The Crime Tsar (40 page)

‘But would those answers be satisfactory to the questions that are being asked?'

Carter was angry now. As angry as any of this had made him. He took a deep breath, afraid of what he might say. When he spoke he was the Chief Constable.

‘Mr Mackay, I've given you enough time, I'm late for a meeting at Headquarters –'

Mackay was immediately solicitous.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I quite understand, of course. My apologies.'

Carter was pleased; the man had backed off at his official tone. Carter relaxed.

The voice went on. ‘One last question. Are you a paedophile or not?'

If the reporter said any more Carter didn't hear it as he dropped the phone. Dropped it, almost threw it away. As if the voice coming out of it was some infection. Then he realised he was the infection in other people's minds.

He replaced the phone on its cradle. He could hear a faint Lilliputian ‘Hello? Mr Carter? Are you there?' as he did so.

The perfection of the day before was already as distant as the Boer War.

He knew the whispering about him was building steadily and he was finding very quickly who his real friends were. They were pathetically few.

Arriving at police headquarters he was glad to see Danny. After his initial flicker of doubt the deputy had put on a fine show of solidarity. Carter was grateful but aware that it was good politics. If, when, he was cleared, Danny's position would be questionable if he was seen to be judging his boss now. No, Carter knew it was as much pragmatism as belief. Probably more.

The day dragged on with meetings and the minutiae of running an empire. The supportive phone calls had dribbled away to nothing after the first week. It was just suspended animation now. He had suspected he'd been abandoned by the puppet masters but when the call was put through by his carefully neutral secretary it was still a shock.

‘I'm afraid the Home Secretary hasn't made a decision about the fast-tracking of the investigation as yet – I'm sure you'll understand the pressure … perhaps next week.'

The smooth uncaring voice spoke on unheard. Delivering just one of many life-altering messages. Unaware of its impact. Maybe it didn't belong to a person at all. Perhaps it was just a voice.

Carter closed down another cell in the honeycomb of his self, retreated a little further into himself. Then hope flared briefly when he was told the hard disc had given up its secrets. He immediately phoned Eleri and told her the date and the times. Once he'd checked his diary everything would be fine. He was in a discipline all afternoon so would sort it out when he got home.

His looks and elegance had seemed very slightly dulled by the stress of the last weeks but that afternoon everybody commented on the reappearance of his old sheen of confidence. Carter was certain proving he had never visited a paedophile site would drive a coach and horses through the whole ridiculous nightmare.

Eleri, unable to wait, opened his diary and fumbled to find the day. All it said was: ‘E. & P. film'. Yes. Yes. She remembered perfectly. It seemed her baby did too as it delivered a healthy kick to her kidneys. She laughed out loud – even Bump was fighting for its father.

Think. Remember.

She sat down, pencil and paper in hand. Forced her way back to that day. Geoffrey had spent it alone with Alex. Could Alexander
have done it by accident? No. She tried the idea on several times but it wouldn't fit. What else? The window cleaner, but he didn't do inside.

Then she remembered: ‘Oh, Tom and Jenni dropped in for a cup of coffee. They didn't stay long.'

It seemed a bright light was turned on. Jenni would remember what happened while she was there – she had total recall. Eleri grabbed the phone. In her desperation she pushed the wrong numbers three times. Finally it rang. Jenni answered.

‘Jenni, it's Eleri.'

‘Oh Eleri! How are you? And Geoffrey… I'm so sorry we haven't been in touch but we've just been so busy. Is everything all right? The whole thing's ridiculous of course but such a pain. Do you need anything?'

‘Yes.' She realised how abrupt she sounded. She didn't care. ‘Do you remember the afternoon you dropped in for coffee? Geoffrey was here with Alex.'

Jenni went on red alert.

‘Of course. We had a super time.'

‘What time did you arrive?'

‘Gosh, er, well, I suppose it was somewhere around two, two-thirty. Yes, there was some football match on that afternoon. Tom and Geoff watched it.'

‘Were you still there at half-past three?'

‘I'm not sure. Possibly. Why?'

Eleri paused for a second. She knew she should be careful, wary, but desperately needed to talk. And Jenni had been a good friend. She knew she should be filled with suspicion, always alert to the possibility of betrayal, but she was desperate and very much alone.

Jenni opened her arms to Eleri and she fell straight in, like a friendly bee into a deadly flower.

‘The hard disc of the computer shows there were visits to paedophile sites while you were in the house.'

Jenni was shocked. She measured out her surprise and outrage as if following a recipe.

‘Did anyone come to the house while you were there?'

Pause for considered thought.

‘No … no, I don't think so. But I wasn't downstairs for long – I took Alex up to his room, to play with the batteries.'

There was usually an indulgent laugh when Alexander's odd collection was mentioned. Today, nothing.

‘I'm sure no one else visited, though. Tom would have mentioned it.'

‘So Geoffrey and Tom were together, watching the television all the time you were with Alex?'

‘Yes. Absolutely. Oh, hang on. Geoff went to the loo. Tom only mentioned it because in the football half-time they turned over to watch the rugby and Geoffrey missed a superb try and a missed conversion. Apparently the chap that scored the try was knocked out cold, they had to stretcher him off. It wasn't a foul or anything, just an unfortunate accident. No wonder they wear those awful hats and tape their ears down.'

‘So there was injury time?'

‘Gosh, I don't know, we didn't stay till the end.'

‘No. When the injury happened.'

‘Oh … well … I suppose so. I hadn't really thought about it. Why?'

‘No reason, Jenni, just trying to gauge time. There's obviously some mistake.'

‘Probably, I mean I've had cashpoint withdrawals notified when I haven't even been in the country. You really can't trust computers, you know. But … Tom did say something about Geoffrey being gone for ages.'

Eleri sat unmoving for quite some time after their conversation. Alexander watched her and seemed to catch her mood of stillness. He squatted against the wall gently banging his head on the heel of his hand.

There had been four people in the house. No matter how Eleri tried to make sense of what she now knew, her mind kept hitting an obstacle as unyielding as a wall. She could not be certain of her husband's innocence without accusing Tom or Jenni. Or Alexander, poor broken, useless Alexander. But Geoffrey was innocent, he had to be. While her loyalty doggedly believed in him her doubt kept showing her images of him in homosexual embrace with younger and younger lovers. He'd left the room for longer than it took to empty even a full bladder.

But why would he do it while there were people in the house? It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. So if all avenues were explored and discovered to be cul-de-sacs the impossible must be the answer. It was Tom or Jenni. Why not? Why? It didn't make sense. She didn't want any of the answers to make sense.

The back door opened. Peter was home. Eleri pulled herself up both physically and mentally and prepared to hear about the day. He was very quiet, she thought, probably already attacking the contents of the fridge. She was right that he was in the kitchen but he wasn't eating. He couldn't eat. His lower lip was a bloody mess, his front teeth loose or missing. His school uniform, so smart that morning, was ripped and paint-covered. He clutched his blazer to his chest. His thin immature body was vibrating with fear and anger. She saw the earring he'd been so proud to wear as a symbol of his Romany inheritance had been ripped out leaving a ragged hole.

‘Peter, oh Peter, what's happened?'

The boy couldn't speak and she found she couldn't either. It was the moment that both child and parent realise they are impotent in the face of violence. She gently took his jacket. It was ruined. She examined it to see if there was anything to be salvaged, then she saw why he'd been clutching it so hard. On the back was painted:
PAEDO SON
.

Eleri didn't want to cry but couldn't stop herself. She hurt so badly for Peter and the hopelessness of their situation.

The wind had blown the feathers of truths, half-truths and lies a long way from their doorstep and any sin but this sin was venal. Rape and paedophilia, once accused never acquitted.

In great sobs Peter told Eleri what had happened. The end of anything in his childhood that could be dismissed as ‘just boys being boys'. Just lads beating up another lad. Nothing serious.

‘They said Dad had done things. They said he did things to me. They said he did them to other boys too.'

His voice was quiet, old.

‘Peter … your father has never touched you, has he?'

‘No. I told them that. I told them.'

‘Good boy. They won't do it again.'

‘No, not them. The teachers. I had to tell the teachers.'

Eleri felt the horror grow like a malignant cell.

‘Let's get you cleaned up, eh?'

In the comforting familiarity of flannels, plasters and TCP he told her he'd been called to the nurse's room. There he was questioned by her, the head teacher and his form teacher.

Yes, sometimes he sat naked on his father's lap. No, they weren't related by blood. Yes, there were two boys. No, his brother couldn't speak. Yes, his father used to bath him but now he was too old for that. No, his father didn't necessarily put his dressing gown on in the morning. Yes, he'd been curious about his father's thingy and yes, he'd touched it. But only sometimes. Was his father angry? No. He'd just laughed. And he'd touched Peter's too. But it was ages ago. When he used to blow raspberries on our bottoms and tickle us underneath. Me and Alex. It was just playing. It was our private game. We called it Willy Waggling Time.

Eleri listened and saw the ground open and fall away revealing a pit of writhing worms. If hell existed it could be no worse than this.

When Carter got home the house was dark. Cold. It didn't take him long to find Eleri's note. It seemed she no longer knew who to believe or what to think so she thought it best, for the good of the boys and her own sanity, to go away to her family in the sheep-clad wastes of West Wales.

He didn't collapse then. To have done so would have been to acknowledge how utterly alone he was.

Under her note was a scrap of lined paper, torn from a school book: ‘Best in all the world Dad.'

He had suspended emotion so completely he couldn't react. He saw the washing up hadn't been done before his wife fled his house with his sons, carrying his baby. His baby. He almost laughed. It was written then. For what he'd taken away so it would be taken from him. Justice.

Carter loaded the dishwasher with surgical precision, every rack filled with plates in descending order of size. The utensils separated from the cutlery, glasses from cups. The mundane job helped but it was soon over. What else was there to keep him from thinking? Nothing.

He poured a large brandy into a lemonade glass. The small defiance of correctness pleased him. As it did on Mediterranean holidays when wine was served from a rubber hose connected to a bucket.

His diary was open as Eleri had left it. He remembered the day. The rugby, Tom, Jenni. Jenni.

His mind was immediately clear. The layer of woolly insulation that had protected him lifted and he saw precisely what had happened. It was so bloody obvious he couldn't believe he hadn't realised before. She'd had every opportunity to plant the magazines, the video, the floppy. And then she'd gone one step too far. Too clever by half.

He was triumphant. He poured another drink. Everything was going to be all right. The enormity of what the Shackletons had done – he had no doubt Tom must have known what his wife was up to – was impossible for him to come to terms with. He needed to talk to someone. He wanted to tell Eleri. It was late, gone midnight, they'd be in bed. Her judgemental parents had no doubt tutted them to sleep.

‘Eleri?'

‘No, it's her mother. Have you any idea of the time, Geoffrey?… No, I don't think she needs to speak to you now, not when you've been drinking. Perhaps in the morning. When you've had time to recover … Oh and her mobile is switched off. Goodbye, Geoffrey.'

He tried again. Ringing. Ringing. The bastards had disconnected the phone. Bloody Methodists. More brandy.

Should he phone Danny? Why not?

Answermachine.

The part of Carter that was still sober told him to go to bed; he would need to be more in control tomorrow than ever before in his life. He was going to accuse a fellow chief constable's wife of a serious crime. And then he would calmly take up the threads of his life again and effortlessly assume the Tsardom. Happily ever after.

But most of him was drunk – the confusion and tension he'd been under mixed with the brandy and relief unbalanced him. He was in the throes of madness and thought himself sober and sane. He didn't smoke but had a box of Don Ramos half-coronas in the sideboard. He pulled out the boxes of Monopoly and Cluedo, spilled cards and dice in his desperation to get to them.

Tonight he would smoke and drink and leave his self-control in shreds. Tomorrow he'd fight back and win.