Justice for the Damned (19 page)

‘Yeah, Freddie Harding,’ interrupted Doug. ‘I know about him too.’

‘But did you know he’s connected to the Winstanleys?’

Doug’s brows lifted with interest. ‘Connected how?’

Reece told Doug about Amber. When he was finished, Doug gave him a weighing-up look, as if reassessing what he thought he knew about his partner. ‘This Amber doesn’t exactly sound like the most reliable of witnesses,’ he observed.

‘I know, but if even half of what she said is true, this might be the break we need to blow this case wide open. Amber remembered the Winstanleys when she saw them on the news. Maybe with the right prodding, she’ll remember other names and faces. Or maybe we can get Freddie to talk.’

‘Why would he talk? We’ve got nothing on him, except the words of a junkie whore.’

‘Fair point, but if nothing else, we’ve got to put people on him twenty-four hours a day. We’ve got a whole series of murders on our hands, we’ve got God knows how many people involved in abduction, abuse, maybe even murder at the Winstanley house, and this scummy little bastard,’ Reece jabbed his finger at Freddie Harding’s photo, ‘is in it right up to his neck. I was tailing him last night when you called. He was heading south on the M1.’ A look of frustration came into his brooding brown eyes. ‘I only wish I’d kept on tailing him. Who knows, he might have led me straight to Melinda or some other poor girl.’

‘And what if he had? How would you have explained that to the DCI?’ Doug tapped his temple. ‘Think, Reece. If Garrett gets even a sniff that there’s something going on between you and Staci, you’re finished. The most important thing is to keep your name out of this.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it. You just leave everything to me from now on and concentrate on looking after your dad. And for Christ’s sake, stay away from Staci until this is over.’

Reece’s face creased. The thought of staying away from Staci, even for a few days, left him with a sinking, empty feeling, but he gave a reluctant nod of agreement.

‘Don’t look so miserable,’ said Doug, laying his hand on Reece’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done good work here, both with Wayne and this Freddie Harding business.’

‘What if Wayne had died? I could’ve fucked everything up.’

‘You’ve got a temper on you, that’s for sure,’ Doug chuckled. ‘But that’s not such a bad thing. Sometimes in this line of business violence is the only thing that gets results. You’ve just got to learn to channel your anger. Use it, don’t let it use you. Do you understand?’

Reece nodded, although he wasn’t sure he could control his anger. When the red mist descended, it was like some other force took over. He’d been that way his entire life. The only thing that had ever been able to get through to him at such times was his mother’s voice. No, that wasn’t true, he realised. Staci’s voice had punctured his rage. And now he had to stay away from her for who knows how long. He heaved a sigh.

‘Listen, things might be changing around here soon,’ went on Doug. ‘Something’s happening. Something big. If it comes off, you and me could both be in the money.’ He held up a fistful of Wayne’s cash. ‘And I’m not talking about this kind of money, I’m talking about real money. Enough to pay off Staci’s debt and have plenty left over. You’ve just got to keep your head down and do as I say. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Good lad. Now I’d better get to work.’ Doug pointed at the hospital. ‘And you’d better get in there and see how your dad’s going on. But before you do, give me this Amber’s contact details.’

Reece wrote down Amber’s number and address. ‘Go easy with her. She’s scared.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about her. These old whores are as hard as nails.’ Doug peeled off a couple of hundred quid from the protection money and proffered it to Reece. ‘Buy your dad something nice.’

With a hesitation so slight as to be barely perceptible, Reece took the money. ‘Call me if there are any more developments.’

‘Will do.’

Reece got out of the car. He watched Doug accelerate away, then headed into the hospital and asked a receptionist which ward his dad was on. His dad was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast. There was a jaundiced tint to his sucked-in face. Compared to the powerful man who’d used to effortlessly carry Reece for miles on his shoulders, he looked achingly frail. Reece could hardly bear to see him like that. But neither could he bear to turn away. ‘Hello, Dad. How are you feeling?’

‘How do you think I’m bloody feeling?’ Frank Geary’s voice was as strong and gruff as ever. Reece felt a small measure of relief to hear it. Frank jerked his thumb at a doctor. ‘If the cancer doesn’t kill me, those buggers will with their tests and so-called treatments.’

‘Have they said when you can go home?’

‘Doctor Meadows wants to speak to me before I leave. They tell me he’ll be round at about nine, but you never know in these places. So you might as well sit your arse down.’

With a defeated air, Reece dropped into a chair. He stared at the floor, not seeing it, thinking about Doug – the expensive suits, the flash jewellery, the perma-tan. Was that how he wanted to end up?

‘Did you win?’

Frank’s voice brought Reece back to the moment. ‘Win what?’

Frank indicated Reece’s scabbed knuckles. ‘The fight.’

A tiny smile pulled at Reece’s mouth. Whatever else his dad had lost, he still had a policeman’s eye for details. ‘There was no fight, Dad.’

Frank made a doubtful face. ‘I’d ask if you were in some kind of trouble, but I know you wouldn’t tell me if you were.’

Reece said nothing. Frank inclined his head slightly, as if his son’s silence confirmed what he’d said. He proffered a bowl of cereal to Reece. ‘Here, you look as if you need this more than me.’

Reece cast a searching, almost suspicious look at his dad. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that the old bastard had shown an interest – albeit in a sidelong manner – in his well-being. The thought came to him,
Why now?
As far as he could see, there was only one answer. And it was an answer that caused panic to bubble up in his chest.

Edward Forester flinched when his bedside phone rang, but he made no move to pick it up. He licked his lips rapidly, eyes anxious and uncertain. The ringing stopped. He heard Philippa’s muffled voice. She must have answered the call downstairs. Jumping out of bed, he hurried onto the landing. ‘Who?’ Philippa was saying. ‘Sorry, no one by that name lives here… No problem. Bye.’

‘Who was that?’ Edward asked, descending the broad, curving staircase.

‘Wrong number.’ Philippa headed into the kitchen, cup of tea in hand.

Edward dialled 1471 and was informed that the caller’s number was unavailable. Frowning, he followed his wife. ‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A man.’

‘Who did he ask for?’

‘Linda someone-or-other. Why? What does it matter?’

‘It matters because…’ Edward hesitated, glancing uneasily at the housekeeper who was frying eggs. The eggs, he knew, were for his mother. She always ate two for breakfast. And she was very particular about how she liked them done – they had to be sunny side up, the yolk liquid and unbroken, the white retaining a slight translucence. The housekeeper plated up the eggs on a tray along with a pot of tea, a jug of warm milk and a bone china cup and saucer. Edward waited for her to leave the kitchen, before continuing, ‘Because there are people out there looking for me, people who’d like nothing better than to see me dead and buried. And I’m not just talking about my political career.’

Philippa arched a well-shaped, ever so slightly contemptuous eyebrow. ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.’

Edward bent close to his wife. His words came in a low hiss. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I owe millions. There’s no knowing what people are capable of when there’s that much money at stake.’

‘You know what, darling, you’re starting to sound a little paranoid.’

Edward slammed his palm against the table. ‘Don’t you dare call me paranoid! Just look at what happened with Stephen.’

‘Calm down, Edward. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. The fact is, you’re not facing bankruptcy. Your mother will pay off your debts and this whole thing will blow—’

Philippa was interrupted by the sound of a loud crash from upstairs. ‘What the hell’s that now?’ said Edward, hurrying back into the hallway. As he started up the stairs, the housekeeper ran out of his mother’s room. Her eyes were wide with shock and there was a red mark on her cheek.

‘She hit me,’ exclaimed the housekeeper, swaying between tears and anger.

Edward rolled his eyes with exasperation, but not surprise. He’d guessed the moment he saw the housekeeper’s face what had happened. ‘Why?’

‘She said her eggs weren’t done right. I told her there was nothing wrong with them, and the nasty old cow slapped me.’ The housekeeper headed past Edward towards the front door.

‘Please don’t leave, Mrs Adams,’ said Philippa.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Horne, but I won’t stay in this house a second longer whilst she’s here.’ The housekeeper pulled on her coat and stormed out of the door.

Philippa spun towards her husband, her eyes livid. ‘She’s gone too far this time, Edward,’ she said, loudly enough for her voice to carry upstairs. ‘What in God’s name makes your mother think she—’

‘I know, I know,’ interjected Edward, spreading his hands in a shushing motion. ‘I’ll speak to her. You go after Mrs Adams. Calm her down, make sure she hasn’t got it into her head to go to the police. The last thing we need right now is them poking their noses in around here.’

Expelling a sharp breath, Philippa hurried after the housekeeper. Somewhat more slowly, Edward made his way upstairs. He drew in a deep breath, before entering his mother’s bedroom. The breakfast tray lay upturned on the rug beside her bed, a puddle of milky tea spreading outwards from it. Conall was tentatively lapping at the steaming liquid. Mabel Forester was propped against pillows, arms folded across her breasts, which sagged heavily beneath a white satin nightgown. A hairnet was stretched over her raven-black wig. Shorn of makeup, her wrinkles stood out like lines on white paper. ‘Has that dreadful woman gone?’ she asked sharply.

Edward shooed the wolfhound out of the room. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘No, it’s not good, Mother. It’s not bloody good at all! You can’t hit someone just because they do or say something you don’t like.’

‘Why not? How else will they learn?’

‘What if she goes to the police?’

Mabel gave a dismissive flick of a blue-veined hand. ‘I only gave her a little tap. You seem to forget, Edward, I worked as a housemaid before you were born. I know how these people’s minds work. She’ll sulk for a day or two, then she’ll be back. And next time she’ll cook my eggs exactly as I like them.’

‘Times have changed, Mother.’

‘Maybe, but people haven’t.’

Edward shook his head, unconvinced. ‘This is the last thing we need—’ He broke off as his mother’s lips formed an injured pout.

‘I heard what that woman called me. A nasty old cow. Is that what you think of me too?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.’

A sigh slipped past Edward’s lips. He knew what his mother wanted. He’d played this game a thousand times. He approached the bed, sat at her side and rested his hands on hers. His voice took on a childish tone. ‘I think you’re the best mummy in the whole world.’

Mabel drew Edward towards her, pillowing his head against her breasts. He allowed her to do so with an expression of bland resignation, like someone performing an unpleasant but necessary duty. ‘I used to hold you like this when I was breastfeeding you,’ she said, smiling at the memory. ‘You’d only ever feed off my right breast. You used to kick and scream if I tried to put you on my left one. Ever since then my right nipple has been bigger than my left. Here, feel the difference.’

Edward struggled to contain a shudder as his mother guided his hand to her nipples. The right one was far larger, and smooth and hard as a bullet. ‘You see, Edward,’ she continued, ‘we all have our particular likings. Who can say where they come from? They simply exist inside us all. There’s no point fighting them. Accepting who you are, not fighting or apologising for it, that’s the mark of a true leader.’

Edward closed his eyes, nestling more deeply into his mother’s bosom. He’d heard these words, or ones like them, many times before from her. They always gave him a strange soothing tingle at the back of his head. ‘You’re right, Mummy. I’m sorry for shouting at you. I’m just so damned worried about this money issue.’

‘There’s no need to be. The money will be here before midday.’

‘In cash?’

‘Well, from what you told me, I assumed the people you’re dealing with wouldn’t want a banker’s draft.’ Mabel stroked her son’s bald head. ‘And once this person who wants to hurt you has been…’ she searched briefly for the right words, ‘taken out of the picture, we can get on with being a family again. Can’t we?’

This time, Edward couldn’t quite contain the tremor in his voice as he said, ‘Yes, Mother.’

After making sure his number was withheld, Jim called Southview. A woman picked up and said, ‘Hello.’

‘Can I speak to Linda, please?’ said Jim, keeping his voice carefully accentless.

‘Who?’

‘Linda Jones.’

‘Sorry, no one by that name lives here.’

‘I must have the wrong number. Sorry.’

‘No problem. Bye.’

Jim hung up. He hadn’t needed to ask who he was speaking to. He recognised Philippa Horne’s voice from the television. So Councillor Horne and, presumably, her husband too were lying low at Southview Manor. The next thing was to put eyes on them, see what they were up to. But first he needed to make another call. He punched in the number for Bob Stone, a crime reporter at the South Yorkshire
Chronicle
. ‘Hi, Bob, this is Jim Monahan,’ he said, when the journalist picked up. ‘I need a favour. I’m trying to track down Vernon Tisdale. Have you got his contact details?’

‘Vernon, what do you want with that old hack?’ enquired Bob.

‘I need to ask him a couple of questions about a case he reported on.’