The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (20 page)

He had expected to see something about the abuse, but that wasn’t what he found. Instead, he found pages of newsprint that had been neatly clipped out and pasted to the coarse pages of the book. He had no interest in staying in the house any longer than was absolutely necessary, but he found himself unable to resist a glimpse through the pages.

The extracts were from ten years ago and they all reported on the same event. There had been an armed robbery in Headington, Oxford. Several thousand pounds had been stolen from an armoured car as the guards were collecting the takings from a local betting shop. One of the guards had resisted and, during a struggle that had been observed by several witnesses, he had been shot in the chest by one of the criminals. The guard had died from his injuries on the side of the road. The reports said that he was a local man and that he had left a young family. Milton flipped the pages. There was more on the robbery and then a page that contained a letter from the widow of the dead guard. It spoke of how the family had been torn apart and ended with an appeal for information that would bring the killer to justice. Someone had underlined the final sentence in blue ink and inscribed an asterisk in the margin.

Milton got to the final page, and a piece of paper dropped out onto the counter.

He opened it and read.

My name is Alan Edward Fabian. This statement regards the murder of Toby Masters. The time of the murder was Saturday morning, December 17, 2005. The place was outside Stan James, Bookmakers, Headington, Oxford.

Milton read on.

It was a confession.

He read through it quickly. Eddie wrote that he had been there, that he had been driving the getaway car. He said that his brother, Spencer, had killed the guard. He said that not a day went by when he didn’t think about what had happened that morning, how they had ruined a family, turned a wife into a widow and stolen a father from two small children. He wrote of how that morning had haunted him ever since, and how he wanted to do whatever he could to make it right.

Milton folded the page and slid it back inside the book.

He had a much better idea about what might have happened to Eddie now.

He closed the book, dropped it into his bag and made his way to the rear door. He opened it and peered outside. The garden was empty and there was no sound from the alley. He pushed the door open, slipped outside, closed the door and then hurried through the garden, passing through the gate and into the alleyway. He peeled off his gloves and put them into the bag to be disposed of later. And then, without a backward glance, he straightened his shoulders and walked at a brisk pace in the direction of his car.

MILTON WAS DISTRACTED at the shelter that night. It was busy, but not so busy that there was no opportunity to take out the book that he had taken from Eddie’s flat. He read through it, reading all of the newspaper articles, noting where the pages had been annotated and, assuming Eddie was responsible for the underlinings and the highlighting, he tried to imagine what those marks meant.

He returned home and allowed himself four hours of sleep. It seemed as if his alarm beeped as soon as he had put his head down; he got out of bed, showered and changed into fresh clothes. He went to the local newsagents and paid 20p to photocopy Eddie Fabian’s confession. Then, he got into his car and drove west. The traffic was light and he arrived back in Withington after two hours. The clock on the church tower showed a little after two in the afternoon as he drove by, passing through the village until he reached the turning for Halewell Close.

He parked the car in the wide gravelled turning circle. There were three vehicles already parked there: two white vans and a BMW. Milton waited for a moment, studying the house. The front door was open and a pair of men were ferrying catering equipment from the interior to the open doors of one of the vans. The tent on the lawn was in the process of being taken down, the canvas folded and folded again until it was compact enough to be fitted into the back of the second van. Milton opened the door to his car and was stepping out when he saw two men emerge from the open doorway of the house.

The first was Frankie Fabian, smoking a cigarette. The second, turning to shake Fabian’s hand, was Detective Inspector Bruce.

Milton shut the door and set out across the gravel. Bruce turned, saw Milton approach, said something to Fabian and then came across to meet him.

“Mr. Smith.”

“Hello, Detective.”

“What are you doing here, sir?”

“I didn’t get the chance to speak to Mr. Fabian before. I’d like to pass on my condolences.”

“Really? That’s why you’re here?”

“Yes. Is that a problem, Detective?”

“No, Mr. Smith. Not at all. But I’d just like you to remember that the family has had a bereavement. They might prefer a little privacy. I’m sure you have the best intentions in mind, but I wouldn’t want to hear that they’ve been harassed.”

“That’s certainly not my intention, Detective. I just want to say how sorry I am.”

Bruce looked at him dubiously. “Make sure that’s all it is, Mr. Smith. I’ll be seeing you around.”

The detective gave Milton a nod, his face impassive, and made his way over to the BMW. Milton stood for a moment, waiting for him to reach his car. The policeman turned to look back at him, and Milton acknowledged him with a final dip of his head. Bruce opened the car and got inside.

What was that? Had he just been given a warning?

Milton waited until the policeman had started the engine and then crossed the rest of the parking area to where Frankie Fabian was waiting for him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fabian,” Milton said.

The older man regarded him with suspicion. “Do I know you?”

“No. We haven’t met. I’m a friend of Eddie. I came to the funeral.”

“Really? I don’t remember you.”

“I’m not surprised. There were a lot of people here.”

“Yes,” Fabian said disinterestedly.

“Eddie was popular.”

“Not really,” Fabian said. He drew on his cigarette and didn’t elaborate; Milton waited for him to speak again. “What’s your name?”

“John Smith.”

“So what do you want, Smith?”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“I’m busy, and I don’t know you. I don’t really have time. Sorry. Best you go.”

Bruce’s BMW crunched over the gravel as he turned it around. The car drew alongside and the window slid down.

Bruce leant across the cabin and called out, “Everything all right, Mr. Fabian?”

“Fine. Mr. Smith is about to leave.”

Milton managed to suppress his impatience. He turned back to Fabian and, making sure that Bruce couldn’t see or hear him speak, said, “It’s about Eddie.”

Fabian shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to say about that. I’m not interested.”

Milton spoke firmly. “I need to talk to you about him. Eddie didn’t kill himself.”

Fabian inhaled, his eyes fixed on Milton’s face, and then blew smoke. “What did you say?”

“He was murdered.”

Bruce called out again, “On your way, Mr. Smith. You’ve said your piece.”

Frankie Fabian looked at Milton, then looked past him to Bruce. “It’s all right,” he called back to the policeman. “Thanks, Detective.”

Bruce wound the window up, put the car into gear and drove away.

“What did you say?” Fabian said again.

“Should we go inside?” Milton suggested.

FABIAN TOOK MILTON into the house and led the way to a smaller reception room than the one that had accommodated the wake. It was opulent: an impressive inglenook fireplace, wooden panelling on the walls, and furniture that looked old and expensive. There was a red leather Chesterfield sofa, and Fabian sat down in the middle of it. He waved a hand to indicate that Milton should sit in the nearest armchair to him.

“You know who I am, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes,” Milton said. “I do.”

“So you know I’m not the kind of man you want to annoy.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I just want it to be clear between us. I wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.” He folded his legs, revealing an inch of scarlet sock and a well-polished black brogue. “Now, then. Eddie. What did you mean?”

Milton nodded. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say as he had driven to Withington, and he was sure that he had it all down. But he knew that his success or failure depended more upon the impression that he conveyed than the content of his words. It was important that he come across as confident, even cocksure, with the kind of arrogance that would suggest that this wasn’t the first time that he had tried to pull a stunt like this.

“I met Eddie at an AA meeting. Don’t get the wrong idea—I’ve never had any time for any of that. It’s a lot of religious nonsense, if you ask me. There’s nothing wrong with a drink. If you find you’re drinking too much, then you stop. Simple as that. All this happy-clappy kumbaya nonsense is a waste of time.”

“But you went anyway.”

“You could say it’s my workplace.”

“Meaning?”

“You’d be surprised the things you can learn in those meetings. All that honesty, people telling strangers their deepest secrets. It’s tough to find a better place to get leads if you’re into the kind of business that I’m into.”

“And what kind of business is that?”

“The buying and selling of information.”

“Blackmail?”

“If you like.” Milton didn’t bother to varnish his words for Fabian’s benefit. He just needed him to believe his story. “That’s what I do. I find people with interesting stories to tell, then I make a little money from them. Meetings like that are perfect. Alcoholics, gamblers, sex, drugs. I’ll be honest with you, most of the time the opportunities are low rent. An alcoholic tells me he cheated on his wife. Maybe a woman tells me she stole the money for her next fix from her boss. You can use that information and turn a profit. Sometimes you’ll get a high roller you can string along for a bigger payday. But mostly it’s just people like Eddie.”

“So, let me get this straight. You’re a fucking cockroach?”

Milton ignored that, the audacity of the insult coming from a man like Frankie Fabian, and concentrated on laying the rest of his bait. “I go from city to city, meeting to meeting. I can’t stay in one place for too long, obviously. People talk and then I have to move on. I came down to London a month ago. I found Eddie straight away, the very first meeting I went to. I could see he had a lot going on. Lots of troubles. Lots of potential. I made an effort to get to know him. He was vague about his family history, about you, but he told me enough so I could join the dots. I did my research. Learned all about you and what you do. The more I learned, the more I could see Eddie could be a really big score, so I pushed the boat out with him. I let him think we were best mates. I listened to him whinge and moan for fucking hours, Mr. Fabian; you wouldn’t believe it. I thought I was going to drown in all his self-pity, but it was worth the pain in the end. More than worth it. He needed a sponsor, I offered, and he said yes. And then he told me why he had a problem with drink.
Specifically
. It was the guilt he carried around with him. The guilt—that was the reason.”

Fabian looked at him cautiously. “Yeah? What did he have to be guilty about?”

“Tell me when you want me to stop. I know the whole story. He told me that he was involved in an armoured car job ten years ago. Him and your two boys. He said a guard was shot. I looked into it. He didn’t give me much to go on, but I found all the old newspaper reports. It was a big thing at the time, wasn’t it? Big case. Police never got to the bottom of it.”

Fabian didn’t reply, but his eyes sparkled with fresh malice.

“I can see it’s not something that bothers you. Doesn’t bother your conscience the same way that it bothered him. I can see why: it was a long time ago. The guard probably got what was coming to him. Right? But, thing is, Eddie never got over it. He made it very clear to me: he always blamed himself for what happened. He’s had it on his conscience for years. That’s one of the things about going to AA. One of the things they make you do is to come clean about all the things that you did. That’s what you do when you get to the ninth step. You have to unburden yourself, they say. You do that and you get rid of the reason why you’ve been drinking. All Eddie wanted was to go to the police and confess what happened.”

“This is bollocks,” Fabian protested. He said it angrily, but Milton could see it was bluster. There was no conviction in it.

Milton went on. “Did you know he’d written it all down? A confession. I think you suspected it, didn’t you? He showed it to me. He didn’t care. He was ready to go and give it to the police, but I would never have let him go through with that. He comes clean and the damage is done. There’s nothing in it for me then. Because I knew that
you’d
care. I knew that you’d care a lot.” Fabian rose up out of his chair, his fist clenched, and Milton raised his hand. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s in everyone’s interests that we keep it civil.”

“You’re full of it,” Fabian said.

“No. I’m not.”

Fabian glared at him, still standing, his hands braced on the table. “Prove it.”

Milton felt his gut tighten up. This was the gamble.

Milton took out the confession that he had found in Eddie’s house and handed it across. “This is a copy. The original is safe and sound. Read it.”

Fabian looked at the first few paragraphs, his cheeks blooming with blood. He pushed the letter back across the table. “Where did you get this?”

“Eddie’s house. I had a look around last night.”

Fabian responded a little too hastily. “No, you didn’t. There was nothing there.”

“You’d cleaned the place up pretty well, but you didn’t look hard enough. It was hidden in the cistern. There was more, too. A scrapbook with articles about the heist. Eddie had annotated them. Useful background, not that I needed it.” Milton tapped a finger against the letter. “He’s very clear what happened.”

The conversation was going about as well as Milton could have hoped. It appeared that Fabian believed him or, at least, was not ready to call his bluff. He had included all of the information that he wanted to use. There was no point in mentioning anything about Leo Isaacs and the abuse. Suggesting that there was a noble intention to his intervention did not serve Milton’s narrative. He had considered it and concluded that he stood a better chance of getting what he wanted by painting himself in the worst possible light.