Dirty Secrets
Page 14
True to his character, Hector drove as though he owned the road. He was an aggressive, reckless driver, taking the bends too fast, harassing other drivers, speeding. Fin shut his eyes, and his thoughts returned to the past.
Liam Sharp had pulled Fin in when he was twelve years old. Liam was eight years older. His younger brother, Darren, had attached himself to Fin when they were at secondary school. Darren wasn’t the brightest kid on the block, and Fin had looked out for him. It had brought him to Liam’s attention. Unlike his brother, Liam was no fool. Young as he was, he was already a successful ‘businessman,’ albeit on a small scale. Recognising Fin’s intelligence, he’d put him to use as a runner. Fin could still remember the buzz of earning his first serious money, cash-in-hand.
Soon he was working fifteen-hour days for Liam. Running around with a mobile phone and a shank, he’d felt like a king. School was a distant memory. Darren was a runner too, but he lacked Fin’s alacrity and presence of mind. He’d got himself into trouble a couple of times, and Fin had got him out of it, earning him Liam’s respect.
Fin’s career had ended because of one of Darren’s mistakes. Fin had been the one hauled up against the panel, and he’d done the community service. The experience had been life-changing. That’s when he’d realised he was living the wrong life. The community service showed him the joy of learning and education. They’d told him at school that he was clever. One teacher had said his IQ was ‘in the stratosphere.’
A sympathetic youth worker had become his mentor, encouraging him to challenge and stretch himself beyond his limits. He developed into an A-star student, and acceptance at Cambridge had been the icing on the cake.
Now Fin was living a life so far removed from those days that he couldn’t imagine him and Liam even speaking the same language. Nowadays he had more in common with the despicable Hector. They’d both spent the past few years in an institution that cultivated a sense of superiority and entitlement. Fin thought guiltily of the two hundred pounds he’d paid to attend his first college ball, when he’d swigged champagne from a bottle and behaved like a decadent toff, served by waiting staff that he treated with disdain. He shuddered. That had been the wrong life too. Thankfully, he’d managed to find his true self in academia.
Fin became aware of Hector speaking to him. “Recognise your old stomping ground, do you?”
They had been driving through London for what seemed like hours. Most of it was unfamiliar to Fin, who’d rarely strayed beyond his territory in the East End. Now, some familiar landmarks loomed into view: the Tube station and gardens at Bethnal Green, the Museum of Childhood, where he vaguely remembered being taken as a young child, before his parents lost interest in him altogether. The college where he’d studied for his A levels.
According to the satnav, they were arriving at their destination. The streets brought Fin’s childhood and adolescence back like a smack in the face.
Despite the money he must have accumulated, Liam still lived modestly, in a terraced house within a quarter of a mile of the estate he’d grown up on. Of course he did. He was territorial. Fin wondered what he did with his profits these days, how he cleaned his money. How he’d evaded a prison sentence all these years.
Despite the area’s recent gentrification, Hector’s flash car made the neighbourhood seem shabby and grey. There was no correspondingly expensive car outside Liam’s house. He wasn’t stupid. Nothing shouted drug dealer louder than an ostentatious lifestyle.
This was all real. He wasn’t dreaming. Fin went into defensive mode. “Just don’t say or do anything to piss Liam off. Leave all the talking to me. Liam can be . . . volatile.” That was putting it mildly. Fin had seen Liam cut someone’s ear off for lying to him. When Fin thought of it now, it amazed him that there had once been a time when he hardly flinched at such brutal behaviour. How readily things become normalised. Back then, Fin wouldn’t have believed he would one day blow two hundred quid on a ticket to a college ball.
Fin rang the bell and was surprised to see Darren open the door. He’d been expecting one of Liam’s muscle men. Not that Darren was lacking in muscle. He looked like he’d been lifting since Fin saw him last.
Fin bumped fists with Darren and they embraced, Fin conscious of his own puny frame. He was almost touched at the outpouring that followed. Darren had evidently missed him more than he’d missed Darren. Unlike him, Darren hadn’t moved on.
Fin introduced Hector. Darren’s expression made it clear that his presence was tolerated only because Fin had vouched for him. They were led into a room at the back of the house, where Liam sat on a garish red leather sofa, his arm around a girl who looked like she ought to be in school. She eyed Fin and Hector with suspicion and left the room.
Fin went over to the sofa and Liam, still seated, grasped his arm with both hands. “Fin. Good to see you, man. It’s been too long.”
“Likewise,” Fin said.
“So, Fin, my man. I hear you got yourself a fancy education.”
Fin smiled. Suddenly Liam stood up and embraced him, slapping his back so hard it sent him off balance. Liam grinned. “All that learning’s made you soft.”
Fin’s eyes turned to Hector, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, holding on to his leather bag protectively. It gave Fin a certain amount of satisfaction to see him so ill at ease. The rich brat was way out of his comfort zone.
Finally, Liam squinted over at him. “Introduce me to your friend.”
Hector moved forward a pace. Their gazes met in mutual suspicion, two predators circling round each other.
“So, this Hector is your friend.”
Between gritted teeth, Fin managed, “Yeah, he’s okay. You can do business with him.” Liam nodded, still appraising Hector.
“I’m doing this as a favour for my old friend Fin here, who did time for my baby brother. I trust him.”
Fin prayed that Hector would keep his mouth shut. To his relief, Hector only inclined his head in acknowledgement. They got down to business.
An hour later, Fin and Hector were back on the road, bags of white powder having replaced the notes in the black leather bag.
* * *
Fin let the curtain drop. He was furious at Hector for involving him and Ruth in his murky affairs again. For the first time, he was angry with Ruth too. And, inevitably, with himself, for entertaining Hector’s demands in the first place. Surely there were other things he could have done to help Ruth? In fact, he’d suggested as much at the time, but Ruth had screamed like a crazy person when he suggested that she confront her past. It frightened him.
A terrible thought now formed in Fin’s mind. What if Hector had killed Dana, and he and Ruth had just helped him get away with it?
Fin had a sudden urge to run after the police officers, but instead he turned away from the window, crossed the floor to his laptop and went back to work.
Chapter Thirteen
PJ stared at the words on her computer screen until her vision blurred. She was reading the reports on the fire that had killed Lizzie’s son, Will, and led, indirectly, to her husband committing suicide. She’d read everything twice over and could find nothing to suggest that the incident had been anything but a tragic accident.
“Nothing,” she said to Tom, who was sitting at the PC opposite her, absorbed in his own research. He looked up. “Nathan was right,” she went on. “Cause of the fire was a cigarette. A butt was retrieved from under the sofa in the living room. The sofa caught alight. It was an old one, not fire retardant. Ash from the burning sofa extinguished the cigarette and covered it over. That’s what made the investigators pretty confident about the cause. Will’s body was found in the room where the fire started. He was overcome by toxic fumes.”
“Shit. Poor kid. Did anyone else in the household smoke?” Tom asked.
“No. The report says his parents were astonished to hear that he’d been smoking. Like Nathan said, Will was a keen athlete. Still, I did plenty of stuff my parents would’ve been shocked abo
ut if they’d known.”
Tom looked sceptical. It irritated her that he thought her so conventional and boring. “What if Will had company that evening?”
“Nathan?”
“I was thinking of his cousin, Ruth Marsh.” PJ frowned. “Ava raised the question the other day. If Will’s parents and Val Marsh weren’t around that evening, what do you suppose Ruth was up to? She would have been, what, fourteen at the time?”
Tom shrugged. “At a friend’s house, most likely.”
“The police spoke with Will’s parents, obviously, and with Val and Russ Marsh. Ruth isn’t mentioned. No reason why she would be, really, I suppose. Still, Ava’s asked me to look into it.”
“You’re not seriously thinking Ruth could have been responsible for the fire?” Tom said.
“Not really, but let’s see what Val Marsh has to say about the incident.”
PJ called Val. As luck would have it, she was home, but when they were admitted into her house half an hour later, PJ and Tom discovered that she wasn’t alone. She showed them into the big airy room with a view, where her sister was sitting next to her daughter on the sofa, both engaged in trying to soothe a grizzling Cam.
“He’s got a temperature. Been off all day. I’ll take him upstairs, see if I can settle him down for a nap,” Ruth said, picking up the protesting toddler. Val indicated a couple of chairs, and they sat down.
“What is it this time?” she asked rather rudely.
With an apologetic glance at Lizzie, Tom said, “We’d like to ask you some questions about the night of the fire that Will died in, if that’s okay?”
“Why on earth do you want to bring that up?” Val exclaimed. “No, it’s not okay, actually. My sister doesn’t need you people dredging up her heartache on a bloody whim.”
“It’s alright, Val,” Lizzie reassured her sister. “I don’t imagine the officers are acting on a whim. If they need to ask about the fire, they must have a good reason.” She looked at PJ.
“Oh, yes, of course,” PJ stammered.
Tom got straight to the point. “Mrs Marsh, was your daughter a smoker?”
Val stared at him. “What?”
“The fire that killed Will was started by a cigarette. Will didn’t smoke. Did Ruth?”
Val grasped the arm of her chair as if to stand up, but she remained seated, still holding on. “Are you serious? I don’t believe this. My husband is dead, shot through the head, and the best you can come up with after a week of investigation is an irrelevant question about a tragedy that took place eight years ago! What the hell is wrong with you people? Are you trying to say Ruth started the fire that killed Will? Maybe she blew her father’s brains out too, despite being nearly two hundred miles away at the time.”
Lizzie eyed Tom and PJ, her gaze icy. “Where are you going with this? Do you think Ruth was with Will the night of the fire?” She turned to Val. “Ruth was at a sleepover that night, wasn’t she, Val?”
“Yes.” Val seemed calmer now. “They were revising for an exam at school. The police didn’t seem to be interested in what Ruth was doing at the time. Like Lizzie, I’d like to know where you’re going with this.”
PJ was starting to wonder herself. She was about to suggest they call Ruth down so that they could ask her to confirm her whereabouts the night Will died when, as if on cue, Ruth’s voice called out from upstairs. There was an edge of panic to her voice. They all rose and made for the hall.
Ruth was halfway down the stairs, holding Cam. He hung, limp, in her arms. “Someone call an ambulance,” she wailed. “Cam’s a lot worse, and he’s got strange blotches. I think it might be meningitis.”
* * *
Ruth had gone in the ambulance with Cam. PJ offered to drive Lizzie and Val to the hospital, but Lizzie had insisted that she would drive her sister.
“How annoying is that?” Tom said, his eyes on the departing vehicles. “Just as we were getting somewhere.”
PJ turned on him, bristling with annoyance. “Firstly, we weren’t getting very far. Secondly, show a bit of flipping compassion, Tom Knight. That baby is very sick.”
“Bit of a coincidence, you’ve got to admit, her bringing the kid down like that, just as we’re about to question her.”
“Oh, come on,” PJ said. “Ruth couldn’t possibly have heard what we were talking about from upstairs.”
Tom shrugged. “Just sayin’. He didn’t look that bad to me. There was no need for all that drama.”
“Meningitis is a serious illness, potentially fatal. I think Ruth was entitled to panic.”
“Hmm. More likely to be a viral infection of some sort.”
“So, you’re an expert on baby illnesses now, are you?”
“Babies get a lot of bugs,” Tom said. “I have two nephews. They seem to have a temperature more often than not. My sister goes through gallons of Calpol. That’s paracetamol for kids.”
“I know what Calpol is. I have nieces and nephews too, you know,” PJ snapped. “Look, I’m going to go down to the County to see how he is. No need for you to come. Just drop me off, and I’ll walk back to the station.”
“Okay,” Tom said.
Actually, PJ secretly shared Tom’s scepticism, if not his lack of empathy. There had been other issues to bring up with Val and Lizzie, but even if she managed to corral them at the hospital, it would be inappropriate to follow them up there and then.
Tom dropped her at Accident and Emergency. PJ walked through the double doors into a bustling reception and waiting area. PJ hated hospitals. They were all too familiar to her from her days as a PC. On her last visit, she’d arrested a drunken lout for assaulting a member of the nursing staff, and was landed a black eye for her trouble. She wasn’t particularly nostalgic about her days in uniform.
She couldn’t spot Val and Lizzie in the sea of people either waiting to be triaged, or to hear news of relatives. PJ approached the counter and waited to speak with the receptionist behind the Perspex safety panel. After a minute spent listening to the man in front of her complaining bitterly about the waiting time, PJ moved in front of him, flashing her badge. With a hostile look, he gave way and slouched back to his seat, still complaining.
The receptionist mouthed, Thank you.
“I’m enquiring about Cam Marsh,’ PJ said. ‘He would have arrived about twenty minutes ago in an ambulance, with his mother, Ruth Marsh.”
The receptionist scrolled through the spreadsheet on her computer. “They’re in the A&E Assessment and Treatment area,” she said, nodding at the swing doors. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go through.”
“I know. I wonder if you could tell me if Cam’s gran and aunt arrived around the same time. I thought they’d be in the waiting area.”
“Yes, they did. I advised them that only the child’s mum could go into the treatment area with him. I think I heard one of them suggest going upstairs to the canteen.”
“Thanks,” PJ said. She hesitated. “You know, you shouldn’t put up with abuse from people like that guy.”
The receptionist shrugged. “All part of the job.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be.” PJ received another shrug.
PJ followed the maze of coloured directional lines up two flights of stairs, and arrived at a crossroads. Here, the signs ran out. A helpful porter directed her up another flight of stairs, where the sound of dishes clattering and an aroma of food told her she was on the right track.
One wall of the canteen was made up entirely of windows, taking advantage of the sight of the cathedral, within touching distance so it seemed.
Val and Lizzie were seated with their backs to PJ, facing the window, but it didn’t look as though they were taking in the view. PJ walked towards them, automatically softening her footsteps. As she drew nearer, she could hear the two women and make out their heated discussion.
“. . . That’s rich coming from you. Buggered off to London the first chance you got. I was the one who had to look out for Mum and Dad.”
“Why? Because you thought I was Mum and Dad’s favourite? That was all in your mind, Val. Mum and Dad went out of their way to treat us the same. In fact . . .”
Even from a distance, PJ could see how Val held her anger tightly coiled inside her. Her shoulders were stiff, quivering rather than shaking outright. PJ knew that Val’s protective outer shell could be regarded as cold, lacking in empathy. But PJ, deeply empathic herself, thought she saw something else in Val. She was hurting, the way a person does when they have an old, and still raw wound. It seemed to her that the sisters were playing a familiar game. It had been going on since time immemorial, and there were no winners.
“Shut up, Lizzie. Please.”
Lizzie did shut up. She’d glanced over Val’s shoulder and spotted PJ eavesdropping. Val swivelled around.
Well, this is awkward. PJ felt herself redden. “Hi. I followed on to see how Cam is. Have you heard anything yet? Is he okay?”
“They’re assessing him now,” Val said. “One of the paramedics caught up with us after he’d dropped Ruth and Cam off. He doesn’t think it’s meningitis. Wrong sort of spots, apparently.”
“Well, he’s in good hands,” PJ said.
Val’s phone rang. “Ruth,” she said. “Hello, Ruth?”
PJ waited, hoping to hear that baby Cam was out of danger. She smiled at Lizzie, who was straining to hear her sister’s every word.
“Try not to worry. He’s in good hands,” Val said, repeating PJ’s words into the phone.
“Well? How is he?” Lizzie asked as soon as Val ended the call.
Val was looking relieved. “They’re not sure. Probably some sort of virus. But not meningitis. He’s a bit dehydrated, and they’re giving him fluids.”