Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

Just before they left there was an update from the officer who’d accompanied Franks to hospital. Clements took the call and turned to Nick with a glint of humour in his eyes. “He’s going to make it. Whether he’ll have much in the way of manhood is another matter. Is he the kind of guy who’ll miss it?”

  “Is there a kind who wouldn’t?” Caitlin said, and both men laughed.

  The journey home began in silence. Nick put on a CD of Leonard Cohen covers. Caitlin listened to a couple of tracks, then screwed up her face. “What on earth is this?”

  “Nick Cave’s version of Tower of Song.”

  “You have a bizarre taste in music.”

  “It is a slightly strange interpretation.” He realised he felt a little hurt, accompanied by an absurd thought: is this our first row? He skipped to the next track. “Try this,” he said. “John Cale, Hallelujah.”

  “I’ve heard this,” she said after the first verse.

  He risked a glance and saw her nod appreciatively. “Better?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  There were queues on the M25, and Nick remembered with a jolt that it was Easter Monday. Joining the M23, they watched traffic streaming northbound, holidaymakers returning home from a day at the coast. Cars full of people with enviably normal, straightforward lives.

  “You can’t be sure,” Caitlin said when he voiced his thoughts. “People can live in all sorts of turmoil and you’d never know it to look at them.”

  He conceded the point, wondering to what extent she was speaking from experience. He knew she had phoned Roger from the police station and explained a little of the day’s events.

  At Pease Pottage she dug in her handbag and brought out her mobile. “I’d better call him.”

  Nick nodded and turned the volume down. “I can’t really drive with my fingers in my ears. Well, I could try…”

  She gave him a playful punch. “We won’t be whispering sweet nothings”.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She sighed. “Been through that and come out the other side.”

  The tone of her voice changed when Roger answered, becoming flat and emotionless. He seemed to do most of the talking, Caitlin only punctuating with “Mmm” and “No”, and several times, “I’m not sure”. Then a final “Right”, that sounded sorrowful.

  Afterwards she said, “He kept asking when I’d be home.”

  Nick looked at the clock. “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  She sighed. There was a long pause, and he sensed her running through the words before she said them aloud.

  “I don’t know if I can deal with him tonight. There’s so much he’ll want to know…”

  “Would you rather stay at my place?”

  “Do you mind? Otherwise I’ve got some friends in Kemp Town.”

  “No. You’re welcome.”

  “You have a spare room?”

  He smiled wryly. “I have a spare room.”

  “Or the sofa would do. If it’s a problem.”

  “I’ve got a spare room.”

  ***

  Alex made straight for the flat in Kingston and cleaned up, then collected the bag she kept packed for just such eventualities. It contained all she would need for a few days away, lying low and waiting out the storm of police activity that was bound to follow. The flat was rented in a false name and she remained confident that it could still be used, but it seemed prudent to wait at a distance and be sure.

  Besides, after today’s events she would have to reappraise her enemy. Nick had somehow made the connection that she was Lindsay. She couldn’t rule out that he would also link her to Sarah’s death. And there was the question of what Ted Wheeler might have told him.

  It wasn’t all bad news, of course. There was the immense satisfaction she’d gained in emasculating Howard Franks. And Nick had also led her – unwittingly, she was sure – to Ted Wheeler.

  Even so, she knew her next move was unwise. If Nick proved to be one step ahead rather than a step behind, armed police could be waiting for her right now. And because she had to hurry, there was no time for reconnaissance. She might be driving straight into a trap.

  Nevertheless, she felt the prize more than warranted the risk. This was the one target that had remained frustratingly elusive. The man who, after Eddie Randall, bore the greatest responsibility for her father’s death.

  This time she parked in the next street and made her approach on foot. The road was quiet, but not suspiciously so; there was a couple chewing each other’s faces off in a doorway. She watched them carefully, decided they were genuine.

  The weather had deteriorated during the day, so her thick jacket and beanie hat didn’t look out of place. Waiting at the front door, she presented few distinguishing characteristics to any witnesses.

  The target was slow to answer. She heard him grumbling as he reached the door and pushed open the letterbox flap.

  “Who is it?”

  “My name’s Caitlin. I need to warn you about Nick Randall.”

  “Nick…?” He sounded confused.

  “Nick Randall,” she spoke quietly to the letterbox. “We came to see you this afternoon.”

  “You’re the bird from earlier?”

  “Yes. Can I come in? I think you’re in danger.”

  She heard a bolt retracting, and the door opened a fraction. Ted was muttering to himself, puzzling over something.

  “You know full well I am. It’s that bloody —”

  Too late, the penny dropped. He tried to slam the door but she threw her weight against it. He didn’t stand a chance, falling backwards and crying out in pain.

  She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Wheeler was on his knees, clutching one of the spindles on the staircase and trying to haul himself up. Alex closed the front door with a deft backheel and pulled the hammer from her pocket. As with Franks, the time for subtlety was over.

  “So you’re Leslie’s kid?” Wheeler said, his old man’s voice weak and gasping.

  She thought of how her father had died and a wave of savage aggression took control. In a second she had brought the hammer down once, twice, and was rising for the third blow when she forced herself to stop.

  Before he died, he would answer her questions.

  ***

  Although Nick was exhausted when they reached home, he didn’t feel he could suggest going straight to bed. He suspected Caitlin was equally reluctant to raise the subject, so they drank some coffee and yawned, watched a little TV, yawned some more.

  And then out of nowhere Caitlin said, “That night Kevin Doyle broke in, he thought it was a woman who interrupted them.”

  Nick nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Alex Jones.”

  “So she’s been watching you.”

  “I’ve got to assume so.”

  She shivered. “It’s scary. I mean, no one’s safe until she’s caught.”

  “I’m trying not to think about that. Not now, anyway.” He yawned again, and so did Caitlin.

  She stood up. “I really have to go to bed. I’m shattered.”

  “Me too. Come on.”

  She helped him check that all the doors and windows were locked, and then followed him upstairs. He showed her into the second bedroom.

  “If you need a change of clothes, a t-shirt and underwear, there are still some of Sarah’s…”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  “Okay. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. I think.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood uselessly for a moment, feeling like a teenager again.

  She took a step towards him and examined his face. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about Sarah. Before today I thought the worst thing was not knowing why she died. If I could just understand the reason…” He gave a hollow laugh. “And now I know she was probably killed because of me. It was my fault.”

  “No. You mustn’t see it like that.” She reached out and gently stro
ked his arm. His instinct was to shrug it off; it felt too dangerous to succumb to her comfort, as though he would be taking advantage of her. But then he opened his arms and they embraced, hugging each other tight.

  Feeling her warmth, breathing the scent of her skin and hair, he knew he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to undress and lie beside her, holding her close for the rest of the night. But he couldn’t assume she wanted the same thing, and the part of him that might have chanced it – what his sister called the charmer – could not summon the audacity to make the move. She had helped him enough, hadn’t she?

  Reluctantly he broke contact. “I want to thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I put you through today.”

  “Don’t apologise. We’re in this together now.”

  She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Now vamoosh. I need some sleep.”

  Feeling a little heartsick, he shut his bedroom door and lay down, running through the events of an extraordinary day. There was something nagging at him, he couldn’t quite get it and knew he wouldn’t sleep until he did.

  Wheeler. Something to do with Wheeler.

  He felt himself becoming drowsy, pushing away memories of the old man’s face, the dreadful way he laughed while discussing the death of a young girl. A death that his own father might have caused.

  Then Caitlin, tonight, arriving at the same conclusion about Alex.

  She’s been watching me.

  Not just watching. Following.

  His body jerked, and he realised he’d been asleep for a few seconds. He tried to fight it but couldn’t. Didn’t want to. In the morning he’d put it together. He’d speak to DCI Pearce. Had to tell her about Alex, discuss the implications.

  Tomorrow.

  ***

  While Nick slept, Alex Jones drank a celebratory vodka in a modest hotel room in Cromer, on the Norfolk coast. She booked in under a false name, went straight to her room and had a long, hot shower. Then she turned on the TV and caught the late evening news. There was a brief report that the writer Howard Franks had been wounded in an assault at his London home. No other information. No appeal for witnesses. No details of the suspect.

  She wondered what to make of this. Was it possible the police doubted Nick’s story? Did they have other leads to follow before releasing any more information to the media?

  Either way, she couldn’t let it trouble her. Tomorrow she’d make some changes to her appearance, have her hair cut short. For now, she knew beyond doubt she was safe. It was time to relax and consider her achievements.

  Killing Ted Wheeler had been almost pathetically easy, which had diminished the pleasure slightly. The challenge had been to make him talk without any noise alerting his neighbours. She’d turned up the TV as loud as she dared, so that Ted’s last moments on earth were accompanied by the tired clichés of EastEnders.

  Between questions she used a cushion to muffle his screams. A couple of times she held it in place too long and he blacked out. She had to keep reminding herself that he was old now. Weak and puny.

  It took half an hour to satisfy herself that he’d told her everything. She learned that Nick had located Wheeler through Roger Knight, the name she’d first heard when she was at Nick’s house, posing as Lindsay. What she hadn’t known was that Knight was a nephew of the late Ray McPherson, and now ran a car bodyshop in West Sussex.

  After telling her about Knight, Wheeler spat blood and a tooth on to the carpet and said, “Your dad, he shouldn’t have gone after Randall. You must see that.”

  Alex smiled a ghastly smile. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t.”

  “He worked for me. I couldn’t let him pull a stunt like that. If he was a bit strapped for cash he should’ve come to me. I’d have seen him right.”

  “I’m sure you were a generous employer.”

  Ted shook his head and groaned. If he was ever going to throw himself at her mercy, now would be the time. Instead he said, “Ah, fuck it. Just get it over with.”

  By this time she was ready to oblige. She’d had enough of him, enough of his filthy home, the stench of cat shit and cigarette butts, of blood and sweat and decay. She lifted him into a sitting position on the threadbare carpet and moved behind him, placing one arm around his neck.

  Wheeler refused to show any fear. He coughed, spat into his lap and said, “Mickey Leach said you was a decent bit of skirt.”

  “How charming.”

  “Yeah. You ain’t my type, though.” And he let out a wheezy cackle. “I like ‘em young.”

  For a moment Alex laughed with him. Then she broke his neck.

  When she was satisfied he was dead she lifted the body into an armchair and lowered the volume of the TV. Three hours later she was in Cromer, a location she had selected for sentimental reasons. After all, it was here she had first learned what she was capable of.

  She even said a prayer for Billy before falling into a deep, untroubled sleep. She had much to thank him for.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nick woke at seven and immediately resumed his train of thought from the night before. This time he had it instantly. He leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, searching his wallet for DCI Clements’s card. The detective had said he could use the mobile number at any time.

  Clements answered on the third ring, sounding alert. Nick could hear barking.

  “Quiet, Sammy,” the detective said. And to Nick, “Best part of the day, taking the dog for a walk.”

  “I’ve just realised something,” said Nick. “I think Alex Jones has been following me. If she has, she might know where to find Ted Wheeler.”

  He relayed Wheeler’s address from memory and Clements said he’d ring Kent police and get an officer sent round. “You won’t be happy till half the forces in England are involved in this,” the detective said ruefully before he rang off.

  Hearing movement upstairs, he put the kettle on and found some mugs. He was prising slices from a frozen loaf of bread when Caitlin wandered in, wearing an old towelling robe of his.

  “Early bird, aren’t you?” she said.

  He explained the reason for calling Clements. “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “It’s okay. I couldn’t really sleep, to be honest.”

  She asked if she could have a shower, and while she was gone Nick had toast and coffee, then made some for Caitlin.

  “What will you do today?” she asked. They were both leaning against kitchen units. She seemed no more keen than he was to sit down and eat a formal breakfast together.

  “A meeting with DCI Pearce this morning. Then I need to try and explain all this to Diana. What about you?”

  “First I have to see if my car’s still intact.”

  “Oh God.” Nick had forgotten they’d met at Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift up there.”

  It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when they left the house, the air cool and fresh, promising a perfect spring day. He parked next to her car and they got out.

  “I hope this won’t cause too much trouble with Roger,” he said.

  “It can hardly have made things worse.”

  At the moment of parting, they hesitated. The emotional intensity of the previous night had subsided, leaving only friendship and slight embarrassment. Finally she gave him a friendly pat on the arm and got into her car.

  He watched her drive away, imagining the kiss they should have shared, and tried not to feel forlorn.

  ***

  Roger was in bed when he heard the car pull up. Last night the phone had rung in the early hours, startling him awake. He’d grabbed it up, wondering what sort of trouble Caitlin was in, only to find it was his daughter, Sally, thrilled by a huge thunderstorm in Antigua. She’d forgotten about the time difference, and he didn’t have the heart to scold her.

  She was trying to describe the intensity of the rain when Lynn took the phone and said, “Roger, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was going to call. What time is it there?”

  “Half past one. Don’t worry.�
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  They chatted for a couple of minutes. He wished her a safe journey home, and then said, “I was thinking of coming up to Scotland for a few days, maybe next week. I’d really like to see the kids.”

  Lynn sounded cautious. “They’ll be back at school.”

  “I know. And I don’t expect you to put me up. I’ll stay in a hotel.”

  “Will the lovely thespian be with you?”

  “No.” He said it more emphatically than he’d intended.

  There was a pause. Then she said, “I’ll call you when I get back. Sunday, okay?”

  Afterwards he’d lain awake for a couple of hours, made himself a hot chocolate and sat in bed, wondering where Caitlin was, or more precisely wondering what she was doing. He couldn’t understand why he felt jealous rather than relieved, and then had to remind himself there might be nothing to be jealous or relieved about.

  Now, at eight-thirty, the front door opened and he listened to her moving about downstairs. He was trying to summon the will to get up when there was a tap on the door and she came in. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and her face looked tired and drawn, a little of the sparkle missing from her eyes.

  “Hi,” she said, and waited. It felt like the opening move in a chess game.

  “Are you late or early?”

  She frowned, not getting his meaning at first. “Oh no, I’ve been to bed. I stayed in Nick Randall’s spare room.”

  He digested the information slowly. “Do you want to explain what happened yesterday?”

  She sat down on a corner of the bed and began absently stroking the duvet. “I went to see Nick about the insurance claims.”

  “What have you told him?”

  “That you’re no longer involved. That you were nothing to do with the break-in.”

  “He knows that was Kevin? Oh fuck.” He stared at the duvet for a long time. “I suppose he’ll go to the police?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got rather a lot on his mind right now.”

  Roger nodded. He had struggled to make sense of their conversation yesterday afternoon. “You said something about Leslie Jones having a daughter?”