by Seb Kirby
His voice rises to a just concealed shout. “And that’s the kind of help I can do without.”
“You two were close?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m trying to understand why you didn’t call her to alibi you at your trial.”
“That was all a long way down the pike.”
“It’s your best chance of winning an appeal. The prosecution didn’t make Marsha’s statement available. If we can show they were withholding evidence, it would be enough to get you a hearing, maybe a retrial.”
“I couldn’t call her.”
“Why not?”
“Ask Wilsden.”
“You have to help me here, Brian. Otherwise you’re going to spend the rest of your days inside.”
He becomes silent again, leaving me with the worrying thought he’s calculating what to say next.
When it comes, it’s sharp and succinct. “Marsha and me were more than close. We were an item. We’d been that way for over four years. She’s what drew me to Southampton, away from my usual patch. Her baby was mine. Young Cheryl meant more than the world to her and me. The one good thing to come from all the lies and double-dealing in our lives. Wilsden knew that. He knew everything. So that was the deal.”
“What deal?”
“I was going down, anyway. Using. Dealing. Cocaine. Meth. Not small quantities. Enough for Wilsden to claim I was a Mr. Big. Someone to be given a sentence that would be a warning to others. Enough to put me away for fifteen years. And he had stuff on Marsha, too. He got Vice Squad to build a case that she was running a brothel when all she did was farm out a little sex work to her friends. And he had her in the frame for drugs use, as well. He said she could face ten years. And what would happen to Cheryl? He told us he’d make sure she ended up in care and he had contacts in the local authorities to have us written up as being so unsuitable we’d never see her again. And he threatened something much worse.”
He falls silent.
I brace myself. “You can tell me.”
“He said there were bad people. People in children’s homes who got off on abusing children like Cheryl. And he’d make sure she was placed in harm’s way. So, that was the deal. Marsha withdrew her statement. I took the hit for the murder in Morden. And Cheryl would grow up safe and secure with her mother.”
“So, you took the deal?”
“What else could I do? What would anyone have done?”
“But why stay silent? Why not make this public, once your daughter has grown up?”
His voice becomes a growl. “You don’t get it, do you, sweetheart? The threat was still there. If I said a word, something would happen to Marsha. Something could still happen to Cheryl. But you’ve blown that by bringing Marsha into this. So just leave off trying to help me, will you? I don’t need your kind of help.”
The line goes dead. He must have slammed down the phone.
I’m in tears. I feel guilty that Marsha has died. If I hadn’t intervened, the woman would still be alive. And Cheryl would not have been placed in new danger.
My belief I could be a voice for justice in an imperfect world is in tatters. I’ve brought nothing but tragedy to those I’m hoping to save.
I pour myself another scotch.
Perhaps there is salvation there.
CHAPTER 59
When Ives and Lesley arrive at the Herald reception desk and ask for Emma Chamberlain, they are directed straight to Bill McLeish’s office.
Seated now in the Editor’s office, Ives comes right to the point. “We need to interview Emma Chamberlain again.”
Lesley stands and takes notes.
McLeish opens wide his arms in apology. “I’m afraid she’s no longer here, Inspector. She’s suspended until further notice.”
“Why?”
“It’s an internal company matter.”
Ives leans forward. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not policy to reveal operational disciplinary matters. It could affect what happens if the case is taken to tribunal.”
“I think you need to listen carefully. I’ll only say this once. Emma Chamberlain is a person of interest in an on going murder investigation. I need to be told of anything and everything about her that may be relevant to that investigation. Any failure to do so will be treated as willful obstruction. Am I clear?”
McLeish is fulsome in apology. “I had no idea, Inspector. Of course, I’ll do all I can to help.”
“OK. So start by telling me why she was suspended.”
“Carrying out her own work on company time. As a result, failing to deliver on what we asked her to do. Then, not following agreed instructions.”
“From you?”
“Yes, from me.”
“And when you say she’s been doing her own work on company time, exactly what is involved?”
“It’s what you might call her cause celebre. A convicted murderer serving life who she’s convinced is innocent.”
“You have a name?”
“Cooper. Brian Cooper.”
A look passes between Ives and Lesley that says: don’t ever tell me this was a wasted journey.
Ives continues. “I need details.”
McLeish stumbles on. “She kept whatever she was doing to herself.”
“Then I’ll need access to her computer.”
McLeish risks a smile. “And there I can help, Inspector. Security has her laptop and notebooks. Her desktop is still at her workstation. I’ll arrange for you to have them at once.”
“That’s very helpful. Now, is there anything else we should know about Emma Chamberlain?”
CHAPTER 60
I stare at the image of Raymond Wilsden that I’ve pulled up onto the phone.
What kind of man would abuse his own daughter? And what kind of man would conspire to incarcerate Brian Cooper for life for a crime he hadn’t committed? For, I no longer doubt Cooper’s innocence. My fear that he is playing me by being deceitful in covering up what happened is over, once and for all. I’m even more determined to win his freedom.
Yet I feel more powerless than ever. Marsha is dead because of me. Others have been placed in danger. Cooper may no longer be prepared to cooperate, even if this means there would be no one to help him. It’s an unequal struggle. It makes me feel like giving up.
I pour myself another scotch. This will have to be the last. Yet I’ve told myself that more than once this evening.
As I take a long sip of the drink, my eyes begin to close. Sleep will be upon me in minutes, even though there is not yet full darkness in the room.
A noise I know shakes me back into wakefulness.
It’s Jenny, walking towards me, her nightdress dragging on the floor.
The girl stops and stands before me.
There is something different about her. There are no tears. But, rather, a look of hope on her face. Her eyes are full of admiration.
I can’t understand the change. I struggle to find my voice. “Why are you no longer sad?”
Jenny mouths something back, her words perfectly formed yet silent.
It’s difficult to work out what she’s saying. The whisky hasn’t helped. Yet I convince myself I know what it is.
Don’t give up.
Don’t give up.
DAY 8
CHAPTER 61
It is not yet light.
I’ve fallen asleep, again fully clothed, where I sat in front of the computer.
My neck and back ache because of the unnatural position I took up, slumped over the desk.
My head aches, too. The now familiar after effects of a day spent too much in the company of my favorite drink.
I click the phone into life. Seven AM. No time to be awake.
I slump forward again and drift back towards sleep. Yet sleep doesn’t come.
A noise downstairs. The doorbell doesn’t work. Someone is knocking on the door.
It’s no use trying to pretend otherwise. I must look terrible after a night wi
thout going to bed. But the knocking persists. I have to answer it.
I just about remember to clear away the whisky bottle and glass before I pick my way downstairs to the front door and unlock and pull open the door.
It’s Sophie.
“Thought you would never answer. I tried to phone but you weren’t picking up. So, I came over.”
She gives me a look that says: what on earth is happening to you? But she keeps this to herself. Instead, as she steps into the hallway, she motions to introduce the blonde-haired, fifty-year-old woman with her. “This is Tina Parker. You need to speak to her.”
Ushering them upstairs to the apartment, I’m full of apologies. “You’ll have to excuse the state of things. I’ve had a bad night.”
Sophie stops me. “Look, I have to dash. I’m in Court early this morning and I’m already running late. I’ll leave you with Tina. Call me later in the day.”
With that she makes her way back downstairs.
I show my unexpected visitor into the apartment. “The place really is a wreck.”
Tina smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
She’s holding a carrier bag, and it looks heavy. I offer her a seat at the table where I spent the night. “Do you want to put the bag down?”
Tina reaches into the bag and takes great care in placing the sheaves of papers she removes onto the tabletop. “I’ve been waiting a long time for the right moment to show these to someone who will understand.”
I’m struggling to catch up. “You’re saying you need my help in some way?”
“No. I’m here to help. You see, when I heard that Sophie Taylor was making enquiries about the Trust, I got straight onto her.”
“The Trust?”
“The Assent Trust.” She raises her eyebrows to show surprise that the question needs asking. “I worked there as a secretary for almost thirty years. It didn’t take long for me to realize that something wasn’t right about what was going on there.”
“With the adoptions?”
She nods. “It was all too casual, too much like people who knew their system getting children with too few background checks about their suitability. Not like now when the whole process is so well scrutinized. Back then, those precautions were close to non-existent.” She pauses and points to the piles of papers set out on the tabletop. “So, I began making these.”
I pick up one of the sheets of paper. It’s a photocopy of a form that records the adoption details of one child. It gives the date, the child’s origin and birth name, if known, the name of the adoptive parents and the child’s proposed adoptive name. It is signed by the adoptive parents and the director of the Trust. I glance back at the piles of paper. “How many of these are there?”
“Upwards of three hundred. I became quite skilled at making an extra copy without anyone knowing. Since I was the one doing the copying and the filing, no one suspected me. So, once I realized all was not well at the Trust, I took copies of the paperwork on each adoption. And here they are.”
Though I’m still struggling to come to terms with my hangover and the earliness of the hour, I grasp the importance of what’s before me. I feel compelled to ask. “So, what do you want me to do with all this?”
Tina raises her eyebrows once more. “You’re investigating the Trust. This is all you need to expose them for what they are.”
“And what do you expect?”
“Nothing. I’m not doing this with any ideas about money. I just want to see justice done for those poor children.” She pauses. “And you need to keep me out of this. You didn’t get any of this from me.”
I agree and thank her. “You can depend on me.”
Once I see Tina out, I undress and take a shower. I need to wash away the detritus of the previous night and begin to feel as if I’m capable of achieving something in the day ahead, let alone righting the wrongs of a troubled world. Why do people like Tina have such faith in the press being able to achieve what no one else can? If only they knew how fragile that influence has become.
Dried, dressed again and made up for the day, I return to the table and sit before the piles of paperwork left by Tina. Where to start? The forms are in rough chronological order, as if each time she returned with a copy of the latest adoption record, she added it to the top of the pile. So, the most recent comes first.
I begin to sift through them. The latest is three years old. That must have been when Tina stopped working at Assent and no longer had access to the information. The earliest, from the bottom of the pile, is thirty years old, when she’d first begun making and storing the copies. In between lie the records of the three hundred or so adoptions the Trust has been responsible for in that time.
The first place to start is with Tony Galbraith. If what he told me is true, there should be a record of him somewhere in the pile. He said he was young, a three-year-old when placed in the hands of the Galbraith family. He’s approaching his late twenties now. That should mean his record would be from twenty-four or twenty-five years ago.
Here it is.
Name: Anthony Galbraith. Adopted by: Anthony and Marion Galbraith. Birth name: Christian Novak. Reason for adoption: Parents killed in air crash.
So, he is telling the truth. Those who assume Galbraith must be lying because he’s a known criminal are wrong. And this means his claims against Adam Stanley are all the stronger.
It’s a natural thing to do, something I do almost without thinking. As I dwell on what I’ve learned about Tony Galbraith, I begin to sift through the next forms in the pile.
With a shock that causes me to sit bolt upright in my chair, I stop. I’m staring at another of the forms.
Name: Jennifer Wilsden. Adopted by: Raymond and Deborah Wilsden. Birth name: Lena Novak. Reason for adoption: Parents killed in air crash.
My mind races. This must be my own adoption record. The proof I need to show that my recollections with Berinski are real.
So, the Wilsdens adopted. That much is clear. But why did I have to assume that the child involved is me?
I find the phone and call Sophie. I want to tell her what I’ve just discovered, but a recorded message comes back saying Sophie is in Court.
I try to remain calm, try to draw on my journalist’s training.
Be forensic. Collect the evidence.
I spend the next hours trawling through the forms, making lists, noting similarities and seeking a pattern.
Most of the children were young, between the ages of two and five. All were from parents who, because of death or illness, would not come looking for them.
All went to good families.
What sort of family had raised me?
Raymond Wilsden, as a DI in Southampton, was a man to be feared. Marsha Kent and Brian Cooper were testament to that.
I can’t imagine ever having called the man father. Yet that’s what the adoption certificate is forcing me to come to terms with.
And what about Deborah, his wife? Was she ever a mother to me? What woman went along with the kind of life that Wilsden led?
I begin to search on the phone. There are glowing profiles of Wilsden in his role as Chief Inspector, a far cry from what would have been said about him in his Southampton days. The man has risen far.
There is less on Deborah, yet I’m drawn to discover more about her. Perhaps she will be more approachable than the austere and power-protected Wilsden. Or perhaps it’s because I want to know more about the woman I must have once called mother.
Deborah has a low profile, but she appears alongside her husband at various dinners, commemorative services and presentations. Then the appearances stop. It takes some time to discover the reason. Deborah Wilsden has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She’s now a resident in a care home in Tunbridge Wells.
Would it be on to travel out there and get back in time for the next session with Berinski and then the date with James? I check the phone. It should be possible if I leave straight away.
CHAPTER 62
> Dispatching the remaining two on the list isn’t going to be easy. Evan Cargill knows they are powerful, protected men. That’s why he’s left them until last. Yet they will have to be reached and killed if he is to honor the promise he’s made to right the wrongs that have blighted the life of his friend. How else are those who place themselves beyond justice and the law to be brought to book?
There is no doubt the police will have intensified their search for him by now. This adds another layer of difficulty. But everything he’s encountered in his life tells him that no false words about the strength of the opposition should be offered as an excuse for failing to act on a promise made.
So, patience and stealth are required. And in that he plans to surprise them all.
He checks how he looks in the mirror of the cramped trailer bathroom. There is little risk he might be recognized from the mug shots of him being put out by the police as he’s changed his appearance so radically since that head and shoulders from three years ago. Back then he had short hair and a thin-faced, destitute expression. Since leaving prison, he prides himself on how different he now looks. With better food, he’s put on weight and fleshed out his face. He’s grown his hair and had it styled. After working out each day in the gym, he’s spent time on a sunbed. His complexion is now bronzed. Together with the well-trimmed beard, he now has a professional, not to say business-like sheen. That’s his cover story. He’s a businessman in need of a ride after his car broke down.
It’s early as he sets out along the narrow lane leading from the trailer park. His shoulder is still painful and he needs to be certain this will not show up in the way he walks, as this will attract attention. This means absorbing the pain and walking freely, as if everything is natural and in its proper state.
A van approaches from behind. He holds out his thumb to request a ride, but the vehicle goes straight past. Hitchhiking is not what it was, he thinks out loud. Though rare, once sinister elements use the excuse of a ride to rob the driver or abduct the hiker, the game is up. Few drivers stop these days. He could imagine himself finding those who have ruined the scene and sorting them out, yet this is no time for such idle dreams. He needs a ride if he’s to make any progress in his day. Maybe the suit and smart appearance will pay dividends.
