The Soul of Discretion Read online

‘Hmm, 2007. That was the year of the serial murders here. I don’t remember much else, though there must have been plenty of other stuff going on.’

  ‘There was. In April, a girl approximately four years old was found wandering the streets at night, naked and distressed. She was sighted twice before being brought into safety by a resident. She was initially taken to hospital, later into foster care and finally adopted. She had been physically abused, badly enough to need surgery. Her identity has never been discovered. No one came forward despite widespread appeals – no parents, family, neighbours, no one. She suffered almost total blanking of the events and we could never even find out her name. She now lives in another part of the country and is settled with her adoptive family, but, inevitably, she is scarred in most senses and has educational and emotional problems.’

  ‘I was certainly aware of the case,’ Serrailler said. ‘Even in the middle of very complex murder inquiries, it couldn’t fail to be noted.’

  ‘Right, case two. A child called Glory Dorfner presented some artwork in her primary-school class. It depicted crudely drawn figures engaged in sexual activity. One was of a small girl apparently being buggered by a man. The other was of a small girl performing an oral sex act on a man – the male’s sexual organ was made to appear much larger than the rest of the figure. The child’s teacher came to Lafferton Police Station. Officers and members of the social services child-protection team visited Glory’s house an hour after the teacher reported with the drawings. The child was asleep, but there was sufficient concern and a certain amount of evidence of her being sexually abused to warrant her being subject to an emergency court order and taken into care immediately. Her stepfather and her stepbrother were subsequently found guilty of sexual abuse, and computers and other material were taken from the home. These contained hundreds of images of child abuse. This case is being looked into again at the present time, because of certain new evidence and in spite of the fact that the two men are still serving sentences.’ He paused to pour himself a glass of water. Drank it.

  The faces of the other two were impassive. They had heard all this before, and far worse. They dealt with child abuse every day of their working lives and it was beyond Serrailler to know how they coped with it.

  The DCS looked at him. ‘OK?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Right. Case three. Mrs Jean Mason of Plimmer Road, Lafferton, died in 2010, and while in hospital during her last illness she left a notebook in the safe keeping of her friend, Mrs Kathleen Latimer. Mrs Latimer looked at it and brought it into Lafferton Police Station. It took a little while to work out what the list of dates and times meant – there were notes, but they were not very full. Do you know Plimmer Road?’

  ‘I do and I didn’t realise anyone still lived there. It’s been a derelict bit of Lafferton for a long time. Shops closed, didn’t reopen, got boarded up, accommodation above them was usually empty. There was a plan for its redevelopment but once the recession bit every developer pulled out. I haven’t been along there for a while but I doubt if anything has changed.’

  ‘Mrs Mason had lived above one of the shops for upwards of thirty years. Her friend Mrs Latimer, who died last year, was interviewed several times and said that the Masons had never wanted to leave. When they first went there it was a bustling area of shops, offices and residential, and Mrs Mason had stuck it out while everything shut up round her. But according to the notebook, she started to hear sounds from the disused shop next door – children crying, children screaming – then she recorded seeing cars draw up and men get out with small children, and, twice, men coming out of the shop carrying a child. She knew the property was empty.’

  ‘Did she call us in?’

  ‘No. And she didn’t tell Mrs Latimer anything, just asked her to keep the notebook safe.’

  ‘What action was taken at the time?’

  ‘I’ve a copy of the report here, if you’d like to read it.’ He handed over a single sheet of paper.

  A routine patrol car had checked out 11 Plimmer Road, at 4 p.m. on 20 October. The shop had formerly been a bookmakers with living accommodation above but was boarded and padlocked. The garden behind was overgrown and needles and other drug paraphernalia were found, none recently used. Steps led from the back door down to a cellar which was also boarded, and bolted. The patrol reported all this and then left, but one of the patrol officers wasn’t happy and reported to CID. It was over a week before anyone investigated – low priority at a time when they were overwhelmed with a murder inquiry. Two officers went to the shop equipped with a rammer and broke down the cellar door. An outer room contained some old cardboard boxes and newspapers, but was otherwise empty. A door, slightly concealed by an old wooden chest, was then discovered and that led to an inner cellar. Here, a camera and other recording equipment were found, together with some rugs, a couch, a couple of upright chairs, plus cigarette butts, sandwich wrappers, empty plastic coffee cups and drinks cans. Unfortunately, no one had the presence of mind to make this inner room a crime scene. But all the items were removed, bagged and taken for forensic examination.

  Serrailler put the sheet down. ‘Findings?’

  DCS Lochie Craig looked at his laptop.

  ‘There was a small amount of footage left on one of the camcorders – probably test images, perhaps when the equipment appeared to have a fault. They were blurred and disconnected but there was enough to show us that children were being filmed during the course of sessions of sexual abuse. Nothing else except a feast of fingerprints – they were obviously either planning to return or sure they were safe and undetected. Cups, recording equipment, chairs … clear prints were taken from all of these. There was also some DNA – on the rug, on the sofa – taken from semen and saliva and also from blood.’

  There was a pause. Their faces were still impassive, even that of the woman DCI.

  Serrailler felt anger and nausea bubble up into his throat. He suppressed them.

  ‘Fingerprints lead anywhere?’

  ‘Only one set. A man called William – always known as Will – Fernley. Mean anything?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. He isn’t local, is he?’

  ‘Not local to Lafferton, no – the family live in Devon. William is the third son of Lord Fernley.’

  ‘Sorry, no, I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Fine.’ The laptop lid was closed.

  ‘Linda, would you like to take over at this point?’ Craig poured another glass of water and drank all of it.

  She was probably in her early forties and, until now, she had sat listening with that impassive expression. Now, though, she looked directly at him with a warm, open smile.

  ‘This isn’t an area you’re very familiar with and I know it can be difficult. We deal with it every day, we get used to it, but we don’t get hardened, Simon – the minute that happens, it’s time for a transfer to another line of work. Not everyone can cope with it – it takes its toll. On the other hand, it is so important, it’s vital – and we owe it to the children to stick at it, so we find ways of coping and continuing. I want to say this now because if you do take on what we’re hoping you will, you need to understand that fully.’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Do you have any questions at this stage, before we get down another layer?’

  Did he? How the hell did you light on me for whatever it is? Why? It’s something I’ve steered clear of for the whole of my career, I’m not well informed about CEOP, so why me? But whatever the answer and then whatever you’re going to ask me to do, it’s no. No.

  He folded his arms. ‘No, no questions,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Seven

  ‘Yes, you are interrupting, and I’m very glad about that.’ Cat Deerbon led Emma, manager of the Lafferton bookshop, into the kitchen.

  ‘I brought you the Julian Barnes,’ Emma said, glancing down at a parcel on the table in Amazon packaging. ‘And what did they send?’

  ‘Oh God, sorry. I needed a textbook quic
kly.’

  ‘And cheaply.’

  ‘Emma, I do try to be fair but that textbook would cost seventy-five pounds from you and I got it for less than half. I just can’t afford not to. But I’ve almost finished my thesis and then I won’t need any more ridiculously expensive tomes. Coffee? Glass of wine? Slice of my humble pie?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Coffee would be good, thanks, Cat. I’m sorry you didn’t get to the book group. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Fine. I swear I felt more sick than in my entire life, and that includes three pregnancies. Short but ugh.’

  ‘Judith didn’t make it either.’

  Cat looked at her sharply. ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Only that she wasn’t well. It was probably the same bug.’

  Cat did not reply, just scooped coffee into the cafetière.

  ‘How are the young ones?’

  ‘Felix has the bug, he’s in the den wrapped in a fleece with a bucket to hand. He missed school which he really minded. Hannah is rehearsing for The Sound of Music. Sam – well, as Sam rarely speaks, only grunts, I can’t be sure but he seems OK – he’s going to the under 18 county cricket trials tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m impressed – that and the hockey.’

  ‘No, his cricket isn’t as good and he’s only fifteen. He won’t get in but it’ll be good experience for next time. I am sorry about Amazon, Emma – you do understand?’

  Emma sighed. ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘How is business in general?’

  ‘So-so. Children’s books are doing well – I could almost live off those sales, but not quite.’

  ‘But you have to stay open. You’ve worked so hard at that bookshop, Lafferton couldn’t do without you now.’

  Emma made a face. ‘Try telling that to the people who come in, browse for ages, make a list and go home to order online.’ She failed to keep the note of bitterness out of her voice.

  After Emma had gone, Cat went to check on Felix, who was asleep under his fleece. She woke him and managed to get him to stumble upstairs and into bed, with only a quick wash. He had a little more colour in his cheeks so the bug was probably on the wane. He’d had a growth spurt but he was chunky, not a beanpole, like Sam. Like Simon. Chris would have loved him, of course, but been surprised by him too. He was a thoughtful, inward-looking boy, and a good musician. But he was also lacking in confidence, young for his age in some ways, and he clung to her as Sam and Hannah had never done. Cat loved his quiet company. She knew she needed to be on her guard against loving it too much and encouraging his clinginess.

  She went back to her desk and the expensive textbook and set it beside her laptop. She ought not to feel guilty, but she did. Emma had to make a living and her bookshop was not making much profit. On the other hand … Cat’s anxiety about her finances came to haunt her every night. She sometimes dreamed of bank statements.

  When Chris died, he had left her a modest pension and the proceeds of a life insurance policy, whose value had declined steadily, and now it was worth less than half what it had been immediately after his death. They had never been a rich couple but hadn’t had to worry about money either, and as a new widow Cat had found that financially things could continue more or less as before. Now, her income had slumped. The school fees were a drain, since she was no longer a regular GP and the hospice job had folded. Her private pension income from Chris had paid the bills. Now, it was in danger of not paying them.

  Molly, her medical student lodger, had qualified and left to work for a year in Vietnam, so her room was empty. She had lived at the farmhouse free in exchange for help with babysitting and some cooking but any replacement could simply pay rent. That would help but only a little. Locum work as a GP was quite well paid, but it was insecure as well as unrewarding, and her job as medical officer at Imogen House had more or less ended when the hospice had changed from being one with bedded wards to day care only. She had a small retainer – the operative word being ‘small’. She had spent the past year working on her PhD, attached to the Cicely Saunders Institute at King’s in London, and she had found it absorbing, but that cost money, it did not generate any.

  She needed to talk to someone about her situation, but, other than the bank manager, who was there? Not her father, not Judith. Simon? But a member of the family might assume she was asking for a loan or a gift and Cat was emphatic that she would never do that, she just needed a listening ear and some suggestions. Yes, Si then. The problem was that he was either taken up with work, as ever, or with Rachel – even more so now that she had moved in with him. Cat was anxious not to make any more demands on his time.

  She sat fiddling with a pencil, jotting down odd, rather unconnected sums on paper, getting nowhere.

  Chris. The loss of him overwhelmed her again in a way she had half forgotten. It was not linked to an anniversary or any physical reminder, just a pure sense of loss, a desperate longing and missing which seem to search every corner of her heart and mind, only to find them empty of him. After all this time, she thought, and it is still yesterday. So I know it will never be any different, I will never stop being knocked over by the force of this feeling.

  And I’ll never forget him, I know that too. Immediately after her husband’s death, she had been panic-stricken that in time the memory of him might actually fade away completely. It was a small comfort to be sure now that it would not.

  Eight

  They broke for ten minutes. More coffee came in. Serrailler returned a couple of calls. Then back.

  Linda Warren was working from written notes, not a laptop, but she did no more than glance at them occasionally.

  ‘The Honourable Will Fernley was charged with and convicted of possessing pornographic material relating to children, and to being party to actual child abuse. It was clear that the inner cellar room had been used to film children being abused by adult males and Fernley’s fingerprints proved that he had been present. But he had a clever defence and there was no evidence to prove absolutely that he had been involved in the abuse itself. But the case was kept open because there had to be others involved, and because of the other two cases we had on file – that of the small girl found wandering and of Glory Dorfner, the child who did the drawings. There were no immediate links – but three cases of that kind in one area and within a few months of one another would always arouse the concern that they could be linked.’

  ‘But still no proof?’

  Lochie Craig shook his head. ‘Not really. But Glory Dorfner was six, whereas the naked child had been younger, around four. The difference in age is crucial. Glory remembered things and over time, and with very patient counselling, she volunteered some snippets of information. She remembered being taken from home one night in a car, and being led down some steps to a dark room – maybe this cellar room in Plimmer Road. She remembered a camera. She remembered three or perhaps four men, apart from her stepfather. She remembered …’ He cleared his throat. It was the first very slight sign he had given that even he was disturbed by some of the things he had to deal with in the course of his work. ‘She remembered being sodomised, she remembered penetrative sex, she remembered having to have oral sexual contact with two men, as she had been forced to do with her stepfather. It took weeks to get all this from her. It’s a sensitive business, as you know, we have to be extremely careful not to make matters worse for the child, or to cause her any more distress, and perhaps most importantly, not to lead her to tell us about things that did not actually happen. In the last resort, we can never be a hundred per cent sure but the officers who got to know Glory and talked to her over a long period were certain that she was telling the truth and describing actual events. When they suggested one or two invented scenarios which were different from those she had described she always rejected them – she said, “No, I didn’t have to do that. No, he didn’t.” She was as trustworthy as a child of six can be. It was an appalling case. Though there was no evidence, it did seem possible to link our one conviction �
�� of Will Fernley – to another offence. Then the case of the child found wandering naked – well, there will always be a question mark over it and we won’t get anything more directly from the girl. There was never much chance of that. But she was examined and semen was found on her externally and internally.’

  ‘DNA?’

  Craig shook his head. ‘Yes, we got it, but it was no match either for Fernley or for anyone else on the databases.’

  ‘Presumably it’s stored so a match might still come up.’

  ‘That’s what we always hope.’

  ‘How long did he go down for?’

  ‘Eight years, of which he has served five.’

  He leaned back and folded his arms. Met Serrailler’s look and held it. Linda sat very still. The third officer had taken notes on his laptop during the whole session, and hardly spoken a word.

  ‘Simon, I’d like you to take a moment to think again, because it is absolutely crucial. Are you certain that you have never met Will Fernley or any member of his family?’

  ‘Well, I meet a lot of people in the course of the working year, I’ve taken the Chief’s place occasionally at public functions and so on. But that has always been within the county and I am as certain as humanly possible that I have never met any of the Fernley family.’

  ‘Good. So we can proceed.’

  Nine

  She had been a couple of times to the house before but never felt relaxed there. It had something to do with the air of formality Gerald Hanbury always gave out and with his wife’s slight imperiousness, and perhaps more to do with their elegant, beautifully proportioned home. Cat much preferred to meet Hanbury, the chairman of Imogen House, in her office there, not because she felt more in charge but because it was her own and fairly neutral territory. Today, though, he had asked her to lunch – it was just the two of them, his wife, Judge Nancy Cutler, being away on circuit. They had eaten in the pale green silk-lined dining room, where the tablecloth shone as white as in a washing powder advertisement and the napkins were card-stiff. The ceilings of this Queen Anne house were high and their two voices sounded brittle. But the asparagus, lamb cutlets, lemon mousse were good, if somehow predictable, they had had a single glass of Sancerre each, and were now back in Gerald Hanbury’s study. It was a relief to find it slightly untidy, the armchair cushions less than perfectly placed.