A Greater Evil (7 page)

‘Then we have to go further. You’ve got to fight this, George. We can’t let him beat you.’

Chief Inspector Caroline Lyalt, facing the first murder enquiry for which she was wholly responsible, felt a passionate resentment that frightened her. Why did Trish of all people have to be the chief suspect’s alibi witness?

Caro had already phoned home to tell her partner, Jess, that she had no idea when she’d be back. Jess had taken the news with all the philosophy she’d learned over their years together and merely wished Caro well, adding that she herself might nip out to see the latest
Hamlet
at the National, in which one of her friends from the Drama Centre was playing Claudius.

‘Good idea. I’ll see you when I see you,’ Caro had said, before putting down the phone.

The report of one of the team’s phone call to Trish’s chambers lay on top of the pile in front of her. The rest were accounts of preliminary interviews with the victim’s family, close colleagues from her place of work, and tenants of the studio building where she’d been killed. Caro would have to talk to Trish herself, but there was another phone call she had to make first. It should be easier, too. Checking the time, she calculated that it would now be five in the afternoon in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

‘Hi,’ she said when she’d got through to Harvard University, ‘I’m calling from London, England. May I speak to Professor Andrew Suvarov?’

There was a pause before the operator returned to say: ‘Professor Suvarov is in Europe. Can I have him call you back?’

‘When did he fly out?’

‘I have no information on that. Would you like to speak with his assistant?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hi,’ said another voice a moment later. ‘This is Professor Suvarov’s assistant. I understand you are calling from England?’

‘Yes. I’m Chief Inspector Caroline Lyalt of the Metropolitan Police. I am anxious to talk to Professor Suvarov, who may be able to help with some background to a case I’m working on. I gather he’s in Europe. Can you tell me when he left and where he might be now?’

‘He flew out last Friday to Paris, France. His schedule is busy, but I’m in contact with him. Would you like me to have him call you?’

‘That would be great. Or if you give me a phone number or email address, I can save you the trouble.’

‘I’ll have him call you.’

Caro gave her own number, then put down the phone, thinking of the stilted conversation she’d had with Mrs Justice Mayford in her library-like room in the private part of the Royal Courts of Justice. It was the first time Caro had penetrated that far into the huge building, and she’d thought it was more like a university than anything to do with the reality of crime she saw every day. Maybe it was no wonder some judges came up with such impractical ideas and pathetic sentences.

‘I can assure you, Chief Inspector Lyalt,’ Mrs Mayford had said, gripping a pencil tightly between her hands, ‘my daughter’s father has never known of her existence. Ergo, he has never made any attempt to contact her. Nor could he possibly have had anything whatsoever to do with her death. He is a professor at Harvard and is based in the United States.’

‘I understand,’ Caro had said, not entirely truthfully. ‘But we have to look at everyone who could have been involved in her life, and I’m trying to eliminate as many as possible right away. All it would take is a simple phone call to confirm that he’s there and could not have been in London yesterday. If you would just give me his name, I can do the rest. You need have no contact with him.’

At last the judge had released the pencil. She’d used it to write the name on a piece of scrap paper. ‘As I said, he doesn’t know he’s Cecilia’s father, and I would be grateful if you would merely confirm his presence in Cambridge and go no further. Is that understood?’

‘Yes. If we need to ask anything else, I’ll let you know before I do it.’

It had been a relief to get out of the high-ceilinged, oak-lined room and its atmosphere of sticky disdain.

Just my luck, Caro thought, that my first case involves not only my best friend, but also a highly respected judge, and an internationally famous sculptor. She had already had Sam Foundling’s agent on the phone, as well as Frankie Amis, the solicitor Mrs Justice Mayford had found for him.

Both the callers knew Foundling must have done it, but they’d made it clear to Caro (as if it hadn’t been clear enough without either of them) that any leaks to the press, any infringement of his rights, any slip in the gathering, collating or storage of evidence, would make the case disappear in front of her eyes, and her reputation with it. Which was why she had to be seen to be looking for every other possible suspect, however far-fetched he might be.

To make matters worse, Foundling had also refused to have anything to do with the family liaison officer Caro had chosen with such care. He didn’t need anyone, he’d said, and his tiny daughter, hanging on to life by her barely formed fingernails in the Special Care Baby Unit at Dowting’s Hospital, would have no use for anyone either. All he needed, he’d said with barely suppressed fury, was the right to return to his studio.

Caro had secured the services of the best SOCOs, and they’d been through the long untidy room like voracious moray eels, sucking up everything they could find. Scrapings, hairs, strips of sticky tape with all kinds of fluff and dust clinging to them, and plenty of blood samples were now in the lab, awaiting analysis. There were the ashes of some kind of textile burned in the stove, the rug that had lain in front of the tatty old sofa, an oriental throw that had covered it and was also saturated with the victim’s blood, her clothes, her husband’s clothes, and a whole vacuum-cleaner bag full of dirt to be sieved and assessed.

Every surface had been photographed before and after it had been searched; samples of every bit of the blood that had splashed all over the room had been taken and recorded.

Sam Foundling had volunteered to strip and be photographed for any signs of defensive wounds inflicted by his wife. There hadn’t been anything except some deep scratches on his hands and wrists, which he claimed had been made while he was trying to stop her thrashing about and injuring herself still more. He’d let them take nail scrapings and he’d given reasons for the bruises on his hands before submitting to all the swabs the doctors had panted to rub in and over different bits of his body. In every way he had behaved like an innocent man.

All of which meant there was no good reason why he should not be allowed back into the room where his wife had been beaten to death, weird though his longing for it was.

Caro needed to understand it. All she could think was that he’d hidden something there. Could the SOCOs have missed anything?

George was soaking in the bath with an old John Buchan novel for comfort, and Trish was moving about her bedroom. She switched on the bedside lamps to provide a kinder light than the harsh, blemish-revealing glare she needed when she was dressing. Twitching the heavy coverlet off the bed, she folded it and flung it in the bottom of the wardrobe, revealing the fine sheets that were as different as possible from the nasty mauve nylon ones she’d had in her first rented flat. The memory of how they’d felt against her skin made her shudder.

Unlike that damp-smelling hovel, this room was gorgeous, she thought, glowing and gentle in its muted colours. And the height and width of the great bed had just the right kind of generosity.

She heard a low buzzing sound from the direction of the bathroom, which took a moment to decode: George was attempting to sing ‘The Volga Boatmen’s Song’ in Russian. She was glad he trusted her enough, even today, to reveal his complete tunelessness. Her hand rested on his pillow, sliding over the smooth linen, wondering how much longer he was likely to be.

Her pleasure in her own good luck splintered suddenly as she thought of Sam, presumably alone in his house, waiting for news of the baby. Gina’s voice echoed in her mind, banishing George’s attempt at a rolling bass, telling her Sam was terrified of being abandoned all over again.

His wife was dead, he had no parents he knew, and Gina herself couldn’t bear to see him. Trish had tasted enough loneliness in the old days to have some idea of how he must be feeling now. He’d come to her only yesterday because he’d trusted her for so long. She couldn’t ignore him now.

‘I’ve just remembered, George,’ she called as she passed the open door of the bathroom, ‘there’s a phone call I’ve got to make.’

He broke off his warbling to say he’d be out of the bath by the time she’d finished. He sounded more or less himself again. Maybe they’d get through their crisis.

Gina Mayford had ricked her back climbing up into the loft to retrieve the box of baby clothes she hadn’t looked at since she’d stowed them away when Cecilia grew too big for them. All carefully washed and wrapped in tissue paper, they might be in good enough condition for the baby. If she survived long enough to need clothes.

It was a practical thing to do, Gina told herself as she tried not to cry, and not a self-indulgent wallow in grief. If she could remember the time Cecilia had had, and celebrate the way she’d used it, there might be something good to be wrested from the horror of her death. And checking over the baby clothes might help her decide what to do about Andrew Suvarov.

Dust flew up Gina’s nose as she hauled the box towards the lip of the trapdoor and she sneezed, almost falling off the ladder. Eventually she got the box out of the roof-space and bumped it down as she retreated backwards, rung by rung.

At last her feet were flat on the floor again and she could let the box drop with a thud, expelling another cloud of dust. A thorough rub with a cloth got it clean enough to risk opening the cardboard lid. She washed her hands.

Inside it was better: a few sprigs of ancient lavender had crumbled into nothing, but a faint scent still hung about the tissue paper. As gently as if she were touching the baby in her incubator, she parted the first leaves of tissue. They had none of the crackle of modern paper, but felt soft and slithery, like old suede gloves.

The first thing she saw was the cobwebby Shetland lace shawl Andrew’s mother had knitted for Cecilia. One fat tear dripped onto the delicate woollen lace. Without Felicity Suvarov, Gina couldn’t have managed. Felicity had kept the secret of Cecilia’s paternity, and her support had made it all possible.

Did babies still have shawls? Gina wondered. Probably not. You wouldn’t need a shawl like this if you’d already put your infant into a stretchy all-in-one body suit. Even so, she shook it out, amazed as she’d been in the beginning by the lightness of the four-foot square. She laid it aside on her bed and bent her aching back to pick out the next package.

A voice in her mind taunted her with the threat that Cecilia’s baby wouldn’t live to wear any of these things. Premature, born by Caesarian while her mother was dying, and subjected to grotesque brutality in the last hour before the mad dash to hospital, what chance did she have?

‘Every chance,’ Gina said aloud, determined to silence her own doubts. ‘The doctors promised.’

Each minute garment she retrieved from its tissue wrappings brought back pictures of Cecilia, and the unmatchable, delectable smells of milk-fed contented baby. It was probably more Johnsons Baby Powder than the child herself, Gina thought, as a guard against sentimentality.

What would happen to this child if she did survive? If Sam were convicted, there’d be no question: Gina could step in and take over. But if he were declared innocent or never tried for the crime? Would he ever be able to forgive her for suspecting him? Would he be able to let her try to do for him and his daughter what Andrew’s mother had done?

And would Gina ever be able to forget her fears for the baby? Even if a jury decided Sam hadn’t killed Cecilia, his background made him the least suitable man to have sole charge of a vulnerable child.

Sam knew the staff in the SCBU wanted him out of their way. They were scared of him, too. But he had the right to be here, sitting at the side of his daughter’s cot, looking at her red, twisted little face under the white knitted cap. It wasn’t as wizened as he’d expected. They’d told him that at only three weeks premature she was more or less the size of many full-term babies.

She still looked tiny. How could he have been so afraid of this? There was nothing in him that could have damaged a creature so fragile and unthreatening. All that fret and fear for nothing! How could he have been so stupid?

Restless as before, she rolled her head away from him, waving her fists in the air, tugging at the tubes that led from them to the machines that were monitoring her heart and helping her breathe.

He’d asked the doctor how big she’d be by the age of three months, and they’d gone together to look at a three-month-old in the next ward. This baby looked stronger, more together, but not much bigger.

How could anyone have burned a child that size with cigarettes, or hit it? Or packed it in a cardboard box with a thin raggedy blanket, and dumped it out of doors on a February night?

The new letter from the woman in prison was in his back pocket. Maybe Trish Maguire was right. So what if the woman was his genetic mother? She’d given up her rights when she put him in that box.

Even if she did it only to protect you? said a voice in his mind.

The phone hooked to his belt vibrated. He’d forgotten to switch it off. Running to get it out of the way of the machines that were keeping his daughter alive, he found a space by the window outside in the corridor and took the call.

‘Sam? This is Trish Maguire. I wanted to say how very sorry I am about Cecilia’s death. That sounds pathetically inadequate, but there aren’t any better words.’

She paused, so Sam thought he’d better say something and tried a simple ‘thank you.’

‘And I wondered if there was anything I could do. Anything practical, I mean, sorting anything out or providing company if you wanted to talk. Anything.’

Anything? Sam repeated to himself. I wonder.

Then he remembered what she’d done for him in the past and how she hadn’t flinched from any of the things he’d told her.