Thursday, January 16
We’d gotten back to the Crown at two in the morning and stumbled into bed without bothering to brush our teeth or even turn off the lights. Teddy and Quinn Pearce had been taken to the hospital at Plymouth, the closest facility offering emergency services. On the drive home, Okoje had texted, saying they’d both been cautioned and, as soon as they were able, would give their official statements.
It was now ten in the morning. Having eaten our room-service breakfast, we lay in bed, fingers interlaced. At least we’d both showered. Dried peat isn’t easy to get out of hair. Who knew? I was still in my cashmere robe.
“Will they be charged?” I asked Tom.
“I don’t see how Quinn can avoid charges,” Tom said. “She fired an unregistered gun in a public place. And wasted police time by staging the attacks.”
“She thought she was helping Teddy by making him the hero standing up to corruption, and she ended up nearly getting him killed.” I raked my free hand through my still-damp hair.
“He’s not likely to press charges, is he?” It was a statement, not a question. “If she has a good lawyer and is very, very lucky, she might get a noncustodial sentence.”
“Do they believe her about leaving Littlejohn alive that morning?”
“I don’t know. Too bad she didn’t see anyone hanging around when she left.”
“Yes, it is.” Images clicked through my brain—the photograph of the football team; the tea things in the sink at the Old Merchant’s House; Littlejohn telling Quinn she had to leave because he was expecting someone.
“I know that look,” Tom said. “You’re making connections.”
“The photograph of the football team. Pearce singled out two boys, marking them with red stars. One of them was Teddy Pearce. Who was the second boy?”
“Okoje’s got someone tracking him down. It looked like an official team photograph. Someone else will have kept a copy. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that two boys who vaguely resemble each other and who are both wearing identical football jerseys could easily be mistaken for each other in the dark. Gideon Littlejohn might not have known which of the two it was who put the burning newspaper through Billy Cole’s letter slot.”
“You mean by accusing Teddy Pearce, he was making a guess, seeing how Teddy would react.”
“It’s possible.” My mobile buzzed. I’d left it on the table the night before. I moaned, getting out of bed. Every muscle in my body was objecting. I clicked on the phone. “Morning, Julia. What’s up?”
“It’s the trunk, Kate. I told you I was going to release part of the lining to examine the construction. I did that early this morning and—well, I got quite a surprise. I found two flash drives.”
“Flash drives? What’s on them?”
“Don’t know. Thought you’d want to see them first.”
“We’ll be there. Give us half an hour.”
When we arrived at the Museum of Devon Life, Isla was at the ticket counter. Seeing us, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the supply room. Hawksworthy was there too—somewhere. We’d seen his black BMW in the car park.
Julia was waiting for us. She held out two USB flash drives, cradled in a tissue. “They were hidden inside the lining, taped to one of the wood slats. I haven’t touched them. I knew they might be important to the investigation.”
“Well done.” Tom retrieved a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag from inside his jacket. He dropped the flash drives into the bag. “Show me where you found them.”
The trunk sat on the worktable, the lid open. Part of the yellow-print lining had been peeled back and held in place with long pins.
“I told Kate I was going to open the lining here—where someone made repairs at one time. At least I thought they were repairs. Now I think someone opened the lining to hide the flash drives and then closed it up again with stitches meant to replicate the original. They didn’t succeed. It was obvious.” Carefully, she moved more layers of material out of the way—first a liner of unbleached cotton and then some fine cotton batting, exposing a thick layer of unspun wool. On one of the mounting slats was a piece of very modern electrical tape. “That’s where I found them.”
“Why there, of all places?” Tom said.
“Because he was paranoid about security,” I said. “Especially after the break-in three months ago. He hid the flash drives in the one place he knew no one would ever look.”
No wonder Littlejohn had refused to part with the trunk.
Varma slid one of the flash drives into the USB port of his computer in the police enquiry office.
Piano music began to play as a series of historical images rolled across the screen. The familiar title appeared: Living in the Past: The Life of a Modern-Day Victorian Gentleman.
“It’s one of his videos,” Tom said.
Gideon Littlejohn’s face filled the screen. He wasn’t smiling.
Hello again, friends. Gideon Littlejohn here. For those new to the channel, I live in a Victorian house in a village called Coombe Mallet, within Dartmoor National Park in Devon, England.
He stepped back from the camera to allow a shot of his costume.
I live and dress as a middle-class Victorian gentleman.”
“Tom,” I whispered, “did you notice? The camera is stationary. No one’s filming.”
Today’s program will be different in style and subject matter to my usual videos. Instead of showing you how I live and what it takes to achieve fidelity to the past, I want to speak to you today about a different kind of fidelity. The kind we owe to each other as human beings. The kind that means telling the truth and holding ourselves and others to a higher standard.
He stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice was bitter.
Many years ago, I failed to protect someone. A man who’d been kind to me. A man who changed my life.
His eyes glistened.
I failed because I was afraid. I was a coward. And in all those years, I never spoke up because I was ashamed. Today I am speaking up, and in doing so, I intend to right an old wrong.
On a warm June night in 1992, a gang of teens on the Burnthouse Lane estate in Exeter went on a rampage, turning over rubbish bins, smashing car windows, and spray-painting houses with disgusting slogans. Some of them turned on an elderly, crippled man named Billy Cole. He was my friend. I owed him my loyalty. But instead of standing up to the gang or calling the police, I hid. And I watched as one of those teens, an older boy, someone I knew from the estate, pushed a burning newspaper through Billy Cole’s mail slot. Billy died in the resulting fire.
Littlejohn moved out of the screenshot and returned, holding a file, from which he took a photograph. He held the photo close to the camera. It was the football team, the photograph we’d seen in the computer file on Teddy Pearce.
The boy in the front row is someone you know. Teddy Pearce, our new MP for Southeast Devon. Thirty-three years ago he murdered Billy Cole in cold blood, and I’m going to make sure he pays for his crime. I bear some of the guilt, I know that. But an old man died that night, and Teddy Pearce was never held accountable. I have the proof.
Littlejohn moved forward so his face, wet with tears, filled the screen.
Billy Cole will be avenged.
The screen faded to black.
“But Littlejohn was wrong about Teddy,” I said. “Or at least uncertain.”
“Maybe that’s why he never aired the video,” Okoje said. “Varma, let’s have the second flash drive.”
It was another video. We watched as the now-familiar music, images, and title filled the screen.
Hello again, friends. Gideon Littlejohn here. For those new to the channel, I live in a Victorian house in a village called Coombe Mallet, within Dartmoor National Park in Devon, England.
He stepped back from the camera.
I live and dress as a middle-class Victorian gentleman.
“It’s the same damn video,” Varma said, stopping the video.
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Look at his clothes,”
Okoje tapped the monitor. “Start it again.”
Today’s program will be different in style and subject matter to my usual videos. Instead of showing you how I live and what it takes to achieve fidelity to the past, I’m going to speak to you today about a different kind of fidelity. The kind we owe to each other as human beings. The kind that means telling the truth and holding ourselves and others to a higher standard.
“The script is identical,” Tom said. “Maybe he thought he needed a second take. Or maybe he included more information.”
Littlejohn’s voice was solemn as he continued.
Many years ago, I failed to protect someone. A man who’d been kind to me. A man who changed my life. I failed because I was afraid. And in all those years, I never spoke up because I was ashamed. Today I will speak up, and in doing so, I intend to right an old wrong.
We listened again to Littlejohn’s emotional description of the rampage and the death of Billy Cole. He held up the photograph of the football team, positioning it this time so we were looking not at the front row but at the second. I held my breath.
The boy in the back row, second from the left, is someone you know—a respected academic, Dr. Hugo Hawksworthy, director of the Museum of Devon Life in Coombe Mallet. He is not what he seems to be, and I can prove it.
Littlejohn held up a folder.
His academic credits are fraudulent. He claims to have graduated with highest honors from the University of Glasgow. The transcripts show he barely passed his courses. He claims to have earned a doctorate in the States. The university he calls his alma mater says he never attended classes there. He claims to have interned at the Smithsonian Museum. They say he worked one summer as a security guard.
But these aren’t the most important lies he’s told. Thirty-three years ago, Hugo Hawksworthy murdered an old man, Billy Cole, in cold blood. Billy was my friend. I watched it with my own eyes, and I was afraid. Today I’m going to make sure Hugo Hawksworthy finally pays for his crime. I bear some of the guilt, I admit that freely. But an old man died that night, a man who deserved to be protected and esteemed, and Hugo Hawksworthy was never held accountable. His whole life is a collection of lies.
Littlejohn moved forward so his face filled the screen.
Billy Cole will be avenged.
Once again, the screen faded to black.
Okoje put the heel of his hand on his forehead. “Varma. Get Constable Doaks. Bring Hawksworthy in under caution.”
“Tom,” I said, “what happened to that blue file?”