Forgive Me (40 page)

She liked the fact that Phil had painted his
front door red – and although she didn’t say it, she was already thinking how much
nicer it would be with tubs of flowers flanking it.

Inside, the flat was bigger than she had
expected. It had a decent-sized sitting room, two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom and a long
narrow kitchen with a door at the end leading to the garden.

Phil stood for a moment, and sniffed
appreciatively at the smell of lavender furniture polish. ‘Mum’s done a good
job,’
he said. ‘If you’d seen what it was like a
couple of days ago, you’d have run off down the street.’

‘No, I wouldn’t, I’d have
got stuck in to clean it,’ she said, and kissed him. ‘I’m so glad to
be here with you.’

What she really meant was that she was sure
she could feel safe with him. His flat might be what she expected from a couple of
bachelors – uninspired decor in green and beige, a worn three-piece suite and a stained
carpet which was a testimony to many parties – but she was glad to be there. The kitchen
was very nice, though: pine units and a sparklingly clean cooker. When she looked out of
the back door she found the garden was all paved, with not an empty beer can or
overflowing dustbin in sight.

‘When the Fire Department gives us the
all clear, I’ll go and rescue all your tubs of flowers,’ Phil said. ‘I
bet you are thinking how boring it looks out there?’

She laughed; he so often seemed to guess
what she was thinking. ‘When did men ever think of planting up tubs?’ she
said. ‘I’m just delighted there is somewhere to sit outside. Mind you,
autumn is here, it’s already chillier.’

‘I’m going to make us some
tea,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll sit down and make a list of all the things
that have to be done. Not that you need to do stuff like contacting the insurance
people, your bank, or even going to buy clothes yet. But a list is always a good place
to start.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at
work?’ she asked, leaning into his chest. ‘You’ve had so much time off
because of me.’

‘I should go back tomorrow. But only
if you’ll be OK on your own. Once you’d given me Patrick, Olive and
Gregor’s phone numbers I did ring them. Patrick wasn’t there, so I could
only leave a message, but Olive and Gregor have got this number and address and will
ring to speak to you. Brian said he’d definitely call round to see you. He was
horrified by
what had happened, but he did say he could get a team
together to sort out the house once the police have finished poring over it.’

‘Dear Brian,’ she said with
affection, ‘he’s such a nice man. Now, about that tea!’

Detective Inspector Salway stepped forward
as the front door of The Beeches was opened by a tall dark-haired man.

‘Mr Andrew Patterson?’ Salway
inquired.

‘Yes, what can I do for
you?’

‘DI Salway,’ he said, and
flashed his identity card. Then, half turning towards the other detective who was
standing a few feet back, he introduced him as DC Connaught. ‘We have a warrant to
search your house following the arson attack at your stepdaughter’s home in
London.’

It was just after eight in the morning –
always a good time to catch suspects unawares. Patterson looked ready to go to work; he
was clean-shaven, wearing a smart navy-blue suit.

‘Arson attack!’ Patterson
exclaimed. ‘Good heavens. How awful! Is Eva alright?’

The two policemen exchanged glances. If they
hadn’t been told of the issues between this man and his stepdaughter, they might
have almost believed his concern for her was real.

‘She’s recovering now,’
Salway said. ‘But it was touch and go at first. We’re looking at an
attempted murder.’

‘But why do you need to search my
house?’ Patterson asked as if bewildered. ‘She hasn’t lived here for
some time, and she took all her belongings with her. Why wasn’t I told about this
fire before? I would’ve driven down to London with her brother and sister to see
her. Is she still in hospital?’

Salway thought the man was a very cool
customer. His reaction to the news of the arson attack was pitched perfectly to make him
look entirely innocent: not just his
indignation at the fact he
hadn’t been informed, but his assumption that they wanted to search in order to
find clues in the daughter’s belongings that might lead them to the arsonist. But
Salway had looked at the file from the day when Mrs Patterson died, and it had been
noted by WPC Markham that his attitude towards Eva on that occasion had been remarkably
lacking in sympathy or support for the girl.

‘It was up to her to say who she
wanted us to contact,’ Salway said. ‘I don’t believe she included you
in that number. The team who will be handling the search will be here any minute. But
while they are doing their job we’d like you to accompany us to the station to
help us with our inquiries.’

At that moment two police cars turned into
the drive. It was only then that Patterson looked nervous. ‘I don’t want
them rampaging around my house while I’m not around,’ he said.
‘Can’t I answer your questions here?’

‘We prefer interviews to take place at
the station, and my men will take great care not to damage anything,’ Salway said.
‘Now, if we can have your house and car keys please? They will be returned to you
as soon as we’ve finished.’

Patterson’s face darkened. He looked
as if he was about to start a protest, but as the other uniformed police got out of
their vehicles and began walking towards him, he clearly thought better of it. ‘My
other daughter Sophie is upstairs. I need to tell her what is happening.’

‘One of the women police officers will
inform her,’ Salway said firmly. ‘Now, please come with us.’

Two hours later Salway left the interview
room for a breather and to discuss his progress with Wilson, his sergeant.

‘Patterson is very calm and
controlled,’ Salway sighed. ‘He claims on that night he left his
girlfriend’s place at around half eleven and went straight home to bed. He said he
heard
his daughter come in a bit later – around twelve, he thought. If
she corroborates that, he’ll be off the hook. Anything found in the
house?’

‘There was a petrol can in the garage.
But then who doesn’t have one, if they’ve got a petrol lawn mower? Nothing
suspicious in his car – and nothing that matches the bit of rope used as a wick that
they found outside the crime scene.’

Salway was disappointed. But having spent a
couple of hours with Patterson, he wasn’t really surprised the man had left
nothing incriminating for them to find. He was a clever man; even when he was questioned
about his relationship with his stepdaughter he managed to remain remarkably convincing
that it was Eva who had turned against him. ‘We’ll get the younger daughter
in for questioning too. I want to know where she was that evening, and how she got
home.’

‘What d’you reckon on this thing
about the baby in Carlisle?’ Wilson asked. ‘Did you bring that up with
Patterson?’

‘No, I didn’t. I was waiting to
see if he would mention it. I half expected he might use it to imply his stepdaughter
was deranged, but he’s a very cool customer. When I asked him what made her go to
see him on her way home from Scotland, when relations were a little chilly between them,
he said she wanted to ask him some stuff about her birth. He said he couldn’t
really answer her questions as he hadn’t met Flora then. He managed to give a
first-class impression of a concerned father, pointing out that she’d lost her
mother in the worst possible circumstances, and maybe regretted leaving home so soon
afterwards. He even covered all the bases by admitting he could have handled her with
more sensitivity and tact, and put that down to his own grief. It would be very easy to
believe him.’

‘But you don’t?’

‘No. He’s suave, calm and
charming, but I sensed the bully
beneath. He’s a man who is used
to having everything his own way, and he’s not a man to cross. I don’t know
that I believe his wife stole a baby, but I’m sure as hell he did something to
that poor woman which made her top herself. And I’ve got a gut feeling he set that
fire, though I can’t see a motive for doing it. He doesn’t stand to gain
anything by it.’

‘So what now then?’ the sergeant
asked.

‘Apart from interviewing Sophie
Patterson, there’s not a lot we can do. The Met will continue to make further
inquiries in the locality of the fire, and they’ll be checking on all maternity
cases on the 26th of April, 1970, when Eva was born – both hospital and home births. I
was told they were checking on all doctors in the Holland Park area to find where Flora
Foyle and her baby were registered, and to see if there were any checks made by health
visitors back in 1970.’

‘But what about Patterson?’

Salway shrugged. ‘We haven’t got
anything to hold him with, much less charge him. The daughter Sophie is on her way now.
But if she confirms her dad was home in bed that night, we’ll have to let him
go.’

WPC Markham’s most vivid memory of
the night of Flora Patterson’s suicide had been the coldness Andrew Patterson had
shown towards Eva. It had played on her mind for some time afterwards.

On hearing the news that Eva had been the
victim of an arson attack in London, that Andrew Patterson wasn’t her father, and
that he was the prime suspect, she felt justified in many of the thoughts she’d
had about the man.

When she was asked to interview Sophie
Patterson, she just wished she had studied the younger daughter more closely that night,
because all she really remembered about the girl was her hysterics. As she walked into
the interview
room, where Sophie was waiting with PC Holderness who
had brought her in, she was surprised to find the girl had changed a great deal.

Six months ago Sophie had been an innocent,
pretty schoolgirl with a clear complexion and shining hair. Now she looked plain tarty:
she was wearing far too much make-up, her jeans were so tight she could have been poured
into them, and her T-shirt was very low cut, revealing impressive cleavage which Markham
felt could only have been achieved with a substantially padded bra. Even her hair was
spoiled. She’d had a perm, but it was frizzy rather than the kind of Botticelli
curls she’d clearly been aiming for.

She was chewing gum – something Markham
hated – and her surly expression and the way she had her arms crossed suggested she no
longer had any respect for authority.

‘What do you want to talk to me
for?’ she asked, tossing her hair. ‘I haven’t done
anything.’

‘No one suggested you had,’
Markham said. ‘We just need to know where you were on the evening of last
Thursday, the 20th of September.’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question,
please.’

‘I went to my mate’s
house,’ she said, folding her arms and looking up at the ceiling.

‘And her name and address?’
Markham asked.

‘Louise Randal, 47 Fortworth
Road.’

‘What time did you go there, and what
time was it when you left?’

‘’Bout seven. Don’t know
when I left, I never looked at the clock.’

‘Roughly will do.

Sophie shrugged. ‘Might have been
around eleven thirty.’

‘And how did you get home?’

‘I walked.’

Fortworth Road was some half an hour’s
walk from The Beeches, and it was unlikely a girl of her age would walk that far so late
at night.

‘And you were alone?’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘Does your father approve of you
walking back home so late at night alone?’

Again Sophie shrugged. ‘What am I
supposed to do, stay in on my own? He doesn’t care, he’s always out with his
bird.’

Despite the girl’s belligerent
attitude, Markham felt some sympathy for her. She’d lost her mother at a very
crucial time. She was neither a child nor yet an adult, and if she was being left to her
own devices for long periods, it was hardly surprising she was getting in with bad
company.

‘So was Louise’s mother at home
while you were there? We’ll need to contact her to verify you were with her
daughter.’

Sophie looked panicked then. ‘I
can’t remember,’ she said.

Markham knew the houses in Fortworth Road
were very ordinary houses – too small for a visitor not to know who else was there.

‘You do realize that telling lies to
police officers is a serious crime?’ Markham pointed out. ‘If you
weren’t really at that address, or you didn’t get home until much later than
twelve, then it would be far better for you to tell me the truth now, as we’ll be
checking. So let me ask you again. Where were you that evening?’

Sophie picked at her fingernails. Markham
could almost see her weighing up whether the consequences of telling the truth to the
police would be greater than the trouble she’d be in with her father when he found
out she hadn’t been where she’d said she was.

‘I was with my boyfriend,’ she
finally admitted. ‘Round at
his place in Gloucester Road. Please
don’t tell my dad, he’ll go mad with me. He doesn’t approve of
Jake.’

PC Holderness smirked at Markham.

‘What time did you get home?’
Markham couldn’t promise Sophie anything, but she hoped to get at the whole truth
before she was forced to admit this to the girl.

Sophie hesitated.

‘Tell me the truth, Sophie,’
Markham insisted.

‘It was almost one,’ she
admitted reluctantly. ‘Jake dropped me home on his motorbike.’

‘Was your father home then?’

‘Yes, he’d gone to bed. I crept
in, so he wouldn’t hear me. He asked me the next morning what time I’d got
in, and I said it was twelve. Please don’t tell him I lied or he’ll ground
me for ever.’

‘Are you sure he was there? Was his
car in the drive?’

‘It must’ve been or I
wouldn’t have worried about him hearing me,’ Sophie said. Then she frowned
and looked at the policewoman curiously. ‘What’s this about? Why would you
care when I got in anyway?’