Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  Finally Hugh said distractedly, as if thinking aloud, ‘We had a break-in not long ago. I don’t suppose you’ll ever know if it was connected to Steadman.’

  Montgomery, illuminated by the oncoming headlights, gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Hard to establish now.’

  ‘Nothing was taken except a bit of cash and costume jewellery. But they knew how to get in without setting off the burglar alarm. At the time I thought my wife must have got it wrong . . .’ Leaving the rest of this thought unspoken, Hugh looked out of the window and waited for the radio to stop one of its periodic bouts of jabbering before going on in the same unhurried tone, ‘I hired a fire expert called Slater. He can prove the fire was arson. But how can you tie Steadman to the fire? How can you prove he was there?’

  Perhaps it was the darkness, perhaps it was the tone Hugh had set, but Montgomery confided, ‘We know he called your house from a mobile phone at 20.30 on the night of the fire.’

  Hugh kept his gaze on the passing streets and the flicker of lights.

  ‘Now we’re waiting for the mobile phone company to come back to us with the location of the mobile, both then and later that evening. It’s a lengthy job, but we’re hoping to get something by morning.’

  Hugh absorbed this silently. ‘Is it going to be enough?’

  ‘If there’s more to find, we’ll find it,’ Montgomery declared in an intense way. ‘Anything that fixes him to the house. DNA. A tyre print. We’ll find it. He reckoned he’d covered everything, but the phone was his first mistake. He used a pay-as-you-go phone, the same one he used to contact the Forbes family, but he hung on to it too long, we obtained the number before he threw it away. Same with the money. He must have been on the take for at least four years. You can be clever with extra cash once or twice, lose it around the place, pretend a car’s second-hand when it’s new, say you got the new conservatory at a knock-down price, but you can’t go on hiding it for ever. We’ll get him for perverting the course of justice in the Jason Jackson murder. We’ll get him on everything we can, Mr Gwynne. However long it takes.’

  They had left the suburbs and were entering the city along a street of brightly lit shops and busy pavements.

  ‘How did you find Wesley?’ Hugh asked.

  Wrapped in other thoughts, Montgomery took a moment to answer. ‘Through your wife’s client list at the Citizens Advice.’

  ‘That was enough?’

  ‘Along with her phone records, yes.’

  Hugh’s first instinct was to baulk at this invasion of Lizzie’s privacy, but of course there was no right to privacy once you were dead. ‘You contacted all her clients?’

  ‘Not all, no. We matched key dates to her calls, and then it was a process of elimination. We knew he was young. Your wife had told me he was young.’

  They were climbing the long hill towards the Carstairs Estate, where the lights of the tower blocks gleamed coldly against the night sky.

  ‘Go right just before the church,’ Hugh told Pertusio. Then, turning to Montgomery, he asked in the same mild, unhurried manner how Steadman had first got to know there was a witness, but either Montgomery didn’t hear or he didn’t feel like answering because he stared ahead, frowning absently, and made no reply. Then Pertusio was making the turn and Hugh was telling him to pull up in front of the second house on the left, which was one of a long terrace of squat geometric squares built of concrete with metal-framed windows and, going by the misted glass, a condensation problem.

  ‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’ Montgomery asked.

  ‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. How did Steadman get to know there was a witness?’

  Montgomery gave a sharp nod, as if to acknowledge that he’d heard the question the first time, and, pushing his door open, swung his bulky frame round to climb out. When Hugh joined him on the pavement he was staring at the line of concrete houses, the streetlight casting a sulphurous light over his heavy features.

  ‘He found out because I told him,’ he said bleakly. ‘I told him because I thought I could trust him.’ He turned to Hugh, his mouth in a bitter down-turned arc. ‘There’s no way I can undo that, Mr Gwynne, much as I’d wish to. All I can do is nail him. Get the prosecutions. And that’s what I’ll do. However long it takes.’

  They stood in silence for a moment, then Hugh walked up the path and rang the doorbell. When he looked back Montgomery was still there under the streetlight.

  Then John Emmanuel was answering the door and Hugh was stepping inside to meet Lizzie’s lost boy.

  TWELVE

  The family courtroom was small and modern and arranged like a meeting room to make it seem less intimidating. The main participants sat on three sides of a rectangular table, Tom Deacon at the near end with Emma Deeds, Linda Deacon with her solicitor further up the table, with court and social services officials opposite. At the far end, behind the clerk, the district judge sat alone at a raised bench. She was a brisk, jolly woman who smiled easily, which Hugh took as a good omen.

  She addressed Ainsley, who was sitting in a witness box which looked as if it had been set down at random on the carpeted floor. ‘Dr Ainsley, in your report you state that Mr Deacon is capable of meeting all the children’s emotional and physical needs. Are you saying his illness won’t impact at all on his ability to care for the boys?’

  ‘Even on his bad days I believe he’ll be able to function perfectly adequately as a parent,’ Ainsley replied easily. ‘His motivation to do his best for the boys is extremely strong. If he has a sleepless night, for example, I’ve no doubt he’ll be up in good time to make the boys’ breakfast and get them off to school.’

  ‘What about the depression? You say it’s controlled with medication and therapy, but could it recur under certain circumstances?’

  From where Hugh was sitting at the side of the room Tom’s bony face was in quarter profile, he could see the muscle in his jaw flickering its message of distress.

  ‘It could, yes. But I wouldn’t regard the risk of deterioration as high at the present time. His medication is reviewed regularly. And he seems to be responding well to a new therapy called neuro-linguistic programming. New to him, I mean.’

  ‘New to me too,’ said the judge. ‘What does it involve?’

  ‘It’s not a technique I practise myself, but it involves – in the simplest terms – blocking and reframing negative thoughts and building on positive ones. It’s not scientifically proven but anecdotal evidence suggests it has some success with phobias. Tom found out about it himself and signed up for a course of treatments. He’s always on the lookout for ways to improve his condition.’

  The judge made a note. ‘And the alcohol abuse? You say he’s able to keep it under control when he has charge of the children. Are we sure about that?’

  ‘I would say so, yes. He tends to be honest about his alcohol consumption.’

  The judge raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s primarily a binge drinker, ma’am. He’s never proud of himself afterwards. He talks about it quite freely.’

  ‘And when he’s not bingeing, what’s his consumption then?’

  ‘As I understand it, a beer or two.’

  Tom turned to Emma Deeds and whispered urgently.

  The judge went on, ‘You say he’s anxious to overcome his dependency, but you don’t state whether you think he’s likely to succeed.’

  ‘I can’t say he’ll succeed in abstaining altogether, no. But as I’ve stated, he seems to be capable of controlling his problem when he has the boys with him, and I have no reason to think that he won’t be able to maintain that level of control in the future, particularly when the matter of the boys’ residence is settled. He responds well to routine and certainty – and to having the boys with him, of course.’

  The judge referred to another document. ‘One report states that Mr Deacon seems to have problems with anger management. Would you agree with that?’

  ‘He can have problems with anger management, yes, but it’s almost e
xclusively directed at people or bodies he regards as frustrating his attempts to regain control of his life. It stems from the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness he experienced on witnessing the death of his daughter. But he recognises the problem, he understands it achieves nothing. He’s working on it.’

  ‘There’s no suggestion that his anger is ever directed at the children?’

  Tom’s jaw muscle went into overtime.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Ainsley. You may step down.’

  Ainsley came back to his seat next to Hugh.

  The judge said, ‘Now, the last matter of concern was the housing. We have a development there. Is that right, Ms Deeds?’

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am. If I could call on my colleague Mr Gwynne?’

  ‘Indeed. Mr Gwynne?’

  Hugh stood up. ‘I can report that in the matter of Mr Deacon’s claim against the driver of the car that injured him and killed his daughter, a settlement has been reached whereby Mr Deacon will receive damages of six hundred and twenty thousand pounds, with an interim payment of two hundred and fifty thousand, to be paid within the month.’

  ‘And this money is not ring-fenced in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gwynne.’ She turned her attention to Tom. ‘And it’s your intention to buy somewhere as soon as possible, is it, Mr Deacon?’

  Tom straightened his back. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve already seen one place I like for the right money.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And, ma’am, can I say something else?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘When I’m caring for the boys I can go for days without a drink. Days and days. I just don’t feel the need.’

  The judge was already nodding, as if to discourage Tom from overstating his case. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Is there anything more you’d like to say, Mrs Deacon?’

  Linda, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, except to confirm that she was happy for the boys to live with their father, shook her head.

  ‘Counsel?’ Meeting a silence, the judge announced in a tone of decision, ‘Taking into account the reports, and the wishes of Mrs Deacon and Mr Deacon, and of course those of Matt and Joe themselves, the Court makes a shared residence order in favour of both parents, the boys to spend term-time with their father plus half the holidays, the other half of the holidays to be available for the boys to go to their mother, should she feel able to have them.’

  For several seconds Tom was completely immobile, as if the significance of the words hadn’t sunk in. Then, as the judge went into detail on contact and visiting arrangements, he turned to Emma Deeds as if for confirmation, but she was writing busily so he turned the other way and sought out Ainsley’s gaze. Only when Ainsley gave him a broad smile and a firm nod did his face slowly contort with agonised joy.

  The judge said, ‘And, Mr Deacon?’

  Tom straightened again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘The Court asks that you continue to visit your doctor on a regular basis, so he can monitor your health. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘How often shall we say? Is monthly convenient?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Monthly it is, then.’

  ‘You understand why I’m asking, Mr Deacon? We want to avoid any deterioration in your health going unnoticed and untreated.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And, Mr Deacon? No more persuading yourself you’re better than you really are?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘I appreciate your reasons for doing it, but it didn’t help your case.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  When the court rose, Tom stood to attention, shoulders back, arms stiff as arrows at his sides, until the door closed behind the judge, when he fisted his hands and gave a small whoop of triumph before hurrying from the room to find his sons, who were waiting outside with Isabel.

  ‘Lucky with the judge,’ Ainsley commented.

  Lucky was not usually a word Hugh associated with Tom, but for once he agreed.

  ‘Let’s hope Tom doesn’t blow it,’ Ainsley murmured as they watched Linda Deacon leaving the room.

  ‘You think there’s a risk?’

  ‘As we both know, compromise isn’t his strong point.’

  ‘The judge has laid down some pretty clear rules.’

  ‘But you know Tom – he’ll bend the rules, and the ones he can’t bend he’ll challenge. He’s a fighter. He needs a battle.’

  ‘So long as he doesn’t embark on any more legal battles.’

  ‘I’ll second that. Oh, and congratulations on negotiating a settlement. You must be relieved.’

  ‘Tom feels he’s been cheated, of course, because we had to take a drop of over two hundred thousand pounds on our claim.’

  ‘He was never going to be happy, whatever happened.’

  ‘Needless to say, I’m the villain of the piece. But it was settle or have the whole thing drag on for another year or more while everyone appealed and counter-claimed. It was the best deal in the circumstances, but nothing Desmond Riley or I could say was ever going to convince Tom of that.’

  They went out into the hall where Tom was sitting in a tight huddle with his boys, talking earnestly, while the heavily pregnant Linda Deacon sat a few feet away, looking tired and dull-eyed.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Hugh said, ‘could I ask you to send your account to me personally?’ He reached into his pocket for a card and a pen, and wrote the Meadowcroft address on the back. ‘It’s the old house, but it’ll find me all right.’

  Ainsley took the card. ‘It’ll just be a few expenses.’

  ‘If you’re sure? That’s very kind.’ Embarrassed, Hugh went on, ‘That therapy Tom’s trying – what was it called?’

  ‘NLP. Neuro-linguistic programming.’

  ‘Do you think it might work for agoraphobia?’

  ‘They say it has quite a lot of success, yes.’

  ‘Where would I find a local practitioner?’

  ‘Tom mentioned the name of the man he’s going to. I can’t remember it off-hand, but I made a note, I can let you know.’

  ‘There’s this boy we need to get out and about again. He was a client – well, more of a young friend – of my wife’s. But whoever takes him on, it’ll have to be someone who likes a real challenge. The boy hasn’t been outside for years. And he’s needed as a key witness in a trial where the defence will do their best to tear him to shreds.’

  ‘I’d like to say I could take him on myself, but . . .’

  ‘You couldn’t get down here often enough,’ Hugh said, helping him out. ‘And the funding’s very limited.’

  They looked towards Tom, waiting for their opportunity to say goodbye, but he was still talking to the children.

  ‘And you, Hugh?’ Ainsley asked. ‘How are you managing?’

  ‘Me? Oh, you know . . .’

  Ainsley, trained in the art of listening, said nothing.

  ‘As good as anyone who’s useless at being on his own.’

  ‘Your children not with you?’

  ‘Charlie’s back at college. Lou’s in Sri Lanka on her gap year.’

  ‘Must be hard for you.’

  ‘No point in them hanging around. They’ve got to get on with their lives. And my son . . . he phones every day. He does the worrying about me, asks if I’m getting out of the house, tries to get me to go for bereavement counselling.’

  ‘But you’re not persuaded?’

  ‘Call me old-fashioned, Doc, but therapy’s not really my thing. Work’s the nearest I get to therapy.’

  ‘You’re busy then?’

  ‘I hope to be. I’m setting up on my own. High-street law. Everything and anything that comes through the door. Well, almost.’

  And the work wouldn’t come a moment too soon. In the immediate aftermath of Lizzie’s death Hugh could see now that he’d been like Tom, carried along by a
grand obsession for truth and justice. Then, once the funeral was over and the police investigation complete, he’d thrown himself into activities with the children. To avoid a traditional Christmas with all its associations he’d taken them skiing for two weeks. He’d involved them in decisions about wall colours and curtain fabrics as the restoration of Meadowcroft got under way. He’d helped them pack, and driven them to college and airport. Only when he came back to the empty house did he feel the full force of Lizzie’s absence. He missed her all the time, but it was the loneliness that took him by surprise, how gruelling it was, how quickly it reduced him to self-pity. To keep himself occupied he’d set up a fund in Lizzie’s memory to provide sports equipment for the kids on the Carstairs Estate, he’d gone to the fire station and thanked the firemen who’d tried to save her, he’d twice visited Charlie at college, he’d started taking long walks and fewer bottles of wine. He told himself it was getting easier all the time, and perhaps it was.

  Ainsley said, ‘Have you long to wait till this man comes to trial?’

  Hugh resented the reflexive tension that pulled at his stomach when the trial was mentioned; it was like the jerk of a string, a reminder of Steadman’s hold over his past. ‘They think it could be May, but they’re not sure.’

  ‘He’ll get life presumably?’

  ‘In theory. But he could be out in ten years.’

  Ainsley looked shocked. ‘Why so soon?’

  ‘They’re not sure they can prove murder, only manslaughter. He could get more for the arson than the killing.’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s a lot longer than ten years.’

  ‘I’m trying to reach the point where I no longer care.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with wanting justice, though.’

  ‘But look what happens when you can’t let go. Look at Tom. No winners there.’