He hoped one day his children would be proud of him.
TWENTY -SEVEN
Nick was passing Stanmer Park on the outskirts of Brighton when his phone rang. He recognised the number and gave a little whoop of delight.
“Caitlin, how’s it going?” Hard to appear casual when you’re breathless with excitement, he thought.
But her voice quickly changed his mood. “Where are you?”
“On my way home.”
“Good. That’s where I’m heading. How long will you be?”
“What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
That didn’t sound good. “I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” he said. Just as he’d feared, Caitlin and Roger must have had an explosive argument, and it was possibly his fault. Again he cursed himself for not going with her.
Her car was parked outside his house, and she got out when she saw him turn into the driveway. As he opened his door she walked towards him, and his mouth dropped open in horror. Beneath her jacket her t-shirt was ripped and splattered with blood.
“Jesus, what’s happened to you?”
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Can we go in?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He put his arm around her shoulder and felt her body virtually collapse against him.
As soon as they were inside he pulled her into an embrace and held her tight, not speaking or moving for what seemed like minutes. Then he led her into the living room, sat her down and carefully examined her injuries. There was a scab of dried blood on her neck and some nasty abrasions on her wrists, the skin rubbed raw and weeping.
She refused his offer of first aid, so instead he poured two brandies and sat beside her. She gulped a mouthful, coughed, sipped a little more, and finally she was ready to explain.
She told him everything, from her first argument with Roger in the bedroom, right up to the moment when she closed the front door and left him lying in the hall next to Kevin Doyle’s body. Nick could barely comprehend it.
“Roger’s going to claim he shot Doyle?”
Caitlin nodded. “He’ll tell the police it was just the two of them.”
“Do you think they’ll believe it?”
“I don’t know. He said I should get rid of these clothes, just in case.”
“He’s right.” He shook his head. “That’s quite a sacrifice, isn’t it?”
“I told you he was a good man at heart. But the police won’t see it like that.”
“They’ll find out about the fraud as well,” Nick pointed out.
“He’s lost everything, hasn’t he? I should have stayed. Even if he claimed to have shot Kevin, I could have corroborated his story, perhaps kept him out of jail.”
“No. The police would be bound to spot some inconsistency in your statements. Then you’d really be in trouble.”
Caitlin hadn’t considered this, and it seemed to offer her some consolation. She thought for a moment, and said, “Is there anything you can do to help him?”
“I was just wondering the same thing. I need to speak to the insurer who instructed me, and then I’ll contact the police.”
“You could tell them about Kevin breaking in here,” Caitlin suggested.
“True.” Nick felt a little ashamed of his reluctance: yet more involvement with the police was the last thing he wanted right now, but after what Roger had done to protect Caitlin he could hardly object.
He stood up. “First we should take Roger’s advice,” he said. “You need to clean up and get changed. I’ll sort out your clothes.”
Suddenly the enormity of what they were doing hit them both. There was a sombre moment as they considered the situation. They were destroying evidence of a crime. Conspiring to pervert the course of justice.
“Are you sure this is right?” Caitlin asked.
“Not really,” said Nick. “But I think we have to do it.”
***
The seconds ticked past, became minutes, and still Roger couldn’t decide. With the pain came a light-headed, almost intoxicated sense of unreality. His future boiled down to a simple choice: equally terrible, and yet equally painless, it seemed to him.
The easiest option, the one that ought to have frightened him most, was slowly growing in appeal. He imagined the long hours in an interview room, the prurient media interest, the heartbreak and disgrace of his family, culminating in years of incarceration.
And against that, a forefinger’s pressure on a trigger, and then nothing.
He felt tired. It didn’t matter that he was giving up, taking the coward’s way out. He kept hearing Caitlin’s voice in his head, telling him he’d be letting Doyle win. He didn’t agree.
He lifted the gun and examined the muzzle. Wondered how it would feel in his mouth. At the same time the phone grew heavy and he let it slip to the floor.
And then it rang.
“Shit,” he said, his voice guttural and unfamiliar. He tried to ignore it but couldn’t.
“Yes?”
“Dad! I just wanted to apologise, calling so late last night. I totally forgot the time, but the storm was awesome. And Mum said you might be coming up next week, I really hope you do, you know we’re all missing you so much…”
A lull in the torrent of words, and Roger, tears coursing down his cheeks, knew he could never tell his daughter the truth. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would sound okay. “Wh-what time is it there?”
“Don’t tell Mum, but I haven’t actually been to bed.” Sally giggled. “There’s a couple of girls in the hotel and we’ve been up chatting all night, you know? Listening to music, chilling.”
“Drinking?” Roger asked.
Another giggle. “Come on, Dad. I’m fifteen. I’m not a little kid.”
It hurt him to smile. “No. Okay.”
“When I said we’re all missing you, I mean Mum as well.”
“I doubt that.”
“Honestly. She even said it was a shame you weren’t here with us.”
“She said what?”
“I think she still loves you, Dad.”
Her voice choked on the final words. Roger put the gun down and held the phone tightly. “She’d never admit it to me.”
“Come and see us. Then you can ask her. Please, Dad.”
He found himself running through all manner of scenarios, a blur of dates and schedules, interviews and court appearances and bail applications. Then he found himself saying, “Yes, darling. Of course I will.”
After sending them his love he ended the call and then, before he could change his mind, he dialled 999.
***
Nick retrieved the garden incinerator from his shed and found an old container of paraffin. While Caitlin had a shower, Nick burned her clothes and the nylon cord which Kevin Doyle had used to restrain her. Staring at the flames, he couldn’t help wondering what DCI Pearce would have to say about this.
He also contemplated the extent to which he’d misjudged Roger Knight. Then he thought about Diana, bickering with Pat. All their relationships being tested by the malevolent presence of Alex Jones.
And Alex herself. Was it absurd to hope she’d gone away? That she was satisfied with the destruction she had wrought? How long must they wait before it was safe to relax?
When he went inside he found Caitlin in the spare room, unpacking her clothes. She was wearing the robe from this morning.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
“You look great.”
She snorted. “I mean putting my clothes away.”
“Ah. That.” He shrugged, trying to dismiss whatever significance it might have for either of them. “I came to see if you wanted lunch?”
“Lunch?” She pushed her hand through her hair. “To be honest, I’m not really hungry.”
“Not surprising after what you’ve been through.”
She grinned. “Actually, I had a huge cooked breakfast this morning.”
“And there was
me feeling sorry for you.”
Caitlin dropped an armful of underwear into a drawer and stood up. “Cup of tea wouldn’t do any harm, though.”
“Fine.”
“Any biscuits?”
“Now you’re getting cheeky.”
“That’s me, I’m afraid. Lippy.” She smiled and stepped towards him. “Take it or leave it.”
Reading the challenge, he nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll take it.”
Then a moment frozen in time, not indecision but preparation, a mental deep breath before the plunge into… the unknown?
No, Nick corrected himself. The future.
They moved slowly, their lips making first contact an instant before their bodies met and pressed together. They kissed for a long time, and for a long time kissing was enough, the urgency tempered by what they had experienced.
And then, when it seemed right, Nick slipped the robe from Caitlin’s shoulders and kissed her neck, his hands moving lightly over her small, firm breasts. She gasped as his palms brushed her nipples and pulled him into a hungry kiss, while her hands tugged on his shirt and worked to undo his jeans.
They broke apart again, while Nick undressed and Caitlin slipped off her underwear. For a moment they admired one another, both a little shy, a little scared.
“You’re pleased to see me, then?” Caitlin said.
“I’m glad you’ve noticed.”
“I’ll need a closer look,” she said, and reached out a hand. She stroked him while he kissed and gently nuzzled her breasts. They moved on to the bed, exploring with mouths and fingers, enjoying the growing desperation to be joined until they could bear it no longer. She brought him into her and wordlessly they moved together, managing for a time at least to extinguish the pain and fear of the previous days and weeks.
***
In her hotel room, Alex was growing restless. This morning she’d had her hair cut short and coloured blonde, a transformation that had drawn compliments from the hotel receptionist, the kind of petite, elfin girl with whom in other circumstances Alex might have tried her luck. The idea of a pleasant distraction was appealing, but she knew she couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to herself. Not when her identity and description could be all over the media at any moment.
Now the long afternoon stretched ahead of her. She’d been checking regularly for news updates, and the first reports of Ted Wheeler’s murder were dribbling through: An eighty-three-year-old man has been found dead at his home in Gravesend. Police are treating the death as suspicious.
She could continue with her planning, but really she knew exactly what she intended to do. She had various alternative strategies lined up, should something go wrong. There were a few technical details to iron out, and certain items to collect from hiding on her way to Sussex, but essentially she was ready to go. All she could do now was wait.
No. There was one thing…
She rummaged in her bag and selected one of the half-dozen mobile phones she was using. Made sure it was the right one, and checked for messages: a text, sent a couple of hours before: need to c u.
She smiled. Decided against calling, and sent a text instead: Had 2 shoo bt cmng bac sn. Cnt w8 2 fuK u.
***
Almost midnight. Nick jerked awake from a disjointed dream and lay startled, trying to assemble the fragments of his day: Caitlin’s bloodstained clothes, her part in Kevin Doyle’s death, the sensation of her body against his.
He shifted and saw her lying next to him, but still it didn’t seem real. They’d spent most of the afternoon in bed, alternately talking and making love. Nick realised it was the first time he’d felt truly alive – and glad to be alive – since DCI Pearce told him that Sarah was dead.
It didn’t quite eradicate the guilt, though, and Caitlin was conscious of his feelings.
“You realise this may be a one-off,” she’d said while they ate a takeaway Chinese together.
“You think so?”
“Not really. But it’s a pretty weird situation, isn’t it? With everything we’ve been through, maybe it’s affected our judgement…”
He laughed. “Am I supposed to be offended by that?”
“No. I’m not explaining myself very well. I guess I’m trying to say that when all this is over, you might suddenly feel you made a big mistake.”
It was a brave, honourable thing for her to say, and he wanted to let her know he was touched. “If this is a mistake,” he said, “it’s still the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Now he recalled her words, and one phrase kept repeating in his head: when all this is over. But when would that be? Would they ever know?
He remembered a documentary about the blitz which claimed that illicit affairs were rife in the Underground tunnels and air raid shelters: desperate couplings made all the more thrilling by the proximity of death. Is that what they were experiencing now?
She stirred beside him. “You’re frowning even when you smile.”
“I don’t mean to. Sorry.”
She wriggled closer and placed her arm across his chest. Now she was equally solemn. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Somehow this feels like the calm before the storm.”
“It may be. And you know there’s only one thing we can do about it?”
“What?”
She put a finger to his lips. He kissed it.
“Enjoy.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday was glorious, just a few wisps of cirrus in a milky blue sky, a light wind ruffling the police tape around Roger Knight’s property. There was now only a single patrol car parked on the driveway, the scenes of crime officers having left late the previous evening.
PC Derek Haynes had greeted his assignment with little enthusiasm: guarding an empty house was hardly the most thrilling of duties. There had been a flurry of media activity yesterday afternoon, when local journalists picked up on the story, but it had quickly died down.
Wasn’t much of a story, if you asked him. Dodgy businessman falls out with his colleague, who comes round demanding money. They have a fight, and businessman shoots colleague. The dullest of motives, and nothing particularly interesting about either of the people involved. Now if one of them had been famous…
Nice place though, Derek thought. He’d recently bought an overpriced two-bedroom terraced house in Portslade: dogs barking next door and kids with hundred-watt car stereos screeching past all night. This was just the kind of house he dreamed of owning: detached, large garden, hidden away along the kind of narrow lane where you didn’t see a car from one day to the next.
In fact he’d been on duty for three hours and seen only a tractor, a Land Rover and a couple of bicycles. Some nosy neighbours had strolled past, on the pretext of walking their dogs, and a hiker on a route march towards Plumpton had caught his eye: tall, cropped blonde hair, a bit dykey in combats and a baggy sweatshirt, but a good body nevertheless. His practised eye had spotted a very shapely rear.
Obviously all that walking kept her fit, though he had a few better ideas if she fancied some exercise. He wasn’t one to boast, but he could have sworn she’d given him the once-over. Perhaps she had a thing about uniforms.
***
High on the hill above the road, well concealed within a grove of trees, Alex studied the house through a pair of small Zeiss binoculars. The police presence had come as a shock, but of course she’d given no sign of it to the officer stationed outside. She carried on past, aware of his gaze burning into her but confident it was nothing more than primitive male lust.
After watching for ten minutes, she took a cereal bar from her rucksack and considered this unexpected development while she ate. The most obvious theory was that Knight’s involvement in some kind of insurance scam had come to light. However, this rarely led to crime scene tape and police guarding the house. That was the kind of reaction you’d expect to a violent crime. Murder, perhaps.
She was disappointed. Leaving Cromer at four am she’d been in
high spirits, full of enthusiasm for the long day ahead. After careful reconnaissance she’d returned to the flat in Kingston and gathered the things she needed for several days in Sussex. By nine o’clock she’d found her way to Clayton in a newly rented Renault Clio. To avoid suspicion she parked at the top of the hill and walked back to the road that led past Knight’s large country home.
She finished the cereal bar and took up the binoculars again. The policeman was strolling aimlessly up and down the driveway, kicking at the gravel and then smoothing it flat with his boots. At one point he seemed to stare right at her, causing her heart to flutter. Then he stuck a finger in one nostril and performed a thorough excavation.
“Filthy bastard,” she muttered.
The grounds occupied several acres, bordered by a mixture of trees, hawthorn hedges and a high wooden fence. There was a tennis court on the west side, some kind of shed or workshop behind the garage, and a grand summerhouse in a slightly elevated position to the north of the house.
Alex thought it over for a while, toying with an audacious idea. She liked a challenge, didn’t she? Just because there was something going on down there, it didn’t mean she had to disregard Knight altogether.
After all, there was more than one way to create a victim.
***
“Oh my God! Who is she?”
Nick recoiled. “What?”
“There’s a big silly grin on your face. Haven’t seen that for a while.”
“Not much I can hide from you, is there?”
Morag shook her head. “I can see into the depths of your murky soul,” she declared, and then raised her mug of coffee. “Cheers.”
He took a sip of his latte, waited a few moments, then said, “Go on, then. Aren’t you going to say, ‘It’s a bit soon’?”
“I wasn’t intending to. Do you think it’s a bit soon?”
“Probably,” he admitted.
“Well, that’s good. Shows it really means something.”
Sins of the Father Page 21
