Angel of Death (37 page)

Jim’s eyes narrowed into scrutinising slits as he scrolled down the webpage and a photo of Forester came into view. He mentally reeled off Grace’s description of the Chief Bastard – well built, bald with tufts of brown hair above his ears, brown eyes. Forester was broad-shouldered and bald with salt-and-pepper wisps around his ears. His close-set brown eyes peered out from deep sockets. There was a coldness in them that contradicted the smile on his lips. So far, so close, but Forester’s upper front teeth showed pearly white and even. If Mark’s dream was really a memory, they should be yellowed and crooked.

Jim opened a new tab and googled ‘Edward Forester 1997’, bringing up a selection of images from election night – the night Labour was swept to victory by a landslide vote. He zoomed in on a photo of the then newly re-elected MP. Forester was slimmer, but still solidly built. The narrow fringe of hair above his ears was dark brown. He was smiling broadly at his electorate, revealing a row of overlapping, stained upper teeth. In the years between then and now he’d had his teeth fixed to give him a film-star smile.

Jim’s fingers dug into his palms. The Chief Bastard’s physical description fitted the Forester of 1997 exactly! Still, there was the matter of his voice. Forester had a broad Sheffield accent. It was his trademark. But was it for real? He did a search for videos of Forester. There was footage of him in the House of Commons dating back to the Thatcher era, and of him giving interviews and election speeches. In all of the clips his accent never wavered. He was either a consummate actor or Jim’s suspicion was misplaced.

He took a look at Forester’s Wiki biography. Forester was born in Handsworth, Sheffield in 1955, the only child of a housewife and a steel worker. In 1956 Forester’s father walked out on his family. Edward seemed to be facing a childhood of poverty, but his mother proved herself a resourceful lady. She set up a business making and selling cakes. It was a huge success, and in 1960 she and Edward moved south to Totteridge, Hertfordshire. By the time Edward was seven his mother could afford to send him to Beldamere House, an exclusive boarding school with fees to match. Forester had gone on from Beldamere House to read law at Cambridge. Shortly after graduating, he joined the Labour Party and moved back to Sheffield. He practised criminal law in his home city for several years, before contesting the Attercliffe constituency in the 1983 general election – a seat he’d held, in its various incarnations, ever since.

Deep in thought, Jim pulled his eyes from the screen. Forester had lived in Handsworth long enough to justify his broad accent. But children are masters of fitting in. Surely his accent wouldn’t have stayed with him for long in the rarefied environment of a private school. Or maybe he’d got into the habit of modifying it depending on who he was speaking to. Jim lit a cigarette and sat with it between his fingers, wondering how it would be possible to find out if that was the case. The cigarette had burnt itself out, leaving a trail of ash across the keyboard, by the time it came to him that there might be a way. In order to try it he needed Forester’s phone number. The easiest way to get that would be to log on to the PNC Vehicle File database, which contained the details of every owner of a registered vehicle. But that would leave a digital trail connecting him to Forester, and for reasons he barely dared acknowledge to himself, he was reluctant to do that.

In hope rather than expectation, Jim searched online for Forester’s home address and telephone number. Unsurprisingly, he was ex-directory. The only available address and telephone number were those of his constituency office. Jim navigated to Forester’s website and clicked the ‘About Edward’ link. His gaze skimmed over paragraphs of idealistic guff about why Forester had gone into politics, until he came to the sentence: ‘I’ve been happily married for nearly twenty years to Philippa Horne, the Labour councillor for the Arbourthorne Ward.’ Jim wondered why Forester’s wife hadn’t taken his name. Was it because she wanted to be judged on her own merits? Whatever the case, it pointed him in the direction of a more fruitful avenue of investigation. Councillors who delivered local services needed to be much more accessible to their electorate. He did a search for ‘Philippa Horne, Arbourthorne councillor’. A link to Sheffield City Council’s website led him to a list of councillors’ contact details. The list provided town hall, home and mobile telephone numbers, but not home addresses.

Jim noted down Philippa Horne’s home number and printed off photos of her and her husband. The next thing was to locate Forester. There was no point staking out his house if he was working down in Westminster. He took another look at the MP’s website. There was no information about Forester’s current whereabouts. He followed a link to his Twitter feed. There were five tweets from that morning. Forester – or more likely, his PA – was clearly eager to show he was down with social networking. A two-hour-old tweet read: ‘Just returned from visit to Newhall Stainless Steels. Wonderful to see a true local success story. Now off to launch of CTYT.’ Jim Googled ‘CTYT launch Sheffield’. A link came up to the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust, a charity set up to help young runaway and homeless people in the city. The website announced that Edward Forester was to open their new Arundel Gate premises.

Jim hurried to his car and drove into the city centre as fast as traffic would permit. According to the website, the launch party started at half past one. It was already nearly two o’clock. The charity’s premises were at the top end of Arundel Gate, a busy road that ran parallel to the high street. He saw that he hadn’t missed the party. A small crowd had congregated on the pavement and was listening to Edward Forester give his speech. Jim parked on a side-street and made his way to the gathering.

Forester was wearing a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled up, like a real working man. He looked a little tired around the eyes, but his voice was strong and full of energy. ‘…privilege to be here this afternoon,’ he was saying, projecting his earthy Yorkshire tones over the traffic noise with practised ease. ‘The Craig Thorpe Youth Trust is a charity very close to my heart.’ He indicated several smartly dressed youths – no doubt, examples of the charity’s good work. ‘I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve all been through. I had a mother who worked every hour of every day to give me the opportunity to be whatever I wanted to be. However, for several years of my childhood, our little family was threatened with homelessness. Those days of uncertainty made an impression that has stayed with me all my life. They showed me how fine the line can be between, in my case, ending up in Parliament or on the street. They also showed me that people can make a success of their lives no matter what their background. But not everyone is lucky enough to have a mother like mine. That’s where the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust comes in. It’s their ambition not only to get this city’s young people off the streets, but to give them the tools to build a future for themselves. And not just any old future, but the future they deserve, one of opportunity and hope.’

As Jim listened, he found himself wanting to believe he was wrong about Forester. The politician’s voice was so heartfelt, so natural, it seemed incredible to think it might mask a heart as rotten as a month-old corpse. The teenagers at his sides looked at him with open admiration. Christ only knew what neglect and abuse they’d suffered at the hands of adults in their short lives, yet they’d found it within themselves to trust in others again. For Forester to betray that trust, and in the monstrous way that Jim suspected, would be cruel almost beyond belief.

Someone handed Forester a set of scissors, and the crowd broke into applause as he cut a ribbon strung across the entrance to the charity’s premises. A woman announced that there were drinks and a buffet inside, and the crowd began to file into the building. Jim took up a position from where he could see into the building without being easily seen by anyone looking out of the windows. Forester was working the room, smiling, chatting, shaking hands, having his photo taken. After half an hour or so, he left the party accompanied by a thirty-something woman in a business suit. They made their way to a black Jag parked a short distance from Jim’s car. The woman got in behind the wheel. Forester lit a fat cigar before ducking into the passenger seat.

For the next few hours, Jim followed the Jag around Sheffield. Forester stopped to chat and have his photo taken with factory workers in Attercliffe. Then it was off to another photo opportunity with some people protesting against a mobile telephone mast in Mosborough. Finally, the Jag made its way to the boxy steel-and-glass building that housed his city-centre constituency office. Forester and the woman entered the building. A few minutes later he reappeared with his wife, Philippa Horne, a slim, attractive brunette of about fifty. The two of them got into the Jag and set off, this time with Forester driving. Jim followed them to Woodhouse, a solid working-class suburb to the south-east of the city centre. The Jag turned onto a long driveway that led to a red-brick, bay-windowed Victorian semi. The house was large, but relatively modest compared to those of the Baxleys and Winstanleys.

Forester and his wife entered the house. Net curtains prevented Jim from seeing inside. He glanced at the clock. It was just past six. He wanted to make sure he was back home in time for Mark’s call, but he was reluctant to try what was on his mind with Philippa Horne in the house. Time ticked on: half past six, seven, quarter past seven. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the dashboard. A few more minutes and he would have to make his move no matter what. His fingers stopped drumming as Philippa appeared from around the back of the house dressed in jeans and a sweater, carrying a garden fork.

He drove to a phone box, dialled Forester’s home number, let it ring three times, then hung up. He counted off ten seconds, then redialled. As the phone rang again, he put his handheld tape recorder to its earpiece and hit the record button. One, two, three rings. Someone picked up. A voice came down the line. It was Forester, but not the Forester he’d heard in the city centre. This Forester was well spoken, his voice as sharp and cold as a blade of ice. ‘What the hell are you doing phoning me at home?’

There was a brief pause. Then the voice came again. ‘What if my wife had answered?’

Another silence. Longer than the last one. Punctuated by the eerie sound of Forester’s breathing, suddenly shallow with uncertainty. The line went dead.

His heart thumping in his throat, Jim rewound the tape and played the voice back. There was a slight hiss of static, but the recording wasn’t bad. He still needed Mark to confirm it, but there was no longer any doubt in his mind – Edward Forester was the Chief Bastard. He felt no sense of triumph at the discovery, only a leaden sadness for all the lies and hypocrisy of the adult world.

He drove back past the red-brick semi. Philippa Horne was digging over the garden’s borders, working out the strains of the day, blissfully unaware that her world was about to be shattered. He heaved a sigh and put his foot down. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when he arrived home, but the phone was ringing. He ran to answer it.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Mark asked excitedly. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you all evening.’

‘I’ve—’

Before Jim could finish, Mark went on, ‘Charlotte moved. I asked her to move her fingers and she did. The doctors think it was probably just a muscle spasm, but I know it wasn’t. She heard me.’

‘That’s wonderful, Mark.’ Jim’s flat, heavy voice didn’t match his words.

‘What is it?’ Mark’s excitement was replaced by concerned curiosity. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Are you on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you trust me?’

‘You know I do.’

‘There’s something I want you to listen to – a recording I made. And whatever you hear, I want you to promise me you’ll keep it to yourself until I say otherwise.’

‘I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.’

Jim hit play on the tape recorder and Forester’s coldly furious voice hissed into the phone. When the recording was finished, he returned the phone to his ear. ‘Well?’

‘It’s him,’ Mark exclaimed. ‘It’s—’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Jim cut in.

Mark’s voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. ‘It’s the Chief Bastard.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘One hundred per cent. I’d recognise that voice anywhere. Who is he?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

Mark’s voice rose in surprise again. ‘Why not?’

‘For your own safety. I can’t say any more than that right now. I don’t want—’
To make you an accomplice
, Jim thought, finishing the sentence in his mind.

‘You don’t want what?’

‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is keeping you safe.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Mark asked tentatively, as if unsure he really wanted to know.

As Jim thought about the answer to that question, a cold sweat seeped from the palms of his hands. ‘Take care of yourself, Mark.’ With a trace of regretful longing, he added, ‘And don’t ever forget, there’s nothing more important than the ones you love.’

Jim hung up and looked at his hand that had gripped the phone, flexing fingers that felt tingly and stiff. He winced as a cramping pain streaked down his arm. He breathed out the pain, telling himself that what he was going to do was the only way to stop Forester. The tape recording was incriminating, but it would no more stand up in a court of law than the words of a dead murderess or the questionable recovered memory of an abuse victim. Not that there was any way the case would ever get to court. Without physical evidence, there was no chance of bringing charges against Forester. And all the physical evidence was long gone, except for the DVDs.

As far as Jim knew, Forester possessed the only other copy of the film. It seemed a pretty good guess that the politician had a version in which his face was visible. In order to properly relive the experience, Forester would want to be able to see his face on screen. If that was the case, he would need to be insane or stupid to have kept hold of his copy after Grace’s rescue of Mark. And Forester was neither of those things. He was a cruel, calculating sociopath, a master of manipulating his audience and public image.