Innocence Read online

  Contents

  Innocence

  Read On

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  About the Author

  Also by Peter Robinson

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Innocence

  FRANCES MUST BE late, surely, Reed thought as he stood waiting on the bridge by the railway station. He was beginning to feel restless and uncomfortable; the handles of his bag bit into his palm, and he noticed that the rain promised in the forecast that morning was already starting to fall.

  Wonderful! Here he was, over two hundred miles away from home, and Francis hadn’t turned up. But Reed couldn’t be sure about that. Perhaps he was early. They had made the same arrangement three or four times over the past five years, but for the life of him Reed couldn’t remember the exact time they’d met.

  Reed turned and noticed a plump woman in a threadbare blue overcoat come struggling against the wind over the bridge towards him. She pushed a large stroller, in which two infants fought and squealed.

  “Excuse me,” he called out as she neared him, “could you tell me what time school gets out?”

  The woman gave him a funny look—either puzzlement or irritation, he couldn’t decide which—and answered in the clipped, nasal accent peculiar to the Midlands, “Half past three.” Then she hurried by, giving Reed a wide berth.

  He was wrong. For some reason he had got it into his mind that Francis finished teaching at three o’clock. It was only twenty-­five past now, so there would be at least another fifteen minutes to wait before the familiar red Escort came into sight.

  The rain was getting heavier and the wind lashed it hard against Reed’s face. A few yards up the road from the bridge was the bus station, which was attached to a large modern shopping center, all glass and escalators. Reed could stand in the entrance there just beyond the doors, where it was warm and dry, and still watch for Francis.

  At about twenty-­five to four, the first schoolchildren came dashing over the bridge and into the bus station, satchels swinging, voices shrill and loud with freedom. The rain didn’t seem to bother them, Reed noticed: hair lay plastered to skulls; beads of rain hung on the tips of noses. Most of the boys’ ties were askew, their socks hung loose around their ankles and their shoelaces snaked along the ground. It was a wonder they didn’t trip over themselves. Reed smiled, remembering his own schooldays.

  And how alluring the girls looked as they ran smiling and laughing out of the rain into the shelter of the mall. Not the really young ones, the unformed ones, but the older, long-­limbed girls, newly aware of their breasts and the swelling of their hips. They wore their clothes carelessly: blouses hanging out, black woolly tights twisted or torn at the knees. To Reed, there was something wanton in their disarray.

  These days, of course, they probably all knew what was what, but Reed couldn’t help but feel that there was also a certain innocence about them: a naive, carefree grace in the way they moved and a casual freedom in their laughter and gestures. Life hadn’t got to them yet; they hadn’t felt its weight and seen the darkness at its core.

  Mustn’t get carried away, Reed told himself, with a smile. It was all very well to joke with Bill in the office about how sexy the schoolgirls who passed the window each day were, but it was positively unhealthy to mean it, or (God forbid!) attempt to do anything about it. He couldn’t be turning into a dirty old man at thirty-­five, could he? Sometimes the power and violence of his fantasies worried him, but perhaps everyone else had them too. It wasn’t something you could talk about at work. He didn’t really think he was abnormal; after all, he hadn’t acted them out, and you couldn’t be arrested for your fantasies, could you?

  Where the hell was Francis? Reed peered out through the glass. Windblown rain lashed across the huge plate windows and distorted the outside world. All detail was obliterated in favor of the overall mood: gray-­glum and dream-­like.

  Reed glanced at his watch again. After four o’clock. The only schoolchildren left now were the stragglers, the ones who lived nearby and didn’t have to hurry for a bus. They sauntered over the bridge, shoving each other, playing tag, hopping and skipping over the cracks in the pavement, oblivious to the rain and the wind that drove it.

  Francis ought to be here by now. Worried, Reed went over the arrangements again in his mind. He knew that he’d got the date right because he’d written it down in his appointment book. Reed had tried to call the previous evening to confirm, but no one had answered. If Francis had been trying to get in touch with him at work or at home, he would have been out of luck. Reed had been visiting another old friend—this one in Exeter—and Elsie, the office receptionist, could hardly be trusted to get her own name right.

  When five o’clock came and there was still no sign of Francis, Reed picked up his bag again and walked back down to the station. It was still raining, but not so fast, and the wind had dropped. The only train back home that night left Birmingham at nine-­forty and didn’t get to Carlisle until well after midnight. By then the local buses would have stopped running and he would have to get a taxi. Was it worth it?

  There wasn’t much alternative, really. A hotel would be too expensive. Still, the idea had its appeal: a warm room with a soft bed, shower, color television and maybe even a bar downstairs, where he might meet a girl. He would just have to decide later. Anyway, if he did want to catch the train, he would have to take the eight-­fifty from Redditch to get to Birmingham in time. That left three hours and fifty minutes to kill.

  As he walked over the bridge and up towards the town center in the darkening evening, Reed noticed two schoolgirls walking in front of him. They must have been kept in detention, he thought, or perhaps they’d just finished sports practice. No doubt they had to do that, even in the rain. One looked dumpy from behind, but her friend was a dream: long wavy hair tumbling messily over her shoulders; short skirt flicking over her long, slim thighs; white socks fallen around her ankles, leaving her shapely calves bare. Reed watched the tendons at the back of her knees flex and loosen as she walked and thought of her struggling beneath him, his hands on her soft throat. They turned down a side street and Reed carried on ahead, shaking off his fantasy.

  Could Francis have got lumbered with taking detention or sports? he wondered. Or perhaps he had passed by without even noticing Reed sheltering from the rain. He didn’t know where Francis’s school was, or even what it was called. Somehow, the subject had just never come up. Also, the village where Francis lived was about eight miles away from Redditch and the local bus ser­vice was terrible. Still, he could phone. If Francis were home, he’d come out again and pick Reed up.

  After phoning and getting no answer, Reed walked around town for a long time looking in shop windows and wondering about how to get out of the mess he was in. His bag weighed heavy in his hand. Finally, he got hungry and ducked out of the light rain into the Tandoori Palace. It was still early, just after six, and the place was empty apart from a young ­couple absorbed in one another in a dim corner. Reed had the waiter’s undivided attention. He ordered pakoras, tandoori and dhal. The food was very good and Reed ate it too fast.

  After the spiced tea, he took out his wallet to pay. He had some cash, but he had decided to have a pint or two, and he might have to take a taxi home from the station. Best hang on to the paper money. The waiter didn’t seem to mind taking plastic, even for so small a sum, and Reed rewarded him with a generous tip.

  Next he tried Francis again, but the phone just rang and rang. Why didn’t the bugger invest in an answering machine? Reed cursed. Then he realized he didn’t even have one himself, hated the things. F
rancis no doubt felt the same way. If you were out, tough tittie; you were out and that was that.

  Outside, the street lights reflected in oily puddles on the roads and pavements. After walking off his heartburn for half an hour, thoroughly soaked and out of breath, Reed ducked into the first pub he saw. The locals eyed him suspiciously at first, then ignored him and went back to their drinks.

  “Pint of bitter, please,” Reed said, rubbing his hands together. “In a sleeve glass, if you’ve got one.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the landlord said, reaching for a mug. “The locals bring their own.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “Nasty night.”

  “Yes,” said Reed. “Very.”

  “From these parts?”

  “No. Just passing through.”

  “Ah.” The landlord passed over a brimming pint mug, took Reed’s money and went back to the conversation he’d been having with a round-­faced man in a pinstripe suit. Reed took his drink over to a table and sat down.

  Over the next hour and a half he phoned Francis four more times, but still got no reply. He also changed pubs after each pint, but got very little in the way of a friendly greeting. Finally, at about twenty to nine, knowing he couldn’t bear to wake up in such a miserable town even if he could afford a hotel, he went back to the station and took the train home.

  •

  Because of his intended visit to Francis, Reed hadn’t planned anything for the weekend at home. The weather was miserable, anyway, so he spent most of his time indoors reading and watching television, or down at the local. He tried Francis’s number a few more times, but still got no reply. He also phoned Camille, hoping that her warm, lithe body and her fondness for experiment might brighten up his Saturday night and Sunday morning, but all he got was her answering machine.

  On Monday evening, just as he was about to go to bed after a long day catching up on boring paperwork, the phone rang. Grouchily, he picked up the receiver: “Yes?”

  “Terry?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Francis.”

  “Where the hell—­”

  “Did you come all the way down on Friday?”

  “Of course I bloody well did. I thought we had an—­”

  “Oh God. Look, I’m sorry, mate, really I am. I tried to call. That woman at work—what’s her name?”

  “Elsie?”

  “That’s the one. She said she’d give you a message. I must admit she didn’t sound as if she quite had her wits about her, but I’d no choice.”

  Reed softened a little. “What happened?”

  “My mother. You know she’s been ill for a long time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she died last Wednesday. I had to rush off back to Manchester. Look, I really am sorry, but you can see I couldn’t do anything about it, can’t you?”

  “It’s me who should be sorry,” Reed said. “To hear about your mother, I mean.”

  “Yes, well, at least there’ll be no more suffering for her. Maybe we could get together in a few weeks?”

  “Sure. Just let me know when.”

  “All right. I’ve still got stuff to do, you know, things to organize. How about if I call you back in a ­couple of weeks?”

  “Great, I’ll look forward to it. Bye.”

  “Bye. And I’m sorry, Terry, really.”

  Reed put the phone down and went to bed. So that was it—the mystery solved.

  •

  The following evening, just after he’d arrived home from work, Reed heard a loud knock at his door. When he opened it, he saw two strangers standing there. At first he thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses—who else came to the door in pairs, wearing suits?—but these two didn’t quite look the part. True, one did look a bit like a bible salesman—chubby, with a cheerful, earnest expression on a face fringed by a neatly trimmed dark beard—but the other, painfully thin, with a long, pockmarked face, looked more like an undertaker, except for the way his sharp blue eyes glittered with intelligent suspicion.

  “Mr. Reed? Mr. Terence J. Reed?” the cadaverous one said, in a deep, quiet voice, just like the way Reed imagined a real undertaker would speak. And wasn’t there a hint of the Midlands nasal quality in the way he slurred the vowels?

  “Yes, I’m Terry Reed. What is it? What do you want?” Reed could already see, over their shoulders, his neighbors spying from their windows: little corners of white net-­curtain twitched aside to give a clear view.

  “We’re police officers, sir. Mind if we come in for a moment?” They flashed their identity cards, but put them away before Reed had time to see what was written there. He backed into the hallway and they took their opportunity to enter. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Reed noticed the one with the beard start glancing around him, taking everything in, while the other continued to hold Reed’s gaze. Finally, Reed turned and led them into the living room. He felt some kind of signal pass between them behind his back.

  “Nice place you’ve got,” the thin one said, while the other prowled the room, picking up vases and looking inside, opening drawers an inch or two, then closing them again.

  “Look, what is this?” Reed said. “Is he supposed to be poking through my things? I mean, do you have a search warrant or something?”

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” the tall one said. “He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity. By the way, my name’s Bentley, Detective Superintendent Bentley. My colleague over there goes by the name of Inspector Rodmoor. We’re from the Midlands Regional Crime Squad.” He looked to see Reed’s reactions as he said this, but Reed tried to show no emotion at all.

  “I still don’t see what you want with me,” he said.

  “Just routine,” said Bentley. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Bentley sat in the rocker by the fireplace and Reed sat opposite on the sofa. A mug of half-­finished coffee stood between them on the glass-­topped table, beside a ­couple of unpaid bills and the latest Radio Times.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Reed offered.

  Bentley shook his head.

  “What about him?” Reed glanced over nervously towards Inspector Rodmoor, who was looking through his bookcase, pulling out volumes that caught his fancy and flipping through them.

  Bentley folded his hands on his lap: “Just try to forget he’s here.”

  But Reed couldn’t. He kept flicking his eyes edgily from one to the other, always anxious about what Rodmoor was getting into next.

  “Mr. Reed,” Bentley went on, “were you in Redditch on the evening of November 9? Last Friday, that was.”

  Reed put his hand to his brow, which was damp with sweat. “Let me think now. . . . Yes, yes, I believe I was.”

  “Why?”

  “What? Sorry . . . ?”

  “I asked why. Why were you in Redditch? What was the purpose of your visit?”

  He sounded like an immigration control officer at the airport, Reed thought. “I was there to meet an old university friend,” he answered. “I’ve been going down for a weekend once a year or so ever since he moved there.”

  “And did you meet him?”

  “As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t.” Reed explained the communications breakdown with Francis.

  Bentley raised an eyebrow. Rodmoor rifled through the magazine rack by the fireplace.

  “But you still went there?” Bentley persisted.

  “Yes. I told you, I didn’t know he’d be away. Look, do you mind telling me what this is about? I think I have a right to know.”

  Rodmoor fished a copy of Mayfair out of the magazine rack and held it up for Bentley to see. Bentley frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace panties and camisole, stockings and a suspender belt. She was on her knees
on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera, and she looked as if she’d just been licking her glossy red lips. The thin strap of the camisole had slipped over her upper arm.

  “Nice,” Bentley said. “Looks a bit young, though, don’t you think?”

  Reed shrugged. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.

  Bentley flipped through the rest of the magazine, pausing over the color spreads of naked women in fetching poses.

  “It’s not illegal you know,” Reed burst out. “You can buy it in any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, sir?” said Inspector Rodmoor, taking the magazine back from his boss and replacing it.

  Bentley smiled. “Don’t mind him, lad,” he said. “He’s a Methodist. Now where were we?”

  Reed shook his head.

  “Do you own a car?” Bentley asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you live here by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriends?”

  “Some.”

  “But not to live with?”

  “No.”

  “Magazines enough for you, eh?”

  “Now just a minute—­”

  “Sorry,” Bentley said, holding up his skeletal hand. “Pretty tasteless of me, that was. Out of line.”

  Why couldn’t Reed quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Bentley had made the remark on purpose to see how he would react. He hoped he’d passed the test. “You were going to tell me what all this was about . . .”

  “Was I? Why don’t you tell me about what you did in Redditch last Friday evening first? Inspector Rodmoor will join us here by the table and take notes. No hurry. Take your time.”

  And slowly, trying to remember all the details of that miserable, washed-­out evening five days ago, Reed told them. At one point, Bentley asked him what he’d been wearing, and Inspector Rodmoor asked if they might have a look at his raincoat and bag. When Reed finished, the heavy silence stretched on for seconds. What were they thinking about? he wondered. Were they trying to make up their minds about him? What was he supposed to have done?