by Jane Adams
It bothered him, of course. But no way was he going to be broken down by that kind of pressure. No way. Eric knew himself to be in the right and, although Fletcher’s death meant that there would be no appeal, he would still have his say.
He had thought better of Andrews, though. Really hoped for a more positive response from the man. After all, he was a journalist. And hadn’t Eric presented him with a story well worth the telling?
Shrugging his shoulders inside the loose fit of his summer jacket, Eric dismissed Andrews from his mind.
He’d paid the man back for his lack of interest. A good cleansing thing, was fire. And anyway, he had other ways of doing things now.
From the second-floor window of their house, Johanna watched Eric as he made his way up the hill.
He’d lost weight, particularly over these last few months. His clothes hung on him, his trouser belt had to be pulled tight enough for the waistband to ruckle up and his jacket would have fastened double breasted if she’d added the buttons.
He barely touched the food she set before him every day. Had to be reminded to eat, or he would simply sit at table, staring into space, oblivious even to the children’s noise. And his hair had faded almost to grey, losing the reddish brown colour that the three older boys had inherited from him.
Even his eyes had paled, and his lips seemed almost bloodless, the way he kept them pressed in such a stern line.
It was so hard, Johanna thought, to remember the vital, hopeful young man she had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Johanna looked down at her hands, at the narrow wedding band and the broken nails she no longer had the will to care for. And she wondered where it was all going to end.
* * *
Price drove through the farm gate to find the SOCO team already at work and half a dozen officers combing their way through the cut-down flower beds.
He was running a little late, having stopped off to call the hospital and check on Mike. The incident had shaken him to an unexpected degree. He’d slept badly and felt like death. Learning that Mike had had a good night and was feeling ‘much more comfortable’ was only limited help.
Price got out of his car into the moist heat of the summer morning and breathed the ripe scent of scythed grass and hacked greenery that rose all around him.
One of the SOCO had heard his car and stood waiting.
‘Glad you’re here, I was about to have a call put out for you.’
He led the way round to the back of the house and pointed to where three more of his team, in white overalls stained with green and soiled with wet mud, pored over a patch of cleared earth that Price had at first assumed was just another uncovered flower bed.
‘We found this and one other over there.’ The SOCO gestured. ‘Patches of disturbed ground. This one the most recent from the look of it.’
‘Recent? How recent?’
He squatted down, Price beside him. ‘We’ve had a good summer. Hot and wet, great growing weather.’ He grinned. ‘You can see that from the jungle this place has turned into. But here . . . We saw it this morning when your lot cut back the undergrowth.’
Price stared. He doubted he’d have noticed the difference straight off, but yes, now it was pointed out, the plant growth was different. Small creeping things he couldn’t name with tiny flowers had spread themselves across the surface, vying with tufts of Ground Elder. But compared with the surrounding luxuriance it was nothing.
Price held his breath. ‘You’ve reported this,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, called in as soon as we spotted it. Your Super — Jaques, isn’t it? — said you were on your way.’
Price nodded. ‘You said there was a second area?’
‘Yeah, but we’ve not touched that yet.’
Two of the SOCO were spreading polythene sheeting at the side of the uncovered ground. Price watched, hardly daring to look away as they began, layer by layer, to scoop the earth aside. Working with the same skill and attention the pathologist had used on Ryan’s body. Each stripped-back layer photographed and analysed, sifted carefully onto the plastic sheet.
Give me a shovel, Price wanted to say, impatient with what he knew was their necessary thoroughness. Let me get in there. Instead, he nodded, got to his feet.
‘Call me the moment you find anything,’ he said. Then stalked off out of their way.
* * *
Tom Andrews and John Tynan had arrived at the hospital just after ten to find Mike sitting in a chair, his injured leg stuck out on a rest in front of him and his heavily plastered wrist lying on a pillow across his lap.
With his good hand and the fingers of his hurt one, he was trying hard to manipulate the pages of a broadsheet newspaper and failing miserably, bashing his plastered wrist against the arm of the chair in his attempts to straighten the pages.
It hurt. Mike swore.
‘Is that any way to greet visitors?’ John said, laughing.
Mike’s face brightened. ‘John! It’s good to see you. I’m going crazy in here.’ He extended his good hand to shake Andrews’, pushing the newspaper aside and almost hitting his wrist again, then wincing as his ribs complained at his too-rapid movement.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ he said plaintively. ‘Find yourselves some chairs or something and then talk to me!’
John laughed again. Andrews captured a chair from the other side of the ward and John seated himself on the edge of the bed.
‘You’re looking a lot better,’ he said, his tone both satisfied and relieved.
‘I’m feeling it. Really. Just so damned frustrated. Still, it could have been a lot worse.’ He turned to Andrews, who had just planted the chair close by and sat himself down.
‘I heard about your office,’ he said.
Andrews shrugged. ‘Office is too grand a word for it. I’ve got a partitioned-off cubby hole. We’re all egalitarian and open plan these days. Only good thing about it was that I had a half-share of the big window. Or I did have until someone threw a brick through the window and a home-made petrol bomb after it. A quick-thinking colleague with a fire extinguisher dealt with it before it spread.’
‘The building was occupied?’ Mike asked, somewhat startled.
Andrews nodded. ‘We don’t always work regular hours in our game any more than you do in yours,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, no one was hurt and there was very little damage done. It only just had time to set the smoke alarm off and the sprinkler’s on an override switch.’ He shook his head. ‘Either fire or water damage could have just about finished us.’
‘Anybody see anything?’ Mike asked him.
‘Couple of people saw a man running away from the front of the building. Not a lot to go on, really. About five six to five eight, they reckon. Skinny, short grey hair and wearing a dark sweater.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve got my theories, though.’
Mike looked speculatively at him. ‘Our friend Eric Pearson?’ He sighed deeply and shook his head again. ‘Be hard to prove,’ he said. ‘And why?’
Andrews leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled thoughtfully. ‘He wasn’t best pleased that I didn’t want to publish. Seemed to think I’d jump at the chance.’
‘I don’t suppose . . .?’
Andrews drew himself up with a slightly guilty start. ‘Oh yes. I’m sorry.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a few sheets of paper, gave them to Mike.
Mike read them in silence, then turned his gaze on John. ‘You’ve seen this?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Quite a love life this man had.’
Mike skimmed the pages again. The sexual description was graphic and detailed and disturbingly erotic, evoking the softness of his lover’s skin, of kisses flavoured with wine. Of the caress of hands and mouths and the most intimate of touches. In reading it, Mike felt himself to be blundering through someone’s most private moments. He looked up at Andrews, puzzled.
‘It’s erotic,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have said pornographic. I agree, it
’s not the kind of thing you’d want someone else reading, but . . .’
‘Eric claimed that the boy was under age,’ Andrews told him, ‘and that the pages that follow on from this make that plain. He also claims that Fletcher told him Blake had the boy killed, buried him at some old farmhouse.’
Mike’s look was sharp, then he frowned and shrugged.
‘Fletcher said a lot of things. So far we’ve proved none of them.’
‘Let’s just pray it stays like that,’ John said quietly.
* * *
Ten thirty saw Eric Pearson emerge from a local print shop, carrier bags bulging with paper tightly clasped in his arms. He glanced left and right along the length of the street as though worried he’d been observed, then dashed across it, almost running, or as close to running as his baggage would allow.
His next stop was the main post office. He arrived breathless and somewhat flushed, pushed his way through the double swing doors and headed towards the stationary racks. Ten minutes later saw him with a pile of neatly addressed envelopes perched awkwardly on a corner of the counter.
Eric knelt down and emptied the contents of the two carrier bags on to the floor, stacking the paper into two unequal piles, then began to push ten or so pages from one pile, one from the other, into the envelopes.
It didn’t take him too long. He worked swiftly, almost impatiently, not troubling that he creased some of the pages and crushed others sideways in his haste to complete his task. All the time, he glanced about him as though expecting to be stopped before he finished.
Then he sealed the envelopes, drawing his tongue across the flap, wrinkling his face like a child at the unpleasant taste. He paused now and then to moisten his lips and hammer at the envelope seal with his fist, driving each one against the floor to make certain it was glued tight.
Then the stamps, each envelope weighed and posted. Sent on its way.
Eric paused at the post office door, a tiny smile curving his lips.
He held one bag, about half full. There were still things to do before he went home. But it was all right, he thought to himself. He’d make certain they would listen to him now.
* * *
It had taken almost an hour to remove just over a foot of earth. Price had occupied himself by getting in the way, giving unwanted advice, poking about in areas already searched and generally punishing everyone for his inability to speed things up.
Now though, he would have given a great deal to be still unoccupied.
‘God above,’ he whispered softly as he stared down into the narrow depression scraped in the earth. Only a small part of the head had been uncovered, bone protruding though torn gobbets of rotting flesh. Strings of mud brown thread, he realized must be hair, sprang out from the ground. The stink of decay smothering the scent of green that had earlier filled his lungs. He cleared his throat.
‘How long has it been here?’
‘Can’t say yet. We need the police surgeon and the pathologist. Can’t do much without their say-so.’
Price nodded. ‘I’ll call in,’ he said. ‘Tell them we’ve another murder on our patch. Jaques’ll just love this.’
* * *
‘Who knew you were coming to meet me?’ Andrews asked.
Mike smiled. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?’ he asked. ‘You’re suggesting it was a setup.’
Andrews shook his head. ‘You’re not stupid, Mike, and you’re not naive. You’ve got to see it’s possible.’ Mike exhaled slowly. What Andrews had put into words had been at the edge of his thoughts all along.
‘Price,’ he said. ‘I saw him just before I left Divisional. And Jaques, he was there when you made the call.’
‘Anyone else?’
Mike shrugged. ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said, ‘Price could have mentioned it, or Jaques, and the canteen was full when I talked to Price. Anyone could have overheard.’
‘Well,’ Andrews said thoughtfully, ‘I guess our best hope is to track down the driver or one of his friends. See what they have to say for themselves.’
‘I’m not that much into conspiracy theories,’ Mike said with a shake of his head. But his words sounded hollow and unconvincing even to his own ears.
‘Did John tell you,’ Andrews asked him, ‘that your superintendent Jaques and Fletcher were friends at one time?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Tynan said. ‘But as Mike pointed out, that proves nothing in itself.’
Andrews hesitated for a moment. ‘Even so, in your place, Mike, I’d be careful what you say to him. If Pearson’s to be believed, he’s also mentioned in the journal.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday afternoon
Sergeant Price ducked into the ward at about one fifteen.
He parked himself beside Mike’s locker and began to unpack the contents of two large carrier bags.
‘Told you I’d be back,’ he said. ‘Got a bit held up, though. Maria dropped these off,’ he added. ‘Said she’d be in about five but you might want these now.’
Mike watched with amusement as packets of biscuits, crisps, a bottle of blackcurrant cordial and various items of underwear disappeared into the drawers and cupboards. He’d been trying to eat lunch, pushing something that claimed to be chicken fricassee around his plate and wishing that someone would bring him a cup of tea.
Price’s final production, a large blue flask full of the stuff, very hot and very sweet, seemed like the answer to a prayer.
‘Thinks of everything, your lady,’ Price remarked, pouring a cupful for Mike and purloining one of the apples from the bowl of fruit he’d just brought in. ‘She says you get picky when you’re bored. Eat yourself silly,’ he observed thoughtfully, looking at Mike with an interested air. ‘So, I thought, just to save your waistline I’d give you something to think about.’
‘You’ve found something?’ Mike demanded.
Price grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said, shifting from the uncomfortable chair and flopping down on the edge of the bed, his mouth full of apple. ‘But not in that bloody well.’
‘Tell me,’ Mike demanded. He abandoned all pretence of eating the fricassee and pushed the bed table aside, reaching over to grab some fruit instead.
Price took his time, infuriatingly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of apple before he said, ‘Well, so far as we can tell, allowing for the two foot of mud at the bottom, there’s bugger all down that well. Or if there is, then it’s . . .’
‘Stuck in the two foot of mud and refusing to be dredged out. I get the picture.’
Price grinned again, clearly enjoying his boss’s frustration. ‘What we have got, though, is two patches of recently disturbed earth round at the back of the house. Looks like someone’s been digging,’ he added, as though doubting Mike had got the point of it.
‘And?’ Mike demanded.
Price shook his head. ‘We found a body, guv, part decayed, buried no more than a foot down. Been wrapped in black plastic. The SOCO had to pull a bit of it away to find out what we’d got. God, the stink!’
‘So, Fletcher was telling the truth,’ Mike whispered.
‘Looks that way. And there’s another thing, guv, you were right about that notebook of Fletcher’s. You know the one we found in his cell?’
Mike nodded.
‘Well, we got the results of the ESDA.’ He pulled a folded page from his back pocket with all the flourish of a magician conjuring rabbits, then hopped down from his perch on the side of the bed.
‘List of names,’ he said, ‘and places, times and dates and what looks like a detailed confession addressed to his solicitor.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘We’ve only got a part of that, though. Seems it ran to two pages and the first one muddied the detail on the second. The list, that’s more promising. We’ve got our collaters office liaising with a half-dozen other divisions over this, and guess what?’
Mike looked expectantly. ‘Our computers won’t talk to their computers,’ he said.
Price laughed. ‘Apar
t from that.’
Mike smiled, but his eyes were grim and tired. He noted that for all Price’s hyperactive enthusiasm he too looked strained and weary below the surface expression. ‘They’re all missing persons,’ he said. ‘And they’re all kids.’
‘Take a look, guv,’ he said. ‘See what you can get out of it. But for Chrissake, don’t let Jaques know. Official line is, you’re out of it. Case closed. Inspector Croft invalided out.’
He took another bite of apple and shook his head, not able now to conceal the worried look around his eyes.
‘You ask me, guv,’ he said, ‘there’s someone out there much happier now you’re out for the count and a hell of a lot of people determined to see you stay that way.’
* * *
Eric felt that he had been truly imaginative in the way he had done things. He had thought carefully about where and how to distribute the photocopied pages from the journal.
A half hour of calling directory enquiries the night before — he’d worry about the phone bill later — had supplied him with addresses for the main regional papers, a selection of the nationals and a half-dozen radio stations.
To each of these he had posted ten or so pages from the journal, together with what he had termed ‘A Deposition’, outlining the problems he had encountered in trying to make his voice heard.
He had included a full and open accusation of those in authority, the police, the courts, the local power mongers. Outlining how they had ignored his testimony. Ignored the facts. Allowed Eric and his family to be persecuted, driven from one place to the next, stoned and assaulted. Disbelieved by everyone, because of one unproven mistake in Eric’s own life. How, by their own blindness and corruption, those who should have put justice first had left Eric Pearson and his family without protection. Persecuted and reviled.
Eric saw his cause as having almost Biblical importance and millenarian implications. How could God fail, in the final analysis, to bring justice to those that disregarded the law and so persecuted the very people who tried to bring the wrongdoers to notice?
