Unforgotten (33 page)

‘No joy with the DVLA,’ she reported. ‘Not if we want the information quickly. They only supply information on receipt of a written application citing reasonable cause. And I didn’t have any luck with the private detective either. He said he couldn’t do it because of the data protection laws. It would leave him open to prosecution.’

‘Well, the data protection laws didn’t seem to bother him too much when he was getting Price’s medical records, did they? He must have a mate in the force. Someone who owes him a favour. Every private detective on the planet has contacts in the police, surely.’

‘I did ask, Hugh, but he wasn’t going to budge. He said everything’s logged on the central computer now. He couldn’t ask his contacts to put themselves on the line in that way.’

Hugh sighed hard into the mouthpiece.

‘Sorry.’

‘No . . .’

‘But, Hugh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t you ask the police?’

‘No, actually. I can’t.’

A puzzled silence. ‘Oh.’

‘I can’t,’ he repeated, as if she’d argued the point.

Another silence. ‘Are you all right? I mean . . . is there anything you need? Any valerian or . . . ?’

‘
Valerian?
’

‘It’s a natural sedative.’

Even Isabel seemed to think he was cracking up. ‘Thanks, but I prefer something stronger.’

Sitting in the quiet house, pausing to take stock, Hugh persuaded himself it would be no great loss to wait for Reynolds to report on the Honda driver. After all, what would he have done with a name and address? Gone round and asked the guy why he’d been following him? Knocked on the neighbours’ doors asking for information? Fouled up the police investigation?

Returning to his timeline and the missing entries, he found Jacqui Lewis’s card and keyed her number into his phone, ready to press the dial button. Then, following his usual work practice, he took a fresh sheet of paper, wrote her name at the top, and prepared to take notes. As a preliminary, he noted the date of their meeting in the vestry and what he could remember
of their conversation. He’d written a couple of lines when a memory came back to him. But had he got it right? In his exhausted state had he confused this fragment of conversation with another? But no: the more he replayed the scene in his mind the more certain he became. Jacqui had been convinced that Lizzie had found an alibi witness for Denzel, not a witness to the crime itself. And – he tested his memory again – he was pretty certain John had thought the same thing. This changed the timeline in some profound way, yet for a while he couldn’t decide why or how. To help clear his mind, he wrote the statement down:
Jacqui believed Lizzie had found an alibi witness
. Even then, the significance came to him slowly, clogged by tangential ideas and irrelevancies. But finally it was there: no one would bother to abduct an alibi witness. He examined this idea from every angle, he turned it over again and again in his mind until he was satisfied it was right. Yes: even if Jacqui had shouted the news of an alibi witness from the rooftops of the Carstairs Estate it wouldn’t have induced the real killers to lose a moment’s sleep, let alone come looking for Lizzie. What did they care if Denzel was in or out of jail?

He fretted over his next thought as well, not because it was coming too slowly but because it had come too damn fast. While he turned it over in his mind, he padded around the silent house, pulling back a curtain to stare into the darkness, putting an eye to the peephole in the front door, finding himself in the kitchen unable to remember why he’d gone there. Pouring himself a glass of water, he took it back to the dining table and stared at the timeline for another five minutes before picking up his mobile and calling Mike Gabbay.

When he told Mike what he wanted, he heard a rush of breath. ‘Hell, Hugh, that’s not so easy.’

‘But you’ve got friends in the immigration service with access to the database.’

‘
Friends
would be a strong word, Hugh. We’re usually in opposite camps, remember.’

‘But someone who’d do it as a favour.’

‘I guess so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But surely you can apply to the DVLA yourself? I’m sure you can.’

‘Haven’t got the time.’

‘Ah. And when you say it’s important, Hugh – we’re not talking a case of road rage, a shunt on the motorway?’

‘No. It’s to do with Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie? Hell, why didn’t you say so? In that case I’ll try an old client of mine. Ex-illegal immigrant. Poacher turned gamekeeper. Been working in the immigration service for the last five years. I can’t promise of course. He might turn all ethical on me. He might feel he’s run out of favours. But I’ll do my damnedest.’

‘One more problem – I need the information quickly, like now.’

‘Hell, Hugh. It’s ten to five.’

‘I know.’

Ringing off, Hugh sat immobile in his chair for a while. Then, restless, seeking distraction, he wandered into the hall and peered at Lou’s list of the day’s phone calls. The vicar. Lizzie’s mother. Lizzie’s sister. Various cousins. Old friends. The church organist. Work colleagues. Neighbours. Reading the notes Lou had made against each name – ‘funeral time confirm’, ‘offered help with funeral food’, ‘wants name of good local hotel’ – he felt he was occupying a parallel universe in which these issues were diminished and distorted, as if he were viewing them through the wrong end of a telescope.

He lifted his head to the sound of a motorbike in the lane, a faint hum that grew steadily and faded abruptly, as if the engine had been cut. I’ll be hearing footsteps next, he thought. Seeing shadows in the garden. But the dark figures wouldn’t be hoodies this time; they would be altogether more conventionally dressed.

The idea that had come to him so rapidly had refused to die, and with a small thrill of fear he returned to the timeline to relive the last few months of Lizzie’s working life from her point of view.

As early as April she sees the fight to rehouse Gloria and Wesley as a mission. The bureaucratic difficulties, far from wearing her down, have made her increasingly determined to win through. And not just because of the Jameses’ vulnerability and need, though these are reason enough; she has also, against the Citizens Advice guidelines, let herself become emotionally involved. She sees Wesley as another Charlie, a sensitive, over-imaginative boy ill-equipped to withstand the rough and tumble of street life. In drawing him out and trying to build his confidence she is subconsciously re-enacting her early attempts to support Charlie, but without the misjudgements and emotional barriers. She grows very fond of Wesley, and thus, intentionally or otherwise, finds herself taking on the second, arguably more difficult challenge of overseeing his rehabilitation. She arranges for the psychiatrist to come to Wesley, but the sessions are too irregular to do much good. Her own visits, however, produce a steady improvement in Wesley’s confidence. He talks more freely, he agrees to think about undertaking some sort of vocational training, he looks forward to going to the theme park. Then comes the crucial day when John Emmanuel drops in and Wesley overhears Lizzie and Gloria talking to him about the Denzel Lewis campaign. Wesley’s reaction is so immediate, his fear so obvious that Lizzie, always attuned to people’s deeper motives, realises instinctively what it’s about. To coax the full story out of Wesley, she swears on the Bible never to tell anyone.

But the secret brings her an acute dilemma. She finds herself torn between her duty to protect Wesley and her wish to see Denzel Lewis cleared of a crime he didn’t commit. She can see only one way out. If she can obtain witness protection for Wesley, then she might be able to persuade him to give evidence. She knows only one senior police officer personally, the very person who put Denzel behind bars. This must concern her, she must realise she’s asking Montgomery to help demolish his own case, but perhaps she believes in his basic decency, perhaps she trusts to his better nature, perhaps she thinks a
simple enquiry isn’t going to alarm him. She doesn’t give him too much information of course; quite apart from anything else she mustn’t break her oath to Wesley. She speaks hypothetically, asking what protection would be available for any future witness. But Montgomery is wary. This is before the Lewis family decide to launch their new public appeal; why would she come to him now unless she actually knows of a witness? Still more worrying from his point of view, she makes it clear that this hypothetical witness would be able to identify the real killers.

Perhaps there was more. Perhaps in her eagerness to win protection for Wesley Lizzie hints at a racial motive to the crime, she mentions a white gang. Whatever, Montgomery is now seriously rattled. He sees Denzel Lewis’s conviction being quashed and an investigation being launched into his conduct of the case. He sees his reputation being damaged. He hears mutterings about corruption, and fears that however hard he tries to distance himself from them some of the mud will stick.

So . . . what does he do? The great unanswerable question. Does Montgomery pretend to be sympathetic to Lizzie in the hope that the problem will simply fade away? Or – a darker thought – does he take measures to protect himself? A quiet word in someone’s ear, a whisper that will get back to the Forbes family? Yes, perhaps Montgomery has more reason than most to fear the finger of suspicion. Perhaps he himself is corrupt. Perhaps he’s been corrupt all along. It would explain why the Jason Jackson case went wrong from the very beginning. It would explain Montgomery’s strange obsession with secrecy. Why not? Almost anything seemed possible just then.

The ring of his phone made him start slightly. He snatched it up, hoping to see Mike’s name in the display, seeing instead a number the phone memory hadn’t recognised. Leaving the call to the voicemail, he picked up the message a minute later without enthusiasm, expecting a request for funeral details or a neighbour offering food. But it was John Emmanuel, who announced himself in a low sonorous murmur, asking him to
call back urgently. He answered Hugh’s call in the same deep whisper, as if in danger of being overheard. Despite his low tone, he was perfectly audible, there was no mistaking his words, yet Hugh was so startled he asked him to repeat them.

‘Wesley’s here,’ John whispered. ‘In my home. He arrived half an hour ago.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Scared. Jumpy as a cat. But otherwise he seems okay, yes.’

‘Where’s he been?’

‘He’s not saying. And I don’t like to push him.’

‘God. And I thought . . .’ Hugh’s relief that Wesley was alive and safe was overtaken by a new concern. ‘Does anyone know he’s there?’

‘Not unless he’s told people.’

‘What about his mother?’

‘He’s not saying, so I guess not.’

‘If you could keep him there till I work something out, John. Do you think you’ll be able to keep him there till morning?’

‘I’d say so. My wife’s cooking a meal for him now. And there’s the big match at quarter to eight.’

‘Tell him he’s in the safest possible place. Tell him everything’s going to be okay. Tell him anything he needs to hear.’

Ringing off, Hugh pushed the timeline slowly aside. Lou had been right, he had got things ludicrously out of proportion. He imagined how he must have looked to her when he got home, obsessive and wild-eyed, barely in control. No wonder she’d treated him as if he were off the rails. He rested his head on his fingertips, eyes closed, and finally admitted to the depth of his exhaustion. Yet he couldn’t begin to think about sleep. He had to go on to the end now.

His phone buzzed the arrival of a text message. It was from Mike Gabbay, giving the name and address of the registered car owner.
Paul Louis Pertusio.
The address was in the east of Bristol. Directory Enquiries said the number was unavailable, which he took to mean ex-directory. He hunted round the
house for the Bristol phone directory and found it in the kitchen. There was only one Pertusio listed, initial M. With such an unusual name it had to be a relation.

The number rang for a long time before the reedy voice of an elderly woman answered.

‘Oh, Paul doesn’t live here,’ she told him.

‘I see. Could you possibly . . .’ Distracted by the sound of a car Hugh moved into the hall. ‘Er . . . give me his number, Mrs Pertusio?’

‘Oh no,’ came the soft inflexible voice. ‘No, I couldn’t do that.’

A car door slammed. ‘Could I get him at work?’

‘Yes, that would be the best thing.’

Hugh went towards the front door. ‘Would you have the number?’

‘It’s in the phone book.’

‘What should I look under?’ Hugh put his eye to the peephole and saw two men walking towards the door.

‘Well . . . “police”.’

The bell rang.

‘Police?’

‘That’s right.’

The images were distorted by the lens of the peephole, but one of them was definitely Montgomery.

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Pertusio. Sorry to have bothered you.’

Hugh swung the door open.

‘Evening, Mr Gwynne,’ said Montgomery, holding up his warrant card, ‘Detective Chief Inspector Montgomery. We met the other day. And this is Detective Constable Pertusio. Could we come in for a moment?’

Staring at DC Pertusio, Hugh guessed he was about twenty-five. A grandson, then.

‘What’s it about?’ he asked Montgomery.

‘A number of matters, including the whereabouts of a young man called Wesley James.’