Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  ***

  At six-fifteen Diana said, “He’s going to die. He’s alive, but he’ll die if we don’t find him.” She tried to move, but her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped back on the sofa. A doctor was called and recommended sedation, but finally compromised with bed rest.

  While Pat sat with her, Nick and Caitlin went into the back garden, which so far had not been invaded by journalists.

  “You know, I almost think this was part of her plan,” Nick said.

  “She killed herself on purpose?”

  “Why not? She knew she’d never get away. And if we caught her there would be huge pressure to give up Ryan. Her lawyers would use that to get a reduced sentence.”

  “Whereas this way the agony continues.”

  “Yeah. She’s won, hasn’t she?”

  Caitlin was standing behind him. She threaded her arms around his waist and rested her head against his shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

  “She must have put him somewhere safe, where he couldn’t escape or call for help. Maybe a rented garage, or a house, an apartment. Even just locked in the boot of another car. Without water he’s got… what, a day or two at most?”

  His voice choked, and he shook his head in disgust.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. They could hear traffic and voices in the street as local people congregated to discuss the drama unfolding on their doorstep, and the distant buzz of a helicopter filming the site of the crash. Even the throaty call of wood pigeons in the trees around them seemed urgent and concerned.

  Nick said, “Where’s the letter?”

  ***

  They read it at the kitchen table, alone except for DCI Pearce. She should have gone off duty hours ago, but she said she couldn’t leave them now.

  Nick stared at the letter, trying to put himself into the mind of the woman who wrote it. At the same time there was another thought nagging away, something that had been troubling him for the past two days.

  “Ted Wheeler,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Why did she torture him?”

  Caitlin and Pearce exchanged a mystified glance. “To find out more about her father’s killers?” the detective suggested.

  “That’s what we assumed. But hadn’t she got all that from Franks? Wheeler was the only one she couldn’t trace. The actual killers were long dead. So was Mickey Leach.”

  “And Ray McPherson,” Caitlin said.

  He nodded. There was a pause, and then they said in unison: “Roger.”

  “Hold on,” said Pearce. “I’m trying to catch up here.”

  “Remember when she came to see me, calling herself Lindsay,” Nick said to Caitlin. “She overheard us discussing Roger. She knew he was linked to Ted Wheeler. That’s why she tortured him. She wanted to know about Roger.”

  “You think he was a target?” Pearce asked.

  “He was Ray McPherson’s nephew. I’m sure that was good enough for her.”

  “But Roger’s been in custody since Tuesday,” Caitlin said. “What could she do to hurt him?”

  Nick was still working it out. A bitter smile appeared on his lips. “How about implicating him in her own crimes?” he said.

  There was silence. Neither seemed entirely persuaded, but they weren’t shouting him down either.

  “Can you get us out of here without being followed?” he asked the detective.

  ***

  DCI Pearce called her husband Trevor, who agreed to come immediately. Nick and Caitlin were helped over the back fence and through the house opposite, where Trevor collected them in his Daewoo. At the same time Pearce left the house, stopping to exchange a little banter with the waiting reporters, and then drove to the small police station in Seaford. A couple of cars pursued her, but she paid them no attention.

  At the station she parked outside, waved to the journalists, hurried through to the staff car park and gave Trevor a peck on the cheek before climbing into his car. A couple of uniforms went out to the reporters with an offer of refreshments, providing cover while Pearce drove out with Nick and Caitlin crouching down in the back seat.

  A mile down the road they were joined by two police motorcyclists. One of them gave a thumbs up as he sped past, clearing their path through the traffic.

  “Lovely lads,” said Pearce, accelerating up to ninety. “But the favours I’m gonna owe after this…”

  ***

  It was seven-fifteen when they reached Clayton, a mellow evening with a cool wind and patchy cloud obscuring the sun as it sank behind the Downs. Nick had a shock when he saw the officer guarding Knight’s home, and for the first time he felt glad he hadn’t mentioned his idea to Diana or Pat. Suddenly it seemed absurd.

  “Has someone been here since Tuesday?”

  Pearce confirmed it was likely. “Can’t risk anyone tampering with the scene.”

  “Shit.” Nick exhaled slowly, seeming to lose some of his spirit in the process. He looked at Caitlin, whose shrug only seemed to confirm his doubts. And if he was wrong about this, he was out of ideas. Ryan would die a terrible death, and he would always blame himself.

  Exactly what Alex wanted.

  They parked on the drive and Pearce quickly spoke to the officer on duty, PC Haynes. He confirmed there had been no unauthorised visitors.

  “None at all?” Nick asked, his desperation sounding almost rude.

  “All I’ve seen is tractors, jeeps and a few ramblers.”

  “Any women?” Nick said. “Tall, athletic physique? Or possibly disguised as an old lady?”

  Haynes chuckled, then stopped abruptly when he caught Pearce’s glare. “Sorry, ma’am. Actually, there was one went past yesterday morning. Hiking.” Again he smiled, as at a fond memory. “I suppose she was rather shapely.”

  Nick was chewing his lip as he thought about it. “She’d have needed vehicle access,” he said, gesturing at the driveway. “And if someone’s been guarding this area…”

  Caitlin gasped, turning towards PC Haynes. “You know about the lane, don’t you?”

  Haynes looked blank, squirming a little as all eyes turned on him.

  “What lane?” said Nick.

  Caitlin pointed to the way they’d just come. “About half a mile back there’s a private access road leading to a farm. It runs past the rear of this property.”

  ***

  Caitlin and Pearce made for the house while Nick took the shed. Weaving between a sit-on mower and a motley collection of garden implements, his heart nearly stopped when he spotted a suspicious lump covered by empty rubbish sacks. He lifted them off to reveal a bag of chipped bark.

  As he emerged, he saw Caitlin waving from the back door. “The summerhouse,” she shouted. “I saw something from upstairs.”

  They dashed across the long expanse of lawn, and as they got closer Nick saw the double doors were slightly ajar. The padlock had been forced and lay broken on the ground.

  “Oh Christ,” he whispered, adding to himself: Let him be alive…

  ***

  The summerhouse was constructed of redwood timber and measured ten feet by twelve. Inside there was a suite of wicker furniture, covered by dustsheets, and various bikes and garden toys lying around: beach balls, cricket bats, water pistols. In the far corner there was an old fridge, next to four large packing crates stacked against the rear wall. A faded Barbie doll sat drunkenly against one of the crates.

  “Roger barely uses this any more,” said Caitlin. “Not since the kids left.”

  Nick went straight to the fridge, fearing a gruesome discovery, but it was empty. “What’s in the crates?” he asked.

  Caitlin wasn’t sure. “More toys, I think.”

  Nick pushed against one of them. It felt heavy. Then he noticed a thin line of the floor was free of dust. They’d been moved recently.

  “Here,” he said, pulling the top one towards him. Caitlin and Pearce helped him peel off the packing tape and they discovered a treasure trove of dolls, model cars and books.

  The cra
te below had no packing tape. They found Ryan inside, curled in a foetal position and partly covered by a blanket. He seemed to be asleep, but none of them could breathe until they saw his eyelids flicker. He had his thumb in his mouth.

  “Oh, thank God,” said Caitlin, and she fell against Nick. He hugged her. Then he hugged Pearce. They all had tears in their eyes.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said to Pearce.

  “Don’t be silly. Let’s get him out, make sure he’s okay. Then you can ring your sister.”

  He leaned over and gently touched Ryan’s cheek. The boy stirred and turned away. Nick managed to reach under his arms and lift him up, and as he rose out of the crate Ryan opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. He smiled at Nick.

  “Where’s my Bionicle?” he said.

  E PILOGUE

  Two weeks later, when the tabloids finally decreed the story had run its course, Nick drove to London on a warm Saturday morning and parked in Wood Lane. The visit had been arranged two days earlier, at Franks’s instigation, and as he approached the house Nick wasn’t sure what to expect.

  The door was answered by a shy young Indonesian nurse, who led him into a generously-proportioned living room, where Franks was sitting in a wheelchair. He had lost a lot of weight and his skin had a yellowy hospital pallor, but there was plenty of vitality in his blue eyes. His hair was neatly trimmed, and Nick saw his nails had been manicured: appearance was still important to him.

  “Thought we’d go for a stroll,” he said. The bossy manner was unchanged as well. “I’m under instructions to get plenty of fresh air.”

  “Fine with me,” said Nick.

  He led the way as the nurse expertly manoeuvred the wheelchair out of the house and down the drive, and at Franks’s suggestion they made for Queens Wood.

  For a while they kept to small talk, Franks asking after Diana and Ryan. The media onslaught had been ferocious, but the sheer joy of recovering her son unharmed had made the whole experience bearable.

  “Actually, I think she could get a taste for this celebrity stuff,” Nick told him. “She loved being on Richard & Judy.”

  “It’s dangerously addictive,” Franks said, and his rueful tone suggested he was ready to talk about what had happened.

  They headed towards the old keeper’s lodge, an attractive redbrick villa that had been converted into a café, and Nick helped the nurse back the wheelchair up the steps on to the veranda. There was a small play area adjoining the café, where half a dozen children were happily negotiating a rope bridge. Nick went inside and fetched coffee and cake for them all.

  Franks toyed with his chocolate sponge for a while, and then said, “I wanted a chance to thank you. I understand you uncovered Lindsay’s real identity and alerted the police. If not for that, I would have died.”

  “I wish I’d worked it out sooner.”

  “Well, I’m grateful.” He sighed, met Nick’s eye briefly and looked away. “Though I can honestly say there have been days when death seemed preferable.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Now Franks took a deep breath, gearing up for a revelation. “I also wanted to inform you that I’ve decided to abandon the book.”

  Nick was taken aback. Discussing it with Caitlin, he’d felt it was likely to be the opposite decision, with Franks pressing ahead and incorporating a lurid account of Alex’s murderous spree. That book would make him a fortune.

  His reaction was clear enough for Franks to look defensive. “I don’t intend to claim my motives are entirely honourable. I’m sure you’re well aware that I’m a laughing stock. The jumped-up hack whose manhood was hacked off.”

  Nick grinned in spite of himself. That was a pretty fair summary of the tabloids’ position.

  “The bastards are jealous, of course. I’ve made lots of money and lots of enemies. This is their chance to knock me down, and like all good journos they’re relishing the opportunity.”

  “A taste of your own medicine.”

  “Quite. And I admit it’s made me see things in a different light. If I go ahead with this book, I’m just putting myself back in the firing line.”

  “What will your publishers say?”

  “I don’t give a damn, to be honest. I’m comfortable enough financially. Rattling around in that silly big house. I might sell up and move to Florida. Swim. Play golf.”

  “Write a novel?”

  Franks cracked a smile. “Of course.”

  They drank their coffee, watched the children on the rope bridge, and then it was time to go back. As they ascended the steep incline out of the wood Nick tried to engage the nurse in conversation, but Franks interjected.

  “Wasting your time. Doesn’t speak a word of English.” He made a huffing noise. “The agency sends a different one every few days. Costing me a bloody fortune, but what the hell.” Then his tone softened. “Quite a beauty, isn’t she? In the old days I’d have fancied my chances.”

  Nick glanced at the nurse, who caught his eye and quite emphatically shook her head. He concealed his laugh with a cough.

  He was still debating whether to ask when Franks said, “Sex life has gone for a burton, if that’s what you’re wondering. They managed to re-attach it, but there were some… complications.” He looked up at Nick. “Everyone winces when I say that.”

  “I bet they do,” said Nick, wincing.

  They trudged up Muswell Hill Road, passing the cottage where Peter Sellers had once lived. Franks was gazing sadly at the pavement.

  “I suppose I had my fair share over the years. Same as your dad.”

  Nick felt uncomfortable. This was the first mention of Eddie Randall.

  “You know, after eighteen months’ research and writing, I expect I know him nearly as well as you did, if not better.”

  It wasn’t said as a boast, and Nick couldn’t disagree. “Perhaps,” he said. “There are lots of things I wish I didn’t know.”

  Franks shook his head. “Disregard anything that came from that evil woman. The fact is, nobody knows for sure what happened, and no one can prove your father did anything wrong. That’s why the papers have had to be so careful.”

  “Maybe,” said Nick, aware of how much he wanted to be persuaded. “It poisons his memory, though. Losing him at nine, he was always a pretty distant figure, but he was still a hero to me.” He smiled fondly. “And I had the films. Any time I wanted I could watch him being funny, or clumsy, cheeky or tough.”

  They reached Nick’s car and stopped. He dug in his pocket for his keys, glad of the distraction.

  “I liked him,” Franks said abruptly. “I don’t know if that means anything, but I liked him. Ignore the rumours. It’s the man you see on screen that counts.”

  Nick held his gaze for a few seconds, and then nodded solemnly. They shook hands and he wished Franks a speedy recovery.

  For twenty minutes he drove with tears streaming down his face, and afterwards he felt better than he had in weeks. A couple of times he caught himself glancing at the passenger seat, certain he would spot a familiar face: cheeky and tough, warm brown eyes and a smile full of charm.

  Are you ready, Nicky lad?

  Alone in the car, he nodded. It was time to move on.

  ###

  AUTH OR’S NOTE

  SINS OF THE FATHER represented the last throw of the dice in my attempt to become a published writer. I'd spent years submitting my stories, novels and screenplays, and in the process had collected a small mountain of rejection slips. As I reached my thirties a period as a househusband gave me what I regarded as my best opportunity yet to break through.

  I wrote two feature-length TV scripts as well as my first crime novel. All three gained some interest from production companies, a couple of actors and, in the case of the novel, a major publisher. For a couple of years I seemed to be perpetually on the brink of success, only to see each project fall at the last hurdle. The closer I got, the more heartbreaking it was to be knocked back, until I reached a point where I had
to ask: How much longer should I put myself through this?

  And then I heard about a brand new UK publisher, Creme de la Crime, running a competition to find crime writers. They wanted to see the first 10,000 words of a novel. It just so happened that I was 10,000 words into a new book. I sent it off, telling myself that this was going to be the very last submission I ever made. I was so determined not to tempt fate that I didn’t even continue writing the novel while I waited to hear from them.

  The idea for SINS OF THE FATHER had come to me a few years previously, when I was living in Yorkshire, in the north of England. Homesick for the Sussex coast, I imagined a story unfolding on the South Downs and in my home city of Brighton. A documentary about a famous movie star had provided the initial spark: while adored by the public for his charming on-screen persona, his family had seen a very different – and much darker – side to him. That got me wondering about the unique perspective and the pressures that must come from being the son or daughter of a public figure: the sense that they have to ‘share’ their famous parent with the rest of the world. With my naturally morbid imagination, the question that popped into my head was: what if the father had a terrible secret that came back to haunt his children?

  For my protagonist, I wanted someone who could plausibly investigate his family’s past, but I didn’t want to make him a police officer. In Leeds I had managed an office that handled motor insurance claims; a job that had required me to attend inquests, visit accident sites and take witness statements. I’d also had experience of representing my company in court on some large-scale claims frauds. Aware of the old adage: write what you know, Nick Randall duly became an insurance claims investigator.

  A couple of months later I learned that I had made the shortlist of Creme de la Crime’s debut authors. What followed was a period of frenzied activity to complete the book, but still with no cast-iron guarantee – if the finished novel was good enough, they would publish it. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t. Can’t say fairer than that, I thought.