‘I’m not going back. I’ve decided. Not till it’s all over. I’m better off here, away from it all. I wouldn’t be any help to Tracy.’
‘Oh.’ Jeanie pretended to look surprised but in her heart, she’d been half expecting it. ‘We think you would be a lot of help to Tracy, Mr Collins. It would give her both moral and physical support, plus security. She’s often on her own with Jackson.’
‘You stay with her then. That’s your job, isn’t it? What do you expect me to do?’
‘She doesn’t need me in the evenings after Jackson goes to bed. She needs you. We believe she might be in danger. Jackson, the little boy, might be a target.’
‘That’s the point. I have got enough on my plate at the moment without becoming caught up in this. I’m sorry and all that but I don’t want to get involved.’
‘Okay, Mr Collins. I am, of course, disappointed by your decision. If you’ve really made up your mind not to help then I’ll not waste any more of your time and I’ll go.’
Steve looked her over as she stood and buttoned up her coat.
‘Sorry I couldn’t help,’ he said. Jeanie didn’t answer him. ‘Can I just ask though? Is there any compensation for loss of earnings?’
‘You have a good job though, don’t you, Mr Collins?’
He looked defensive.
‘Yes, but Tracy’s earnings.’ He shrugged. ‘They may not be much – but we need them.’
‘I’ll get it looked into. I’ll make sure I talk to Tracy about it. Thank you for your time.’
Jeanie muttered ‘Takes all sorts’ as she left the hotel.
Carter looked around the shed as he kept one eye on the door. The place had a slightly stale, muggy smell, as if someone stayed in there most of the time. Here was where Gerald Foster preferred to be. This was where he actually lived. There was a bed in the corner, lying on a raised wooden box. There was a chest of drawers. Above the bed there was a curtain covering the wall behind. Carter walked across and lifted it. He found himself looking at pictures of Danielle. He turned to see Gerald Foster standing in the entrance to the shed with a hammer resting in his hand. Foster stepped inside the shed and closed the door behind him.
Foster drummed the head of the hammer into his palm.
‘How dare you come in here without a search warrant?’
‘I just saw the light on.’ Carter stood his ground whilst scanning the shed for something he could use as a weapon.
‘This is private property. I would be well within my right to kill you.’
‘I think you’ll find that that’s not strictly true,’ answered Carter with an attempt at a smile. ‘I just want to talk, Mr Foster. That’s a pretty bad scratch you have on the driver’s side of your van. Looks like you dragged something.’
‘Wasn’t me. One of the lads used it.’
‘Lads?’
‘I lent it to someone down at the Canal Museum. They borrowed it to move their son. Apparently one of his friends was larking around and drove it into some metal contraption. Bloody typical irresponsible behaviour. Last time I lend anything.’
‘Would you be able to provide me with a name and address for the person who was driving your van today?’
Foster squared up to Carter. He nodded. ‘I’ll get it for you and ring you tomorrow. Goodbye.’
Carter pointed to the wall of photos. ‘You seem to have quite a shrine to Danielle here.’
‘Not to her. To happy times. To Marion and me. They were our best times,’ Foster repeated as he looked at the photos. ‘We were happy then. Just for a brief time.’
‘Thought Danielle brought you nothing but trouble?’
‘But for a while we were the perfect family. Then all Marion’s time was taken up worrying about Danielle and she grew sick with it. She worried herself into an early grave. But these years…’ His face softened as he looked at the photos. ‘These were the best years for all of us: Marion and me – we were happy then.’ Carter looked back at the wall; behind each smiling face of Danielle there was Gerald or his wife. ‘Search the place if you want.’
Carter pulled out drawers and lifted up the lids on the boxes and trunks around the cabin. He left the bed till last. He was looking at the way it was raised and resting on a wooden box. He lifted the corner of the mattress, a futon, and knocked the base. There was an echo. Carter knew he was sweating. He knew he was breathing hard as he tried to stay calm and think of all the things he should have thought of before now – too late was what popped into his brain. Too frigging late.
‘Can I see what’s beneath?’
Foster shrugged.
‘Sure.’
Carter stood back.
‘Can you lift it for me please?’
Foster lifted the bedding right back, folded it into a neat pile. He folded the mattress back. Then he prised up the corner of the box enough to get his hand beneath. He paused, turned towards Carter and, at that minute, Carter was deciding his options. He had already taken a step nearer the door and had made a note of anything he might use as a weapon. He knew he was faster than Foster but was he stronger?
‘I need a hand.’ Foster nodded towards the foot of the bed. ‘Here.’ He handed him a wrench. Carter slid the end beneath the top of the box and together they lifted it. Carter stood back and looked at Foster. Foster nodded.
‘Go ahead, open it.’
Carter knocked on the lid and then slid it across. Beneath it, lying in the bottom, was a shroud and an urn.
‘Marion.’ Foster looked at Carter. ‘I have left instructions that I want our ashes to be joined and scattered at Margate. That was where we used to take Danielle for day trips. Happy times.’
‘Why do you live out here?’
‘I can’t bear to sleep alone in the house.’
‘People get ill, Gerald. There is no blame attached to cancer. People cope with it in different ways and families manage it as best they can. Danielle wouldn’t have wanted Marion to get ill. She couldn’t have given her cancer as you suggest. There’s no justice with cancer – and no blame.’
‘I know. I know. I’m not a fool. I didn’t cope with it as well as I could have done. When I think of those teenage years with Danielle I just see my wife getting sicker and my life spiralling out of control. It all seemed to go so wrong. All the plans, all the hope we had for the future came to nothing and the one person I loved in my life is gone. Danielle took all my energy that I should have given to my wife in her dying years.’
Carter reached out and patted Gerald Foster’s shoulder.
‘You did your best.’
He turned to Carter. ‘Maybe. I wish we’d never adopted her. I wish we’d just had each other and not hankered after a child so much. But… I hope you find her. I hope she does make a good life for herself and the little boy.’
Chapter 43
Harding was sitting at her office desk in one of a suite of rooms in the basement of the Whittington Hospital, which housed the mortuary and post mortem room as well as her laboratory. She looked across at Mark, who was fishing a brain out of formaldehyde ready for slicing into centimetre-wide slices, and wondered if tonight was the night she should make her move.
She phoned Robbo. It was very late – he could have gone home a few hours ago, but instead he had stayed to work on the case.
‘Results are through on examination of the ulcerated sites and necrosis on Pauline Murphy’s body. I’ll be over in a minute. I can’t get hold of Carter – his phone is switched off. I’ll come across and see Chief Inspector Bowie instead but I’ll send you the results first – they’re interesting. You may want to get researching.’