Sins of the Father Read online

  CONTENTS

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two

  Interlude: June 1968

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part Three

  Interlude: September 2003

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note: The Story Behind SINS OF THE FATHER

  Other Books

  SINS OF THE FATHER

  by David Harrison

  Originally published in 2006 by Crème de la Crime

  Copyright 2006, 2011 David Harrison

  The moral right of David Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All the characters directly involved in this narrative are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Great care has been taken to ensure that no offence is caused to members of the entertainment industry who are mentioned by name.

  David Harrison is a full-time writer who also writes under the name Tom Bale. He lives with his family in Brighton, on the Sussex coast. Visit his website at www.tombale.net

  As Tom Bale:

  SKIN AND BONES

  TERROR'S REACH

  BLOOD FALLS

  THE CATCH

  Praise for SINS OF THE FATHER:

  Occasionally brutal, but very readable... this writer seems to me to have real potential. I look forward to his next book.

  Martin Edwards, TANGLED WEB

  Sins of the Father is a wonderful, exciting read full of twists and turns... This is a sterling effort from a new face on the crime scene.

  Chris Simmons, CRIMESQUAD

  Sins of the Father is a rattling good read... a writer to watch for sure.

  Sharon Wheeler, REVIEWING THE EVIDENCE

  A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For help and advice, I am indebted to Tony Deakin, Rod Lambert, Rebecca Rankin, Amanda Sorrill and Superintendent Steve Voice. Any errors or liberties taken are entirely my responsibility.

  For their encouragement and support over many years, I'd like to thank my parents, Ann and John Harrison, as well as Lucy Deakin, Kate and Dan Rosling, Tracy Brown and Claire Burrell. Most of all, love and thanks to my wife, Niki, and my children, James and Emily. Thanks also to Lynne Patrick.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, who never wavered in her belief that one day I would see my name in print.

  FOR KATHLEEN HARRISON, 1911-1995

  P ROLOGUE

  October 1968

  He was playing a happy camper when the blackmailer reappeared. It was early morning in a field in Buckinghamshire, the air cold and crisp, the mud painted green in a mockery of summer. The distant croak of ravens sounded as forlorn as he felt.

  A collective sigh of relief as the take ended: no one fluffed, no one corpsed, Sid’s lascivious cackle perfectly on cue. Now a mass lighting of cigarettes, overcoats hustled on, hot tea and bacon sandwiches eagerly awaited. Braying laughter from Kenny at his own filthy anecdote.

  There was the usual small crowd, die-hards from the nearest village clutching autograph books, stamping feet and blowing steam like horses waiting for the off. As Eddie peeled away from the other actors they raised a small cheer. He acknowledged them with a wave, but his shoulders were set towards the man in the shabby brown raincoat: Leslie Jones, dogsbody and extortionist.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Saw your Roller coming in. Latest model, isn’t it?”

  A couple of teenagers were suddenly next to them, nudging each other. Eddie wanted to tell them to fuck off, but he took their books, scribbled his name and turned away. He advanced on Leslie, who retreated a couple of steps.

  “You got what you wanted.”

  “Set my sights too low, I reckon.”

  The first time Eddie had paid up – only a hundred quid – and told himself he’d got off lightly. He should have known better.

  “What d’you think the papers would make of it, eh?” Leslie said. “The booze and drugs and those young girls. And the ceremony? That was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  Eddie must have flinched, for Leslie was grinning with feral delight. “With you doing so well right now, I thought we’d make it a thousand.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I leave that to you, Eddie.”

  “And this is it? No more.”

  “You’ll have my word, won’t you?” But the eyes were taunting: believe that and you’ll believe anything.

  Eddie stayed quiet over breakfast, keeping out of the fray. Sid and Kenny were winding each other up as usual. After this he had a couple of days free, thank God, and Mary was coming up. He’d suggested leaving the baby with her mother but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  After brooding for a couple of hours he made a phone call from the office. “Bookie,” he told the production assistant who kindly made herself scarce. He really had thought about calling his bookie, perhaps try to win his way out of trouble, but he knew it never worked.

  If he paid up, the bastard would be back for more. His face had said as much.

  No. That wasn’t the answer.

  One thing about a showbusiness career, you made friends with all sorts of interesting people. That’s what had got him into this mess; now it would have to get him out.

  ***

  There were two of them, big men with unpleasant faces. Not the kind you’d want to meet in a dark alley, but it wasn’t an invitation Leslie could refuse.

  After a warm-up with bare fists, they asked if he’d told anyone else or kept any proof. He said no. They went to work with a cosh and a knuckle-duster, concentrating on the ribs, the kidneys, the shoulders. Then they asked him again. Still no, so they smashed his left knee to a pulp. He was gone for a time, and when he came back he swore it was all in his head, safest place to keep anything.

  The one in charge nodded. We believe you.

  For a moment Leslie felt blessed relief. They could see him thanking the Lord it was over.

  But it wasn’t over. They stuffed him into the boot of their Ford Zephyr, drove to a quiet bridge in Norbury and dropped him into the path of the 22:09 to Victoria.

  Ted rang later that night: problem solved. At first Eddie was shocked, but then he asked himself, what else had he been expecting? These people didn’t mess around.

  He could relax at last. His career was safe, his family were safe, and that’s what he really cared about. His understanding wife, his little baby son.

  Nicky would never have to know.

  Nobody would know what he’d done.
r />   August 1972

  Summer holidays. A crappy fortnight in Cromer for the third year running.

  “Show some gratitude, you little bitch!” her mum had snapped. “They don’t have to do it.”

  They. Uncle Vince and Auntie Gwen, Mum’s sister. Dolled up like a tart but just as sour inside. They ran a B & B, and Gwen never failed to point out how much the rooms could be earning at the height of the season. “Still, you wouldn’t have a holiday otherwise, would you?” she chirped.

  Vince drove to Croydon in his flash Triumph to collect them. Hilda spent the whole way up complaining about her daughter. “I dunno what to do with her, honestly I don’t.”

  “She’s at that age, though. What is she now, fourteen?”

  “Thirteen. Just a phase, her teachers reckon. But I wonder.”

  “Just a phase,” Vince echoed, casting a sly look over his shoulder that made her want to curl up tight. Plenty of those glances in Mum’s direction, too: the old bag lapping it up. She tried to imagine being a man and wanting to kiss her mother’s thin disapproving lips, or put his thing inside her. Disgusting.

  Billy was sick as usual, just past Brentwood. They parked up for half an hour and left the doors open to clear the smell. No one was cross with him, of course, not poor Billy. Nine years old and he still couldn’t read more than Janet and John.

  He wasn’t simple, she was supposed to tell people. Just a bit slow. But so friendly, so trusting and kind. It didn’t matter that she was stronger, faster and much smarter. Everyone loved Billy. Billy was special.

  Worst of all, the idiot adored her. The more she tried scaring him away, pinching and slapping him when nobody was looking, the more he trailed after her, lapping up the abuse.

  Vince had a song stuck in his head, Son of my Father by Chicory Tip. All he sang was the title, over and over. He probably hadn’t given any thought to the words, but she hated him for it all the same. Just as she hated the sticky perfumy cuddle from Gwen when they arrived, and the mothballs-and-gravy smell of the guesthouse. Only a mug would pay two quid a night for this.

  It took Vince three days to make his first move, sidling into the attic room where the bed smelled of mildew and you could hear seagulls dragging their claws on the roof. She shut her eyes and kept her breathing steady, faking sleep while he bent over and kissed her as delicately as he could manage, filling her mouth with his beery breath.

  The next night he pressed his lips against hers and held them there, while she felt bile rising in her throat and thought she might have to spew it in his face. Somehow she controlled it, told herself that if she didn’t react it wasn’t happening. She could hear Billy snoring on the mattress beside her bed, lost in innocent dreams.

  Then Vince lifted the blanket, his fingers scuttling over her chest and across her stomach. Just as he delved between her legs, Gwen barked his name from the floor below. Vince jumped as if he’d been shot. Her eyes sprang open and for a second they just stared at each other. Then he was gone.

  By now the weather had improved, warm enough for the beach. She was a strong swimmer, went twice a week to the baths in Croydon. One of the lifeguards had told her she was good enough to swim competitively, but she had no interest in that. It wasn’t about other people.

  In the shallows Billy screeched with delight as the waves swept in, like the sea had come to play with him. Sometimes he’d let her guide him in up to his chest and try floating while gripping her shoulders. “Swimming!” he’d cry. “Look at me swimming!”

  Gradually he became more confident, not trying to scramble out when a wave caught him in the face. And all at once the idea was there. This would show them.

  They’d come down early, Vince and Gwen still clearing up after breakfast. Mum had popped to the kiosk for some fags. No one else about.

  She helped Billy float out and then, immune to his giggling excitement, she thought instead of her uncle’s greasy touch as she turned her back to the shore, placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pushed down hard.

  His eyes never left hers, even when he gulped some water. He looked surprised, but it was a kind of cheerful surprise because he thought she was just fooling. He trusted her too much to think otherwise.

  Then he started to panic, kicking his legs, clawing at her arms. Why couldn’t he just accept it? She pushed harder, using all her strength to keep him under. His hair caressed her wrist like seaweed. A stream of bubbles rose to the surface and suddenly she wasn’t pushing anymore. He’d fallen away. He’d gone.

  She shut her eyes and swam out, a fast and furious crawl, holding her breath. Fifteen strokes, sixteen, eighteen. Make it to twenty, you can do it. Twenty-one: lungs bursting. Twenty-two: getting light-headed, what Billy must have felt, nothing mattered anymore. Twenty-three: give in to it and you’d be at peace. You could be with Dad too.

  Twenty-four: and up she came. A frantic gulp of air, lungs burning, head spinning. A tingling in her belly like when she touched herself sometimes in the bath.

  Son of my father. Reunited. She felt jealous, more than anything. Nobody to help her take that journey.

  Daddy’s treasure. Daddy’s princess. Alone.

  It took a minute to recover, then she turned and swam for the shore. Looking up, she spotted Mum on her way back and started to scream.

  P ART ONE

  ON E

  It was an innocent enough question, but it had her sweating. Looking round the room as though the answer lay on the shelves of DVDs, or behind the rear projection TV.

  “You don’t remember the weather?” Nick repeated.

  “Not... um... not really.”

  “It wasn’t raining, I suppose? You’d remember that.”

  Lauren Doyle nodded. Yes she’d remember that, not yes it was raining. Her hands were fidgeting so she sat on them, wriggling her thighs comfortable. Up till then she’d been cheerful, chatty, throwing in details he hadn’t asked for. Leaning forward in her V-neck sweater, making sure he saw plenty of cleavage.

  He changed tack, dismissing her confusion as unimportant. “The men in the other car would have been injured, you think?”

  “Oh yeah. It was a hell of a whack.”

  “So I see. Now, this vehicle of yours. The Ford Escort.”

  “What about it?”

  He strung it out, saw the tension drawing her towards him. The killer question was often a silly one.

  “Does it have four gears, or five?”

  She burst into tears. The door flew open and Lauren’s husband Kevin stormed into the room, fists clenched. Nick started to rise but his briefcase was on his lap. Kevin Doyle grabbed his shirt and hauled him up, scattering papers everywhere. A squat, bullish man, he seemed undeterred by Nick’s height advantage.

  “What’s your game, all these stupid fucking questions?”

  “Kev! I said we shouldn’t of —”

  “Shut it, babe. I’m doing the talking from now on.”

  “Okay then,” said Nick. His face was only a couple of inches from Doyle’s. He could smell onions and too much aftershave. “Let me go and we can discuss —” Doyle pulled him closer still, their noses almost touching, then shoved him back. Nick hit the sofa and rolled on to the floor.

  “Don’t hurt him. We’ll just get —”

  “I said shut it!”

  Nick tried to speak but Doyle kicked him in the stomach.

  “Get out.”

  “Mr Doyle, this isn’t going to —”

  “Get the fuck out!”

  Nick got up on his hands and knees and began gathering his paperwork. Doyle stood over him, big Reebok trainers just itching to kick again. The first actual assault since he’d gone freelance, Nick thought. A milestone of sorts.

  There was an envelope half under the sofa that didn’t belong to the case. Then he remembered and plucked it out. The letter from Franks. The letter about Dad. Wouldn’t want to leave that here.

  No one said a word while he tidied his file. He shut his briefcase and walked out as h
astily as his dignity would allow. Doyle followed him to the door, so close that Nick could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck.

  “My principals will be in touch,” he said.

  “Bunch of fucking shysters.”

  The door slammed when he’d barely cleared the threshold. He stretched and shook the tension out of his shoulders the way Dad used to do. Nodded to himself.

  “I think that went quite well.”

  ***

  It’s just a breathing space. It doesn’t have to be permanent.

  Sarah had been telling herself this for ten minutes, while the suitcase sat on the bed next to her, waiting without reproach. When the phone rang she was jolted back to the here and now, to the decision she must take.

  Had taken.

  She stared at the phone. She knew it was Nick, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to explain. Perhaps it was better not to try.

  The window was open and she could hear some children passing the house, shouting and laughing; there was a rumble of skateboards. The phone went on ringing, a tantalising beat of silence between each tone.

  If she told him, he’d act surprised, baffled, as though he had no idea things were this bad. Then he’d say something flippant and probably make her laugh. Even when she was crying he could make her laugh. Even when she hated him.

  And if he made her laugh, she’d waver. And then she’d agree to stay, and he would promise to talk about it but somehow he wouldn’t, and the whole miserable saga would continue.

  The answering service cut in, and there was silence for a few moments. Then the phone rang again: he had redialed.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth and stared at the phone as if waiting for a small animal to die.

  ***

  She was out. It was safe to go home.

  Nick snorted. Not funny. He considered calling her mobile, but she might think he was checking up on her. And he was hardly in a position to do that.