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  “OK. And in the meantime, start checking for any known contacts that can be established from his record.”

  Lesley repeats her concern about the effort required. “It’s going to take time.”

  “Which we don’t have. I’ll get back to the Chief Commissioner to request more manpower but I can’t promise a result.”

  Lesley comes back with a knowing smile and a change of subject. “One more thing, Steve. You still calling him Peter?”

  CHAPTER 45

  When I arrive back at Waterloo Station and say goodbye to Sophie, there’s just enough time to make it over to London Bridge for lunch with James. Is it really a date? I guess it must be from the rise in my heart rate.

  The Altan is its usual busy self but the waiter at reception remembers me and shows me to a table in the quieter part of the restaurant.

  James is late. Perhaps what happened that night has scared him away.

  When he appears, he’s full of apologies. “Sorry, I got held up at work.”

  I’m pleased to see him. “I just about made it myself. I expected you might not come. After the night before last.”

  He gives a look of surprise. “Oh, I didn’t want you to think that. I’ve been too wound up in what’s been happening at the Globe, I guess.”

  “You did leave in the middle of the night without a word.”

  “You looked so peaceful, I knew not to wake you. I tried to phone but didn’t reach you.”

  I hold out the new phone. “I lost the old one.”

  We exchange numbers. I continue. “Anyway, it’s OK. Things might have been going ahead too quickly. It made sense to stand back for a while.”

  He reaches forward and holds my hand. “Not for me.”

  We order a bottle of house white wine and half a dozen dishes from the starters menu, just as last time. I can’t help feeling this means that nothing has changed between us.

  While we wait for the food to arrive, we start on the wine. The first sips rush straight to my head. Is it the residual effects of last night’s whisky or is it that I’ve eaten nothing since that morning’s skimpy breakfast? Whatever the reason, I can’t stop myself opening up to him once more.

  Once again he takes a concerned interest in how I’m coping with the pressure of work. “You’re not still being hounded by that Editor of yours?”

  I’m less than truthful and say nothing about the suspension. “He’s not too bad. Liked my story of yesterday. We can rub along together.”

  “That’s good to hear. Wish I could say the same for the director I’m working with right now. We just don’t see eye to eye on any of the production values in the new season. I guess I must be so preoccupied. I should have found another way to contact you.”

  We talk about his work until the starters arrive. I can tell he appreciates finding someone to listen to his problems. I wonder why I’m minimizing mine.

  Over the food, he asks about the Stanley story. “Are you making any progress with your big expose?”

  I don’t want to say any more about it. But I’ve already revealed enough to spark his interest and it’s only natural he wants to know what’s happening next.

  “It’s going slow for the moment.”

  “Have you found anyone to back up what Tony Galbraith is claiming?”

  “Not yet. And that’s a problem. McLeish has taken me off the story. But I won’t let that change anything. I’m going to bring that story home, come what may.”

  “You’re very determined.”

  “You bet I am.”

  When the meal is finished, we agree to meet again. He makes the suggestion. “I have a sculptor friend, Alberto Laski. He has a private viewing coming up at the Whimbrel Gallery. I’d love to take you. See you here at 1.00. We could grab a bite and then taxi over there.”

  It would be three days away and I wish it was sooner.

  When we part, he kisses me full on the lips.

  Walking away along Bankside, my legs are weak beneath me. It isn’t the wine. It’s that I dare hope to find a soul mate in James.

  Why was I so foolish in saying things might have been going ahead too quickly and it made sense to stand back for a while? That must have made him resort to a more formal arrangement like the exhibition opening. If he’d asked me to be with him tonight, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

  My thoughts turn to the words in Kautek’s letter. If you choose to go back, don’t go alone.

  Perhaps James is the one to accompany me.

  CHAPTER 46

  Lesley arrives at Ives’ office door at a run. “We have a fix on Cargill.”

  Ives smiles for the first time in days. “Where?”

  “Southampton.”

  He grabs his coat. “I’ll drive.”

  While Ives pushes the squad car to the limit, causing intervening traffic on the busy streets around Lions Yard to scramble to pull over and let them through, Lesley briefs him.

  “Cargill used a public phone. Must be desperate. Pinpointed him through voice recognition. So, we know where he called from.”

  She holds up her tablet to show Ives a map. “Wentlock Street. Just south of Southampton train station.”

  Ives takes his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second to look at the map. “When was the call made?”

  “Late last night.”

  “So, he could have moved on.”

  “We have local police searching the station and the streets outside. We know he’s wounded. They may find him before we arrive.”

  “So, who was he calling?”

  “It’s a Marsha Kent. Small time. Has a record for soliciting. Not much else.”

  Ives pushes his foot to the floor as he pulls the car into the overtaking lane of the M3 motorway leading to Southampton.

  “I want to be the one to put Cargill away.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Walking away from the Altan, I’m within sight of the Herald building. It’s tempting to go back and have it out with McLeish but I know they won’t even let me enter the premises.

  As I turn from the river towards Sumner Street, a white SUV pulls up beside me.

  It’s Tony Galbraith. “Jump in.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just trust me.”

  I say nothing as we head off toward Borough Market. After taking numerous detours down side streets to avoid traffic, we arrived at a housing block on a housing project in Battersea.

  Tony Galbraith leads me up the stairs to a second-floor apartment and shows me in.

  It is furnished with the barest essentials - a battered sofa and easy chair, a TV on a makeshift table. To the right there is a kitchenette with a microwave and a small freezer.

  He sits down on the sofa and offers me the chair facing him. “Not somewhere I call home. They’ve run the whole estate down and it’s scheduled for demolition so the building company can replace it with new properties that no Londoner could ever afford.”

  I take the seat. “So why here?”

  “Call it my safe house. I’m no saint. You don’t want to know why I need this place.”

  “I’m here to talk about Stanley. Nothing else.” I pause. “Why take so long to get back to me?”

  “I needed some thinking time.”

  “About what?”

  “About coming up with the courage to tell you what you’re about to hear. None of this comes easy.”

  “I understand.”

  “OK.” His face clouds over. “There are things that happen in your life you wish had never happened. Things you lock away so deep that they hurt so much if you bring them back, and you’d rather keep them buried. You get to believe you won’t be able to tell anyone about them, ever, for the humiliation it’s going to cause you. And that’s where I’ve been.”

  “That’s what’s been stopping you?”

  He nods. “But you know there has to be a reckoning, sooner or later. Or else those that should be in the dock keep getting away with it. And that�
��s where I am.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Have you heard about the Assent Trust?”

  “The adoption charity?”

  “Yeah, that’s them. They have a distinguished list of names on the Board of Trustees, all right. One of those names is the Right Honorable Adam Stanley MP.”

  “Nothing unusual in that. He must be a patron of dozens of charities, like most MPs.”

  “Only he’s been more involved in Assent.” He pauses to pull out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. When he offers me one, I shake my head. “Knew you’d have more sense.”

  He lights one for himself and draws the smoke deep into his lungs. “I was adopted by them. Through Assent. Didn’t get to find out about it until I was fourteen. Thought the people who raised me were my parents.”

  “Why didn’t they tell you?”

  “They say that’s down to the adopted parents.”

  “Must have been a shock. When you found out.”

  He takes another hit on the cigarette. “No, it made perfect sense. You see, before that I couldn’t begin to explain why any father would want to abuse his own son.”

  “He did that to you?”

  “Yes. And you know what, looking back, it’s as if he’d raised me for that right from the beginning. To be some kind of sexual plaything for his warped way of life.”

  “How old were you when you were adopted?”

  “Three. Which means being there with them was all I knew.”

  “What about your mother, didn’t she suspect?”

  “I expect she did, but he was really clever at hiding it from her. He’d wait ‘til she visited her sister or her mother. He was good at helping her arrange outings with her work mates, anything to make sure I was alone with him in the house. Then he’d bathe me like any caring father would and put me to bed. I’d hear him downstairs, watching TV, having a drink. I used to dread hearing his footsteps on the stairs, hearing his breathing as he opened the door and came into my room.”

  “How long did it go on for?”

  He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Until I was twelve or thirteen.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  He shakes his head. “That was part of his charm. He made me a conspirator in his secret life. He told me that if anyone found out what we were doing, the family would fall apart, he’d go to prison and I’d be put into care.”

  “So you couldn’t tell your mother?”

  “Especially not her. She’d go to the police. The family would be finished.” He pauses to take another drag. “And you know what? I believed him. I believed every word he said. Because you believe your father, don’t you?”

  I feel his pain and how hurtful it is for the man before me to live through this again.

  “Then you found out that he wasn’t your birth father?”

  “Yeah. And then it began to make sense. I understood why he’d adopted me. For his own sick purposes. And I vowed that one day I’d get even with him.”

  “Where is he now?’

  “Six feet under.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Bill Galbraith fell under a bus on the Tottenham Court Road. Some say he was pushed, but no one was ever able to prove it. I went out to celebrate the day he died.”

  I try to bring him back to my reason for being here. “And where does Stanley come into all this?”

  Galbraith pulls out another cigarette and lights it. “As I told you. Stanley abused me.”

  I need to be certain about what is being said. “And your father knew about it?”

  He nods. “Let me tell you something about pedos. They’ve been at it for years. Out of sight. Out of mind. Forming networks. Helping each other get into positions where they would have access to children. Writing references for each other. Appointing each other. In sports groups, in youth organizations, in churches, in schools and children’s homes. Yes, and adoption charities. All the time respectable society had no idea what was going on. Most couldn’t even imagine what pedos did, let alone that they were doing it and getting away with it. My so-called father was one of them in a network. And Stanley was part of the same network.”

  “So how did Stanley get to you?”

  “That’s the really sick thing. I think he must have been there from the start. Through the Assent Trust. He must have played a part in the adoption, in selecting me as a three-year-old. And, in the fullness of time, when my father had groomed me and abused me, there must have been an expectation that in return, my father would make me available to Stanley and men like him in the network. They were so successful at it, so confident that no one suspected what they were doing, they felt they had the power to do this.”

  “So, how did it happen?”

  “One time my mother was away, my father told me we were going to a party. There were no women there. Just eight men and a half a dozen children. They swapped the children as if they were at a wife swapping party. That’s when it happened. That’s when I found myself alone in a room with Stanley. He must have been claiming his reward for arranging my adoption.”

  “There was more than one party?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to get back at Stanley?”

  “More than anything. If I could do to him what I did to my so-called father, I would. But he’s too careful. He has too much protection.”

  “Why not go to the police?”

  He laughs. “You must be joking. Half the men at those parties were in the police.”

  “So you blackmailed him and made the tape?”

  He nods. “It’s not about the money. I have plenty of that. It’s about exposing him for the sick animal that he is.”

  I lean forward. “I can help you, but there’s going to be a price for that. You’ll need to go on the record.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not possible. Once we leave here, you won’t see me again.”

  “Your story’s not worth anything if you won’t go public. Don’t you want to expose Stanley?”

  “Yes. But I want keep my life.”

  I try hard to convince him but he won’t agree.

  He finishes the cigarette. “It’s down to you now. I have faith in you, Emma. I can tell that you’re an honest woman and you’ll find a way to put this right.”

  I’m touched that he has such faith in me. I just hope my courage will hold.

  CHAPTER 48

  Evan Cargill knows the bullet should be removed by someone with medical experience. Yet here is Marsha Kent, who has just one failing year as a trainee nurse, trying to do the job.

  The pain is intense as she probes the depths of his shoulder with the scalpel and the pair of oversize tweezers she’s brought with her after picking him up near Southampton station.

  At least she’s remembered to sterilize the implements in boiling water before setting to work with them.

  The pain grows stronger as she probes deeper, still unable to grasp the bullet. He can withstand any amount of agony. That’s what he’s sure of. That’s what he’s telling himself over and over as the distress level rises and keeps rising.

  He tries to talk to her about the list as a way of placing his mind somewhere else. “I got three of them, Marsha.”

  She doesn’t look away from the job at hand. “No more than they deserve.”

  “But I’ve still got two more to find.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that now. We need to get you right and make sure you’re safe from the police. When you recover, you can settle the score.”

  The torture ups to another level. “Better to leave it in? Patch me up and let it heal?”

  “Not if it’s lodged against a nerve. This is the only way.”

  There is a final searing bolt of agony as the tweezers grip on the bullet and Marsha draws it out. He struggles not to pass out.

  When it appears, it’s so bloody and yet so small. How could such a trivial piece of metal lead to so much suffering?

  He feels the pain sub
side as she dresses and bandages the wound.

  She looks at him with appreciative eyes. “We need to get you to a place where you can recover.”

  His eyelids are closing, his body lapsing towards sleep now his ordeal is over.

  Marsha wipes his brow with cool water to bring him back to awareness.

  “There’s going to be plenty of time for sleep, Evan. But not now. Not until you’re away from here.”

  She pauses to wring out the cloth she’s using. “You know I don’t need to say this. We’re forever grateful for what you’re doing.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Southampton turns out to be a bust.

  By the time Ives and Lesley arrive, the suspect has been spirited away.

  Not that Ives blames the local force. They’ve done a fair job in trying to catch Cargill, considering their manpower shortages. It’s just that this isn’t good enough, given they are chasing a wounded man.

  There is no result either when they travel out to Maybush to interview Marsha Kent, the prime contact that Cargill made.

  As they sit together in the incident room at Lions Yard, Ives sums up his disappointment.

  “Missed him by a mile. He could be anywhere by now.”

  Lesley tries to calm him. “Give it a day or two and it won’t look so bad. We know the killer’s identity. We can put out a call on TV and in the press for Cargill as a subject of interest to the inquiry. People respond if we tag it with: on no account approach this man. He is dangerous.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism, June. I have the feeling he might just slip away.”

  “You mean his spree is over?”

  “For a while, maybe. He wouldn’t be the first serial killer to go on a killing binge and then stop when the going got tough. Fading out of sight and re-emerging years later. We don’t have that long to wait.”

  “We can’t be sure of that. Whatever is driving him hasn’t changed. He’s as likely to kill again.”

  Ives shakes his head. “That’s an outcome we shouldn’t have to depend on. We need to get ahead of his game.”

  Lesley has one further question. “So what do we do about Marsha Kent, the woman he called?”