The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama Read online

  THE HIDDEN LEGACY

  G.J. MINETT

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART ONE: THE LETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  PART TWO: THE JOURNEY

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART THREE: THE DISCOVERY

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART FOUR: THE DECISION

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Elaine

  PROLOGUE

  November 1966: John Michael

  It’s a quarter to nine when he reaches the school gates. Ten minutes, he thinks, ten minutes.

  He’d have been here earlier, but he had to wait until his dad was safely out of the way. The last thing he needed was awkward questions. What’s with the duffel bag, son? What’s wrong with your satchel? What have you got in there anyway? So he’d waited, kicking his heels in the hallway, counting off the seconds until at long last his dad oh so slowly closed the bonnet of the Austin A40, climbed in and drove off. As soon as he’d watched him turn the corner at the end of the road, he slammed the front door and ran the mile and a half to school, barely pausing for breath – not easy with a heavy bag strapped across your shoulders. He’d lost his footing several times, skidding on the icy pavement.

  He takes several deep breaths. His shirt is clammy against his back and the chill of the air is starting to bite through his clothing now that he’s no longer on the move. But at least he’s here.

  It’s fourteen minutes to nine. He has nine minutes.

  At five-to precisely, Miss Cattermole will emerge from the staff room and stride confidently out to the centre of the playground. She’ll ring the bell seven times with extravagant sweeps of her right arm. Always seven times. Always her right arm. The left dangles limply at her side. Permanently useless. Some say it was a war injury, but he doesn’t believe it. People just love to make up stories . . . and what would someone like Miss Cattermole have been doing in the war anyway? One thing’s for certain, she’ll never say what really caused it. Waves away questions with the words ‘gross impertinence’. Favourite phrase of hers. Everything’s ‘gross impertinence’. He knows what it means – it means don’t ask.

  When she rings the bell, everyone will appear from nowhere, as if by magic. They’ll gather like ants around a jam jar. In the summer you have to drag them out of their hidey-holes, but when it’s this cold they come pouring out, can’t get inside quickly enough. The fourth and fifth years will emerge from the walled area by the boiler room. It’s their territory because they’re the oldest. He hasn’t been at secondary school for long, but he knows this much. If you’ve got any sense, you keep away from there.

  The third years will be sheltering in the bike sheds, making the most of their last chance until break for a quick smoke. As for the first and second years, they’ll be dotted around what’s left of the playground, huddled into groups to protect themselves against whatever the weather and the older pupils might decide to throw at them. They’ll be first in the line which will form at the main entrance, waiting for Mr Copeland to unbolt the doors from the inside – first, that is, until the older pupils push their way in ahead of them.

  Once Miss Cattermole has rung the bell, it will be too late.

  He looks again at his Timex wristwatch. Ticka ticka Timex. He has eight minutes.

  The playground is a mass of bodies. Seems like everyone’s taller than he is. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s one thing to stand at the gate and spot her as she arrives. Now that he’s late, how’s he supposed to find her in this forest of arms and legs? He hurries from group to group, trying not to draw attention to himself.

  Just another first year going about his business.

  Insignificant.

  He heads for the bike sheds, then stops. The duffel bag is cutting into his shoulders and he needs to slide it off his back, just for a few seconds. He catches it by the straps and lets it dangle from his wrist, moving stiff neck muscles from side to side. As the bag swings backwards and forwards, he can hear the liquid sloshing around inside the container. He finds the sound reassuring. Then he hears a laugh that works on his senses like a road drill.

  Carol Bingham is not the sort of girl his mother would have wanted him to bring home. Never in a month of Sundays! She’s been in trouble more than once for wearing a miniskirt and make-up to school. She’s very common, swears a lot. Calls him ‘half inch’ and wags her little finger at him. That’s very unkind. Her laugh’s easy to pick out . . . and once he’s tracked down Carol, finding Julie is easy. She never seems to stray more than a few feet from Carol’s side. Unfortunately.

  Until yesterday he thought Julie was the nicest girl he’d ever met. Now he knows better. Maybe she’s nice when Carol’s not there. Maybe she changes because she’s embarrassed in front of an audience. But that’s no excuse. And nor is being pretty. Good manners cost nothing.

  Carol’s already spotted him and she’s making sure everyone within range knows about yesterday. And the others are all laughing now. Taking their cue from Carol, they’re wiggling their little fingers and chanting ‘half inch’ in high, squeaky voices, clouds of warm breath clinging to them like speech bubbles in a cartoon. He ignores them and stands in front of Julie. Sticks and stones. He knows what he has to do.

  Things could still change, even now. Julie could turn to Carol and tell her to grow up. She could be nice to him if she wanted. It’s her choice. But he suspects deep down that she doesn’t have it in her. And sure enough, she rounds on him before he can even get a word in: Jesus, don’t you ever learn? Tells him to piss off. She’s picked up that sort of language from Carol, of course. Then, in case she’s not made herself clear, she turns her back on him with a toss of her hair and returns to the conversation he’s interrupted.

  So, he thinks to himself, that’s that, then.

  He rests the duffel bag on the floor, takes off his gloves and loosens the toggle. Julie may have finished with him, but Carol clearly hasn’t. She wants to know what he’s got in there. Flowers? Chocolates? Look, Julie – Romeo’s brought you a present, ha, ha! He doesn’t answer. He manoeuvres the container out of the bag. It’s a tight fit and keeps catching on the strings, just as it did going in. Everyone’s intrigued now, pressing forward for a closer look. He finally yanks it free and rests it on the ground. Unscrews the cap of the can he took from his father’s garage. Takes the can in both hands, straightens up and swings it in Julie’s direction, sending its contents flying out in an arc, backlit by the sun, colours sparkling. The can is heavy and the momentum nearly drags it out of his hands.

  Carol and Julie leap back with a squeal. Carol swears – of course, she would do. The two girls hunch their shoulders and glance at each other as if they can’t quite believe what’s happened. Then they start shrieking. Their clothes. Their hair. And the smell – it’s disgusting.

  All around him there’s silence, followed by nervous giggles as the hangers-on wonder what will happen next. This should be good. Carol is not someone you mess with. She’s got a seventeen-year-old boyfriend with a Vespa. No way will she let him get away with this – she’ll kill him. So everyone’s watching the two girls to see what their next move will be . . . which is why he has time to take the matches from his pocket, light one and throw it into the pool of liquid gathering at their feet. It’s over before anyone realises
what’s happening. And that brings them to life alright, scattering in all directions.

  He throws down the box containing the rest of the matches, turns on his heels and walks through the playground, heading for the school gates. Walks, not runs. Walks away, as if nothing at all has happened. He’s calm, in control. ‘Unflustered’ is the word they’ll use at the trial. It’s what everyone will remember.

  No one moves to stop him. He walks on, hears nothing. He’s vaguely aware of Miss Cattermole barrelling out of the school building, heading for the two girls, one arm flapping uselessly like a wounded penguin. But that’s all.

  Which is odd, really. Should have heard something, they will tell him. You could hear the screams in Rennison Park, several streets away.

  PART ONE:

  THE LETTER

  1

  February 2008: Ellen

  The letter was there on the mat when Ellen came downstairs. She missed it at first among the daily quota of junk mail and local advertising, which she swept up along with the rain-damaged Independent – mental note: serious word with the paper girl – and whisked away into the kitchen. It was the light blue envelope that caught her attention; the letters AWL shaped into an elaborate logo in the top left-hand corner. On the reverse side she found the words Aitcheson, Wilmot and Lowe, Solicitors printed in full, immediately above an address in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire.

  Her immediate response was one of surprise. She wasn’t unaccustomed to letters from solicitors – she received more than her fair share, sent on behalf of disappointed holidaymakers, holding her personally responsible for everything from faulty bathroom fittings to the lousy weather. These were always sent to work though, never to her home address. She fanned her face with the envelope, debating whether to open it straightaway. She even got as far as picking up a knife and inserting the tip of the blade into the flap before thinking better of it. She placed it carefully next to her plate on the table. She’d have more time over breakfast. There were more pressing things to see to first.

  Early mornings were frantic – invariably. No matter how hard she tried to impose a semblance of order on the chaos, the odds were always stacked against her somehow and today was no different. First Harry, who had to be prised out of bed with a chisel on the best of mornings, decided he was too sick for school. For two or three minutes Ellen probed and he parried, an impasse which was resolved only when he realised that missing school would also rule out Under-9s football practice. Suddenly it was Lazarus all over again.

  As for Megan, she was giving full rein to every pout in her extensive repertoire because Ellen was refusing to take Harry and her to the cinema on Friday night, having already invited Kate to dinner. She’d offered to take them both some other time but, for reasons destined to remain beyond her comprehension, this wasn’t good enough. Megan came downstairs minus her school sweatshirt, which she was unhappy about wearing because it was too small, made her look stupid. Ellen instinctively interpreted this as a euphemism for overweight and found herself pressing emotional alarm bells better left untouched for some time yet. She’s only ten, for God’s sake! If she says stupid, she means stupid. She persuaded Megan to wear it for the rest of the week, promising to take her into town and buy a new one at the weekend. The victory felt Pyrrhic at best – she suspected the sweatshirt would be taken off and stuffed into Megan’s bag the moment she drove off.

  Then, to set the seal on a stressful start to the morning, Harry was unable to find his lunch box. She wasted valuable time searching for it before he remembered leaving it in the back of Shannon’s car. Trying not to roll her eyes, Ellen grabbed his sandwiches, banana and carton of apple juice and thrust them into a large freezer bag, saying nothing but knotting it with a vehemence that spoke volumes. What’s the matter with Jack? How long does it take to check they’ve left nothing behind? Who’s the adult here? And what sort of a name is Shannon anyway? What is she – a cheerleader, for God’s sake?

  Although they were running late by the time everyone was seated at the table, Ellen vowed not to let it spoil her breakfast. It’s only ten minutes, she told herself. She’d make it up somehow. She poured muesli into her bowl and reached for the pile of letters, weeding out the junk mail first, which she always binned unopened. Then came the various advertising leaflets and special-offer coupons for things she would never buy, plus the free local paper, which she never bothered to read and which, unlike the Independent, was bone dry. Of course.

  The credit-card statement and the car insurance renewal form were placed in the centre of the table – she would have to deal with them tonight. The letter from AWL she saved until last.

  ‘Mrs Ellen Harrison’, it said in the small window, with not a trace of irony. The last time she’d changed her name, she’d continued to receive letters addressed to Miss Ellen Sutherland for what seemed like an eternity. Presumably she could expect more of the same now in reverse. It occurred to her that she was guilty yet again of thinking about her divorce less in terms of its emotional impact than the logistical and administrative inconvenience it would entail. Kate would be merciless if she knew. What are you like, girl? Do you ever listen to yourself? She’d once referred to Ellen as an emotional vacuum, pausing perhaps a fraction of a second too long before smiling to suggest that she wasn’t being serious. From time to time Ellen found herself wondering about that pause.

  Picking up the sharp knife once more, she sliced the envelope open and teased out the crisp blue notepaper. Unfolding the single sheet, she read it. Then, with a frown, she read it again, more carefully this time.

  February 5th, 2008

  Re: The Last Will and Testament of Eudora Jane Nash

  Dear Mrs Harrison,

  I should be grateful if you would telephone me as a matter of some urgency in respect of the above. When calling, please ask to speak with me in person. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Derek Wilmot

  Senior Executive Partner

  None the wiser, she looked again at the envelope, then threw it into the middle of the table with a sigh. Nonsense, of course. No question. Who on earth was Eudora Nash? She’d never heard of her. It wasn’t exactly a name you’d forget in a hurry. As for Cheltenham, she’d never been there in her life, as far as she was aware; she’d have difficulty locating it on a map. Whatever was going on here, it was nothing to do with her. Someone had obviously been careless, picking out the wrong Ellen Harrison, and now her time was being wasted. She hated sloppiness.

  Slipping the notepaper back into the envelope, she promised herself she’d ring from work and sort it out the first chance she had.

  COTSWOLD DAILY GAZETTE

  APRIL 12TH 1967

  JUDGE REVEALS IDENTITY OF BOY X

  In a surprise development on the opening day of the trial of ‘the playground killer’, hitherto known as Boy X, it was announced that the injunction ensuring his anonymity was to be lifted. The judge, Mr Justice Lawson, said in his opening remarks that he had taken this unusual step under advisement and that the decision met with the approval of both the prosecution and defence legal teams.

  Naming 12-year-old John Michael Adams of Churchdown, Gloucestershire, the judge explained that lifting the injunction was the only sensible course of action under the circumstances. The boy’s identity has been common knowledge for some time, both in the local area and further afield, and any suggestion that his anonymity might be protected would be little more than hypocrisy. He took the opportunity to condemn what he described as ‘the maverick and highly irresponsible behaviour of individuals representing news agencies and media organisations, from whom higher standards of professional integrity might reasonably be expected’.

  Mr Justice Lawson also made clear his expectations of anyone attending the trial. He said that it was his duty ‘to uphold the process of law and order and to ensure that the proceedings are carried out with the appropriate degree of decorum’ and that any unwarranted outbursts would resul
t in the immediate ejection of those responsible.

  It is now almost five months since John Michael Adams is alleged to have walked into the playground of Fairfield Secondary Modern School and poured petrol over two 14-year-old schoolgirls before setting them alight. Julie Kasprowicz died in hospital from her injuries. Carol Bingham suffered serious burns to her face and shoulders and, after several operations, is expected to bear the physical and emotional scars for life. The accused watched impassively throughout the 45-minute hearing. Sitting on a raised chair in full view of the court, including members of the families of both victims, he spoke only once, confirming his identity in a quiet voice. Accompanied by a social worker, he smiled from time to time at his father, who sat almost within touching distance. His mother, as has already been widely circulated, committed suicide in July 1964.

  The trial continues . . .

  2

  February 2008: Ellen

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Wilmot will be in conference all morning. Might I take a message?’

  Ellen turned away from her first-floor window, leaving the boys on security to deal with the delivery lorry which had just turned in through the gates. She reached for her coffee and dunked one of her Rich Tea biscuits, watching with satisfaction as the dark stain seeped slowly upwards.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m actually ringing at Mr Wilmot’s request. I have a letter here asking me to get in touch as a matter of some urgency. His words, not mine.’

  ‘I see. Might I have your name, please?’

  ‘Ellen Sutherland . . . although he’ll know me by the name of Harrison.’

  ‘Mrs Harrison – of course. I’ll see if I can connect you. Might I ask you to hold for just a few moments?’

  Click. Cue muzak.

  You might, thought Ellen, then instantly reproached herself for being so pedantic. The girl was only doing her job. When it came to her own staff, she’d take artificial and mannered over rude and aggressive any day of the week.