Grave Doubts Part 34

'Yes.' The inflection in Knotty's voice hardly raised his hopes.

'Through Griffiths' headmistress I've managed to trace some of the people who were at school with him.'

'And the drama teacher?'

'Still away but these people...'

'She's important.' The woman across the aisle raised her eyebrows and glanced at him sideways. He ignored her. 'Go on.'

'Well, these people, one of them, Daphne Middleton, was in the same cla.s.s and remembers Griffiths quite clearly. She said that he was always hanging around the girls' changing rooms and that he had a habit of following her home from school. It went on for some time.'

'How old?'

'About fourteen or so.'

'I see. Anything else?'

'Not at present, no.'

The disappointment was clear in Knotty's tone and Fenwick remembered that he'd meant to be more encouraging the next time they spoke. A stuffy railway carriage was hardly the time and place to begin so he made another mental note.

'Very well, er, keep at it and call me later.'

It was late afternoon when Fenwick finally arrived back in London so he decided to go straight home. MacIntyre didn't expect him and he hadn't seen the children for three days.

His spirits rose at the greeting he was given. Even the housekeeper seemed pleased to see him. After tea, games and a bedside story, Fenwick sank back into an armchair and sipped his single malt. His good mood evaporated as he thought about his difficult week and then inevitably about his career.

He was spinning his wheels and not just on this case, trading off his image as a tough, hard-working and successful detective. Look at him, attached to some task force at the Met that didn't have enough for him to do; jaunting off to the North West on a quest that had turned into a wild goose chase; and apparently not even missed in Harlden. He wondered when people would start to see through him and felt an unusual stab of insecurity.

He poured himself another drink. Nightingale's continued absence caused him great unease. He was failing her and that worried him even more than his drifting career. He was draining his second gla.s.s when the phone rang, shattering the silence.

'Yes?'

'Oh dear! Perhaps I'll call back later when you're in a better mood.'

He recognised Claire's voice. It only served to remind him that his love life was a complete void as well and he grunted an answer.

'Andrew. Come on. I recognise that tone. You've been spending too much time in your own company and that's enough to make anybody miserable.'

'Ha, ha. Very funny. Why are you so cheerful anyway?'

'There's a new man in my life.'

'I'm glad, really.'

'No, you're relieved. Look, that's not why I called. Are you busy tonight?'

'Not particularly.'

'Do you mind if I come round? There's something I should have said to you and it needs to be done face-to-face.'

'Sounds ominous.'

'Just important. Can I?'

'Come round sure. I'm here all evening.'

Claire arrived within the hour. There was a glow in her face that Fenwick hadn't seen before. She noticed the empty whisky gla.s.s and raised an eyebrow.

'Solitary drinking?'

'When you live alone, it's the only kind.'

'Sit down, Andrew, I don't want you charging out of the room because you can't face what I'm telling you.' She sounded like the elder sister he'd never had.

He perched on the edge of his chair as if poised for flight. She closed the door and then sat on the floor beside his feet. It was a deliberately non-threatening pose and he admired her manipulative skill. Even though he knew it was contrived, he immediately felt more relaxed.

'It's about Louise Nightingale.'

'You know where she is?' The hope in his tone was painful.

'No I'm sorry, I don't. But I do know one of the reasons she went away.'

'She was screwed up about work she had to get away.'

'It wasn't just about work, Andrew,' Claire looked at him sadly, her eyes full of sympathy, 'it was also about you.'

'Me? I was never anything but supportive. I had...have nothing but the utmost respect for her.'

'That's the problem.'

He shook his head in confusion.

'You really don't get it do you? My G.o.d, Andrew, for a man renowned for his insight you can be incredibly dense when it comes to people close to you. Louise Nightingale was hopelessly in love with you. It's why she had to go away. She knew that you only saw her as a police officer, never a woman. It finally got so bad she couldn't cope.'

'No way, I'd have realised.' He shook his head in denial but as he spoke, images of Nightingale replayed in his mind: finding her distraught in the forest, going to her flat, working cases together when he'd felt an unusual meeting of minds. He forced himself to argue with Claire but even as he did so he realised that she might be right.

'How did you know?'

'I had a fair suspicion of it just by looking at her with you, then after I saw her following us once I went round to her flat.' Claire had the grace to blush.

'You confronted her?' There was a trace of anger in his voice and Claire looked away.

'Not exactly, but I needed to know. I thought that I was in love with you. I realise now there was a lot of infatuation mixed up with it and l.u.s.t.' She looked at him sideways and blushed again. 'I was desperate for you to love me back yet you wouldn't. That's when I began to suspect that there was something going on between the two of you.'

'That's ridiculous. I'd never get involved with a junior officer.'

'I know that now and so did Nightingale poor thing, but she's a woman and you're a single man...most men would do a lot to have a relationship with Louise Nightingale, I can a.s.sure you.'

'Did she admit it to you?'

'Not in so many words but it was obvious from what she didn't say.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'In part because she asked me not to, at least that's the reason I gave myself at the time, but to be honest I was scared in case you loved her back. Don't look like that.'

'How could you think that? I...' Fenwick stumbled over his words.

He'd been going to say that he had no feelings for her beyond professional respect but even as he thought the words, he knew them to be a lie. He cared more for her than that, but what he felt couldn't be love. There was amus.e.m.e.nt at her outspoken ways, enormous respect for her courage and intellect, perhaps even grudging affection, and he did worry about her a lot. But that wasn't love was it? It bore no resemblance to the all-consuming fire that he had felt for his wife from the moment he first saw her until the day she died.

He became aware of his silence. Claire was looking at him with a knowing expression as if she could see beyond his defensive walls. She stood up and kissed the top of his head.

'I've told you now. How you feel, what you do with the knowledge is entirely up to you. I'm not going to give you any advice except to say use the information wisely. Don't squander it. Be honest with yourself. You must you owe it to her. A woman's love is a rare gift so don't ignore it, even if you do decide, as you did with me, that you can't reciprocate.'

She let herself out, leaving Fenwick to stare at the carpet where she had been sitting.

He couldn't sleep. Images of the last time he had seen her kept running through his mind. Her eyes, lips, her dark hair so shiny it looked wet. What should he do? The sensible thing would be to leave well alone. She was too dangerous. He would risk everything if he went after her. And yet...

And yet, she compelled him. He couldn't ignore her, not now. If he was lucky enough to find her, and have time with her uninterrupted, would he be able to get away with it?

Her face was beginning to haunt him. There were plenty of photographs around, shots from the newspaper coverage that emphasised her looks, and those eyes. He had seen them fill with tears, had watched while they grew huge with pain and fear. They were wonderful eyes.

There was warmth in his groin and his hand slipped beneath the covers. Thinking of her was arousing, more exciting than anything that had broken the recent ambiguity of his life. He began to fantasise about what he would do to her when they met, the excitement building inside him. When he climaxed, he cried out and bit the heel of his hand until it hurt. There could be no doubt that he had to have her. She was unfinished business. He needed to prove to himself that he could do to her exactly as he wanted, not because he had any doubts but because it was what a real man would do.

Unable to sleep he washed and poured himself a large tumbler of gin with a splash of tonic. He needed to quit this place and soon he would have no need of a base. Even the cottage made him feel trapped now. Leaving would be as easy as it had been vacating his parents' house.

When the neighbours had started to ask about their return from the surprise round the world trip that he had fabricated to explain their disappearance, it had been time to go. He'd cleaned the traces of their lives from the house and written to a letting agency in Telford, using addressed notepaper and his father's much-copied signature. When a representative visited he explained that his parents were away and sent them the signed agreement and bank details by post.

They called up of course as he had expected them to but Wayne answered the phone, well rehea.r.s.ed to sound exactly as his father would have done. Afterwards they'd moved to this cottage together. That first winter had been quiet. They built fires against the bitter cold and lived simply using cash they took from his father's account. All the standing orders had been cancelled, even the rates were paid by the agents. He had thought of everything.

When they started to need money, Wayne found a temporary job in the computer department at a local firm. He was good and they offered to make him permanent. It was dull work but well paid and he took evening cla.s.ses to gain more qualifications. After a year he moved on and started to earn them proper money.

For a while he'd simply let Wayne feed them. Apart from videos his amus.e.m.e.nts were free after all but then he'd discovered recreational drugs, simple stuff but it increased the highs and stopped the black spells. Money became a problem. Stealing was easy but carried a risk he didn't want so he'd made a copy of Wayne's NVQ certificate and found himself a job. Anyone with half decent programming skills was able to get a job back then.

With the advantage of falsely improved CVs they joined a computer games company in Telford. He started to specialise in computer security and Wayne in development. That had been the best time. All the while he and Wayne had indulged their shared interest, becoming better with each experiment. Life could have gone on like that forever if Wayne hadn't got them fired. He identified the start of Wayne's decline to when he lost his job.

That's when the testing started, to give them both a new purpose in life. He would set Wayne a challenge: a location, a woman wearing a certain colour, a time of day, and Wayne would have to deliver. Occasionally it worked in reverse and Wayne would test him but the trials were always too easy. He had been superior in every way: technique, daring and intellect.

The thought returned his mind to his unfinished business in Telford. It had been a stroke of genius to follow that policeman. True he knew the taxi girl's address already from the telephone directory but there was sweet irony in being led to it by a pig.

He started to clear the house, working from the top down. It would be sold; he could do with the money and he had the deeds. He would find a solicitor to handle the whole thing before he left. It was past two in the morning but he wasn't tired. Sleep was a luxury rather than a necessity. With the help of a few pills he could make do with three or four hours a night for weeks on end and still feel sharp in the mornings. By four o'clock he'd selected items to take with him and packed them into the panniers on his motorbike. Everything else was burning in the grate or tied up in a rubbish sack by the back door.

His laptop was still connected to the dial up phone line. He was about to pack it away when he thought of the policewoman. She had to be found, tedious as it was. Once he'd killed her he could leave the country on top again. She'd seriously inconvenienced him and had to die in order for him to feel free.

He forced himself to concentrate and logged onto the PC as daylight found the edge of the lake. Perhaps it was the early morning clarity or the freshness of his brain but he realised almost at once that he'd been wasting his time going through the data. He didn't need it. The Internet cafe that she'd used must have been owned by an enthusiast. It had its own server, an extraordinary idea, which meant that there was a registered location and individual IP address he would be able to trace. The two years that he'd spent in IT security were not to be wasted after all. It had been over a year since he'd done any searching but it wasn't something you forgot how to do.

He flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles, then hovered over the keyboard. The hunt was on. He would trace the location, finish his business in Telford and then go and find her. A ray of sunshine found his open window and he knew then that it was going to be an exceptional day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

Nightingale woke late and lay in bed staring at the shadows cast by the sunlight on her bedroom walls. Physically she felt fantastic but her mood was restless. She took a mug of black coffee into the garden and noticed fresh weeds growing among her runner beans. Over two dozen slugs had died in a drunken haze in the beer traps she had set and birds had pecked at the salvias. She went to explore the farm outbuildings, like a beachcomber hoping to find distraction in the flotsam. In the old cheese-store ancient apples had rotted to a dried brown skin. Hundreds of swallow tail b.u.t.terflies, attracted by the sweet cider smell, had died, littering the desiccated fruit in a brightly patterned carpet. Beside the b.u.t.terflies Nightingale found an old trunk that she dragged outside.

It was a travelling chest that had been used to store her aunt's cast off clothes. She opened it and sorted the contents onto an old blanket. In the bottom drawer, underneath faded silk petticoats, she found a leather writing box stuffed full of photographs and bundles of letters tied with ribbon. Curiosity triumphed over scruples and she spread out the contents on the blanket.

The first photo was of three people at a picnic her aunt, father and Lulu. The next was labelled 'Christmas' and showed her aunt and father, his mouth wide in laughter. She sniffed and blinked hard before covering the picture quickly with another that stopped any suspicion of tears.

Her father was captured in black and white kissing Lulu firmly on the mouth. The date on the back was the same year that her parents had married. In another photograph, Lulu was leaning back against him, her head resting easily below his chin looking serious but not sad. Her father's hands rested on Lulu's swollen stomach. There could be no doubt that she was pregnant.

Nightingale stared into her father's eyes and experienced an unexpected burst of anger. She'd seen her parent's relationship as one of contractual acceptance, dry and accommodating, punctuated by episodes of verbal aggression. Humiliated, she realised that she'd had no idea what caused the rot in her parents' partnership.

She ripped the ribbon from the letters. The period of writing was contemporaneous with the photographs. There was a letter from her aunt to her brother, on which he had scribbled a hasty reply.

Dear Henry, Hope you're well, we missed you at the weekend that is to say Mother missed you. It was her birthday and you said you'd be here. But enough of that. I don't want to become the latest in a long line of nags. Horror it might be hereditary!

How's Mary, still suffering from morning sickness? Mother thinks it's going to be twins be warned she seems to know these things.

Lulu was asking after you. I know you don't like me mentioning her but she's my friend and you owe her an explanation about the marriage. I know she hurt you going off like that but she's back now and I think she still cares for you despite how she's behaved. She's not been well and her work is suffering. You could at least send a letter asking how she is.

Her father's lazy scrawl filled the s.p.a.ce at the end of the letter: Message received and understood.

She searched the remaining correspondence impatiently and found a note dated three months later.

Dear Ruth, I'm coming to stay for a few weeks. Mary's having a touch of the vapours and is going to her parents too ghastly to contemplate and I could do with a break quite honestly. Marriage is hard work and we don't even have kids yet. Lord help us. What am I going to do with two? One's enough. It's a nightmare.

Nightingale's eyes blurred again. Second born, second child, a girl. She had never felt wanted and her father's callous words cut deep. She blinked and read on, finding a reference to Lulu in the last lines.

Lulu called me at work. Don't get angry but I said I'd see her. Just to talk, try and sort things out. She told me that she's staying the summer with you. You are kind.

I know I have handled this badly. I was too soft, that's the problem but I really am contrite this time. I've caused so much pain to her yes, but to you too and that hurts most of all. Somehow, I want to put it right but I just don't know what to do. You'll help me won't you? You're a good friend to her and I depend on you so. I can't wait to see you again I'll be down next Tuesday.

Nightingale tried to suppress her rising anger towards her father. He had put the load of sorting things out, including managing his pregnant ex-lover, onto his younger sister's shoulders without apology. The emotional blackmail in the letter was palpable.

And what had become of her own mother, pregnant with twins? Nightingale felt sorry for her for the first time in her life. The ribbon on the third and final bundle of letters had been drawn tight into a knot and it took her several minutes to unpick it. She saw at once that the first note was dated three days before she'd been born.

Ruth, I need you. Mary only has two weeks to go but she won't budge from the farm. Come back and be with us. I'm sorry to break into your holiday but please?

There was no further correspondence from her father. A yellowed newspaper cutting announced the births of Simon John and Diana Nightingale on the 3rd of September. Finally, she found three letters, still in their envelopes, all written on soft lilac paper. Nightingale checked the postmarks. They were from London and had been sent in the autumn following her birth.

Dear Ruth, Thank you for your letter. I'm all right, really and I'm glad everyone is well. No, I don't have any message for Henry and I certainly don't want you to give him my address. I'm applying for a job at one of the private galleries. It's nothing much but the proprietor seems decent...