The Shivering Turn, page 24
‘What money?’
‘We’d all put five hundred pounds into the kitty – all except Jeff Meade, that is. That’s four and a half thousand pounds.’
How hard Hetherington must have worked during his summer holidays to earn that five hundred pounds, I think. What hours of backbreaking overtime he must have put in – on jobs so unpleasant that no one else wanted to touch them – in order to come anywhere near that amount. And then he handed it over as if were nothing – because that was what he had to do if he was going to continue playing his role.
‘Crispin said there are some people who would consider four thousand five hundred pounds a lot of money,’ Johnson tells Bassett.
‘And are there?’ Bassett asks.
‘Are there what?’
‘Are there are some people who would consider four thousand five hundred pounds a lot of money?’
Hugo Johnson shrugs. ‘I suppose there must be.’
‘My mortgage is around four thousand five hundred pounds,’ Bassett tells him.
‘Oh!’ Johnson says – though it’s clear he doesn’t see the point.
‘So what went wrong with this plan of yours to either sweet-talk or threaten this helpless schoolgirl you’d just violated?’ Bassett asks.
‘We told Jeff Meade to help her – to help Linda – to get dressed. She looked as if she was still well doped-up, but she can’t have been, because the moment she had her clothes on, she headed for the door, which, in all the excitement, we’d forgotten to lock.’
‘Didn’t any of you try to stop her?’
‘We couldn’t – not immediately.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was fully dressed, but we weren’t. And you can’t go chasing round a public house car park wearing just an academic gown – not without drawing attention to yourself.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can,’ Bassett agrees. ‘So what was your next step, after your brilliant master plan had collapsed?’
‘We knew that we had to catch her. Not to hurt her – you must believe that – but just to talk to her, and offer her the money. So we put our clothes on as quickly as we could, and then went looking for her. Toby Fortescue and Jeff Meade got into Toby’s Jag and went straight to her house, Gideon and I went down to the railway station, on the off chance she might be there, and all the rest went to the other places she might have gone to.’
‘But you didn’t find her?’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘So where did she go?’
‘I don’t know,’ Johnson says, indifferently.
‘And you don’t bloody care, do you?’ Bassett explodes. ‘You don’t care now – and you didn’t care then. As long as she wasn’t around to get you into trouble, you didn’t give a damn where she’d gone.’
Hugo Johnson, realizing his mistake, tries his best to assume the proper look of anguish.
‘Of course I cared,’ he says. ‘I’m desperate to know where she is, if only so I can go and see her and apologize from the bottom of my heart for what we did to her. But the fact is, she’s simply vanished.’
‘You really are a thoroughly nasty piece of work, aren’t you, Hugo?’ DC Bassett says in disgust.
It’s half-past four. Hugo Johnson has been taken down to the cells – I hope he’s tripped on the way, and broken his bloody neck – and his place at the table has been filled by Jeff Meade and his solicitor.
Meade’s solicitor is no Rottweiler. He has been provided by legal aid, wears a shabby suit, and already looks bored out of his mind.
I feel no sympathy for Jeff. I gave him his chance and he blew it, and now he must learn to live with the fact that he is being represented by a deadbeat, while the rest of them have the best advice that money can buy.
‘The second you were dressed, you and Fortescue got into Fortescue’s car and drove to Linda’s house,’ Bassett says. ‘Is that correct?
‘Yes,’ Jeff Meade agrees.
‘How did you know where she lived? Had you been to Linda’s house before?’
‘No, if I’d been there before, I’d probably have found out that her dad was a bobby, and then we’d never have …’
‘Never have what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Never have selected her as your victim?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So how did you know where she lived?’
‘She left her school bag behind when she made a dash for it, and it had her address on it.’
‘So the plan was that the others would try to find her, but if they failed, you’d be waiting in ambush for her when she arrived home.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘Then how would you put it?’
‘We just wanted to talk to her.’
‘You just wanted to threaten her, you mean.’
‘No, we thought that if she’d just listen to us for a minute, we could persuade her to be sensible.’
Bassett shakes his head in contempt. ‘Tell me what happened when you got to her house?’
‘The house was in darkness, so Toby parked a little further down the street. About an hour later, her mother arrived home, parked her car in the garage, and went into the house.’
‘So that was when you left?’
‘No, we didn’t dare leave, in case Linda turned up.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Her father drove up about an hour and a half later. I told Toby I was going to ring Crispin …’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because Crispin would know what to do. Crispin always knows what to do.’
‘He certainly does,’ Bassett agrees. ‘Do what Crispin says, and you can’t go wrong – except that it’s by doing what Crispin said that you’ve ended up here, isn’t it? So did you make the phone call?
‘No. Toby said that Linda might turn up while I was looking for a phone box, and he couldn’t handle her on his own.’
‘A big lad like Toby – and he couldn’t handle a little girl like Linda?’ Bassett asked incredulously. ‘Didn’t it occur to you at the time that what he really meant was that if anybody was going to humiliate themselves in front of Linda, if anyone was going to beg her to keep quiet, it was going to be you, because he has his pride, he has his dignity, but you’re only a peasant, so you’re not entitled to either.’
A look of deep sadness fills Jeff Meade’s face. ‘No, it didn’t occur to me,’ he says. ‘Not then. But I’m beginning to see it now.’
‘So you didn’t go to make the phone call,’ Bassett says. ‘What did you do instead?’
‘We just sat there – waiting.’
‘Did anything else happen?’
‘Linda’s father went out again, but he was back within the hour, and he went to bed.’
‘What about Linda’s mother?’
‘She stayed up all night.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes, she hadn’t drawn the curtains, and we could see her pacing up and down.’
‘When did you two eventually leave?’
‘It must have been seven o’clock in the morning.’
House in darkness … mother comes in … father comes in … father goes out for an hour, then goes to bed … mother stays up all night … Jeff Meade and Toby Fortescue leave at seven in the morning.
Tears are pouring down my face now – great big, bitter, salt tears.
‘Is something the matter, Jennie?’ Macintosh asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Something is very much the matter, because I’ve just realized that Mary Corbet was right all along.
TWENTY-ONE
I’ve not seen today’s papers – to be honest, I’ve been rather busy with other matters – but it would surprise me if they aren’t pretty much as DCI Macintosh predicted they would be in that dark despairing period now known as yesterday afternoon. They will, I am sure, have called the Oxford police vindictive and incompetent – and they will have been screaming for blood.
Tomorrow’s newspapers will be different. The more honest of them will probably confess they were a little hasty in their condemnation; the less scrupulous will try to insinuate that when they said heads should roll, they only meant that other papers thought heads should roll.
And it is all down to little me. I am the heroine of the hour, and when Macintosh and I walk into the police canteen, the officers already there actually stand up and applaud.
I should feel a warm glow coursing through my whole body – but I don’t. Instead, I feel the weight of my own stupidity pressing down on me – almost crushing my ribs.
‘Do you want to tell me what the problem is?’ Macintosh asks.
‘I will tell you,’ I promise, ‘but first I need to talk to Inspector Corbet – alone.’
‘That’s an unusual request,’ Macintosh says. ‘Can I ask why you need to talk to him alone?’
‘No.’
‘Tom Corbet’s been charged with attempted murder. I really can’t let you see him.’
‘Is that because of the regulations?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I just pulled the Thames Valley police – and you in particular – out of the shit,’ I say. ‘To hell with the regulations!’
Macintosh hesitates for a few second, then he nods and says, ‘Yes, to hell with the regulations.’
When I open the door to the interview room, I see that Tom Corbet is already sitting at the table.
I sit down in his direct line of vision, but though his eyes are on me, I don’t think he’s actually registering my presence. If I had to guess, I would say that what he is actually watching is a series of tragic scenes – spanning generations – which are playing in his head.
I turn to the uniformed constable who is standing by the door.
‘I’d like you go now, please,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks.
‘I’m sure,’ I tell him.
I wait until the constable has left, then I say, ‘They tell me that you’ll be appearing before the magistrates this afternoon, Mr Corbet.’
The eyes flicker, finally showing recognition, if not interest.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘By tonight, I’ll be safely behind bars in a real prison.’
‘You won’t be asking for bail?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’d be no point, because they’d refuse it. And so they should, because whatever I promise them, if they let me loose, the first thing I’d do is hunt down the rest of the young bastards.’ He pauses. ‘I’d hunt them down, and I’d kill them, but I know it’s really all my fault – everything that’s happened, right from the start, has been my fault.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
‘I knew Linda was interested in literature and art, but I pushed her into the sciences. I wanted her to study medicine at one of the most outstanding universities in the world. I told myself I was only doing what was best for her, but I see now that wasn’t what was making me push her at all. Do you know what was?’
‘No.’
‘I’m ashamed to say it, but I come from a family of parasites, who’ve always taken whatever they could – and contributed nothing. And we have to break that cycle – we just have to. I’ve managed to do some good – law and order is important to people’s lives – but if Linda had become a doctor, she could have made a real difference.’ He wipes a tear from his eye. ‘And she went along with it all, because she wanted me to be proud of her.’
Yes, that was what she’d wanted, and when her best friend, Janet, had told her that she’d never get into Oxford – would never live up to her father’s hopes for her – she’d felt a crushing disappointment of her own. And that was what had made her so vulnerable to the Shivering Turn.
‘But you’re not here to listen to my confession, are you?’ Tom Corbet asks. ‘At least you’re not here for that confession.’
‘You’re right,’ I agree, ‘I’m not.’
‘Then let’s move on to what you’re really here for. Let’s just get the whole thing over with.’
‘When your wife told me that she was absolutely convinced that Linda was dead, I thought she was just being hysterical. I mean – just look at the facts. Some of Linda’s clothes were missing, so it was obvious that she’d run away. Of course, there were a couple of things that didn’t seem to quite fit. One was that she’d taken her least favourite clothes and her school uniform with her. Another was that she’d left her teddy bear behind. But the money she’d earned at the pharmacy had gone, too, and that was the real clincher for me. Is there anything you’d like to say at this point?’
‘No.’
‘But from what I’ve learned this morning, she couldn’t have packed her bag, because there simply wasn’t time for her to do it. She left the Blind Beggar on foot, and, a couple of minutes later, two of her rapists jumped in a car and drove to your house. There was no way she could have got there before them. They stayed outside your house until the next morning, and she still hadn’t come home. So when was the bag packed – and who packed it? It was packed later that night or early in the morning – by someone who had no idea which clothes she’d have chosen if she had really been running away. And that same person removed the money from its hiding place in the bookcase in Linda’s bedroom. How many people, other than Linda, knew about that money?’
‘Two,’ Corbet says. ‘Her mother and me.’
‘Where did you bury her, Tom?’ I ask. ‘Was it on your allotment?’
‘You know it was.’
‘And then you planted flowers on the grave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened that night?’ I suggest.
‘Why should I?’ he asks.
‘Because you need to tell somebody and, since I’m here, it might as well be me.’
‘You’re right,’ he agrees. ‘The night … the night it all happened … I was supposed to be attending a meeting at the lodge, but as I was driving there, I noticed Linda’s friend, Janet, walking down the street. She was all dressed up, and was obviously going out for the evening.’
‘But Linda had told you that they would be studying together?’
‘Yes. I realized she’d lied to me – that all the promises to behave she’d made after she was arrested with those vermin on Beaumont Street meant nothing. I drove around. Maybe I was looking for her, or maybe I was just driving for the sake of driving. I no longer know.’
‘But you did eventually find her.’
‘Yes, she was down by the river. I asked her where she’d been and what the matter was. She told me she’d been raped. I asked if her “rapists” were the boys she’d been arrested with, and she said yes. I’d never raised a hand to her before – I swear I hadn’t – but I hit her then. I didn’t think about it – I just did it. In some ways, it almost felt as if the fist that struck her didn’t even belong to me.’ He shudders. ‘She fell backwards. We were standing close to a park bench, and her head hit the metal armrest. She must have died instantly.’
‘You buried her on your allotment, then you drove home, and while your wife was ringing all her friends, you packed her bag with some of the clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do with the bag?’
‘I went out to the allotment again, and buried it, too.’
‘You’re no coward – I know that,’ I say. ‘So what I can’t understand is why you weren’t prepared to face up to the consequences of what you’d done – why you decided to protect yourself by making it look as if Linda had run away.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Tom Corbet asks, with genuine surprise in his voice. ‘That I did what I did to protect myself?’
‘Maybe you did it partly for your wife – because you thought it was better for her to believe that her daughter had run away than to know for certain that she was dead – but mostly, yes, I think you did it for yourself.’
‘I can count on the fingers of one hand, the number of times in my life I have done something for myself – and this wasn’t one of them,’ he says.
‘Then who did you do it for?’
‘For Linda.’
‘For Linda!’
‘If I’d turned myself in and confessed, the whole story would have been all over the newspapers, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it would.’
‘And it would have besmirched her memory for ever. When people thought about her, they wouldn’t remember the sweet, caring girl who was always willing to listen to them, or offer a helping hand – they would remember the cheap slut who was more than happy to give herself to any man who wanted her. And I couldn’t have that because – however badly she’d behaved – she was still my little girl.’
‘But she hadn’t behaved badly!’ I say, keeping my voice low and reasonable, though what I really want to do is scream at him. ‘She’d been raped! She told you she’d been raped!’
‘I know that’s true, now. I’ve known it was true from the moment I was told that DCI Macintosh had arrested those animals from St Luke’s College. But I didn’t believe it then.’
‘What kind of man are you, who wouldn’t believe what his own daughter said?’ I demand.
‘I’m the kind of man whose view of women has been warped and distorted by his own childhood,’ Corbet tells me.
‘What does that even mean?’ I ask sceptically.
‘I told you my mother was a street-corner whore, didn’t I?’ Corbet asks. ‘Well, from the moment I was old enough to understand what she was doing, I absolutely hated it. I begged her – down on my knees – to stop. And do you know what she said? She said, “It’s not that I want to go with men, but if I don’t, who’s going to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads?” I told her I’d rather starve than have her prostituting herself, and she said that was easy to say when I’d got a full belly.’ He pauses. ‘Are you following me?’
I nod.
I am following him. I may even be ahead of him.
‘I had a newspaper round and a Saturday job,’ he continues. ‘I ran errands in the evening. I worked all the hours God sends. And when I handed the money to my mother, she didn’t even thank me. She just looked at it and said, “Sorry, darling, this is nowhere near enough.”’
