to side, staring at the keyboard in front of him. He'd never looked at it in so much detail before; it had dirty brown smudge marks over the well-used keys. He wondered why he had never noticed just how dirty it was. But now he looked at it, he was disgusted with it. It reminded him of the rest of the office and his new fascination, wherever it had come from, with living in a petri dish. Maybe it was Mrs Stewart's influence? He had the sudden urge to clean the dirt and grime off his keyboard, and while he was at it, his monitor. The mundane task would help him think, allowing enlightenment, he hoped, to fill his skull. He glanced over at Amanda, who was busy doing something on her own computer, head down, fingers tapping away furiously. She'd have something he could use.
He sidled over to Amanda and said, “I don't suppose you've got a packet of wet wipes in your bag, have you?” Amanda looked at him over her right shoulder. From the look on her face, he’d dragged her from deep concentration, and she was struggling now to comprehend what he was saying. “Wet wipes,” he repeated.
“Yes, that's what I thought you said. Hang on.”
Jack watched as she pulled her bag up from off the floor and passed him a little green packet without another word.
“Thanks. I'll return them when I'm done.”
Back at his desk, he pulled out a wet wipe and got to work first on his monitor and surround, then worked his way down the keyboard. There weren’t going to be many fresh wipes to return to Amanda; he’d have to buy a new packet for her. He carried on dutifully cleaning the rest of his desk, wiping it free of coffee stains, chocolate biscuit crumbs and general debris. All his files and belongings were now in a neat pile on the floor. Several of the other officers watched him with interest. Maybe he’d start a trend, he t
hought. Maybe he’d pass the remaining wet wipes round and they’d all have a go cleaning the place up a bit. Maybe somebody would organise that window cleaner he’d been on about.
Standing back looking at the clean space he’d created, he thought it was a shame he had to put all his stuff back on his desk. Now was the time to have a sort-out and throw away the things that were useless, things he didn't use, the things he didn't need any longer and create some order in his work space. His nostrils filled with the perfume of baby oil and talcum powder and he breathed deeply. It was the same smell of a newborn baby.
Jack and Janine had never had children; they'd never been blessed. So he hadn't any first-hand experience of infants, but he thought back to a case he’d been on about the same time as Hardesty was going through his troubles. A newborn baby had been found that Christmas on a snowy church porch and he remembered visiting the tiny little bundle when she’d first been taken to hospital. Mary, she'd been called by the nurses who’d cared for her. He'd taken her a little pink rabbit and kissed her tiny head, and she had had the same smell that was lingering on his desk now. He wondered what had happened to her, to little Mary. Perhaps he’d follow up and find out where she was living; she’d be a young woman now, he thought with some surprise.
He began sorting through the files and loose bits of paper and post-it notes, stacking some things back on his desk and others in file 13—the rubbish bin. He was almost finished when he saw Amanda approaching.
“Does that feel better now?” she enquired, reaching to pick the almost-empty packet of wet wipes.
“I'll buy you some more. I've almost used them all,” Jack said apologetically.
