A Greater Evil (38 page)
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the head. ‘He left at the age of fourteen, nearly twenty years ago.’
‘What about records of his time with you?’
‘That’s a little difficult, Chief Inspector,’ said the head. ‘I would have to have a court order to release them.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Caro said. ‘In the meantime, could you just tell me whether there’s any mention of a repetition of the incident that persuaded his parents to send him to your school in the first place?’
There was a pause easily long enough to tell Caro her suspicions were right.
‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything,’ said the head at last. ‘I will be happy to release the files on the proper authority, but I can’t do anything without it.’
‘You’ve been most helpful. Thank you.’ Caro put down the phone and drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk. The nails were short and clean. She knew by the end of the day they’d be grimed with the blackness London always managed to produce.
Confession evidence on its own would never be enough, but they had plenty of circumstantial stuff to support it. Trish was right: apart from everyone’s gut feeling that he’d done it and the well-known statistics about spousal abuse, the case against Sam Foundling could end up weaker than the one that might be made against Guy Bait.
‘He’s here, guv,’ said the young DC, putting her head round Caro’s door. ‘And he doesn’t want a brief.’
‘How does he seem?’
‘Calmly puzzled. Ready to help in any way he can.’
‘So you didn’t need to arrest him?’
The DC shook her red head. ‘We just asked him if he could accompany us to the station in true
Dixon of Dock Green
style, and he came like a lamb.’
‘Still talking like a gentle uncle to a frightened child?’
‘More or less.’
Caro stiffened her shoulders and stood up without touching her desk or chair. She was strong enough to tackle this interview. She just hoped she’d be subtle enough. Trish’s exasperating confidence mocked her own doubts.
‘Let’s go,’ she said with a smile and a brisk delivery.
Guy Bait stood as she came into the room, which surprised her, and held out his hand for shaking, which made her wonder whether he was unaware of his status as a suspect or merely trying to make her uncomfortable.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Lyalt,’ he said, as though greeting a valued client. ‘It’s really good to see you again. How can I help you this time?’
‘I wanted to ask you some more questions. Haven’t you been offered the chance to have a solicitor?’
He laughed. ‘Of course. But that doesn’t seem necessary.’
‘Maybe not, but I must caution you.’ She recited the familiar words and watched his expression darken. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I entirely understand the caution,’ he said, ‘but not why you feel it necessary to apply it to me. Am I a suspect of some kind now?’
She looked into his clear eyes and saw nothing. His lips didn’t tremble, nor his hands twitch. He smiled.
‘Chief Inspector? I imagine the rules say you do have to tell me if you suspect me of something. Don’t they?’
‘I have to tell you if I’m going to charge you, sir. And I have to caution you before I question you. My suspicions may fall on all kinds of people.’
‘Then you’d better fire away. I have a busy day. Luckily my first meeting isn’t until twelve, but I will have to be gone by half eleven to be sure of getting there in time.’
And I can’t hold you unless I arrest you, Caro thought.
‘Can you tell me again where you were on the morning of Monday December the sixth?’
He leaned back in his chair, giving himself plenty of room to cross his legs. ‘I’ve already explained. I freely offered you a list of my movements that morning, when I had my diary and my secretary there to confirm it. All I can rely on now is my memory.’
‘You did not mention then the fact that you were in Somerset House.’
A delighted smile creased his face. ‘Didn’t I? How silly of me. You remember how I told you I’d bought Christmas cards? That’s where I found them. The news about poor Cecilia Mayford probably put it right out of my head. I’d been all along the Strand, looking for some cards I could bear to send out and nothing seemed quite right. Then I saw the board announcing the Courtauld Institute shop and I nipped in and bought them there.’
‘What were you wearing?’
His brows twitched and his eyes narrowed. ‘A suit, of course. I had a lunch to go to and an afternoon of client meetings.’
‘Could you provide us with the suit?’
‘Certainly. You’d have to come to my flat.’
‘Has it been cleaned recently?’
‘The flat?’
This bastard is playing games, Caro thought, finding it easier to dislike him. Maybe I
will
get him.
‘The suit. Could you describe it?’
As he ran through a description that could probably have been applied to most of the suits in his wardrobe, a hint of satisfaction made his mouth curl up at the corners. He flicked a glance at the clock on the wall. Caro couldn’t help following and saw she had less than an hour and a half before she would have to arrest him or allow him to leave for his meeting. There wouldn’t be much choice.
‘Did you see Cecilia Mayford while you were there?’
‘I can’t say I did. Was she there at the same time? Buying Christmas cards too?’
‘No. Have a look at this.’
Caro swung round and slid the CCTV tape into the video player. He watched politely, apparently quite unworried.
‘Did you do much acting at university?’ she said suddenly and had the satisfaction of seeing him look genuinely surprised.
‘No. Why?’
‘Just a thought. Right, we have established to our mutual satisfaction that you were there. But we still disagree on why you went.’
‘I told you …’
‘I know you did. But it seems too much of a coincidence, particularly after the email Cecilia Mayford sent to Leviathan Insurance’s solicitors when she was working late the evening before.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mr Bait, we could go on playing games all morning, but it seems a little childish. Our experts will be examining the computer that is awaiting recycling in your offices to gather physical evidence – probably DNA from sweat or skin fragments – to show that it was you who used it to open the back door in Ms Mayford’s system.’
She paused to allow him to comment, but he kept his mouth shut and his expression bland.
‘A back door that gave you access to everything she typed,’ Caro went on. ‘We know you saw the email she sent asking for copies of all the documents relating to the cables that were used at the corners of the London Arrow to keep it upright.’
Still he said nothing. He didn’t even look worried. Frustration grabbed at Caro’s gut, along with a scary question: had Trish’s imagination run away with them both?
‘And, I suspect you also picked up the text messages to and from her BlackBerry,’ she said steadily, hoping she showed no sign of doubt. ‘The ones arranging a meeting at Somerset House that morning.’
There was nothing in his face or posture to suggest he had any idea he knew what she was talking about.
‘Knowing what you and I both know, you must have realized she had at last uncovered the mistake you made – or overlooked – when your firm was putting the architect’s original vision for the London Arrow into practical shape.’
He uncrossed his legs and leaned towards Caro. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Chief Inspector, but you have completely lost your marbles. I have no need of a solicitor to protect me against questions concerning the appalling murder of Cecilia Mayford, but I and my firm would need one if I’m to talk about anything to do with the London Arrow. There are court cases pending, as I’m sure you know. I can’t say any more until my lawyers are here.’
‘Caro Lyalt says it was you, Trish.’ Gina Mayford’s voice was warm as well as shaky. ‘I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.’
‘You don’t need to say anything,’ Trish told her.
‘I think I do. I’ve spent so long harbouring very unfair thoughts, wishing I’d never opened the door to your … your …’
‘My interference?’
Gina’s laugh, which Trish hadn’t heard for months, echoed down the phone. ‘Exactly. But you’ve done everything I could have wanted. More than I ever expected.’
‘How’s Sam?’
‘A little stand-offish, but that’s hardly surprising. He knows I suspected him. I can’t think why he hasn’t said anything to you yet.’
‘He and Felicity are coming round for a celebration high tea this afternoon. I expect he’s keeping it till then. Would you like to join us?’
‘I’d better not, Trish. I need to step lightly round him for a while. I think I’ll wait until he feels able to bring her back to live at home instead of camping in the studio.’
That might never happen, Trish thought, but it seemed better not to say it. She put down the phone, wondering how Guy Bait’s arrest would affect the way the consulting engineers tackled their legal problems now. They’d have to settle with QPXQ, which would mean she’d be without a big case. Still, there’d be large brief fees to come, and Steve was showing signs of continuing approval, which suggested he’d find her something else soon.
She smiled at the thought of George, at home in her flat now cooking all kinds of illicit treats for the afternoon’s celebration. He’d decided to take only half the proposed sabbatical, thus giving everyone a reasonable amount of face. Malcolm Jensen had shown signs of resisting the suggestion that he might be happier working for a different firm, but once the police had visited him to ask for information about his dealings with Guy Bait, and his partners had asked how this had affected his accusations against George, he had gone to ground. Presumably he was trying to find another job before he formally departed from Henton, Maltravers.
One day Trish would ask George whether Jensen’s CV had included the years she was sure he must have spent at the school for troubled boys in Yorkshire, but George’s wounds had only just skinned over and she didn’t want to risk that healing by talking too much too soon.
David was happy too, secure in the knowledge that he’d managed to meet his few distant British relations and come safely home to Trish, welcomed and wanted. Soon, she’d have to tackle the continuing problem of their father, Paddy Maguire, charming, feckless, but affectionate when he was allowed to be. George might have become David’s father in everything but name, but she was sure it was important for children to know their genetic parents.
There was a knock at the door. Bettina twitched. Trish called, ‘Come in,’ and saw Sally Elliott, the trainee clerk.
‘I’ve just had a call from Maria-Teresa Jackson’s solicitor,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Like I said, her trial’s on at the Bailey at the moment. Remembering your interest, she thought you might like to know, the judge was to start summing up first thing today.’
It was an easy walk to the Old Bailey and a good day for it, with the air soft and the light almost as creamy as Trish had seen it in Venice once. A few of the daffodils were even showing yellow tips in the window boxes of King’s Bench Walk as she strolled up towards Mitre Court. Emerging into Fleet Street gave her the usual sensation of crossing into a quite different world, and she pushed her way through the crowds down towards Ludgate Circus. Across at the lights, trying not to inhale too many of the exhaust fumes, up Ludgate Hill, then she passed the entrance to Seacole Lane and so into Old Bailey itself.
Most of the criminal courts were now housed in a modern concrete block beside the older building. Queues were waiting outside the entrance to the public galleries, but Trish had the right of entry and was soon past security and checking which court she needed. A quick word with one of the ushers saw her pushing open the door, bowing to the judge, and finding a seat. From here, she could see only the backs of Maria-Teresa and her husband, as they stood in the dock, but she could see the jury’s faces.
They were the usual collection of mostly middle-aged men and women, with little to distinguish them from each other or a thousand of their predecessors, except that they looked hostile, all of them, as they stared towards the dock. Did they hate Maria-Teresa in the same way as the woman Sam had described, who’d attacked her in Holloway?
The judge, robed and bewigged, addressed them with an unpatronizing straightforwardness Trish admired.
‘The prosecution have shown that Melvin Briggs was in the house throughout the evening when the child died,’ he said, so Trish realized she’d missed all the harrowing details of exactly what had been done to the toddler, as well as the familiar instructions on how the jury must arrive at a verdict. ‘And his counsel has not disputed that.
‘The prosecution have accepted that Maria-Teresa Jackson was out for part of the evening, attending her art-appreciation lessons at the local college of further education. Her counsel has brought as witnesses to that fact not only fellow members of the class but also the tutor. They have shown by means of the evidence of the bus driver who recognized her as one of his passengers that night, and of various closed-circuit television cameras, that she could not have reached home until ten thirty, at the very earliest. Now, the pathologist told you it is possible that the baby, Daniel, was still alive at that time, although he believes death is more likely to have taken place earlier. It is for you to decide.’
Several of the jurors shifted in their benches, as though the responsibility made them uncomfortable. As well it might, Trish thought, knowing how accustomed many jurors had become to the certainties of pathologists in television series, which were rarely reproduced in real life.
‘The pathologist’s evidence has shown that some of the bruises on the child’s neck and ankles fit the size and shape of Melvin Briggs’s hands. He has also stated that there were other bruises with less defined boundaries, which cannot be matched to the fingers of either defendant. DNA from both defendants was recovered from the child’s body. When defence counsel asked whether this could have been left during normal contact, he agreed that it could.