Unforgotten (30 page)

The anger came over Hugh in a red-hot wave. He shot to his feet, sending his chair juddering back over the floor. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t you just for once in your
life have left well alone? Why did you have to interfere? If you hadn’t bloody well interfered—’ He flung out a hand in exasperation and, frightened of what he might say next, marched out into the dining room where he stood blindly at the window until the worst of his anger had passed. Then, reaching for a chair, he sat at the table and dropped his head into his hands, assailed by the terrifying thought that he was going the way of Tom Deacon, into the realms of victimhood, ungovernable anger and violent mood swings.

Lizzie, what’s happening to me? Tell me how to get through this.

But his vision of her was fragmented, reduced to a series of snapshots which drifted through his mind at random. He tried to recall what she used to say to him when he was stressed. But that was it of course – she’d said almost nothing, just the occasional ‘Did he?’ or ‘Really?’, listening solicitously, patiently, until his anger burnt itself out. That had been her skill, to know how to handle him in such a mood, just as she’d known how to handle so many other people. Except perhaps Charlie. They had both failed with Charlie, and there was a dubious sort of consolation in that.

There was a sound at the door and Ray appeared. He stood abjectly, arms hanging loosely at his sides. ‘I’m sorry, old friend . . . Didn’t intend to . . . The last thing I meant . . . Thought I was being useful . . .’

Hugh made an indeterminate gesture, a spreading of one hand.

‘I just admired Lizzie so much . . . Everything a woman should be,’ Ray said mawkishly, adding hastily, ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. Never had designs . . . As if she’d have looked at me . . .’ He gave a self-deprecating grimace. ‘No, just admired her from afar . . .’

Not sure he was ready for an outpouring of this sort, Hugh started to get up, but it was too late, Ray was already dropping heavily into a chair.

‘Always so bloody kind to me . . .’ Ray went on. ‘Wonderful
when Milly and I were breaking up . . . Used to prop me up, you know . . . Well, maybe you didn’t. But I used to phone her sometimes . . . when I was desperate. Didn’t think you’d mind. Needed a sympathetic ear, and she always found time to listen, you see. Didn’t take sides. Made me think I wasn’t quite such a bastard as Milly made out. Gave me hope for the future. Began to think there might be more women like Lizzie out there somewhere. Haven’t found one yet . . . but I live in hope . . .’ He made a contrite face. ‘God, this is sounding awful. All I meant to say was that I thought she was simply bloody wonderful and I’d like to kill the bastard that did it.’ His eyes filled suddenly. ‘Sorry . . .’ He pushed a knuckle against an eye. ‘Didn’t mean to blub.’

‘Glad you told me,’ Hugh murmured, terribly embarrassed.

Ray shook his head. ‘It’s my own bloody stupid fault, overstepping the mark.’ And for a moment Hugh thought he was talking about his feelings for Lizzie. ‘Shouldn’t have rushed into action like the bloody cavalry,’ he went on. ‘Should have kept to your brief and stayed on standby. Won’t happen again, I swear.’

Desperate to get away, Hugh made for the door. ‘The coroner would probably have delayed the post-mortem anyway.’

‘You really think so?’ Ray said inconsolably.

Hugh left him staring morosely at the table and went back to the kitchen, where for a brief moment the tangled affairs of Tom Deacon seemed to offer a welcome respite.

Isabel was searching a cupboard. ‘I was trying to find ground coffee,’ she explained.

Hugh dug it out of the fridge. ‘What about you?’

‘Coffee will be fine.’

‘Thought you didn’t drink it.’

Her eyes rounded. ‘Oh, sometimes I do. Oh yes . . . definitely.’

‘There’s herb tea somewhere. Lou buys it. Rosehip, peppermint . . .’

‘No, coffee will be fine, really. But I don’t know how strong to make it.’

Hugh upended the half-used packet into the cafetière and thought of Lou, wondering if she’d managed to find Charlie, and what sort of state he’d be in, glassy-eyed with dope, bright-eyed with something harder, comatose with drink, or a combination of all three. He held up the cafetière to find he’d overfilled it. Shaking a random quantity of grounds into the sink, he poured in the boiling water. He was staring blankly at the wall tiles when Isabel said, ‘Do you want me to do anything about Professor Ritchie, Hugh? Warn him the post-mortem might have to be postponed?’

‘What? Um, yes . . . No.
No
. . . The coroner’s going to let us know by the end of the day . . . isn’t that what Ray said? They’re going to let us know the . . . the . . .’ He struggled for the thought, but his mind had stalled, he was beset by darkness and a constricting panic halfway between dream and memory.

‘The police’s decision?’

‘Yes . . . So, wait until . . . until . . .’ His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe, the room was swimming, he felt in danger of passing out.

‘Hugh? Are you all right?’ Isabel’s words seemed to come to him slowly, from a long way away.

‘Uhh?’

‘Come and sit down.’

She was tugging at his sleeve. He let her lead him to the table, where she brought him a glass of water, followed by a cup of coffee.

‘Have something to eat,’ she urged him. ‘You haven’t touched your sandwich.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You’ve got to eat,’ Isabel insisted, pushing the sandwich closer.

Dutifully he took a mouthful and chewed on it halfheartedly.

‘Shall we leave this till another time?’ Isabel asked, gazing at him anxiously.

‘No . . . No, let’s get on . . .’ He took a gulp of coffee to wash the food down and scalded his tongue. ‘No . . . tell me about Tom. Tell me how it all came out, the business with . . . with the . . .’ His brain was still thick, he felt as if he were drugged. ‘The alternative psychiatric report . . .’

‘Sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, the first I heard was from Emma Deeds in Exeter, to say the family court had been in touch with her, wanting to know what if any High Court proceedings had taken place.’

‘Another letter . . .’

‘What?’

‘Must have been another anonymous letter. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

‘Emma Deeds didn’t know what it was. Or she didn’t say. Anyway, I put her off till I could speak to you. Meantime
our
judge’s clerk called, saying something had come to the judge’s attention regarding certain family proceedings involving Tom, and could we come and see him in chambers as soon as possible.’

‘No surprise there, either. The family judge would have phoned him direct. Almost the first thing she’d have done.’ The coffee was beginning to kick in, and Hugh downed the rest in one. There was something else that would help clear his head, he realised, and that was a quick drink. He got up to pour himself a Scotch and heard the murmur of Raymond’s voice next door.

‘That’s when I thought I’d better speak to Desmond Riley,’ Isabel was saying.

‘Absolutely right.’

‘I filled him in as best I could, but he only had a minute
before going into court. And when he called back, that’s when he got put through to Raymond. I don’t know why.’

Hugh took a sip of his drink and brought it to the table.‘Because Ray told the switchboard, that’s why,’ he said, his exasperation coming to the surface again.

‘Oh,’ said Isabel, not quite sure what to make of this. ‘Anyway, when I managed to get back to Desmond and we had more of a chance to talk, he seemed to think the judge would be understanding. Up to a point anyway – that’s how he put it: “up to a point”. But he thought the judge would want to see the psychiatric report from the family proceedings, perhaps ask for the psychiatrist to give evidence in person.’

‘I’m sure that’s the very least he’ll want,’ said Hugh, feeling the Scotch work its magic. ‘Can you manage all that?’

She nodded keenly. ‘I’ve already asked Emma Deeds to send a copy of the psychiatric report.’

‘You should have backup for a meeting in chambers, Isabel. It’s not fair to send you on your own.’

‘But Desmond’ll be there.’

‘You should still have backup in case the judge has some questions.’ Thinking aloud, he murmured, ‘Perhaps I should ask Martin Sachs . . .’

Isabel looked alarmed. ‘Not so sure that’d be a good idea.’

Picturing Martin Sachs at his most insufferable and patronising, Hugh gave a sigh of agreement. ‘Raymond then?’

‘It would still mean a briefing,’ Isabel said unhappily.

Finally Hugh understood what she was trying to tell him, that a briefing could put her on the spot, force her to admit that she’d known all about Tom’s stunt while the hearing was still in progress. ‘Christ, what a bloody mess.’

‘No . . .
No
. . . You did the right thing, giving Tom a chance.’

‘I let him think he could get away with it.’

Isabel shook her head. ‘He’d already made up his mind to get away with it, which is something totally different.’

‘He screamed down the phone at me last night.’

‘That’s the other thing,’ Isabel said. ‘I got a call from Dr Ainsley on the way here. He said he was worried about Tom’s mental state. Wanted to know if we knew where he was. If there was anything we could do.’

‘Like what?’

‘Get him some help, I suppose.’

‘When did Ainsley speak to Tom?’

‘A couple of hours ago, I think. Said he’d never known him in such a bad way. Talking about grabbing the boys and going into hiding—’

‘Just the sort of stupid thing he
would
do.’

‘But what worried him most was what Tom might do if he lost the boys altogether.’

Hugh tried to shut out the images that raced through his mind. ‘Can’t Ainsley do something about it himself?’

‘He’s in Canada.’

‘Christ.’

‘I could go to his place, see if he’s there,’ Isabel volunteered without enthusiasm.

‘Wouldn’t do any good.’ Knocking back the last of his drink, Hugh pulled up Tom’s number on his phone and tried to think of what message to leave. It would be a mistake to offer false hopes and wild promises. The only chance was an assurance that everything possible was being done. ‘What’s the precise situation on the care proceedings?’

‘Care proceedings?’ Isabel said, puzzled. ‘Emma Deeds didn’t say anything about care proceedings.’

‘That’s what Tom told me last night, that they were threatening to take the children into care.’

‘God, no wonder he’s lost it.’

‘Check it out with Emma Deeds, will you?’

While Isabel made the call, Hugh poured a cup of coffee and took it into the dining room, where Ray was slumped in his chair, staring into space, though Hugh had the feeling he’d
only just come off the phone. Ray jerked round and, seeing the proffered coffee, declared profusely, ‘Hey, just what I needed! Thanks!’ Then, apropos of nothing, added warmly, ‘My old friend . . . I’ve been sitting here going down memory lane, thinking about the old days. Don’t really appreciate them at the time, do you? Not till after the event.’ Again, Hugh thought he must be talking about Lizzie. ‘Wasn’t such a bad set-up, was it, the old firm? Never would’ve made us a fortune, but we did all right, didn’t we?’ Ray gave a nostalgic sniff. ‘Those partners’ meetings in the pub. Home by six. Taking the odd Friday off. Not sure how long we’d have survived, of course. But they were good times while they lasted, eh?’

‘I’m going to resign,’ Hugh said.

Ray made a face of almost clownish incredulity. ‘What? Don’t be crazy, Hugh. What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I’m not made for a big firm. Never was.’

‘Listen,
listen
, my old friend – this isn’t the time to be thinking about things like that! Not while you’ve got this terrible,
terrible
business hanging over you.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘But why?
Why?
It’s not the Deacon case, is it?’

‘If you like.’

‘Come on.’

‘No, I’m serious.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Ray helplessly.

Hugh shrugged, incapable of explanations.

‘Are you worried about the case making a loss? Is that it?’

‘Should I be?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Hugh – no one’s going to judge you on one case, not when you’ve been such a – such a –
player
! And not when you’ve just lost your beloved Lizzie. Jesus, the partners aren’t made of stone. They’re right behind you. Believe me – one hundred per cent. Anyway, it’s not as if the Deacon claim’s about to be thrown out altogether, is it? Just knocked back a bit. Who knows, it may not show a loss after all!’ He
gripped Hugh’s upper arm encouragingly. ‘That’s why I wanted to sit in – see if I could take at least one worry off your shoulders.’

Hearing a phone ringing in the kitchen, Hugh made an abrupt gesture and swung rapidly away.

Ray called after him, but Hugh was already in the hall where he almost collided with Isabel emerging from the kitchen. She was holding up his mobile phone. ‘It’s Charlie,’ she breathed.

The road was short, with just six terraced houses crammed along each side and a tall weed-clad chain-link fence blocking off the end. The houses were two-storey red brick, each with a small front area filled with dustbins and assorted rubbish behind a dilapidated wall. Hugh knew the district only from the arterial roads that encircled it and its reputation for ethnic restaurants and evangelical churches. It was here the respectable West Indian community had moved when they were pushed out of St Paul’s by the motorway and the drug dealers, though from the look of the place now the drug dealers couldn’t have been very far behind.

Number six was the last house on the left and, either for lack of an outside neighbour or from subsidence, was noticeably crooked, not a windowsill straight and the front door remade to fit. Hugh parked almost opposite, between a white van and a Ford Escort painted scarlet with a broad white stripe down the bonnet. As he got out, the hum of vibrating metal and the approaching howl of a diesel engine announced a railway line behind the chain-link fence.

There was a mouldering mattress wedged behind the dustbins of number six and a pile of dead leaves blown up against the door. There were two doorbells, neither labelled, so he pressed both. Hearing no ring, he pressed again, then rapped a knuckle on the door. After a while a door sounded deep in the house, then creaking boards, then the latch clicked and the door swung open to reveal Charlie.

‘Dad!’ He was wearing ragged jeans and a thin T-shirt and no shoes, and seemed overcome, almost as if he hadn’t expected Hugh to turn up.

‘You okay, Charlie?’

‘Yeah.’

But he looked pale and tired and edgy, and Hugh found himself looking for other signs of drugs.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Charlie said in a constricted voice and, eyes averted, stood back to let Hugh in. The hall was cold and gloomy, with scuffed paint over anaglypta wallpaper and a smell of dirt and stale cigarettes and old food.

‘Why didn’t you call, Charlie? We’ve been frantic with worry. Lou’s been out looking for you everywhere.’

‘Sorry . . .
Sorry
. . . My phone ran out . . .’

‘We thought something terrible must have happened. Not to phone!’

‘I couldn’t leave Elk.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s sick.’

‘
Sick?
Christ, Charlie, Lou thought you must have been mugged or worse. And I thought—’ Hugh lifted both arms and dropped them again. ‘Well, I thought you must have got into trouble again.’

For once Charlie didn’t bristle at the suggestion. ‘Lou knows I’m okay?’

‘I called her straight away. Wasn’t there another phone you could have used?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘And I suppose Elk—’ Hugh pulled himself up short and said in a calmer tone, ‘Look, why don’t you tell me all about it on the way home, eh? Let’s get going.’

‘Can’t leave yet. Not till Elk’s in better shape.’

‘Well, if you can’t leave, why did you—’ Breaking off again, Hugh said mournfully, ‘I don’t understand.’

With a glance up the stairs, Charlie moved away down the passage, looking back to make sure Hugh was following. They
entered a dank kitchen with a filthy stove, cluttered surfaces, a sink full of dishes, and a floor that was dark and tacky underfoot.

Charlie extracted a mug from the sink and, filling it with water, gulped greedily, as if he hadn’t drunk anything for a long time. ‘Elk’s been sick,’ he said.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He OD’ed accidentally.’

‘Did he now?’ Hugh said tightly. ‘I thought he was meant to be in recovery.’

‘He was. For more than three hundred days. But he had a row with his dad . . . Basically told him he was rubbish . . . never wanted to see him again.’ Charlie’s shrug suggested this was quite enough to send anyone back to drugs. ‘And when he shot up he didn’t allow for losing his tolerance.’

‘Heroin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital then?’

‘The worst’s over.’

‘But you’re really okay, Charlie?’

‘Sure,’ he breathed, though the tension in him suggested a different story.

‘Isn’t there anyone else who can look after Elk?’

‘No.’

‘But this place, Charlie . . . It’s God-awful.’

‘I’ve promised to stay. For another day. Two at the most.’

‘So what are you telling me? That Elk comes first?’ Hugh said, hating himself in the role of martyr.

‘No, Dad,
no
– but it’s part of the deal.’

‘Some deal,’ Hugh growled.

Suddenly the tension in Charlie was unbearable. ‘Listen, Dad . . . Elk’s got something to tell you.’

‘
Me?
What can he have to tell
me
?’

‘Dad, whatever happens you’ve got to promise you won’t get mad at him. He can’t take it right now. He’ll only clam up.’

‘Why should I get mad at him?’ Hugh asked with a pull of dread.

‘Just say you won’t.’

‘I can’t promise something like that when I don’t know what the hell he’s going to tell me.’

‘You’ve got to promise, otherwise it won’t be any good,’ Charlie pleaded.

They glared at each other for an instant. Then Hugh nodded rapidly. ‘Okay . . .’

Charlie hesitated, looking doubtful.

‘I promise,’ Hugh said as the dread circled his stomach.

Charlie led the way into the narrow hall and up the stairs to the back of the house where he opened a door just enough to step into the opening. ‘Hiya,’ he called into the room. ‘My dad’s here.’ There must have been some kind of response because Charlie said, ‘Now?’ Another pause, then Charlie said, ‘Yeah,’ and moved forward to let Hugh in.

The room was small and painted a violent shade of blue. There was just enough space for two single beds pressed against opposite walls, a chair in between, a chest of drawers hidden under a jumble of clothes, and an ancient electric heater which at any other time Hugh would have marked down as a serious fire risk. Elk was in the bed nearest the window, lying on his side in a grey T-shirt, one tattooed arm bent over the grubby duvet. His eyes followed Hugh into the room. The rest of his body was so still that Hugh had the impression his eyes were all he could move. His stubbled head was matched by a stubbled chin, while the pallor of his skin was accentuated by two livid, pustular spots that blazed from his cheek. Charlie sat down on the unmade bed opposite and Hugh sat next to him.

‘I told Dad how I’m gonna stay till you’re okay.’ Charlie glanced at Hugh for confirmation. ‘I told him how you’d had a row with your dad and accidentally OD’ed, and that you just need time to get straight again. So we all know where you’re coming from. Yeah?’

Elk’s gaze lost focus and turned inward.

‘Hey, it’s gonna be okay . . .’ Charlie waited for a moment, then leant forward and tapped Elk’s arm. ‘I’m telling you – it’s gonna be okay.’

Elk’s stare suggested he wasn’t convinced.

‘Wanna sit up?’ Grabbing a pillow from the spare bed Charlie folded it over to form a head cushion and, standing over Elk, waited attentively as he hoisted himself higher in the bed. The cushion in place, Charlie sat down again and said, ‘So . . . just tell us. Yeah? What you saw.’ When Elk didn’t speak, Charlie repeated firmly, ‘I’m telling you – it’s gonna be okay. Nothing’s gonna happen.’

Just when it seemed Elk was never going to speak he said, ‘Yeah . . .’

‘So . . .’

‘So . . .’ Elk inhaled wearily. ‘I came by your place, I saw this guy—’

‘But the reason you were there?’ Charlie interrupted.

Elk frowned.

‘Elk’s phone had got nicked,’ Charlie explained. ‘He knew I was coming down from college, but he didn’t know when, so he came looking for me. That’s why he was at the house – to find me.’ Charlie gestured for Elk to go on. ‘Tell us what happened when you got there.’

‘Yeah . . . there’s these lights on . . . so I go round the back—’

‘He didn’t want to ring the bell, he wanted to see if I was there first,’ Charlie chipped in.

‘Yeah . . .’

‘And then?’ Charlie prompted.

‘This is the night of the fire?’ Hugh asked quietly.

Charlie nodded.

‘What time? Roughly?’ He aimed the question at Elk.

Elk gave a shrug. ‘Must’ve been ten . . . something like that.’

‘That’s another reason he didn’t want to ring the bell,’
Charlie said. ‘Because it was late. So . . . you looked round the back.’

‘Yeah. No one there. So I go round the front again and . . . see what I can see . . .’

‘He tried looking in the living-room windows, but the curtains were drawn.’

Elk lowered his eyelids in agreement, and the livid spots flared like beacons on his face.

‘Then you went to the dining-room window.’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘And the hall door was open so he could see through to the stairs,’ Charlie said to Hugh.

‘Yeah . . .’

‘Go on,’ Charlie urged.

‘Yeah, well . . . when I get there, it’s like I just miss this person. All I see is this . . . this . . .’

‘Glimpse.’

‘It’s like the moment I look, they’re gone.’

‘Man? Woman?’ Hugh asked, his mouth dry.

‘Dunno. Couldn’t see that much.’

This time it was Hugh who urged him forward. ‘And then?’

‘Didn’t know what to do . . . without a mobile to call Charlie. So I wait a while . . . Then, just when I’m thinkin’ there’s no point in hangin’ about . . .’ In the pause that followed, Elk tightened his mouth and Charlie flung a tense glance in Hugh’s direction. ‘. . . I see this bloke . . . He’s, like, headin’ upstairs . . . carryin’ someone. . . . A woman.’

Blinking a sudden heat from his eyes, Hugh said, ‘What could you see of her?’

‘Huh?’

‘You could see it was a woman?’

Elk had another think. ‘Yeah . . . saw her feet . . . Knees. Yeah . . . her knees.’

‘So he was carrying her in his arms?’ Seeing that Elk didn’t get the point of the question, Hugh added, ‘Not over his shoulder?’

‘In his arms, yeah.’

‘And this man – what did he look like?’

‘Never got a look.’

‘But was he dark haired? Fair? Young? Old?’

Elk’s eyes swivelled in Charlie’s direction, as if for rescue.

‘Short? Tall? Fat? Thin?’ Hugh persevered. ‘Anything you can remember, Elk.
Anything
at all.’

‘I wasn’t gonna hang around, was I? The moment I saw the way things were, I was out of there.’

The way things were: a man carrying a woman up to bed. Hugh bowed his head.

Charlie said, ‘But you thought he was wearing jeans?’

‘Dunno.’

‘But you said—’

‘I dunno. Okay?’ Elk said irritably.

‘And you can’t remember anything else?’ Hugh asked.

Elk lowered his eyes: a no.

Charlie said, ‘The motorbike, Elk – tell him about the motorbike.’

Elk said reluctantly, ‘Yeah . . . there was this motorbike . . .’

‘Where?’

‘Side of the house.’

A lot of things raced through Hugh’s mind as he absorbed this. That it was the perfect means of transport for an arsonist. That it seemed to rule out your average drug addict, drifter, schizophrenic, general all-round maniac. That various people he knew owned motorbikes, a couple of the partners in Dimmock Marsh, a few neighbours. That the information both worried and excited him.

‘What kind of motorbike?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Well, was it large?’

Elk was getting drowsy. ‘I dunno . . .’

‘What about the colour?’

Elk was already indicating a don’t know.

Hugh searched desperately for more questions. ‘Did it look shiny?’

Elk paused to consider. ‘Yeah . . . Yeah, shiny.’

‘With lots of metal over the front?’ Hugh sketched a shape in the air.

‘Might’ve.’

‘And . . . it was parked down the left-hand side of the house?’

Elk’s eyelids were drooping heavily now, he was battling to stay awake and Hugh had to ask him again.

‘Yeah . . .’

‘And was it facing outwards? Ready to go?’

‘Yeah . . .’ Elk turned his head away and closed his eyes.

‘Thanks,’ Hugh said. ‘And if you remember anything else . . .’

But if Elk heard him, he gave no sign.

‘You’ll keep asking him?’ he said to Charlie.

‘Sure.’

As Hugh led the way down the stairs he said, ‘I don’t know why you thought I’d be angry, Charlie. God – anything
but
.’ Then, with the sense of having known it all along, a realisation came to him. Reaching the narrow hallway, he said flatly, ‘Elk came looking for you two days before that, didn’t he? He was the hoodie I chased down the lane.’

Charlie nodded.

‘Why did he run away?’

‘Thought you wouldn’t be too welcoming, I guess.’

Hugh didn’t bother to deny it. ‘But these things he saw, Charlie – we need him to make a statement to the police. Will he agree, do you think?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s part of our deal.’

Once again Charlie had managed to take Hugh by surprise. ‘So, if I can arrange it for tomorrow . . .’

‘I’ll make sure he gets there.’

‘I’ll come and collect you.’

At the door he said, ‘First I’ll get your phone topped up at a cash dispenser. That’s how you do it, isn’t it, at a cash dispenser? And food. I’ll get some food and drop it back for you. And then you’ll come back, won’t you, Charlie? As soon as you can. You’ll come home?’