of her sister for a minute. Tom waits patiently for her to come back to the present. ‘But sometimes you can’t be careful enough can you – some things just come out of the blue, out of nowhere. How can you be safe all the time?’
Tom holds her eyes, he doesn’t blink. The pain in his face loosens her tongue and thirty-year-old tears return and run down her cheeks.
‘She was on the motorway – nothing ahead of her, clear for miles. But a car was driving on an overpass, a slip road that led onto the motorway. A woman was driving fast anda deer ran out in front of her … she swerved and a large rolled rug on her roof came loose and flew into the air.’ Tom sees her face shift as the memories flood over her. He can see that, even though she wasn’t there, she imagines its trajectory; sees her sister in the little car, oblivious to her impending death – singing, happy to have seen her beloved Marc Bolan. The carpet arcs through the heavens – coming closer and closer until it smashes through the windscreen and … ‘It was a dreadful tragedy all round. The woman who caused the accident had a breakdown, the guilt of it all. She hanged herself a few weeks later.’
‘Was there anyone else there?’
‘The woman’s son was in the car. No more than a boy.’
‘Do you remember their names?’
‘She was Anna … Anna something. And the boy, what was his name?’ Tom watches her try to prise the name from her memory. ‘Oh, this is dreadful. I can still see his quivering lip, his tears. But his name …’ Then her face clears as it seems to come to her. ‘George. The boy’s name was George.’
‘The surname?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember. Isn’t that awful? I just can’t recall it.’
It is 9pm. Tom stands on the threshold and breathes. This is crossing a line, he knows that. Drake will not be happy with one of his officers calling unannounced at his home, but Tom is running out of time. He can see that something is happening this evening, lights blaze from every window and the drive and street around the house are packed with cars. With a slightly shaking hand he reaches out to the doorbell and touches it. Somewhere, deep inside the largehouse, a bell rings. He waits for a few minutes and the door is pulled open with great gusto. Standing there with a huge smile on his face and wearing a pink apron that says you are my cupcake is Chief Superintendent Drake. The smile dies on his lips as he sees it is Tom standing there.
‘What the fuck do you want Bevans?’
Tom hands him a file. ‘This is the killer.’
After leaving Sophie Brindley in the early afternoon, Tom had spent the rest of the day finding the accidental death reports on Jennifer Brindley from 1971. They corroborated everything Sophie had said. Then he found the report of the driver’s suicide three weeks after the accident, and finally he found reference to her son: George Albert Fforde-Merrison. A hunch had driven him onwards to find out that, despite his father being alive, George had been placed in care after his mother’s death. From there it had been easy to find the documents committing the boy to a psychiatric hospital. He was institutionalised a month after his mother’s suicide. But after that George disappeared. In fact, the last note on his file, from his doctor at the asylum, said he thought George Fforde-Merrison planned to go to Europe. ‘He talked about Belgium.’ The doctor wrote. That was in March 1980.
Drake eyes the folder Tom has given him with suspicion. Then with a sigh, he walks inside the house and along the hallway. Tom hesitates for a second and then follows him, pulling the front door closed. Drake stops at a door and goes inside, it is the kitchen. He pulls a tray of mini pies from the oven and then sits at the table and begins to read. Tom looksaround the room – he could get his whole flat in this kitchen. From somewhere the sound of laughter bubbles up and Mrs Drake walks into her
Tom holds her eyes, he doesn’t blink. The pain in his face loosens her tongue and thirty-year-old tears return and run down her cheeks.
‘She was on the motorway – nothing ahead of her, clear for miles. But a car was driving on an overpass, a slip road that led onto the motorway. A woman was driving fast anda deer ran out in front of her … she swerved and a large rolled rug on her roof came loose and flew into the air.’ Tom sees her face shift as the memories flood over her. He can see that, even though she wasn’t there, she imagines its trajectory; sees her sister in the little car, oblivious to her impending death – singing, happy to have seen her beloved Marc Bolan. The carpet arcs through the heavens – coming closer and closer until it smashes through the windscreen and … ‘It was a dreadful tragedy all round. The woman who caused the accident had a breakdown, the guilt of it all. She hanged herself a few weeks later.’
‘Was there anyone else there?’
‘The woman’s son was in the car. No more than a boy.’
‘Do you remember their names?’
‘She was Anna … Anna something. And the boy, what was his name?’ Tom watches her try to prise the name from her memory. ‘Oh, this is dreadful. I can still see his quivering lip, his tears. But his name …’ Then her face clears as it seems to come to her. ‘George. The boy’s name was George.’
‘The surname?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember. Isn’t that awful? I just can’t recall it.’
It is 9pm. Tom stands on the threshold and breathes. This is crossing a line, he knows that. Drake will not be happy with one of his officers calling unannounced at his home, but Tom is running out of time. He can see that something is happening this evening, lights blaze from every window and the drive and street around the house are packed with cars. With a slightly shaking hand he reaches out to the doorbell and touches it. Somewhere, deep inside the largehouse, a bell rings. He waits for a few minutes and the door is pulled open with great gusto. Standing there with a huge smile on his face and wearing a pink apron that says you are my cupcake is Chief Superintendent Drake. The smile dies on his lips as he sees it is Tom standing there.
‘What the fuck do you want Bevans?’
Tom hands him a file. ‘This is the killer.’
After leaving Sophie Brindley in the early afternoon, Tom had spent the rest of the day finding the accidental death reports on Jennifer Brindley from 1971. They corroborated everything Sophie had said. Then he found the report of the driver’s suicide three weeks after the accident, and finally he found reference to her son: George Albert Fforde-Merrison. A hunch had driven him onwards to find out that, despite his father being alive, George had been placed in care after his mother’s death. From there it had been easy to find the documents committing the boy to a psychiatric hospital. He was institutionalised a month after his mother’s suicide. But after that George disappeared. In fact, the last note on his file, from his doctor at the asylum, said he thought George Fforde-Merrison planned to go to Europe. ‘He talked about Belgium.’ The doctor wrote. That was in March 1980.
Drake eyes the folder Tom has given him with suspicion. Then with a sigh, he walks inside the house and along the hallway. Tom hesitates for a second and then follows him, pulling the front door closed. Drake stops at a door and goes inside, it is the kitchen. He pulls a tray of mini pies from the oven and then sits at the table and begins to read. Tom looksaround the room – he could get his whole flat in this kitchen. From somewhere the sound of laughter bubbles up and Mrs Drake walks into her
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