Fatal Legacy (39 page)

‘Why am I thinking like this? Why do I feel like this about him? It’s just not like me! I don’t trust older men!’

The word shocked her back into silence. Whenever possible, she tried not to think of her father, and anyway, Fenwick must be years younger than that. Yet the thought, once spoken, wouldn’t go away, and Nightingale realised that within it lay the seeds of truth. He was so much the father she had always wanted. That Bess should have been snatched away from such love was unthinkable. The little girl must be terrified, and Nightingale’s heart ached for her.

She balanced the coffees and cakes in a cardboard box and carried them back upstairs without spills. Cooper was where she had left him, head down, reading perhaps his thirtieth case file that night.

‘The Chief Inspector’s just rung.’

Nightingale struggled to keep her breathing level.

‘He’s visited every one of the search areas – nothing’s been found – and now he’s going home. He wants us to send Claire Keating’s report over, and copies of the transcripts from every one of our interviews with Sally and Alexander Wainwright-Smith.’

‘I’ll do it!’

‘I thought you would, but you can drink your coffee and eat your cake while you’re making the copies. Don’t look at me like that. You eat up, and that’s an order!’

Fenwick sent Wendy back to her flat upstairs as soon as he arrived home. He couldn’t face the idea of her company, and he needed to think. As he had driven from one search area to the next, each one as unproductive and hopeless as the last, he had forced himself for the first time to concentrate on the case like a policeman rather than a father. By the time he had reached the deserted playground in front of the school, he had almost succeeded, but then the sight of the gates, locked and cordoned off with police tape, had brought the awfulness of the reality back to him. Bess was not at home in bed whilst he went in
search of some poor man’s missing child. He had to face the fact that she was the victim of a crime he hoped desperately was only an abduction, and that made him a victim too.

In the solitary silence of his home once again, he tried to force his mind to return to its earlier analysis and the key question – why had Bess been abducted? There were two choices – she was either a random victim or someone had a motive for her disappearance.

If it was random, that meant he could do nothing, so he forced the logical part of his mind to focus on motive. Who would benefit from her disappearance? He pulled out paper and pen from his desk drawer and stared at the blank page as he let his subconscious work. At midnight he had called Sergeant Cooper with his instructions, and now he waited, trying to keep the demons of speculation away.

It took Nightingale half an hour to find and copy all the papers Fenwick had asked for, and less than ten minutes to drive to his home.

His house would be quiet; she knew that the music he loved would be no distraction whilst his mind was in turmoil. Some work, perhaps reading these papers, would help him. She parked behind his car and swivelled her long, trousered legs elegantly to climb out. She pressed the bell in the shadows of the darkened porch.

Fenwick heard the doorbell and rushed to answer it,
experiencing
as he did so a painful twist of emotions. Despite the craziness of the idea, part of him insisted that it would be Bess, home at last. Then another image filled his mind; it could be a police officer, some old friend, come to tell him that they had found her, dead and cold. Hope and fear fought within him for supremacy. He saw the single tall outline through the hall window and fear triumphed. He opened the door.

Nightingale was shocked by his haggard appearance. His hair was a mess where he had obviously been running his hands through it, and she resisted an inexplicable urge to smooth it down for him.

He stared back at her with eyes so shadowed and full of anguish that she could feel sympathetic tears start in her own.
For a flicker of a second, their souls seemed to touch: ‘
I am in so much pain’
his seemed to say; ‘
I know, that’s why I’m here
’, hers replied. Then she blinked her tears away unshed and the moment was gone.

‘I’ve brought those papers, sir,’ she said in a voice shaky but determined.

‘Thank you.’ His voice was barely a whisper. He reached out to take them from her where she stood on the threshold, and to her dismay she felt herself hang on to them. He noticed the tug of resistance and looked up, confused for a moment. Indecision, so rare in him, flashed across his face. He hesitated for a further second.

‘Can I stay and help you through them, sir? There’s an awful lot.’

In that delicate moment she felt the balance of such power as there was between them swing in her favour.

‘Come in.’

She remembered the hall from her previous visits, and an unexpected memory of Bess in her nightdress ambushed her thoughts. Again those wretched tears were threatening; why
couldn’t
she control herself tonight of all nights?

His study was cool and smelt of him: the sharp animal tang of his anxious sweat, a vague residual hint of aftershave applied in happier hours, and the earthy scent of old leather from the books that lined the walls.

‘What are we looking for, sir?’

‘Evidence.’ He spoke brusquely, but she understood. ‘I’ve developed a theory as to why Bess has been taken. Who benefits from her abduction, Nightingale?’

‘
Benefits
?’ His choice of word appalled her.

‘It’s a crime; we have to think of motive.’

Nightingale realised suddenly why he had asked for the files she still carried.

‘You think Bess’s disappearance is somehow connected with the Wainwright case? But why?’

‘I was going to arrest Sally Wainwright today. Within hours, my daughter has disappeared.’

‘But Inspector Blite will arrest her anyway.’

‘Possibly, but he’s taken her in for questioning and an identity
parade twice now, with zero results – she’s still at large.’

‘That can’t last; she must realise that it’s only a matter of time.’

‘You’re assuming that she’s rational, but I know that she isn’t.’

He took the latest Keating report from the top of the file and read it swiftly, nodding to himself with satisfaction.

‘Think about it. She’s used to controlling every man in her life, she has done ever since she was a child; even her father. Whilst he was exploiting her, she learnt how to manage him in order to limit his violence towards her. And in every situation in her life since then, including each foster family and children’s home she stayed in, she has come out on top. It’s how and why she survived.’

‘But she’s never tried to control you.’

‘She’s tried, but it hasn’t worked. As soon as I appeared on the scene I became the most dominant male in her life. I have her fate in my hands; the power of search, even of arrest. She would have been desperate trying to think of a way to control me.’

Nightingale felt sick.

‘If you believe this, why haven’t you gone to the Hall?’

She hadn’t meant to accuse him, but her tone of voice was hard and flat as a result of her struggle for emotional control. To her dismay she saw him flinch.

‘You think I don’t want to? So far this is all supposition. I have no evidence that Sally might have taken Bess. If she hasn’t and I go bursting in there, it will be a perfect gift for her defence, but if she
has
and I handle this without backup, I could risk Bess’s life.’

Nightingale was awed by the strength of his professionalism and willpower.

‘I need to persuade the Superintendent to back me on this. We’ll need experts, a crack team, and the ACC will hate the fact that it’s the Wainwrights. I can’t afford to get this one wrong, Nightingale.’

‘But to abduct a child …’

‘I agree, it seems extreme, but what option would she have? Think about it. She’s already committed murder, and the police
are closing in, making connections she thought we would never uncover. And as a diversion it’s working – look at what it’s done to the investigation already. If you think about it, Sally’s the obvious suspect. And with her husband away, she’s free to do what she likes.’

Nightingale said nothing. He had clearly worked it all out. He took a pen and marked up key passages of Claire Keating’s report and then of the interviews with Sally and her husband.

‘I think we have enough here. Come on, Nightingale, you can drive me to the station. Give me five minutes to tell Wendy I’m going.’

As she waited, Nightingale covered her face briefly with her hands. Seeing him in his agony, alone, isolated, in pain, she could not deny her feelings for him. This wasn’t some crush or a fixation on some authority-figure. This was painfully real. She heard his low voice on the stairs, explaining to Wendy that his mother was on her way down from Scotland and should arrive within a few hours, and removed her hands. Nightingale composed herself and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. A clock chimed one, and with a start, she realised that she had only been in the house for ten minutes.

‘Right, let’s go. We’ll take your car.’

During the cold drive back to the station, Nightingale dared to voice some of her doubts.

‘How did Sally plan an abduction? Surely she’d realise that the children had a nanny?’

‘She probably disregarded her. Remember that her own mother was powerless to protect
her
children. Women don’t count in Sally’s world.’

‘Where would she hold her?’

Fenwick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but the estate is huge … There’s the tower at the Hall; that’s self-contained. Sally’s brother and sister were locked away upstairs, remember, and not discovered until it was too late.’

‘Why don’t we simply go and ask her a few questions?’

‘It’s one o’clock in the morning, and think how Sally could behave if approached the wrong way. She
is
a murderess, you know.’

By the time they reached the outskirts of Harlden,
Nightingale was as convinced as Fenwick that Sally had motive and opportunity to abduct Bess. Fenwick called Quinlan from the car and he agreed to contact the ACC immediately for approval, and secure the team they would need.

Sally paced the length of the landing in agitation, pausing to stop on each turn at the oak door that blocked off the spiral staircase to the tower. The hammering and yelling was just audible, and she was amazed at the determination and stamina of the little girl. She hadn’t reckoned on her being quite so strong.

A rare yet strangely familiar feeling stirred within her. For no reason she suddenly remembered her baby brother being born; how for a few days life had been wonderful. She and her mother, in the hospital together, watching a beautiful little
doll-like
child cry and wave his perfect fingers in the air. Then they had gone home and … Tears choked her throat; she could barely breathe. The past was a dead zone, not worth the energy of thought. Sally hardened her heart and walked downstairs. Within a few hours it would all be over; she had it all planned and it was really very simple. By abducting the child she was sure that she would have diverted police attention for long enough to deal with FitzGerald once and for all, and then make good her escape before they came for her again.

FitzGerald would arrive soon. She would kill him, then set fire to the Hall and leave for Brighton. Simple. She had made sure that there were plenty of inflammable materials about, mostly left over from the refurbishment and decorating work. It was spread throughout the upper bedrooms, and in the kitchen and library she had already lit kerosene stoves that she could overturn as she left. All the internal doors were wedged wide, and there were upper windows open sufficient to make sure that there would be a strong through-draft. Alex would be furious at first, but he would understand her need to conceal her crime.
And anyway, if she couldn’t have the Hall, why should he?

The Hall and all it stood for was no longer of any interest to her. If she stayed she would be arrested and charged with murder. The only assets she could rely on now were those that she and Alex had offshore, beyond the power of the authorities to freeze them. There was enough money in her savings account for her to live quietly on the Continent for a few months, after which Alex would either join her or she would start her life again somewhere else. She had it all planned.

She refused to think about the child. It was an unfortunate pawn, stupid enough to believe her story, that she was a policewoman come to fetch her and take her to her father.

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall downstairs chimed one o’clock; FitzGerald was late. The thought of him twisted her face into a scowl. Her survival had depended since infancy on her ability to manipulate those around her. They had all been men, without exception, and Sally had grown up to regard other women as mere obstacles to be worked with or around. And her tactics had proved very successful. She was married to a
multi-millionaire
, with enough money in her own name to guarantee her freedom. She would be able to travel the world, building her own wealth, beautiful, unassailable, discarding lovers as she used and then tired of them, perhaps even with Alex trotting dog-like at her heels. She had successfully managed to disappear before, and had no doubt that she could do so again – provided that she silenced FitzGerald.

Whilst he and his secrets lived, she could not enjoy any of her success; therefore, he had to die. The clock struck a quarter past. He must be on his way by now. She checked that her handbag contained her passport, credit cards and account book. Her suitcase was already in her car with jewels, clothes and ready cash. In a few hours she would be on the south coast and the police would have no idea where to start their search.

Sally walked across the hall to the pretty sitting room where a fire blazed fiercely in the grate. Three days’ worth of newspapers and some highly inflammable dress fabrics had been folded neatly in one of the armchairs; more fuel for her fire. The gun was hidden behind the back of a large cushion on the sofa. All she had to do was slide her hand down casually as
she was talking to FitzGerald, pull it out, aim and press the trigger. He would be dead within seconds and then she could turn the heat on under the oil, light the candles, start her other fires and leave. Thinking of the gun, she reached for her long evening gloves and pulled them on. She was wearing an evening dress, diamonds and her best watch. More sensible clothes were ready in the back of her car to change into. This way, she had reasoned, she would not look suspicious and might even distract FitzGerald.

She looked out of the window and saw the distant sweep of headlights as a car turned off the road and into the long driveway to the Hall. Perfect.