When the child painted pictures he'd often say, "This one's for Daddy."
Carole often wrote letters for the boy and sent the paintings to her husband, but she never wrote to him on her own. Colin Pitchfork in turn composed picture stories for the children, stories that Carole would not share with any adult. He drew maps and animals indigenous to various countries, and he'd tell a brief story about that country, such as one about Eskimos and a whale as big as a double-decker bus. At the end there'd be questions: How big is a whale? What does a whale eat? Carole would read the stories aloud.
Carole's failure to visit or write to her husband caused trouble with her mother-in-law who said, "You ought to go see him."
"If he was my son, I would," she told his mother. "I respect you and you must respect me." But finally Carole lost her temper, after which they had a very strained relationship.
Carole had become a part-time youth worker for the county council. It was financially and emotionally draining, raising her young children all alone. And sometimes there was too much time to think.
"It's like somebody being dead," Carole said. "Or perhaps like being at a seance, because letters come in the letter box, as if from another world. It'd be better if he was dead, then you could grieve and get over it and it'd be finished.
"His parents want to see him free before they die. But I feel dread at the thought that someday, years from now, he'll knock. Yet other times I forget he's gone. Whenever I'm at home and hear a motorbike, I expect him to come in the door."
After all the smoke had cleared, the last sixteen members of the murder inquiry had a party at a local pub. Derek Pearce presented the others with personal gifts that related to intimate moments during the long inquiry. One of them had gotten a bit tipsy during a mid-inquiry do and had tried to scoop a fish from the aquarium of a seafood restaurant. Pearce presented him with a fishbowl and a live goldfish to commemorate the event. Another, who'd suffered an eye injury during one of their more raucous parties, was given the fresh eye of a bullock.
Gwynne Chambers's old passport was redone with a picture of the back of John Damon's head and the signature "Colin Pitchfork." It was presented to the cop who'd been fooled by Ian Kelly.
They knew there would never be another case so important in their careers. Many of them reported a letdown, of feeling bored and unsettled after returning to ordinary police work. The intensity was missed. Some of them became quieter and more serious.
The goldfish ended up with John Damon, who kept it as a pet and named it Colin.
By mid-1988, United States lawmen had gone mad over genetic fingerprinting, and variations called DNA typing or DNA fingerprinting. There were criminal cases involving genetic fingerprinting prosecuted in Florida, Oklahoma, New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia and Washington--all with positive results--and large companies in Maryland, California and New York were doing genetic fingerprinting analysis. There were frequent network television reports as well as newspaper and national magazine stories about one criminal case or another having been solved by the new forensic miracle.
The American Civil Liberties Union was studying whether computer data banks, or even voluntary DNA testing, raised constitutional issues, as well as whether DNA information could be used to persecute AIDS carriers, or even for DNA fishing expeditions.
Despite the contentiousness of the American people and their elephantine legal system, one thing seemed certain: The technology discovered by Dr. Alec Jeffreys was able to withstand the scrutiny of molecular biology scientists. Genetic fingerprinting was here to stay. A new industry had been born. Its future and possibilities seemed unlimited. Experts predicted that someday an American citizen's bloodprint would be as accessible as his Social Security number.
During his eight-month suspension while he awaited trial, Pearce didn't spend much time cooking for police friends, because suspended officers were forbidden to associate with other policemen. He spent more time socializing at his favorite pub which was seventeen miles from home. A pub with no other police patrons.
He had a lady friend whom his police mates had never seen. There were rumors that she'd suffered some sort of serious injury, and that Pearce had taken care of her, even going so far as to urge her to accept private medical treatment at his expense. None of his former colleagues on the murder squad expected to meet her. If this one ended up flying east they'd never know about it. Humiliation would not be added to heartache.
Now that he was stripped of his rank and authority, Pearce could no longer hide his insecurity behind an aggressive, abrasive facade. So he substituted secrecy, and had a genius for keeping the world at bay. Always a telephone hater, he became harder to reach than Marlon Brando. No one was quite sure what he did to keep the larder stocked and a roof over his head, but he seemed to manage and to stay busy at unspecified tasks for unspecified associates. Perhaps he felt more of a pariah than he would ever admit, especially to himself.
Just as he couldn't be a good patient for a doctor, he couldn't be a good client for a lawyer. He'd never consider mitigating circumstances. On the night of the alleged assault on the policewoman, he'd just come from the meeting at Tony Painter's house at which the entire inquiry faced the prospect of shutdown. Everyone else on the murder squad admitted feeling anger, frustration, resentment. In a word: stress.
Pearce couldn't accept that. He insisted, "I never suffer from police stress. I need it!"
His idea of admitting personal weakness was to say, "They call me arrogant because I don't suffer fools gladly."
Pearce's barrister and his solicitor probably realized that they might have to go to trial against a most hostile witness, one capable of doing terrible damage to their client. The witness named Derek Pearce.
During the course of the trial, Derek Pearce's solicitor cautioned him about his apparent contempt for the proceedings. Even the judge remarked that the defendant showed a "cavalier attitude." Nevertheless, on July 5, 1988, after a five-day criminal trial, a jury retired for only forty-eight minutes before returning a verdict of not guilty on all counts.
Derek Pearce was reinstated to the police force and all internal disciplinary proceedings were dropped. The deputy chief constable said that the matter of back pay was "negotiable," and Pearce said that charges should never have been brought. He was to take a short leave and then be transferred to uniform duties "to be kept out of the public eye."
Chief Supt. David Baker's secretary told Pearce that when Baker got word of the acquittal he danced around his desk and ran off to find and congratulate his willful young inspector. Pearce vowed he'd be back in CID working for David Baker as soon as he'd done sufficient "penance."
Of course, Derek Pearce would never admit to having been frightened or worried about the criminal charges he'd faced, not he who professed to thrive on stress. But during all those months when he'd been stripped of rank and authority and forbidden to associate with other police officers, there had been moments when his defenses wavered. Once or twice he'd even admitted to some vulnerability.
Besides police work, what he'd painfully missed was police officers' mess on the first Monday of the month, wherein senior officers meet in formal dress for drinks and dinner. He'd bought himself a tailor-made dinner suit, and he loved the jokes and speeches and camaraderie, the sense of belonging to a band of brothers.
"It's ever so grand," he said, "to raise a glass of port and toast the queen."
Chapter 31.
Churchyards
At the Narborough end of The Black Pad is an ancient church and cemetery. All Saints is High Church, with a mossy slate roof and granite turrets that glow rose and amber under curdled skies. On Sunday evenings church bells announce evensong, and in the summer, stained-glass panels emit ruby and emerald rays through a Gothic arch when the light nights bring bronze and copper sunsets to the Midlands. The old headstones are furry with moss and the footpath bricks laid on end have been worn smooth by the feet of villagers who have sought continuity there over t
he centuries.
Kath had never been one to visit graveyards. "I'm not much of a believer in grounds," she said. "Still, it's an outing, to visit the grave."
Kath and Eddie Eastwood found they didn't like living away from Leicestershire after all. When Lynda's killer was finally captured they decided to return. They were still afraid to let their daughter, Rebecca, walk alone in the lanes, but at least the village felt like home.
Old reliable Mick Mason showed up at their door with a bottle of sherry to welcome them back.
By the motorway, on the east side of Enderby near Ten Pound Lane, is another churchyard and another age-blackened granite church that seems as enduring as time. There, brown sparrows and gray wheel on the wind only to plummet and perch on headstones. Black leaves scratch at the graves and the older headstones are covered with lichen, nature's reminder that flesh is grass.
Inside that church the smell of hymnbooks, the sound of holy music, the casting of Rembrandt shadows in Midlands silver light all promise continuity. Though Robin and Barbara Ashworth were only occasional parishioners, the canon of St. John Baptist offered them a cemetery plot next to Dawn, and they took it gratefully.
Robin and Barbara reported that they'd begun changing in subtle ways. Robin said he didn't need as much sleep anymore, and was no longer tense and nervous at work. He just didn't let little things bother him. Robin had learned to sort out what was worth the worry.
Barbara said she'd learned to put herself on automatic pilot to get through some days. Dawn's room remained just as she'd left it, but sometimes Barbara borrowed Dawn's clothes.
"Once I needed a jumper to go with gray," she said, "and Andrew told me to wear that one of Dawn's. But because it was one she wore a great deal, I wouldn't have wanted to wear it. I remember once when I wore something my mother handed down to me, Robin came in the kitchen and said, 'Oh, I thought that was your mother standing there!' I didn't want to wear something of Dawn's and give him the same feeling. So I won't wear that jumper."
Then she said, "But I secretly wear it sometimes."
the Blooding (1989) Page 26
