His brother scowled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘they’ll carry out me out feet first. And what will become of Bridge End then?’
Ben couldn’t answer that. There was no vision of a rosy prospect he could offer Matt. He knew what his brother said was true. Bridge End Farm would have no future without Matt Cooper.
It was one of the leafier suburbs near Solihull, a road where the trees grew denser and street signs became fewer and further between.
As Diane Fry headed out into the countryside, Angie phoned. The line was very poor, with a lot of noise in the background.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Angie. ‘Listen...’
‘What is it?’
‘I forgot to say, don’t use your locker.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your locker at the service station. Stay away from it for a while, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
But Angie had gone. Diane tried to dial again but got her recorded message. Her sister always liked to be a woman of mystery.
Fry drew her car onto the sweeping drive beyond the wrought-iron gates. The gates were open, because he was expecting her. But she knew the CCTV camera would be watching her as she approached. This was a man who didn’t take risks.
Looking at his house and picturing his grey skin and skeletal hands as he sat waiting for her in his study, she couldn’t help reliving for a moment her last visit here, when she was still trying to piece together what had happened the night of her rape, and why the case had collapsed so mysteriously despite a DNA match.
For some reason, within minutes of her arrival, William Leeson had been talking to her about blood.
‘That’s what we have to talk about, you and I,’ he’d said. ‘It’s all about blood.’
She hadn’t understood what he meant at first.
‘What blood?’
‘Mine,’ he said. ‘It was my blood at the scene of your assault. My blood the police got a DNA profile from. I pulled one of those boys off you, and he punched me in the face. I cut my hands on the fence, on the barbed wire. It was my blood, Diane. My blood was on you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You know what they say, Diane. Blood is thicker than water. You might not believe it right at this moment. But you’ll learn the truth soon enough, I think.’
‘I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re the cause I was sacrificed for, the reason my case will never go ahead. I think this whole charade has been about saving your pathetic skin. Well, I guess you must have the right bits of dirty knowledge about the right people in this city.’
He’d provoked her until she’d been on the verge of unacceptable violence and she’d been forced to leave the house. She’d been able to sense some awful event about to happen, something that was completely out of her control. Reluctantly, Fry got out of her Audi. The soft-topped sports car she’d glimpsed in the garage on her previous visit now stood on the gravel at the side of the house, as if for a quick getaway. A classic car, with leather seats and a noisy exhaust. Hardly inconspicuous if you wanted to disappear.
William Leeson was in his mid-sixties, but he looked a lot older. His face was gaunt and grey, and his suit jacket hung as loosely from his shoulders as it would from a wooden clothes hanger. The life had gone from his hair, which had thinned so much she could see his pale scalp, speckled with liver spots. His bony fingers moved restlessly, jerking spasmodically as if jolted by a burst of electricity.
Fry could remember picturing him as an undertaker, because of his height and cadaverous appearance. Now he looked as though he belonged in the coffin rather than driving the hearse. His skin looked so brittle, as if it might flake away at any moment and expose the bone. There was no doubt some serious illness was sapping his life away.
But Leeson knew her, of course. She hadn’t changed that much.
‘I didn’t think I would ever see you again,’ he said.
‘That’s the trouble with your mistakes. They keep coming back to haunt you.’
‘So are you going to keep haunting me for ever, Diane?’
‘I hope not. If I’m your nightmare, then you’re definitely mine.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Sit down. Can you at least bring yourself to do that? Would you like a drink? A gin and tonic? Or I have a nice Pinot Grigio.’
‘No, thank you. I’m driving.’
‘We wouldn’t want to break any laws, would we?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, for some of us.’
He poured himself a large whisky. ‘A fruit juice, perhaps? Something sharp but not too bad for your health.’
‘All right, if you insist.’
Fry looked around the room as he opened a bottle of J2O orange and mango. She didn’t know whether Leeson lived alone, if he was married or in a relationship. It was a big house for one person to live in alone. Five or six bedrooms, she imagined.
She gave an involuntary shudder. She’d just imagined William Leeson inviting her to stay overnight in one of his spare bedrooms. If she’d accepted a gin, that might have been the inevitable outcome. Her nightmare could have become a reality. What a narrow escape.
Suspiciously, Fry sniffed at the glass he gave her and took a tentative sip. It tasted OK.
Leeson was watching her expectantly.
‘So I imagine this is isn’t purely a social call,’ he said. ‘Speaking as one nightmare to another.’
‘I’m not sure you’d call it social.’
‘Not sure? Well, that’s something.’
‘I believe we have some unfinished business.’
‘Really? I thought it was over and done with myself.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have a problem. I think you might know something about it.’
He ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘I know about a lot of things. You have to ask me a specific question if you want to get answers.’
‘How did Professional Standards in Derbyshire get information about that time I came to Birmingham when my cold case was reopened? How did they know I met with Andy Kewley?’
He steepled his fingers. ‘That’s what you want to know?’
‘It’s what I asked.’
‘One of your former colleagues,’ said Leeson.
‘You know that? It sounded like a guess.’
‘It would seem to be a logical conclusion.’
‘Why do you have to make this such hard work?’
He’d finished his whisky and poured himself another. Fry saw then how badly his hands shook. A trickle of liquid missed his glass and splashed onto the table, where it lay glistening accusingly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It makes me angry.’
She watched his skeletal hands twisting and turning restlessly.
‘You? What do you have to be angry about?’
‘They have no right. You do what you have to do, but some of them will still pursue you out of spite.’
‘Are you talking about me now? Or about yourself?’
He looked at her, his eyes cold and watery, his face an unhealthy pallor. Fry had a sudden flash of insight. She knew exactly what he was going to say next.
‘I don’t have much longer left to live,’ he said. ‘That sounds like such a cliché, doesn’t it?’
‘Totally. Is it true?’
‘Do you want to see my medical notes? I was diagnosed—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ interrupted Fry.
He smiled again. ‘And why should you?’
‘I suppose you’re going to say that knowing you’re dying makes you think differently about what you’ve achieved in your life?’ she said.
‘Achieved or not achieved. We all have failures. We’ve all made mistakes.’
‘I’m not going to feel sorry for you. You’re wasting your breath if that’s what you’re hoping for.’