The Soul of Discretion

by Susan Hill

  She looked at the Chief, trying to read his face.

  ‘I want to see him,’ she said.

  ‘The trauma team are working on him – they won’t let anyone else in for now. You know the form. Come to the canteen, I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘I want him to know I’m here, Kieron.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Listen, I’m a doctor. It’s important they know that, and that someone tells him I’m here, in case he comes round. Even if I’m not allowed in I want him to be told.’

  He found them a table, bought coffees, and went to get someone to relay her message. Whether they would, and how much point there was, he did not know.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cat said. Her hand was shaking as she lifted her coffee but she steadied it with the other.

  ‘Different,’ she said, ‘when it’s your own. Being a doctor isn’t relevant.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the same with the police, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’ She drained her cup and set it down. ‘I’m focused now. What happened?’

  She listened without speaking, head bent, thinking, imagining everything, going over the probable injuries. Judith rang in the middle of it, and she answered, said she would call back when she knew more.

  ‘It’s not good,’ she said. They had to be prepared, as she was now.

  ‘You can’t stay here with me, you’ve got a force to run. Go back, Kieron.’

  ‘Simon’s my officer and my responsibility, I’m staying until there’s some definite news.’

  The CEOP team from London would take over and he would be kept up to speed. They would collect what they needed not only against Morson but against the whole paedophile ring, though it would take time and Morson almost certainly would have been able to warn some of the others. The local area would deal with Jason Smith and however many other thugs it had taken to put Serrailler between life and death.

  They went to walk in the corridors, and outside where ambulances came in and out, and the lobbies which were crowded with outpatients. They drank more coffee. Several times, he tried to get news of Simon and failed. He took endless calls, one about Richard Serrailler, which he did not mention to Cat. Kieron ordered everyone to hold off. Another day or two before they took Richard in for questioning would not matter once he was back in the country.

  They were standing in the sun by the entrance doors. Conversation had petered out. He had to stay to support her until there was news, however long it took, but there was nothing he could say and Cat clearly did not want pointless small talk. He took his cue from her.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  The doctor was young, calm, and his focus was still in the trauma unit.

  Cat jumped up. ‘You’ve got some news?’

  ‘You are?’

  She told him.

  ‘Right … you’re his next of kin?’

  ‘No, my – our father is but he’s on his way back from France.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ He went over to sit on a low wall. Cat followed. ‘Right.’ He seemed to gather himself together and work out where to start. ‘OK, he’s still alive. God knows how he survived – we don’t know how long it was after the attack that he was found but … well, it’s amazing that he’s alive. He has multiple fractures, including his skull and his pelvis … the thing we’re concerned about most is the internal bleeding, but we’ve had him in surgery and they’ve found the tear that was causing most of it and been able to repair that. He’s had seven pints of blood …’

  Cat closed her eyes.

  ‘He’ll probably lose one kidney, and his spleen … He’s had a CAT scan and although he does have a skull fracture, as I said, there doesn’t appear to be any brain damage. One of his eyes may have been blinded but we have to wait till the tissue swelling goes down and ophthalmology can assess. He had his left arm badly crushed – we don’t know if we can save that yet. But he’s more or less stable for now. As you’ll know, the next hours are critical … if he gets through twelve hours, he’s a small chance. If he gets through twenty-four –’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  He held out his hands.

  ‘Come on … chances? Percentage? In your opinion?’

  ‘I’m not the consultant.’

  ‘Your opinion?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Please. Fifty–fifty? Less. More?’

  In the end he said, ‘Less.’ But would not be pushed further.

  ‘Can I go in to him?’

  ‘I’d say no, only you’re a medic, you’ve seen all this.’

  She had. Except that this was not a ‘case’, this wasn’t some stranger being brought in by ambulance from a road accident, while she waited, as a junior doctor doing her A & E stint, to help assess the injuries and be given her job. This was Simon.

  ‘Yes. Let’s go.’

  The young doctor got up. Kieron said, ‘I’ll wait for you. I’ve got some calls.’ But she did not hear him.

  Simon was barely visible. There were more machines than she had ever known together beside one bed, more tubes, lines, clips. More flashing lights. More beeping. He was lying flat on the bed, intubated, bandaged, his chest and arms bare and covered with monitor pads. His hair was shaved at the front. He looked bloodless. No longer human.

  She managed to find a bare patch on the back of his hand and stroked it.

  ‘Simon … oh, sweetheart, what have they done to you?’ She choked on her own tears. ‘I’m here. I’m not going away. Si …’

  The nurse touched her shoulder. The monitors were beeping and flashing, the trauma team swarmed round again. She had to go and she could not explain anything to him. He would not know she had been there. Somehow, that was the worst of all.

  It took another hour and a half of waiting, outside, in the canteen, in the visitors’ room, the corridors, before anyone came back, a different doctor this time, then the consultant. Still too young, Cat thought. How could they possibly know?

  How ridiculous.

  ‘We want to put him into an induced coma. You’re familiar with that?’

  Cat nodded.

  ‘It’s the best chance of helping him while the brain swelling goes down a bit. His body is fighting on all fronts and he’s a fit man, but he’s sustained some major traumas.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything you want to know? I can’t give you much of a prognosis yet, you’ll understand that.’

  ‘Yes, but … just give me a percentage … just … come on. Chances?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘It’s guesswork, pretty much. You know what’s happened to him – you could probably guess as well as I can.’

  ‘No. You.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The worry is spinal injury, his arm and possible brain damage, though I’m less concerned about that. The scans didn’t look bad but while there is such a lot of swelling we can’t get the full picture. He’ll almost certainly lose his spleen and one of his kidneys but we don’t want to risk any more surgery for now … we can stabilise all that. I don’t know if the orthopods will hold out any hope for his arm. They’re all attending to RTA victims at the moment but as soon as one can be spared from those they’ll give his arm a proper assessment.’ He put his hand on hers for a second. ‘Listen … he’s not going to be awake for some days … maybe longer. There isn’t any point in your staying – we wouldn’t try and wake him without letting you know in good time so that you or someone else in the family can be here. Go home. Get some rest. And go easy on yourself.’

  She watched him go. Back to Simon. Back to the twilight world where he was poised between life and death. Back.

  Kieron came towards her.

  ‘Will you take me home, please?’ she said.

  PART FOUR

  Sixty

  The shelving looked good. Very good. They had had many a design discussion over coffees, teas,
wine, suppers, and every time Rachel had suggested economising and produced brochures of plastic-coated metal, Rupert Barr had expressed disgust and pushed them aside.

  ‘Wood. You can’t improve upon wood. It looks good, it’s strong, you can paint it whatever colour you like, and then repaint it in a few years’ time, it sets off the books … there’s just no alternative. Wood.’

  He had waved mention of the cost away, as he had done about the paint, the carpet, the seating, the desk, the computer and software, the signage.

  ‘And when you stock – and I’m not going to interfere much there, I’ve said so – but when you do, don’t stint, don’t pack the shelves with cheap paperbacks. We want some handsome hardbacks, some art books, a table with some limited editions. Make sure the children’s end has lots of shop copies and buy some of those beanbag things, but top quality, no point in getting cheap ones and have them burst open in a few weeks. This shop is going to be the best independent bookshop in the south, Rachel.’

  ‘Which is something to aim for but it’ll take more than expensive fittings, you know.’

  ‘It will take you and whoever you choose to employ, someone knowledgeable and enthusiastic. And that’s another thing – we pay him or her properly. Wages in retail are deplorable. We don’t just want to get the perfect person, we want to keep them.’

  Now, she gazed round the empty shop with pride. The carpet was dark blue, the walls pale blue, the wood painted white. The shelving had been made by a local firm of fine craftsmen and it looked very good. The sign was going up later. And tomorrow, stock would start arriving.

  She picked up her mobile from the desk and rang Rupert again. She wanted him to come down now, if possible, and see it before the books arrived, then come and help with putting them out. She and the new assistant manager, Chloë, whom she was delighted to have wheedled away from a large bookstore, one of a major chain, would be working from dawn till dusk to meet the opening date. But that was fine, she was up for work and so was Chloë. Together, they made a formidable team.

  ‘Rupert, it’s Rachel again. Sorry to keep ringing like this … Maybe your phone’s out of battery. Or signal. Anyway, ring me when you get this. Everything’s looking really good here, I want you to come down and see.’

  The door opened on Chloë, smiling happily.

  ‘This is sooooo exciting.’

  She gave Rachel a hug. ‘Let’s go!’

  They worked all morning, and broke for a salad lunch at the brasserie before going back to it.

  Rachel was standing on the step-stool putting some books on a high shelf, when her mobile rang. She gestured to Chloë to hand it up to her.

  ‘Rupert? Is everything all right?’

  ‘It’s not Rupert, it’s Cat. Where are you, Rachel? I can’t do this over the phone.’ Her voice sounded different.

  ‘It’s Simon, isn’t it? What’s happened? Oh God … I’m in the shop … I’ll come. I’ll come to you.’

  Rachel clipped a corner as she turned onto the country road and narrowly missed a cyclist as she sped round the next bend. She took a deep breath and slowed down. A couple of miles on, a river of sheep was being moved from one field to another, and she was caught behind them, inching along, watching the two dogs chivvy the bleating creatures on either side. She banged her palm on the wheel and the dogs scurried to and fro but the sheep took their time.

  ‘Cat?’

  Rachel could not take in the change in her. She looked twenty years older, pale, hollow-eyed and oddly blanked out, as if she were not fully functioning. Always, anyone who arrived was offered coffee, tea, a glass of wine. Now, Cat did not even ask her to sit down.

  It did not take long. Cat’s voice was almost robotic, as if she were reading from a prepared script. She listed Simon’s injuries, the stats, the prognosis, without pausing, without emotion.

  ‘I want to see him,’ Rachel said, when she had fallen silent. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘They won’t let you in. Dad and Judith are on their way. Not that it makes any difference. He won’t register anyone.’

  ‘I can’t just be here waiting.’

  ‘Yes, you can. I am.’

  ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘School. Cricket. People are taking over. People always do. I forget how many real friends I have until there’s a crisis.’

  ‘Do they know?’

  ‘Sam does. Hannah’s got her show in two days, I can’t tell her. Felix … I don’t know. He doesn’t have to know now, does he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll get us some coffee … what time is it? I don’t even know what day it is.’

  But she didn’t move and so they sat at the kitchen table, not looking at one another, not speaking. Neither of them really there.

  Sixty-one

  The room was crowded, with some of the officers standing at the back. Everybody was jubilant, and everybody was grim-faced.

  ‘This has been one of the biggest ops in our history,’ the DCS said, ‘and this ring is one of the worst we have ever cracked. We’re not dealing with dirty old men downloading a bit of smut, we’re dealing with men who have abducted children, kept them, abused them and filmed that abuse, and who have murdered them and filmed those murders. I have been sickened to my stomach watching the stuff on those hard drives and DVDs we took. So have you. I understand totally how each one of you feels. Counselling is ready and available for any of you, and if you feel at all concerned about yourself, if you are finding it difficult to cope, if you cannot get these images out of your head, if you are having difficulty focusing on anything else – anything – then I urge you to take advantage of this counselling. I thought I was tough and not easily affected until I saw these images. We work in this unit, day in, day out and we are never hardened but we do find ways to cleanse ourselves mentally at the end of the day. This time it will be very, very difficult – it may not be possible. There’s no shame in getting counselling and no pride in playing the iron man – or woman.

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for the work you’ve done on Operation Sparrowhawk, the hours you’ve put in, the days off and nights with your families you’ve given up. I’m proud of you – I can’t say how proud.

  ‘You all know that an officer attached to these investigations, Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Serrailler, is fighting for his life at the Royal London Hospital and we’re all of us praying to God he pulls through. We owe it to him, as well as to all the children who have suffered at the hands of these evil men, to bring this op successfully to a close and to see justice done.

  ‘This is a big mop-up, but the arrests are pretty much confined to two areas – in the south and the east. This has been a paedophile ring among people who either know one another, or live in the same parts of the country. Very controlled, highly professional. If DCS Serrailler had not gone undercover, we might not have broken this ring for years, if ever.

  ‘This time tomorrow, we should have eighty-seven men in custody. There may be more – we need to do further work on some hard drives, and we also need to break down a few people during questioning. I am convinced that is not the full total of members of this ring, nowhere near. I’ll be issuing a press release, and as you would imagine, there will be considerable media interest – this is a huge story. It clears up several unsolved cases involving the disappearance of children and the locating of some of those children in terrible circumstances. You can feel proud of yourselves, every last one of you.’

  The names on the list of those arrested and charged with sexual assault and making, possessing and distributing indecent images of children included those of one public-school headmaster and three senior masters, one consultant forensic psychiatrist, two Anglican clergymen, one Nonconformist clergyman, one Deputy Lord Lieutenant, one senior HMRC chief tax inspector, one GP, four solicitors, eight company directors. A number of those arrested bore titles, including those of Viscount, Baronet, and Knight Commander. It also included seven barristers,
two of them QCs. Among those arrested and charged were:

  Andrew Morson, QC

  James Linkhurst-Brown, QC

  The Hon. Christopher Lomax

  His Honour Judge Gerald Hanbury

  Viscount Sarsden

  Sir Alan Drummond-Peach, MB, FRCS

  The Rt Revd Jasper Murray, Archdeacon of Bevham

  Gordon Barkmore, Deputy Headmaster, Cathedral School,

  Lafferton

  The Hon. Rupert Barr

  The Hon. William Fernley

  Fernley had been picked up by local police three hours after his escape. He was back at Wandsworth.

  Cat was reading out the roll call from the front page of the Bevham Gazette. Rachel was sitting on the kitchen sofa, Wookie on her lap, Mephisto beside her with one paw on her knee to stake his claim.

  ‘Dear God,’ she said. There was silence. She looked across at Cat. ‘It’s a ring within a ring. It’s like a vein of poison spread all around us. It’s unbelievable.’

  Cat stared at the newspaper.

  ‘Cat?’

  Rachel saw her expression.

  ‘“The Honourable Rupert Barr”,’ Cat read.

  After a few moments, Rachel began to say, almost in a whisper, ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it,’ over and over again. Her life had fractured and gaped open like a fault line.

  Cat dropped the paper and got up. Simon. Her father. Now this.

  She went to the cupboard. Poured them both a gin and tonic. Put in the ice. Set Rachel’s beside her. She wondered how long it would be before the next news broke and her father’s name took over the front page of the paper. Did Judith know? Had the police even arrested him yet, given Simon’s state?

  She now knew what Simon had been doing, though not in detail. Kieron Bright had rung and told her briefly.

  It was a warm early evening, and they both wandered out into the garden to the deckchairs under the beech tree, and sat, still in silence, for what was there to say?

  Sixty-two

  ‘Shelley?’