Текст книги "The Risk of Darkness"
Автор книги: Susan Hill
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“But she hasn’t done any of it, Jan, she hasn’t done it.”
“What difference does that make? It’s her name, all over the telly, all over everywhere, picture in the papers, everyone looking.”
“They won’t look, they don’t know she’s your sister.”
“Of course they know and what they don’t know they’ll soon find out. I want to know what’s going to happen to us, you’ve got to do something about that.”
Eileen got up and went to the sink, turned on both taps and watched the water swirl round and run away down the plughole. There were pots to be washed but she did not wash them.
“You’d best get back to work,” she said.
Dougie had taken two days off then asked to be allowed to come home at lunchtime, pleading that she was not well, couldn’t be left alone too long. They didn’t believe him of course but he thought they sounded sorry.
“No one’s got any idea,” he told her.
Though they had. It wasn’t difficult. Someone had asked him direct and he had turned and walked off which was all they needed. He’d cursed at himself.
His boys had taken it in and gone very quiet. Keith had said nothing on the drive home but he’d kissed Eileen and kept an arm round her for a minute and said he was there for her, Leah was there for her. It was a dreadful nightmare and a mess but it would be sorted. Of course it would be. But then it had gone quiet. The phone hadn’t rung.
Dougie thought he’d go round to Keith’s later, on his own. Once they had the visit to the prison sorted.
“I’m off then,” he said. “Now you take your book and sit out. Make the most of the sunshine. You’ve no need to answer the phone or the bell, and keep the front door locked. Just sit in the sun. I’ll stop and get some eggs, bit of salad for later. Anything else we want?”
She was still watching the water run out of the taps into the sink.
Dougie came over and turned them off. He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment.
“I don’t know where to start,” Eileen said.
“You don’t have to do anything. Best leave it to the professional people. They know the ropes, how it all works.”
“You think? They haven’t done much of a job so far that I can see.”
“I know, love. That’s how it looks, but they’re the experts, aren’t they?”
“No. I am. I’m her mother. What do they know better than me about her?”
He wondered if that was the truth but he had no answer.
He wished he could go up there himself, get a visit to her, stand in front of her and ask. Have it out. Get her to tell him how it had all come about. Get the truth out of her and he’d know what was the truth, and when he did, if it was an almighty mistake, he’d get behind her like nobody else. But he had to find out for himself.
And if there had not been any mistake? Oh, he would know that too. And then he would tell her what her mother was like, what it would do to her and what it would go on doing for the rest of her life, how it would break her and would go on breaking her, slowly, relentlessly, into smaller and smaller pieces which would be impossible ever to reassemble. If it was true he would want to get inside Edwina’s head, split open her skull and peer in to see, to try and get at the root of it, get something, some explanation, some reason or else some flaw or illness or madness.
If it was all true, the something rotten that would be there ought to be got out and destroyed.
Rotten. He pictured it, a rotten, scabrous, festering area and then he pictured a razor blade and himself cutting the evil out. He could see the hole there would be left, the clean, gaping, open wound that would be left.
He realised what he was thinking.
He looked at Eileen’s hair, brown going mostly grey, frizzled and dry. He could see a small patch of flaky skin on her scalp.
He pulled his hand away from her and went out, wanting the air and the sunlight and the normal world. Wanting to be on his own, and away from all of it, for a long time.
Thirty-nine
“You seem very determined to do everything alone. You don’t want to accept help from anyone. You don’t want to have any visitors at all. I’m just wondering if you can think why that should be.”
“I don’t have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
The shrink was wearing a pale blue T-shirt with a sparkly circle in the middle and a pair of smart black jeans. Smart, but it seemed wrong. She was a professional, a doctor, she was on duty. Jeans weren’t the proper thing to be wearing.
Ed was sitting on her legs in the low chair. She was tucked in.
A fan in the corner sucked the warm air in, whirred it round and belched it out again.
“Your mother?”
“What about her?”
“I’m wondering why you said you had no next of kin. You’ve a mother, a sister, nephews.”
“So bloody what? They’re nothing to do with me and nothing to do with you.”
“Why do you think that? They are your family, so they do have to do with you. That’s just fact. Isn’t it?”
Ed shrugged. “That’s all it is then.”
“I’m wondering why you feel like this about them.”
“Are you?”
Ed wanted to hit her. She never looked fazed, never looked mad, or upset or put out. She never looked anything other than relaxed and quite—pleasant, she supposed. Yes. Pleasant. Her face was pleasant. Her expression was pleasant. Polite. Pleasant.
She sat on her legs and waited. She knew what was coming. How did you get on with your mother? What was she like to you? What about your childhood, your sister, your dad, your dad dying, what’s your earliest memory, did you have lots of friends, were people unkind to you, were you abused, did, didn’t, was, wasn’t, why, when, how, why, why, why.
“Have you ever thought of what it feels like to a child? To be safe and happy, everything normal, and then to be dragged into a car by a stranger and taken away from that safe, familiar world. Have you ever imagined the feelings?”
These were not the questions. This was not the way it was meant to go.
Ed was angry.
“Have you imagined what a parent feels like when their child is taken? Or a sister or brother? Neighbours and friends? Grandparents? Take a minute to imagine it.”
She wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears and scream. She wanted to run out of the room. She wanted to hurl herself at the young woman in the pale blue T-shirt with the sparkly circle and the black jeans and claw at her face and eyes and grip her round the throat.
The fan hummed.
The face was the same. Pleasant. She waited. She did not write or even look at her notepad. She looked at Ed and waited. Pleasantly.
“Are you thinking about it?”
“No.”
“Do you think you ought to?”
“No.”
“Do you think you can? Or would that be too difficult, take too much nerve? Would it be very threatening?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Have you ever felt threatened?”
“What?”
“Not physically. Or perhaps, yes, perhaps that. But I really meant have you felt a threat to you, to Ed, to who you actually are inside yourself?”
“Yadda yadda yadda.”
“I’d like to give you a word to think about for next time. I’m going to ask you to take it into yourself and really study it c look at it from all round. Think what the word can mean. To you. To other people. To your family, maybe. To a child. Write things down if it helps you. Focus on it. Not all the time, obviously. Give yourself a few minutes here and there to focus on it, let it sink in. OK?”
Ed shrugged.
“Good. Ed, here’s the word then. ‘Love’.”
Forty
The heat shimmered above the ground. Cat Deerbon drove down Gas Street in the vain search for shade in which to park, but the shady side of the street was bumper to bumper.
A police vehicle came crawling down as she got out into the Turkish bath that was the world outside an air-conditioned car. It made her think of Simon. She had rung him twice, left a message on his mobile. He had not responded. Part of her decided he should be left to digest the home truths she had dealt out to him. Most of her was ashamed of herself. It was almost six o’clock. This was her last visit of the day. When she had made it, she decided to go round and see if her brother was in his flat.
Number 8 of the Old Ribbon Factory was one floor above Max Jameson’s apartment. She walked up the three flights of stairs and had to lean against the iron rail to get her breath, wondering why having three children and a job, a pony and a paddock full of chickens did not seem to have kept her fit.
The patient, a teenage boy with appendicitis, was swiftly dealt with and the ambulance called. Job done. Now for Si. She headed back down the stairs.
Max Jameson, unkempt, and looking spaced out, was coming out of his front door between two policemen.
“Max?”
He turned his head eagerly towards her.
“Afternoon, Doc.” The PC nodded to her.
“It’s about Lizzie,” Max said.
“Lizzie?”
Cat looked from him to the policeman, who hesitated.
“Max c”
“I saw Lizzie and she ran away from me. That’s all. I followed her.”
“OK, that’s it, sorry, Doc.” They chivvied him between them down the stairs.
Cat watched in concern, then ran towards her own car.
Now she had an even more pressing reason to call on Simon.
The home-going traffic had eased and she had a clear run through town and into the Cathedral Close. Here, there was shade to park under the wide, spreading trees. The choirboys were walking in file from the Song School towards the side door and evensong, deep red cassocks beneath white surplices. She hoped Felix might be a chorister. Sam had set his face firmly against the whole idea. Chris was against it too. The routine was punishing, he said, early mornings, every Sunday eaten up, evening practice as well, holidays often interrupted by visits to other cathedrals at home and abroad. Nevertheless, hearing Felix raise his own voice in tuneful imitation when she herself sang a bar here and there before a St Michael’s Singers practice encouraged Cat’s private ambitions.
She watched the boys disappear through the door into the cathedral, hesitating whether to go in and hear evensong rather than tackle her brother, but as she stood, dithering, Simon’s car came through the archway and flashed down the close towards the buildings at the end. She walked after him.
“Hi.”
Simon turned. “Ahha. Come to smoke the pipe of peace? Not sure if I’m ready for that.”
“No. I just came from a patient in the Old Ribbon Factory in time to see Max Jameson being taken away by two policemen.”
“Don’t know anything about that, sorry.”
“I do need to find out, Si. Obviously the PCs wouldn’t tell me but he’s in a bad way, I’m very concerned about him.”
“They’ll be on to that. The sergeant will send for the FMO and he’ll get the duty Psych if he thinks it necessary. You know how it works.”
“I ought to see him.”
Simon shook his head. “I’ll try and find out tomorrow.”
They stood in the shadow of the building, tension and anger still simmering between them with the stale heat of the day. Rows with Simon upset Cat more than anything else, perhaps even more than the very few she ever had with Chris, because Chris blew up, then forgot, Chris was reasonable, open, upfront. Simon was none of those things.
“He did commit a pretty serious offence when he held that young clergywoman captive.”
“She didn’t press charges.”
“No, but so far as we’re concerned it’s been noted.”
“He was out of it just now. He said he’d seen his dead wife.”
“It’s not in your hands. Just leave us to deal with it.”
“What’s wrongwith you? That didn’t sound like the brother I know.”
He turned away. “Perhaps because you don’t know your brother.”
Cat watched him open the front door, go through and let it close behind him. He did not ask her up. He did not look round.
She walked slowly back to her car in tears and phoned home.
“Cat?”
“I’m on my way. Got sidetracked.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, I just had to call in on Simon to check something out.”
“Now what’s your bloody brother said? I’m sick of him upsetting you.”
“I’m not upset.”
“If you say so.”
“You know what he’s like.”
“Too bloody right I know. Just come home. We love you.”
“I’m worried about Max Jameson.”
“And you’re off duty. Leave it. Hannah got a gold star for neatness.”
“Hey!”
“I cooked the salmon. Hannah’s helping me do a potato salad.”
“Where’s Felix?”
“Watching Wimbledon.”
“Chris, you know you shouldn’t dump him in front of the television.”
“I didn’t, Sam did. They’re both in love with Miss Sharapova.”
Cat laughed.
“Good. Now come home to us.”
She took a detour via Gas Street and paused at the top. There was no sign of anything untoward. Max would be in custody. Perhaps, later tonight, he would be let out again. “I saw Lizzie and she ran away from me. I followed her.” It was easy enough to hang a label on his state of mind. Deluded. Hallucinating. The human term was suffering. How many medical problems were human problems first?
But it was Simon she thought about for the rest of the way home. She hated the way he sometimes behaved, the cold side, the part of him that shrugged everyone off. The Simon who was arrogant. She remembered pouring a bottle of cologne over his head when they were sixteen or so and he had enraged her. He had smelled of cheap scent for days.
She smiled to herself. Maybe Diana Mason should do something similar.
Forty-one
Eileen Meelup remembered the reference section of the local library as having newspapers on poles hung against the walls, magazines on a stand, and shelves of dictionaries and encyclopedias. There had been heavy wooden tables and chairs and your shoes had squeaked on the polished floors, making everyone look up. There had been a special sort of hush and a faintly musty smell. Like a church.
She walked in and stopped dead. Everything was different. They had painted the room white. The big books, the newspapers and magazines, the wooden tables and chairs had been replaced by a row of little tables on which stood computers, with swivel office chairs in front of them. The screens were bright and there was the soft click of keyboards.
She backed out again and went to the desk in the lending section. Newspapers? The girl muttered about there being a newsagent on the corner.
Eileen left. As well as the newsagent, there was a sandwich bar, takeaway but with a couple of high stools at a window counter. Eileen got a milky coffee and hauled herself up on to one of them.
Now that there were no newspapers she had to think again. At one time they had kept copies for the whole of the previous year, in a separate store. You asked for what you wanted and they had either got them out there and then, or you could go back. She had been relying on them, working out in her mind how she would go through them in date order, last to first. It was all she had thought about for a week and it had kept her going. The newspapers would have had everything she needed, all the reports, the police appeals, the pictures, everything. Every case would have been there. She could have gone over them slowly, making sure she knew everything. And in one of them, somewhere, there would have been what she was looking for, however hidden, however small the detail, the proof that Weeny had had nothing to do with any of it, that there had been a gross mistake, a whole catalogue of mistakes. “A miscarriage of justice.” All it would have taken would have been time and she had plenty of that now. She had handed in her notice at work so as to have all day and every day to do it. Now, she felt as if she had been set down in a place she had thought she knew but which turned out to be quite foreign to her. She could not find her way about, had no idea which route to take.
There had been no word from Weeny. Dougie had spent almost an hour on the phone trying to find out if it would be possible for her mother to visit her in prison. But no date had been fixed.
Weeny had always been funny about wanting to do things on her own. Cliff had taught her. Standing up for herself, not needing anyone. But now, faced with all of this, surely she would write, surely. Eileen scraped the coffee scum from the inside of her empty cup with the spoon. How could you get yourself into a mess like this, how could you face what was going wrong, without your family round you? Even Weeny couldn’t do that.
When they were little, Janet had always cried, cried about anything and everything. Weeny never had. She had always been composed, always the same, not laughing a lot, not crying, not chattering away like Jan. Eileen had loved her for it, loved her quiet self-possession, loved to have her sit by her, reading, doing her scrapbook. She hadn’t demanded fuss and attention like Jan. Jan had been her dad’s little girl. Weeny had been hers.
Yet she had gone. Grown up and walked out and hardly been in touch since, still needing no one, still her own person.
Short of facing some dreadful last illness, there couldn’t be anything worse than what was happening now. But still Weeny had not told them, not shared any of it, left them to find out via the television news.
What must it be like? To know you were charged with doing things so vile it was hard to let them into your head, to know you were being punished for what someone else had done, to know it was all wrong but to have to go through it just the same—it was unimaginable. Whatever she could do, she would, whoever she had to talk to, whatever she had to say to prove it, she would. Dougie would as well. Dougie knew it was a dreadful mistake as well as she herself did. They ought to be with Weeny. Surely to God Weeny ought to let them be there.
She paid for the coffee and walked back to the library.
The girl with the fingernails painted silver had gone and a plump woman was at the counter. Eileen waited for three people to check in their books.
“Good morning.”
“I came in before. I wanted to know about getting newspapers.”
“We—”
“I know, she said. You don’t have newspapers now, so you wouldn’t have the old ones in the store, like you used to?”
“I’m afraid not, they went some time ago. Was it old news cuttings you wanted to find?”
“Not very old. Just some things this year.”
“Have you tried online?”
Eileen stared.
“Newspapers have online archives. You can register and do a search.” She smiled. She had an encouraging smile. “I take it you’re not into computers yet?”
“Never touched one. No.”
“It’s very easy. You can book half an hour on one and you can book tuition as well.”
“Oh no, I don’t think I could manage it.”
“Of course you could. If you only want to look up some back news, you don’t have to learn more than half a dozen steps. Why don’t you book a session?”
Dougie was putting a new washer on the kitchen tap. Bits were spread all over the draining board.
“Now what do you want to get into all that for?”
“I need to find out, it’s the only way, I’ve got to go into all of it, I’ve got to help her, I’m her mother.”
“I know. Only Keith could do it for you, couldn’t he?”
“What’s it got to do with Keith?”
Dougie looked hurt.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I meant on his computer. Save you.” He started to twist the tap round and round gripping the head of the pliers. “Unless you want to. Get into all that. Computers.”
“I couldn’t ask him.”
“Why not? He’s family.”
“I have to do it myself, Dougie.”
“Suit yourself. Right, that’s done, I’ll get the water back on.”
She went to the window. It was gathering up for a storm, the sky like pencil lead. She hadn’t meant to upset Dougie. But she couldn’t ask Keith. Somewhere, like lightning far away on the horizon, she was aware of something flickering on and off in her mind, something she would not acknowledge but which was nevertheless enough to make her certain that she could not let anyone else, even if they were family, start the searching, the finding out, the questioning. It was a private thing. Private.
She turned on the tap to fill the kettle and the water sprayed out sideways, soaking her sleeve.
“Bugger.” Dougie stared at it.
Later, when he had taken the tap apart again and put it back and checked the water flow, he went into the front room. It was dark. The thunder was rumbling nearer and the rain began to hit the window in a series of slow single splashes. He did not turn the light on, just set down the tea and settled himself in his chair. After a moment, through the beating of the rain, he said, “Maybe better just leave it, love.”
“How do you mean, leave it?”
“I just don’t want you to get upset, get worried, trying to sort out what’s beyond you. I don’t want that.”
“How can you say that? She’s my daughter, I can’t sit back and watch it, I have to sort it out, of course I have to. If I can’t do that for her c How can you say that?”
He let it go and started to drink his tea, watching the storm break and the rain hurl itself against the picture windows.
Forty-two
The receptionist put her head round the door.
“Can you see one more?”
Cat groaned. She had closed her computer and was checking through some notes. Morning surgery seemed to have lasted for five years.
“How many visits have I got?”
“Not too bad actually c Mr Wilkins has gone into hospital and Mrs Fabiani died this morning.”
“Go on then, but this is the last, Cathy.”
“I said you would. Only she has been waiting over an hour.”
The new receptionist was wonderful to work with, efficient, sympathetic, charming and organised. Her only problem was an inability to say no to patients.
Cat looked up as the door opened on Jane Fitzroy.
“I’m really sorry, I know you’ve had a long morning.”
“Sit down. I think I remember asking you to come and see me before now?”
Jane made a face. “I didn’t think I needed to and you know how it is c”
“Hm.”
“I’m surprised, really, I didn’t expect all this to go on affecting me, it’s over and done with. I ought to have put it behind me.”
“You had a frightening—no, a shocking experience. These things take longer than you might suppose. Tell me.”
“I just need something to help me sleep. If you can give me that, so I get a few decent nights, I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s see. I’ll give you a quick check-over first.”
“No, honestly, don’t waste your time, I’m a very healthy person. I just can’t cope with not sleeping.”
“Are you having flashbacks?”
“Sometimes. Yes, when I go back into the house at the end of the day c especially if it’s late. Yes. It’s really stupid, I know.”
“Not at all. Really normal and understandable. Panic attacks?”
Jane hesitated. “I’m c I get c I don’t know.”
“You know what form they take, though? You’re suddenly gripped by fear and panic out of the blue c you want to run away. Your heart pounds c sometimes you overbreathe, sometimes you start to shake. Some people feel nauseous or want to rush to the loo c some people feel giddy or faint. It does vary but the overwhelming feeling is one of fear. There’s a sense of impending doom.”
“Yes.”
“How often do you get them?”
“Oh, it’s only been a couple of times. Or so.”
“Or so?”
“A few.”
“Jane, you do not have to be ashamed of this. If I came to ask you to hear my confession I would expect to have to confess—everything. Now, I’m your doctor.”
Jane smiled. “OK. It’s getting worse. I seem to be having these attacks more often. Oughtn’t they to be less by now? I’m not dealing with this very well, am I? The other morning, I had to leave the eleven o’clock service c I couldn’t face it, I just froze. I had to get out. Everyone thought I was sick or something.”
“You were.”
“But how feeble can you get for goodness’ sake?”
“This has nothing to do with being feeble. I could give it the correct medical term of post-traumatic stress. It might help you to understand that this is not a moral issue, and it has nothing to do with your lack of nerve, Jane. But you’re right to think that being constantly short of sleep does not help the rest of it. I will prescribe you a short course of a sleeping tablet to break the pattern.”
“Oh, thank you, I—” Jane got up.
“That’s not all though.”
“I don’t want to take anything else c tranquillisers or whatever.”
“Not going to offer them. I think you’d benefit from a couple of sessions with a clinical psychologist. There are two excellent ones at Bevham General. You’d be able to talk everything through, and get some practical tips on coping with panic attacks and so on. It would really help you.”
“Not sure about that.”
“Really? Why, because you’re a priest and shouldn’t need it?”
Jane flushed.
“That’s rubbish and you know it. Listen, this is not going to go away by itself and it will start interfering with your ability to do your work—which is stressful enough. You owe it to yourself and to the job to get this sorted.”
“I didn’t think you were the kind to talk tough.”
“I am very, very good at that. You can take it.” Cat pulled the prescription pad towards her. “Get these. And have a think for twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you.”
“Lecture over.” Cat got up. “You’re my last. Off on the rounds. But listen, I need to talk to you about Imogen House. There have been one or two issues there c you’ll have come up against them by now.”
“Ah, Sister Doherty.”
“Sister Doherty indeed. Chris is out tonight at a meeting.”
They went out into the empty waiting room.
“Dr Deerbon, will you have a word with oncology at BG?” Cathy leaned over the reception desk.
“Yes. Jane—can you come to supper tonight? Potluck but in this weather it’ll be yet another salad.”
Jane smiled. She is not beautiful, Cat thought, she just misses that, but she has a face you have to look at and keep looking at. And her smile is something else.
“I would absolutely love to. I haven’t been out much. It’s just what I need.”
“Here c” Cat scribbled. “We’re easy to find. Fifteen minutes from the cathedral once the rush-hour traffic is over. Any time after seven.”
“Dr Deerbon, they are holding for you c”
“I’m there.”
She waved to Jane as she went to the phone, feeling pleased. An evening of surgery paperwork after she had put the children to bed had just metamorphosed into supper with a new friend.
Forty-three
“Nathan, have you got a minute?”
“On my way, guv.”
Simon swung his chair round to look at the heat shimmer over the tarmac of the station courtyard. The fan on his desk stirred hot air about and shifted the corners of the papers. But he was glad to be back. His week’s leave had not been the best and he suppressed the knowledge that it was mainly his own fault.
Nathan Coates came in whistling.
“You’re chirpy.”
“Morning, guv. Yeah, well, got some good news yesterday.”
“It’s triplets.”
“Gawd, spare me that—be like living in a horror movie.”
“Oh, I’m sure my parents wouldn’t agree with you.”
Nathan went red from the neck up. “Aw, guv c”
“It’s OK, I’m winding you up. Why should you remember I’m a triplet? So what is the news?”
“It is baby stuff though c me and Em went for a scan yesterday and it’s a boy.”
“If that’s what you both want, that’s great.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t mind either way, honest to God, but Em’s been dead set on a boy, she’s chuffed as little apples. What’s to do this morning then?”
“We’re getting a temporary replacement for Gary Jones. DC called Joe Carmody Coming from Exwood.”
DC Gary Jones had been involved in a hit-and-run incident the previous weekend when a getaway car had swerved into him. He was lucky to be alive.
“I’m sick and tired of drugs ops and it’s escalating. The Dulcie is getting out of control. I’m going to a cross-border forces conference about the whole thing next week. I’d like you to show this new guy the ropes here. There’s something for you to look at.” Serrailler got up and went to the map on his wall. “Here c Nelson Road, Inkerman Street, Balaclava Street.”
“Battle Corner c Nice and quiet round there usually.”
“There’s been some trouble c offensive graffiti, racist leaflets and posters, general nastiness.”
“Bit surprising.”
Battle Corner was home to Lafferton’s small number of Asians, but they were second generation and had been absorbed into the community years ago without any trouble.
“It isn’t only the Asians, this is anti-Semitic too. The synagogue is down there as you know but there have been one or two other nasty incidents around Sorrel Drive and Wayland Avenue. Jewish solicitor and a couple of business people have had their cars damaged and stuff shoved through the letter boxes. We’ve had patrols out but of course nothing ever happens while they’re around. I’m a bit puzzled by it to be honest. So it’s door knocking, talking to the people who’ve been targeted c generally sniffing around. When DC Carmody arrives, I want you to go after it for a couple of days, see what you can dig up.”
“Guv. Any leads?”
“Not really. Looks organised. I don’t think it’s kids.”
“Coming from outside Lafferton then, you reckon?”
“Could well be.”
Nathan went to the door. “Any news on the kiddy killer?”
“Oh, yes, meant to say—heard this morning. Psychiatrist says she’s not insane. Fit to go to trial.”
Nathan punched the air.
“I never doubted it.”
“Yeah, right, but you know what it’s like, they’re bloody clever, pull the wool over a shrink’s eyes all right.”
“Not this time. Ed Sleightholme is as sane as you and me.”
“Jeez, though, guv. Bad not mad. Makes your flesh creep an’ your blood run cold. Still, that’s her down for life, no prob.”
He sailed out. Simon went to open up his emails, thinking of Ed. His worry was that although forensics had given them evidence of David Angus having been in the boot of her car, that did not prove he was dead or that Sleightholme had murdered him. They needed a body. Until they had one, all they could prove for certain was that the little girl Amy Sudden had been abducted. But Amy Sudden had been rescued alive.
Without something much stronger, any decent defence could drive a coach and horses through a murder charge, let alone any of multiple abduction and murder. Nathan’s certainty that Ed Sleightholme would go down for life was by no means rock solid.
The day was desk-bound. He went to the Cypriot deli and got a takeaway sandwich and coffee, walked half a dozen blocks and went back to paperwork. It was not absorbing enough to blot out the occasional worrying thought of his sister and of Diana. He felt guilty about them both, though concerned only about Cat.
The phone put them from his mind.
“Simon? Jim Chapman.”
“News?”
