‘Never been here either, have you?’ Rina asked him.
Downstairs was a more utilitarian affair. A pair of librarians sat behind a Formica desk that supported a computer attached to a barcode scanner and a stack of box files. Behind them, file cabinets acted as a divider between them and the suite of computers Tim glimpsed beyond. Rina, of course, knew them both and Tim endured the inevitable five minutes of chat before they moved on. It wasn’t actually Rina’s need to stop and exchange pleasantries that irritated him, Tim realized, so much as his profound inability to make that kind of small talk; that lack left him feeling awkward and self-conscious. He nodded politely at what he hoped were the right moments and then, gratefully, followed Rina once again right to the back of the building, past the newly refurbished computer suite to where, she told him, the newspapers and the microfiches were stored.
‘Can’t I go and play with the computers?’ Tim asked.
Rina sighed indulgently. ‘Soon, Tim,’ she said. ‘We’ll see what we can find here first, then you can go and play on the internet or whatever.’
Tim gave in with reasonable grace. After all, he had nothing better to do with his day. ‘OK, so how far back do we want to go?’
It was actually more interesting than he had anticipated, though that was largely because he kept getting sidetracked and reading articles that were not totally relevant to the search. He was surprised that Rina had been right about the smuggling in the area. Frantham had its own weekly paper, the Frantham Echo, mostly taken up by advertising but also carrying a round-up of the local news and also some original reporting. Smuggling in Frantham had been a major story both times it had been discovered, and the second report had put this in the context of historical occurrences going back several hundred years. Rina’s little cave and others like it dotted along the coast had certainly seen some action.
Tim cross-referenced the abridged articles taken from other papers and, following Rina’s guidance, printed the sections they wanted. A couple of hours in, they had a stack of cuttings and notes to add to Rina’s file, and Tim was bored.
‘Can I go and play now, Mummy?’
Rina slapped him with her cuttings folder. ‘Go on then, but I doubt you’ll find anything fresh. I think we’ve gleaned all we can.’
Tim wandered back into the library and sat down at the nearest terminal, following instructions for logging on. One of the Exeter papers had an extensive website, but it told Tim little more than he had already discovered – at least, so far as he could remember. The articles had tended to run together in his mind after a while, though he knew from experience that later on, when his brain had time to figure it out, the articles he read would collate themselves almost of their own accord. That, Tim knew, was the way his mind worked.
Idly, Tim began to enter other things into the search. His own name – yes, he did have a website, though it was badly in need of updating. Rina Martin, of course, both as Lydia Marchant and in other less famous roles, provoked a clutch of entries, and the Peters sisters, he was pleased to discover, were still remembered with great affection by fans of music hall.
On a whim, he entered Mac’s name. Detective Inspector Sebastian McGregor. He hadn’t expected anything and was surprised to come up with a whole raft of hits. Reports in national as well as local papers and even a couple of entries on TV news sites.
Curious, Tim opened one of them up and read it quickly. ‘Bloody hell.’ He read on, then returned to the back room.
‘Rina? Rina, I think you should take a look at this. Our pet policeman has a past.’
Rina shrugged. ‘Of course he does, dear. We all do.’
‘Well yes, but I mean a past, past. No wonder he looks so bloody harassed.’
Rina came back with him to the computer and together they read about Sebastian McGregor. He was, it seemed, something of a hero. Twice over. He had saved a motorist from a burning car, faced down an armed man in a hostage situation, had an impeccable record, or so the papers said. Then it had all fallen apart, big time.
A child had been abducted by a friend of her family. He had a record for violence and sexual abuse but her family had not known that until afterwards. The reports were unanimous, that no one was quite sure what happened in the intervening time but that three days later, DI McGregor had come face to face with the man and the child on a deserted beach. A handover had been arranged, so someone claimed. Another claimed that McGregor had tracked him down. A third that it was a tip-off from a member of the public. Tim was astonished at the vagueness of it all.
There were arguments too about Mac’s actions on that night. Had he called for back-up? Had he decided to go it alone? The fact that other officers arrived only minutes after the terrible events indicated that he had in fact called for help, but the statements made by the police were vague and there was nothing from Mac himself.
The one thing that was indisputable was that the child had died.
Tim and Rina studied the picture of Cara Evans. Six years old, pretty, with light brown hair, smiling out of the picture. She wore a party hat and hugged a doll and she looked happy and vibrant and so very much alive.
‘He killed her on the beach,’ Rina said softly. ‘The man that took her. Cut her throat. You know, Tim, I remember this. It was all over the news because it was so utterly horrible.’
‘And our policeman was there.’ Tim was oddly moved. ‘But he couldn’t do anything to stop it happening. My God, Rina. How must he feel?’
‘We don’t mention this,’ Rina told him. ‘Mac has travelled a long way to get away from this; we don’t tell him that we know.’
Twenty
It was mid morning before George managed to get Paul alone for long enough to tell him what he had confessed to Karen. Morning break was only fifteen minutes, just long enough to grab a drink, and it was under the pretext of going to the vending machine that George managed to get his friend out of the classroom.
Finding a relatively empty stretch of corridor, George stopped, forcing Paul to halt beside him. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Karen knows. I know I said … But you can’t keep anything from our Karen and I’m glad I told her. She said she’ll help.’
Paul grew so pale beneath his bruises that George honestly thought he was going to faint. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. His breathing became frighteningly fast and shallow.
‘Paul, I’m sorry … Actually no, I’m not. We can’t do this on our own.’
‘He’ll kill me,’ Paul whispered. ‘He really will. I’m dead.’
‘He won’t know. The police will come for him now. It’ll be OK.’
Paul opened his eyes and stared at his friend. ‘You mad?’ he said. ‘What’s your Karen going to do? Phone them up and say “I know who killed the old woman. It was Mark Dowling. You know, psycho Mark what beats the shit out of you soon as look.”?’
George didn’t know what to say.
‘How they going to prove it? You think we’ll get home and he’ll be gone, just ’cos your sister says so?’
George shook his head but it occurred to him that, naively, that’s exactly what he was thinking. That’s what had happened with their dad. Karen said she’d sort it after the ambulance took their mum away and she’d sent George off to the shops. Their dad had disappeared when the ambulance arrived but George knew he’d be back as soon as the police cleared off. He always did and he’d been worried about leaving Karen there alone, but she’d insisted. ‘Go,’ she’d said. ‘Here’s a list of stuff we need.’
And when he’d come back, their dad wasn’t there. Karen was still cleaning up the mess, scrubbing blood off the kitchen floor. But their dad wasn’t there and Karen said he was gone for good.
She’d been wrong though, hadn’t she? George had seen him.
And if she’d been wrong that time, maybe she was wrong about this. Maybe Paul had been right all along. Say nothing, do nothing. Hope it all went away.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’ll be OK. It’s go
t to be.’
Paul pushed away from the wall and began to walk away.
‘Paul!’
‘Just leave me alone. Just leave me alone!’
George stared after his friend, hurt beyond words and terrified that he really had done the wrong thing. ‘Paul!’
The bell rang for the end of break and the corridors began to fill. Gnawing at his lower lip, George headed for class, wondering what the hell he should do now.
Mac had half expected to be going to the Jubilee to see Mark Dowling, but instead Andy drove them both to a neat detached house out on the main road close to the tin huts.
‘Dowling senior’s OK,’ Andy said by way of explanation. ‘He worked hard to get this place. The oldest son, Terry, works with his dad, but my dad reckons he’s a lazy sod and not that good either when it comes to cars. Then there’s another brother, Alan. He left a couple of years back. I don’t know where he went to but he was like an insipid version of Mark. Fancied himself as a hard man but never did quite hack it. Rumour has it he and Mark didn’t see eye to eye and Alan thought it was safer to leave.’
‘You know the family well?’
Andy shook his head. ‘Not really. I remember Alan from school and Mark too. Alan actually stayed on and took some exams. Can’t remember what. Mark left first chance he got and he wasn’t there much anyway. When I was a kid living on Newell Street, our mam would only let us play up the posh end and we were allowed to go down to the promenade and on to the beach but woe betide if she found out we’d gone down the lower end. I had a friend lived in the housing association houses and he was allowed to come up to us but I was never allowed to go to his. His mother had a right go at mine, one time. Reckoned she was a right snob.’
‘And was she?’
Andy laughed. ‘Well, yeah, a bit. But she was always worried about Dowling’s lot. She said that some kids were born bullies and that he was one of them.’
Mac looked up at the Dowling house. Edwardian, he guessed, red brick with a gravel drive and surrounded by a tall laurel hedge. It sat oddly in the landscape. The brick had mellowed a little with the years but still struck a strident chord. Mac was growing fond of the look and feel and pallor of the local stone.
‘You worried about this?’ he asked. ‘Bearding the lion in his den?’
‘No,’ Andy scoffed. ‘Course not.’ Then, when Mac allowed the silence to grow, he shrugged. ‘Well, maybe a bit. When you’ve spent half your life avoiding someone it feels a bit odd deliberately confronting them.’
Mac nodded. ‘But you think he’s capable of having done it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Andy said softly. ‘Damn right I do.’
The front door was opened by a middle-aged woman. Her dark brown hair struck a harsh note against the white of her skin, as did the overly bright red of her lipstick. She had once been pretty, Mac guessed. Her bone structure was good and her blue eyes a very intense forget-me-not. Age had not been kind. Lines that he did not think were due to laughter cobwebbed out from her eyes and channelled deeply beside the bright slash of a mouth.
‘Mrs Dowling?’
‘Yes?’ She scrutinized the identification, then shrugged. ‘You want Mark, he’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘Second door on the left of the landing.’ Then she left them, disappearing into what appeared to be a sitting room off to the right of the large hall.
Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, up we go.’
Mac led, aware of the nervousness exuded by his younger companion. It wrapped them both in a miasma of uncertainty and Mac felt the illogical desire to hurry ahead, escape from its penetrating influence.
Music filled the upper floor, greeting them on the landing and leading the way to the second door designated as Mark’s room, which turned out to be a surprisingly long way down the corridor and towards the rear of the house. A deceptive property, as the estate agents would say, Mac thought. From the front it had the appearance of something squat and square, when in fact it possessed a surprising depth.
Standing outside the room, Mac could feel the bass beat coming up through his feet. Knocking and hoping to be heard seemed a lost hope. He opened the door and the two of them stepped inside.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Mark Dowling, sprawled across an unmade bed, had to shout over the top of the music. Mac crossed to the stereo and turned it off.
‘Your mother said we should come straight up,’ he said. ‘I told her we wanted a word.’ He flashed his ID, but was aware that Dowling wasn’t looking. He was staring over Mac’s shoulder at Andy. Mac shifted position so that he could keep both younger men in view. Andy, mouth pinched and tight, had coloured up, the redness of his face and neck now challenging the brilliance of his hair.
Dowling was smiling now. ‘Oh, I know who this is,’ he crowed. ‘You. A bloody copper? That desperate, are they?’
‘Mr Dowling.’ Mac drew his attention away from the blushing probationer. ‘Where were you last Thursday night?’
Dowling scowled. ‘How the hell would I know?’
‘Last Thursday, into Friday morning. There was a murder, Mr Dowling, and your name came up with reference to our enquiries.’
Mark Dowling laughed and tossed back the thick black hair that had fallen across his face. It needed a wash, Mac noted, and it looked as though the length of it was due more to lack of a good cut than a desire to be unconventional.
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ He got up off the bed and crossed to where Mac stood, ignoring Andy now, though Mac was sure he’d noticed how the probationer took an unconscious step away as he passed by. He was as tall as Mac, but not as well built. He had a wiry, agile frame, and a feline, dangerous quality to the way he moved. He stank. Sweat, beer, a faint sweetness that might have been cannabis. Mac breathed shallowly.
Dowling was naked apart from a pair of designer underpants and the heat coming off his body transmitted his scent across the few inches between them. Dowling either had no regard for personal space or he had every regard for the usefulness of ignoring it. Mac didn’t move.
‘I said, what’s that to do with me?’
‘We’re following up on information received. So, where were you last Thursday night and into Friday morning?’
Dowling shifted position, scrutinizing Mac closely; he moved in even closer. Inconsequently, an image from one of the Alien movies popped into Mac’s mind: Ripley being sniffed by the Alien queen.
‘I was with a girl,’ Mark Dowling said.
‘I’ll need her name. She’ll confirm this, will she?’
Dowling laughed as though Mac had cracked a really impressive joke. ‘You can bet your life she will,’ he said.
Paul had said nothing during either of their two after-break lessons and when the lunch bell rang he was out of the class faster than George could gather his things. Desperately worried, George piled his stuff into his bag and took off after him, struggling down the corridor against the crowd now headed for the dining hall. He almost lost him by the rear entrance that led out on to the playing field, caught a glimpse as he rounded the side of the building, heading back towards the small side gate. The gate would be closed at this time of day, George knew. It was locked except first thing in the morning and at home time when it was opened up for those students who lived on that side of the town. But George also knew it was climbable and he realized suddenly what his friend was planning to do.
‘Paul!’ He ran after him, turning once to glance back towards the school, wondering what were their chances of being seen. Empty classrooms faced out over the field, as did the kitchens and the kitchen store, but no one there would be looking out of the window at this, their busiest time of the day.
‘Paul, wait.’
‘Get lost,’ Paul shouted back. ‘Ain’t you done enough?’
Panting, George caught up with him at the little gate. ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe I did, but I was trying to help. You gotta believe that. You can’t run away from it.’
‘Just wa
tch me,’ Paul told him.
‘It don’t work, running away. Paul, I should know. Look at me and me dad. We run away halfway across the country and he still found me.’
Paul turned and looked at him and George remembered that he hadn’t told his friend this. He’d been too shocked at Paul’s news about the murder. Too aware that his own problem must seem small in comparison.
‘What d’you mean?’
George sighed. ‘I saw him. I’m sure I did. Last Friday when you weren’t here.’
Paul said nothing but it had at least given him pause and George was grateful for that. ‘They’ll know we’ve gone,’ he said. ‘Soon as next lesson starts. The register will show it up.’
‘We?’ Paul said. ‘I never said I wanted you to come with me.’
‘You think I’m going to be left behind? You got any money? Anything?’
Paul shrugged.
‘Thought so. Well, I do. I’ve got me bank card with me. Karen makes me put money in the bank and makes me keep me card with me. She says you never know.’
Paul shrugged again and began to clamber over the gate but he no longer objected to George following. George sensed that he was secretly relieved not to be alone. But this was still a daft thing to be doing.
‘We could go back now,’ he said hopefully. ‘No one would know.’
‘And catch the bus home?’ Paul was scathing. ‘He’d be waiting for us, you know he would. Waiting for me anyway.’
George sighed but could think of no words to confound his friend’s argument. He’d set things in motion now. Told Karen. Karen would have told the police and, of course, Paul was right, Mark Dowling would still be out on the streets, not locked away on the grounds of anyone’s say so, and he’d have guessed that Paul had been the one to tell on him. Mark would be waiting. Paul was right. He couldn’t go home and while he couldn’t, neither could George. He should have left well alone.
George dropped down on the other side of the gate and trotted off after his friend, catching him at the end of the road.
A Reason to Kill Page 12
