* * *
‘Few people realise that what ended in Holocaust began with the clandestine murder of sick and disabled children,’ said Father Aidan, softly. ‘It began in such an insignificant way, with the death of one child, the Knauer child. Unable to cope with her afflictions, her parents requested help and in doing so, played into the hands of those in authority who were already cognisant of the economic benefits of “mercy killing”.’
‘Now I get why Rita chose me,’ I said. ‘She must have thought I knew. But I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t.’
‘What terrifies Rita is that a resurgence of such ideas now is so much more dangerous because the force of science somehow legitimises them.’
‘She thought history was about to repeat itself.’
‘Rita hoped to persuade the present priest to intervene. She thought that citing von Galen to him would strengthen her argument and persuade him of his duty. But von Galen was an extraordinary man. It’s a great deal to live up to.’
‘Rita thought that Father Adrian could influence policy by preaching from the pulpit?’ It seemed unlikely.
‘Oh no.’ Father Aidan shook his head regretfully. ‘We cannot delude ourselves that the Church commands the same authority it did in von Galen’s day. Father Adriano wields much more direct power, in this case, through his role on the ethics committee.’
Of course. ‘He’s the clerical representative,’ I said.
‘Rita saw him at the hospital one day and realised why he was there,’ said Father Aidan.
‘But his calling must surely mean he is pro-life, and therefore biased in his views.’
‘That may be true,’ admitted the old man. ‘But he is there to present the theological arguments, which the committee use to inform their decisions. When she first asked for his help, Father Adrian told Rita that to speak out would compromise him. It is a rarefied existence in this place, but I am not entirely disengaged from the wider world. Personal sacrifice doesn’t seem to count for much anymore.’
‘It did for Rita,’ I said. ‘She paid with her life.’
His eyes, behind the thick lenses, grew huge. ‘Rita is dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Oh no, no . . .’ For the first time, the old priest looked defeated.
‘The official line is that she took her own life,’ I said. ‘But Rita’s daughter has never believed that and now I no longer do either.’
Father Aidan hung his head. ‘I knew what Rita was trying to do would carry risks,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘I should have tried to warn her.’
‘Did you send her flowers?’
‘I asked one of the care staff to do it for me. I was concerned for her. I could do nothing practical to help, but I wanted to remind her that she was not alone.’
Chapter Forty-eight
When the phone rang, it took me a couple of seconds to realise that the voice at the other end was Stefan Greaves.
‘Rita Todd didn’t take her own life,’ he said. ‘I think someone wanted to silence her.’
I found myself unable to speak.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Are you still there?’
‘You’re saying what happened to her was deliberate?’
‘When we asked Guy Leonard about giving Rita Warren-Byrne’s address he said, “I had no choice”. I thought he meant that Rita had strong-armed it from him because she wanted to plead her case regarding her disciplinary hearing, maybe even get Warren-Byrne to drop the allegations. But what if it was the other way around? Rita was becoming a thorn in the side of the hospital management. What if Warren-Byrne used Guy Leonard to lure Rita to her home? The bait might have been a promise to discuss Rita’s concerns, but Warren-Byrne had other plans for Rita.’
‘You think her death was premeditated? Jesus, that’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?’ I said, taken aback by the notion. But as I turned things over in my mind, I couldn’t dismiss it.
‘It’s a coincidence that Warren-Byrne’s property backs onto the river in which Rita drowned, though, isn’t it?’ Greaves pressed.
‘But what was the motive?’ I asked.
‘Rita was about to cause big trouble for the ethics committee,’ he said. ‘According to her friend Delores, she deliberately provoked the disciplinary action because she wanted to go to a tribunal. She wanted to be able to stand up in a public forum to shine a light on some dubious policy changes that were being introduced to her department — something that would have far-reaching consequences. She was planning to whistle-blow.’
‘What’s brought this on?’ I was curious.
He replied by filling me in on what he and Plum had learned in the last couple of hours. I could hear the effort as he strove to articulate clearly and, in the absence of visual clues, I had to concentrate hard.
When he came to the end, I didn’t know what to say. I wondered if he realised how crazy it sounded. And yet . . . Hairs stirred on the back of my neck. It felt like we were on the brink of something.
‘There’s something funny going on at our place too.’ I said. ‘And now I’m wondering if it isn’t all part of the same thing.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘You’ll have noticed, until now, a conspicuous lack of progress on your mugging?’
‘There were no witnesses,’ he pointed out.
‘As far as we know,’ I said. ‘But it’s more than that. It’s been tactical, too.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Your wallet and phone weren’t stolen,’ I said. ‘I found them in Denny Sutton’s locker. Your watch turned up on Liam Archer. I’m still trying to figure that one out.’
The other end of the line went quiet. And after a pause that seemed to go on for minutes, I told him about the rest of the haul I’d found. Once I’d started, the rest just poured out.
‘I’ve been struggling to understand why these crimes are significant — what the common factor is. Then I found out that Jodie Marshall, another of the victims, was visually impaired, and Lloyd Jones was on the autistic spectrum. All these victims had a disability of some kind. According to Kevin Booth — Denny’s ex-partner — there’s been a kind of unofficial operation going on for years, Operation Beagle. There has been a whole spate of crimes, including homicides, against those he quoted as being called “undesirables”. Your attack was the latest. None of these incidents has been properly investigated, under orders from above. And now the two people who knew about the scheme are dead. Denny was one and the other, Kevin Booth, was killed in a gas explosion a couple of days ago. Bowers blamed Booth’s so-called accident on his alcoholism, but I met the man ten days ago. He might have been an alcoholic when he left Charnford, but he’s been dry since then.’
We both took a moment, then, to think about what all this meant.
‘If this is a coordinated effort, then it’s huge,’ said Greaves, putting my thoughts into words. ‘What’s Matthew Westfield been up to during this visit?’ he asked.
‘The usual,’ I said, wondering where this was going. ‘He’s spent some time here at the nick discussing crime figures, then a school, an old people’s home, the hospital and lunch with councillors.’
‘But why, and why now?’ he persisted.
‘Believe me, I’ve been racking my brains to work that out too,’ I said.
‘You think he knows about what’s been going on?’
‘Maybe it’s more than that,’ I said, the thought coming into my head. ‘What if he’s behind all of this somehow? Everyone’s been wondering when and how he’ll make his re-entry into politics, and perhaps this is it.’
He seemed to buy it. ‘Machiavelli on the job again, but in a whole new arena,’ he said.
‘Christ, I’ve been thick,’ I said in sudden realisation. ‘Westfield mentioned it. I was telling him what a good place Charnford is to live, and he said we needed to “sprinkle some of the magic” across the rest of the country. He actually told me that we could make Britain a world power again.
He’s using this town as some kind of template for what could be rolled out to the rest of the country.’
‘It fits, doesn’t it?’ said Greaves. ‘He’s a great advocate of assisted dying, which is only a step away from mercy killing.’ He snorted. ‘And just look at him — how much more fucking Aryan can you get? That photo you sent me, it was some kind of student group, wasn’t it?’
Tucking the phone under my chin, I grabbed the mouse and woke up the computer.
‘Hang on, let me find it again.’
It took me minutes to locate it and to track down the original caption. But when I did, it suddenly made sense.
‘OK,’ I said, at last. ‘It’s the members of something called . . . Shit. Stronger Britain. Ever heard of it?’
‘No,’ said Greaves. ‘But I’ve a feeling it’s about to have a comeback.’
‘Sharon Petrowlski told me that Bowers’ appointment was sudden and unexpected.’
‘Cate said the same about Warren-Byrne. They’ve wangled their way into positions of power in this town, and Westfield is pulling the strings. He’s been getting his cronies to test out these approaches here ahead of getting into power nationally, where he can inflict them on the whole country.’ He tailed off. ‘Oh God, how many more are a part of this? If we’re right about this, we need to get it out into the open. People have died for it, and might continue to die.’
‘But we’ll need evidence,’ I said, stating what was obvious. ‘Westfield is a powerful man, as are the people working for him. I know Bowers will have covered his back. Two key witnesses are dead and all I’ve got is a bag of victims’ belongings. If I produce them, it will be Booth’s and Denny’s names that are dragged through the mud, and that’ll only be if everyone can stop laughing for long enough.’
He sounded dejected. ‘We’re struggling to even get hold of any data from the hospital to support Rita’s concerns, let alone prove them,’ he said. ‘A week or so before she died, Rita sent a text to her friend Delores, saying, “I’m right, it’s pure strategy.” It puzzled me. I mean, why “pure strategy”? Why not just say, “It’s a strategy”?’
‘She could have meant it’s “only” a strategy or “simply” a strategy at this point,’ I pointed out.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he conceded. ‘But what if she was let down by the punctuation? What if Rita wasn’t just talking about any old strategy but had stumbled on some kind of plan — the Pure strategy.’
‘That suggests something tangible, something in writing,’ I said. ‘Bowers may have some kind of documentation. I caught him reading some report that he obviously didn’t want me to see. Had a picture of a sailing ship on the front.’
‘What was that operational name you mentioned?’ he asked.
‘Beagle,’ I told him. ‘Bowers has got a dog. I mean, I don’t know why they use these fucking stupid . . .’
‘This is not named after his dog,’ he scoffed, cutting me off. 'HMS Beagle was the ship sailed by Charles Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all that.’ He let me absorb that morsel. ‘Is there any way you can get hold of this report?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be in Bowers’ desk drawer, which will be locked, as will his office. I guess I could try getting in there.’
‘And if you’re caught?’
‘I’d probably lose my job.’
‘Then I think we should hold off on that for now. It can’t be the only copy. If Westfield’s driving the whole project, he’ll have it, surely?’
‘The man travels light,’ I said. ‘Apart from the suitcase in his hotel room, all he takes with him to meetings is a smartphone — and he keeps that pretty close. He’s never asked me to carry anything for him. And we’re running out of options,’ I added. ‘Westfield leaves tomorrow. The main thing left is some reception at a place called Mawton Manor, which Bowers called a “mopping up exercise”.’
‘Mawton Manor? That’s Ashley Curzon’s place. Shit, I’ll bet he’s in on it too. It’d be right up his street.’
‘The event’s swathed in more secrecy than a Lodge meeting.’
A beat of a pause. ‘You’re a . . . ?’
‘Not a chance, mate. But whatever the purpose, it sounds like it’s the big finale. Strictly invitation only and Westfield’s opportunity to schmooze anyone he might have wanted to meet but hasn’t already. Bowers was practically wetting himself with excitement over it. You know this Curzon guy?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘He was the man we prosecuted for the possible manslaughter of a Syrian refugee baby. Also conveniently known for his right-of-centre beliefs. I wonder if Keeley would help.’ He was thinking aloud, but all the same, I balked at the suggestion.
‘It’s a lot to ask,’ I said. ‘She’s already doing me a massive favour.’
‘She could always say no.’
He was right. It was worth a punt. ‘How about I pick you up on the way over to her place — in about an hour?’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘And if it confirms what we think?’
‘We could always see if someone in the press is interested in doing some research,’ I said. ‘Don’t know any friendly hacks, do you?’
‘Actually, I do,’ said Greaves. ‘I know just the man.’ He paused. ‘You said “until now”.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said there was a lack of progress on my case “until now”. Has something changed?’
‘It just might have,’ I said. ‘I’ll fill you in when I see you.’
Chapter Forty-nine
Keeley came to the door in a T-shirt and leggings, and as she leaned on the frame, my gaze couldn’t help but linger on the fine red marks around her wrists.
‘Did you have a nice time last night?’
‘I’m sorry, does that concern you?’ she said.
‘Did he do that?’ I asked, even though it was none of my business.
Keeley just looked at me. ‘He has particular tastes, OK? What do you want, measurements, timing, positional diagrams? It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Grow up, Stefan. What did you want, anyway?’
‘We are concerned about what Matthew Westfield might be doing here.’ I said. ‘Can we come in?’
Once inside, Fraser told her what we’d found out and where our thinking was taking us.
‘Are you joking? You’re trying to compare him with . . . ?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But this is serious. Whatever this master plan is, people are being killed for it.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Actually, I’m pretty sure that we do,’ said Fraser.
She seemed to recognise the gravity of what we were saying. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We need proof. And that means getting access to his smartphone or his briefcase. You’re his date for tonight. I imagine you’ll be going back to his hotel with him, too?’
‘Sure, I’ll just ask him! Mind if I just have a skim through your emails before we get down to business?’
‘Did he sleep last night?’
‘Not while I was there. We did . . . what we did, and then I left.’
‘You could drug him,’ I suggested, with a thrill.
‘How old are you two, ten?’ she snapped. ‘He might just notice that and I’d end up getting arrested. You should know better, Constable Fraser.’
Fraser raised his hands in defence. ‘Not my idea.’
‘Could you distract him?’ I persisted.
‘Well, I would hope so,’ she said.
‘No, I mean enough to let Fraser get in and take a look? If you could take him down to the hotel bar or something . . .’
‘I don’t see that working. He wants to keep it discreet. Anyway, it’ll be late, and we’ll have already spent the evening eating and drinking. He won’t want to waste any more of my time on that. Even if we did leave the room, he’d take his phone with him, wouldn’t he?’
Fraser was gloomy.
‘Maybe,’ I said, my frustration growing. ‘But at
least if we could catch a hint of something in his emails, we’d know for sure that we were onto something.’
‘I thought you were sure.’ Keeley ran her tongue over her teeth in thought. ‘I suppose I could give him something that would disturb his digestion,’ she said. ‘Make it seem as if he’d eaten something that disagreed with him.’
‘You can do that?’
‘A girl I knew used it if she ever had a date with a guy she didn’t really want to sleep with. She swore by it. She’d slip it into his drink at dinner and by the time they’d get back to the hotel, he’d be bent over double and have to spend all night in the bathroom. And there was no comeback — as it were.’
‘Charming,’ I said. And enterprising. ‘It might do the trick, though, get him out of the room, leaving his things behind. I don’t suppose he’d take his phone into the bathroom with him.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Keeley.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We wouldn’t be asking you to do this unless we were desperate.’ I didn’t like to point out the biggest flaw in the plan. Even if we got hold of his smartphone, it would more than likely be password-protected — then what? We were hardly MI5 and a bit short on handy gadgets to help us download the contents. I kept this to myself, though, and we left Keeley to get ready.
Chapter Fifty
I drove Greaves back to his flat, an atmosphere of despondency in the car. I wondered if he had the same doubts as I did about Keeley’s plan.
Fulford Road was quiet when I got back. Most people had clocked off for the day and I had to squeeze past Gloria and her cleaning trolley in the corridor. I flopped down in my chair and switched on the PC, where I was absently staring at the screen as it went through the booting-up process when an idea surfaced. Gloria.
The Truth About Murder Page 26
