A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  She was wondering about that. She had never liked squatting behind bushes. He pointed to a wooden shed, black with age, the door almost too stiff on its hinges to open. Inside was an earth closet. It smelt perfectly fresh, the smell of soil and old wood, and sweet sea-scented air. Beyond the shed was a clump of elder and dry half-dead bushes, a gnarled tree and grass almost knee-high. Octavia walked on and saw again the shimmering vale of reeds, saw too another narrow ridge of firm tussock grass.

  She asked: “Where does that lead? To the sea?”

  “Nowhere. It’s only about a hundred yards long and then it peters out. I go there when I want to be alone.”

  Away from me, she thought, but didn’t speak. She felt again a momentary churning of the heart. She was with Ashe. She should be feeling happy, exultant, sharing his pleasure in the peace, the silence, the knowledge that this isolated island was their special place. Instead she was aware of a moment of claustrophobic unease. How long did he mean to stay here? How were they to get back? It was easy to talk about swimming the ten yards or so, but what then?

  In the cottage he was unpacking the bags, shaking out the bedding, setting out their provisions on the one shelf to the right of the fireplace. She moved over to help him, feeling at once happier. He had thought of everything: tins of fruit juice, beans, soup, stew and vegetables, half a dozen bottles of water, sugar, tea bags, instant coffee and chocolate. There was even a small paraffin stove and a bottle of fuel, and two cooking-tins with detachable handles. He boiled water for their coffee, cut slices of bread, buttered them and made two thick ham sandwiches.

  They took their coffee and picnic outside and sat together, their backs against the wall, gazing out over the reeds. The sun was strengthening now, she could feel it warm on her face. The food was the most wonderful she had ever tasted. No wonder she had experienced that moment of depression. It was due to hunger and thirst. Everything was going to be all right. They were together, that was all that mattered. And tonight they would make love; that was why he had brought her here.

  Daring at last to question him, she asked: “How long are we going to stay here?”

  “A day, maybe two. Does it matter? Don’t you like it here?”

  “I love it. I just wondered—I mean, without the bike it’s going to take us longer to get home.”

  He said: “This is home.”

  4

  Kate had been afraid that the local-authority records would be incomplete, that they would have difficulty in tracing Ashe’s moves from foster home to foster home. But a Mr. Pender in the Social Services Department, surprisingly young and with a look of premature anxiety, was able to produce a shabby and voluminous file.

  He said: “It isn’t the first time Ashe’s records have been asked for. Miss Aldridge wanted a sight of the file when she defended him. Obviously we asked his consent first, but he said she could see it. I’m not sure what help it was.”

  Kate said: “She liked to know as much as possible about the people she defended. And his background was relevant. She made the jury sorry for him.”

  Mr. Pender gazed down at the closed file. He said: “I suppose you could be sorry for him. He didn’t have much of a chance. If your mother throws you out before you’re eight, there’s not a lot Social Services can do to compensate for that rejection. There were numerous case conferences about him, but he was hard to place. No one wanted to keep him for long.”

  Piers asked: “Why wasn’t he put up for adoption? His mother had rejected him, hadn’t she?”

  “It was suggested while we were in touch with her, but she wouldn’t agree. I suppose she had some idea of taking him back. These women are odd. They can’t cope and they put their lover before their child, but they don’t like the idea that they’ll actually lose the child. By the time his mother died Ashe had become unadoptable.”

  “We’ll need a list of all the people he was placed with. May I take the file?”

  Mr. Pender’s face changed. “I don’t think I can go as far as that. These are confidential social and psychiatric reports.”

  Piers broke in: “Ashe is on the run. Almost certainly he’s killed one woman. We know he has a knife. He also has Octavia Cummins. If you want the responsibility for a second murder on your conscience, that’s up to you. Hardly the kind of publicity the Social Services Committee will welcome. Our job is to find Ashe, and we need information. We have to talk to people who might know his special places, where he could be hiding out.”

  Mr. Pender’s face was a mask of indecision and anxiety. Reluctantly, he said: “I think I could get authority to let you have the records. It may take time.”

  Kate broke in. “We can’t wait.”

  She held out her hand. Mr. Pender still didn’t push the file towards her.

  After a moment Kate said: “All right. Give me a list of all the names and addresses where he was placed, children’s homes and foster parents. I want it at once.”

  “I can’t see any objection. I’ll dictate the information now if you’ll wait. Would you like coffee?”

  He spoke rather desperately, as if anxious to find something which he could offer without reference to higher authority.

  Kate answered: “No thank you. Just the names and addresses. And there was someone called Cole or Coley who apparently spent a lot of time with Ashe. We found a mention of him in the notebook Miss Aldridge used at the time of the trial. It’s important to trace him. He was on the staff of one of your children’s homes, Banyard Court. We’ll start there. Who’s in charge now?”

  Mr. Pender said: “I’m afraid that will be a waste of time. Banyard Court was closed three years ago, after it was burnt down. Arson, I’m afraid. We’re fostering children now whenever we can. Banyard Court was for particularly difficult young people but who didn’t require secure accommodation. I’m afraid it wasn’t very successful. I don’t think we have any record of where the staff are now, except the ones who were transferred.”

  “You may know where Coley is. He was accused by Ashe of sexual abuse. Haven’t you an obligation in those cases to inform future employers?”

  “I’ll look at the file again. As I remember he was exonerated after an inquiry, so we had no further responsibility. I may be able to give you his address, if he agrees. It’s a difficult matter.”

  Piers said: “It will be if anything happens to Octavia Cummins.”

  Mr. Pender sat for a moment in worried silence. He said: “I went through the papers after you telephoned. They make depressing reading. We didn’t do well by him, but I don’t know that anyone could have done better. We placed him with a schoolmaster and he stayed there the longest—eighteen months. Long enough to do well at the local grammar school. They had hopes of GCSEs. After that he made sure he was kicked out. He’d got what he wanted out of the placement and it was time to go.”

  “What did he do?” Kate asked.

  “Sexually assaulted the fourteen-year-old daughter.”

  “Was he prosecuted?”

  “No. The father didn’t want to put her through the trauma of a court appearance. It wasn’t a full rape but it was unpleasant enough. The girl was extremely distressed. Naturally Ashe had to go. It was then that we admitted him to Banyard Court.”

  Piers said: “Where he met Michael Cole?”

  “Presumably. I don’t think they’d met before. I’ll telephone the ex-headmaster of the court. He’s retired now, but he may know where Cole is. If so, I’ll ring the man and ask if I can give you his address.”

  At the door he turned and said: “The foster mother who got closest to understanding Ashe was a Mary McBain. She takes five children of all ages and seems to be able to cope. All done by love and cuddles. But even she had to let Ashe go. He stole from her. Small amounts from the housekeeping purse at first, and then persistently. And he began to ill-treat the other children. But she said something perceptive when he left: that Ashe couldn’t bear people to get close to him; that it was when they began to show affection that
he had to do the unforgivable. I suppose it was the need to reject before he was rejected. If anyone could have coped it was Mary McBain.”

  The door closed behind him. The minutes slowly passed. Kate got up and began pacing the room. She said: “I suppose he’s ringing the County Solicitor to make sure he’s in the clear.”

  “Well you can’t wonder. Bloody awful job. I wouldn’t have it for a million a year. No thanks if things go right and plenty of stick if they go wrong.”

  Kate said: “Which they often do. It’s no use trying to make me feel sorry for social workers. I’ve seen too many of them. I’m prejudiced. And where the hell is Pender? It can’t take more than ten minutes to type out a dozen names.”

  But it was a quarter of an hour before he returned and said apologetically: “Sorry it took so long but I’ve been trying to find out if we have an address for Michael Cole. No luck, I’m afraid. It’s some years ago now, and he didn’t give an address when he left Banyard Court. No reason why he should, really. He resigned, he wasn’t sacked. As I said, the home’s closed now, but I’ve given you the address of the last headmaster. He may be able to help.”

  Once in the car, Kate said: “We’d better phone half these names through to the Suffolk searchers. We’ll take the headmaster. I’ve a feeling Cole is probably the only one who’ll be able to help.”

  The rest of the day, and the morning and afternoon of the next, were frustrating. They drove from foster parent to foster parent, following with increasing despair Ashe’s self-destructive trail. Some were as helpful as they were able to be; others only needed to hear the name Ashe before making it only too plain that they wished the police away. Some foster parents had moved and couldn’t be located.

  The schoolmaster was at work, but his wife was at home. She refused to speak about Ashe except to say that he had sexually assaulted their daughter Angela, and that his name was never mentioned in the house. She would be grateful if the police did not return that evening. Angela would be home and mention of Ashe would bring it all back. She had no idea where Ashe could be now. The family had gone on outings when he was with them, but it was to places of educational interest. None of them could possibly have provided a hiding-place. That was all she was prepared to say.

  The address they had been given for the former headmaster of Banyard Court was on the outskirts of Ipswich. They had tried there first but got no reply to their ringing. They kept returning throughout the day, but it wasn’t until after six o’clock that they were successful in finding someone at home. This was his widow, returned from a day in London. A tired, harassed-looking woman in late middle age, she told them that her husband had died of a heart attack two years earlier, then welcomed them in—the first person who had done so—and offered them tea and cake. But there wasn’t time to stop. It was information they desperately needed, not food.

  She explained: “I worked at Banyard Court myself as a kind of relief under-matron. I’m not a social worker. I knew Michael Cole, of course. He was a good man and wonderful with the boys. He never told us that he and Ashe went off together when he had a day’s leave, but I don’t think it was other than completely innocent. Coley would never have hurt a child or young person, never. He was devoted to Ashe.”

  “And you’ve no idea where they went?”

  “None at all. I don’t think it can have been too far from Banyard Court, because they bicycled and Ashe was always back before dark.”

  “And you don’t know where Michael Cole went when he left Banyard Court?”

  “I can’t give you the address, I’m afraid, but I think he went to a sister. I have a feeling that her name was Page—yes, I’m sure it was. And I think she was a nurse. If she’s still working you may be able to trace her through the hospital—that is, if she’s still living in the area.”

  It seemed a small chance but they thanked her and went on their way. It was now half past six.

  And this time they were lucky. They telephoned three hospitals in the district. The fourth, a small geriatric unit, said that they had a Mrs. Page on their staff but that she had taken a week’s leave because one of her children was sick. They made no difficulty about giving out her address.

  5

  They found Mrs. Page in a semi-detached house on a modern estate of red-brick-and-concrete houses outside Framsdown Village, a development typical of the not uncommon intrusion of suburbia into what had been unspoilt, if not particularly beautiful, countryside. At the entrance to the cul-de-sac the garish street lamps shone down on a small deserted playground with swings, a slide and a climbing-frame. There were no garages, but every house and flat seemed to have a car or caravan, parked in the roadway or on hard-standing where front gardens had been paved over. There were lights behind the drawn curtains, but no sign of life.

  The bell at Number 11 set up a musical jingle and almost at once the door was opened. Outlined against the hall light stood a black woman with a child on her hip. Without waiting for Kate or Piers to show a warrant card, she said: “I know who you are. The hospital phoned. Come in.”

  She stood aside and they passed her into the hall. She was wearing tight black slacks with a grey short-sleeved top. Kate saw that she was beautiful. Her graceful neck rose to a proudly held head capped by shorn hair. Her nose was straight and fairly narrow; the lips were strongly curved, the eyes large and full-lidded, but clouded now with anxiety.

  The front room into which she led them was clean but untidy, the new furniture already showing signs of the depredations of small sticky hands and vigorous play. There was a play-pen in the corner caging an older child who was engaged in pulling herself up to reach the row of coloured bells fixed along the top rail. At their entrance she flopped down and, grasping the bars, gazed at them with immense eyes, grinning a welcome. Kate went over to her and held out a finger. It was immediately grasped with remarkable strength.

  The two women, Mrs. Page still holding the younger child, sat down on the sofa with Piers in the chair opposite.

  He said: “We’re looking for your brother, Mr. Michael Cole. I expect you know that Garry Ashe is wanted for questioning. We’re hoping that Mr. Cole may have some idea where he could be hiding.”

  “Michael isn’t here.” They could hear the anxiety in her voice. “He left early this morning on his bicycle—at least the cycle isn’t in the shed now. He didn’t say where he was going but he left a note. It’s here.”

  She struggled up and took it from behind a small toby jug on the top of the television. Kate read: “I’ll be away for the whole day. Don’t worry, I’ll be back by six o’clock for supper. Please ring the supermarket and say I’ll be in for the night shift.”

  Kate asked: “When exactly did he leave, do you know?”

  “After the eight o’clock news. I was awake then and could hear it from my room.”

  “And he hasn’t rung?”

  “No. I waited for the meal until seven, and then ate on my own.”

  Piers asked: “When did you begin to get worried?”

  “Soon after six. Michael’s so reliable about time. I was going to ring round the hospitals and then the police if he wasn’t back by tomorrow morning. But it’s not as if he’s a child. He’s a grown man. I didn’t think the police would take it seriously if I rang too soon. I’m getting really worried now. I was glad when the hospital rang to say you were looking for him.”

  Kate asked: “And you’ve no idea where he could have gone?”

  Mrs. Page shook her head.

  Kate asked her about her brother’s relationship with Ashe. “We know that Ashe lied about his relationship with your brother. We don’t know why. Is there anything you can tell us about their friendship? Where they went together, the sort of things they liked to do? We feel that Ashe is likely to be hiding in a place he knows.”

  Mrs. Page shifted the child in her lap and for a moment bent her head low over the tight curls in a gesture maternal and protective. Then she said: “Michael was working at Banyard Court as
a care assistant when Ashe was admitted. Michael was fond of him. He told me something about Ashe’s past, how he’d been rejected by his mother and the man she was living with. He’d been beaten and generally ill-treated by one or both of them before he was taken into care. The police wanted to prosecute but each adult blamed the other and they couldn’t get enough evidence. Michael thought he could help Ashe. He believed that everyone is redeemable. He couldn’t help, of course. Perhaps God can redeem Ashe, a human being can’t. You can’t help people who are born evil.”

  Piers said: “I’m not sure what that word means.”

  The great eyes turned on him. “Aren’t you? And you a police officer.”

  Kate’s voice was persuasive. “Think very hard, Mrs. Page. You know your brother. Where would he be likely to go? What did he and Ashe enjoy doing?”

  She thought for a moment before answering, then said: “It was on Michael’s rest days. He’d go off on his cycle and meet Ashe somewhere on the road. I don’t know where they went but Michael was always back before dark. He took food and his camping stove. And water, of course. I think he’d have gone to open country. He doesn’t like dense woodland. He likes wide spaces and a great expanse of sky.”

  “And he would tell you nothing?”

  “Only that he’d had a good day. I think he’d promised Ashe that the place would be their secret. He’d come back full of happiness, full of hope. He loved Ashe, but not in the way they said. There was an inquiry. They exonerated Michael because there wasn’t any real evidence, and they knew how Ashe lied. But these things don’t get forgotten. He won’t get another job with children. I don’t think he’d want one. He’s lost confidence. Something died in him after what Ashe did, the accusations, the inquiry. He works at the supermarket in Ipswich now, doing night work, stocking the shelves. We manage with his wage and mine. We’re not unhappy. I hope he’s all right. We all want him back. My husband was killed last year in a road accident. The children need Michael. He’s wonderful with them.”