Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘So it was an ambulance crew that took him away?’

  ‘No . . . No, I believe it was social services.’

  ‘To hospital? You’re sure about that?’

  ‘That’s what his mother said. It was for his own safety. He’d threatened to throw himself out of a window. He couldn’t be left alone.’

  ‘He’s committed himself voluntarily, then? Under the Mental Health Act?’

  But John didn’t know about that. ‘Why you asking, Hugh? What’s happened?’

  ‘Social services can’t take people away for treatment, John. Not without a court order. You’re sure it wasn’t the police?’

  ‘His mother never mentioned the police. What’s the problem?’

  They had paused by one of the black cars. The occupants, dressed in deepest mourning, gazed out at them with melancholy interest.

  ‘Wesley was Lizzie’s witness. Wesley saw two white boys kill Jason Jackson.’

  John Emmanuel stared at him in astonishment. ‘Wesley?’ He shook his mighty head. ‘Now you’re making me worried, Hugh. You’re saying that’s the reason he’s got ill?’

  Worse than ill, Hugh thought, though he didn’t say so. ‘Did you know the door of the flat had been forced?’

  John was momentarily dumbstruck. ‘But Gloria never said nothing about that. You sure?’

  ‘Well, it looked forced to me.’

  One of the mourners leant his face close to the car window and fixed the reverend with a pointed stare.

  ‘I have to go, Hugh.’

  ‘Have you heard of someone called Forbes? Part of a white gang?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Sure. There’s not many haven’t heard of the Forbes boys. Why? Are you saying—’ But, unable to postpone his duties any longer, he abandoned the question and reached for the car door handle. ‘How can we check Wesley’s all right? What can we do?’

  ‘I’ll start with social services and the hospitals.’

  ‘And I’ll speak to Gloria. I don’t understand about the door. She never said anything about the door.’

  It was fifteen minutes since Elk had emerged from the interview room and Charlie, armed with money and the number of a taxi firm, had taken him off for a meal, an NA meeting and a final night of moral support in the squalid house by the railway line. Hugh and Steadman were sitting alone in the interview room, which was hot and airless and imbued with the scent of industrial air freshener. DS Reynolds had brought water for Hugh and coffee for DI Steadman before vanishing, apparently never to return. Steadman had taken off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair to reveal a deep-collared cream shirt with wide cuffs and gold cufflinks. He slid his elbows onto the Formica table and clasped his white hands together.

  ‘If I could just get this straight, Mr Gwynne – you’re saying that the person or persons who set fire to your home are also behind the disappearance of this witness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not clear what makes you so sure the two events are linked.’

  ‘The fact that my wife was the only person who knew the identity of the witness, and now the witness has disappeared.’

  Steadman gave a slow nod to show he was getting the picture. ‘So it’s the timing that’s significant, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting that the arsonist went to the house with the purpose of silencing your wife?’

  ‘Yes. And—’ As the thought clarified and found expression in his mind Hugh was ambushed by a fresh throb of anxiety; he had to catch his breath. ‘And to get the name.’

  ‘The name of the witness?’

  ‘Yes.’ Please don’t let me imagine how he did it. Please . . .

  ‘I see. And the witness – you’re certain he’s disappeared?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Perhaps he didn’t hurt her, perhaps he just threatened her. Perhaps . . . Hugh took a sip of his water, which tasted warm and metallic. ‘The neighbours said he’d been taken away. But I’ve had my assistant check the hospitals and social service departments, and he’s not there.’

  ‘I see. So you know his identity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not clear – when we talked yesterday you said you didn’t know his identity.’

  ‘I didn’t then. I do now.’

  ‘And how did that come about?’

  Hugh thought of the printouts lying openly beside his bed at Oakhill and the computer sitting in Charlie’s room, and felt a twinge of unease. ‘I can’t say.’

  Steadman tilted his head as if to get the measure of this remark. ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘I need to protect my source.’

  Steadman gave a sage nod, though behind the show of equanimity it seemed to Hugh that he didn’t have much time for the niceties of source protection. Coming fast on this thought, it occurred to Hugh that having made such basic errors at the start of the case the inspector must be under a lot of pressure to make up for lost time. ‘I see,’ Steadman murmured as he picked up his pen and started to write.

  ‘We’ve checked the hospitals and social services,’ Hugh said. ‘But the one place we haven’t checked is the police stations.’

  Steadman went on writing for a moment before looking up. ‘In case the witness is in custody for an unrelated matter, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s one possibility, I suppose. But I was thinking more of him being held somewhere for his own protection.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I thought maybe your colleague Chief Inspector Montgomery might have got him in a safe place.’

  Steadman went through the motions of considering the idea. ‘Why would you think that?’

  They exchanged a look of mutual incomprehension.

  ‘Well, Montgomery investigated the Jackson murder. He’s the only other person with an interest in spiriting him away.’

  ‘If there was a witness in police protection I assure you I’d have heard about it, Mr Gwynne.’ Steadman returned to his writing. ‘His name?’ he murmured, eyes on his note pad.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The witness’s name?’ Steadman glanced up.

  Hugh hesitated as the incoherent anxiety pulled at him again.

  ‘Mr Gwynne, I can hardly search for him if I don’t have his name.’

  ‘No . . . I realise that. No . . . But it’ll be kept confidential?’

  ‘I’ll have to inform my team.’

  ‘But so far as possible? The witness confided in my wife because he trusted her. I’d hate to feel that I was betraying that trust without . . . well, some sort of guarantee.’ Sensing that Steadman was unmoved by this argument, Hugh said, ‘Perhaps I should explain – this young man didn’t just witness the killing of Jason Jackson, he actually recognised one of the gang who did it. So if they got to hear . . . if they got hold of him . . .’

  ‘But you’re suggesting they already have, Mr Gwynne.’

  Hugh paused uncertainly. ‘Yes . . .’ he conceded at last. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘And the assailant he was able to identify? Do you have a name?’

  ‘Yes. It was Forbes.’

  Steadman was writing again. ‘First name?’

  ‘Don’t know. But I gather he’s one of two brothers – or more than two brothers – who’re part of a well-known gang. You’ve heard of them?’

  The pale eyes lifted briefly. ‘They’re not on my manor but yes . . . yes, I know the name.’ He prepared to write again.

  ‘And if one of them had a motorbike . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘It might be on CCTV somewhere. There’s a camera in our village, by the parade.’

  Steadman acknowledged the information with a brisk nod. ‘And the name and address of the witness, Mr Gwynne?’

  A last hesitation, a last unaccountable twinge of doubt, and Hugh told him.

  In the car he tried calling Lou but she wasn’t answering her mobile and there was no reply from the house line, so he left messages on
both. He drove in silence, with no radio and no music and, after cancelling an incoming call from Ray, no phone either. He needed to slow his head down, to get a grip on his anxieties, to prepare himself for the inevitable delays and frustrations of the police investigation. What did they have to go on, after all? No hard evidence, no fingerprints or DNA, just one motorbike with a shiny cowling, make and colour unknown. The CCTV in the village was primitive: one camera aimed along the shopfronts with an oblique view of the road; knowing the local council, the thing probably wasn’t even loaded. And how many motorbikes passed through in any one evening? Ten? Thirty? A hundred for all he knew. As if to emphasise their ubiquity, one passed him now, with another coming up behind, weaving fearlessly in and out of the car slipstreams, its rider bent low in helmet and blacked-out visor.

  He tried to imagine a future in which the arsonist wasn’t caught, and saw his life going on as it was now, in a succession of journeys and restless nights, reading, questioning, searching for the evidence the police had missed, and if that should fail resorting to campaigning, like Denzel Lewis’s family, becoming a master of soundbites and articulate outrage and appeals to the public. Perhaps Lizzie would be proved right, perhaps he too would invest his hopes in the public’s better nature.

  Coming to a supermarket, he decided to pick up some food. It would be a diversion; also a much-needed grounding. He looked for meals the kids might enjoy. Lou was easy; she liked anything to do with pasta and vegetables, but he couldn’t remember if Charlie’s latest passion was for spare ribs or spicy chicken. He was keen to get it right, not just because Charlie had done so well to persuade Elk to make a witness statement, but because Oakhill didn’t feel complete without him. Deciding to cover all possible shifts in Charlie’s tastes, Hugh loaded the trolley with spare ribs, spicy chicken, chips and potato skins, adding a pizza for good measure. Then, persuading himself he had arrived in the wine section by chance, he went along the row of New World reds till he found a nice Merlot. Wine as medication. The question was, as a sleeping potion, half a bottle to be consumed over dinner, the remainder before bed? Or to be administered in heavier doses as a general anaesthetic? There was a long week ahead, with the opening of the inquest, the arrival of Lizzie’s relatives, the funeral itself. He felt he must decide there and then to keep things under control or deny himself even the evening glass he loved so much. In the end he took just three bottles, to see if he could make them last for three days.

  Driving out of the car park he registered the presence of a petrol station and the fact that he needed fuel at virtually the same instant, which was an instant too late to make the turning safely. He went for it anyway, stamping on the brakes, swerving sharply without indicating, grinding a wheel into the kerb, but if the driver behind took exception to this violent manoeuvre he didn’t show it. At the pumps Hugh had another unsettling moment when for a split second he thought he was filling the car with petrol instead of diesel. I’m finally beginning to lose it, he thought.

  Back on the road, he tried to drive with attention, keeping to the speed limit, watching out for ice, using his indicators in good time. But his concentration must have drifted because the next thing he knew he was in the wrong lane for his turn, and was forced to indicate and slow down until someone let him in. A horn sounded angrily, he thought he must have misread the other driver’s willingness to give way, only to realise the horn was aimed at a car further back which was trying the same last-minute lane switch.

  On a smaller road now, with no lanes to worry about, Hugh nevertheless didn’t entirely trust himself not to miss the next turning or, God forbid, the next car, and he made a fresh effort to stay alert. At a village with a renowned farmers’ shop he made another stop to buy local beef and cheese. The strange thing about paying attention and looking in the mirror more often than usual was that you noticed the cars behind. Setting off again, he realised the car pulling out from a parking place some way beyond the farmers’ shop was the same dark-blue Honda that had made the sudden lane switch at the last turnoff. Another strange thing when you were thoroughly tired and overwrought was how easy it was to imagine that this same car had been with you all the way from the supermarket car park, maybe even earlier. His readiness to believe he was being followed unnerved him. Paranoia was setting in. At this rate he’d be as bad as Tom, seeing conspiracies everywhere.

  Approaching a junction he saw a road sign to a place that lay in the direction of the village where Tom was living. Even as he argued with himself that it was miles out of his way and Tom probably wouldn’t be there and it was crazy to imagine for a single second that the dark-blue Honda would take the same turning, he indicated and, his pulse quickening, moved towards the crown of the road to make the turn. Behind him, the dark-blue Honda also began to indicate and move over. Poised on the crown of the road, waiting for a gap in the oncoming traffic, Hugh watched the Honda coming up behind him and stopping some three or four yards behind. He tried to get a look at the driver’s face, but the visor was down, the sun low, and only the man’s chin was visible over a dark polo shirt.

  Hugh made the turn and set off along a meandering road through a string of suburban villages. At one point he took the wrong fork and had to follow two sides of a triangle to get back on track. The Honda stayed with him, cruising some fifteen yards behind. Yet even as Hugh’s nerves tautened and the sweat began to prick against his skin, a part of him still clung to denial. Who on earth would want to follow him? The press? The police? For what possible reason? They knew where he lived. They only had to lift the phone. Who else, then? The driver might be many things, but from the look of the well-maintained car, the neat polo shirt, he was no hardened gang member from a rough estate. Hugh began to concoct wild plans for ambush and confrontation, only to realise he’d almost missed the obvious. He went fast round a bend then slowed, so that when the Honda appeared it was close enough for him to see the registration number clearly. The figure 5 in mirror image gave him a moment’s hesitation, but then he had it. Not trusting his memory, he kept repeating it aloud until, with one eye on the road, he managed to operate the memo function on his phone. Even then he checked the number a second time when the Honda drew up behind him at a T junction.

  He couldn’t have said why he went on after that; from a need for company perhaps, or reassurance. Approaching Tom’s place he decided to maintain his speed till the last moment then swing in across the entrance so he could get a look at the Honda driver as he went past. But he had been to Tom’s cottage only once before and the sprawling suburban village with its string of garden centres and electrical-goods warehouses confused him; he didn’t see the narrow side lane until he was almost on top of it. Braking hard for the second time that afternoon, he pulled in, only to hit ice and feel the back of the car skidding sideways. Wrenching the wheel over had no effect, he watched the corner of a brick wall advancing inexorably towards the passenger side until it met the rear door with a firm crunch. He jerked round to look at the road but he was too late; the Honda was already passing by, the driver’s face obscured.

  He pressed his head back against the seat-rest and swore once, loudly, with feeling. Climbing out of the car, he saw a familiar long-legged figure hurrying up the lane towards him.

  ‘What the hell?’ Tom called.

  ‘I was being followed. I was trying to get rid of him.’ It sounded even more fantastic spoken aloud, but Tom merely raised his eyebrows and went round the car to inspect the damage.

  ‘It’s just the panel,’ he announced. Then: ‘Maybe the whole door. Let’s get you clear. Start by moving forward a touch, full right-lock . . .’

  Hugh got back in and followed Tom’s instructions, inching back and forth on one full lock or the other until the car was free of the wall.

  ‘Are they still around?’ Tom said, tipping his head towards the road.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘A dark-blue Honda.’

  Tom wen
t and looked up and down the road, then turned back with a shake of his head. ‘You look like you need a drink, hot and sweet variety,’ he said.

  Tom walked ahead of the car and waited for Hugh to park alongside a high wall opposite the terrace of tiny artisans’ cottages where he lived.

  ‘Who was following you, then?’ Tom asked as Hugh climbed out.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Who’d have reason to follow you?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Well, either they’re for you or against you. Has to be one or the other. Work it out.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, for Christ’s sake.’

  Tom led the way towards his front door. ‘What do they want, then? What’re they after?’

  But Hugh wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the shiny motorbike parked in front of Tom’s cottage. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked, maintaining a level tone.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The motorbike.’

  ‘My landlord’s.’ Tom indicated the cottage next door. Then, with a dismissive grunt: ‘Well, it’s never gonna be mine, is it?’

  Seeing that the motorbike was in fact parked half in front of the next-door cottage, knowing full well that Tom had no money, Hugh felt a dart of shame at the thoughts that had raced so readily into his mind. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No . . .’

  Dusk had come early to the narrow lane; the tiny cottage was shrouded in a premature gloom. With its slimy bricks, sagging gutters and dark peeling paint it had an air of irretrievable damp and decay. The front room was cosy enough, with a fire burning in the grate, posters on the walls, and photographs of Holly and the two boys on the mantelpiece, but the kitchen was freezing and through the door to the bathroom extension Hugh could see mould blooming along one wall.

  ‘Was he tailgating you?’ Tom asked, cigarette jammed between his lips as he filled the kettle. ‘Trying to push you around?’

  ‘No. Just following. Unless I’m going completely mad . . .’ The more he replayed the journey from the supermarket in his mind, the more he began to wonder if it hadn’t all been a wild coincidence.