Death of a Friend (24 page)

Smith pushed out his lips, considering. ‘Might be,’ he said. ‘Depends on what we decide to pin on Brother Frank. If we bring him in on a murder charge, we have to give reasons for our
suspicions, and as far as I can see, there’s only one road to go down on that front. And if it comes to court, they’ll dig out every unsavoury little detail. The newspapers are going to think they’ve died and gone to heaven. Off the top of my head, I can’t remember a murder trial based on mother-son incest – not a single one.’

Den shuddered, and rubbed the scarred side of his face. ‘Jesus,’ he said again.

‘Fortunately, I don’t think there’s too much to worry about,’ Smith continued, unperturbed. ‘Because I’m not altogether inclined to accept your scenario.’

‘Sir? Why not, sir?’

‘Full of holes, lad. But I’m not going to blow it out of the water just yet. Now – before all this came up, you had an appointment with Mrs Mandy Aspen, didn’t you? At ten-thirty?’

Tiredly, Den nodded and looked at his watch. ‘I never told her an exact time,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’d better go and do it now. Although …’

‘No need to rush. I’ve spoken to Friend Clive, and you’re right. He’s losing it. Barely safe to be released into the community, in my view. But we’ll have to let him go this afternoon, when we’ve had a doctor to him.’

‘What did he tell you, sir?’

‘That he never touched a child inappropriately in his life. That his marriage is absolutely sound
in every respect, but that his wife is given to violent nightmares, which is what was going on this morning. He enjoys a nice energetic ride and follows the hounds now and then purely because it’s a good country sprint and a physical challenge. He’s never seen a fox killed and doesn’t think he’s contributing in any way to cruel practices. He thought Charlie was misguided but harmless. He told me all this with a glazed expression and his arms hugged to his chest. I think if I’d touched him he’d have turned into a gibbering wreck.’

‘And did you believe any of it, sir?’

‘Did I hell.’

Smith put both arms on the table, and lined his thumbs up, side by side, peering through them as if sighting down a rifle barrel. Den had seen him do this before, at moments of crisis. ‘On the face of it,’ the DI said slowly, ‘Aspen’s off the hook, now we know about Frank Gratton. But you’ll find as you go on that when someone is deliberately killed, all kinds of other things get shaken out of the rafters. It’s as if there’s been a great storm and a lot of dead wood comes rattling down. Somebody once said that there’s never a single motive for a murder. It happens because a whole lot of things come together, set off a chain reaction, and they do that because there’s been a pivotal event. A spark. I’m just wondering if this spark hasn’t got something
to do with the Aspens. Think a minute,’ he invited Den. ‘You find a computer record of an unconfirmed suspicion that the younger Nesbitt kid’s being abused. Clive Aspen helps out at that kid’s school. Clive Aspen rides to hunt, even though he’s a Quaker, and might be expected to disapprove of such a practice. Charlie must have seen him. What would that have done to relations between them? What would the other Quakers think? Clive knows the Grattons – Hannah and Bill – pretty well, after living here for three years. Does he know Frank? Has he heard whispers about Charlie’s parentage? What about Alexis Cattermole?’ He parted his thumbs, letting his hands fall palm upwards on the desk, as if liberating all his thoughts to fly where they might. ‘Do you see what I mean?’ he demanded, fixing Den with a penetrating look.

Den’s head felt fuzzy. ‘I think so, sir. I think you mean I – or someone – will have to go and speak to Mandy Aspen sooner rather than later.’

‘Exactly,’ affirmed the Inspector.

The Good Friday switchback hadn’t finished with Den yet. Quickly draining a second mug of coffee, before embarking on a return visit to the Quaker Meeting House, he was called to the phone. He was only mildly surprised to hear Mandy Aspen’s Birmingham accent. ‘Are you still planning to interview me?’ she said, her voice sounding even more nasal than usual. ‘I’ve been waiting in for you. And what’s happening to Clive? Have you arrested him?’ There was reproach in her voice.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Den said. ‘I got called away. I was just coming over now. Your husband will be released this afternoon. We’re just waiting for a doctor to check him over.’

‘Oh,’ she said unemotionally. ‘Well, would
it be all the same to you if we had our talk somewhere other than here? I need to get out – the place is giving me the creeps.’

‘Do you mean you’d like to come here?’

‘Oh no. That would be even worse.’ She forced an apologetic laugh. ‘Somewhere in town? Would that be allowed?’

‘Anything’s allowed. I only want you to fill in some background.’

‘I thought that little coffee place, in Market Street,’ she suggested tentatively. ‘It’s not very far from the police station.’

Den smiled to himself. The first real conversation he’d ever had with Lilah had been in that coffee bar. He remembered her face, worried and upset at the mysterious death of her father, but she’d been nonetheless disgracefully tanned and healthy in a skimpy T-shirt. Mandy Aspen would be a poor substitute, but the place was a reasonably good choice for a rendezvous. ‘What time?’ he asked.

‘About twelve-fifteen?’

‘Okay, then. I’ll be waiting for you inside.’ He resolved to be early. She was probably too shy to walk into such a place alone, unless she was sure there would be someone waiting for her.

Mandy Aspen peered through the plate glass of the café window at ten past twelve, and jumped
when she saw Den’s face only inches away. He had deliberately positioned himself for maximum visibility, while knowing that she would want to sit in a shadowy corner. He got up to greet her, and then led the way to a much less conspicuous table. The place was half full, but the sound level was low. The hiss of the cappuccino machine was the noisiest thing in the place.

He bought coffees, and sat opposite her. ‘You must be worried about your husband,’ he began tentatively. ‘He doesn’t seem very well at the moment.’

‘I’m used to it,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Although this morning was different. When I found that photo, I knew there was trouble.’ Her accent seemed to lend itself naturally to gloom and pessimism.

‘What sort of trouble exactly?’

She glanced around at the neighbouring tables, but nobody seemed interested in what she was saying. ‘You probably don’t know, but he’s had a lot of problems in the past. Even before the baby died, he was getting really stressed at work.’

‘Your baby died?’ Den interrupted, with rather too much eagerness. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he added, trying to hit the right note.

She nodded. ‘I’ll explain that in a minute. Let me tell you about Clive first. When it happened he collapsed with a complete breakdown. It
took three years for him to get back to anything like normal. We thought we’d found new hope when we came here. This job seemed ideal at first – we thought it was heaven-sent. Hardly any pressures, surrounded by wonderful, kind people. We genuinely believed we were doing the Lord’s work, that we’d been called to it on a very personal level. But it went wrong.’ She sighed deeply, and wiped a hand across her brow distractedly.

‘Because of Charlie?’ offered Den recklessly. She blinked, frowned and shook her head.

‘Charlie? No – of course not. It had nothing to do with Charlie. At least—’ She shook her head again. ‘If it did, that came much later.’

‘Sorry. Carry on.’ Inwardly cursing himself, he resolved to let her have her say uninterrupted from then on.

‘Clive had therapy, you see. This woman saw him about three times a week. Clive’s father paid for it. They went back into his childhood, and all the traumatic things that’d happened to him. It seemed to work fairly well. Clive likes to think everything has its own logic, that everything can be explained by cause and effect. He went on to cognitive therapy after a while, and now he doesn’t see anyone. Or only once in a blue moon. The trouble is’ – she sighed again – ‘now he thinks
I
need therapy as well.’

‘Ah,’ said Den.

‘Yes. Because I have bad dreams, and get a bit agoraphobic sometimes, and can’t remember very much about my early childhood, he’s convinced himself that I was sexually abused when I was little. And I
wasn’t
. I
know
I wasn’t. The idea’s crazy. But he’s read all these books. His therapist put the idea into his head. Whenever I can’t sleep, or thrash about a bit when I’m dreaming, he tries to force me to … remember.’

‘Sounds rather as though
he’s
abusing you,’ remarked Den.

‘In a way he is,’ she nodded, with an air of relief. ‘It’s getting worse all the time. He talks about denial and repressed memories and how I should have the courage to face the truth. It’s like being brainwashed. And I daren’t tell anybody, because they might think he’s right.’ She gave Den a wild look. ‘And even if it
was
true, I wouldn’t want to remember it now. Why should I? It would be too late to do anything about it. My dad is a very sweet man, wouldn’t hurt a fly. The merest whisper of such a thing would probably kill him.’

‘But you’ve mentioned it to me,’ Den pointed out.

Mandy bit her lip. ‘I know. I’m trusting you not to take it any further. I know enough about law to be sure you can’t begin any sort of inquiry unless I bring charges. My problem is with Clive.
There’s been something going on that I don’t understand, and with these deaths, I’m getting scared.’ She stopped, a hand to her mouth.

‘Scared?’ Den prompted.

‘That he’ll go right over the edge,’ she said. There was a silence as Den waited for more.

‘I’ll tell you about the baby now,’ she went on. ‘It was a cot death, although Clive never accepted that as an explanation. He’s become more and more convinced over the years that the babysitter was responsible. More abuse, you see.’

‘Sorry?’ Den was lost.

‘Daniel – that was his name – was ten months old. A boy from across the road – Seamus – was looking after him. When we came home Danny was naked and Clive asked Seamus what was going on. He said the baby seemed very hot and he was trying to cool him down. Well, he
was
a bit warm, but it was nothing alarming. I never doubted Seamus’s honesty. He wasn’t flustered or guilty or anything.’

‘And he was fully clothed himself?’

‘What? Oh yes, of course he was. Good God – he was just a perfectly nice, normal boy.’

‘And then—?’

She paused, swallowing painfully. ‘Danny died the following night. They never found anything wrong with him. Now, of course, I blame myself, because I laid him on his face. He seemed to prefer
it like that and there hadn’t been any research then to say it was harmful. He’d never been ill. He was a sweet baby.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Den. ‘What a dreadful thing.’

‘Yes, well as I say, it was the final straw for Clive. He tried to persuade the police that Seamus had abused our baby, but they could see he wasn’t in his right mind, thank goodness. Otherwise it would have been terrible for poor Seamus. Clive’s obsessed with child abuse, encouraged by the media, of course. There are all these books, you know – I think they should be banned. They tell you how to spot the signs. Practically everything counts as suspicious, once you start looking for it.’ She sighed.

In the ensuing silence, Den fitted a few more pieces of the jigsaw together. ‘Clement Nesbitt?’ he said. ‘The photograph?’

She nodded. ‘Clive thinks Clem looks exactly as Daniel would if he’d lived. Actually, there is a resemblance. He took the photo himself, at school. He’s had it by the bed for weeks now.’

‘Which is how you came to recognise Clem yesterday.’

She nodded again. ‘Last night Clive started shouting about Charlie. He thinks I was rather too fond of him, you see. It’s true I did like him. He was so appealing, such a funny mixture of
little-boy-lost and clever activist. And Clive was jealous of Charlie seeing so much of Clem.’

Den drew a hissing breath. ‘Bad news!’ he said without thinking.

‘What? You mean a grown man ought not to allow himself to get attached to little boys. What a world! Anyway, that’s the truth of it.’

‘We have a record of an anonymous suggestion that Clement Nesbitt was being abused, about six months ago.’

‘I expect that was Clive,’ she said flatly. ‘He tried to bring it up with the head teacher, but she dismissed it.’

‘Did he suspect Charlie?’

She nodded. ‘Charlie started going out with Alexis at about that time. The little boy’s behaviour changed, and Clive was sure he knew why.’

‘But the authorities couldn’t find anything suspicious.’

‘Of course they couldn’t,’ she said. ‘It was all in Clive’s own mind.’

‘False accusations are dangerous, you know.’ His words came slowly, because another idea was nudging at him. Something Benny had said only that morning, about projection. If he’d got the theory right, there may well be very good cause to pay very particular attention to Clive Aspen, who had managed to wheedle his way into a
primary school, and whose every waking thought appeared to involve sexual abuse of children.

Nervously, Mandy pushed away her cup and reached down for her handbag. ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ she said. ‘I’ve betrayed him, haven’t I? But somebody has to stop him, before something awful happens.’

Den stared at her for a moment, only now grasping the depths of her own self-absorption. ‘Wouldn’t you say that something awful has already happened?’ he demanded, with some force. She looked blank for a few seconds.

‘Oh – you mean Charlie. I was forgetting. But that had nothing to do with
Clive
. Obviously it didn’t. Clive would never
kill
anybody. He’s far too much of a coward for that.’ And she pushed back her chair, took a deep breath and left.

Once again at the police station, Den sought out his superior. ‘Is the DI still here?’ he asked Larry on the front desk.

‘Think so,’ was the laconic reply. ‘Last I saw him, he looked busy with a stack of paperwork.’

Den found him on the telephone, standing at his desk. The file on Charlie Gratton was closed, as if finished with for the day. He nodded at Den, but carried on listening to the voice coming out of the receiver.

‘Right, sir. That’s what I think. Sorry to
trouble you. Have a good Easter.’ He put the phone down, and lifted the jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Okay, Cooper. That was the Superintendent. I wanted to pick his brains about what to do with Frank Gratton. He agrees with me that we haven’t got enough evidence to bring him in and hold him. But he might like to answer a few questions about his poor old dad keeling over the way he did. Even though Hannah isn’t pressing charges, she did make that emergency call. And we are dealing with a family at the centre of a murder investigation. So – how d’you feel about going over to Ashburton for a few words with him?’

‘Now, sir?’ Den’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable.

‘Not if you’re otherwise engaged. Tomorrow would probably do. I doubt if he’s going anywhere.’

Den felt torn. It wouldn’t look very good if he let weariness and a sense of overload get in the way of his professional obligations. ‘No, sir, I can do it this afternoon,’ he said.

‘Actually,’ smiled Smith, ‘I’d rather you went tomorrow. If he’s guilty, he’ll be expecting us to go rushing over as soon as maybe. Leave him twenty-four hours, and you might find him in an interesting emotional state.’

‘And if he’s innocent?’
‘If he’s innocent, it doesn’t matter either way. Does it?’

Den blinked away some of the complexities, and remembered his assignation at the coffee shop. ‘I’ve just seen Mandy Aspen,’ he said. ‘And to put it briefly, she told me it was Clive who sounded the alarm about young Clem Nesbitt being abused. She explained what this morning’s disturbance was about. I’m not happy about him, but I can’t see him killing Charlie.’ He yawned uncontrollably. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s been quite a day.’

Smith was obviously impatient to get away, but not sufficiently so to render him inattentive. ‘Another loose end tidied away,’ he nodded. ‘Good. I’ve a feeling we’ll have cracked this little puzzle by Monday. Would it be a good idea to phone the Cattermoles and see if they’ve had any inkling about Charlie’s origins?’

Den considered. ‘Not easy, sir. And I really don’t think they have. I’d have picked it up if so. If anyone knew, it would have been Nina. How can I ask them without giving the secret away? That would feel like betraying Hannah, and I can’t see what good it could do.’

The DI shrugged. ‘I thought, if Alexis already knew and was happy to stick with him regardless, she might have been unknowingly forcing the killer to take stronger measures.’

Den shook his head. ‘I absolutely don’t think we should say anything.’

‘You might be right. Well, I’m off. You know where you can find me, if I’m needed. Meanwhile, go home and have a hot cross bun, why don’t you?’

As he went to collect his jacket, Den’s thoughts were whirling. Every time he identified another twist in the story – another piece of evidence or a new hypothesis – Inspector Smith seemed to have got there first. So he could either give up and let his superior get on with it in his own mysterious way – or he could strain every nerve to overtake him, to come up with something mind-blowingly conclusive, and have it complete and incontrovertible on the DI’s desk by Monday.