Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  “Who’re you?” the man asked, thumping a grimy hand on the roof of the car and peering inside. His breath made Nick want to recoil.

  “My name’s Randall. I work for an insurance company.”

  “Nobody here now. Need an appointment.” The man’s gaze was unrelenting and hostile: the dogs seemed almost tame by comparison.

  “You’re not open to the public, then?”

  “Auction days only. You come to buy?” The man was chewing something as he talked. He spat into the dirt below Nick’s car.

  “I’m interested in a car you recovered. A 1994 Ford Escort.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Well, is there someone —”

  “Best get off if I were you.”

  The man turned and walked back to the JCB, climbing into the cab. Nick remained where he was, hating himself for feeling intimidated but aware that he’d gain nothing by ignoring the advice. There was a rumble as the excavator lurched forward, and Nick realised it was heading straight for him.

  Scrambling with the gearstick, he yanked on the wheel with his other hand, trying to turn the car on a full lock. The JCB accelerated, its hydraulic metal claw missing the rear bumper by inches. The Audi slithered on the mud and he lost control trying to straighten up, clipping the passenger mirror on the gate post. Once in the lane he checked his mirror and saw the JCB had come to a halt, the driver doubled over with laughter.

  ***

  Roger was less than a mile from the farm when he saw a familiar blue Audi heading towards him. He spotted an opening on the right and threw his Saab into what turned out to be a long gravel driveway leading to a thatched cottage. He waited until Randall had passed, then reversed and drove out.

  At the farm Kevin Doyle was standing by the JCB, talking to Jim Harvey. Jim was a thirty-year-old car thief who worked for them on a casual basis, between spells in prison. Jim’s idea of a recreational Saturday night was to down eight pints of lager and kick someone’s head in.

  “He was here,” Kevin said.

  “I know. I just passed him.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Roger shook his head. “More to the point, did he see you?”

  “Jim got rid of him.” Kevin and Jim exchanged a malicious smile.

  “Politely, I hope? We don’t want to make him any more suspicious, do we?”

  One of the dogs barked at Roger, who gestured carefully at it. “Get rid of them,” he said to Jim. He noticed Jim glance at Doyle before jumping down from the cab and whistling to the dogs.

  Roger followed Kevin into the cramped office in the main building and shivered. The paraffin heater in the corner was throwing out a noxious smell but precious little warmth. Kevin’s desk was cluttered with invoices and letters and even a few car parts. And a tiny bag of cocaine, sitting on a Parkers valuation guide.

  “Can’t you keep that rubbish out of sight?” Knight complained. “What if he’d come in?”

  “You think he was gonna get past the dogs?”

  Roger grunted. He was still considering how narrowly he’d avoided being seen. If he hadn’t recognised Randall’s car in time it would be as good as over by now. It was bad enough that the salvage yard was in Doyle’s name, but anyone digging deeper would soon find the link to Roger.

  “We’ve put ourselves in a stupid position,” he said. “Too many coincidences.”

  The irony was, they’d never intended to use Lauren Doyle, but one of Barry Harper’s contacts cried off at the last minute and Kevin put her name forward, expecting any investigation to be no more than a formality.

  “So what’s he got?” Roger said. “The Espace is linked to the bodyshop, which is clean as far as he knows. He’s got Lauren and the Escort. If he does a DVLA trace and gets the previous owners, he’ll find it was brought in here three months ago.”

  “He won’t go back that far,” Kevin said. The cocaine had disappeared and he was lighting a cigarette.

  “Do you want to take a chance?” Roger asked. “The previous owner can confirm it was towed here with heavy front damage, a perfect match with the damage reported by Lauren. Then he finds the claimant’s husband runs the salvage yard.”

  “So let’s do what I said in the first place.”

  “Kevin, if you beat him up, what’s going to happen? He’ll go straight to the police, and then maybe they’ll take a closer look at us.”

  “They don’t give a toss about insurance fraud. Anyway, I’m not saying just a beating. Let’s make it more permanent.” Kevin drew on his cigarette, then coughed and gurgled the phlegm.

  “Kill him? You’d kill him for this?”

  “We’re making thirty grand a month. You want to give that up? ‘Cause I fucking don’t.”

  Roger said nothing. This was precisely the reaction he’d expected, but it gave him no satisfaction to be proved right. He waited for Doyle to continue.

  “As far as we know, it’s just him that’s interested in us, yeah? We make it look like an accident. Get him off the scene now and it’s problem solved.”

  “And what if the insurer instructs someone else?”

  “I’ve been working on Lauren,” he said, and his tone made Roger shudder. “She ain’t gonna slip up again.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “What fucking choice do we have? Walk away from all that cash.”

  “If we have to, yes.”

  “No fucking way.” Kevin jumped to his feet, sweeping a stack of papers to the floor. “You can bale out if you want, but not me.”

  It was the most emphatic show of defiance in the five years they’d been working together. I’ve given him too much independence, Roger realised. Now he thinks he can go it alone.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m fucking stupid.”

  “Then don’t act like it,” Roger responded, meeting Doyle’s gaze and holding it until he saw the other man’s shoulders drop. “I’ll think of something, don’t worry.”

  “Yeah? Well it had better fucking work,” Kevin snarled, “or I’ll do it myself. My own way.”

  ***

  After his brush with danger at the salvage yard, Nick was bristling with anger and even more determined to prove the claim was fraudulent. En route to his next call he stopped at Ardingly reservoir and made detailed notes of his meeting with Roger Knight and the visit to Griffin Farm. Then he took a half-hour walk along the nature trail that circled the reservoir, envying the few fishermen their untroubled pastime. He also tried Sarah’s mobile, but to no avail.

  The next appointment was at a smart executive home in Haywards Heath, where the lady of the house immediately began to berate him for the shortcomings of her insurance company.

  He wasn’t in the mood to hear it, and wasted no time in voicing his misgivings about her claim. “No one buys a plasma screen television and throws away the receipt,” he said bluntly. Her grand manner fell away, replaced by open-mouthed astonishment. “And no one forgets to include it on the police inventory.”

  She let out a sob and blamed her husband, who was a chartered accountant and ought to have known better. Nick might have told her that in his experience, white-collar professionals were the worst.

  After two more calls he drove home on autopilot, nearly missing a red light on the Old Shoreham Road. When he got in he made straight for the fridge and opened a beer. Barely six o’clock, but what the hell? He was his father’s son, wasn’t he?

  He laughed in the silence and wondered if he was already cracking up. There was a message from his sister, reminding him to ring the police about Sarah.

  Quite right too. But beer first, and perhaps a sandwich. And there were reports to write.

  He recharged his mobile phone and powered up the laptop. Deciding he didn’t have the energy to make a sandwich, he opened a large bag of Doritos and washed them down with another beer while writing up the day’s visits. At some point he moved on to the couch, where he shut his eyes in or
der to think more clearly.

  When he woke it was dark outside and strangely there were three empty beer cans on the table. He could have sworn he’d stopped at two. The laptop had gone on to standby and there was a strange ringing noise he couldn’t quite identify.

  The door. Someone at the door.

  He struggled to his feet, wincing at pins and needles in one arm. His bladder was painfully full and he had the beginnings of a headache. He saw with a shock that it was gone eight o’clock: he’d been asleep for at least an hour.

  He opened the door and found himself facing a thin man in a police constable’s uniform and a motherly middle-aged woman in a dark suit. She identified herself as Detective Chief Inspector Melanie Pearce, her companion as PC Wilcox, and asked if they could come in.

  He nodded and stepped back, only now thinking to ask why they were here.

  “It’s about your wife,” DCI Pearce said.

  He felt a wave of relief, quickly replaced by confusion. How could they have found her so quickly? He wasn’t even sure he’d reported her missing yet.

  He led them into the living room, desperately trying to clear his fogged mind. Had he rang them before he fell asleep? And if he hadn’t, why were they here?

  The answer was on the detective’s face, her sorrowful averted gaze while waiting for him to be seated. Just like a child at storytime, he thought, and had to suppress a mad laugh. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

  In his lap, his hands began to shake like landed fish. The constable, whose name he had already forgotten, watched him curiously for a moment and then cleared his throat as if about to speak. Nick looked at him, waiting for the words to emerge, but in fact it was DCI Pearce who brought his world crashing down.

  PART TWO

  June 1968

  A perfect day at the races: the sun shining, stunning views in every direction. Sea, town and rolling downland.

  Surveying his new friends, Eddie thought it appropriate that they should meet up in Brighton, the setting for Graham Greene’s famous book. Also known as London-by-the-sea, and famous for its tawdry image, the location of choice for a dirty weekend, a bit of slap and tickle with the mistress. Not in Eddie’s case, though: too close to home for all that. Mary was only a few miles away in the house near Alfriston, stuck with a bawling baby and about as much fun these days as an enema.

  No, the real treat was planned for tonight, back up in town.

  After a few drinks Eddie and his friends went for a stroll around the course, exchanging wisecracks with the bookies and the great unwashed. He loved the reaction of the crowd, the whispers, the double-takes. He was no Peter Sellers or Sean Connery, but most of them knew his face – and what’s more they liked it.

  Of his companions, Mickey Leach was also familiar, but you got a very different reaction from anyone who recognised him: the smiles wiped away like blood off formica, people jostling to get out of his path. Even some hissing from a couple of unwise punters, although today Mickey was happy to let it pass. Down here he was primarily known as a slum landlord, notorious for his Rachman-like methods.

  Mickey’s interests went way beyond that. He was part of a loose affiliation of self-styled entrepreneurs making hay while the sun shone on swinging London. Eddie had been taken into the fold following a little misunderstanding about some money he’d lost on the horses. That all changed when they realised who he was. No question of wiping the slate clean, of course, but he was invited to renegotiate the debts, and new lines of credit were immediately made available.

  With the help of some informed tips, his luck had turned and seen him clear the money he owed, and then some. Today they were out to celebrate. There was even talk of Eddie taking a share in their club, Lewds, maybe becoming a kind of resident entertainer – as he said, he had a pretty good set of pipes. “Used to knock ‘em dead at the troop shows in Burma.”

  After four races he was up a hundred, Mickey had won about half that and Ted Wheeler was thirty quid down. Ray McPherson hadn’t bet more than about thirty shillings; said it was a mug’s game. They ribbed him about it all the way back, Ted’s big old Daimler weaving a little on the London road. They were all pissed: Ray was nominated to drive because he held his drink better than the rest of them.

  In the car they drained another bottle of Hennessy and aimed the empty at a bus stop in Purley Way. Mickey produced some uppers and they snatched them from his hand like kids taking sweets.

  When Eddie was high he started telling them about a small role he’d had in a Dennis Wheatley adaptation made by Hammer out at Elstree the year before. That’s where the idea for the ceremony came from. By the time they got to Soho they had it all planned. Mickey even sent one of his lackeys to the butchers in Brewer Street to see if he could blag some pig’s blood, but the butcher wasn’t having any of it.

  “Fuck it,” Mickey said. “We’ll do without.”

  “Or make our own?” Ted suggested. No one quite knew what he meant, but he seemed to think it was funny, so they all laughed.

  They’d arranged it so that the main bar would stay open till one in the morning. The real party would kick off upstairs at about midnight and go on for the rest of the night. When they got there, one of the staff was carrying up crates of light ale. He gave them a sour look, his gaze lingering on Eddie.

  “Who’s that miserable sod?” Eddie asked.

  “Les Jones,” said Ted. He put on a strong Welsh accent: “Or Jones the Twat, as I now rename him.”

  “Still goes to church, does our Leslie,” said Ray. “Strict Presbyterian upbringing, you know.”

  “So what’s he doing in this place?”

  Mickey chuckled. “He was here when I was choosing the girls. ‘Sordid!’ he kept saying. ‘Sordid behaviour’.”

  “You know what his problem is?” said Ray. “He ain’t getting enough himself.”

  “If you saw his missus you’d say that was a blessing,” Ted retorted.

  “Yeah, and he ain’t having any of tonight’s lot even if he wanted it. Cream of the crop, I’m telling you.” Mickey shot a conspiratorial glance around the club, even though it was now empty apart from the four of them.

  “Eight girls in all, most of ‘em dancers or strippers, bloody good ones an’ all. And then a couple that are really something special. Never been touched.”

  There were some sceptical noises, but Mickey shook his head vehemently. “Straight up. My boys searched high and low for these virtuous little darlings.”

  “Bet they never found none in Leytonstone,” said Ray. Mickey was from Leytonstone.

  “Yeah, and you wanna know the age range?” Mickey lowered his voice. “From nineteen...” A dramatic pause, and Eddie thought he’d go up from there, probably they all thought that, but instead Mickey said, “Down to fifteen.” His eyes shining with something gleeful and hungry that, had they admitted it, was present in them all.

  Ray whistled. “Fucking hell.”

  “Too right, fucking hell,” Ted said. “It’s what we’re gonna do and it’s where we’re gonna go.”

  And they laughed again, and slapped Mickey on the back, and then Eddie remembered a joke he’d heard about the Bobby Kennedy assassination, and nobody noticed the disapproving lackey passing by to fetch another crate of beer. After all, the Joneses of this world were here to fetch and carry and keep their mouths shut.

  ELE VEN

  Saturday morning, with a day to herself, Alex decided on a walk. Her current home was a cramped one-bedroom flat above a furniture shop in Old London Road, a couple of minutes from the centre of Kingston on Thames.

  For most of her adult life she had travelled frequently, rarely staying in one place or one job for longer than a year. Despite the privations of her childhood she’d managed to go to university and scraped a 2:1 in biology. Her chequered career included time as a lab assistant in various hospitals and clinics, as well as a position with a pharmaceutical company in Canada that might have offered a real opportunity for advan
cement. An incident over some missing drugs had put paid to that – not to mention the suspicious death of her immediate supervisor, a well-known bully and misogynist.

  Leaving the flat at just after nine, the blustery wind took her by surprise: one of those days that looked nicer than it was. After collecting coffee and a Danish from her local café she negotiated a path around the Bentall centre, avoiding clusters of sulky teenagers sucking on cigarettes, thumbs prodding moronically at their mobile phones. In her world these people would be exterminated like rats.

  She crossed Kingston Bridge, heading for the river walk towards Hampton Court. To her right was a new development of luxury riverside apartments, priced at about half a million each and utterly beyond her means. She’d resolved that one day she’d do whatever it took to acquire those means, but that was for the future, when her current project was complete.

  Project Randall.

  It was eleven days since she’d thrown Sarah Randall to her death. In that time she had rid herself of any potentially incriminating evidence, including the Focus, which had been registered under a false name. From now on she would use hire cars, paying cash and supplying a fake driving licence.

  The first report of Sarah’s death appeared in the Brighton Argus two days after the murder. It merited no more than a paragraph: the body of a woman had been recovered near Birling Gap, identified as Sarah Joanne Randall, thirty-three, of Wish Road, Hove. The body was taken for a post mortem at Eastbourne District General Hospital, and police enquiries were continuing.

  Three days later the same paper ran a full-page article. It reported that a post mortem had been carried out, and the inquest opened for identification purposes and then adjourned. There was a passing reference to Eddie Randall, and Nick was described as devastated. Most importantly, it confirmed that police were not treating the death as suspicious.