Resolutions

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Well, I’m planning on a shower and food before I go anywhere, but yes. The Sunday lunch we promised may have to be delayed, by the look of things. You want a lift in?’

  ‘No, I’ll make my own way.’ Mac turned over and dozed for another hour, waking again to the ringing of the phone. This time it was Miriam. She was settled at her sister’s and would be there until Mac returned and everything was back to normal. He told her about the turn the investigation had taken and warned her to take care, but she sounded happier and more confident than the last time they had spoken, and Mac allowed himself to feel relieved that she was not alone.

  He showered and took time to make tea and toast, knowing he was just provoking Wildman by his tardiness, but not caring very much. He was trying to get things clear in his own mind, to fathom what had caused Tigh to turn on Rains and Thomas Peel to vent such violent rage upon his daughter and her boyfriend. Emily had called her mother to warn her, just in case. It had been an awkward phone call, made still more difficult by the hour, and Mac had listened to the stilted, one-sided exchange. He had watched Calum’s face, seeing anger and resentment there on Emily’s behalf.

  So, Emily had met Philip Rains. Who else did she know about? Mac and Alec had reeled off a series of names: previous associates, possible victims of blackmail, work colleagues who had been implicated by association, even if only briefly. Of them all, she recognized only two: John Bennet because, as she’d told them before, he had worked closely with her father, and Richard Marlow because her father had been so proud of the work done at the Marlow residence. By the time they left, she was even more certain that she had heard Philip Rains mention Billy Tigh, but could not fix the context. It had, she said, been a long time ago and she’d expended a great deal of effort on not remembering things that had to do with her father.

  Interesting, though, Mac thought. Previously they had thought of Rains as being just someone Peel knew about and was blackmailing, not someone he was close enough to that he let him stay in his house. Mac had asked the question again, feeling uncomfortable in doing so. ‘Em, did your father or Philip Rains ever—’

  She had shaken her head emphatically. ‘No, like I told you. Dad never touched me; in fact, quite the opposite – there was never even any normal hugging and such. He just wasn’t a demonstrative man, and Rains – no, I only really spent those few days anywhere near him, and all we did was try and wind one another up. Anyway, I was fourteen by then; from what they said at Rain’s trial, I was much too old to be interesting to him, and anyway, they say he preferred boys.’

  How old was Billy Tigh? Mac wondered. He checked through his records and found that Tigh was just twenty-one, though he looked a good five years more than that. Had Tigh been a victim? They knew now that Rains had been abusing children for at least a dozen years before Peel had shopped him. Would the maths work? Was there a connection? Or was Mac merely seeing connections where none existed? Billy Tigh had been in and out of trouble since he was ten years old, and no one – none of the social workers he’d had contact with – had ever raised the possibility of abuse. Not that this was a guarantee of anything, but Mac was familiar enough with the system to know that it would have been considered alongside all Tigh’s other problems somewhere along the line.

  Telling himself that he really must get on to calling Rina, Mac left for work, unable to put off the Wildman moment any longer and feeling vaguely guilty knowing that Alec would already be there. Something was nagging at the back of his brain, something about Philip Rains, but he couldn’t quite pin down what it was. Something he had said that day they interviewed him . . .

  Putting the thought aside for the moment – knowing that to let the thought process work, he sometimes had to let it well alone – Mac got into his car and drove to Pinsent police HQ, more aware than ever that he didn’t belong . . . could no longer belong . . . wanted to go home.

  Back in Frantham, Sunday passed quietly and without event. Mac hadn’t called and Rina didn’t want to keep trying; he’d get back to her when he could, she knew that. She spoke to Miriam who told her that Mac had his hands full and gave her a brief account of what was going on so far as she understood. Abe, who seemed to be able to use contacts Rina could only speculate about, filled in more of the background. It all sounded very dramatic and very unpleasant.

  George phoned from Hill House mid-afternoon; not for any particular reason, he said, though Rina understood his need for reassurance. She and her eccentric household now provided baseline normality for George, something dependable in a world where not much was or ever had been. They talked for a while and she told him he had done the right thing in standing his ground with Karen.

  ‘She had to learn that she can’t run other people’s lives for them, George. I’m sure her intentions for you are the very best, but that doesn’t make them right.’

  ‘No,’ George agreed. ‘I do love her, Rina, but . . .’

  Rina decided the rest should be left unsaid, for the moment at least. She steered the conversation into the safe, if dull, harbour of homework and weekend TV, and was relieved that George seemed content to be thus steered. There were times when the normal and even the banal were to be craved.

  Mac finally called her late that night, just as she was off to bed. He apologized, said it had been one of those days. He sounded, Rina thought, distracted.

  ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ Mac asked.

  ‘Oh, I think it can wait. You’re tired, I’m tired. Abe managed to piece together some of Karen’s movements over this past year. It looks as if she’s following in her father’s footsteps, shall we say.’

  Mac sighed. ‘That’s not good; not entirely surprising either. How’s George holding up?’

  ‘We’re taking care of George, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Right, that’s good. You’re right, Rina, I am tired, fit to drop. I’ll give you a call tomorrow and you can fill me in properly. Give my best to everyone.’

  As she hung up, Rina Martin felt oddly alone, even though her home at Peverill Lodge was currently rammed full of people. Tim was working, Joy gone to watch again, and Rina was aware that a small but very perceptible gap was opening between her world and that newly created by Tim and Joy. She didn’t grudge either of them that, knowing that happiness should be grasped tight and celebrated to the full. She’d had only five short years with her beloved. Even so, she mourned for Tim as though he had left and gone to some far distant place, and prayed to whichever gods handle such requests that he and Joy would still make some space for her in their lives.

  Right now, Mac was so far away. Even having Fitch on call did not compensate for the fact that she now felt she was being left to cope alone.

  To cope with what?

  Rina could not say. Karen was a part of it, and keeping young George safe and happy – but what else? Abe had confirmed that Thomas Peel and Karen had been in contact, so what was going on there?

  Rina pulled the blankets aside and sat down with a thump on the side of her bed. The camp bed was made up ready for Joy, though she’d not be surprised to find it had not been slept in tomorrow morning. It was reassuring, at least, to know that Abe had two of his men keeping watch over the Pallisades and Tim and Joy.

  She took the photograph of her late husband, Fred, from the bedside cabinet and looked longingly into that familiar face, still young, always young, still so much loved, always loved.

  ‘Oh Fred.’ Rina stroked the glass. ‘I still miss you as much, you know that, don’t you? I wish you were here now. I just feel so troubled and I don’t know why or what about. Just the sense that there is so much more to come and so much worse.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Monday

  Miriam left at eight o’clock for the short drive from her sister’s house to work. She was due to get in at eight thirty, and it was a twenty-minute run, even allowing for hitting a bit of heavy traffic for the last half-mile.

  It had rained h
eavily in the night and she took her time on the back roads. Farm traffic moving from field to field and incontinent horses left mud and other debris on the narrow road, and on a couple of previous occasions even Miriam, experienced in country driving, had skidded alarmingly after heavy rain and nearly put the car into a ditch.

  The sight of a vehicle skewed halfway across the road just after a particularly sharp bend did not, therefore, either surprise or particularly alarm her. There was no one in the driver’s seat of the large saloon car and no way around it. Worried that the driver might have been hurt, knowing that there was a blind bend on the other side of the car and concerned for other traffic, she pulled on to the verge and got out, reaching into her jacket pocket for her mobile phone as she did so.

  ‘Don’t move, please; don’t look around. Just put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘What?’

  Despite the warning, Miriam half-turned towards the speaker. Something sharp and metallic struck her hard against the temple. She staggered, momentarily stunned, and felt cold metal against her wrist as the cuff closed around it. Miriam fought, pulling away, too late realizing that her assailant had equipped himself with a pair of police-issue quick cuffs. She had seen officers use them often enough to know that the rigid bar across the centre, between the two cuffs, was also an object of control, the cuffs explicitly designed so that a police officer could subdue a violent individual, even with just one wrist contained. As you turned the cuff, pressure on the bar could be brought to bear against the wrist, the nerves, the tendons. It hurt. It hurt a great deal. Her assailant twisted the cuff and she was on her knees on the muddy road, the pain in her wrist, as he bent it back, excruciating.

  ‘Other hand,’ he said. ‘Give me your other hand.’

  Miriam tried to resist, to keep her second hand out of reach, but, stunned by the blow, overcome by the pain now flaming all the way from wrist to shoulder, she could not. He had her other wrist, cuffed that, dragged her back on to her feet.

  It was the man from the cliff top; Miriam was certain of that. It was Thomas Peel.

  ‘Move,’ he said, jabbing her in the back. Miriam moved.

  She looked for escape, willed a car to come round the bend, but this was a quiet road with high hedges. Peel was taking a big risk, but not an unreasonable one. As she approached the car, she saw that the boot was unlatched, part open. Claustrophobia overwhelmed her as she realized what he had in mind. ‘No, no, please, no.’

  He reached around her and opened the boot. Miriam kicked out, making contact with his shin. Peel yelped and she began to run, slipping on the grass verge as she rounded the car. Peel was on her, though; he struck her again and she fell heavily, this time almost losing hold on consciousness completely. She felt him lifting her, then something pressing down on her nose and mouth. Then nothing.

  Thomas Peel opened the rear door of the car, dropped the shotgun down into the footwell and pulled a plaid car rug down on top. He was getting into the driver’s seat when a four-by-four rounded the bend. The driver braked hard, shouted at Peel and then, apparently thinking better of his anger, put his head out of the window and asked if everything was all right.

  ‘Skidded on some mud,’ Peel told him. ‘I thought the tyre had gone, so I got out to check, but I must have just hit something.’

  The man nodded. ‘Happens all the time,’ he said. ‘Need a hand to shift the car?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I should be fine.’

  Peel got into his car and eased it back on line, then drove on, giving the other driver a wave in his mirror. For a mile the Range Rover followed him and then turned off down an even narrower road. Peel chuckled to himself. Timing had once more been fortunate; his luck had held for him today, much as it had for Emily and that wet idiot, Calum, on Saturday night. The memory of that still irked him, but there were other days and there would be other chances, and now he knew for certain that Emily was not his child, there was nothing to hold him back from getting rid. She was nothing to him now; neither was the woman he’d been married to and who had let him down.

  Thomas Peel had a long and complex list of things to do, and Emily was still on it, no mistake about that; for the moment she’d just slid a little further down, but he’d get back to her and it would be soon.

  The minibus was set to leave Hill House at seven forty-five to drop all the kids at their various schools, but its departure had been delayed by a small hatchback that had driven up the drive and parked across its path. Looking out from the landing window, George’s heart sank as he recognized the car and the well-dressed blonde who stood beside it.

  Almost sensing him, Karen looked up at him and waved, as though this was the most normal behaviour in the world.

  ‘It’s my sister,’ he told Cheryl as he passed her in the hall.

  Cheryl was not impressed. ‘Well, she’s got a funny way of carrying on, George. Tell her to move it to a parking space and that you’ve got to go to school.’ She paused and looked more carefully at him, as it suddenly dawned that George was not exactly thrilled to see his sibling. ‘Forget that, I’ll go and talk to her.’

  ‘No,’ George said. ‘I’ll go, but I’ve got nothing to say.’

  Cheryl let him go, but George could hear her quizzing Ursula as he opened the heavy front door and stood outside in the damp and cold of the November morning. The wind, as usual, was rushing in off the sea. It hit the cliff and rose sharply, creating strange eddies and gusts around Hill House and its gardens. Today it felt even more chill and damp than it usually did and even more richly scented with salt and seaweed. As he crossed the circle of drive in front of the house, with its little island of shrubbery, the scent of fallen leaves, rich with late autumn decay, added to the mix. George filled his lungs with the scent and the damp, chill air, ‘You have to move,’ he said. ‘The minibus can’t get out.’

  ‘That was sort of the idea,’ Karen said. ‘I thought I’d give you a lift to school. I had this feeling you might just get on the bus and go sailing by if I didn’t make you notice me. You seem determined not to, these days.’

  ‘I notice you,’ George said. ‘I see you. I just think I’d rather ride with the others.’

  ‘What, in that rickety thing with all the losers, rather than a nice comfy car with your big sister?’ She laughed, as though he shared her joke.

  ‘They aren’t losers. Karen, please go, I’ve got to get to school. We can talk later.’

  ‘I want to talk now.’

  Behind him, George was aware that the other kids at Hill House were filing out and being loaded into the bus, the usual early morning squabbling interrupted by this far more interesting development. He felt terribly exposed, and discomfort flushed his freckled cheeks. Karen watched him, a half-smile on her lips that did nothing to soften the hurt and anger in her eyes. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but, more than that, he didn’t want to allow her to hurt him, and leaving would lead to pain; George was certain of that.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Ursula was waiting for him, clutching her backpack and George’s. Cheryl stood beside her, one hand on Ursula’s shoulder, watching and clearly wondering if she should intervene.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said again. ‘I’ve got physics first period, a double lesson. I’ve got homework to hand in.’

  ‘Homework!’ Karen stared in disbelief. ‘George, I get the feeling you’re not hearing me. I can’t believe this. What have they done to you? It’s as if you’ve been brainwashed.’

  ‘No, no, I’ve not. I’m fine, Karen. I want you to be in my life.’ Did he? Really? ‘I love you, you’re my big sister and we went through a lot, but I can’t go with you. Karen, I’ve got to do what’s right for me now and you’ve got to do what you think is right for you.’

  He turned, began to walk back towards the minibus, hoping she’d just get in the car and go, worried that she wouldn’t.

  Cheryl moved towards him, suddenly really concerned as it dawned that this was not just some rather unconv
entional and unannounced sibling visit. ‘George?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Get on the bus, OK. We’ll take care of this now.’

  George nodded, wondering if Cheryl and the rest of the staff would really be capable of handling Karen. He certainly wasn’t, not any more. It was as though she suddenly understood that he meant what he’d been saying.

  ‘You’d trade me for that lot of losers?’ Karen shouted.

  George faced her, tears streaming now and not caring who saw. ‘No,’ he yelled back, his voice breaking with the emotion of it. ‘I want both. I don’t want to have to make choices, but you’re the one making me choose – and I choose not to be blackmailed. Dad did that, Mum did it too. It was always “do as I say or I’ll hit you” or “do as I say because I might top myself if you make me unhappy”, and now you’re doing it too. I can’t live like that, Karen. I didn’t know how much I hated it until I didn’t have to do it any more. Don’t tell me to choose.’

  He got on to the bus and Ursula followed him. An unaccustomed silence had fallen and all eyes seemed trained upon them as the other kids stared. The engine choked into life and the bus pulled off. Karen made no move to shift her car, so the driver eased round her, hoping the wheels would not sink into the sodden lawn. George breathed a sigh of profound relief as they regained the drive and rounded the bend that took them out of sight of Hill House.

  ‘What do you think she’ll do?’ Ursula whispered. Around them, conversation had begun to buzz. George knew he’d be the subject of most of it, but he didn’t care any more.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen her like this.’ He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, grateful when Ursula produced a pack of tissues and handed him one.

  ‘You must have been really close,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘She was all I had; I was all she had. Dad was just violent and Mum was in bits most of the time. Karen kept it all together, kept us away from him, kept us moving. When we settled here, we thought we’d lost him, then he came back and Mum took pills and . . . then there was just me and Karen for real, and then there was just me.’