Grave Doubts Part 37

'You must have worked through the night to do this.'

'Almost but it doesn't matter. This is too important.'

She rang off leaving the ripple of her excitement in the air. He amended his report, feeling more positive. Knotty called him at ten twenty-five.

'I couldn't find out anything at the clinic David Smith went to, it'll take a warrant, but I've just left Miss Wallace, the drama teacher. You won't believe this...'

'Try me.'

'The reason she banned David Smith was that she noticed him following her home from school. She didn't like it and asked to see him. They were alone in the rehearsal room. When she confronted him she said that he became abusive and threatening. He denied that he had followed her and she told him he was lying. Smith tried to slap her. She says she was so shocked that she just stood there. Then he said that if she made a complaint he would say that she had seduced him and get her struck off. He knew exactly what her bedroom looked like and even described some of her underwear.'

'What did she do?'

'She told him he was excluded from drama club but that was it. His threats were too real for her to dare going to the headmistress, who didn't much like her anyway.'

'So Smith told his father he'd been banned but not why, and the father wrote to Miss Wallace complaining.'

'Better than that, he went to see her.'

'And she told him all about it.'

'Everything. He was furious, but not with her, with his son. He told Miss Wallace that this wasn't the first time he'd had trouble with him. There had been an earlier incident with a cousin and other things that he wouldn't specify.'

'So there's a confirmed a link to Wendy. How was it left?'

'It was towards the end of term. Smith senior told her that they were going on a family holiday and that he'd sort things out "once and for all". He asked her to keep it quiet until the new term started.'

'But Smith didn't go back to school.'

'No.'

'Well done, Knotty. Write that up and get back down here. Don't see Fred Smith on your own about Wendy. He's a nasty piece of work and he's not going anywhere.'

'Righty-ho. I've a couple of loose ends to tidy up but I should be with you by evening.'

Fenwick left his revised report for MacIntyre's attention and went back to studying endless files. As the morning pa.s.sed he began to experience a sense of disquiet so strong that he rang his housekeeper, who a.s.sured him that the children were fine. Next he called Cooper but the Sergeant had no news of Nightingale. By lunchtime he was sweating and could barely concentrate. MacIntyre invited him to join a visit to the Home Office psychologist and he grabbed at the chance. Anything was better than sitting in his office being spooked by feelings of imminent disaster.

Constable Knots was in high spirits. He'd reported proper progress to the Chief Inspector, much to his own surprise and, he suspected, his superior's. Fenwick was a tough master but he was someone you wanted to please. He felt slightly guilty for holding back in his phone call. Was saying that there were a few loose ends a white lie? Not really surely, and it might all come to nothing. He didn't want to look stupid now that he'd started to make a good impression.

It had been a pure fluke that he'd asked Miss Wallace whether she had any idea where the Smiths went on holiday, but he knew that Fenwick didn't like loose ends. Miss Wallace had more than known, she'd seen the Smith family on holiday together two weeks later walking in the hills. She had talked to Smith senior and he told her about the holiday cottage, bought with the proceeds of a Premium Bond win. She had been thinking of renting something in the area herself so paid particular attention to what he said.

Miss Wallace had described the location and given him rough directions. Knotty couldn't believe his luck. He glanced at his watch, five to eleven. There was just enough time to get there, explore a bit and, if he was unlucky, be back for the two o'clock train. But if he did find Smith's cottage he would be a hero. As he drove, he could imagine himself calling out SOCO and surprising them with a request for a search. He was smiling as he went.

Finding the address of the cafe where the policewoman had accessed the Internet took him longer than expected but he had all the information he needed well before eleven. That left him an hour to prepare his gift for Griffiths. Overnight he'd decided that his one-time companion had to die in order to stop any risk of him blabbing to the police. Finding a method had been difficult but he recalled that prisoners were allowed to receive food provided it concealed no drugs. He would send him a cake!

A special cake to his own recipe. There was an untouched fruit sponge in the cupboard and he knew where a yew grew in the margins of the forest. He gathered quant.i.ties of off-cuts to make an infusion. As it cooled he added sugar and p.r.i.c.ked the cake all over so that the sponge would soak up his mixture. He repeated the process until the cake was saturated and then cleared his preparations away.

After the cake had drained, he rewrapped it and attached a note from Agnes. He packaged the sponge in a box and addressed it to Wayne at the prison then washed his hands carefully before eating an early lunch. He would need his strength for the afternoon as he intended to walk to Telford and back again. It was likely that the police would discover the Matthews girl's body quickly and set up roadblocks, so he was going to hike across country in order to avoid them.

He checked the contents of his rucksack again to make sure that everything was there, though he had done the same only half an hour before. Preparation was all. This was going to be the most dangerous thing he had ever done and the thought forced adrenaline through his body.

His mouth was too dry to swallow the sandwich so he opened a beer to help it down. As he ate, he added the last elements of his disguise. It was a superficial one: a baseball cap over untidy hair; a rambler's outfit, a.s.sembled from clothes he'd worn for years; a plastic map holder strung around his neck, complete with OS map and a rucksack. The gla.s.ses he wore were his father's, a mild prescription for short sight that he could tolerate. He looked in the mirror and scrutinised the image of a nerdy walker that stared back at him. Few people would look at him twice and if they did they would forget him quickly.

His penknife was in his trouser pocket. He pulled it out and tested the short blade that he had honed to razor sharpness. If you were good you didn't always need a prop and why run the risk of carrying a weapon that might arouse suspicion?

He left the house by the back door and started up the hill that would take him through the woods and on to a footpath that led to the outskirts of Telford. Eight miles, no problem at all.

He was in good condition and the weather was perfect for walking. As he entered the first fringe of trees a car drove along the private road below him. He froze in the shadows and watched. A man stepped out, foreshortened by the perspective. His face was obscured but something about his figure was familiar. Smith waited, barely breathing. The man went up to the front door and knocked twice. There was unmistakable authority in that rapping and Smith tensed. Silently, he removed his pack and set it down in the bushes. When the man walked around to the side of the house, peering into the windows, Smith crouched down to see his face. He recognised the officer who had been with Fenwick.

The police from down south had found his retreat! What should he do? Choices cascaded through his mind; lie low and let the man go, but there were signs of his lunch on the table. He could run, but his motorbike was parked at the back of the house and that idiot was going to stumble on it at any moment. There was still too much in the house and traces that would need to be destroyed if he were to retain his anonymity. If he couldn't run or hide, he had to eliminate the threat.

The fact that the man was here alone was confusing. He could either be part of an advance search or acting on his own initiative, following up a stray lead. There was no option but to find out. When the policeman moved around the house and out of sight Smith slithered half way down the hill then stood up and crept the final distance. He reached the shade of the eaves in less than half a minute and paused to control his breathing. He could hear footsteps on the shingle path, then the sound of rattling at the locked back door. The policeman was moving casually, not on alert as his shadow detached itself from that of the house and started to turn the corner.

Smith was on him fast, knocking him to the ground with a quick double punch to the jaw and gut. While the man was still struggling to get up Smith grabbed his right arm and twisted it up high behind him until he heard the shoulder creak in protest. He pressed the open knife under the man's jaw with his left hand, close enough to p.r.i.c.k the skin.

'Who are you?'

'Knots,' the man said and swallowed hard so that his Adam's apple was scratched by the blade.

'Police?'

The man nodded. Beads of sweat were trickling down the copper's face onto his hand.

'Are you alone?'

'Yes.' As if realising his error the man added quickly, 'but there'll be others along any moment.'

Smith thought he was lying.

'Who knows that you're here?'

'They all do. They're expecting me to call in and report.'

The man stank of fear as sweat soaked his body.

'Really.' This b.u.mbler of a policeman was thinking quicker now. He'd realised his peril and was improvising rapidly. Smith didn't believe him but he couldn't be absolutely sure.

'I think we'll wait for them, shall we,' he said pleasantly, and held the man tighter, causing him to moan with pain from his arm.

Minutes pa.s.sed. The stench from the man was gross. He could feel sweat soaking his own clothing, making him unclean. He stared at the acne along the man's hairline and dandruff on his collar. Disgusting.

'I don't think they're coming, do you Knots?' He kept his tone light, playful, and in truth this was a game. He was starting to have fun. 'How much longer shall we give them?'

Knot's eyes were huge, the whites completely surrounded his pupils as he stared desperately for help.

'Five minutes should be enough. Then I think we shall have to give up on them.'

Knots looked at the watch on his wrist. As the seconds ticked away Smith chatted to him in a conversational tone.

'In the movies of course, this is the point when the hero comes to the rescue with mere seconds to spare. Do you think that's what's going to happen, Mr Knots?'

Knotty sobbed.

'Now, now, don't despair. You have, let me see, lift your watch, thank you. Yes, over two minutes left. But in case they don't arrive, you might just want to pray. Best to be sure, don't you think?' He could feel the man start to tremble and he smiled.

'One minute left. Shall we count down? Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, go on, you do it.' There was the stink of urine and Smith snorted in disgust. 'Dear dear, come on, you're the good guy. You should either defeat me or die bravely whilst trying.'

His laugh was interrupted abruptly. The man reached back with his free hand and tried to grab Smith by the elbow. The blade shot upwards, slicing Knot's cheek open as he swung away. His right arm was held tight but he ignored the pain and threw his whole body weight forward, trying to break Smith's grip. He managed to fall to his knees in a crawl, his right arm bent behind him like a broken wing, with Smith hanging on to it in an unshakeable grip. Blood coated Knotty's jacket but he ignored it and picked up a handful of gravel from the path. He threw it wildly at his a.s.sailant but most of it missed. With a cry of rage Smith leapt on his back forcing him onto his chest. No matter how much Knots bucked in an attempt to shake him off Smith clung on tight.

Knotty crawled towards the backdoor steps where he might find shelter but Smith moved with him. In desperation the policeman lurched backwards and rolled on top, finally breaking Smith's hold. They lay spread-eagled together, arms and legs outflung. Knotty started to rise but Smith was faster. He pulled him back down in a chest-crushing embrace, pinning both his arms to his side.

Terror forced a surge of power into Knotty's limbs. He burst out of Smith's bear hug and rolled away, stumbling across the rough gra.s.s towards his car. Smith roared like an animal and ran after him. Halfway there, a rugby tackle brought Knotty down to the ground with a thud that drove the air from his body.

Smith lifted the man's head by his hair and pulled it back to expose the neck. He sliced once, a neat 180 arc that severed carotid and jugular. There was a strange gargling sound and he realised that he had cut the windpipe as well. His sharpened little knife was more practical than he had realised! He sat still, enjoying the shudders between his legs. When they stopped he stood up and took a deep breath.

'What a f.u.c.king mess,' he said to himself. There was blood everywhere and a dead body to dispose of. He checked his watch, twelve o'clock. He was behind schedule but he couldn't leave this lot out in the open, no matter how secluded the cottage.

The dead man was heavy but he managed to drag him onto a tarpaulin that he normally used to cover his bike. He added rocks and secured the wrapping with agricultural twine then paused to consider what to do next.

His shirt and trousers were soaked. He went inside and washed and changed quickly, drank a beer because all that work had made him thirsty, and made his decision.

The body would go in the lake along with his other secrets. No one ever looked there, at least they hadn't in the last ten years, so he couldn't see why they should start now. Then he would use the man's car and drive into Telford. With luck, he'd be at her house before two, almost on schedule. His only uncertainty was whether the police, other than the bungling idiot at his feet, knew of this address. He kicked the bundle hard.

'Did you tell them, or was it your little secret? n.o.body's that stupid but perhaps you,' he kicked again, 'were dumb enough to play a hunch.'

He emptied the dregs of his beer over the wrapped body.

'I think you were that stupid. Not like your boss, he'd never have done something so brainless.'

To be on the safe side he took the parcel of cake and the packages he had prepared earlier and put them in the panniers of his bike. Then he wheeled it up the hill, well into the wood, and covered it with bracken and fallen branches. On the way back to the house he scuffed grit and gra.s.s to cover his tracks. He put on gloves and loaded the body into the car. If the police found the house, he had all he needed hidden away; if they didn't he could come back and scrub the place out.

The drive to the lake was uneventful. He pa.s.sed a family picnicking, who were too absorbed in an argument to notice him, and drove to an isolated spot where the sh.o.r.e shelved deeply to the water. There were windsurfers far away on the horizon but no one closer. With a final look around he reversed the car back as far as caution would allow and dragged the body out into the shallows.

He had forgotten to bring waders so he was soaked to his waist before he let the package go. Bubbles escaped from the wrapping as the body submerged. He watched to make sure it didn't surface then went back to the car and drove away. The family was still there as he pa.s.sed. They did not look up.

The radio in the car squawked and crackled, distracting him. He had forgotten that this was a police vehicle and decided to turn into the first car park he came across. Driving the car had become increasingly difficult anyway. Adrenaline had carried him through the disposal of the body and the first miles into Telford but he was starting to shake. It always happened. He was fine on the bike where he wasn't enclosed. In a car it was different. He daren't buckle the seatbelt so he wore it loosely over one shoulder, but even so shutting the door brought with it the claustrophobia of a tomb.

Cars were unsafe places. People died in cars, trapped in burning pools of petrol, crushed beneath articulated lorries, drowned in dirty water. He was sweating as he locked the door and resumed the last part of his journey on foot. The steady pounding of his footsteps, the feel of his muscles bunching and relaxing, gradually calmed him. After a hundred counted paces he paused to gain his bearings. Road layouts changed all the time but he thought he recognised a junction ahead. He took off his gloves, conspicuous anyway on a muggy day and unfolded his map from its waterproof container.

Although he was sure that he was being ignored by the pa.s.sing traffic, he felt conspicuous on the highway and decided to cut across country. In driving part way he had made good time so he could afford to walk the rest.

A quarter of a mile further on there was a turning onto a bridleway that quickly became a footpath. It pa.s.sed through allotments then a nursery denuded of bedding plants, before returning to countryside. He walked on through small stands of trees, pausing at stiles he remembered from childhood.

A cough from behind him made him start. An elderly couple was walking their dog and he was blocking their way. How long had he been standing there, lost in the past? He patted their dog and smiled at them, his eyes crinkling in a friendly way that made them smile back. It was fun doing that, tricking smiles out of people. If they only knew what he had done, and what he was capable of doing to them right now, they would probably die of twin heart attacks before he could reach them. The thought made him chuckle and they looked back. The old man touched his cap and walked on. He let them shuffle out of sight then followed along the path.

They kept to the footpath ahead of him, forcing him to a slower pace. From time to time he would pause and consult his map. With his hat, rucksack and mud splattered boots he looked a typical rambler. At last they turned aside and he was able to move on. Memories of juvenile explorations, watching, prying, eventually touching, came back to him and his stride grew into the lope he could keep up all day. He felt supremely confident on foot, able to outpace and outdistance most ordinary men. And he knew his way around. Even the air smelled familiar: soil, faint traces of exhaust and a whiff from the munic.i.p.al tip when the wind changed direction. He was almost there. Telford appeared grey on the horizon. Since he had left the area to work in Birmingham, the town had grown outwards in irregular loops. It would take him less time to reach his destination than he had thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

'Diamond?'

Her mother's voice held the mix of concern and frustration that she'd become accustomed to since her 'accident', as her parents had decided to call it. Ginny bit down hard and rolled over in bed.

'Diamond?'

She was tapping on the door now. Ginny burrowed deeper and ignored her. The hinge creaked open, a sound as old as she was that had once been a.s.sociated with comfort and cuddles, but since she'd started to count her age with two digits, had signified intrusion and unwelcome interference.

She sensed her mother stiffen at the sight of her room. Clothes everywhere, curtains drawn against the day, old toys thrown around the floor during her last tantrum. There was a pause. She imagined her mother trying to master her irritation and smiled grimly. Good.

'Oh sweetheart, another bad one?' The concern in her mother's voice brought tears to her eyes. She felt about five.

A creak, the floorboard at the end of the bed, and then another and her mother's weight bowed down the side of the mattress as she sat. A hand found the top of her head and stroked it. Ginny felt the next tears of the day roll down her right cheek and into the pillow.

'Would you like something to eat, lovely? It's nearly half past two.'

Ginny shook her head. She hadn't had any supper and her stomach ached with hunger but the thought of food nauseated her. She hated her body with its curves and bulges that had drawn that man to her. As every day pa.s.sed and they faded away she became flatter, more like a boy. One day, when she was too ugly for anyone to notice, she hoped to feel safe again.

'How about some coffee then? I promise not to make it too milky and I won't add any sugar.'

Her mother knew how she felt without her having told her. It was one of the reasons Ginny could still bear her presence. With everybody else she found it almost impossible to be in the same room, let alone talk. Even her father, whom she knew loved her so much he would do anything for her, even he made her shudder. He was a man she couldn't bear to be near men, with their animal smell and thick hands. Her poor dad. She sobbed and her mother lifted her up from the bed into her arms.

'There, there, little one. It's all right. Ssh, everything's going to be OK, give it time.'

'I can't bear it, Mum. I just can't bear it.' Ginny choked back her words. She hadn't meant to speak but with her mother there so close it was impossible to stay silent. 'I dream of him every night. He's coming to get me, I know he is. I can feel him out there thinking about me.'

It was the same every day. If anything her conviction had grown since the attack. She knew that he wanted her still.

'I spoke to your dad about this last night, Ginny, and he called the police. They say that he won't come back but they're keeping a car outside and increasing the patrols anyway. On Sat.u.r.day we're going to go away, just the three of us. Auntie May will look after the others. By the time we come back they are bound to have caught him.'

Ginny shook her head.

'He's smart, Mum, really smart. Cleverer than the police. I'm not the first one, you know!' Her voice was growing shrill, rising on a tide of hysteria.

'That's enough, Virginia. Calm down. Come on, I'll run you a nice bath you can have some of my Chanel No. 5 bubbles if you like and afterwards I'll dry your hair.'

Ginny sniffed her sheets. They were stale, like her skin. She hadn't showered since hospital and she stank, even to her own nose, yet her mum was hugging her as close as if she smelt of roses. Ginny took a deep breath. Mum was right. She should get up and wash this sweat of fear away. Perhaps then she would start to feel more human.

As her mum ran the bath, Ginny found a fresh white T-shirt and khaki jeans. When she pulled back the curtains and saw the drizzle, she added a thin jumper to the pile and walked to the bathroom. It was steamy and warm inside. The smell of her favourite perfume tugged a half smile from her. On the vanity unit her mum had left talc and body lotion in the same fragrance, h.o.a.rded since last Christmas and used only on special occasions. Ginny felt tears coming again and blinked them away.

She threw her grubby nightshirt into the laundry bin and stepped into the bath, lowering herself carefully so that the thick layer of foam stayed below the dressing on her shoulder. The deeper bites stung but even so the water was wonderful on her skin, silky and comforting. She sank lower, until the bandage touched the bubbles.