Out of the Dark (26 page)

George’s reflection in the mirror behind her made her face return to normal and the feeling of his arms round her and the resilient solidity of his body behind hers, pulling her back into his strength, made her feel as though she might get through this after all.

‘It’ll be all right, Trish. The right answer will emerge. It always does if you’re patient enough.’

‘I don’t know that it will. Neither you nor I are the same as we were, and my father may be going to prison for murder. Even if he doesn’t, he’s not going to take on David. George, I cannot let that child be abandoned to the care system.’

‘Even though you’ve fought nearly all your professional life to get children away from hopeless or wicked parents for exactly that?’

She felt as though he’d stabbed her, even though he’d only put into words everything she’d been facing for days. She struggled to be fair.

‘I know. Which is why I’ve said I’ll go along with Antony and Sprindlers and give Nick Gurles’s case everything I’ve got. If I can earn enough to give David a truly happy, productive, safe childhood, I’ll have done something useful, probably more useful than arguing children into a care system that even when it doesn’t actively fail them hardly seems to equip them for successful adulthood.’

‘Trish …’

‘I have to, George. I felt abandoned because of what Paddy did to me and the residue of that has often nearly screwed up you and me. But at least I had my mother. David hasn’t anyone now.’

‘Calm down, Trish. It doesn’t have to be so dramatic.’

‘It’s pretty dramatic for David.’

‘True,’ George said, after giving the proposition some thought. ‘But what if his early experiences mean that he turns out to be psychotic? Or sociopathic.’

‘Then I’d just have to deal with it.’

‘And what, Trish, if we do manage to have our own child? Will David be able to bear that? And would we ever feel that ours would be safe with him in the house, too?’

Talk about anguish, Trish thought. She turned to face George. This was too important to be said to his reflection. ‘David has lived with this appalling threat and been told all his life that if the worst happened, he must go to Trish Maguire. Well, it has, and Trish Maguire can’t fail him. Her father and his might, but she
has
to look after him. George, you must understand.’

‘I suppose I’d better have a look at him.’

She said nothing, still not sure what he was going to decide. In that icy moment she knew that she needed him if she were ever to be whole.

‘If he’s going to be my son – or even my half-brother-in-law – I need to get to know him first.’ His arms tightened for a second before he let her go. ‘And you’d better phone Lakeshaw to tell him about the height of the man in Jeannie’s garden.’

Mikey felt his muscles tugging as he jogged back from the gym. It had been a good workout and he felt almost right with himself again. Each time his feet hit the pavement in the new trainers he felt the good bounce they and his own strength gave him. He came round the corner, dodged the wrecked bollard and the big puddle beside it and saw the police van at the bottom of his building, and stopped.

‘Mikey! Mikey!’

He forced himself to stop looking at the van and saw Kelly flying towards him over the smashed-up concrete.

‘Mikey, they’ve been beating up your nan.’

‘What? Who – the police?’

‘No. The men. The ambulance came and took her, and the p’lice are in the flat now.’

‘Christ, Kelly. I gotta go. Is she … ? Was she … ? D’you know how bad it was?’

‘She wasn’t dead, Mikey. I promise.’

That’s something, he thought, sprinting towards the building. All his life everything he’d really wanted had been taken away from him. He couldn’t bear it if he was going to lose his nan, too. Not now when everything was working so well. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t bother to try the lift, but ran upstairs until he saw them outside her flat.

‘Hey!’ he called. ‘What’s happened? One of the kids said my nan’s been taken to hospital.’

‘Is that Mikey?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Mr Smith,’ he said, recognising the police officer. ‘Is she OK? What happened?’

‘One of your neighbours heard her calling for help and phoned us, which is a pretty good miracle for this place.’

Except that if it was Margery from next door she’d have known she’d never be able to put enough money on her electric key if it wasn’t for Nan.

‘Thank God. But did you catch them before they—?’

‘No. By the time we got here, they’d gone. But I expect she’ll be OK, Mikey. She’s a tough old bird. It looked like broken ribs to me, and some bad bruising to her face and maybe back.’

‘Her kidney,’ he said. ‘If they’ve been kicking her back again she’s in trouble. The last time she was pissing blood, the doctor said …’ He choked.

Smith put a hand on his shoulder. ‘That’ll be for the hospital to say. They were taking her to Dowting’s. You’ll be able to see her there later. But do you know who it could’ve been, beating her up?’

Mikey was thinking fast. Was this the time to drop his Uncle Gal in it? But how could he get at the trousers without letting the police into the other hiding places? And what would his grandmother do if she decided it had been the wrong time to use them? Could she go back on her almost-promise to give him the business?

‘I know she was scared of my uncle,’ he said, and saw greedy pleasure make Smith’s eyes glisten. ‘You know we went round to his place after you were here that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I had to put her behind my back because I thought he was going to hit her then. I … I shouldn’t have ever left her, but I thought she’d be OK. She said she would.’

‘As a matter of fact, where’ve you been this morning?’

‘I went to the gym like I always do at seven. They must’ve known that, whoever it was. I always go. Anyone
here could’ve seen me jogging off. Same time, same route usually, same clothes.’

‘That could be it. OK. We’ll be off now, but we’ll take your grandmother’s statement as soon as the doctors give us the all-clear. She may be able to tell us more.’

So, he thought, they’ve already talked to the neighbours, old Margery probably and some others and knew he hadn’t been there. That was good. It would be typical of the filth to suspect the wrong man for something like this.

‘We’ve taken prints, but there’s nothing else we can do here. We’ll need yours for elimination. You can come down to the station later and give them. But you’ll be all right now?’

‘Sure.’ Mikey wasn’t certain if it was rage or worry that was making his head feel so bad. ‘I’ll get the place cleaned up first for when she can come back. And then I’ll have to see if she’s OK. You’ll talk to my uncle, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Great.’

Mikey watched them go, then had a shower. The water pressure was weak here, but he never fancied showering in the gym, not with that lot around, watching him. Dry, dressed, and certain that the Old Bill had gone, he cleared out all the hiding places. He took the books and the money, still not sure where he’d be able to put it all safely but certain he had to get it out of the way before they thought of making a real search. Then he fetched her shabby old blue suitcase, laying the business stuff at the bottom, then filling the rest with her nightclothes and brush and washbag. He’d take it to her in hospital, then if he was stopped on the way, he should be able to talk his way out of it. And then, when he was back and clearing up he could ‘find’ the trousers. And that should settle it all. Or it would so long as he could think up a good enough story about why they were in the flat and why his grandmother hadn’t done anything with them before.

Terrified of what Gal would do to her, was the best story. Yes, he’d come, forced her to hide them, then told her if she let anyone know about them he’d come back and kill her. Yes, that could work.

But it might be better to do it now. He could take the case and leave it in the back of his car, go into the nick to give them his prints and show them the trousers, saying he’d found them under his nan’s nightclothes when he was packing her stuff for the hospital.

 

Trish was drinking coffee while George ate his bacon and eggs. They’d got to the stage of agreeing that if they were to take on David, they would have to employ a nanny.

‘There isn’t room to keep her here, if David has the spare room,’ Trish said, sitting with her elbows on the table and her big coffee cup between her hands. ‘So I’d better start looking for something to rent nearby.’

‘So you’re expecting us to carry on as we always have?’ George said. ‘With a boy with a blood claim on you living here with you, and me having only visiting rights?’

‘George, I thought we’d agreed …’

‘In principle, but not in detail.’ He put down his knife and fork and smiled at her. She couldn’t smile back. Already she could feel the walls of a budgie’s cage pressing around her.

‘Trish, I’m not trying to bully you, or force you to live with me, so you don’t have to look like that.’

A smile, rather shaky, seemed possible then and she watched his eyes soften in response.

‘I just want to be sure that we’ve faced all the implications before this is irrevocable.’

‘Would it be?’ She drank too big a mouthful of coffee and had to fight to swallow it.

‘Yes, it would. I know you like to keep all your options open. Christ! I’m not stupid. I know that’s why you’ve insisted on our keeping our separate houses, and it’s fine,
it’s suited me, too – but with a child you can’t. If you take him on, you can’t hand him back if it gets too difficult. This is crunch time, Trish.’

First Antony Shelley and now you, she thought. ‘Are you saying that I always hedge my bets?’ The answer to that was easy once she’d put herself to the question. Of course she did.

‘It’s only me I can’t trust,’ she said at last and saw all the tenderness she’d ever wanted in his eyes.

‘I know. I’ve always known that. But, Trish, surely by now you know you’re not going to turn into …’

‘My father? Do I? I might feel safer if I’ even knew what he is.’

The phone rang. Trish reached for it, hoping it would be Lakeshaw, who’d played his usual game last night. She’d left as detailed a message as she could, and that might have persuaded him she was worth talking to.

‘Trish Maguire.’

‘They’ve arrested Paddy,’ Bella said, sounding on the edge of hysteria.

The news hit Trish like a punch in the stomach. But with the breathlessness came enough adrenaline to keep her upright.

‘Trish, you must help. You must get him out. You will come now, won’t you? Trish? Trish, are you there?’

She couldn’t let herself feel anything now. Now, if ever, was the time to behave like a detached professional.

‘Hold on, Bella,’ she said, clamping down hard on her own instinct to scream. ‘We’ll do whatever has to be done, but calm down. Has he been charged?’

‘He’s been arrested, I told you.’

‘There’s a difference. Has he got a solicitor with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. That’s good. Then they won’t be able to trap him into confessing to something he hasn’t done.’

Trish felt George’s hand on her shoulder and she leaned
back, knowing he would be there, supporting her. His arms hugged her and she felt his chin on her head.

‘I’ll go there at once, but Bella, just tell me: what grounds did they have for an arrest?’

‘He was seen leaving the flat that night, when I was zonked out on the sleeping pills. He got into the car and he won’t say why or where he went. But they’ve said something about seeing the car on lots of different CCTV cameras, going towards the victim’s flat.’

‘Oh, shit!’ Deal with it later, Trish, she told herself. ‘Look, don’t worry too much. I’ll get over there now.’

‘But Trish, what about your work?’

‘It’s fine. I’m not in court today. I’ve got time. I’ll go over there and I’ll let you know what happens.’

 

Lakeshaw was re-reading the scientific evidence, waiting for Sergeant Baker to report the result of her first formal interview with Paddy Maguire. He’d asked her to start because she was good at getting suspects to trust her and talk. He’d go in later, if they needed a heavy mob, but for now all he could do was wait.

He wished Jeannie Nest’s killer had been less skilled and allowed her to fight back just long enough to scratch the bastard. There was nothing useful under her nails, and the pathologist had said the killer had never touched her with his hands. He’d looped the fabric ligature round her neck from behind and twisted it with some implement, which he’d probably taken away with him. It might have been a long spoon; there was one missing from the set in the kitchen. Then he’d beaten her with the chair that used to stand in front of her desk. It had broken under the assault, and he’d ended up using one of the legs. He’d never touched her himself, and so there were no fluids, prints, or anything else to prove who he’d been.

The only evidence the pathologist hoped would come in useful were the few fibres they’d collected. There were
some from Frances Mason’s long cerise cotton skirt and some from the plod’s uniform, obviously deposited when they’d found the body and Mason had fainted. But among the rest were some brown polyester fibres, which had no counterpart in anything either had been wearing, or in anything else in the flat.

The killer had brushed against the body as he left, the forensic boys thought, and some fibres from his trousers had stuck to the bloody mess he’d made of her face. It was a pity that nothing they’d found in Paddy Maguire’s wardrobe or flat had produced fibres that were anything like these. But of course he could’ve got rid of whatever he’d been wearing at the time. It was exasperating, if not surprising, that nothing had emerged from the search of bins and skips in the vicinity.

‘It’ll be in the river, probably,’ Lakeshaw muttered.

A moment’s doubt about Maguire’s guilt was soothed by his memory of Frances Mason’s description of the victim’s terror of her old boyfriend, and of the CCTV footage of Maguire’s car speeding through the empty streets towards Hoxton.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere special,’ Maguire had said when Lakeshaw had confronted him with news of the footage and forced him to admit that the sparklingly clear film did indeed show him ‘in the driving seat. ‘I was just moseying about. I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to disturb my companion, who was very tired after several bad nights, so I got up and went for a drive. I can’t even remember where I went.’

He’d been lying. Lakeshaw was certain of that. He’d gone somewhere deliberately and felt guilty about it. It was a bugger that the CCTV cameras had only tracked him driving towards Hoxton, then given out before they could have nailed him at the scene of the crime.

One day, thought Lakeshaw, there’d be cameras at every junction – and film in the lot of them – so that anyone and
everyone could be tracked from the beginning of every journey to the end, but it hadn’t happened yet. They’d caught Paddy Maguire on two garage forecourt cameras, a speed camera that had flashed as he’d bombed past it at fifty-five miles an hour, and that was it, until he’d been filmed driving back towards Kensington an hour later and even faster.

‘Sir?’

Lakeshaw looked up and saw DC Martin Waylant looking like a man on his way to the result of an AIDS test. He’d been cleared now of all suspicion that he’d sold Jeannie Nest’s new name and address to the Handsome family, but there was no doubting the fact that he’d let her die because he hadn’t taken her fears seriously enough. And the gossip that Sergeant Lyalt had belatedly seen fit to pass on might explain why. Waylant already knew how guilty he was, but Lakeshaw had it in mind to rub it in hard enough to leave a permanent reminder so that he would never do anything so fucking irresponsible ever again.

‘You sent for me, sir.’

Lakeshaw wondered if he had the strength to keep control of his temper. He nodded, but he wasn’t going to ask Waylant to sit down, or shut the door.

‘May I sit down?’

‘No. I want to know if it’s true that you’d been having a sexual relationship with the victim.’

Waylant stumbled and stuttered, flushed the colour of a rotten tomato, then eventually mumbled out an account of an affair that had started in pity, turned into something that mattered to him for a while, then become difficult, and finally made him itch to get away.

‘Which is why I thought her last call was a ploy, sir,’ he ended up.

‘She was old enough to be your mother. What the hell were you thinking of?’ As he spoke, Lakeshaw saw a whole new picture of what might have happened to Jeannie Nest,
with Waylant himself battering her dead body with a broken chair. The picture grew in his mind, like an email photograph downloading pixel by pixel. Then it shrank back as he reminded himself that Waylant had been on duty on the night of her death, and the records showed exactly where he’d been throughout, and who’d been with him. He hadn’t had enough time alone to get to her flat, let alone kill her and mash her body to a pulp.