The doctor had scored brownie points for having skilfully kept Barry on the ledge long enough for the gazebos to be snapped into place.
Objectively Kim could understand that. But she’d been up there as well and towards the end of the conversation between Barry and the doctor, he had been talkative, animated. That didn’t seem to be the demeanour of a person about to end their own life. She’d been to other jumpers and every minute mattered. She’d never seen one who had bothered to hang around for almost an hour and still jump.
She turned to the dog in the rear seat. ‘Okay, Barney, this is it. Bark once if you see anyone coming.’
She got out of the car, climbed over the metal gate and entered the cemetery. As she walked up the hill any illumination from the street lights faded. She kept to the path until she reached the bench on which she’d sat with Alex a week earlier. They had walked up a few steps, so Kim started her search there. She took the torch from her pocket and moved along the rows of gravestones, saddened by the lives cut short.
She travelled to the very bottom of the hill and back up again, more slowly, making sure. When she arrived back at the row that was level with the bench, she knew there was no grave marker that was less than ten years old and certainly no resting place of a male and two boys.
She blew a kiss to the top of the hill towards the grave of her brother.
FORTY
The appeal of the Cotswolds was lost on Alex. Labelled an ‘area of outstanding beauty’, she had substituted the last word to boredom after passing through one sleepy village after another. Her journey had ended at Bourton-on-the-Water. Alex remembered reading that the area was rich in fossils. And most of them appeared to still live here, she thought, as she glanced around the village hub.
Stone buildings lined each side of the street, all individually owned shops that had probably been trading for two hundred years. Her brief appraisal confirmed there was no chain store in sight, not even a Costa or Starbucks. For Alex, that said it all. How the hell did these people survive?
If nothing else, the fifty-mile journey had been successful in cleansing her of the disappointment of Barry Grant. Initially, her expectations had been exceeded at the news he’d tried to murder his beloved wife and his brother.
For a few moments, standing on the top of that car park in the biting wind, Alex had felt he could be the one. A true sociopath could never find a sense of moral responsibility; could never defy their innate nature and feel guilt. But her experiment required only one success. One person to defy their true nature and momentarily, Barry had been her triumph.
And then he’d opened his mouth again.
His pathetic bellyaching about ‘red mist’ and the overwhelming guilt he felt had tempted her to push him forward herself. Luckily, Alex’s lie about his daughter had been enough to provoke the desired action.
She had been surprised that he’d lived through the fall, but only just. He was hooked up to life support, being kept alive by machines. And, although he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t far off. The physicians were not hopeful for any kind of recovery. Good enough.
Her disappointment in Barry was tempered with her excitement about Kim. The detective was a tantalising project into which she was compelled to delve deeper. It was her interest in Kim which had brought her to this godforsaken backwater.
Alex headed over to the designated meeting place, an establishment that offered an entire day’s sustenance: breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, coffee, and she would imagine, for them, the exotic new inventions of cappuccinos and paninis.
She entered through a waist-high gate and noted that the only table occupied outside was by a portly male, completely bald but for a skirt of hair that travelled the back of his head from ear to ear. He wore glasses on the tip of his nose and appeared transfixed by the Kindle he was holding. In his left hand was a cigarette, explaining his residency outside.
Alex felt he was a safe bet and approached the table. ‘Henry Reed?’
The male looked up and smiled. He stood and offered his hand. ‘Doctor Thorne?’
She smiled in response.
He sat back down. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we talk out here. I am hopelessly addicted to the drug nicotine, which now makes me a social outcast.’
Alex did mind. Although the winds were tempered with the odd ray of sunshine, it was still bitterly cold. However, she wanted something from this man so she’d play along.
‘Of course. May I get you another drink?’
‘A latte, thank you.’
Alex headed inside and ordered two lattes. She paid, and was told the drinks would be brought out. She took a seat as her companion placed his reading device on the table.
‘Dickens as an ebook, who would have thought it?’
Alex smiled, not caring one way or another.
‘So, Doctor Thorne, how exactly can I be of assistance to you?’
Alex had decided flattery would work well in this situation. ‘I’ve been researching a particular subject and I came across your book, mentioned as a great insight into the field. Every review I read claimed that your book had broken ground at the time.’
Only part of this was true. There were no reviews she could find. Alex had researched the name Michael Stone and learned a great deal from newspaper articles. A small piece on Wikipedia had stated that a young reporter had self-published a book depicting the events, but she had been unable to locate a copy anywhere. In the absence of the book, Alex had decided to approach the author. Press clippings were one thing but, twenty-eight years ago, the man before her had interviewed people close to the case whilst events were still fresh.
He appeared pleased with her words, and shrugged. ‘In my opinion, it was a story that needed to be told, although the reading public differed and the book sold a total of seven hundred copies.’
Alex nodded as the waitress placed tall glass mugs on the wrought-iron table.
‘So, how can I help you, Doctor?’
‘Alex, please,’ she said, with a smile. She wanted to glean as much information from this man as she could. ‘I have a patient – obviously I can’t go into detail, but she has been subjected to a similar type of trauma recorded in your book and although it was written over twenty years ago, I think you may be able to help me.’
‘Of course, if there’s anything at all I can do.’
Alex noted that his ruddy cheeks had reddened more. Good, he was flattered.
‘Where would you like me to start?’
‘Wherever you’re comfortable.’ Alex would steer him if he veered off the course she’d plotted.
‘I was twenty three at the time, working for the Express and Star local office in Dudley. On Sunday second of June I was writing about the tombola winner at a school fete in Netherton and the following day I was covering the most horrific case of child neglect the Black Country had ever seen. Two days later the story had been knocked off the news cycle by a factory fire in Pensnett that had claimed the lives of three firefighters.’
‘But you didn’t move on so quickly?’
He shook his head. ‘I was young enough to be full of journalistic ideals. I thought there were many questions that needed to be answered. I wanted to know how it had been allowed to happen: who or what had been at fault. So, when I could, I would talk to neighbours, friends and any social workers that would speak to me. I gathered statements from psychiatrists and put the whole story together.
‘The trial wasn’t sensational and got little press attention, after which no one seemed particularly interested. There was no public outcry for an inquiry and that suited the authorities just fine. I realised that all the material I’d collated could fill a book. No publisher was interested and so I self-published the story.’
Alex felt she’d been indulgent enough. ‘Could you tell me about the case?’
He finished his drink and began to speak again.