Читать книгу Isolated - M. A. Hunter - Страница 8

Chalfont St Giles, Buckinghamshire

Jack races around to his side of the car and jumps in, with me following suit. ‘If we’re lucky we can be in Staffordshire before visiting hours finish at half four. I’ve got your name down on the list and Turgood knows you’re coming… Are you sure you want to meet him?’

Ordinarily, nothing would appal me more than coming face to face with the monster who oversaw a ring of abuse that lasted years in the former St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, but after Jack’s revelation minutes earlier, nobody is going to stop me from confronting him today.

‘I’m sure,’ I tell him, offering what I hope is a reassuring nod.

He stares at my trembling hands as I struggle to engage the seatbelt in its buckle and eventually I feel his warm hands on mine as he helps. I look into his face and see nothing but concern etched across those dark eyes. I nod again, more firmly this time, and he starts the engine.

‘You were looking for me,’ Jack says. ‘Earlier, I mean. When I arrived at the house, you said you needed to speak to me.’

I stare at him blankly, racking my brain for whatever that could have been about. The revelation that Jack has found my sister’s face in pornographic material discovered on Arthur Turgood’s hard drive has rather ripped the rug from beneath my feet. I try to recall what I was doing in the immediate past before Jack showed up at Fitzhume’s country manor.

As Jack races down the long gravel driveway, I catch a glimpse of a man in a dishevelled tuxedo stumbling along the road just beyond the gates and immediately recognise Richard Hilliard, the father of young Cassie, whose return was the reason for today’s gathering. I recall the slanging match between Richard and Fitzhume that I observed from the upstairs window of the manor and my subsequent encounter with Fitzhume slaps me between the eyes.

So you admit you were the one who set all this up? You put your granddaughter’s life at risk in order to force Richard out of your family?

‘Fitzhume is responsible for Cassie Hilliard’s abduction,’ I blurt out like some paranoid Twitter user.

Jack glances through the windscreen at Richard as we move past him. ‘I’m listening.’

I take a deep breath to try and steady my rapidly rising pulse. ‘It all makes sense, don’t you see? Leroy Denton told us that the group had some rich backer who was calling the shots but he didn’t know who that was. I bet if you ask Hank Amos whether he reached out to Lord Fitzhume and demanded more money, I bet he’ll admit he did. That’s what set these wheels in motion. That’s why Fitzhume came to me now, not because it happened to be the anniversary of Cassie’s abduction, but because he didn’t want to pay a second ransom.’

Jack doesn’t look convinced by my argument but switches off the car stereo so he can give me what’s left of his attention. ‘Amos said he didn’t know who the rich backer was either. Do you have anything evidential to support your theory? What makes you so certain?’

Her life should never have been in any danger. They were paid enough to take good care of her.

‘Fitzhume admitted as much to me,’ I say resolutely.

‘He did? You got him on the record?’

I again silently curse myself for not having the recorder on my phone running when I confronted him – not that it would necessarily have been strong enough evidence to go to trial.

‘Not exactly, but he did admit his involvement to me, and I’m prepared to make an official statement to that effect if that’s what it takes.’

I don’t know whether Jack realises his entire face has taken a sceptical downward turn, or whether he’s just doing a lousy job of covering his doubt.

‘Okay, I’ll put a call in to DCS Rawani and we’ll see if it’s enough to make him bite.’

‘Make him bite?’ I scoff. ‘You need to get someone over there right away and haul him out of his fake celebration in cuffs. Wipe that permanent smirk from his face.’

Jack catches my eye apologetically. ‘You know it isn’t that easy. I wish it were. I wish you making a statement about what he told you would be enough to prosecute but it’ll be his word against yours, and whilst your name is one of good standing, his background, links to the Royal Family and unlimited connections trump you.’

This isn’t the reaction I expected to hear from Jack. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I thought I understood him.

‘Fitzhume is guilty as hell and someone needs to bring about his downfall,’ I spit. ‘If you won’t take action then I’ll just bloody well have to do something about it myself.’

I’m already asking myself exactly how I could complete such a course of action when Jack’s scepticism returns. But rather than berate me, he reaches for my hand and holds it for a moment.

‘I don’t doubt what you’re telling me, Emma, but I’m just trying to be realistic. We both reviewed the case file and there was nothing to link Fitzhume to the three kidnappers, one of whom is dead, and the other two now behind bars. Even if Amos came clean and pointed the finger at Fitzhume, the CPS would need something physical before even considering charges.’

‘So, what? He goes free?’

Jack opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it.

‘Are you seriously telling me that because Fitzhume has money and power he’s allowed to get away with his crimes?’

Again, Jack opens his mouth to challenge, but raises his eyebrows in defeat instead. ‘As I said, I promise I will discuss it with the DCS once I’m back and if we’re lucky he’ll allow me to do some discreet digging, but something tells me that Fitzhume won’t have left any trail leading back to him – particularly if his military history is anything to go by.’

I pull my hand away and stare out of the window like a petulant teenager. I’m so fed up with people getting away with their crimes because of their so-called power and connections. I know my outlook is naïve, but shouldn’t the guilty be punished?

Fitzhume’s final words to me rattle in my head. You dare print a word of this and I will have you brought up on charges of libellous defamation.

Of course! As far as my publisher and agent Maddie are aware, I will be writing all about Cassie’s disappearance and subsequent return for my second book. The idea has been signed off by the publisher and they’ll be expecting me to deliver at least a first draft in the coming months. If the police won’t take any formal action against Fitzhume then the only recourse is to tell the truth in my manuscript and see where that leads. Right now, I don’t care if he does decide to take me to court over it; at least the truth will be in the public domain and people will realise what a snake he is.

I know there’s no point continuing the argument with Jack. We have two hours of driving ahead that I don’t want to spend in silence and my thoughts now turn back to the reason for our journey.

‘You said you’ve spoken to Turgood already today?’

Jack sighs, and nods. ‘As soon as the facial recognition software found a positive match to your sister. I wanted to find out what he knew and hopefully be the one to help your private investigation along. To be clear, the software didn’t flag a hundred per cent match. What you need to appreciate is that the footage used to run the check was old and grainy – probably recorded on a handheld camcorder rather than more advanced equipment. The angle of her face in the clips we used wasn’t straight-on either, so it’s only as good as it can be.’

‘Yeah, but you said it was a ninety-two per cent match though, right? That’s as good as a hundred in my book.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s a strong match, which would lead me to conclude it probably is your sister.’

My heart strains at the news. For the last twenty years, I’ve hoped my sister didn’t die the day she stomped away from home in the direction of our grandma’s before vanishing. A part of me – the part I desperately try to silence and ignore – accepted that she could have died, but from what Jack has said, the footage he’s found all but confirms she was alive some four years after she disappeared. That has to give hope that she could still be alive today.

‘What did Turgood say when you spoke to him?’ I ask now, pins and needles prickling at my thighs and forearms.

‘He said he didn’t recognise her name and that he hadn’t watched all of the videos on his hard drive. He claims not to recall the particular video in question, but admits to sharing such videos with others and said that it could have been inadvertently included in his stock. He was being very vague, and without a solicitor present he was cagey.’

I remember the first time I met Turgood and presented him with Freddie’s allegations. He laughed me out of his home, ridiculing the claims as nothing more than spiteful lies. But I’d known he was lying. When I’d first arrived, under the pretence that I was undertaking an investigation into why government cuts were closing valued social care facilities like St Francis, he’d welcomed me with open arms. But the moment I’d mentioned Freddie’s name, the atmosphere turned decidedly cold, as if someone had opened a window. He’d crossed his legs, folded his arms, and avoided answering my questions. His reaction had given me all the confirmation I needed to keep digging. That’s why I need to look into his eyes today and see what happens when I mention my sister. His body language will tell me whether or not he’s lying.

The car grinds to a halt as we join the end of a tailback on the M40. Jack curses quietly as his eyes fall on the long line of brake lights stretching as far as the eye can see.

‘What else did he say?’ I ask.

Jack sighs. ‘He said he wouldn’t be surprised to see the faces of a host of missing children appear in those videos. He said there’s an entire network operating along the south coast. Your sister might be just the tip of an iceberg that stretches back decades.’

I turn so I can study Jack’s face. ‘Did you believe him?’

The grimace confirms that he did, even if he didn’t want to.

He meets my gaze. ‘He didn’t offer any specifics, but my next job will be to request the same facial recognition software is run against any other open missing-children cases to see if further matches can be established.’

I catch sight of the ETA on the sat nav display and my heart sinks. It now says we’re unlikely to arrive before half past four, and if we don’t, my chance to get an answer will certainly end for today.

‘Isn’t there an alternative route we can take?’ I snap.

Jack begins to fiddle with the sat nav. ‘Maybe… Once we get to the next junction, we can try to get off the M40 and find a detour, but we’re on the slip road, so like it or not, we’re trapped on this course for now.’

I sit on my hands as my blood boils with frustration. I don’t tell him, but I sense his words may be more prophetic than he realises.