A second wave of monumental anger passed through him. He grabbed hold of it and flung it across the room with such force, it hit the wall. It lay slumped against the skirting board. He picked up the note, the one Flori had left with him all those years ago, and was about to tear it up, when an idea came to him. He’d keep them both, the note and the giraffe. He’d find some way to use them and take revenge. He’d made a start with his father.
It was now time to turn his attention to Flori and Matt. They were implicated and he would punish them. He’d wipe that self-satisfied smile off their faces. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d find a way. It was a matter of time until an opportunity would present itself, and he’d be ready.
— 11 —
The day was humid, the sky downcast, the sea as flat and grey as the sky. He parked his car in the same place as before, and walked across the shingle towards the Shell. He’d slept badly and after breakfast, his mind in turmoil, he’d drifted around the garden. His thoughts returned to when he’d first met Imogen on the beach at Aldeburgh. Although it was unlikely she’d be there now, walking by the sea and coming across the Shell had calmed him before. He remembered her innocence, her seriousness and how she’d distracted him from his own problems.
He’d had to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Little by little he was unravelling his early history. The missing pieces of his life; the experiences denied or never articulated − it was these that had made him into a persona non grata. He didn’t belong. He was different, an outsider to conventional society.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the note in the attic. Even its heading, ‘Whoever Finds Baby Owain’ caused waves of frustrated anger to wash over him. He felt bitter, obsessively and keenly aware; he’d been made a victim by the neglect of his parents and the craziness of Flori. He gazed out over the sea. Picking up a flat stone he walked to the water’s edge and skimming the stone, watched it bounce over the still surface until it sank. He’d played this game as a boy and it had distracted him then, as it did now. Over and over, he repeated this action, trying to increase the length of time the stone bounced before it disappeared under water.
He looked along the beach towards Thorpeness. In the distance a small boat with an outboard motor was heading towards the shore. A young girl who reminded him of Imogen was running towards it, waving. He stopped to watch. The man at the controls brought the boat into the shallow water, jumped out, and began pulling the boat up onto the foreshore. The girl reached the boat. It was Imogen. When he’d first met her she’d been very much the child. Her hair had been tied back. Now it was loose.
She wore a startling, white floppy shirt and a tight short skirt which showed off her brown legs. She’d grown taller, had filled out. She had the look of a young adolescent about to enter womanhood. He paused, curious to see what was happening. She took off her sandals and waded into the water to help the man pull the boat up onto the beach. She was laughing, talking, playfully splashing him and clearly pleased to see him. He looked middle aged, Who could he be? Maybe an uncle?
But the scene struck him as odd. Why would a middle-aged man, wearing old jeans rolled up to his knees, a scruffy, blue shirt with short sleeves, choose an isolated area of the beach to bring his boat ashore to meet a child? Apart from himself there was no one around. He hung back and watched as the man bent down and put on well-worn boat shoes. Imogen seemed to be chatting to him nonstop, so much so that neither of them looked back or noticed him. Something wasn’t right.
They began walking away in the opposite direction. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to follow them. Keeping a good distance away but close to the sand dunes, he planned to disappear into the long Marram grass if they looked back.
They came to a stop. Imogen was circling round the man laughing, than she ran off along the beach. It was a ‘catch-up’ game. The man ran after her until he caught up and grabbing her round her waist, threw her on the sand. It looked as if he was tickling her but it was a mock game; the real aim being, Seb realised, was for the man to get his hands on Imogen’s body.
He pulled her back on her feet and they walked together to where the shingle stopped and huge tufts of Marram grass grew. They disappeared. The wind had created perfect hiding places in the sand, the tall Marram grass acting as a shelter from the wind and from prying eyes.
His suspicions about the man’s intentions were growing by the minute. The sand between the shingle and the dunes forced him to walk slowly, but it also enabled him to be silent. He walked for several minutes until he heard voices. A man’s low voice, the other Imogen’s. He stopped. He could hear her but not see her. She was talking. She sounded anxious, almost as if she was pleading.
‘You’re hurting me. Don’t do that.’
He couldn’t hear the man’s reply but he could hear the tone. It was low and reassuring. It was enough. He’d heard enough. He moved towards them. They lay in one of the sand hollows. He stood for a split second, looking down at them. Imogen was on her back, her shirt open, her breasts exposed. The man was partially lying on her, his hand up her skirt. She looked past the man and saw Seb.
He was close, only a few feet away. Her eyes widened. He didn’t think. He acted. He moved towards the man. He took hold of the back of his shirt. He pulled him violently off her and onto his feet. The man was shorter but stockier than him. Seb twisted him round so they were face to face. He noticed his eyes; faded, blue, watery. The man looked astonished, opened his mouth to speak. Seb hit him hard. The blow was hard, brutal, and in his face. He reeled away and fell to the ground.
Seb glanced at Imogen. She was struggling to sit up. Putting out his hand, he roughly pulled her up. Glaring at her, he shouted, ‘Do yourself up.’ She was frightened, her eyes fixed on Seb, her hands trembled as she did up her shirt buttons.
The man staggered to his feet, and lurched towards Seb as if to attack him. Seb didn’t wait. He pulled his fist back and hit him again. The man fell to the floor. Seb kicked him twice, violently, as he lay on the sand. He bellowed, ‘You fucking wood louse,’ and brought his fist up ready to hit him again. The man curled into a ball, and lay still, covering his head with his hands. Seb watched, ready with his fists, if he attempted to get up and attack him.
Through his rage, he heard Imogen screaming, ‘Stop it, stop it.’ She was crying.
Her distress brought him to his senses. He took hold of her and, pulling her away, he shouted at the man, ‘Keep your fucking hands off her, you fucking pervert.’
Turning to Imogen, he said, ‘Let’s go. I’m taking you home.’ He pushed her ahead of him, ‘Go on, run.’
He looked back over his shoulder. The man was lying on his side, his legs drawn up as if in extreme pain, his face covered in blood.
Imogen ran ahead, half running, half walking. He caught up with her and breathing hard, took hold of her shoulder to stop her. She continued crying, wiping her runny nose with her shirt. He gave her a paper handkerchief and waited for her to calm down.
Her face full of resentment, she said, ‘Why did you do that? Why did you hit him?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? When I saw you before? I said don’t go with strange men.’
‘He’s a friend.’
‘Are you mad? A friend. How can he be?’
‘He gives me presents.’
‘Oh, does he? What kind of presents?’
‘Clothes. He gave me these, what I’m wearing, and he takes me in his boat.’
‘Very nice, and what does he want you to do? What do you do in exchange?’
‘Nothing. I do nothing.’
‘You’re lying, Imogen. Tell me the truth.’
She looked down and away to avoid his gaze.
‘I’m waiting. Tell me.’
‘He wants…’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Well let me say i
t for you, because I saw what he was doing and I heard you. He was hurting you. He was interfering with your body, wasn’t he, and do you know what comes next?’ She didn’t answer, but shifted her gaze away from his eyes. ‘I think you do, Imogen. I told you to look after yourself and you’re not. He’s not your friend and he doesn’t care about you. He’s dirty and old and a pervert, which means he wants sex with very young girls, the younger the better.’
‘Don’t you know who he is?’
‘I have no idea who he is and furthermore, I don’t give a shit who he is, except he’s a creepy old man.’
‘He’s an MP and his name is Makepeace.’
‘He told you that?’
‘No. He calls himself Barry but I found out. I saw a picture of him.. At school we were looking at Parliament and their committees; and he’s on one called Energy and Climate Change. He looked different from how he looks when he sees me. He had on a suit.’
‘And have you told him, you know who he was?’
‘No, I’ve never told him or anyone. He said we’re friends, and what we do is our secret.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Imogen, they all say that, don’t you know?’ Seb paused and then said, ‘How many times have you’ve met him?’
‘I dunno, maybe five or six. He brings his boat up on the beach to see me.’
‘And… what else?’ She was looking blank. ‘Does he give you money?’
She shook her head and looked away. ‘I want to go home.’
‘He’s touched you where he shouldn’t, hasn’t he?’
She shrugged, ‘Maybe… once or twice.’
‘And how old are you? You’re about twelve, aren’t you… that’s just the beginning. Have you heard about rape?’
She looked at the ground.
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘I’ll be thirteen soon.’
Seb didn’t respond. He stood staring at her before he spoke. ‘You’re still a child Imogen… I’m taking you home. Tell me where you live.’ Neither spoke any further.
She lived in a house on a scruffy estate. The type where police cars patrol at night and where baby buggies are left outside in the rain and discarded mattresses are left propped against walls until the council gets round to removing them. She didn’t want him to park his car outside. He ignored her. He said he wasn’t leaving until he knew she was home.
They walked up the path. She took out her key and opened the door. A group of youths stood watching. Drinking cider from a shared plastic bottle, they were passing round a roll-up and leaning against a garden wall a few doors away. One of them shouted out, ‘Hey, Gen, did yer get yer tits out for him?’ There was a burst of crude laughter.
Seb stopped, walked back, took hold of one of them by the throat and said, ‘Say that again, and my fist meets your face, and that applies to you all. Right. Fuck off.’ They stood staring. ‘D’you hear? Move on. You fucking bunch of wankers.’ They began shuffling away, ‘And if any one of you touches my car, I’ll kick your asses till you beg for mercy. So fuck off.’
He waited until they reached the street corner and returned to Imogen. She was standing by the door, her mouth open with astonishment. She looked at him, but said nothing other than asking him to wait in the hall. A strong smell of chips pervaded the atmosphere. She peeked in the back room and then shouted up the stairs. ‘Dad, I’m home.’
A man in his thirties appeared at the top of the stairs. He had an unhealthy pallor, a cigarette hung out of his mouth. He wore a grey vest, baggy chinos, and flip flops on his feet. He was unsmiling. He didn’t look friendly. He stared at Seb and turning to his daughter, he said, ‘Who’s this?’
Imogen looked at Seb and then her father, ‘A friend.’
‘A friend? What kind of friend?’ he sneered.
He slowly walked down the stairs until he stood level with Seb, and came to a stop. He folded his arms as if to protect himself, and waited.
Seb said, ‘Your daughter…’ then he stopped, unsure what he should say. ‘Okay, let me put it this way, I came across her on the beach.’
Her father cut across him. ‘What about it?
‘A man was with her. An older man.’
‘So what, she speaks to anyone.’ His tone was challenging, arrogant, unfriendly.
Seb felt a familiar flash of anger, ‘You don’t want to know, do you? You stupid fucker. In fact, you don’t give a shit about your daughter.’
Imogen turned her face to the wall and began to cry. Seb looked at her in exasperation. ‘Tell him. Imogen, tell him what you told me.’ She didn’t look up, her cries turning rapidly to sobs. Her father ignored her, but continued staring at Seb, an expression of contemptuous disbelief in his eyes.
‘Okay then, I’ll tell you, since she won’t. A man was interfering with her. His hand was up her skirt. He buys her, gives her presents.’ Her father still didn’t react. ‘She sees him regularly. She needs protecting.’ He said nothing. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Do you want me to spell it out? Are you stupid or something?’
‘Who are you to give me advice?’
They were standing face to face. Seb eyeballed him. ‘Just a concerned passer-by. Nothing more, nothing less.’ He turned, walked back to the front door, paused, and said. ‘Sort it out. You’re her dad, aren’t you? ’
‘I’m on my own. My girlfriend just left me.’
Seb stopped. ‘Really? Shame. My heart bleeds for you, but to use your words, “So what?” It happens. You’re an adult. She’s not. You can look after yourself. She can’t. I’m going now.’
He looked at Imogen. ‘I’ll tell you again, Imogen. Keep away from that man. Don’t take his presents, and don’t believe anything he says. You told me once you wanted to go to art school, so go for it. Talk to someone who can help you… the woman who made the Shell, you said you liked her. Clothes and presents don’t matter. Your safety and happiness does.’
He pulled open the door and left the house. He half expected his car to have been trashed, but it was still where he’d left it. The youths had grouped further down the street and watched him sullenly as he made a point of walking round his car examining it for signs of damage. There was none. He felt bad about leaving Imogen, but he could do no more. He’d have liked to have gone to the police with her, expose the bastard and push her father to be more responsible but he couldn’t. His undercover work prevented that. He drove back to Lavenham.
He went to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, sat down in the sitting room to watch television and immediately fell asleep. When he woke the national news had finished, and the local news was showing.
He watched impassively as the newsreader reported that the MP for Suffolk Coastal, Paul Makepeace, had been walking through the sand dunes at Aldeburgh when he was randomly and violently attacked. The cause of the attack was unknown. The police had been given a description of the assailant. The search was on for a dark-haired, well-built, well-spoken man, in his twenties.
An image of the MP’s face appeared staring sullenly at the camera. Bloodied and bruised, it had been stitched above the left eyebrow. Seb stood up and switched the TV off. His first thought was to disappear, go undercover a.s.a.p. His second, this incident, if it came out, could be awkward. How much, if anything, should he tell Gimp? Overall, he felt profoundly indifferent to the possible consequences. He’d got the bastard and that made him feel good. He’d keep his mouth shut.
Then he remembered something significant; Imogen had said the man buying her gifts was an MP and he was on the Energy and Climate Change Committee. Fortescue’s letter to his father also had referred to someone as having useful connections on the Board and that the man had, what he’d euphemistically referred to, as ‘particular interests’. Putting two and two together, he now had some idea what these ‘particular interests’ were – sex with prepubescent girls. This could mean only one th
ing ─ his father, with Makepeace, and Fortescue all had some connection with an illicit business deal. But worse, it was possible young girls were part of these transactions.
His father’s involvement didn’t surprise him too much. No wonder he was so pleased with himself and talked about the success of his business ventures. No wonder too, he could afford to take his mother off on a luxury cruise. It was at someone else’s expense. How much was he and others siphoning off from government contracts, and how much were they swindling HMRC, and how many more were involved in insider trading? He’d check out the lot of them, and see what, if any, apart from committee work, was their precise connection, and also, while he was at it, he’d get that repulsive bastard, Makepeace. One way or another, he’d find a way to screw them all.
— 12 —
He left Lavenham early, stopping first to post the incriminating correspondence close to Mount Pleasant, in Farringdon. Mount Pleasant was London’s main sorting office and at regular intervals, day and night, mail was collected and sent out. From there, the letter would hit the relevant news desks and imagining the uproar and trouble it would create pleased him no end. He had no conscience about dropping ‘the band of thieves’, which included his father, well and truly in it. Revenge was the name of the game and his father had it coming to him for the years he’d given him grief.
He returned the hired Audi and headed back to his flat to change into his usual working undercover gear. He texted Nixie, suggesting they meet up but after opening his backpack, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the letter and giraffe he’d found in the attic. He left them out on the table, thinking a plan would come to him eventually.
An hour later his mobile rang. It was Nixie. Her mother was visiting and they were planning to see a film at the Renoir in Brunswick Square before going on for a meal somewhere close by. She asked whether he’d like to come. Even though his head was still full with the weekend’s discoveries and events, he agreed. It was only later, he realised that it would have been wiser to stay away until he got his head sorted, but at the time he didn’t think about that.
Truth and Lies Page 13
