“From the dawn of the
Mercury
’s digital archive,” said Francesca. “After I spoke with the social worker, I thought I’d do a bit of digging around to see what I could find that could back up her story. Take a look at those faces.”
“All the local dignitaries,” Sean said, waiting to see how long it would take for her to tell him that Rivett was bent too. “What you would expect, ain’t it?”
Francesca turned back to the screen. “I’ve found that it’s always the same story,” she said, “whether it’s a national scandal
or something tucked away in a little town like this. You’ll always have the eternal triangle of business, protection and press. Good old Sid Hayles,” she went into her Pat impersonation, tapping at her predecessor’s image with the end of her pen, “was right in Len Rivett’s pocket. There’s glowing reports of every move he ever made, going back decades. Makes me wonder if we can trust a word of what our back issues say.”
“I’ve just spent the day with Len Rivett,” said Sean. “I got the impression he was eager to help. They dug out all the old files for me, found me some names and addresses …” He studied her profile as he spoke. “Even took me out to lunch. Very friendly, he was. So how come you don’t like him?”
Francesca kept her eyes on the screen. “You haven’t heard what Sheila said.”
“Well?” Sean prompted.
“Well,” Francesca repeated, “the most interesting part of it is what she didn’t get to say. At the time, that is.”
She swivelled round in her chair to face him. “Sheila was Corrine’s caseworker from when she arrived here, at the age of fourteen, to the time she was arrested. Corrine had been under social service supervision since she was at junior school in Cotessey, just over the other side of Norwich, where she was brought up.” Francesca’s eyes grew more intense. “If you could call it that.”
Noj’s voice in Sean’s mind: “
Her mum turned her out when she was twelve, made her do a load of dirty bikers …
”
“Sheila had files and files of information about her background and her medical history and she was supposed to testify for the defence when it all came to trial. Only, the day before it happened, some young copper turned up on her doorstep and told her she was no longer needed in court.
“Sheila didn’t believe him, for some reason,” her eyes slipped away from Sean’s to the floor, “so she turned up anyway. Only to be told by Corrine’s barrister that she had agreed to plead guilty, no contest, and her testimony was no longer needed. Testimony,” she looked back up at Sean, “that she believes would have proved Corrine’s innocence.”
“Which was?” said Sean.
“Did you know, or were you ever told, that Corrine suffers from catatonic schizophrenia?”
“Course,” said Sean. “That was in her files, the doctor at the secure unit went through it with me. Told me about her medication, all the cognitive behavioural therapy, the art …”
He stopped, mid-sentence. In his mind’s eye he was back in the ward, looking at the picture Corrine had painted, the seascape. Then he was in Noj’s kitchen, staring at the very same picture on her wall.
“But,” Francesca was saying, “did he tell you how it affects her when she has an attack?”
“No,” said Sean, “but I have had some experience of schizophrenics before.”
“Ah, but,” Francesca’s eyes shone in the reflected light of the monitor, “the kind of schizophrenia Corrine has doesn’t make her act violently. It’s completely the opposite, in fact. At times of severe stress, she seizes up, literally goes catatonic. She can’t move or do anything, and if someone doesn’t snap her out of it, she could die of exhaustion. Sheila saw her go into this state on several occasions, all of which were when she was being confronted by something she found terrifying. So it’s perfectly possible that she witnessed the crime but was physically unable to do a thing about it, allowing the real perpetrator, the owner of that DNA you’re searching for, to contaminate her with
bloodstains. Sheila said that the policeman who found her knew this, because she had been with him at the station when she went into one of her trances before.”
“Paul Gray,” said Sean.
“The same.” Francesca nodded. “Did you …”
“Wait,” said Sean, “before we get onto him. If this Sheila is so certain about this, why didn’t she speak up about it before?”
Francesca leaned back in her seat. “She did,” she said, picking up her pen again and tapping back at the screen. “She told Sid Hayles about it, hoping that the
Mercury
could launch some kind of investigative crusade. The next thing she knew she was under investigation from County Hall, suspended from her duties under breach of confidentiality rules. Ruined her career, stopped her from gaining employment anywhere else where her talents would have been appreciated. And that’s not to mention the slights and the whispers, the rumours spread by women like my dear personal assistant …”
Sean looked back at the photograph, at the faces of old men, the blotches and lines of long comradeship, the age spots of stories interwoven, histories created together.
“The very respectable, very prominent upstanding members of our little seaside community …”
“Sheila’s evidence, on its own, might not have made any difference to your employer’s first petition,” Francesca went on. “The Home Secretary, acting with the advice of leading specialists, including Corrine’s current doctor, Robert Radcliffe, turned her down on the grounds that there was insufficient new evidence and to proceed would not be in the public interest. But, as you also know, the use of DNA technology was still in its infancy then, and the National Database would not be set up until 1995. They might not be able to rule the same way this time.”
Francesca gave the screen one more venomous glance and then clicked the picture away, dumped it in the trash and emptied it before shutting the computer down.
“In which case,” she said, getting to her feet, “I think Sheila’s files could now form a very strong back-up for you to take back to Ms Mathers. And, as an act of extreme good faith in our abilities,” she walked over to her desk, lifted up her briefcase and snapped it open, “Sheila has given us both copies.”
Sean watched her take out a thick Manila folder and hold it out to him. He stayed in his seat, shot her a question instead.
“This is personal for you, isn’t it?” he said.
Her pupils widened for a second, a tiny pulse. She put the file down on her desk.
“Yes,” she said, “of course it’s personal.”
Her eyes razored into Sean’s, and for a second he thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she pushed her hair out of her eyes, put her hands on her hips. “Look, I know this isn’t the same magnitude as taking a stand against the most powerful men on the planet,” she said quietly, “but it is the same principal. Something went wrong here and we have the chance to put it right. Maybe our only chance.”
Sean stared at her, wondering again what had happened to her. Had she been fired from a national newspaper for going against her editor’s line, or discovering something that was never supposed to go public? Was she waiting here now, licking her wounds, to come back with something no one could ignore? And was he a cog in the wheel of that plan?
“You don’t have to tell me what a dirty place Fleet Street is,” he said. “So why are you so desperate to get back there?”
A slow smile spread across Francesca’s face and she gave the smallest of laughs.
“The same reason, I suppose, that you’re still working as a detective,” she said.
Sean raised his hands. “All right,” he said, “
mea culpa
.” He found his own mouth twitching into a smile, a chuckle welling in his throat. He couldn’t help it. He liked her.
He got up then, walked across the carpet and took the folder. He only realised afterwards that it hadn’t caused him any pain to do so.
“So, partner,” she said, putting on that Mae West voice again, “have you eaten yet?”
“Not since lunch,” Sean realised. “And that wasn’t actually very appetising.”
Francesca picked up her phone. “Well,” she said, glancing down at her watch, “it’s getting late, but I reckon Keri could still sling us a few leftovers. Whaddaya say?”
Sean nodded. “I’d say the contents of Keri’s bins are better than the rest of the crap around here. If he’s willing to turn them out for us, I’m in.”
* * *
Len Rivett got back into his car, feeling a twinge in his kneecap as he did so. Bloody arthritis playing him up again, it was a bastard of a job growing old. He started his engine, raised his hand in salute to the security guard as he drove back out onto the seafront. He had to go all the way back down again, but he decided to go and pay Nelson a visit first. Several different scenarios were spooling out in his mind and he’d often found that a drive out to the edge of the harbour was good for clearing out the wrong notions and divining the best course to take. A little natter with Norfolk’s proudest son, a little smoke at the edge of the world, would reveal to him what to do for the best.
He put his foot down, pedal to the metal, and accelerated down the long, empty road.
* * *
“So,” said Francesca, dipping a piece of torn-off pitta into a bowl of kleftiko, “what did you find out about Paul Gray?”
Sean looked across the restaurant to where Keri was deploying his film star smile to charm the last of his night’s patrons out of their seats and into their coats. He had put them on a table on the ground floor this time, tucked away in a corner at the back, piling their table up with food and wine almost as quickly as they had taken their coats off.
He saw in his mind the tearsheet Francesca had given him in her previous folder, another freeze-frame from the past. Rivett and Gray on the steps of the station, announcing that a suspect was in custody. Rivett’s face a suitably grim mask for the cameras, Gray turning his away, so that all you could see was the side of his face, an angular man with high cheekbones, a cauliflower ear, thick, black hair slicked off a widow’s peak.
Ask what happened to him
, she had written on a Post-it note attached to the page.
“What prompted you to ask about him in the first place?” he said.
“Mmm,” she said, swallowing her mouthful. “Just because, it was Gray who found her, I wondered what he had to say about how she was behaving. In light of today’s revelations,” she stuck her fork into a piece of lamb, “it could be really important. If Corrine was in some kind of catatonic trance, it backs up Sheila’s story.”
“Perhaps,” Sean acknowledged.
“Did Rivett tell you anything about him?” Francesca asked.
“Just that he was a good detective,” Sean said. “Sound, salt of the earth and all that. Nothing untoward. He even gave me his phone number, so’s I could set up a meet.”
“Oh?” said Francesca, raising her eyebrows, as if she had not expected it to be this easy.
“Yeah,” said Sean, “first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll see what I can find out for myself. In the meantime, there is something else that don’t seem to fit that maybe you can take a look at for me.”
He had been mulling it over since his meeting in the police station, whether to ask Francesca’s help or not, whether he could trust her with it. Sheila’s file seemed to prove that he could. Or at least, how good she was at the investigative side of her work.
“Something I did know before I came here,” he said, “something my employer did think could be important is that your current Detective Chief Inspector of Police, Dale Smollet, was at school with Corrine Woodrow,” he leaned forward as he said it, keeping his voice low, even though they were the last customers in the room.
Francesca looked up, startled. “He was?” she said.
Sean nodded. “Not just in the same school and the same year, but the same class as well.”
“What, and he didn’t say anything?”
“No,” said Sean, “and neither did Len. In fact, if I was the suspicious sort, I’d say that Len deliberately tried to lead me astray about it. Just before we went in to meet the DCI, he strongly implied that Smollet was too young ever to have known Corrine. And then, when I met the man, he waved me off without even mentioning it. Now if that was me,” Sean recalled the words Smollet had used to greet him, “I would have got that out in the open straight away. I wouldn’t want
anyone to think I had something to hide.”
“Jesus,” said Francesca.
“Yeah,” said Sean. “The thing is, the pair of them made out like they can hardly stand the sight of each other, so I reckon they’ve got a bit of a double act going on. We can probably guess which one is the monkey, but you can never be too sure that anything’s what it seems around here, can you?”
Francesca put down her cutlery, wiped her mouth with the napkin.
“You’re learning Ernemouth Rules fast,” she said.
* * *
Rivett stood at Nelson’s feet, looking up at the Admiral. The wind whipped around him, shifting the sand up from the dunes, catching the waves up into swells that roared and crashed against the harbour wall. He took a last drag at his cigar and pitched it away, an orange arc spitting tails of embers, disappearing into the dark.
Rivett nodded, satisfied. “Right you are, Admiral,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat.
He turned to walk back to the car, tapping numbers into his mobile as he did so. By the time he had reached the steps to the promenade, he could hear the other end ring.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered.
“Sandra,” he said, “Len Rivett here. Mind if I have a word with your husband?”
“Oh, hello, Len,” she said, surprised. “Course, I’ll just get him for you.”
He heard the receiver click on the table top in the hallway, heard her calling: “Paul …”
Nelson looked the other way, his gaze fixed to the horizon.
Corrine stood by the school gate, leaning against the wall. She could see her reflection in the window of the Ford Cortina parked in front of her and, at last, she liked what she saw. Her hair was perfect – down to her shoulders at the back, an expertly scissored flat top, the front just tilting into a quiff and razored at the sides. All of it a gleaming, inky black.