Grave Doubts (28 page)

Something flickered in the grass and he bent to pick it up. A diamante hairslide, cheap, plastic and clean. His heart beat faster. Had the girl been wearing it? For the life of him he couldn’t remember but how else would something like this be here sparkling in the mud? This was becoming serious but he’d never felt more stupid or out of place. Despite the hairslide in his hand he almost turned back. Then he heard another cough from the trees less than a hundred metres ahead of him. He crouched lower and crept forward, suddenly conscious of the noise he was making. His heart was hammering in his ears and he was sweating profusely beneath his shirt.

As he reached the hedge before the copse he saw something white glinting in the ditch. A Gap T-shirt, ripped open with something dark down one side that might have been blood. To his credit his first reaction was one of fear for the girl, then anger towards the man who might be attacking her at that very moment. His next thought was to call out, to give her hope and scare her attacker, but a rush of common sense stopped the impulse. All he would be doing was warning the man of his approach.

His mobile phone was in his pocket and he backed away a few steps to create what he hoped was a sound break then dialled: nine-nine-nine. When prompted he whispered ‘police and ambulance’ and gave succinct directions to the field, emphasising that he thought a girl was being attacked. They started to question him for more details but he didn’t have any and rang off.

For the first time he acknowledged that he was scared. The idea of waiting in the car was very appealing and he almost turned around to retrace his steps, but the thought of what might be happening to the girl was too horrible to ignore. Instead he followed the line of the hedge back to the copse and crouched down on his haunches to peer inside.

The first thing he noticed was the silence beneath the rushing of the wind in the trees. Then there was a rustling and the faintest, lowest moan. Felling smaller and lonelier than he had done since his first cub pack holiday, he started to creep forward.

He was smoking another roll up when he heard the girl moan. It was long past midnight. On impulse he decided to finish her off and dump her body. He pulled out his knife, a replacement for the one lost in Wales, and opened the sharpened blade. His excitement returned. This was the best part.

The water had roused her and she was trying to raise herself on one elbow. She was a disgusting creature, entirely unworthy and it was good that she was going to die. The heat in his stomach increased as his pulse quickened.

‘About fucking time!’ He brought his free hand up and hit her temple, driving her back into the river bank. She cried out in pain and his body exulted.

He put his hand over her mouth and felt her whimper against his palm. Her eyes were wild as he held her tight against his thigh. The sight and smell of her drove the stale adrenaline from his system with a surge of fresh excitement. She was crying now, the tears wetting the back of his hand. She screamed against his palm and he cried out with joy.

He was laughing as he raised the knife. When she saw the blade she tried to fight her way free but she wasn’t strong enough and he made the first delicate cut easily, enjoying the way she arched her back in agony.

Geoff raised himself from his knees, appalled at the sounds coming from the bushes ahead of him. The girl was moaning in pain while that bastard was laughing and enjoying himself. He looked hopefully back towards the gate and the road beyond but it remained empty. If the girl was to be saved there was no option but to do something himself, but he wasn’t a hero and he remembered the man as tall and muscular. He tried to stand but his knees were like jelly. Geoff was petrified. As the sounds of the man’s attack filled the night he clamped his hands over his ears. Tears soaked his cheeks unnoticed. Then the girl cried out, a real scream full of horrified pain, and he could crouch there no longer. There was a wooden branch in the brambles and he picked if up, ignoring the sting of nettles. With a loud cry he leapt forward, swinging the makeshift club wildly.

The man raised himself to his feet and hitched up his trousers. He ducked easily under the swing and stepped away to open the distance between them. Geoff swung again and almost overbalanced. He struggled upright and aimed a kick at the man’s groin. It connected but not with enough force to inflict real damage. The man leapt at him wielding a knife. There was ice in Geoff’s belly now as he tried to keep out of range. The girl was screaming, or was it the man? He could no longer tell as he was forced to use the branch to deflect a vicious thrust.

The other man was younger, fitter and he kept coming. There was a stinging pain along his arm and he glanced down to see his jacket gashed open and blood on his wrist. He had to use both hands to hold the branch now, alternatively thrusting it forward like a sword or swinging it as a club. It made no difference. His opponent seemed to dance around him, just out of striking distance until he darted forward with a lunge that increasingly brought with it numbness or pain.

In the dark he tripped over the girl’s legs and stumbled forward. When he looked up his opponent had gone. As he tried to stand there was a blow to his back and Geoff fell forward, winded. He forced himself up but his legs wouldn’t lock and he collapsed gently in to a kneeling position on the mud next to the girl. She was screaming again and he wanted to tell her to stop but his mouth wouldn’t work.

Another blow, on his neck this time and he rolled sideways, the branch held above him like weights. His attacker was standing astride his legs looking down with an expression of joy far worse than any snarl. Geoff tried to hold the branch between them but it was so heavy. He felt desperately tired suddenly and kept yawning. It was freezing cold and there was a buzzing in his ears. The girl’s screaming faded then there was only silence. Above him, the man knocked the branch casually to one side. As he watched the knife was lifted high in the air in a sacrificial gesture. It glinted blue, silver and red in the night, a sight that Geoff knew was good, though he could no longer remember why.

He waited for the final killing strike, too weak even to raise an arm to deflect it. The solid world was fading away from him. He thought of his wife and son, his sister dead these thirteen years, his own mum and dad, and still the blade didn’t fall. His eyes strained to see but the man was gone.

From somewhere he heard a voice shouting his name but it was too far away. Then inside his head he thought he could hear his sister calling him downstairs. Late for church again.

‘Come on!’

He could see his feet on the red hall carpet and brilliant sunlight streaming through the open front door of his parents’ house.

‘Come on!’

She was always such a little madam. He stepped outside.

‘Come on, come on! Don’t you go now! Come on, you can do it.’

The paramedic stopped the cardiac massage as fresh air was blown into the man’s lungs and felt for a carotid pulse beneath the thick blood on his neck. Still nothing. He repeated the sequence again and again. Nothing. After another ten minutes his colleague pulled him back gently.

‘He’s gone, Steve.’

‘There’s still a chance. We should keep going until we get to emergency.’

Steve continued relentlessly as the ambulance careered through deserted streets towards the hospital. On the opposite stretcher the girl had sunk into a semi-comatose state of shock but at least her vital signs were stable and the knife wound to her shoulder was superficial. Which was more than could be said for the poor bugger they’d found with her.

Steve was still massaging dead muscle as they wheeled Geoffrey Minny, fifty-two, married father of one into A&E where he was pronounced DOA. His mate pulled him away from the stretcher.

‘You need to change.’

Steve looked down at the bright arterial blood that was stiffening on his uniform.

‘Yeah. Right.’

‘You OK?’

‘Sure.’ Steve waved a casual hand. ‘It’s just that we were so close. You know how sometimes you can feel them still there? He was almost ours, that’s all.’

‘You win some, you lose some. Happens every week, you know it does.’

‘Right.’

Steve found his locker, a change of clothes and an empty shower cubicle. Under the camouflage of running water he wept for a man he had never known.

Griffiths folded the newspaper precisely and placed it square on the library table. Normally he enjoyed the Sunday editions but today was different. Wearing the poker face he was so proud of he waited, seemingly patient, until it was time to return to his cell. Once there, he had exactly forty-five minutes in which to work on his next letter. The simple but effective code system had become second nature to him. As he wrote his anger forced its way onto the page.

Hidden beneath layers of nonsense words he chastised his sometime partner for his pathetic failure.

You used to be so superior, so smart, but you can’t perform like me, can you? Get it right! I’ve had my solicitor in, told him that I was the wrong man, that the real one was still outside. He didn’t believe me!

The light went out. He threw himself onto the bed in a flounce that made the bedsprings rattle. The police still weren’t making a connection between the attacks outside and his previous crimes. Taking the fingers had always been part of the grand plan but it hadn’t even been mentioned in court. He had reasoned that if the pattern continued the police would have to conclude that they had the wrong man. At the very least it would create substantive grounds for appeal. He’d had high hopes of the master and now he felt badly let down, to say the fucking least.

His letter would create a powerful negative reaction. He had dared to criticise. Unthinkable. Despite his anger he felt scared. Without Dave’s help he would never be released. He’d have to change it in the morning and beg for help. That night he dreamed of Wendy, a sweet satisfying fantasy that made him long for freedom.

Police in Wales found a knife two miles from the scene of Tasmin’s abduction, at seven in the evening on Thursday. They’d been able to lift partial prints and had found a match against a set from the underside of a stool at the Frog and Nightgown. Fenwick almost ran to the incident room in London to see the only tangible evidence they had so far on Killer B. It was crowded but MacIntyre beckoned him round to look at the weapon. He had expected a serious blade. Instead he was staring at a large penknife.

‘This is it?’

‘Look at it, the tip has been honed to a fine point.’

‘Does it match any of Lucinda’s wounds?’

‘We don’t know. He used Sabatier knives from the kitchen to torture her, then washed them clean in the dishwasher but the pm suggested the wound that killed her, the one to her heart, had been made by a finer blade, perhaps this one.’

‘Why would a killer of this viciousness resort to killing with a penknife? It’s almost a child’s toy, which makes me even more convinced that whatever bound Killer B and Griffiths together had its roots in childhood.’

MacIntyre shook his head sceptically but held his peace. He’d given Fenwick responsibility for investigating a potential link between Griffiths and Killer B and wasn’t about to undermine him in public.

Fenwick paused, aware he was about to ask a favour.

‘Is your relationship with the Governor good enough to ask for Griffiths to be interviewed by another psychologist? There’s someone I’ve worked with before. She’s good and I’d trust her assessment more than I do Batchelor’s.’

‘I’ll try, if you really think it’s worth it.’

‘I do.’

An hour later MacIntyre told him they had approval. That left Fenwick with the problem of how he was going to persuade Claire to help him. He hadn’t spoken to her since their break up and he knew that she had been avoiding him on her visits to Harlden.

He dialled her number, hoping for the answering machine but she was there.

‘Claire, how are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘Um, Claire, I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’

She listened to his request in silence.

‘What do you think?’

‘I need a fuller briefing before I can decide. What is the name of the psychiatrist seeing him now?’

‘Doctor Batchelor’.

‘Maurice
Batchelor?’

‘Yes. D’you know him?’

‘We’ve met. Look I may be able to help you but I think we need to meet. How urgent is this?’

‘Very, I could be in Harlden this afternoon.’

‘Not good for me. How about tomorrow?’

‘It’s Saturday.’

‘I thought you said it was urgent.’

‘Well yes it is, it’s just that I’m babysitting while the housekeeper is away.’

‘I could come to the house.’

Fenwick hated the idea but he was asking a big favour and needed her cooperation.

‘Fine. Tomorrow afternoon then.’

They said their goodbyes, leaving Fenwick concerned about the following day. He did
not
want to renew their relationship and he hoped that she didn’t think his request for help was a come on.

The children were playing in the tent in the garden when Claire arrived. He offered her a glass of a Pimms. It was a drink he took care to make well and was suitably rewarded by her appreciation.

‘Delicious. Exactly what the day needed.’

She smiled at him, sunglasses shading her eyes from the brilliant light on his terrace. He had chosen to sit beneath the parasol but Claire bared her arms to the sun. She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt and khaki pants that stopped mid-calf to reveal slim ankles. He noticed that she had a great tan.

‘It was good of you to come round. And I appreciate your time.’

‘Andrew, stop sounding like a stuffed shirt. We both know that you’re human really. Relax, I’m here to help, not to seduce you.’

Her laugh was light and easy but he smiled uncomfortably. She might be relaxed but seeing her again had brought back a conflicting bundle of emotions that were as unexpected as they were unwelcome. She looked lovely – golden, fit and, admit it, desirable, but he told himself that he had no regrets.

‘Penny for them?’

‘What?’

‘Your thoughts, a penny for them.’ She smiled into his eyes.

Fenwick looked away, feeling trapped.

‘Nothing, just the case, you know.’

‘No, I don’t. I have no objections to your being distracted, Andrew but I do resent being lied to.’

The sharpness of the word lay between them, made harsher by the sound of the children’s laughter from the tent under the apple trees. There was an uncomfortable pause. Eventually, he spoke.

‘I’m sorry.’ He stood up and paced the terrace, draining his drink. ‘Do you want another?’

Claire raised a glass that was still well over half full, and shook her head.

‘I haven’t come here to put up with Fenwick the mystic for the infiniteth time, Andrew.’

‘Is infiniteth a word?’ He tried a lopsided smile.

‘Don’t try to joke your way out of it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he needed her help and was prepared to grovel to get it.

‘Sorry is as sorry does.’

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘Yes, but it’s not terminal.’

He stood up, wishing that he hadn’t asked the question.

‘I’m not escaping but I really would like another drink and yours has gone warm.’

He brought back two large tumblers of Pimms, crammed with ice, mint and cucumber, together with a plate of Alice’s homemade cheese straws.

‘So why are you here? Apart from the fact that we’re new best friends of course. Are you willing to help with the Griffiths case?’

‘I was as soon as I found out whose advice you were relying on.’

‘You don’t rate Doctor Batchelor?’

Claire snorted and took a drink.

‘Not based on my one encounter with him. We attended a seminar together. I found that his ego got in the way of his analysis. He was forever reminding me that
he
was a psychiatrist whilst I was “only” a psychologist, as if that mattered. What really worried me were his opinions on typology and the motivations for criminal actions. I found them deeply flawed.’

‘He seems thorough, though.’

‘Oh yes he’s that but, to put it bluntly, I thought he was thick.’

‘Why don’t you say what you mean. I’ve never heard you be so damning. He must really have upset you.’

‘Forget about him. I’m interested in the Griffiths case, I have been since I first heard about it. I was frustrated that Blite never let me in, so this is a chance to indulge my curiosity. I should be able to read the files over the weekend and visit him next week.’

‘What excuse will you give for seeing him?’

‘I don’t know yet but the files will give me ideas. I want to avoid lying if possible. Now, why don’t you tell me about what is happening in Andrew Fenwick’s life?’

The Pimms had relaxed him but he still squirmed.

‘Dull, as usual.’

‘Your life is
never
dull, Andrew. Come on.’

‘Why are you interested?’

‘Because everyone should be able to talk about what’s happening to them, share the day-to-day things as well as the momentous. I believe it keeps us sane.’

‘And you doubt my sanity?’

‘No, I think you’re lonely.’

He felt as if she had punched him in the stomach and tried to scoff her observation away.

‘I have no time to be lonely. I work six days out of seven and spend any spare hours I have with the children. Most nights I fall into bed too exhausted even to think.’

‘And on the nights you don’t?’

He turned away and took another drink.

‘Don’t retreat again. This isn’t a come on. Just because I like you doesn’t mean I need you back as a lover. There is an in-between you know. I had hopes once,’ she paused and smiled with a bitter twist at odds with the sunshine, ‘but I was wrong. I should’ve realised that your heart wasn’t free to give.’

‘Not free to give?’ He thought of Monique and felt guilty. He knew that the desperate, passionate infatuation he’d once had for her had finally passed away with her death and he was embarrassed that Claire should attribute to him more than chronic grief.

‘Did I say that?’ She looked evasive and drained her drink.

‘Another?’

‘No thanks, I must go.’

‘Can I ask you a question first?’

She looked at him cautiously.

‘I’m curious; why do you think that I’m not free?’

She flushed and it was her turn to look away.

‘You need to pluck up the courage to answer that yourself.’

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘Rubbish!’ She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.

Griffiths stared boldly at the woman opposite. She had come to see him instead of Batchelor but he didn’t yet know why. He waited. He had all the time in the world and psychiatrists’ games of silence left him cold.

‘My name is Claire, Mr Griffiths. I’ve asked to see you because I am conducting research into the effects of wrongful arrest and conviction on the mental state of prisoners.’

‘So you think I’m innocent?’ This was more like it.

‘I think that you think you are.’

Typical, bloody clever, mincing words. He was inclined to ignore her, but on the other hand, she was the first person other than his lawyer to raise the subject of wrongful arrest.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, that’s it really. I don’t know all the details of your case and I have no opinion of whether you are guilty or innocent. In fact, I’m completely open-minded on the subject. But I am very interested in the impact your imprisonment has had on you. Could you tell me about that?’

Could he fuck. He wasn’t prepared to have another can-opener brain picking around inside his mind, but he could tell her about his grounds for appeal. It would be an interesting test, to see how well developed his argument had become.

‘To understand that, you really need to know what happened to me and why I can prove I’m innocent.’

She looked interested.

He told her how the bitch policewoman had assaulted him then claimed that he’d knocked her to the ground, being careful to keep his tone sad rather than angry. He allowed tears into his eyes when he described being remanded in custody; it was disconcertingly easy to do.

‘Why did imprisonment hurt you so much?’

‘Are you mad?’ Careful. That was a little too close to anger and he wanted her sympathy, not fear. ‘Sorry. I still get choked.’

‘I understand. The reason I ask is that you lived alone. You said during interviews that you had no close friends, so what did you lose when that door was locked?’

‘My freedom, my self respect. The ability to go out for a beer when I wanted, pick up a girl, have fun.’

‘I see. Is that how you get your fun? Down the pub?’

He just glared at her. That didn’t deserve an answer.

‘What I mean is, you seem more intelligent than most prisoners I’ve met. I can’t imagine you being satisfied with an evening out around a few beers.’

She was perceptive this one, better than Batchelor. And she wasn’t scared of him, though it would be easy for him to make that change.

‘What is it?’

‘What?’

‘You were smiling. You looked nostalgic. What was the memory?’

‘Nothing. Look, do you want to hear about why the charges against me are a load of sh…rubbish?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

He told her about the other attacks based on what he’d read in the papers, nothing else. She made a lot of notes. When he stopped she re-read them with a frown on her face that produced two parallel lines between her eyebrows and made her look a lot older.

‘This is very interesting, Wayne. May I call you that?’

He shrugged. His name meant nothing to him.

‘Wayne, can I ask you to clarify some points?’

She asked a lot of questions, good ones, and he enjoyed making the links for her and teasing her with snippets of information.

‘You’d make a good detective you know.’ She smiled as she complimented him.

‘Thanks.’

‘What is it that makes this other man attack and kill women?’

The question took him by surprise. She was asking him for information about Dave and he was sworn to secrecy. But a few hints wouldn’t do any harm, would they? It might even impress her.

‘Killing them isn’t the point, it’s just a consequence.’

‘Go on.’

‘He’s smart, really clever, but life hasn’t been good to him. He’s too good, under-appreciated.’