I wondered fleetingly if he would have carried on even if the boy had been guilty, even if his own professional position had been put in jeopardy by the relationship. And it was of some comfort to me that I thought there was a very strong chance that he would have done.
I signed my statement form, retrieved my car from the car park and drove back to Bristol. On the way I began thinking about all that I had learned. The very idea of Natasha having died in the way that she did made me feel quite sick. I could no longer really understand why I hadn’t reported my own near fatal Abri experience. I had allowed Robin Davey to convince me that nothing like it would ever happen again, and, particularly given my job, my behaviour had been unforgivable.
During the afternoon I did my best to concentrate on my own workload. But I could not get the death of Natasha Felks, overshadowed always by the spectre of her lover, out of my head, could not stop myself going over and over what it really meant.
I stayed in my broom cupboard office until gone 10 p.m., kidding myself that I was making up for the time I had lost that morning. And by the time I got home to my one-roomed hovel I was tired out and looking forward to nothing more than a stiff whisky and bed.
As I walked in the phone was ringing. It was Robin Davey.
Six
‘I expect you’ve heard the news,’ he said quietly.
I forced myself to be businesslike. I was a bloody policeman after all.
‘Why are you calling me?’ I asked, keeping my voice as cool as I could.
‘Well . . . because it nearly happened to you, of course.’ He paused. ‘I can’t explain more than that . . . I just wanted to call . . .’
‘I didn’t know about Jason’s little peculiarity when I went out to the Pencil,’ I said. ‘Natasha did. Why would she go with him?’
I could almost feel him shrug.
‘Tash was like that. Impetuous. Thought she could always be in charge, thought she knew Jason well enough to spot the danger signs, I expect. We’d had an exceptionally big school of dolphins off the island. It was a beautiful day for the time of year. Nonetheless . . . foolhardy, I suppose. Can’t really explain it . . .’
It was almost exactly what he had said in his statement to Todd Mallett. His voice tailed off, and there was a pause before he started to speak again.
‘This is not the first time I have suffered a tragic loss, you know . . .’
From the moment I first met Robin Davey on Abri I had found that strangely old-fashioned way of talking he sometimes adopted quite endearing – except when poor Natasha had abruptly arrived on the scene when suddenly everything about the man had irritated me – and he certainly sounded terribly upset. But I was angry. I was not going to get involved in this – or rather not any more than I was already. I felt I had been dragged into something which should not ever have concerned me, and I suppose one of the reasons for my anger was that I knew it was largely my own fault that I had got into a tangle. There was no doubt that I should have reported what had happened – certainly to the Health and Safety Executive and probably, in my case, to cover myself, to my senior officer. I had after all been the victim of almost criminal negligence on a holiday island. I hadn’t reported it for one reason and one reason only – because of my quite irrational infatuation with Davey. In a way I too could be held responsible for the death of Natasha Felks.
My anger boiled over. And I wasn’t going to fall for emotional blackmail either.
‘Robin, I can’t help you with the past,’ I snapped. ‘Natasha’s death is a police matter now. It’s in the hands of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary as you well know. It is nothing to do with me and I don’t want any further connection. I have given a statement about what happened to me on Abri and that’s the end of it all as far as I am concerned. It would be better if you didn’t call again.’
I put the phone down and afterwards I couldn’t believe what I had done. I had hung up on my paragon.
The phone rang again half an hour later. I cursed myself for half-hoping in spite of myself and my instruction to him that the caller might be Robin Davey again.
It was Julia.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
I was tired. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ I responded rather sharply.
‘Well . . .’ Julia continued patiently. ‘I heard about Natasha Felks’ death. Could hardly miss it, splashed across all the papers. “Second tragedy for dashing millionaire”, and all of that.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me, Julia.’ I was still speaking curtly, protesting too much, more than likely.
At this point I thought she may have given a little sigh of exasperation, although I couldn’t be certain. But when she started speaking again her voice quite clearly held a note of deliberately exaggerated patience.
‘Rose, she was killed in the same way you nearly were. The Devon and Cornwall Constabulary are treating her death as suspicious and are investigating. It seems pretty bloody likely to me that they’re investigating your friend Robin Davey.’
‘So? Why should that bother me? He’s not my friend anyway,’ I said airily.
‘No, no, of course not.’ Julia’s voice indicated quite clearly that she didn’t believe a word of my protests.
I relented just a little.
‘I’ve had to give a statement, though. Thought I’d better come clean.’
‘As you should have done when it happened.’
Julia had a knack of getting straight to the nub of the matter, perhaps that was the journalist in her. I said nothing for a moment. She probably knew me better than anyone, and when she spoke again she had changed tack. She was suddenly reassuring. I realised that she had sensed my guilt, my niggling suspicion that if I had reported my narrow escape on Abri at the proper time, then Natasha Felks might still be alive.
‘Oh, don’t fret,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to be wise after the event. It’s just a terrible accident, I’m sure.’
‘An accident I might have prevented, ‘I said. And I didn’t feel very wise at all.
I buried myself in my work more relentlessly than ever.
The Stephen Jeffries investigations continued to take us nowhere fast. In addition to our so far fruitless enquiries into Richard Jeffries we also looked for other suspects who may have had both opportunity and inclination to abuse the boy, but to no avail. I was vaguely aware that for all kinds of reasons I was becoming perhaps just a little lukewarm in my efforts personally.
One way and another both the Social Services and the CPT made little or no progress. Eventually we interviewed Stephen again, but this time he seemed even more guarded than before. He was clearly nervous and uncomfortable and remained so however much Mellor and Freda Lewis tried to put him at his ease. Both Richard and Elizabeth Jeffries told us they would object strongly to any further interviews with their son, and, to be honest, I didn’t entirely blame them, and felt myself that we could not justify talking to either of the Jeffries children again without substantial new evidence.
Eventually, at the beginning of March, I called a formal Information Sharing Meeting where all of us involved gathered to discuss the outcome of our investigations and decide on whether or not any additional action should be taken.
Claudia Smith and Freda Lewis were among those invited. Claudia Smith remained disconcertingly certain that her initial judgement had been right.
‘Stephen’s behaviour is still odd,’ she insisted. ‘He’s all over the other children.’
She admitted that there had been no further incidences of behaviour which could be specifically regarded as sexual. Nonetheless she felt that not only should Stephen Jeffries and his sister not be taken off the At Risk register, but maintained, as indeed she had done from the beginning, that the children ought to be put into care while yet more enquiries were made.
Freda Lewis said that although her own department’s investigations had proved fruitless she had the utmost respect for the opinions of a professional like Claudia who had known
and worked with Stephen for a substantial period of time. However Freda admitted that she really had nothing conclusive to offer.
Peter Mellor said that he didn’t think we should take such a substantial step as taking the children into care on so little evidence, but that there was a case for keeping the two children on the At Risk register and continuing investigations.
I listened carefully to the three of them, but I had been coming to believe that we were devoting much more time to the case than we would have done had Richard Jeffries not been who he was. I knew only too well that one of the characteristics of child abusers is that they are invariably plausible. However I was beginning to feel that by giving the questionable Stephen Jeffries case such high priority Mellor and I and everybody else in Bristol CPT were in danger of neglecting other cases involving seriously disturbed children who were without question at risk. Like any other business, sooner or later in police work you have to consider your resources. I was a manager, that was my job.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told them eventually. ‘But I cannot see how we have a chance of proving anything.’
I decided that I could not allow myself to be influenced by any irrational niggling doubts. After all we had been unable even to prove that there had been any abuse at all. Almost without doubt it would be more trouble than it was ever going to be worth to try to take the case much further.
‘I’m afraid there is not even enough evidence to keep the children on the At Risk register,’ I went on. ‘Certainly the police investigation will have to be ended now.’
Eventually it was agreed that while Social Services would continue to take a low-level interest in the family, our Joint Investigation would be formally closed. We suggested to Claudia Smith that she should continue to keep an eye on Stephen.
‘I don’t quite see the point,’ she said rather huffily, which, from her point of view, could only be regarded as fair comment.
I was, however, as sure as one can ever be that we had made the right decision.
I informed Dr Jeffries personally about the results of the investigation and he shook me warmly by the hand.
‘I want to thank you, Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said.
‘For what?’ I asked.
‘For not allowing an emotive response to get in the way of good solid police work,’ he replied. ‘And most of all for not having my children taken away from me.’
Jeffries seemed to have tears in his eyes. He was the one being emotional. In spite of myself I was impressed that a man who had faced the undoubted wreckage of his career and the destruction of his not inconsiderable social standing in one fell swoop should appear even now to think about nothing other than his children.
I studied him carefully, this plausible controlled man. Was he too controlled? Was he being too reasonable? For just an instant I reflected on my earlier doubts about him, but I at once put them out of my mind because I knew there was no logic behind them. There really had been no alternative to the decision I had encouraged, I told myself. For a start neither Stephen nor Anna Jeffries had given us any indication that they were anything other than well-loved and well-cared-for children.
I vowed not to even think about the Abri Island case again until I had to, and although I somehow couldn’t quite keep that vow I did not actively interfere again.
Now that I was no longer personally heading a high priority investigation, I moved, with very mixed feelings, back to headquarters at Portishead. Two months passed, much of which I spent on a special project – compiling a report on the adverse psychological effect of Child Protection Work on police officers and how this can be combated. Titmuss, who had probably never had a genuine emotional response to anything in his entire life, had been asked to put this together following the realisation that the incidents of breakdowns and emotional collapse among CPT officers greatly exceeded any other area of policing – as I had told Julia some time ago. He deputed the task to me, which at least got me out of his hair, I suppose. I was then put on yet another management course at the Avon and Somerset’s own training school at Portishead, learning even more skills which considerably exceeded what I needed to know at my rank and with my level of responsibility.
The way things were going with my career at the time I reckoned I was destined to end up the most highly qualified DCI in the country. I had always been regarded as a high flier and to have reached my present rank as young as I did was still unusual, but the relationship I currently had with my seniors in the force, particularly Chief Superintendent Titmuss, left me in little doubt that it could be a bloody long time before I made Superintendent. The courses and the special projects – I was also asked to put together a report on the extra difficulties of dealing with handicapped children in child abuse cases – were a kind of sop, I felt, to keep me occupied and make me feel I was doing something useful and constructive while at the same time effectively removing me from mainstream policing. Quite extraordinary really that an officer of my rank should be used, or rather not used, in such a way, particularly as I was still supposed to be deputy head of the CPT. But my case was in no way unique.
At least being sidelined in this way meant that I had rather more ordered working hours and considerably more spare time than had I been involved with a major case. I spent most of my free time searching for a new home. The so-called studio flat seemed to become more and more squalid by the minute.
Once I’d properly put my mind to the task I quite quickly found myself a small but smart one-bedroomed apartment in the old docks. I liked the area because it was central and stylish, and I liked the apartment because it was ultra modern, with clean uncluttered lines – which I promised myself I would not destroy with my usual level of mess – and because it had virtually no character. I was feeling pretty soulless at the time, and 6 Harbour Court effectively suited my mood.
The flat was brand new and I had nothing to sell any more. My share of the proceeds from the bungalow, the sale of which had been finalised every bit as quickly and efficiently as Simon had promised, was stashed in the bank ready and waiting, so the deal was quickly done.
I had taken none of our shared furniture from the bungalow, just a few personal things like books and paintings. As I had told Simon when we finally decided to make the break, I didn’t want anything to remind me of the past. I wanted a fresh start.
When the purchase was completed at the beginning of May I took a week’s leave to settle into my new place and was surprised to find how much I enjoyed it. Anyone who has ever lived in a dazed limbo after the break-up of a long-term relationship will know how easy it is to sink into uncaring squalor, how hard it is to drag yourself out of it, and what a joy it is to finally succeed in so doing. I had lived my childhood and most of my adult life in a decent well-run attractive home, even if I had usually had all too little to do with ensuring it stayed that way, and hadn’t fully realised just how bad an effect several months of police section houses followed by that dreadful bedsit would have on me.
Conversely I had not been prepared for the almost instant lift in spirits which my smart new apartment gave me. The kitchen was all stainless steel, and had a dining area reminiscent of an American diner, more stainless steel, a built-in glass-topped table, and shiny dark red tiles. The bedroom and living room, which was the biggest room and really quite well-proportioned, had the kind of polished wooden floors I had always lusted after, which were common to so many of these dockland flats.
I bought a big squashy sofa for the living room, covered in a wonderfully impractical cream fabric, and a leather swivel-based chair which doubled as an office chair and stood before the smart black ash-finished desk which effectively hid my computer when not in use. The only other furnishings in the room were some bookshelves and a chunky oblong coffee table made of Cornish granite. The bedroom held just a simple double divan bed piled high with cushions and two bedside tables in addition to the mirror-fronted fitted wardrobe ranged along the entire stretch of one wall which easily housed
all my clothes.
After almost four days spent shopping and arranging everything to my liking, I sat one evening with my feet up enjoying a gin and tonic, feeling reasonably content for the first time in ages. I told myself that surely even I could manage to keep this place fit for human habitation, and my general sense of well-being was further enhanced when I switched on my newly purchased state-of-the-art TV, the remote control for which I had finally mastered, and learned courtesy of the local HTV news that the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary’s investigations into the death of Natasha Felks had been dropped.
I was relieved, chiefly because of my own involvement – senior police officers like being caught up in a suspicious death even less than anybody else – but I also have to admit that Robin Davey did enter my thoughts.
I didn’t contact Todd Mallett again, keeping my resolution to become no further involved with the case than was absolutely necessary. But I knew that wasn’t the end of the matter, unfortunately. There would still be the inquest. And indeed, soon after returning to the shop after my week’s leave I got a note from the coroner’s officer at Barnstaple telling me that the inquest on Natasha Felks would take place on the 1st of June at the Castle Centre, Castle Street, Barnstaple, and I would be required to attend personally to give evidence. I wasn’t surprised, although I had vaguely hoped that the coroner might accept my evidence being read in my absence, but I could have done without it – not least because the whole silly saga of my Abri Island adventure would now become public knowledge.
The 1st of June turned out to be a bright sunny day and very hot. It seemed that everything connected with this case, Natasha’s fatal excursion to the Pencil, and my own ill-judged trip, happened in remarkably good weather. It’s extraordinary to think of the difference one casual action can make to our lives. If I had turned down Jason’s offer of a boat-ride I would not have been about to appear as witness in a coroner’s court, and I may even have left Abri Island without ever having met Robin Davey.
For Death Comes Softly Page 8
