Fifty
A soft knock on his door.
‘Brought you a beer.’
Simon was standing by the open window, listening to an owl in the copse and trying to let its gentle hooting soothe him. He had washed his knuckles under the cold tap but the gash he had inflicted on himself still smarted.
Will had closed the door behind him and now he stood just inside the room, holding the beer bottle. He was the last person Serrailler wanted to talk to, except perhaps Morson.
‘You OK?’
He did not reply.
‘Listen … there wasn’t much I could do. That last lot of stuff …’
‘I can’t take it … not snuff movies. Never could. Just way too far.’
‘Not sure about them myself, but Andrew’s always been into them. He’s got tapes where –’
‘Shut up.’
‘Well – have the beer.’
‘Can you just put it down there?’
He clenched his fist in spite of the injury. He wanted to smash it into Fernley’s face. Into Morson’s face. He knew he was on the verge of being unable to control himself.
Instead of leaving, Will came to stand by him at the window. The owl hooted again.
‘Love that sound. When I was a small boy, I rescued a newly fledged tawny – it had fallen out of the nest onto a ledge. I climbed up and got it, put it higher up. The mother came and fed it there … kind of good deed, I thought.’
Simon turned to look at him. His face had softened with the memory. He was a good-looking man. He spoke quietly. How? How, how, how? Thinking of what Will had just sat calmly watching in the basement room, watching with such greed and excitement, his head swam. He had heard Fernley in the group therapy sessions, explaining what he had done, how he felt about it. He had listened and he might have been listening to an actor in a play, spouting out a false confession, working up their emotions, sweating to try and convince those men how he belonged, was one of them and worse than some. Just as he himself had done.
But tonight, the reality of it all had come home to him, the reason he had been there and was now in this house he was desperate to get away from, a vile, tainted, depraved place which would leave its stain on him for the rest of his life.
‘Andrew’s happy to get us to the next stage – cars, drivers – perfectly safe.’
‘He can’t know that. It’s not safe.’
‘He’s done it before. OK, not exactly the same – but people needing to move somewhere discreetly.’
‘Right. I might head north.’
‘Do you have somewhere?’
‘Probably.’
‘Listen, Johnno … I don’t know what’s got to you. Is it just what we did catching up with you or is it something else? Can’t just be that stuff tonight, you’ve seen plenty of that, for God’s sake, or why are you here?’
‘Sorry.’ Simon put a hand on Fernley’s shoulder. ‘Delayed shock … I get nightmares – because if we’re taken, it’s not going to be back to Stitchford, is it?’
‘You had a bad time, didn’t you? They beat you up?’
‘You could say. Rather not talk about it at this time of night.’
‘I’ll go. Want me to slip down and get you a Scotch to chase the beer? Or Andrew will have some pills, make you sleep like the dead.’
‘I’m OK. Thanks for the drink.’
A door slammed somewhere. Footsteps hard up the stairs.
‘Shit.’
They turned as Morson crashed into the room. ‘They’ve hacked into Blind Runner …’ He leaned against the door jamb to catch his breath.
‘It isn’t possible.’
‘No, it isn’t, but they’ve done it all the same. They’ve got into the back room, which means they’ve got the lists, contact emails.’
Fernley’s face was white. ‘For fuck’s sake … are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
‘How? How?’
‘A leak. Has to be.’
‘No way.’
They were talking across Serrailler. He might not have been there. There was panic on their faces, in their voices – controlled, but still panic.
‘I need to talk to someone,’ Will said.
‘PAYG mobile in my desk drawer, right-hand side, with the pens. Bring it up here.’
When Will had bolted out of the room, Morson seemed to calm down and relax. He wandered over to the open window and stood listening. The owl was still there, its soft hoot filling the garden.
‘You’re OK, are you, Johnno?’
‘What about?’
‘Your network, you idiot.’
‘Don’t know – haven’t had a chance to check. Anyway, it’s a long time since I was on there, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. You might have had all sorts of things set up from Stitchford.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Deprived, then, I take it.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘Did he?’ Andrew swung round. ‘Will? Must have been frustrating and he’s an impatient sort of bloke. I’m surprised you threw in your lot with him.’
Andrew’s eyes did not leave Serrailler’s face.
‘Right. You can get online from here.’
‘Better not.’
‘Be quite safe.’
‘Not given what’s gone on with yours, I don’t think so. Can’t risk it anyway.’
‘What’s your username?’
‘As if I’d tell you.’
‘Safe with me.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Can I use the phone after he’s done?’
‘Be my guest.’
Will came back with a basic-pay-as-you-go phone in his hand. ‘You sure this is OK?’
He looked strained.
‘Perfectly. Unused. It’s the safest way. I’ll leave you to it. When you’re done Johnno here wants a turn.’
Left alone, Serrailler stood, thinking, thinking. If they had managed to black out a member of the paedophile ring Morson was central to, they would have enough information to trace a lot of people. It was a breakthrough, certainly, but it had put him in more danger. He needed to alert his contact and plan a getaway. He needed Snoopy …
When Will brought the phone back, he checked it out. Nothing. Whoever had been contacted, the number and message had been deleted. Using it, though, to send a covert police message was chancy. Cat. One text? No. If there was the remotest chance that Morson could call up the number, it could put her in danger. He had learned over many years that there is no such thing as absolute safety, or any move that was entirely without risk.
He made up a number, sent a text that said Am OK and deleted it all. Not to have done so would have looked suspicious.
He lay on his bed, fully dressed, waiting for the house to fall silent, time to pass.
He had to find his watch. If it had gone with the old newspapers Lynn might have put them in the recycling bin, in which case he would find it. If it was with his dirty clothes, he hoped to God she had not put it through the washing machine. If she hadn’t, and it had dropped out of the bundle, he could either go and ask her the next day, or hope she would return it to him. But tonight, he could at least do one search.
He waited until a quarter to three, then put on the old cotton jacket Morson had found for him and which fitted loosely, took two bananas and an apple from the fruit bowl, and the now-tepid bottle of beer. Nothing else because he had nothing else. He was only taking extreme precautions. Chances were he would be back in his bed safely, watch intact, within the hour. But he had an odd sense that he might be at risk, and he had learned long ago not to ignore his gut instincts.
He moved with infinite patience and care, one small step, barely the length of his foot, then stop, listen, wait, one small step. The wood settled into itself, the boards shifted, but he had become used to the sounds the house made of its own accord and tried to work with them and not make more of his own. It took five full minutes to cross the landing to
the first staircase, after which he stood for another minute, scarcely breathing, not touching the banister, hands against his sides. One step down, millimetre by millimetre. Ten minutes to go down the stairs. Five on the second landing, and here, he was even more careful, if that were possible, because Morson’s room was a couple of yards to his right. He heard a faint snore. There was not a sliver of light.
His hand bumped very slightly against the head of the banister and he froze. Nothing. Two more minutes. Three. Four. He moved again.
It was easier once he had reached the wide hall, and started to inch his way to the side door. He was unsure if anyone had a room on this side of the house but took no chances, still moved at snail pace and with the greatest stealth, still paused, listened, holding his breath. There was no hurry other than to do it all before the sun rose, and before the others surfaced out of the deepest sleep into a lighter one during which they might become aware of sounds.
He slid bolts. Found the key on the shelf. Turned the lock. It made a slight click but the noise was deadened by the thick walls on either side. Wait again.
He pulled the door to gently behind him but did not close it.
He had to work out where the bins might be. Two false tries, and then he found them, under a wooden overhang next to the wood store, and accessible by the dust cart beside the back entrance. There were three bins, one for garden refuse and two others. So far as he knew, there had not been a collection in the last three days. Waste disposal of any kind is never a quiet operation but still might well not have been heard from upstairs and right round on the other side. He lifted the lid of the first black bin. It was full to the top, the lid barely closing. The second was not much emptier which meant collection was imminent.
The watch and newspapers would have gone into a recycling sack and there were several.
The top bag was obviously full of plastic bottles and boxes. The next was extremely heavy. He felt about and his hand touched what felt like something made of metal. Even the owl had fallen silent now.
He hauled out the bag and saw not a bag but a large cardboard box underneath it, full to the top with papers. It would not be difficult to sort through them, though it would take time to pick each newspaper up, shake it, put it to one side, take up the next. He was about to bend down and make a start when he was half blinded by a bright blue-white light shining directly into his eyes.
‘Have you lost something, Johnno?’
Fifty-one
‘I can’t believe you mean this, Shelley – after everything that’s happened, everything you’ve gone through up to now.’
‘I do mean it.’
‘You haven’t thought it through.’
‘I have thought it through, I’ve done nothing else but think it through, and inside and out and upside and down. I haven’t slept for thinking it through.’
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Something’s happened, someone’s said something. Was it Tim? You haven’t told anyone else, have you?’
‘Tim’s been the same from the start. He didn’t want me to go this far and he’s never wavered.’
‘Then what, Shelley? Don’t you think you owe it to me to tell me? Last time you were here you were rock solid – you were pressing charges, nothing more certain. Today you come in and you’ve changed your mind. Something must have happened.’
Shelley stared out of the window at the summer rain. The traffic below moved along silently, sound muffled by the double glazing in the consulting room. She did not look at Tina because she felt ashamed of meeting her counsellor’s eye.
‘Listen … a lot of women who come in here are not only like you, frightened, in shock, hurt – physically hurt, emotionally hurt – they’re also all over the place and the one thing they want to do is blot it out, run away, have it over with, and they’re often women who are terrified of what will happen to them if they do press charges against the man – assuming they know his identity. If they don’t, they’re terrified the police will find him and that will put them in danger … they’re not women who are very familiar with the police and the court process – or if they are, it’s not in a good way, I can tell you. They might have been up before the court themselves, in prison even – and once that’s happened, they’re convinced no one will believe them, and with good reason. It shouldn’t affect things but I’m afraid all too often it does. If they get even as far as us they’re doing incredibly well. But you’ve no reason to fear the police, you don’t have a criminal record, you’re – well, let’s just say you’re the kind of woman a court is likely to believe. Why would you go this far? Why would you lie? What possible reason could you have? Shelley, listen to me – I’m here for you, this place is behind you, all of us, the whole system, everything we can muster – you can afford a top lawyer –’
‘So can he.’
‘All right, but –’
‘I know what sort of man he is, Tina, because, basically, he’s the sort I married, other than the fact that Tim would never in a million years do what Serrailler did. But he’s a pillar of the community, doctor, highly respected, Freemason, all that … they’re not going to take my word against his, of course they’re not. That’s what I suddenly realised. I’d be mad to go into court against him. And when I lost, which I would, how would that play out in the future? With my life, with my marriage, for both of us living here? Think of what it would be like every day, when I went shopping, if we ate out, just everyday life … think how people would look and point, you try putting yourself into that place.’
‘I have,’ Tina said quietly. ‘I do it every day.’
Shelley started to cry. Small, silent, pathetic tears rolled down her cheeks.
Tina pushed the box of tissues across the low table. She waited. Shelley got up and turned her back, staring out of the window at the rain. Tina poured some water, drank it all. Looked at Shelley’s back. Looked at rain dashing against the windows. Waited.
Eventually, and without turning round, Shelley said, ‘One more week.’
‘That’s brilliant!’ Tina got up and went to hug her, but Shelley stiffened. She used to hug and kiss easily, had always been affectionate with everyone, from her two small nephews upwards. Now, she couldn’t bear anyone to come close to her. She had to brace herself when Joshua and Luke clung round her legs, wanting to be picked up. She could not let Tim near her at all.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Fifty-two
Cat had only met Paula Devenish, the old Chief Constable, a couple of times and she had found her formidable, though she knew Simon had liked her, worked closely with her, and been sorry when she retired. He had said nothing about her replacement before he had disappeared.
CC Kieron Bright was surprisingly young, though she smiled as she caught herself thinking so.
She made coffee and they went into the sitting room. The rain was over and the sky had cleared to a hazy blue. Drops of water caught in the hollows of leaves and petals glittered in the last rays of the sun.
He was a relaxed man, leaning back in his chair with an easy manner, out of uniform and wearing pale blue chinos and a sweatshirt, but his expression was alert, on a long-nosed, wide-mouthed face. There was a sharpness in his look. He would not miss much. He had drunk his coffee straight off and accepted another, saying little though doing so amiably, but when he set his mug down, he leaned forward.
‘Right. Simon,’ he said. ‘The first thing is for me to reassure you – I have no bad news. All I can tell you is that he’s undercover, on a very sensitive operation, and I am the only person in the station who knows where and why. I’m not his direct contact but I’m next in line. If I hear anything at all that I can tell you I will. Listen, you’re aware of his work with SIFT, you’ve had him vanish for days or even weeks before now, you know how it is.’
‘Yes, I do, and I know better than to probe, don’t worry. He’ll surface.’
He leaned back again and smil
ed. ‘He will, trust me.’
‘Dangerous thing to say. I very much appreciate your taking the trouble to come out here though.’
‘Thanks.’ He paused. The sharp look again. Then, ‘That wasn’t your only reason for ringing the station, was it? You had a visit from a DC, asking about Dr Richard Serrailler but not saying why.’
Cat was taken aback. Chief constables did not usually concern themselves with the small stuff of everyday police enquiries, they had the broader picture to worry about. So perhaps it was not a trivial matter and all she could think about was that it was to do with Judith. But Judith would never in a million years go to the police about anything personal, no matter what he had done. She had never even admitted that Richard had been violent towards her.
She suddenly felt sick.
‘I’ve no idea why my father is supposed to be contacting the police but please don’t keep anything from me.’
Kieron said nothing for a long moment, and looked out of the window, thinking, working something out. She liked the fact that he had not come with a stock set of bland phrases which told her nothing, that he was not impulsive or glib.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re a doctor, you know all about confidentiality. So do I. Legally, I may be doing the wrong thing here but I’m going to live with that because I think you should know, if only to be prepared. But can we assume for a moment that you are in the surgery and what I say is under that seal?’
He waited for her answer.
‘I think so. Yes.’
When he told her, his voice was calm. Cat thought that few people, especially few men in his position, could have said what he had to say to her with such tact and gentleness.
It did not take long because he could not give her much detail. When he had finished, her first reaction was a clear-headed and unemotional one. She was not surprised. The fact that her father was to be charged with rape should have been shocking, upsetting and horrifying. It was not. It was as though many things which had been floating about apparently at random in the depths of her mind now clicked together and she saw a clear picture. She did not doubt that it was true.