A Place of Execution (57 page)

‘I don’t care on my own account,’

George said. ‘It’s Paul and Helen I’m bothered about. We made a terrible mistake before they were even born, but they’re the ones who’ll end up paying for it. I can’t see how they can survive it all coming out. And I don’t see how Anne could forgive me for the damage it’d cause them.’

‘I know. And it’s not just them, George. It’s Alison too. Whatever she’s done, it’s already cost her more than we’ll ever know. They could still prosecute her for conspiracy, and I don’t reckon she deserves that.’

‘So what’s to be done, Tommy? I’m no bloody use, lying here.’ Tommy shook his head, unable to hide his frustration. ‘I reckon we’ll have a better idea once we’ve heard what Alison has to say for herself.’

‘Do what you can.’ George’s voice was growing weaker. ‘I’m tired now.

You’d best be off.’

Tommy stood up. ‘I’ll do my best.’

George nodded. ‘You always did, Tommy. No reason to expect any different now.’

Feeling twenty years older than he had a mere day before, Tommy walked out of the room towards an encounter he had never expected that side of the grave. The last time he’d felt this burden on his shoulders had been during the construction of the case against Philip Hawkin. This time, he hoped he’d make a better job of it.

August 1998

T
he weather had swung back to the dismal grey skies and intense showers that had been the hallmark of most of the summer. As they turned down the Scardale road, a sudden torrent of water spilled over the car, turning the tarmac ahead into a swirl of shallow flood water. ‘Great day for it,’

Tommy said laconically. He felt a turbulent mixture of emotions. His curiosity was stirred by the prospect of uncovering the final truth, but he was apprehensive of the possible consequences of those revelations. He was aware of his responsibility towards George and his family, and uncertain if he could fulfil that obligation. And he felt enormous pity for the woman whose sanctuary they were about to destroy. He wished with all his heart that George had never agreed to break his silence. Or that he had chosen a less intelligent and tenacious writer to work with.

For her part, Catherine refused to allow herself to consider anything other than how she was going to get Janis Wainwright to tell the truth. There would be plenty of time to figure out what she would do with the information once she’d garnered it. Her job now was to make sure that whatever decisions were taken later, they were made in full possession of the facts. She checked her small tape recorder, tucked into the pocket of her linen blazer. All she had to do was to depress the ‘record’ and ‘play’ buttons together and she’d have a perfect record of what Janis Wainwright—or rather, Alison Carter—had to say. They drew up outside the manor, Catherine parking across the drive so Janis couldn’t escape except on foot. In silence, they waited for the shower to pass, then squelched across the grass to the path leading to the kitchen door.

Tommy let the knocker fall. The door opened almost at once. Without the handicap of the sun, Catherine was able to take a proper look at the woman who faced them, a guarded look in her eyes.

The scar was incontrovertible. Almost beyond question, this was Alison Carter. The woman opened her mouth to speak but Tommy held up his hand and shook his head. ‘I’m Tommy Clough.

Formerly Detective Sergeant Clough. We’d like to come in for a chat.’

The woman shook her head. The door began to inch shut. Tommy placed his large hand against it, not quite pushing, but preventing it closing further unless she leaned her weight against it. ‘Don’t slam the door in our faces, Alison,’ he said, his voice firm but gentle. ‘Remember, Catherine’s a journalist. She already knows enough to write one version of the story. There’s no statute of limitation on conspiracy to commit murder. And what Catherine’s in a position to write now means you could still face prosecution.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ she blurted, her face closed down in panic, the hand that wasn’t holding the door creeping up automatically to her cheek.

Sometimes, Catherine thought, brutality was the only effective route left. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

‘I’ll just have to see what Helen can tell me.’ The woman’s eyes blazed momentary anger, then her shoulders rose and fell in a resigned shrug. She stepped to one side, holding the door open as her mother must have done hundreds of times before her. ‘Better I correct whatever rubbish you think you know than you go upsetting Helen without due cause,’ she said, her voice cold and harsh.

Tommy stood just inside the threshold as she closed the door behind them. ‘You’ve made some changes here,’ he said, looking round at the farmhouse kitchen that could have featured in a period homes magazine with almost no set dressing.

‘Nothing to do with me. When my aunt owned it, she had the kitchen done out for her tenants,’ she said brusquely.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Tommy said. Beside him, Catherine surreptitiously pressed the buttons on her tape recorder. ‘Hawkin was happy to spend his money on his photography—or on you, Alison, but he never spent a shilling on your mother’s comfort.’

‘Why do you keep calling me Alison?’ she demanded, back to the wall, arms folded over her chest, the smile on her face attempting to demonstrate an ease she clearly didn’t feel. ‘My name is Janis Wainwright.’

‘Too late, Alison.’ Catherine noisily pulled out a chair and sat down at the waxed pine table. If Tommy had decided that today he was playing Good Cop, she was more than willing to take up the Bad Cop role. ‘You should have trotted out the puzzled act when Tommy called you Alison the first time. You just looked shocked, not confused. You didn’t say, ‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong house, there’s no Alison lives here.’’ Alison glared at her. For the first time, Catherine noticed how much she resembled her mother. In the photographs she’d seen, Ruth must have been ten years younger than Alison was now, though she’d looked older. ‘You’re very like your mother,’

Catherine said. ‘How would you know? You never met my mother,’ Alison said defiantly.

‘I’ve seen photographs of her. She was in all the papers during the trial.’

Alison shook her head. ‘There you go again, talking nonsense. I’ve no idea what you’re on about, you know. My mother was never involved in a trial in her life.’

Tommy walked across the room and stationed himself opposite her.

He shook his head with a sympathetic half-smile. ‘It’s too late, Alison.

There’s no point in keeping up the pretence any longer.’

‘What pretence? I keep telling you, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re on about.’

‘Are you still claiming to be Janis Wainwright?’ Catherine said coldly. ‘What do you mean, claiming? What is this? I’m calling the police,’ she said, setting off for the phone.

Tommy and Catherine did nothing and said nothing. Alison opened the phone book and looked up the number. Then she glanced over her shoulder to see if they were going anywhere. Catherine smiled politely and Tommy shook his head again. ‘You know that’s not a good idea,’ he said sadly, as her hand crept towards the phone. ‘No, Tommy, let her. I really want to hear her explaining how she managed the resurrection,’ Catherine said, the epitome of sweet reason. Alison froze. ‘That’s right, Alison. I know Janis died in 1959. Eleventh of May, to be precise. It must have been hard for your Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Sam. Hard for you too, with you and Janis being much of an age.’

Alison’s eyes were fearful now. She must have had nightmares about this moment for years, Tommy thought with a pang of pity. And at last it was unfolding before her. He could only imagine the fear that must be coursing through her right now. Two strangers in her kitchen, one with good reason to want to take revenge on her for making a fool of 388 him thirty-five years before, the other apparently hellbent on exposing her darkest secrets to a sensation-hungry world. And Catherine wasn’t making it any easier with her aggressiveness. Somehow, he had to calm things down, to make Alison feel that they were her best chance of salvaging something from this appalling situation. ‘Sit down, Alison,’ he said kindly. ‘We’re not out to get you. We just want to know the truth, that’s all. If we were planning on destroying you, we’d have gone to the police as soon as Catherine turned up Janis Wainwright’s death certificate.’

Slowly, uneasily, like an animal that expects danger, she moved across to the table and sat at the opposite end from Catherine. ‘What’s any of this to you?’ she asked her.

‘George Bennett’s lying in hospital in Derby because of what he saw in this house. I’m sure Helen’s been on the phone to tell you,’ Catherine said.

She nodded. ‘Yes. And I’m sorry. I only ever wished George Bennett well.’

‘You should never have let him come here, if you wished him well,’ Tommy said, unable to keep the edge of anger and pain out of his voice. ‘You must have known he’d recognize you.’

She sighed. ‘What else could I do? How could I explain to Helen that I didn’t want to meet her future in-laws? It had to be better that we got it over with than him coming face to face with me at the wedding. But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s any of this to you?’ Catherine leaned forward. Her voice was as intense as her expression. ‘I’ve spent six months of my life working with George Bennett to tell a story. Now I find out that we’ve both been manipulated into believing a lie. George Bennett’s paid a hell of a price for finding that out. And I won’t be a party to allowing that lie to persist.’

‘Whatever the cost to other people? Even if it shames George Bennett? Even if it destroys Paul Bennett and Helen too?’ Alison exploded, her composure shattering like a light bulb on a stone floor. ‘And it’s not just them.’ Her hand flew to her mouth in a classic gesture, her eyes widening as she realized she had told them more than they knew. ‘If you want me to hold off, you’re going to have to give me a better reason than sentimentality. It’s time to talk, Alison,’ Catherine said coldly. ‘Time for the whole story.’

‘Why should I say anything to you? This could be a trick. Everybody knows how far hacks like you will go to get a story. How do I know you know anything about me at all?’ It was a last desperate throw of the dice, and everyone in the room knew it.

Catherine opened her bag and took out print-outs of the four certificates. ‘This is where we start,’ she said, tossing them down the table to Alison. They landed in an unruly flurry. Alison slowly read through them, using the time to regain control of herself. When she looked up, her face was impassive once more. But Catherine could see dark sweat stains forming under the arms of her pale-green blouse. ‘So?’ Alison said.

Catherine took out the computer-aged photograph and slid it towards Alison. ‘According to the computers at Manchester University, this is what Alison would look like if she was still alive.

Looked in a mirror lately?’ Alison’s lips parted, revealing clenched teeth and she drew in a hiss of breath. The look she gave Catherine made her glad she had Tommy with her.

‘What we know is that you are not Janis Wainwright. Thanks to the wonders of DNA, what can probably be proved is that you are Alison Carter. What can definitely be proved is that Helen is not your sister but your daughter. The daughter you had when you were barely fourteen, following the systematic abuse and rape that you suffered at the hands of your stepfather, Philip Hawkin. The man they hanged for your murder. If we went to the police with what we have, they could exhume the bodies and prove these relationships, no bother at all.’ Catherine spoke with clinical precision.

‘I’m afraid she’s right, Alison,’ Tommy said. ‘But I meant what I said. We didn’t come here to make a case against you. For the sake of everybody involved in this, we need to know what happened. So we can all decide together about the best way to deal with this.’ Without asking for permission, Catherine took out her cigarettes and lit one. Tommy walked across to the draining board and brought her a plate. The activity filled a long silence while Alison stared wordlessly at the computer-aged photograph. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. ‘Here’s what we think happened,’ Tommy said gently, sitting down near her. ‘Hawkin was abusing you, and we think you didn’t know what to do about it. You were afraid of what would happen if you told your mum.

Most kids are. But you’d already seen her lose one husband and you were afraid she’d have the same terrible grief if you forced her to choose between Hawkin and you. Then you fell pregnant.

And your mum realized what had happened.’

Alison’s nod was almost imperceptible. A single tear slid from her right eye and trickled down her cheek. She made no move to wipe it away. ‘So she sent you off to live with your aunt and uncle, telling you that from now on you had to be Janis,’ Tommy continued. ‘And then she set him up.

With the information you gave her, she was able to arrange for George Bennett to stumble over the clues she’d planted. She even found where the photographs were kept. And through it all, you kept your silence. You endured the horrors of a pregnancy you didn’t want, you lost your childhood and you lost any chance you had of happiness. You didn’t even get to bring up your daughter as your own child. For years, the sacrifice was bearable because it meant you all had something approaching a decent life. And now, because of one terrible coincidence, because Paul and Helen met and fell in love, it’s all gone tragically wrong.’ Alison took a deep shuddering breath. ‘You seem to have managed to work it all out without any help from me,’ she said shakily. Tommy laid a hand on her arm. ‘We’re right, aren’t we?’

‘No, Tommy,’ Catherine interjected, apparently unmoved by the emotional scene playing itself out before her. ‘There’s more. We thought before we got here that that was the whole story, but it’s not, is it? You gave it away, Alison. When you said it wasn’t Just Paul and Helen whose lives could be destroyed. There’s more to this, and you’re going to tell us.’ She looked up at Catherine, her eyes dark with anger. ‘You’re wrong.

There’s nothing more to tell.’

‘Oh, I think there is. And I think you’re going to tell us. Because as things stand, I’m not on your side. You and your mother murdered Philip Hawkin. It wasn’t something done on the spur of the moment, under immediate provocation. It took months to achieve, and the pair of you kept your mouths shut all that time. You certainly made a meal of your revenge. But I don’t see any reason why you should be protected from the consequences of what you did. If you wanted to avoid the risk of Helen’s life being destroyed, you should have told her the truth years ago,’ Catherine said, injecting anger into her voice. She was determined not to be diverted by Alison’s pain, no matter how genuine it was. ‘Now all you’ve achieved is that you’ve risked another man’s life, a good man’s life, all because your mother didn’t have the courage to deal with Philip Hawkin head on.’