Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘You’ll go to the cops?’ Under the overhead light Tom’s features were jagged, his eyes two deep shadows.

  ‘They’ll probably think I’m being paranoid.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that goes with the territory, doesn’t it? People thinking you’ve gone off the rails. The shock, you know,’ Tom added in a high-pitched parody of concern. ‘Never the same since.’

  ‘Listen, Tom, I came to check – you’re not thinking of doing anything crazy, are you? You’re not thinking of going into hiding with the boys or anything stupid like that? Because it’s not going to help, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure as hell not gonna let them be dumped in care.’

  ‘Emma Deeds says there’s been a case conference, that’s all. No application to the court.’

  Tom shot him a look of exaggerated incredulity. ‘You think social services are gonna give warning? You think they’re gonna tell anyone? No way! They’ll just grab the kids and argue later.’

  ‘They’d still have to make an application—’

  ‘Yeah, at dead of night! On the sly! I know how they work. They’re like the fucking Gestapo.’

  ‘There’d still have to be a hearing, Tom. And if you try to do a runner you can kiss goodbye to any hope of getting the kids.’

  ‘Already done that,’ he spat.

  ‘But you haven’t, Tom! That’s the whole point. Your chances of getting custody are still good. Despite everything you’ve still got a great chance!’ It was a rash statement, but Hugh was prepared to say anything just then. ‘If we can persuade the family court that the two sets of psychiatrists were looking at your illness from two entirely different angles – your capacity to work versus your capacity to look after the kids – well, they’d buy that, I’m sure they would.’

  ‘Like hell,’ Tom muttered, though part of him was listening hard.

  ‘We’ll get Ainsley to tell them what a great father you are.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Just promise me you won’t even think about running for it, Tom. Just promise me that.’

  Tom gave a bitter down-turned smile. ‘What, make for Spain, you mean? A nice little villa with a pool. Though the weather’s not so good at this time of year, so they tell me.’

  ‘You’ve got to keep faith, Tom.’

  Tom screwed his eyes up, as if to reject more useless talk and, grabbing two mugs from the draining board, shoved them down on the counter with a clunk. Then, his cigarette between two nicotine-stained fingers, he spread his hands out in front of him as if to check for tremors. ‘I was out of order the other night,’ he grunted. ‘Got the wrong side of a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Sorry for sounding off at you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I try not to keep booze in the house, but come evening . . .’

  ‘It seems to help at the time.’

  Tom gave an unhappy laugh on a breaking note. ‘It’s fucking great at the time! That’s the trouble – it’s fucking great!’

  ‘How are you doing for counselling, Tom? Are you seeing someone while Ainsley’s away?’

  ‘Been checking up on me, has he?’

  ‘He’s worried about you.’

  ‘What, thinking I’m gonna top myself? Can’t say it doesn’t have its attractions.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ Hugh growled.

  Abandoning the flippancy, Tom said in despair, ‘It’s the hanging on . . . the sheer fucking effort of hanging on . . .’

  Hugh said quite roughly, ‘But look what you’re hanging on for. The boys. The settlement.’

  Shaking his head, Tom made the tea. ‘But listen to me, for Christ’s sake,’ he murmured after a moment. ‘Going on about my own sodding troubles when you’re the one who’s had the stomachful. Lousy bloody friend.’

  ‘You’ve been a good friend, Tom.’

  ‘No,’ he stated with unexpected vehemence. ‘No – I’ve been a crap friend.’

  Without feeling the need to explain this, he picked up the mugs and, cigarette jammed in his mouth, led the way into the front room. Jabbing at the fire with a makeshift poker, he threw another piece of wood onto the flames. ‘Come on then,’ he demanded fiercely. ‘This car – who’d wanna follow you? Who’d wanna know where you are?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. I thought it might be the police. But that’s crazy. Why would they want to follow me?’

  ‘How many in the car?’

  ‘Just one.’

  Tom shook his head authoritatively. ‘The cops always hunt in pairs.’

  ‘Do they? Yes, I suppose they do. Then I thought it might be the press. But that doesn’t make any sense either. If they wanted to talk to me they’d come and ring on the doorbell. Or phone.’

  ‘But why’d they wanna hassle you, for God’s sake? No reason.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll have heard it’s arson by now. They’ll probably come sniffing around.’

  Tom stalled with his tea mug halfway to his mouth and stared at Hugh in a strange way. ‘Arson?’

  ‘The police took their time, but finally they’ve accepted it’s arson, yes.’

  Tom’s mouth jerked, as if in spasm.

  ‘Oh, I always knew,’ Hugh said, as if to soften the news. ‘Right from the beginning. Never had any doubt.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake . . . But who? Why?’

  ‘To silence Lizzie. That’s what we think anyway.’

  ‘Silence her for what?’

  ‘She knew about this witness. It’s all rather complicated . . . But we think they were after the name of the witness. And . . . to stop her telling anyone.’

  Tom’s face contorted. ‘They set the fire knowing she was upstairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christ . . . Christ . . .’ Jamming his tea mug down on the hearth, Tom rocked forward in his chair, clamped his hands over his face and gave a howl of fury and pain.

  For Hugh there was something disturbing in witnessing such emotion on his behalf. He wished Tom would stop. He found himself staring at the cigarette in Tom’s fingers as it burnt perilously close to his hair.

  ‘Christ . . .’ Tom raged into his hands.

  ‘Don’t . . .’

  Eventually Tom lowered his hands a little and fixed Hugh with blazing eyes. ‘What kind of animal?’ he hissed emotionally. ‘What kind of vermin?’

  ‘Hopefully the police are going to find out.’

  ‘Scum!’ Tom clenched his fists. ‘Scum!’

  Hugh put his tea down.

  ‘If it was me I’d put the bastard up against a wall’ – Tom mimed grabbing someone and thrusting a pistol against his head – ‘and phut!’ He bared his teeth as he pulled the imaginary trigger. ‘Except shooting’s too bloody good for them.’

  Hugh looked at his watch. ‘Listen, Tom, I really have to—’ ‘But the cops – they’re gonna get these bastards?’ he went on furiously. ‘They’re gonna nail ’em?’

  ‘They’ve got a full team on it.’

  ‘Forensics? DNA?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what ideas they got?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days.’

  ‘They must have some ideas, for Christ’s sake!’

  Hugh stood up abruptly. ‘Look, Tom, I’ve got to get going. Sorry, but I’ve got a helluva lot to do.’

  Tom froze slightly, before getting slowly to his feet. ‘Yeah, sure . . .’

  Hugh gestured towards his untouched tea. ‘Sorry, it was a bit hot . . .’

  Tom said, ‘You need to talk this through.’

  ‘Thanks. But we’re fine.’

  ‘I could come over tonight. I’ve got nothing on till the boys come for the weekend. I could come over and we could—’

  ‘No.’ Hugh interrupted more bluntly than he’d intended to. ‘No . . . I’m having supper with my daughter, you see. It’s all arranged.’

  Tom’s gaze dropped, his mouth made a fierce line, and he gave a quick nod before chucking his cigarette into the grate and g
oing to open the door. They went out into a twilight that was clear and still, the air already sharp with frost.

  ‘That guy following you – watch your back, eh?’ Tom grunted as Hugh prepared to drive off.

  ‘Sure.’

  Tom levelled a finger at him, as if sighting along the barrel of a gun. ‘Remember – he’s after something.’

  Even as Hugh began to shrug, a realisation came to him. It was so shocking and so horribly obvious that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. He was overcome by a sense of danger so acute that when Tom asked what the matter was his throat seized, he couldn’t speak, and he drove away without answering.

  He slowed as he approached Oakhill and turned in through the gate at a trickle, making almost no sound. He was tensed for battle, his heart pressing against his ribcage, his pulse beating high in his head, but there were no strange cars, no signs of anything out of the ordinary. He drifted to a halt and cut the engine and listened hard. Getting out, he listened again before unloading the shopping. Approaching the front door he had the key ready in his hand, only to jam it into the lock upside down. As he fumbled to get it the right way up, the latch sounded and Lou swung the door open.

  ‘You’re all right?’ he asked, in a flood of relief.

  ‘I’m fine. But what’s all this about, Dad? You scared me half to death on the phone.’

  Dumping the shopping on the floor, Hugh closed the door behind him and flicked the deadlock. ‘No one’s come to the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You drew all the curtains?’

  ‘Dad! Will you please explain?’ She was angry because she was frightened, and he couldn’t blame her.

  ‘Well, there’s some evidence here in the house, you see. And they know it. I thought . . . Well, I’m not sure what I thought. But as long as you’re all right, that’s all that matters.’ He tried to put an arm round her but she pulled away.

  ‘You’re not making any sense, Dad.’

  He tried to slow down. ‘It’s Mum’s computer,’ he said, ‘there’s something on it they want. I’ve got to get it out of here.’

  ‘But who wants it? The police?’

  ‘Not the police, no.’

  ‘Dad.’ She made a gesture of exasperation.

  He had hoped to avoid telling her, but she deserved to know. ‘The witness Mum found in the Jason Jackson murder? Well, he’s been abducted. Maybe even killed. Which means the only evidence left is sitting in Mum’s computer. And I think they know that, Lou. I think they’re going to come and get it.’

  ‘But who’s “they”?’

  ‘I don’t know. Jason’s murderers . . . their friends . . . All I know is I’ve got to get the computer out of here.’

  Lou was looking at him in a different way, with concern. ‘Okay . . .’ she said carefully, as if treading on eggshells. ‘If it’ll make you feel safer, Dad.’

  ‘And I want you to go and stay with friends.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could go to the Koenigs. They’ll understand.’

  ‘I’m not going to stay with the Koenigs!’

  ‘Sorry, but I want you out of the house, Lou.’

  ‘Dad, this is crazy. You’re completely overreacting!’

  ‘Maybe. But do it for me anyway. Please, Lou.’

  ‘Why can’t we just call the police?’

  ‘I will. But they may not come. Not in time anyway.’

  Holding back tears, Lou bit hard on her lip and shook her head sadly. ‘Dad . . . Dad . . .’

  ‘Do it for me, Lou. So I know you’re safe.’

  A tear squeezed from her eye and she brushed it impatiently away.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to know about all this.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s—’ But she gave up further explanation with a hopeless gesture. ‘Okay . . . there’s a bunch of friends going to a film tonight. I’ll go with them. But I’m absolutely not going to stay somewhere. I’m coming back here.’

  He would have argued but he could see that her mind was made up. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But phone me before you start back. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Hugh picked up a holdall from his bedroom and took it into Charlie’s room. Faced by the assortment of laptops, printers and hard drives, not knowing where Lizzie’s data was stored, he disconnected the cables and loaded everything but the printers into the holdall. Jamming the pile of printouts into a side pocket, he took the holdall down to the dining room and left it behind the door. It looked so obvious there that he thought better of the idea and took it out to his car and put it in the boot. Then, in another change of plan, he removed the printouts from the side pocket and, wedging them under his arm, prepared to take them back into the house. The faint murmur of traffic from the main road only served to emphasise the silence of the garden and the crunch of his footsteps as he walked back towards the house. Pausing on the threshold to listen again, he wondered if Lou wasn’t right after all and he was overreacting.

  You react in any way you like, Lizzie whispered to him. You’re accountable to no one but yourself.

  And to you, Lizzie.

  Fine: to me as well. And I give you permission to see as many conspiracies as you choose. Dozens, hundreds. So long as you get there in the end. So long as you see my story through.

  Trouble is, Lizzie, I’m not sure I trust my judgement any more.

  Of course you do. Didn’t we always say that gut instinct was the most reliable guide of all? That however much you rationalise and chop and change your ideas later, you nearly always come back to your first reaction?

  It’s so hard not being able to talk things through with you, Lizzie.

  You’re not listening to what I’m saying. Go with your instincts. Stick to your guns.

  Lou was in the hall putting on her coat.

  ‘It’s going to be icy tonight,’ he said. ‘You’ll drive carefully, won’t you?’

  She nodded mutely and indicated a list by the phone. ‘Thousands of people have called. I’ve told them the funeral’s likely to be on Wednesday. Pat Edgecomb wanted to come round but I told her it wasn’t convenient at the moment.’

  She seemed worn down by it all, and he said with a surge of remorse, ‘Sorry you’ve had to bear the brunt.’

  With a small shrug she moved towards the door. He opened it for her and walked her to the Golf.

  ‘What film are you going to see?’

  ‘The latest Bond,’ she said before pausing to stare at something behind him. ‘What happened to your car, Dad?’

  In the porch light the dent looked worse than before.

  ‘I hit some ice.’

  She gave a sigh, as if this was another symptom of his frightening slide into emotional instability. ‘Oh Dad, I think I’d better stay. I really do—’

  ‘No! No! I’m fine!’ He smiled to persuade her it was true.

  ‘But you’ll be on your own.’

  ‘Ray’s on his way over.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘He’ll be here any minute.’

  After a last hesitation she got into the car.

  As soon as her tail-lights had disappeared, Hugh hurried back into the house and sitting at the dining room table started on his calls. When he tried DI Steadman he was told he was unavailable and was put through to DS Reynolds.

  ‘Followed?’ Reynolds echoed. ‘You sure about that, Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘After I left you this afternoon. I’d gone a mile or two when I realised he was behind me. I took a long detour to try and shake him off, but he stayed with me all the way. There’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘So he followed you home?’

  ‘Not actually home, no. I stopped to see someone on the way.’

  ‘So he followed you till you made this stop, but not after that?’

  ‘Well, he might have, but it was getting dark, I could well have missed him. Look, I ca
n give you the registration number. You can check it out.’

  In the pause that followed, Hugh heard muted voices in the background and wondered how many people were working on Lizzie’s case. ‘Right, Mr Gwynne,’ Reynolds said, ‘fire away.’

  Hugh gave him the registration number, using an approximation of the phonetic alphabet, and asked Reynolds to repeat it back to him to make doubly sure. ‘It was a dark-blue Honda,’ he added.

  ‘Dark . . . blue . . . Honda,’ Reynolds confirmed at writing speed.

  ‘Shall I hang on?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘While you look it up.’

  ‘Ah, well, we’ll need to investigate the matter first, Mr Gwynne. We’ll get back to you in due course.’

  ‘But the owner’s name – that’s simple enough, surely.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Gwynne. You have to leave this to us.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’

  ‘Can’t say. But we’ll get straight onto it. And if there are any developments you can be sure we’ll let you know.’

  ‘And what happens if these guys turn up here? What am I meant to do then?’

  A slight pause. ‘If anyone should harass you in any way, then you should contact us straight away, Mr Gwynne.’

  His pronunciation of harass in the American style, with the emphasis on the second syllable, only served to increase Hugh’s frustration. Ringing off, he took a couple of turns around the room before calling Isabel and asking if she could find the car owner’s details. But quickly; a formal application involving paperwork would take too long. If all else failed she might try the private detective they had used in the Deacon case, the one who’d got all the dirt on Price.

  Hugh began to rearrange the papers on the dining-room table, spreading the computer printouts out in front of him, mentally reviewing everything from Lizzie’s desk, deciding what might be worth looking at again. To focus his search he pulled a pad towards him and constructed a timeline, starting with Wesley tells Lizzie he saw JJ killing, followed rapidly by Lizzie discusses witness protection with Montgomery and Break-in at Meadowcroft, then a gap of some weeks before Fire, and finally, Disappearance of Wesley. What he was missing, he quickly realised, were the dates when Lizzie had told John Emmanuel and Jacqui Lewis about the existence of a witness. In his mind he replayed the conversation in the vestry, but if there had been any mention of timings he couldn’t remember what was said. Yet, even if the dates coincided, was it likely that John or Jacqui would have let the information slip? Not John, he decided immediately. A man used to bearing secrets bears them easily. But Jacqui was a different matter. In her excitement at the news she might well have told family and friends, and inadvertently set off the rumour mill.