‘David Whitaker,’ Kate said. ‘You worked with him for a few years?’
‘Six or seven.’
‘Did you know him very well?’
‘Not really.’ The brief responses were defensive. This woman knew something.
‘Did you leave the school first or did he?’
‘He did.’
‘Do you know where he went. Did he move to another school?’
‘I don’t remember. I’m sorry.’
‘But you heard the rumours?’
The woman seemed to sag in her seat as though all the air had been sucked from her lungs and she reached out for her walking stick as though she needed the reassurance of something steady. ‘I heard some rumours,’ she said, her tone defeated rather than defensive. ‘There was never any evidence but, in a case like that, there’s usually no smoke without fire.’
‘I’m sorry to have to ask this, Mrs Dalston, but is it possible that David Whitaker may have harmed some of the children on the camping trip?’
The woman looked frightened, cornered as though she was being accused of neglecting her duty. ‘I told you, I was in hospital for the last night. I didn’t see or suspect anything up to that point. It was after the trip that the rumours started. As I said, there was nothing concrete but that was the last Derbyshire trip. The head said it was due to budget cuts but a few of us wondered if he thought Whitaker couldn’t be trusted.’
She looked at Kate, obviously expecting more questions and then her eyes widened. ‘Do you think he deliberately let me fall? To get rid of me? Do you know that something happened on that trip?’
Kate sighed and nodded. ‘It seems likely. We know of three people who claim to have been abused by Whitaker in Derbyshire in 1988. We think that there may be a link between that abuse and a recent series of crimes.’
‘What sort of crimes?’
Kate shook her head.
‘Of course, you can’t say. Look, there were never any complaints made but the whispers were obviously strong enough to drive Whitaker away. I only hope that he didn’t carry on working with children. Oh, were those other two men involved? Not Simon, surely?’
‘We really can’t say, but your confirmation that Simon was there is a very significant piece of evidence.’
Mrs Dalston hung her head, one of her hands gripping the arm of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and Kate could see her shoulders trembling.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, leaning forward and putting a hand on the older woman’s knee.
‘Not really. It’s the worst thing, for a teacher. We’re supposed to protect children. If I’d been there it might not have happened.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Hollis said, his voice low and shaky. ‘You were hurt. There’s nothing you could have done. And you didn’t know about it until today.’
The woman looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. ‘I know, but it still feels like it’s my responsibility.’
‘That’s the teacher in you,’ Kate said. ‘Never off duty. You were such a help to me when my mum died and I’m sure that you helped lots of other lost and broken kids. This isn’t your fault. It’s David Whitaker’s fault and, one way or another, he’ll be made to pay.’
Even as Kate said the words, she realised that she wasn’t sure whether she meant that Whitaker would face justice from the courts or from whoever was killing the people around him. The awful thing was, watching this decent woman try to shoulder a burden that wasn’t hers to carry, Kate didn’t think she cared either way, as long as Whitaker paid for his actions.
* * *
They’ll have found Simon Charlton by now. Probably worked out who he is as well – it’s not like I was careful about hiding his identity. I wonder if they’re starting to put it all together. I know I could spot the link from outer space but that’s because I’m involved, in the know. What must it look like to an outsider?
He’ll be out soon. There’s a big part of me that can’t wait and another part that doesn’t want this to be over. It’s been fun. Does that sound awful? Not the killing per se – cutting up that old woman was just about the worst thing I’ve ever had to do – but the planning, the disguises, the endless need to be one step ahead. It’s been exhilarating.
Do you want to know the best part? I’ve done it all without guilt. That horrible feeling that’s been hanging over me for years has finally gone. That tells me that I’m doing the right thing – or at least the wrong thing for the right reasons.
And now there’s only him left. I wish I had more time, but I know it has to be done soon. Nearly everything’s in place. Even if the police haven’t pieced everything together, he definitely will have and he’ll know why I’ve chosen that place. They’ll all know why I’ve chosen that place. But only once it’s too late.
31
HMP Wakefield always reminded Kate of the Doncaster Royal Infirmary. They both had the same grey, utilitarian façade, both seemed like they were brooding, keeping secrets. At least, Kate knew, there was some hope in the DRI, but the prison always made her feel lost and depressed. She believed in rehabilitation, of course, she’d seen many examples, but the reality of day-to-day prison life was so grim and dreary that she wasn’t sure how any sort of redemption ever came about.
She peered through the drizzle, looking for a parking space in the visitors’ section.
‘Twenty-four more sleeps,’ Hollis said, apropos of nothing.
‘What?’ Kate snapped. She thought she’d found a spot but, as she’d got closer, it had turned out to be occupied by one of those smug Smart cars.
‘It’s the first of December. Twenty-four more sleeps till Christmas.’
‘Yay.’
‘Not a fan?’ Hollis asked, clearly reading the sarcasm in her voice.
‘Not really. And not this year.’
‘Problems?’
Kate didn’t respond. She saw reversing lights ahead and manoeuvred herself into position behind a driver who was leaving.
‘I’d have thought you’d have been looking forward to seeing Ben.’
Kate had no idea what Hollis imagined her Christmases were like, but he obviously thought that it was a time for family. He didn’t know that she hadn’t seen her son for months. Nobody had – except his colleagues and his girlfriend, Emma.
‘Ben’s in China.’
Hollis turned to look at her as she eased into the recently vacated parking space. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. It’s part of his master’s research. He and Emma are studying the impact of deforestation on something or other.’
‘Oh.’ Hollis looked nonplussed. ‘Well, I’m sure you and Nick will manage to eat drink and be merry.’
Kate considered telling him that she and Nick weren’t on the best of terms, but she didn’t want to have to fend off a barrage of questions that she didn’t know the answers to. They’d texted each other a few more times after Nick’s initial contact and Nick had rung, but she’d been working and missed his call. The argument was starting to feel like an overreaction and Kate really didn’t want the embarrassment of having to explain it to Hollis. Especially as she thought it might make her look like the villain.
‘Probably,’ she mumbled, shrugging off her seat belt and opening the car door. Being outside in the rain was better than having to spend any more time exploring her feelings about her relationship with Nick.
The visitation order had come through the previous day and Kate had been tempted to put the names of each member of her team into a hat and draw one out. Nobody enjoyed interviewing prisoners and she knew that a visit to a known paedophile was probably at the bottom of anybody’s list of fun ways to spend the day. In the end, she’d had no choice but to bring Hollis. Sam was still working on identifying people who’d been on the Derbyshire trip, with help from June Tuffrey, while O’Connor and Barratt were still trying to track down Angela Fox. Nobody they’d spoken to on Mull knew her or knew o
f her whereabouts and O’Connor had asked one of the three local uniformed officers on the island to keep a look out for her and her car. He’d also re-interviewed Dylan, Angela’s colleague, but he’d had nothing of importance to add.
Barratt had been to Tickhill but there was nobody at Angela’s address and her neighbours were clueless. Das had applied for a warrant to search the premises on the basis that Angela’s life may be in danger – she just hoped that they wouldn’t find another body when they finally got into the house. A text buzzed into her mobile as they approached the prison entrance. Barratt. The warrant to gain access to Angela Fox’s house had come through. Kate texted back for him to action it. They needed somebody in there as quickly as possible.
‘Nice place,’ Hollis observed as Kate pressed the buzzer next to the entrance to the prison’s reception.
‘If you like grey,’ Kate said. Everything in her eyeline was monochrome. Grey brick walls, grey concrete, black tarmac made slickly reflective by the increasingly heavy rain.
‘Do you think that’s why they give the prisoners such bright uniforms?’ Hollis joked. ‘To make up for the lack of colour everywhere else.’
Wakefield’s prison uniform was probably the most striking that Kate had seen. Green and yellow stripes on trousers and jackets ensured that prisoners stood out from the guards and the visitors. It wasn’t a uniform that an escapee would get far in.
‘I think it’s so they don’t have to dress up and make an effort for Christmas. They already look like bloody Christmas elves.’
Hollis smiled and seemed about to say something when the door clicked open and a tall male prison officer in a dark uniform ushered them inside.
The reception area was where the similarity to the DRI ended for Kate. At the hospital, visitors were funnelled through a bright atrium decorated with plants and helpful signage: here, a sour-faced woman sat behind a low wooden desk surrounded by plain, pale green walls and a single poster informing those who wanted to go any further what they were and were not allowed to take with them. ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked without looking up from her keyboard.
Kate took out her ID and gestured for Hollis to do the same. ‘We’re from South Yorkshire Police,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a visitation order for today.’
The woman stared at her, green eyes giving nothing away, and then directed her gaze at Hollis. Her expression turned vaguely predatory as she took in Hollis’s smartly cut blond hair and freshly shaved cheeks and chin. ‘Who are you here to see?’ she asked, eyes still on Hollis.
‘David Wallace.’
She turned back to her keyboard and typed something so quickly that Kate got the impression that she might have been hitting keys at random.
‘Wallace?’
‘He’s been here since June. Cat B prisoner.’
‘Wallace,’ the woman murmured as she wiggled the mouse and tapped another key. ‘Got him.’
‘And is there a visitor order on his file?’
‘Nope.’
‘No? But we were told yesterday. You should have had notification.’
The woman stared at Kate. ‘There’s no visitor order on his file for today.’
For a second Kate had the feeling that she was in a comedy sketch and that the woman was going to tell her the computer says no.
‘There must be some sort of admin error,’ Kate said, automatically reaching for her phone. Somebody somewhere must be able to sort this out.
‘There’s no error,’ the woman said. ‘You can’t see Mr Wallace today. Not even if you’ve got written permission from the Home Office.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. What’s the problem? Why can’t we see him?’
The woman smiled slowly as though about to deliver a punchline to an especially clever joke. ‘You can’t see Mr Wallace because he’s not here. He was released earlier today.’
32
O’Connor didn’t like Tickhill. He didn’t trust the place. There was something unsettling about a town that, on the surface, was so perfect. It wasn’t just the duck pond nestled beneath the walls of the mysterious castle that only opened its gates to the public for one afternoon a year. It wasn’t the sympathetic mix of old and new houses grouped around the lanes leading to the church. It was something to do with the feel of the place. O’Connor would have put good money on there being a thriving dogging scene or a popular swingers’ club. It was just too Stepford Wives to be real.
Angela Fox’s house only contributed to the feeling. Halfway up a narrow street in the shadow of the church it was the middle of a short row of identical terraced houses. Each had a black door, a slightly bowed downstairs window and a spotless brick façade. Even in the grey drizzle of a December morning, the houses looked attractive and bright.
A team of SOCOs waited in their van parked outside the pub while O’Connor and Barratt approached the house accompanied by a uniformed officer whose walk was slightly off balance due to the weight of the small battering ram that he carried.
‘We knock front and back before we use the big red key,’ Barratt said. ‘And, if any of the neighbours appear, we deal with them first. This isn’t a drugs raid so be sensitive.’
A single nod from the man in uniform.
O’Connor marched up to the front door and knocked loudly with his fist, ignoring the brass knocker that stood out against the black paint. They waited a few seconds and then he knocked again.
‘Right, round the back.’ Barratt led the way down an alley until they reached the back gate of the property. The walls bounding the back gardens were only around three feet high, so the small group was clearly visible to the occupants of all the properties in the row. O’Connor didn’t care. He wasn’t bothered about being discreet, but he allowed Barratt to take the lead and open the back gate slowly and carefully.
The back garden was tiny but perfectly maintained. A small square of lawn was bordered by knee-high shrubs and two rose bushes that had been pruned for the winter. Two more knocks established that there was nobody at home, so O’Connor leaned into the window, using his hand to cut the glare from the feeble winter sun that was threatening to make an appearance, and looked inside. No sign of life. He could make out a pine table and various appliances crammed into a small space. On the draining board, directly in front of him was a single mug and two plates. He had no way of knowing how long they’d been there.
‘Nobody home,’ he said to his companions. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to make a bit of noise.’
The uniformed officer slipped on his safety helmet and lowered the visor before taking a practised swing with the battering ram at the side of the door just above the handle. The wood splintered but held. One more thud and they were inside.
‘Wait there,’ O’Connor instructed the man. ‘I’ll shout if we need you.’
He stepped over the threshold and slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves, looking behind him to check that Barratt had done the same. He placed one gloved hand against the kitchen radiator. Stone cold. Not that it meant anything – Angela Fox may have been frugal with her living expenses and kept central heating use to a minimum. He turned to the sink and removed the cloth hanging over the taps. Bone dry – he could tell even through his gloves. If the occupant had gone on holiday it certainly wasn’t in the last couple of days.
‘Let’s split up,’ he said to Barratt. ‘I’ll take downstairs; you have a look in the bedrooms.’ Barratt nodded and opened the door to the hallway.
The living room was tidy to the point of obsession. A cream sofa contrasted with the chocolate brown carpet and a light wood coffee table sat on a white rug in the middle of the room. The alcoves next to the fireplace contained bookshelves – their contents organised by size and not a single book out of place. There were a couple of framed prints on the walls – one of Tickhill Castle and the other of the duck pond – and a photograph of an elderly couple was perched on the windowsill.
In one corner of the room a small television shared a stand with a dig
ital radio. O’Connor moved closer and noted the dust on the surfaces of both objects. The person who’d organised this room didn’t seem the type to allow dust to gather.
O’Connor went back into the hallway and moved to the front door in two strides. A small pile of envelopes and brightly coloured flyers advertising takeaways and supermarket deals was scattered across the doormat. He crouched on his haunches and stirred the papers with one finger. Three white envelopes were addressed to Angela Fox – one was embossed with the AA logo – probably insurance, one was from HMRC and the third had the address of a charity on the rear. Nothing especially personal – nothing to offer any clues to Angela’s whereabouts.
Straightening up, O’Connor glanced up at the gloomy staircase. There was nothing useful on the ground floor – the best use of his time was to help Barratt upstairs. He plodded up to the landing listening for the DC and identified his footsteps in the bedroom that faced onto the street.
‘Caught you,’ he said, pushing the door open.
‘Nothing to catch,’ Barratt said with a rueful smile. ‘There’s bugger-all here. The wardrobe looks like there might be a few gaps and two of the drawers in that chest look like they might have had stuff removed but it’s hard to tell – everything’s so bloody neat and tidy. I’ve looked on top of the wardrobe and under the bed and there’s no sign of any luggage which suggests that she might have gone away. I checked the bathroom – no toothbrush or toothpaste and the soap’s all dry and cracked.’
‘What about the other room?’
‘Study,’ Barratt said. ‘A couple of bookshelves, desk and chair, a printer.’
‘No computer?’
‘Nope. No charger either. If she uses a laptop, she’s taken it with her.’
O’Connor stuck his head round the door of the smaller room just to be sure, but he had no reason to doubt Barratt’s assessment. If there was one word he’d use to describe Matt Barratt it would be thorough.
Reunion: a gripping crime thriller (DI Kate Fletcher Book Book 4) Page 20
