Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  “You have no proof of that.”

  “Have you spoken to Wheeler? Maybe you need to hear it from him.”

  Nick shook his head. “What has he told you?”

  “Actually, Howard’s been unable to contact him. His address would be very much appreciated.” A glint of humour in her eyes.

  “I don’t have it.”

  “It sounds like your visitor does. What was that name? I assume it’s Knight as in shining armour?”

  She gave a little laugh at her own joke. This was just an amusing foray into someone’s life, he realised. Eddie’s fate – or his own for that matter – meant nothing to her.

  “You can tell Howard I’m not changing my mind. And I don’t want to hear from him or his representatives again.”

  “Suit yourself. But even if you don’t give us Wheeler’s address, you really should talk with him.”

  “I think you should finish your tea and leave.”

  Unperturbed, she tipped her cup and drank delicately, then picked up her handbag and jacket. She moved close to him, and he took an involuntary step backwards, fearful of contact. She regarded him with pity.

  “Seems to me you’re in denial, Nick. Sooner or later you have to face up to what Eddie was.”

  What Eddie was. The phrase made his stomach contract. He didn’t trust himself to respond, but stood in grim silence as she strolled out, a triumphant smile on her face.

  ***

  “She was a dirty little cow, all right. Mickey swore she was a virgin, but I ain’t so sure. Might not have been fifteen, for that matter. How can you tell once they’re all dolled up? Long as they got tits and hair, that was good enough for me.”

  A cackle, which led to a coughing fit. Roger regarded him with distaste, trying to decide whether Ted Wheeler had become this despicable as his body aged and rotted, or whether he’d always been this way and Roger had simply been deceived by outward appearances. He was reluctantly inclined towards the latter.

  He steeled himself and asked, “How did she die?”

  “Eddie had this idea from some film he’d done. One of them satanic horror movies. We’re all off our heads, you gotta remember. Sounded like a laugh, and the girl was up for it. Didn’t say no.”

  Roger only nodded. There was no point asking whether she could have refused.

  “We acted out this ceremony. Stripped her naked, tied her up. Might’ve done some stuff with candles, dripped it on her body. Mickey wanted to paint blood on her, but we couldn’t get hold of any. And by that time we just wanted to fuck her.”

  Roger felt nauseous, watching this decrepit old man become animated as he discussed the rape of a schoolgirl. Kept pushing away thoughts of Sally and Bridget, and what he’d do if someone like Wheeler ever got his hands on them.

  “Then someone had the idea of putting his hands round her neck.”

  “Eddie Randall?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I wasn’t taking notes. Anyway, when we finished we realised she wasn’t breathing. Might’ve been heart failure or something. We tried to bring her round but it was too late. Nothing we could do.”

  “How many men… had sex with her?”

  Ted searched his memory. “Four or five, I suppose. No more than that.” Seemingly unaware of the effect he was having, Ted tapped a grubby finger against his mug as he gathered his thoughts. “Thing is, Eddie was the only one with a reputation to protect. That’s why Leslie blackmailed him.”

  “And how did he know about it?”

  “Saw us carrying the body out. We thought all the staff had buggered off for the night, like they was supposed to. Nasty little troublemaker, he was.”

  “And the girl? What happened to her?”

  He chuckled, as you would at a fond reminiscence. “Mickey kept a boat at Newhaven. We wrapped the body in chickenwire, dumped it a couple of miles out.”

  Roger said, “Charming,” but the sarcasm was lost on Ted. He seemed proud of their ingenuity.

  “Just one of those things. We weren’t gonna get banged up for it.”

  Roger set his mug down on the counter and prepared to leave. Viewed from his current predicament, it had been a successful visit, but right now he felt sullied by the knowledge he had acquired.

  “Shame, really,” Ted concluded, still lost in the past. “Pretty little thing, she was.”

  EIGHTEEN

  When Lindsay returned from Brighton empty-handed, it only hastened Franks’s desire to be rid of her. He intended to savour the moment, though: perhaps book a table at the Ivy and tell her during the meal. There was always the chance she’d make a scene and get him in the papers.

  It annoyed him that his good idea had failed to produce a breakthrough. Perhaps it was bad timing so close to Sarah Randall’s death, but he’d expected Nick to be influenced by Lindsay’s appearance. He’d even gone so far as to recommend which top she should wear, a thin sweater that emphasised her breasts. In Franks’s opinion, if big tits weren’t going to work, nothing would.

  The only scrap of good news was confirmation that Ted Wheeler was still alive. Howard’s contacts in the media had been trying to track him down for months. Last year he’d managed to trace Mickey Leach to a nursing home in Bedford, but the old man refused to say a word about his connection to Eddie Randall, probably afraid of incriminating himself. He’d died shortly afterwards, which left Ted Wheeler as the only living member of the criminal fraternity with links to Eddie.

  Lindsay’s account of the conversation left him confused, however, and it had led to a heated exchange on Friday afternoon.

  “Let me get this straight. Nick doesn’t know where Wheeler is?”

  “No.”

  “And yet his visitor does know?”

  “I think it’s her boyfriend who knows. A man named Knight.”

  “And you think Nick’s investigating him?”

  “That’s how it sounded.”

  “But you didn’t think to ask for Wheeler’s address?”

  “Nick doesn’t have it.”

  “Not Nick. The visitor.”

  Lindsay groaned. “She didn’t even come inside. What was I supposed to do, run down the street after her?”

  “Yes, if need be,” Franks said. As a journalist he’d gone to far greater lengths.

  Lindsay threw her hands up in despair. “I don’t believe you. I do this as a favour and all I get is criticism. I wasted half my day on this.”

  “More than that, you wasted a precious opportunity.”

  “You bastard. You might show a bit of gratitude.”

  Franks had already given up on the prospect of sex this evening, so he didn’t hold back his contempt. “I thought you were capable of carrying out a simple task. I was obviously mistaken.”

  Lindsay bunched her fists, shook them impotently at him and stormed out of the house. In truth it was a relief to see her go, although there was a casserole in the oven which he’d lovingly prepared while she was away. Far too much to eat on his own, so it would go to waste.

  Unless he could reach Fiona, of course. Or Penny. Or Geraldine.

  ***

  It was all going down the toilet. Lately Kevin hadn’t been sleeping well, and every morning his first thought was always the same: would the cops show up today?

  They’d had such a good thing going with the insurance scam. It was unlike anything Kevin had ever done. A clean white-collar crime: low profile, low risk, and a nice big wodge of cash in your hand every few weeks. It more than made up for the long days he spent sitting in the salvage yard, fiddling with paperwork and pretending he knew what he was doing.

  And all because Lauren couldn’t bluff out a smartarse question from some bloody insurance investigator. Ever since then their relationship had gone sour, and he’d started hitting her again. A couple of years back he’d fractured her arm and her old man threatened to go to the police. Kevin had sworn he’d never touch her again, and it was a promise he’d been able to keep until now. Until this.

 
They still had sex when he wanted it, but he knew she was probably scared to refuse, and that pissed him off as well. Just because he had a temper, it didn’t make him a rapist.

  His other bugbear was Knight. Thought he was the brains of the operation. Thought he knew best. Always wanting to take the safe option, to wait and see. Kevin had had enough of it. No matter what Roger said, Nick Randall was the problem. Scare him off and you’d solve the problem. At worst, you’d buy yourself some time.

  In case it all went badly wrong, Kevin had started gathering some cash together. He’d considered torching the salvage yard, or maybe his own house. Get a big insurance payout and disappear with it. Fuck Lauren, fuck Roger. Just take off to the States or Australia and start all over.

  On Good Friday he and Jim Harvey had a night out in Brighton. Kicking off in one of the bars in the Kings Road Arches, they got nicely stoked up before moving into town. After a burger in North Street they ended up in Wetherspoons, having put away eight or nine pints each.

  Jim had a thing about posh students with plummy voices and natural coloured hair. He got chatting to a group of them, celebrating an eighteenth birthday. Kevin joined him, flashing his money around, but not at all sure it would guarantee him a shag.

  At closing time they spilled on to the street. He suggested they go to a club, but he could tell the girls would take some persuading. Jim just wanted to drag one of them into a dark alley and have done with it.

  While they were working on the girls, a couple of young guys wandered over and got involved. Some nerdy little prick told Kevin to leave them alone, and Kevin laid him out with one punch. His friend started to move but Jim was on him, a couple of quick blows to the face. By now the girls were screaming.

  There was the usual police presence round the clubs at the bottom of West Street, and at the sound of sirens Kevin and Jim fled through the Churchill Square shopping precinct. From there they made their way to the seafront and stood by the railings overlooking the beach, watching the pier lights sparkle on the water.

  “Fucking good night,” Kevin said. He kept replaying his moves, superimposing Nick Randall’s image over the weedy student.

  “Yeah,” Jim agreed, a little morosely. “Could have done with pulling, though.”

  “They weren’t up for it.”

  “My one was.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Yeah, well. Think I’ll go home and give Lauren one up the arse.” Kevin could feel the adrenalin still pumping, the taste for violence coursing through his veins. He felt powerful, in command of his own destiny.

  He said, “Tell you what, how’d you fancy something a bit different tomorrow night?”

  “Like what?”

  “That insurance guy. We pay him a visit.”

  Jim’s eyes were shining. “Why not tonight?”

  “Too pissed. Gotta do it properly.” He felt a warm glow at his own good sense, and almost wished Roger were here to witness it.

  “What’re we doing then, knock on the door and chin him?”

  Kevin shook his head, then had to grab the railing to steady himself. “Better than that,” he said. “Give him a real fucking fright.”

  NINETEEN

  Saturday morning, Roger decided he’d had enough of walking on coals. He found Caitlin in the garden, stabbing at weeds, and suggested they go out for lunch. They might stand a better chance of civilised conversation on neutral territory.

  To his surprise, she seemed happy to accept. He waited for her to clean up and then they drove to one of his favourite pubs, The Yew Tree at Arlington. The weather was beginning to clear after some light showers, and the Sussex countryside was green and lush.

  In the car they listened to Jonathan Ross on Radio Two, sharing laughter for what seemed like the first time in weeks. He was turning on to the Berwick road when Caitlin said, “Do you think it’s run its course?”

  For a second he thought about playing dumb, but instead he answered truthfully. “Maybe.”

  “That’s what I think. But we don’t have to be silly about it, do we?”

  He glanced at her. She was frowning, looking much older and wiser than the image of her that remained in his heart.

  “No. We don’t.”

  “Good.” There was satisfaction in her voice, as though a major hurdle had been cleared.

  They found a table in the bar area and ordered lunch. Caitlin insisted on an orange juice and offered to drive home, a gesture of goodwill he was happy to accept. He suggested a toast to her final show at the Komedia and they clinked glasses. Then Caitlin said, “You won’t mind if I stay a few more weeks, just till I get myself sorted?”

  “Who said you need to move out?”

  “If that’s what we decide.”

  “Of course. Stay as long as you want.” He drank some beer, agonising over what to say. He knew he couldn’t match her brutal honesty. “Do you want to leave?”

  She thought about it, and nodded. “I’ve missed having my own place.”

  “Is this to do with the insurance claims? Nick Randall?”

  She seemed to blanch at the mention of his name, and in that moment Roger abandoned an impulse to tell her everything.

  “Well, yes and no. I suppose it clarified a few things.”

  He nodded, pretending to understand. He couldn’t believe she would regard him as a criminal because at heart he didn’t believe it of himself. He’d managed to justify the insurance claims as a kind of bureaucratic sleight of hand, rightful compensation for the unprofitable labour rates forced on him by the insurers over many years.

  “What did Ted Wheeler tell you?” Caitlin asked. It was the first time she’d mentioned his trip to Kent.

  “Not much,” he said. “A few anecdotes about Eddie Randall.”

  “Anything useful?” There was a sardonic twist in her voice.

  He sighed. “Maybe.” Last night he had dreamed of the murdered girl, only this time it was Nick who lay choking her, while he and Kevin Doyle stood and watched, doing nothing to intervene.

  “I can’t pretend I know all the details,” Caitlin said, “and really I don’t want to know, but I’ll tell you this.” She looked him in the eye. “Whatever you’ve got in mind to stop Nick Randall, it won’t work.”

  He held her gaze for a long time. He knew she was sincere, which was more than could be said for Doyle or Barry Harper. She had just confirmed the uneasy conviction he’d been harbouring ever since he first considered trying to blackmail Randall with his father’s secrets. Nick had too much integrity to falsify his reports, no matter what Roger threatened him with.

  But what else could he do? Let Kevin have his way?

  “You’re so miserable these days, Roger. That’s one of the reasons I have to leave.”

  He snorted. “Because I’m such a grumpy sod?”

  “Because you’re trapped. You’re desperate for a way out.”

  He repeated, “A way out?” Did she mean their relationship?

  “Listen to me.” She leant forward and took his hand, toying with the wedding band he had never discarded. “If you’re doing something illegal, get out of it. If you’ve made some money, find a way to give it back. If other people are involved, get them out of your life.”

  He couldn’t help grinning. She was so earnest, so moral. Suddenly the young woman was back, the one who’d enchanted him, and it tore at his heart that she had returned only because the relationship was over.

  “Next,” she went on, “get on a plane to Scotland. Stay with Lynn if you can, otherwise book a hotel and work on her, persuading, pleading, promising, until she agrees to come back. And if that means selling everything in Sussex to become a crofter –” at this they both laughed, “- then do it. Do whatever it takes.”

  She waited for him to speak, and at that moment their meals arrived. When the waitress moved away he picked up his beer and toasted her.

  “Excellent advice.”

  She raised her glass in
reply. “But will you take it?”

  He paused. Honesty, remember. Honesty.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  ***

  Saturday night in Kingston on Thames, the lumpen proletariat roaming the streets in drunken hordes. Alex drove fast on the ring road, jabbing her horn when a lazy crowd ignored her right of way at a crossing. What joy to floor the accelerator and take them out like bowling pins.

  She resisted; far richer delights lay in store. The endgame was approaching. The numerous strands of Project Randall were being woven into the garrotte that would choke the life from her victims.

  Joining the M25, she picked up speed and made use of the adrenalin coursing through her body. A couple of hours ago she’d taken some dexedrine in anticipation of the long night ahead. As the pace of her plans increased, sleep became an unwelcome intrusion.

  She was passing Gatwick when her phone rang. She checked the display and smiled.

  “Lover,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Arundel,” she lied smoothly. “Client meeting.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Sometimes I have to work weekends. Same as you.”

  “You know I’ve only got a couple of hours, maximum?”

  She made a purring noise, the kind of thing that rendered men insensible with lust. “That’s plenty of time,” she said.

  “Oh Jesus, I can’t wait. I’m nearly finishing myself off here.”

  “That would be an awful waste.” Emphasising awful like some trashy actress, and didn’t he just lap it up. She heard him groaning.

  “Hurry, please. I want you so much.”

  “Patience, my darling. Good things come to those who wait…” She cut the connection and added, “But it depends on your definition of ‘good’”.

  ***

  In his dream Nick was on the cliffs near the Belle Tout lighthouse. A full moon blazed a path across the sea. Someone was pushing against him, forcing him towards the edge. His bare toes dug into the grass, but it wasn’t enough to resist. Soon he would plunge to his death.