by Jane Adams
Mike only half believed it. He still couldn’t get it out of his head that wreckers were something born in Cornwall and had no rights being this far to the east.
The wrecks were easier to believe in. Much of the coast seemed to be shielded by sand bars and mud flats not so far beneath the surface that a ship couldn’t be driven aground on them. Many, he knew, had been broken by the tides and half swept away long before the alarm was raised.
Price had been unusually silent on the way here. Mike had been left very much to his own musings.
Up ahead, the road veered sharply to the right, following the line of the cliff. For the merest instant, as they turned into the bend, there seemed to be only sea beneath them, a grey, churning ocean fifty feet below. Then they circled back towards the left and looked down on Netisbrough prison, sprawling like some five-armed octopus below them.
Mike experienced a moment of disappointment. The threatening, storm-laden day. The disturbing aspect of the cliff. The grey dimming of the light, all had built his expectation for something far more Gothic than this slouching example of all that was wrong with modern architecture.
‘Copied a Yankee design,’ Price said. It was the most coherent thing he’d contributed in the long drive.
‘Oh?’ Mike found that he was glad to break the silence.
‘Yeah, some big southern state penitentiary.’
‘Not Yankee, then.’
‘Sir?’
‘Southern state,’ Mike explained patiently. ‘Confederate, not Yankee.’
Price gave him a puzzled look. ‘Same thing, isn’t it?’ he asked. Then lapsed once more into a bilious-looking silence.
Mike left him to vegetate, concentrated instead on the view ahead of them.
It did have an American look to it, or at least the chain link topped with razor wire and the look-out towers spaced at equal intervals along its length reminded Mike of US penitentiaries he’d seen in films.
A closer look, as the side road they were now on began to run parallel to the fence, showed him that most of the towers were left unmanned, personnel replaced by cameras facing in towards the prison and out towards the road. But, then, Netisbrough was hardly high security. Setting aside the one secure wing, in which Fletcher was detained, the place was low risk, housing more on remand than anything else.
‘Get your head together, Sergeant,’ he said, pulling in at the gate and stopping the car at the gate-house.
Price awarded him a withering look. ‘It’s not just the head, sir,’ he said. ‘Think I got up with someone else’s stomach this morning. It sure as hell don’t feel like mine. I had a bit to drink after I left you last night,’ he confessed.
Mike grinned at him, then wound the window further down and announced himself at the gate.
Fletcher was brought into the interview room about ten minutes after Mike and Sergeant Price had settled themselves there. He seemed none too pleased. He barely spoke after the first introductions and listened in silence as Mike played back to him tapes of his previous interviews.
Mike had ample time to take a good look at him, and found himself surprised by the ordinariness of the man.
It wasn’t a new feeling. Irrational though it was, Mike had often found himself examining those he arrested in the half-expectation of seeing some sign; some physical clue to whatever went on inside.
Fletcher gave no more outward indication than most. He sat at the table, his head resting on one hand, face turned slightly away from the two policemen, watching the tape machine as though he too looked for visual clues.
Fletcher was beginning to show his age. Photographs Mike had seen taken only a couple of years before showed him as a man defying his fifty-plus years. Now he seemed to register all of them and more.
He looked fit enough, his body showing the hours Mike had been told Fletcher spent working out. His grey hair was thinning, receding from the forehead, and a bald patch, like a tonsure, was developing at the back of his head. He’d not, Mike noted, fallen into the trap of combing loose strands of hair across in an effort to hide it. Instead, his hair had been cropped short all over, adding to the monastic look.
His eyes, on the couple of occasions he had deigned to look at Mike, were light blue, intelligent.
He had given the impression of a man who summed things up very quickly, who had assessed Mike and his companion with a single swift look and decided they were beneath his attention.
Arrogant, Jaques had called him. A sentiment echoed that morning by the prison governor and one Mike felt inclined to be supportive of.
The tape ended and when Mike made no move, this time, to replace it, Fletcher turned to look at him.
‘And?’ he said, gesturing lightly towards the recorder.
‘You made certain claims,’ Mike said. ‘Then you refused to ratify them. Why was that, Mr Fletcher?’
‘Mr, is it?’ Fletcher laughed bitterly. He reached out and picked up the cigarettes Mike had left on the table, shook one free and lit it, pocketed the rest.
‘Words,’ he said. ‘Just so many words. What makes you sure they count for anything?’
Mike regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then he said, slowly, ‘You don’t strike me as a man who wastes words, Mr Fletcher.’
Fletcher laughed out loud this time. ‘Waste my words,’ he said. ‘That’s a good one, Inspector, that really is.’
Mike felt, rather than saw, Sergeant Price shift irritably at that. He was clearly growing impatient with the whole charade. With Fletcher, sitting there like he’d not a care in the world; with his guv’nor for letting him lead the whole show. He said, ‘Come off it, Fletcher. We’ve not come here to play your games.’
Mike cut him off. ‘You’ve an appeal coming up. I can’t believe your brief’s not advised you to give a little. All these claims you’re making and not a damned thing to back them up.’
‘You think your so-called friends give a shit about you, Fletcher? All they care about is their own hides,’ Price put in. ‘Stood by and let you take the rap, came out squeaky clean in every investigation we ran on them. And you. You sat there day after day, making claims that you could drown the whole damned lot of them, and what did you end up giving us? Not a thing. Not a fucking thing.’
Both Mike and Fletcher turned to look at the younger man. Fletcher continued to sit, regarding him steadily with his calm blue eyes, drawing deeply on the cigarette. Mike could sense that he was ruffled.
He took his lead from Price. ‘Then there’s this famous journal. Supposed to prove your point, wasn’t it? Prove that you were just the pawn taking the blame for the bigger fish? Promised to protect you, had they? What went wrong, Mr Fletcher? Did things get too hot for them so they needed a sacrifice?’
He paused, then asked thoughtfully, ‘Was that what Eric Pearson was meant to be?’
‘That fool!’ Fletcher’s voice was contemptuous. ‘He knew nothing. Just liked to think he did. Wanted to be an insider for once.’ He shook his head as though unable to believe that anyone could be so stupid. ‘A loser, that man. Right from the word go. Only thing he ever did was to father kids on that bitch of a wife of his.’
‘A loser, Fletcher?’ Price questioned. ‘Funny, that, and here’s me thinking it was you ended up inside.’ He paused, turned innocent eyes on Mike. ‘Seems we got it wrong, Inspector. Maybe that was Mr Fletcher’s plan all along, get himself banged up.’ He looked back at Fletcher, who was stubbing out his cigarette on the table edge. ‘Got something good lined up for you when you come out, have they, these friends of yours? Be up for parole in maybe seven, eight more years.’ He leaned over, thumped Fletcher lightly on the shoulder. ‘Still be a young man, won’t you? I mean, not quite ready for your pension.’
‘Don’t you touch me!’
Fletcher had risen to his feet, knocking over his chair, all semblance of calm gone from his features.
The transformation was swift and startling.
‘Sit down, Mr Fletcher,’ Mike said qui
etly.
‘Something wrong, Fletcher?’ Price jeered. ‘Too old for you, am I?’
Fletcher leapt for him, his face scarlet with rage. Price dodged smoothly, putting the table between them. The two guards outside the door burst in. Mike rose to his feet and shouted for silence.
‘Now sit down!’
Fletcher, reluctant, his breathing deep and heavy, picked up his chair and sat down hard on it.
Price made a show of straightening his tie, then seated himself again on the table edge. Mike waved the officers away.
‘Now let’s begin again,’ he said. ‘In your interview, March third 1994, you claimed to have been witness to a murder.’
‘I wasn’t a bloody witness. I never said I was fucking there.’
Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘You led us to believe, Mr Fletcher, that you witnessed this event.’
Fletcher reached into his pocket for the cigarettes and lit another one.
‘I never claimed to be a bloody witness,’ he affirmed once more.
Mike nodded, as though weighing this up. ‘Accessory, then,’ he said, making an elaborate note on the pad he had on the table top.
Fletcher stared at him.
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it, then. This murder you may or may not have seen. I have all day, Mr Fletcher, and if that’s not enough time I can come back again.’
Fletcher stared at him, then turned his gaze on some spot in the corner of the room, blew a long stream of smoke from between pursed lips.
‘I have nothing to say,’ he declared.
Mike ignored him.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘when we’ve finished with that, we’ll move on to the small matter of procurement, a few points I want to review. For my own satisfaction, you understand. A few minor things I’d like you to tell me about.’
He paused, noting the look of distaste that curled Fletcher’s lips.
‘In detail, of course, Mr Fletcher,’ he said. ‘In as much detail as you can give. We wouldn’t want to miss anything, now would we?’
He settled back in his chair as though preparing for a long wait.
Fletcher gave him a long, cold look. ‘Go to hell,’ he said.
* * *
Price was gnawing on the side of his thumb, worrying at a bit of loose skin. He’d maintained a studied silence all the time they had taken to leave the prison compound and for the car to climb back up the long hill on to the cliff. Only when they had topped the rise and the view opened out before them once more did he speak.
‘Any chance of stopping for some lunch, guv?’
Mike grinned. ‘Hangover gone now, has it?’ His grin broadened as he saw the offended look that swept across Price’s features. ‘Bound to be somewhere,’ he said placatingly. Then, ‘Well, what did you make of him?’
Price glanced at Mike, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Likes to think he’s cool. In control of things, but, you ask me, he’s scared shitless about something.’
Mike nodded. His own impression had been similar. In the three hours they had spent with Fletcher the man had said very little. Had recovered from his outburst and settled for fielding Mike’s questions. Fencing questions with questions with almost political skill. Or simply smoking, silently, staring into space as though Mike and the sergeant no longer existed for him.
Despite that, though, Mike was certain that their presence had unnerved him. That Price’s little jibe about rewards that might await Fletcher at the end of his sentence had, maybe, not been so far from the truth.
‘Scared of what?’ he asked. The question was rhetorical.
‘His so-called friends, I suppose. But what I don’t get, guv, is why all the half-hints and misinformation he fed to our lot if he wanted his friends to protect him? And, if he figured they’d sold him out, why not just drop them all in the shit for real instead of just creating bad feeling all round and generally queering his pitch both ends up?’ Mike laughed briefly and shrugged. ‘Trying to keep both sides in play, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And in the end, he won neither.’
Mike frowned. And then there had been that comment made just before they left. Possibly the most fruitful thing to have come out of the entire morning: Northeast of Otley. Five miles. A turn off the main road on to a dirt track that led to a derelict farmhouse, the land owned now by one of the big frozen food combines and the house deserted.
Fletcher had talked about a well. . .
‘I think we’ll take a little detour on the way back,’ he said. ‘Via Otley. See if we can find that place he talked about.’ Price grinned and settled back more comfortably in his seat.
‘Nice pub out that way, sir. Miller’s Arms, serves hot food all day and a damned good pint.’
‘Otley it is, then,’ Mike nodded. ‘Otley it is.’
* * *
Ellie had caught sight of Johanna Pearson walking between the aisles of frozen food and had hurried to the end of the delicatessen and out of view. It was a shock when she saw her again, this time walking straight towards her, pushing a trolley slowly between the rows of canned goods, her face a study of concentration.
Ellie began to move away. The last thing she wanted right now was some sort of confrontation with Johanna.
Then Johanna Pearson looked up. Her face registered recognition and, to Ellie’s dismay, she began to walk towards her.
‘Good morning, Ellie,’ Johanna said.
‘Er, good morning,’ Ellie managed.
She glanced away, embarrassed, began to move on, but Johanna had hold of her arm.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t rush away from me. I’d like to talk.’
Talk! Ellie stared, as though Johanna had suggested something incredible. She glanced around, suddenly afraid they might be seen, then squared her shoulders angrily.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I really don’t think we have anything to say to each other.’
‘Are you afraid of me, Ellie?’ Johanna asked her.
‘Of course I’m not!’ Ellie burst out, her voice carrying more anger than conviction.
Johanna nodded slowly. ‘Come, then,’ she said, and led the way towards the supermarket restaurant.
* * *
‘How can you go on living with him, knowing what he did?’ asked Ellie, once they were seated at a table.
‘He didn’t do it.’ Johanna paused and glared at her. ‘I know Eric. We grew up together, he was the first and only man I ever wanted. Eric did nothing.’
She leaned across the table and seized Ellie’s hand. ‘Help me, Ellie. You’re well liked. Well respected, and people will listen to you. Help me to tell people that they’re wrong about Eric.’
Ellie gazed back at her. ‘I can’t,’ she managed to whisper. ‘I can’t do anything, Johanna. You must see that.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I don’t have any influence, Johanna. We just want to live quietly. Just get on with our lives.’
‘And you think I don’t? You think I like what’s happening to my marriage? To my children?’
‘No! No, of course I don’t, but I don’t see . . .’ Johanna rose to leave, apparently having said all she planned to say. Then she turned back to look at Ellie.
‘I know you, Eleanor Masouk. You might remember that. I saw you in the public gallery at your father’s trial.’ She paused, noticing Ellie’s pallor. The blood draining even from her lips.
‘Eric pointed you out to me,’ she went on. ‘We sat through the whole thing, Eric and I. The whole thing. I remember, I even felt sorry for you.’
Ellie stared at Johanna’s back as she walked away, feeling the life she had built over the last few years crashing about her.
* * *
Wednesday 1 p.m.
Jaques had come to hate the telephone. He avoided taking calls, avoided answering it himself, created excuses until he was certain that others were noticing his distaste and wondering about it.
This time, the phone was ringing as he walked through the front door. He called out t
o his wife, hoping that she would get to it first, but she shouted back to him, ‘Get that for me, will you? I’m seeing to the oven.’
Jaques stood for three more rings, hoping that whoever it was would ring off, or that his wife had the answerphone set.
Instinctively, he knew who it was. Fear and disgust coiled themselves in the pit of his stomach and bit hard.
‘Did you hear me, love? Can you get that?’ his wife called to him again.
Angrily, Jaques snatched at the receiver. ‘Yes!’
‘You took your time.’
‘Just say what you have to say and piss off.’
‘Language, Jaques. And after you let us down so badly.’
‘I did what I could.’
‘Did you, Jaques? Did you really? But they found it, and now they’ve got his face splashed all over the TV and papers. You’re getting sloppy.’
‘Go to hell.’
He slammed the phone back down on to its cradle and stood staring at it. Almost at once it began to ring again.
‘I heard that DI Croft went out to see Fletcher this morning.’
‘What about it?’
‘You could have blocked it. Delayed it at least.’
‘And arouse his suspicions! He’s no fool.’
‘Which is why he shouldn’t be allowed access to Fletcher.’
There was a brief pause, then the voice said, ‘My friends tell me that Fletcher hasn’t been himself at all since the visit. That he’s having an attack of conscience, maybe.’
‘He won’t talk,’ Jaques said with more conviction than he felt.
‘You’d better hope he doesn’t, for your sake and for his. And for your Inspector Croft.’
Jaques’ wife had come through from the kitchen. She stood in the doorway, regarding his obvious distress.
Jaques took a deep breath and tried to regain some composure.
‘I’ll speak with you later,’ he said. ‘We’ll sort the whole thing out then.’
He replaced the phone gently and forced a smile to his lips.
‘Work,’ he said. ‘Only just come off bloody duty for a quick lunch and they still won’t let me be.’
