Driftnet (21 page)

Suicide.

The doctor had
questioned him closely. This young man, questioning him. What had
Jonathan taken? Had he been drinking? Did he take drugs? How long
ago had it happened? Was he depressed about something?

Edward sank
into the couch.

Stupid
questions. Questions that had nothing to do with their lives. My
son is a stranger, Edward suddenly thought, an aggressive,
irritating messy stranger, who simply inhabits an upstairs room in
my house. If he was a lodger I would have thrown him out.

It was Fiona
who told the doctor about the empty vodka bottle and the
paracetamol packet. Fiona, who said he had been depressed about his
schoolwork, but had brightened up recently.

The calm before
the storm.

What about his
friends? the doctor asked.

What friends,
Morag had said. Jonathan only ever talks to his computer.

Edward got up
and poured himself a whisky and paced up and down the room.
Attempted suicide was an ugly phrase. He could not permit such a
phrase to be used. He would have to tell Urquhart, but it must go
no further than that. His heart contracted at the thought of Sir
James finding out.

If all this had
happened before the election! The thought was horrifying.

Anger began to
oust regret. Anger at people who provoked incidents that screwed up
his plans. Jonathan had no idea what he was doing.

But everything
was going to be alright. It would be alright.

Edward climbed
the stairs to Jonathan’s bedroom. The window was open and Amy had
cleaned up. The bed had been stripped and remade and the empty
bottles removed. The stale smell that had irritated him so much
earlier, had gone. Edward began to move about, touching things,
opening drawers, trying to find out what his son had been thinking
about, however bizarre it might turn out to be.

The computer
had been left on. He could hear the buzz. But the monitor was off.
Edward decided he would take a closer look at his son’s most prized
possession.

His only
friend, Morag had said.

The screen lit
up, revealing a mass of icons. Edward tried double clicking on a
few. One opened to reveal a set of revision notes for Physics and
Edward was momentarily pleased, until he noticed a line of
expletives half way down.

Fucking school.
Fucking physics. Fucking university. Fucking Cambridge.

It was baby
talk. Baby talk with swear words. Typical!

He tried
another icon. The desire to investigate his son’s life was fading.
He turned away. He needed to phone Urquhart. Organise those
interviews. Get his head in order.

But something
compelled him to turn back.

Two email
messages were listed on the screen. One from Mark, Edward
remembered him vaguely as a school friend of Jonathan’s. The other
was from someone called Simon.

Edward read
them both.

Chapter
31

Bill Wilson’s
gut feeling had never let him down before and, he was sure it
wasn’t letting him down now. The call from Connelly had convinced
him of that.

Sir James’s
fast exit to Paris was too damned convenient. The Super had
informed him that he could speak to Sir James’s lawyer during his
absence. Sir James was more than anxious to help.

Oh yes? thought
Bill. About as willing as a Protestant is to genuflect.

Janice was
waiting for the next move.

‘Right. It’s
time to organise a search warrant.’

Janice was
goggle-eyed. ‘Where for Sir?’

‘Sir James’s
country house. Falblair, I believe it’s called.’

‘Sir?’

‘Or more
precisely, Janice, the cottage at Falblair.’

****

Jim Connelly
was not used to daylight, Chrissy thought. He looked like a man who
thought trees and green grass belonged on the telly.

He was walking
towards them along the gravel path. Chrissy knew it was him,
although she had never seen him before. He looked like a man who
needed a drink, she thought. She’d seen that look before. Too
often.

Neil hadn’t
even noticed him yet. He was leaning over the bridge staring into
the water. He still didn’t like standing upright for long and he
was leaning on the railing, as if he was interested in the sluggish
brown water below.

She nudged him
gently.

‘He’s coming,’
she said.

‘Aye,
right.’

She could tell
he was still in pain.

‘Are you
Connelly?’ he said.

The
newspaperman turned towards them.

‘Are you the
one that phoned?’

Neil
nodded.

‘Who’s she?’ He
nodded in Chrissy’s direction.

‘She’s with
me.’

‘Where are we
going?’ Connelly said as they headed out of the park.

‘I know a pub
where we can talk.’

The pub was
halfway along the road to Charing Cross.

Neil nodded at
the barman. He and Chrissy went to a booth near the back, leaving
Connelly to get the drinks. The barman poured two vodkas without
being asked. Connelly ordered a ginger beer with ice.

Neil took a
mouthful of the vodka and licked his bruised lip carefully.

‘Someone tried
to spoil your looks,’ Connelly said.

‘Aye.’

‘Want to tell
me why?’

‘I had some
photos. They wanted them back.’

‘The bloke you
were talking about?’

‘His
friends.’

‘So what do you
want me to do?’

Neil was
studying the reporter closely.

‘I think
there’s five of the bastards.’

His hand was
gripping Chrissy’s now, the nails digging into the flesh. She had
to stop herself from crying out.

‘I’ve only seen
one of them, but he talks about the others. They all use different
names. One’s called Simon. He’s the one that works the computer
stuff. The one I know calls himself Caligula. He thinks I don’t
understand why, but he’s wrong.’

Neil paused and
looked over at the door. Someone had come in. The barman returned
his gaze and shook his head.

Connelly was
toying with his drink, waiting for him to go on.

‘Caligula likes
it rough,’ Neil said. ‘He’s into tying something round my neck,
tightening it till he comes.’

‘That’s the way
Jamie Fenton died,’ Connelly prompted.

‘I know.’ Neil
nodded over at the barman and two more vodkas appeared. The barman
looked to Connelly for payment. He dug deep in his pocket and
pulled out a tenner. Neil waited until the barman had gone before
he went on.

‘The last time
it happened I split when it got too rough. The stupid arse hadn’t
tied me tight enough. Too fucking excited.’ Chrissy nodded at him
to go on. ‘We go to a cottage in the garden of a big house. He
takes me there and brings me back. I don’t get to see where we’re
going. He ties something round my eyes and my hands. Likes his fun
in the car,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

‘Do you know
where this cottage is?’

‘No.’ Neil
stretched the torn lips over perfect teeth in a bizarre semblance
of his old smile. ‘But I saw someone leave the place once. A car
stopped at the gate. There was a man and a woman inside. I saw
their picture in the paper this week. He’s called Edward
Stewart.’

‘Christ!’
Connelly nearly choked on his ginger beer. He slammed the glass
down. ‘I know where that is. It’s Falblair. Country Estate of Sir
James Dalrymple, Edward Stewart’s Lord and Master.’

‘So?’

‘So. He could
blow us both away.’

Neil stood up,
dragging his hand from Chrissy’s. Expletives erupted from between
clenched teeth. Chrissy took hold of his arm.

‘Don’t,
Neil.’

‘You’re just
like the rest of them. When I saw that bit in the paper I thought
you’d be different, but you’re not. You’re just like the rest of
them.’

‘Sit down and
shut up.‘ Connelly’s anger matched Neil’s. ‘I have to think don’t
I? I have to think, how we do this properly. You do want to get
them, don’t you?’

Neil stared at
him, then sat down. ‘Fucking too right I do.’

‘Good. So do
I.’ Connelly smiled. ‘And I want to wipe that smug look off Edward
Stewart’s face and stuff it right up his arse.’

Chapter
32

Edward
rescheduled his interview with Connelly for half past four and
cancelled the other one. Then he rang the hospital. Fiona sounded
calmer.

‘Jonathan’s
much better,’ she told him. ‘But there’s still a chance of liver
damage. If only you had found him sooner.’

Edward ignored
the note of blame and told her he would come back to the hospital
after his interview.‘What have you told Ian?’ She sounded more like
the old Fiona.

‘I’ve told him
the truth. He thinks he can keep it low key.’

‘It would be
better for us all if he did.’ She wished him luck and rang off.

Edward lowered
the receiver. He would need all the luck he could get.

He had wondered
whether to tell Fiona about the email, but something stopped him.
He didn’t want anyone to know what he had read on that screen. Not
even Fiona.

Besides, he
already knew what he was going to do.

After he’d read
the email, Edward had gone to the bathroom and been sick. After
that, he stormed about the house, swearing at the top of his voice.
The dog crawled into a corner and kept out of his way.

When he calmed
down, he began to reason with himself. He had to inform the police,
he told his reflection in the hall mirror. Think, he told
himself.

What would
happen to Jonathan if he told the police the whole story? Edward
shuddered. It would be terrible. They would question Jonathan about
this... this homosexual relationship. It was probably all nonsense.
Kids said things they didn’t mean on email. Showing off. It didn’t
mean anything.

Edward went
through to the sitting room and poured himself another whisky. No.
He had to keep things quiet, for Jonathan’s sake. He must wait
until Jonathan was out of danger and they got a chance to talk. It
was his responsibility to protect his son.

He sat down on
the couch and the dog crept out from its hiding place and sat on
his feet. Edward put his hand down and shooed it away. Jonathan
would need peace to get well. He could not cope with a barrage of
questions right now. God help us, Edward thought, if the press gets
wind of this.

He didn’t want
to hear the small voice that spoke of other children caught in the
paedophile net. Children who might be saved, if he told the police
what he knew.

He did not want
to think about that. His own child must come first. Whatever
happened, he must not panic. He would inform the police, but not
yet.

Jonathan had
been worried about school. He’d come in drunk and swallowed some
paracetemol to avoid having a headache in the morning. He just took
too many and didn’t realise. That was all it was.

Edward began to
relax.

He would sort
it all out once Jonathan was better. For his sake, the family must
not be dragged into a scandal.

Edward could
imagine what the gutter press would do with the story. They would
have a field day.

He fought to
regain his composure. He would concentrate on this interview with
Connelly. He had weathered storms before this, he could do it
again.

But Sir James
would have to be told, he realised. He had supported Edward, put
his name forward. He would have to tell him.

Edward left a
message with Sir James’s secretary in Paris, asking him to return
the call as soon as he was able.

Then he sat
down and began to prepare for his interview.

Rhona came out
of the small back lab and checked the clock just in case her watch
was wrong. It was four o’clock. Chrissy still hadn’t phoned. She
went back to her bench and tried to ignore the persistent niggle of
worry that had been with her since she arrived back at the lab.
Where was Chrissy? Rhona had counted on her to talk through her own
dilemma. She had been carrying the printout about in her pocket
since Monday night. She wanted Chrissy to tell her it was a lot of
nonsense, that she was making a fuss about nothing.

When the phone
finally rang, she suddenly didn’t want to answer it in case it was
Gavin. Tony picked it up elsewhere in the lab. She was halfway to
the door to ask who it was when he appeared.

‘That was
Chrissy. Says she’s sorry. She’s not very well. She’ll be in
tomorrow.’

‘Right.’ She
tried to hide her relief.

‘She also said,
tell Rhona not to worry.’

‘Thanks.’

Tony stood for
a moment as if he expected her to say more. When she didn’t, he
shrugged and went back to work.

Rhona felt
better. At least she knew Chrissy was okay. From the guarded
message, it sounded as if nothing too bad had happened to Neil,
either. But the call only disposed of one of her worries. She had
still to decide what to do about Gavin, and missed the input of
Chrissy’s common sense. He could have seen her awkwardness on
Monday night as the result of the computer search. Gavin had
realised the child she was looking for had something to do with her
own life. He was no fool. But was he evil?

Evil. The
description seemed ludicrous. She felt comfortable with him, she
instinctively trusted him. She should have asked for an explanation
straight out. Why was she doubting him? She’d jumped to
conclusions. Just as she’d done with Sean, she thought. Sean had
known that, no matter what he said about the woman in the Art
Gallery, he had already been tried and convicted.

Rhona tried to
keep her mind on her work, but it was no good. By five o’clock she
was eaten up with a mixture of frustration and fear. She had to do
something.

She phoned Bill
Wilson.

When he came on
the line, Rhona stuttered out a story about a man she met at a
party called Gavin MacLean who’d said he knew Bill, and she
wondered...