‘Why’s that?’
‘The CPS has looked through the evidence overnight and we’re going to charge him with conspiracy to murder, as well as perverting the course of justice. It’s going to trial.’
‘After what happened to Trevor Walsh it somehow doesn’t feel enough, if you know what I mean, guv?’
‘He can still get a life sentence if we have a decent judge.’
‘What about Alfie?’
‘He’s going to prison too. Perverting the course of justice. They looked at Arthur Gaughran, but there’s not enough to charge him with anything. He’s not a serving officer so he won’t even have to talk to the ghost squad.’
‘Okay. I guess Tim will be relieved in one way. Thanks for letting me know, guv.’
‘No problem. Have a good weekend, Ruth. You deserve it,’ Brooks said.
GAUGHRAN SAT IN HIS car down the road from his parents’ house. Having checked that his father’s car was on the drive, he knew it was likely that he was home. Brooks had called him an hour earlier to say that the CPS were not going to pursue any historic charges against his father. It was a huge relief, but Gaughran now wondered where he stood with him. When he had driven to Hastings to bring him in, his father seemed to have seen it as an act of betrayal rather than a compassionate act of support. He had no idea why. He hadn’t instigated the investigation, and the allegations of police bribery and involvement in Declan Fisher and Alfie Wise’s death had been a mere by-product of the initial enquiry.
Unclipping his seatbelt, Gaughran got out of the car. The air was full of the smell of freshly-cut grass as their next-door neighbour, Dave, cut his front lawn. As Gaughran walked past him towards his parent’s house, Dave gave him a friendly wave. He had known him most of his life. He had even been out with Dave’s daughter Anna when they were about fifteen, until she dumped him for Matty Henshaw who everyone said looked like John Taylor from Duran Duran.
He opened the metal gate and heard the reassuring whine of the rusty hinges. Taking a breath, he stepped slowly towards the front door and knocked. His heart was thumping in his chest and his palms were sweaty.
There was the familiar sound of a key being turned, and the door opened. His mum, Celia, peered out and gave him a sombre look.
‘Hi Tim,’ she said in a subdued tone.
‘Dad in?’ Gaughran asked casually. He had no idea what his mum knew, or whether she had an inkling about what had happened in the past forty-eight hours.
‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ she said.
‘What? Why not?’ Gaughran asked. Her answer had taken the wind out of his sails.
Celia shook her head and looked a little tearful. ‘I don’t know what’s happened between the two of you, or what happened in Hastings, but he’s adamant he doesn’t want you in the house.’
‘He hasn’t told you anything?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope. He said I wouldn’t understand.’
‘You know I haven’t done anything wrong, don’t you?’
‘If that’s the case, why’s he not talking to you?’
‘I really don’t know, Mum.’ Gaughran felt a lump in his throat. ‘But I can’t sort it out if he won’t speak to me, can I?
Celia shrugged. ‘It’s his house, love. There’s nothing I can do.’
Gaughran took a few seconds to process what had been said. ‘Listen, can you tell him that I forgive him?’
Celia frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s going to go down very well.’
‘No, but can you tell him anyway? Please?’
‘Yeah.’ Celia looked directly at him. ‘Just give him a bit of time, eh? I’m sure whatever it is, he’ll come round.’
Gaughran nodded sadly. ‘Yeah ... I suppose I’d better go then.’
Celia sniffed and then blinked. He could see the tears forming in her eyes. ‘It’s all right, mum. Don’t worry.’
Gaughran turned to go, and took a few steps down the path.
‘Love you, Tim,’ she said in a virtual whisper.
He turned and looked at her. ‘Love you mum.’
He opened the gate and made his way back to his car.
CHAPTER 42
Lucy pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose as she sat relaxing on the patio. Paul Weller’s album Heavy Soul was playing inside, and she was on her third glass of wine already. It had been a very demanding week, but they had got a result, however surprising it had turned out to be.
‘Here we go,’ Brooks said as he appeared with a huge china dish full of food. ‘Tricolore salad. Actually, I’ve added some figs and basil.’
‘Bloody hell, Harry. Who are you? Bleedin’ Marco Van Basten?’ Lucy giggled as he set down the food.
Brooks laughed. ‘Marco Pierre White.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re talking about the poncy French chef, then it’s Marco Pierre White.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Marco Van Basten.’
‘Who’s he then?’
‘He’s a Dutch footballer with a very questionable haircut,’ Harry explained.
Lucy snorted and then gestured to the food. ‘What have I done to deserve all this then?’
Brooks peered over his sunglasses at her as he sat down. ‘You’ve had quite a tough week to say the least.’
‘What a treat,’ she said as she took a plate and helped herself to the food.
As she sat back to eat, the music from inside stopped as the album came to an end. For the next few seconds, all she could hear was the sound of children playing in a nearby garden – laughing and then excited screams.
She looked at Harry and smiled. ‘I love that sound, don’t you?’
‘Screaming kids? Yeah, brilliant,’ Brooks joked as he swigged his beer.
‘Don’t be a twat, Harry. I mean it. The sound of happy children playing ...’
Brooks gave her a quizzical look. ‘DC Henry, it almost sounds like you’re broody?’
Lucy shrugged with an anxious twinge. ‘What if I am?’
‘Broody?’
‘Yeah. What if I was broody? We’ve never talked about it, have we? And I don’t know why.’
‘You mean kids?’
‘Christ, for a top London detective, you can be very slow on the uptake.’
Brooks shrugged. ‘I love kids. They’re great.’
Lucy sighed. ‘What about your own?’
Brooks took a few agonising seconds to respond. ‘I’ve always wanted my own kids. Karen couldn’t have them.’
‘So? What do you think?’
‘Think?’ Brooks smiled. He was teasing her.
‘Don’t be a dickhead,’ Lucy said shaking her head. ‘Read my lips. Harry Brooks, would you like to have a baby with me?’
Brooks tried to look nonchalant but couldn’t help breaking into a beaming smile. ‘Why not?’
BY THE TIME RUTH AND Ella arrived at the swings on Clapham Common, Dan was waiting on a bench nearby. The Common was heaving with groups of friends picnicking, playing frisbee and football, or just lazing in the sun. The playground was a chaotic frenzy of small children running, jumping and climbing.
As Ruth drew closer to the swings, she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked at Dan. It was so surreal to think that she might not see him again for years, or ever. He had been an integral part of her life for the past seven years. She wasn’t naïve. The anger and bitterness from his affair and walking out on her and Ella was still there. She had no desire to be with him or for him to be in her life anymore. But the finality of Ella saying goodbye to her father was a poignant end to a significant chapter in her life.
Leaning down and unclipping her from her pushchair, Ruth looked at Ella. ‘Go and say hello to Daddy, sweetheart.’
For a moment, Ella looked a little confused.
Dan squatted down and smiled at her. ‘Hello, Ella.’
As recognition dawned, Ella began to walk towards him and then broke into a run. Dan hugged her. ‘Hey, you look so p
retty in your dress.’
‘Thank you,’ Ella said sounding pleased.
Taking her in his arms, Dan stood up and twirled her around as she giggled.
‘Is Daddy going to take you to the swings?’ Ruth asked.
‘YEAH!’ Ella yelled.
Sitting down on the bench, Ruth looked up at Dan. ‘It’s okay. I’ll watch from here. And don’t push her too high because she gets scared.’
Dan smiled uncertainly. ‘Yeah, I remember ... I’ll see you in a bit then?’
Ruth put her sunglasses back on and took out her cigarettes.
Turning back, Dan looked at her. ‘Ruth?’
‘Yeah?’
Dan gave her a meaningful look. ‘Thank you.’
Ruth lit a cigarette and watched them as they walked away, hand in hand, towards the playground.
And then her tears came ...
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although this book is very much a work of fiction, it is located in Snowdonia, a spectacular area of North Wales. It is steeped in history and folklore that spans over two thousand years. It is worth mentioning that Llancastell is a fictional town on the eastern edges of Snowdonia. I have made liberal use of artistic licence, names and places have been changed to enhance the pace and substance of the story.
Acknowledgements
I will always be indebted to the people who have made this novel possible.
My mum, Pam, and my stronger half, Nicola, whose initial reaction, ideas and notes on my work I trust implicitly. And Dad, for his overwhelming enthusiasm and valuable background information on South London in the 1950s.
Thanks also to Barry Asmus, former South London CID detective, for checking my work and explaining the complicated world of police procedure and investigation. Carole Kendal for her acerbic humour, copy editing and meticulous proofreading. My designer Stuart Bache for the incredible cover design. And my superb agent, Millie Hoskins at United Agents.
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1 Don’t know why you changed this bit ... but you made a typo!!!!
2 Making consistent with previous.
3 Capitalised to make consistent with the other two later in the story.
4 Missed one of these above, so added ‘again’.
5 In the bit you added in Chapter 11, Walsh said he got the letter “... just before he went missing.” Come on Simon, get a grip ...!
6 I’ve put this in full ’cos the only other time it appeared in the book so far was when Brooks said “This man has lunch with the PM.” Saves possible confusion for readers.
7 Just realised they still think this is the female version.
The Razor Gang Murder Page 21
