Fatal Legacy (30 page)

‘I tried again to get her to talk, but all she did was keep looking nervously back at the house and raising her eyes up towards its roof. I followed her gaze but there was nothing to see – a row of empty windows, one boarded up where the glass had been broken.’

Nightingale couldn’t wait any longer.

‘But the other children – her brother and sister?’

George shook himself and visibly drew back from a memory he’d been reliving, minute by painful minute.

‘Right. Back inside, just as we were leaving, we heard a noise from above. I was up those stairs like a shot, I can tell you. Frank was right behind me, dragging me back by the leg, but Joe, my mate, pulled him off. Eileen was screaming, hitting Joe. On the landing I just slammed open doors, one after the other, till I got to the last one at the back of the house. It was locked, so I rammed it with my shoulder. Bates was on me then, shouting, “You can’t do that, you can’t do that. It’s my house!” and trying to punch me, but then Joe had him and I just carried on until the lock broke.’

George paused, breathing heavily, and shut his eyes as if in terrible pain.

‘Some memories stay with you forever, no matter what. The stench as I went in – God, it was terrible. I can’t go near a baby’s nappy now without feeling physically ill. The room was so dark that at first I couldn’t see anything. Then I saw what I just thought was a bundle of old clothes. I didn’t realise it was a child until Sally came tottering in and went up to Billy with the chocolate she’d saved. He was lying on a filthy cot mattress on the floor. She walked straight past all of us, calm as you like, and knelt down to him.’

George’s voice thickened with tears.

‘“There you are, Billy,” she says, bright as a button, and puts the chocolate to his mouth. But the kid’s so weak he can’t eat it, and she looks up to me, smiles and says, “Billy’s not hungry,” and puts the chocolate in her own mouth.’

He couldn’t go on. Nightingale stared at his face in horror.

‘Was he dead?’

George Wicklow could barely manage a whisper. ‘No, not quite. He died a couple of days later. We found Sarah, the baby, in a carrycot. She was dead, very obviously dead.

‘Sally was put in a home, then fostered. I think the house was pulled down. Frank and Eileen Bates were charged with murder and cruelty. He was convicted on both counts. Eileen was sentenced to two years but she died in prison. Bates is still there. Life means life for him. He’s going to rot there.’ The
absolute hatred in the sergeant’s voice made the hairs rise on Nightingale’s arms.

‘But why did they do it?’

George shook his head. ‘Who knows. When Sarah was born, Frank just decided that they couldn’t afford the children. He simply stopped feeding them. For a while Eileen continued to breast-feed the baby, and either she or Sally – perhaps both – sneaked food in to Billy. But then, after the first Social Services visit, Frank locked the two younger children up and kept the key with him.’

George shook himself and made a visible effort to look more cheerful.

‘But it’s good that little Sally survived and has done well for herself after such a terrible start in life. You said she’s a suspect, though – anything serious?’

Nightingale stared into the sergeant’s face, aware she was about to deal him yet another blow.

‘Murder,’ she said, and briefly squeezed his arm in
compassion
.

Cooper and Nightingale sat uncomfortably in front of Fenwick’s desk. Nightingale had called Cooper at once, and he in turn had spoken to Fenwick despite the hour; the DCI had been there within thirty minutes. Cooper crossed and uncrossed his legs in a vain attempt to stop the metal-framed visitor’s chair cutting into the back of them. He was too broad for the seat and had to perch half in, half out of it. Nightingale sat primly on the edge of hers, seeming barely to rest her weight on it. She had just finished her report, and a grim silence filled the room.

‘It’s a wonder she turned out normal.’ Cooper shook his head in amazement.

‘Did she, though? How do we know?’ Nightingale was sceptical. ‘If you want more detail, sir, Sergeant Wicklow can tell you; he was the officer who found her brother and sister.’

Fenwick shook his head at the gruesome thought. ‘Another time, perhaps. Right now I want to see Mrs Wainwright-Smith.’

‘Do you want me to come, sir?’

‘No thanks, Cooper. I’ll go alone. And you need to go home to bed, Nightingale. You look exhausted.’

‘I’m OK, sir.’ But her voice belied her words, and at Fenwick’s insistence she left the two men to it.

‘She looks all in. What’s she been up to?’ asked Fenwick once she had gone.

‘Well, as far as I can tell, sir, she’s been working flat out for the last twenty-four hours.’

‘It was worth it, Sergeant. I knew she’d find something. But I wonder about that private investigator. Is he holding out on us? He was working for Graham for several weeks, and what he told us he knew, he could have found out in a matter of days.’

Cooper scribbled in his book.

‘It’s on the list for tomorrow, guv. What are you going to do with this info? It’s hardly relevant, is it?’

‘You think not? Well, I have to disagree. The sort of disturbed childhood Sally had could lead to all sorts of dysfunctional behaviour, perhaps even brutality, though I accept that’s pure supposition. Could you talk to Claire Keating? I’d like her assessment of the likely behaviour of someone who has suffered the trauma that Sally has.’

Cooper nodded and made a note in his book.

‘And Sergeant, I’d like it for tomorrow morning,’

Wainwright Hall looked abandoned and desolate as sheets of spring rain swept in from the west over lawns that had grown too long and roses that were already sickly with black spot. A coach lantern gleamed fitfully as the wet wind swung it in and out of the shadow of overhanging ivy. No other lights shone from the house into the gloomy night. He had expected Sally to defer the meeting until the morning, but when he called, just before ten o’clock she had almost seemed eager to meet him.

Fenwick parked his car in front of the main entrance and took a moment to stare at the looming gothic façade from within its warm dry depths. As his eyes adjusted to the shapes of the Hall, he noticed the details of its ornamentation; battlements, gargoyles, buttresses, turrets and a mock tower fought with each other for his attention. It looked like the setting for a horror story.

Sally was dressed for the cool in an angora jumper and black jeans. It was the first time he’d seen her out of a calf-length skirt and he couldn’t help noticing that she had very long legs. The house was bitterly cold.

‘After Easter I don’t turn the central heating on again until November. The kitchen is warm, if you don’t mind talking in there.’

As they walked through the cold mausoleum of the great hall, a sudden harsh gust of wind struck the westerly side of the house, making windows rattle and the chimneys moan. It was not a comfortable sound, and as Fenwick gazed up the grand staircase into the dark of the galleried landing above, he reassessed the nerves of the woman in front of him. She was prepared to stay here on her own during the long days her
husband was away; it wasn’t something he thought many women would choose to do.

The kitchen was warmer, neat and tidy. A pile of sewing lay on the scrubbed pine table and a large saucepan bubbled on the top of the Aga, but he noticed a discreet bottle of gin tucked behind a crock of bread.

‘I’m making stock from the weekend lamb joint,’ she explained unnecessarily. ‘Alex loves my soups.’

‘Does he know of your affair with his uncle?’

He’d expected shock, a gasp, something, but she simply said, cool as a cat:

‘What do you think? Tea, Chief Inspector?’ She regarded him calmly, her pale green eyes large and unblinking, pupils huge in the soft light. ‘You’ve been listening to Millie Willett. Well, you shouldn’t.’ Her tone hardened. ‘She’s an interfering, jealous old woman with too much imagination and time on her hands.’

For an instant Fenwick saw within Sally a vindictive, authoritarian woman, capable of throwing ageing long-serving employees out of their tied cottage and into a high-rise flat. Then the image was gone. She made their tea with small, efficient movements. It was obvious that she regarded this kitchen as hers, not her help’s, and something of this thought must have shown in Fenwick’s face, for she said suddenly:

‘You’re surprised to find me at home in my own kitchen?’

‘No, not really. Just curious.’

‘A lot of money passes through a kitchen, Chief Inspector. And a lot of waste.’ She uttered the last word as if it were a sin and calmly counted out four digestive biscuits on to a
flower-patterned
tea plate.

There was an unnatural silence in the wake of this remark. Fenwick regarded her ritual with new insight; that compulsion to control food and never to waste a bite had taken on a new significance, and he was overcome by an unwelcome pity. She sensed his change in mood and looked confused.

‘You wanted to speak to me. About what?’

She went to fuss with the saucepan on the Aga, and Fenwick waited patiently until she had turned to look at him again. He wanted to see her reaction to his new knowledge. He spoke
softly, unthreateningly, but even so his words had an instant impact.

‘Mrs Wainwright-Smith, why didn’t you tell us that your real maiden name was Sally Bates?’

She said nothing, simply stared at him open-mouthed in shock as she sank into a nearby chair.

‘There is nothing to be ashamed of and it would have been helpful for us to know, rather than discover it ourselves.’

‘How did you find out?’ The disbelief in her voice was audible, as if her question would discover simply that he had made a lucky guess.

‘Routine enquiries. It was inevitable that we would uncover your past. Is your husband aware of your childhood?’

‘No, of course not. Nor do I want him to know, do you hear me?’ Her voice had taken on an edge of anger and Fenwick waited in silence for it to pass. When she was calmer, he continued.

‘Why did you change your name?’

‘Wouldn’t you, with parents like that?’

‘What did you do after they were arrested?’

‘I went into care. What business is that of yours?’

He ignored her question and moved on. Behind her on the stove, the stock bubbled over in the pot. The sound penetrated her distracted mind and she stood up to move the pan to a cooler position on the Aga. When she turned around again, there was a new look of calculation in her eyes.

‘Why exactly were you digging into my past, Chief Inspector?’

‘People have a habit of dying around you, Mrs Wainwright-Smith; that makes us curious.’

She said nothing and went back to stirring the pan, a look of intense concentration on her face. Fenwick watched her back, the rise and fall of the muscles in her narrow shoulders. She had the poise and hidden strength of a ballerina, and for a moment he doubted his judgement of her. But then she turned around and looked him in the eyes, and all doubts fled. The hair rose on the back of his neck and along his forearms. There was no doubting the insolent acknowledgement that lurked behind the expression in her eyes.

‘I think you will find, Chief Inspector, that the few people of my acquaintance who have died recently have been the victims of a series of unfortunate tragedies. In none of the deaths have I been implicated in any way.’

‘Not even in those of Arthur Fish and Amanda Bennett?’ At the mention of the prostitute’s name her expression hardened, and Fenwick was sure that a flash of concern appeared briefly in her eyes, but her words were calm enough.

‘You really are clutching at straws now. Is that the best you can do?’ She smiled confidently, taunting him with her
knowledge
that he had no real evidence against her.

‘Don’t play with me, Mrs Wainwright-Smith, it doesn’t work. I may not have all the evidence I need right now, but it is starting to accumulate, and it will only be a matter of time before I have enough to charge you. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll let myself out.’

When she was alone again in the kitchen, Sally checked the heat under the stock and returned the four untouched biscuits to their airtight container. Her movements were studied and deliberate. Then she poured herself a large gin and small tonic and made her way slowly to the little office to the side of the entrance hall. She logged on to her computer and called up details of her joint account with Alexander, then the private savings account she still held and about which he knew nothing.

She stared at the numbers on the screen until they blurred into a grey haze. Looking at them normally gave her a sense of security, but today it wasn’t working. She took a small brown bottle of pills from her bag and swallowed two with her gin and tonic as the computer shut down. The drug worked almost instantly with the alcohol and she started to feel the intensity of calm that was the ironic gift of medication. Sometimes, when she couldn’t bear this cotton-wool wrapper, she’d chase the pill with some amphetamines, riding a roller-coaster of toxic emotions until she came back down to earth empty and uncaring. She could never remember exactly what she had done when the drugs were at their peak, but she saw that as a benefit.

She left her study and shambled to the top of the stairs, along the landing and up the spiral staircase of the tower that
dominated the north side of the house. Right at the top, in a low room under the eaves, she had made herself a den. There was a mattress on the floor and an old blanket for when the weather was icy. The windows were boarded up, and what little light there was came from an unshaded forty-watt bulb. She threw herself down on to the mattress and hugged the blanket to her chest. When her control finally went, despite the anti-
depressants
, it was terrible. She wept and cried; she screamed at the beams in the roof and clawed at her arms until they were red and spots of blood started from the long scratches. Her cries rose to a shriek and then a terrible, awful wail that went on and on until she could finally cry no more.

She lay there on her back, arms flung out to the sides, without moving, until slowly her reason returned to her. She staggered to her feet and had to lean against a wall until her head stopped spinning. Then slowly, clutching at the rickety wooden handrail, she clawed her way back down to the lower landing and along to her bedroom, where she locked the door behind her.

Her sleeping tablets were in a little brown bottle by the bed. She swallowed half a pill with one gulp of water before falling on to the bed fully clothed. The ceiling started to sway in and out as she drifted into the semi-consciousness that would sometimes last for hours before she fell asleep. Her mind was a void in which sparks of emotion flickered, flared and died unborn. As she drifted finally towards sleep, the glimmer of a solution came to her, as she had known it would. She closed her eyes as she felt darkness descend and folded her arms tight across her chest in a pathetic attempt to ward off her nightmares.