Bloody Reckoning Page 22

I smiled at their departure, and couldn’t help thinking that I might have found Lawson’s other half. Other, not better. I was still watching them when I heard voices and saw Theresa emerge from the church with her parents. I was wondering what exactly to say, when her eyes locked on mine and her despondent expression was instantly replaced with anger.

  “Wait a minute,” she said to her father. She stormed up to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I floundered for a second, because I wasn’t sure myself. I’d been fascinated by Theresa when we’d met, and intrigued by Adamson-Woods’ life and death, but my professional curiosity had been entirely replaced by sympathy for her. My bizarre experience with Bourg had intensified the feeling, giving me the briefest glimpse of what it must to like to live with a paedophile in the family. I replied: “I wanted to offer my condolences.”

  “Checking up on me, you mean. Do you think I killed him too, or are you hoping I’ll crack and confess to the other murders?”

  I felt awful, even though she was wrong. “Neither. I’m on my way to Colchester and I wanted to pay my respects.”

  “What, like everyone else?” She tossed her head towards the church.

  “I never met the colonel, but we met, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She stared at me for a moment, during which I gazed deep into her lovely green eyes, then turned away.

  I watched her join her mother and father, who were standing next to a white Ford Fusion. The Cowans looked uncomfortable rather than upset. The three of them spoke briefly, then parents and child said goodbye without hugging or touching. The Cowans climbed into the car and left without another glance at their daughter. I hadn’t moved since speaking to Theresa. I stood and watched her as she stood and watched her parents drive away. She looked utterly forlorn and forsaken.

  I couldn’t leave her like that; I had to do something. I took a deep breath and approached her. “Theresa?”

  She turned around and seemed surprised to see me. “What do you want now?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you. Perhaps you’d let me buy you lunch?”

  Theresa’s hard mouth showed no sign of softening. “Why would I do that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know what it’s like to lose someone you love, and I am sorry.” I didn’t think it was appropriate to say anything else, so I nodded slowly, and walked away.

  “Wait.” I turned back to her. “Your name’s Hutt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can buy me a drink if you like.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Shall we go to the Crown?”

  “I’ve never been here before, so you’d better lead the way,” I replied.

  “Neither have I, but I saw it earlier.”

  “My name’s Garth, by the way,” I said as I fell into step with her. She didn’t offer a reply, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable as we walked into Market Place. We passed a small, stone bank with a roof terrace and entered a busy market square.

  “There it is,” she said.

  I saw a white building with tables and umbrellas outside, and a large sign advertising ‘The Crown Hotel’. We kept on the edge of the square, which sported a monument adorned with a cross as a centrepiece. I wondered what purpose iron fencing served a stone monument, other than the present one of supporting a single idler’s backside. There were three tables outside the Crown, one unoccupied, so I asked, “Outside or in?”

  “Out. It’s a lovely day – weather-wise, anyway.”

  “What would you like?”

  “G and T, please.”

  Theresa sat while I bought our drinks. I returned a couple of minutes later, with a gin and tonic and a pint of Guinness. Theresa had put on a pair of sunglasses and although it was a bright day, I guessed she wanted to hide her puffy eyes.

  “Thank you.” She tilted the glass towards me, then took a small sip.

  I raised my own and had a larger one. “Cheers. Do you mind if I take off my tie?”

  “No, but this is sounding suspiciously like an interview.”

  “That’s exactly it. I don’t like ties and I feel like I’m at work if I’m wearing one. I’m not at work.” I removed my tie, stashed it in my jacket pocket, and undid my top button. “That’s better.”

  “What happened to your throat?”

  “I got into a scrap on Tuesday.”

  Theresa leant forward and I noticed she was wearing a silver or white gold capsule necklace of a kind I recalled as being popular in the eighties. “I checked up on you after you came round with Lawson. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. It was at Bastion, two years ago. You’re the 63 SIB bloke.”

  I laughed. “So much for confidential classification.”

  “I wanted to meet you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You had a bit of a reputation.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, and didn’t really want to know. There was an awkward silence. She had another sip of her drink and looked to the right, watching the people around us. “Do the police have any leads yet – about your grandfather?” She turned back to me and once again seemed surprised at my presence. “I saw there was a cop at the funeral.”

  “Yes, she was easy to spot. What have you heard about my grandfather?”

  Though I can be tactful when necessary, I tend to err on the side of being direct. I didn’t want to upset Theresa, but I didn’t think she was the type to beat about the bush either. “You really want to know?”

  “I already know, but I’d like you to tell me.”

  “Okay. I heard he was a paedophile.”

  “And?”

  “And, from the funeral, I suppose I’m not the only one who heard.”

  “My grandfather was hounded by the police ever since that child disappeared from Colchester in 1985. I was only a toddler at the time, but he told me all about it later, when I was old enough to understand. The bloody coppers were too incompetent to find out who’d taken the boy, and couldn’t prove anything, so they let everyone know my grandfather was their prime suspect instead. Nothing was ever the same after that. Ten years ago, while my grandmother was dying, some delinquent named Coleman accused him of the same again.

  “Coleman was a jailbird looking for some kind of diminished responsibility for the way he’d fucked up his own life; something to bring a tear to the eye of his probation officer. My grandfather escaped to East Rudham – which only confirmed the suspicions of the mob – and tried to start afresh on his own. Coleman found him four years later and assaulted him. The whole cycle of suspicion and rumour started over. But my grandfather was tired of running by then.”

  She paused and toyed with her glass for a moment. I didn’t believe her version of events, but I thought she did, so I kept quiet.

  Theresa continued. “I told you that because I want you to know the police really couldn’t care less. As far as they’re concerned, somebody did them a favour, and they’ve probably used the murder to clear up a load of child abuse cases because they’re too damned lazy to do their jobs properly. Half of these coppers wouldn’t last two days in the Army.”

  “And that makes it even worse, because you think the colonel’s killer is unlikely to be brought to justice.”

  She nodded. “Yes, it does. I feel so helpless, so…unworthy of him.” Her lip started to quiver, but she composed herself quickly.

  “If the police don’t care, does anyone else have any idea who killed the colonel?”

  “I doubt it. No one knows or cares. My grandfather became a recluse after Coleman assaulted him. He was never particularly close to mum or his sister, so there was only me left after Nana died.”

  “I heard the police were talking about a man named Bourg,” I said. I didn’t want her to know I’d been speaking to a reporter, or investigating at all, so I kept it vague. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No. What were they saying?”

  “Just that he and the c
olonel might have been friends.”

  She had another sip of the G and T, and shook her head. “No way. I told you; he was a complete recluse for the last seven years. That’s why I went to visit him so often. If anyone’s suspect, it must be that arsehole Coleman. I wonder if the police have even made the effort to find out where he was last Tuesday. I doubt it.”

  I noticed her drink was nearly finished. I took a swig of my own and asked if she wanted another one.

  “No, thanks. I very rarely drink during the day, and I’m driving.”

  “Are you going straight back to Harrogate?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I should, but I really don’t feel up to four hours on the road. I’ll see how I feel when I get back to my hotel. I better be going, actually. I promised the landlady I’d let her know by one if I’m staying or going. I’m in King’s Lynn.”

  “Me too. Where are you?”

  “Fairlight Lodge. It’s a guest house outside the town centre. And you?”

  “The Bank House Hotel. Right in the middle, on the riverbank.” I finished my drink and made another spur of the moment decision. “If you do stay, how about dinner this evening, instead of lunch?”

  “I thought you were on your way somewhere?”

  “I am, but I can’t do much until Monday morning anyway.”

  “I’m not sure. How about I give you a ring later?”

  “Yeah, fine.” I suspected I’d just received a very gentle brush-off, but gave her my mobile number.

  I rose when she stood, purely out of courtesy as I was thinking about having lunch before I left.

  “Thanks for the drink, Garth, and the conversation.”

  “My pleasure. I hope we meet again in happier circumstances.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  I smiled and resumed my seat as Theresa ducked into a narrow passage which led to the rear of the Crown. I was still smiling when the man I’d noticed at the monument came trotting towards me. He was slim, pale, and gaunt, with a black widow’s peak, and dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and trainers. He looked about forty; he also looked twitchy and nervous. He changed course and shot off into the passage.

  I started to stand, then changed my mind.

  Coincidences happen all the time.

  I changed my mind again and went after him. Theresa’s grandfather had been hated so much that someone had murdered him. She’d been his only visitor in his final years. It would be negligent of me not to make sure she was safe.

  I emerged into the hotel car park, beyond which was a larger, public parking area. The man was about twenty metres in front of me, Theresa the same again ahead of him. There weren’t many people about, so it was easy to keep them both in sight. Theresa climbed into a sporty, gold MX5 and the man broke into a run, peeling off to the right, behind a hedge. I slowed down in the hope that she wouldn’t see me, even though I ran the risk of losing my quarry. Theresa reversed, pulled out into the street, and turned left. I rounded the hedge just in time to see her pursuer drive after her.

  I recognised the colour and make of his car from Fielding’s articles.

  It was a blue Saab.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I increased my pace, following the cars into Bridge Street, and then jogging to my BMW, which was only about three hundred metres away. Given the circumstances, and the difficulty of trying to tail anyone on Britain’s crowded roads, I’d have normally moved with more urgency. I knew Theresa was going to her hotel, however, and there was only one direct route: back along the A148. I took it easy through Market Place, but put my foot down once I reached Wells Road. A couple of minutes later, I crossed a roundabout and left Fakenham behind. Although the A-road was single lane all the way, it was free from speed cameras and had enough straight stretches for me to overtake without risking my own – or anyone else’s – life. Unless Theresa drove like she ran, I knew I’d catch her long before King’s Lynn.

  I picked up the blue Saab after fifteen minutes, in between Harpley and Hillingdon, two cars ahead. I couldn’t see Theresa’s car, but the white van in front of me gave good cover, so I held back. A few minutes later we started skirting around King’s Lynn, and I caught a glimpse of the MX5. Theresa turned towards the Great Ouse and then cut back into Vancouver Avenue, which twisted north, to the sea. She indicated, slowed, and turned left into the drive of a large Victorian house. The Saab pulled up at the side of the road. I stopped twenty metres behind, keeping a parked car between us.

  The suspect stayed in the Saab, so I dialled Fielding.

  “You bastard!”

  “Hello, Nick.”

  “Bev’s going to make me pay for that. I was lucky she didn’t handcuff me to the bumper and drag me back to King’s Lynn.”

  “Look, have you ever seen Martin Coleman?”

  “What?”

  “Martin Coleman, the bloke that assaulted Adamson-Woods.”

  “Yeah, of course,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because a man in a blue Saab followed Theresa Cowan back from Fakenham and is now parked outside her B&B.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “He looks about forty; medium height, slim build; black hair, balding; pale and gaunt. Sound familiar?”

  “That’s him. That’s Martin. He’s actually only twenty-nine, but he looks a lot older. Tough paper round, you might say.”

  “In that case I’d like you to get straight back onto Beverley. The B&B is Fairlight Lodge, in Vancouver Avenue. I’m going to find Theresa. I’ll stay with her until I hear from you.”

  “Alright, I’ll phone her now.”

  I terminated the call, debussed, and walked up to the premises. I used my peripheral vision to watch Coleman as I passed, but he was just sitting and twitching. He didn’t take any notice of me, and I pretended not to take any of him. The lodge was near the road, although it was set on extensive grounds, stretching well back from the hedges and trees. I entered the house by the front door and pressed a bell on the little counter in the entrance hall.

  A few seconds later a tall woman with greying auburn curls appeared from a door to my right. “Hello, may I help?”

  “Hi. I’m looking for Theresa Cowan. My name’s Garth Hutt.”

  “I’ll just let her know. The lounge is through there if you’d care to take a seat.” She pointed to my left and went up the stairs.

  I remained in the reception room, walking over to the door to check Coleman wasn’t on his way with either a shotgun or a business card. My phone rang: Fielding. “Nick.”

  “Bev’s on her way with some Firearms Officers. They’re going to bring him in for questioning. Is he still there?”

  “I can’t see; I’m in the B&B.” The landlady returned and mouthed, “She’s coming”. I smiled and she left me to wait.

  “I gave Bev your number. She said to stay there.”

  “I will. I assume Coleman’s been interviewed for the murder. Do you know if he had an alibi?”

  Fielding laughed. “You must be joking. Bev and Martindale have told me bugger all at the moment. Bourg and Coleman were my own work. Looks like I might have been wrong about Bourg, but I haven’t worked up the courage to give Bev the memory stick yet. I’ll call you back later for my story.”

  He hung up and I saw Theresa coming down the stairs. She was still dressed for the funeral, and wasn’t pleased to see me. “What do you think you’re doing here?” she snapped in a voice clearly used to giving orders.

  “Coleman’s outside. He followed you back from Fakenham.”

  Her mouth dropped open, then shut as her expression changed from surprise to hatred. “Is he really? It’s time he and I had a chat without coffee.” She marched to the door.

  I jumped in front of her and held my hands up. “Hold on. I’ve called the police; they’re on their way.”

  She stopped. “I don’t bloody care.” She moved right to go around me and I took hold of her biceps – gently. There was hardly any fat on her, but she felt softer than I’d exp
ected. “Get your hands off me!”

  I did, but continued to block her exit. “Sorry, but you mustn’t go out there. He may be armed or violent. Let’s sit in the lounge until the cops arrive.”

  Theresa frowned, her face a few inches from mine. She looked tired and angry, and her breath was slightly sour from the lunchtime gin. Eventually, she said, “All right.” She turned away, walked into the lounge, and sat on one of the easy chairs. I checked outside again, then joined her, making sure I was closer to the door. I placed my phone on a side table. “How did you know?” she asked.

  “I’m a nosy military cop. I happened to notice Coleman – though I didn’t know it was him – hanging around while we were having a drink. As soon as you left he went after you. I went after him and saw him follow you in a blue Saab –”

  “Coleman drives a blue Saab!” She jumped to her feet and I was up with her, blocking the door again. “What did I just tell you in the pub?”

  “I know. It seems you might have been right.”

  She looked at the floor, frowned, and sat down again. Then she shook her head slowly. “The police won’t do anything.”

  I glanced at the front door before I resumed my own seat. “I’ve been told they’re going to take him in for questioning.”

  “They might, but they won’t do anything. Just you wait and see. He’ll walk out of the police station in a couple of hours, or less. Free to carry on killing, stalking, and otherwise ruining people’s lives.”

  She was probably right, unless Coleman happened to be sitting in the car with a firearm. If he had murdered Adamson-Woods, however, he’d shown more sense and better planning, so I doubted it. My phone rang; the caller recognition read ‘number withheld’.

  “Hutt, here.”

  “This is DS Warby. Where are you?”

  “Inside Fairlight Lodge, in the lounge. First door on the left.”

  “We’re outside now. Wait there.” She hung up.

  “That was the police.”

  “I don’t want to talk to them.” She stood. “Just tell them I’m going back to Harrogate this afternoon if they ask. That way I won’t be their problem any more – if I ever was.” She walked past me, then wheeled around. “Thank you. I’m sorry for earlier. If you’re still in King’s Lynn, I’ll meet you tonight.”