Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  Jim shook his head. Nothing was random. There was a reason behind everything. Reynolds’s parting words at The Minx echoed back to him. Whatever it is you think I’ve done, you’re wrong… If Mark’s in trouble, I might be able to help. Assuming he’d been telling the truth for once in his life, why would he give a shit about Mark? Jim’s gaze darted between Bryan and Mark as he turned the facts over again. Bryan goes to prison. Stephen marries Jenny. Jenny gives birth to Mark. Mark isn’t Stephen’s child. So whose child is he? Mark had his mum’s dimples, small mouth and blunt nose, but where did his bluish-grey eyes, high forehead and dirty-blond hair come from? Even as the question ran through his mind, the answer hit him with a jolt. And it was so obvious, he knew he would have seen it days ago if he hadn’t been blinkered by his belief that Reynolds was in the film. He placed Mark’s photo between Stephen and Bryan. It was Mark. Mark was the connection. Bryan wasn’t motivated to help his old school friend out of perverse desires. He was motivated by a sense of indebtedness over Mark.

  Jim reached for the phone and dialled Ruth Magill. ‘What’s up, Jim?’ she asked.

  ‘I need a favour.’

  Ruth gave an incredulous little huff. ‘A favour? I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your attention, but I’m kind of busy right now.’

  ‘This is urgent, Ruth. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

  ‘OK,’ sighed the pathologist. ‘But only because it’s you. What do you need?’

  ‘A paternity test.’

  ‘Bit old to be knocking women up, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s for Mark Baxley and Bryan Reynolds.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Obviously Mark Baxley’s DNA is in the database. And, if I remember rightly, we took Reynolds’s DNA when he was picked up on a GBH charge a few years back. Do you seriously think there’s a chance of a match?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just a hunch. How long will it take?’

  ‘I should be able to get back to you by tomorrow.’

  ‘Call me on my home number. I’ll be in all day.’

  ‘Why would you be at home at a time like this?’

  ‘I’m on sick leave.’

  ‘Oh, sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.’ Ruth’s voice carried a note of genuine concern.

  ‘No. Do me another favour, Ruth. Keep this conversation between us, would you?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. For now. Obviously, if the result comes in positive I’ll have to take this to Garrett.’

  Jim thanked Ruth and hung up. Moving like an old man, he made his way upstairs. He took off his blood-stained shirt and threw it out of sight. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his chest like he was searching for a wound. Ruth’s words came back to him. Bit old to be knocking women up, aren’t you? Those days were long gone. Soon the days of his working life would be over too. Maybe they already were. And what then? What then?

  ****

  Jim paced about the house like a caged animal, waiting to hear from Ruth. The first thing he’d done upon waking was phone the hospital to find out how Mark was doing, only to be passed on to a constable who’d apologetically informed him that he wasn’t at liberty to reveal that information. After that he’d phoned Scott Greenwood, asked the same question, and received pretty much the same answer. Scott was a good man, but he was in the pocket of Garrett. Jim didn’t blame him for toeing the line. Unlike himself, Scott had a wife, kids and career to think about.

  Outside the official loop, Jim felt blind and frustrated. It was all he could do to stop himself from jumping into his car and driving to the hospital. He knew it would be a waste of time. Doubtless, the constable standing guard would be under orders not to let him see Mark.

  At midday the phone finally rang. Jim snatched it up. ‘I thought you were never going to call. What’s the result?’

  ‘What result?’ The voice didn’t belong to Ruth.

  Jim paused a beat, frowning. Then he inhaled, relieved. ‘Hello, Mark. How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Like crap, but that’s not why I’m phoning. I wanted to find out how you are. I’ve been told you’re ill.’

  ‘I had a heart scare, but it turned out to be nothing.’

  ‘So why are you on sick leave?’

  ‘It’s just procedure. I’ll be back on duty soon enough.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘That depends how long it takes for me to be given a clean bill of health. Could be days, could be weeks.’

  ‘But what about me?’ Mark’s voice came anxiously over the line. ‘Who else can I talk to? You’re the only one I trust.’

  ‘My colleagues are all good people. You’re just going to have to find it within yourself to trust them. And we can still talk over the phone whenever you want.’

  ‘What if I need to see you?’

  ‘That might be difficult right now. I’m sorry, Mark.’

  Mark heaved a sigh. ‘No, I’m the one who should be apolo­gising for bothering you when you’re ill.’

  ‘It’s no bother.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Monahan, for everything you’ve done for me and Charlotte.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job.’ A moment of silence passed between them. They both knew Jim had stepped well over the boundaries of his job during the past few days.

  Jim was eager to get off the phone in case Ruth called, but he hesitated to hang up. There was something reassuring about the sound of Mark’s breathing. He found himself wondering suddenly why it was so important to him that Mark lived. Did he truly care for Mark? Or were his motivations more selfish than selfless? Perhaps he was trying to fill the void left by Margaret, find some kind of meaning for his lonely life.

  Mark interrupted his thoughts. ‘I’m going to see Charlotte this afternoon.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘The doctors say a negative outcome is still most likely.’

  There was another silence, heavier than the one before. Jim wanted to say something to comfort Mark. But what? Nothing he said would change the fact that Mark’s only remaining family member was hanging on to her life by a thread. ‘Listen, why don’t you call me later? Let’s say eight o’clock. Tell me how it went.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you then. Bye, Mark.’

  The instant Jim hung up, the phone rang again. This time he checked the caller display before answering. ‘Hi, Ruth. So what’s the verdict?’

  ‘Guilty as charged. The DNA profile shows that Bryan Reynolds is Mark Baxley’s biological father.’

  ‘Have you told Garrett?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mind if I do the honours?’

  ‘Be my guest. I’ll email you the test results.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruth. I owe you one.’

  Jim stared at Mark’s photo, uncertainty washing across his face. There was no question Mark had a right to know who his father was. The question was, would it be right to tell him? Reynolds had given Mark up for a reason. Maybe he simply didn’t want to be a father to him. Or maybe there was something else behind it. Whatever the case, Jim couldn’t see how the truth could bring Mark anything other than more pain. If Mark approached Reynolds only to be rejected again, it might have a disastrous effect on his already precarious emotional state. But that was almost preferable to the possibility that Reynolds might have a change of heart and decide he wanted him in his life. Reynolds was a poisonous scumbag who corrupted everything he came into contact with. A tightness formed in Jim’s stomach at the thought of Mark falling under his influence. He shook his head. The truth had to be kept from Mark, at least until he was in a less vulnerable frame of mind.

  Which led to another question: how was he to convince Garrett that was the right thing to do? It occurred to Jim that perhaps he wasn’t the best person to do the convincing. Perhaps the best person for that job was the one who’d given Mark up in the first place. After all, Reynolds was probably the only person left alive who knew why he’d done what he did. Who better to explain why it was nece
ssary for the truth to be kept from Mark.

  Jim headed upstairs and opened Ruth’s email. It contained illustrations of the DNA test results, followed by a paragraph explaining that they demonstrated to a legal standard that Bryan Reynolds was Mark Baxley’s biological father. While he waited for the results to print out, he scanned through his inbox. One email caught his eye. It was an update alert from Peter Nichols’s financial blog. He opened it and followed a link entitled ‘The Collapse Of SB Engineering: Or Why Politicians Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Invest Public Money In Private Business’.

  ‘I was shocked and saddened to hear of the tragic events surrounding the deaths of Stephen Baxley and his wife Jenny,’ began the article. Nichols went on to say that he was praying for their children, before getting down to the meat of the article. ‘I and many other observers in the financial community greeted today’s announcement that SB Engineering is heading into administration with little surprise. Back in the heady days of 1997, the new company was lauded by Edward Forester, the Labour MP for Sheffield South-East, as the embodiment of the even newer government’s entrepreneurial spirit. In November of that year, Forester held the company up as a model of job creation in rundown urban areas through the allocation of investment grants to private firms. Fifteen years on, following the collapse of New Labour and the economy, surely it’s time to put a stop once and for all to vote-seeking politicians gambling tax money on young businesses that could – and more often than not do – fail and default on the loans.’

  Jim’s eyes narrowed into scrutinising slits as he scrolled down the webpage and a photo of Forester came into view. He mentally reeled off Grace’s description of the Chief Bastard – well built, bald with tufts of brown hair above his ears, brown eyes. Forester was broad-shouldered and bald with salt-and-pepper wisps around his ears. His close-set brown eyes peered out from deep sockets. There was a coldness in them that contradicted the smile on his lips. So far, so close, but Forester’s upper front teeth showed pearly white and even. If Mark’s dream was really a memory, they should be yellowed and crooked.

  Jim opened a new tab and googled ‘Edward Forester 1997’, bringing up a selection of images from election night – the night Labour was swept to victory by a landslide vote. He zoomed in on a photo of the then newly re-elected MP. Forester was slimmer, but still solidly built. The narrow fringe of hair above his ears was dark brown. He was smiling broadly at his electorate, revealing a row of overlapping, stained upper teeth. In the years between then and now he’d had his teeth fixed to give him a film-star smile.

  Jim’s fingers dug into his palms. The Chief Bastard’s physical description fitted the Forester of 1997 exactly! Still, there was the matter of his voice. Forester had a broad Sheffield accent. It was his trademark. But was it for real? He did a search for videos of Forester. There was footage of him in the House of Commons dating back to the Thatcher era, and of him giving interviews and election speeches. In all of the clips his accent never wavered. He was either a consummate actor or Jim’s suspicion was misplaced.

  He took a look at Forester’s Wiki biography. Forester was born in Handsworth, Sheffield in 1955, the only child of a housewife and a steel worker. In 1956 Forester’s father walked out on his family. Edward seemed to be facing a childhood of poverty, but his mother proved herself a resourceful lady. She set up a business making and selling cakes. It was a huge success, and in 1960 she and Edward moved south to Totter­idge, Hertfordshire. By the time Edward was seven his mother could afford to send him to Beldamere House, an exclusive boarding school with fees to match. Forester had gone on from Beldamere House to read law at Cambridge. Shortly after graduating, he joined the Labour Party and moved back to Sheffield. He practised criminal law in his home city for several years, before contesting the Attercliffe constituency in the 1983 general election – a seat he’d held, in its various incarnations, ever since.

  Deep in thought, Jim pulled his eyes from the screen. Forester had lived in Handsworth long enough to justify his broad accent. But children are masters of fitting in. Surely his accent wouldn’t have stayed with him for long in the rarefied environment of a private school. Or maybe he’d got into the habit of modifying it depending on who he was speaking to. Jim lit a cigarette and sat with it between his fingers, wondering how it would be possible to find out if that was the case. The cigarette had burnt itself out, leaving a trail of ash across the keyboard, by the time it came to him that there might be a way. In order to try it he needed Forester’s phone number. The easiest way to get that would be to log on to the PNC Vehicle File database, which contained the details of every owner of a registered vehicle. But that would leave a digital trail connecting him to Forester, and for reasons he barely dared acknowledge to himself, he was reluctant to do that.

  In hope rather than expectation, Jim searched online for Forester’s home address and telephone number. Unsurprisingly, he was ex-directory. The only available address and telephone number were those of his constituency office. Jim navigated to Forester’s website and clicked the ‘About Edward’ link. His gaze skimmed over paragraphs of idealistic guff about why Forester had gone into politics, until he came to the sentence: ‘I’ve been happily married for nearly twenty years to Philippa Horne, the Labour councillor for the Arbourthorne Ward.’ Jim wondered why Forester’s wife hadn’t taken his name. Was it because she wanted to be judged on her own merits? Whatever the case, it pointed him in the direction of a more fruitful avenue of investigation. Councillors who delivered local services needed to be much more accessible to their elector­ate. He did a search for ‘Philippa Horne, Arbourthorne councillor’. A link to Sheffield City Council’s website led him to a list of councillors’ contact details. The list provided town hall, home and mobile telephone numbers, but not home addresses.

  Jim noted down Philippa Horne’s home number and printed off photos of her and her husband. The next thing was to locate Forester. There was no point staking out his house if he was working down in Westminster. He took another look at the MP’s website. There was no information about Forester’s current whereabouts. He followed a link to his Twitter feed. There were five tweets from that morning. Forester – or more likely, his PA – was clearly eager to show he was down with social networking. A two-hour-old tweet read: ‘Just returned from visit to Newhall Stainless Steels. Wonderful to see a true local success story. Now off to launch of CTYT.’ Jim Googled ‘CTYT launch Sheffield’. A link came up to the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust, a charity set up to help young runaway and homeless people in the city. The website announced that Edward Forester was to open their new Arundel Gate premises.

  Jim hurried to his car and drove into the city centre as fast as traffic would permit. According to the website, the launch party started at half past one. It was already nearly two o’clock. The charity’s premises were at the top end of Arundel Gate, a busy road that ran parallel to the high street. He saw that he hadn’t missed the party. A small crowd had congregated on the pavement and was listening to Edward Forester give his speech. Jim parked on a side-street and made his way to the gathering.

  Forester was wearing a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled up, like a real working man. He looked a little tired around the eyes, but his voice was strong and full of energy. ‘…privilege to be here this afternoon,’ he was saying, projecting his earthy Yorkshire tones over the traffic noise with practised ease. ‘The Craig Thorpe Youth Trust is a charity very close to my heart.’ He indicated several smartly dressed youths – no doubt, examples of the charity’s good work. ‘I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve all been through. I had a mother who worked every hour of every day to give me the opportunity to be whatever I wanted to be. However, for several years of my childhood, our little family was threatened with homelessness. Those days of uncertainty made an impression that has stayed with me all my life. They showed me how fine the line can be between, in my case, ending up in Parliament or on the street. They also showed me that people can make a suc
cess of their lives no matter what their background. But not everyone is lucky enough to have a mother like mine. That’s where the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust comes in. It’s their ambition not only to get this city’s young people off the streets, but to give them the tools to build a future for themselves. And not just any old future, but the future they deserve, one of opportunity and hope.’

  As Jim listened, he found himself wanting to believe he was wrong about Forester. The politician’s voice was so heartfelt, so natural, it seemed incredible to think it might mask a heart as rotten as a month-old corpse. The teenagers at his sides looked at him with open admiration. Christ only knew what neglect and abuse they’d suffered at the hands of adults in their short lives, yet they’d found it within themselves to trust in others again. For Forester to betray that trust, and in the monstrous way that Jim suspected, would be cruel almost beyond belief.

  Someone handed Forester a set of scissors, and the crowd broke into applause as he cut a ribbon strung across the entrance to the charity’s premises. A woman announced that there were drinks and a buffet inside, and the crowd began to file into the building. Jim took up a position from where he could see into the building without being easily seen by anyone looking out of the windows. Forester was working the room, smiling, chatting, shaking hands, having his photo taken. After half an hour or so, he left the party accompanied by a thirty-something woman in a business suit. They made their way to a black Jag parked a short distance from Jim’s car. The woman got in behind the wheel. Forester lit a fat cigar before ducking into the passenger seat.

  For the next few hours, Jim followed the Jag around Shef­field. Forester stopped to chat and have his photo taken with factory workers in Attercliffe. Then it was off to another photo opportunity with some people protesting against a mobile telephone mast in Mosborough. Finally, the Jag made its way to the boxy steel-and-glass building that housed his city-centre constituency office. Forester and the woman entered the building. A few minutes later he reappeared with his wife, Philippa Horne, a slim, attractive brunette of about fifty. The two of them got into the Jag and set off, this time with Forester driving. Jim followed them to Woodhouse, a solid working-class suburb to the south-east of the city centre. The Jag turned onto a long driveway that led to a red-brick, bay-windowed Victorian semi. The house was large, but relatively modest compared to those of the Baxleys and Winstanleys.