All Or Nothing Read online

  ‘We don’t talk about that,’ said his father, all that grandfatherly happiness erased.

  ‘No, we never talked about it when I was growing up,’ said Abbott. ‘But I want to talk about him now, please. I need to ask you something.’

  Ted Abbott’s fingers fretted at the denim of his jeans. His eyes went to the window, looking out into the car park. Abbott pressed him. ‘I need you to tell me what happened that day.’

  His dad looked at him, clear-eyed. ‘Sounds to me like you already know. Sounds to me like you’re trying to catch me out, make me feel bad for what happened years ago. Would that be right?’

  All Abbott said in reply was, ‘I need to hear it from you.’

  CHAPTER 6

  For a moment Abbott thought his father might simply clam up. But then he spoke. ‘Your mother wanted to tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t see the use in it meself.’ He threw up his hands as though considering the dilemma afresh. ‘What could we say to you? When could we say it? What good would it have done you? Anyway.’

  Abbott exhaled, rubbing his hands over his stubble. ‘“What good would it have done?” How about the fact that I would have known the truth?’

  ‘Sounds like you know the truth now.’

  ‘Yeah, Dad. Yeah, I know the truth now.’

  ‘You feel better for it, do you?’

  ‘No, you’re right, I don’t. But that’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point, then?’

  ‘That I grew up thinking the river killed him.’

  ‘Does it make any difference now you know otherwise?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, it does.’ Abbott stood abruptly, angrily. He saw fear flare in his father’s eyes, which was enough to settle him a little, reminding him to take things gently. ‘It means that I grew up thinking things were different to the way they really were. It means that I thought the river took him when a man took him. I always thought that if I’d tried harder, I could have saved him, but it turns out that had nothing to do with how he died.’

  ‘But we knew that, son,’ insisted his father. ‘We knew you was riddled with guilt over it all. Why make it worse by telling you that Chris had been delivered into the hands of a nonce?’

  ‘But I grew up thinking that we never knew for sure what had happened to him, when we did. Or everyone else did. Everyone else but me. I grew up with a lie, Dad.’

  His dad was shaking his head. ‘We never saw it like that. We didn’t see it like lying. We saw it as keeping you safe. We wanted to prevent you from a lifelong feeling of hatred for a man you’ve never met and never will. I can see now that you reckon we did the wrong thing, but you’ll know when that boy of yours gets older. You’ll know that as a parent you don’t always make the right decisions. You just make the decisions you think are right at the time. You make the decisions you think’ll cause the least hurt.’

  With a sigh, Abbott plonked himself back down, and they sat for a while, Abbott wondering if another nip would help him make sense of his father’s excuses. Help him to accept them. It wasn’t that, though. What he needed was to find forgiveness in his heart; he needed to remember that although the guy opposite had not been the best father, he in turn had not been the best son, and he thought of all those times that his father had made excuses for him, turned up at the police station when he was in trouble, tried his best to reassure him that Chris’s death was not his fault, and how he, the young and youthful Abbott, had reacted, which was to give his father years and years of trouble, ending in that remand-home spell. The death of Chris had sent them all off the rails one way or another. There was no wondering who’d got it worst. From four Abbott family members there were only two left, and as they sat in this overheated room in a care home in Burton-upon-Trent the last thing they needed to do was despise one another.

  It was as though his father had read his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, too, Dad.’

  They remained in silence for a while. A silence you might even have said was companionable, until Abbott almost regretfully broke it. ‘I’m going to have to go, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be coming back next week, will you?’

  He looked at the old man, the reality of it all coming crashing back in on him. ‘Yes. Next week, as usual,’ and he stood. His emotions roiled. He turned to go, just as his dad said, ‘He came to see me, you know.’

  ‘Who came to see you? The kidnapper?’ Abbott tried to recall the guy’s name. ‘Jason Scutter? Him?’

  ‘No, not him. They sent him to jail. I’m talking about the bloke who ran into Chris. Mr Smith was his name. Driving a Rover. Devastated he was. He sat in our front room in front of your mother and me, and he cried his heart out for what he’d done. He said that even though it weren’t his fault he could never forgive himself for what he’d done. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more sorry for someone in me life than I did at that moment.’

  Abbott knew. He knew that it didn’t matter whether or not you were responsible, where the fault lay; that even when it wasn’t your fault you still felt like it was, you still played it out in your head and made it end differently, wondered what you could have done.

  ‘He said something else an’ all.’

  ‘What’s that then, Dad?’

  ‘He said he saw the bloke in his car, the nonce, the one you just said.’

  Abbott found himself leaning forward. ‘Jason Scutter?’

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  His dad was drifting a little. ‘Yeah, go on,’ pressed Abbott. ‘He saw Scutter in his car?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he said. He said he saw him in his car . . .’

  ‘Yeah. And?’

  ‘He said there was another bloke with him.’

  CHAPTER 7

  It was rather – no, more than that – it was really childish. But when Fiona had got together with the guy from the Ministry of Defence, and when that guy had moved into the home that Fiona had previously shared with Abbott, Abbott had come up with a rather childish nickname for him.

  He had called him Cuckoo.

  He and Cuckoo had not exactly hit it off. Abbott was rough-hewn special forces. A soldier trained to kill and good at it. Cuckoo was, as far as Abbott was concerned, a pen pusher, a paper shuffler. The two men could hardly have been more different.

  But then, when Nathan had disappeared, Cuckoo made the trip to Singapore to alert Abbott. The search to find Nathan could scarcely have ended more badly, but throughout it all, Cuckoo had been a huge help and support. To say that Abbott had gained a new understanding and respect for him was putting things mildly.

  Still, when it was all over, Cuckoo had to go back to Fiona. The two were by now married and whatever she was told, Fiona could not let go of the notion that Abbott was primarily responsible for Nathan’s death. That, more than anything, put a stop to any burgeoning friendship between the two men.

  Well, that and the fact that Abbott’s only true friend came in cans and bottles.

  Fiona was right, of course, despite what Cuckoo told her. Abbott was responsible. Of course he was. Not directly. He had not literally lit the fire that ended up causing Nathan’s death. But metaphorically? Yes, in many ways, he had. Fiona was right. The issue being that she could not possibly, not in a million years, have hated Abbott as much as he hated himself.

  Now, Abbott found himself at RAF Chicksands, where he paid his way into the museum and had a wander around the Ministry of Defence exhibits, passing among other visitors, staring in at glass-fronted cabinets displaying weapons of the past, uniforms, as well as a reconstruction of an air-raid shelter where kids had their pictures taken wearing gas masks. Piped into the exhibits were sounds of battle, explosions and gunshots that made Abbott’s palms sweat.

  He located a quiet corner of the museum, unhooked his backpack and reached inside for the trusty bottle, took a quick hit and put it back, waited for the booze to do its job.

  ‘A
bbott.’

  The voice came from behind and he wheeled quickly to see that Cuckoo stood behind him, wearing a suit.

  ‘You look well, Cuckoo,’ said Abbott, stuffing the bottle back in his bag under Cuckoo’s disapproving gaze. ‘Have you lost weight?’

  ‘Fiona’s got me on a diet,’ nodded Cuckoo, patting a hand to what was indeed an admirably flat stomach.

  ‘Talking of which, did you tell her we were meeting?’

  ‘No, because I like my balls where they are, thank you very much.’ A family arrived, little boy scampering forward. Cuckoo indicated for he and Abbott to leave. ‘Outside?’

  On a bench in the late-March sun they watched visitors come and go.

  ‘So how is Fiona?’ asked Abbott when they were settled.

  Cuckoo sighed. ‘To all intents and purposes she’s coping. She’s redecorating the house. She’s got us on this diet. She’s keeping herself occupied.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘But she’s hurting. During the days, she keeps herself busy. But she’s crying herself to sleep most nights.’

  ‘She still blames me?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t blame you, Abbott. She knows it’s not your fault. That you did your best.’

  Abbott closed eyes that were suddenly pricked by tears, taking a moment or so to compose himself. ‘It didn’t come across that way at the funeral.’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. All I can say is that she’s mellowed in that regard.’

  ‘But not enough that you could tell her about this meeting?’

  Cuckoo chuckled. He stretched his legs out in front of him and pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘No, Abbott, she hasn’t mellowed that much. I don’t think she will ever mellow that much.’ A pause. ‘What about you? No need to ask about your coping mechanism.’

  It was Abbott’s turn to chuckle. ‘It’s not decorating and diets, that much I can tell you.’

  ‘You can’t go on like it, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Abbott had spent enough tortured, hungover mornings telling himself exactly the same thing. Knowing that he needed something – anything – in his life. Something to help take the pain away.

  ‘So anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ asked Cuckoo.

  ‘It’s about something that happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘OK, do you know about my brother, Chris? Did Fiona ever tell you about that?’

  Cuckoo nodded. ‘She did. And I was very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Right. Park that for a second. I’ve got this ex called Tess . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard of Tess.’

  ‘Oh yeah? From Fi?’

  ‘Well, who else? She was your girlfriend before her. Apparently, you’ve always carried a torch for her.’

  ‘That’s what she said, was it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not that it would bother her.’

  ‘Well, I think it probably bothered her at the time.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Are you romantically attached now?’

  ‘Me and Tess? No.’

  ‘Would you like to be?’

  ‘More than anything, mate. But she’s married with kids, and anyway, that’s not the point. The point is this.’

  He told Cuckoo everything. All about Tess and their meetings at Kettner’s and especially what she’d discovered regarding his brother. He missed out the bit where he and Tess slept together, because a gentleman never tells, and besides, how could he possibly explain that they’d slept together and yet there was still no romantic attachment? That they’d slept together and that while it had meant everything to him, it had apparently meant nothing to her?

  Otherwise, everything else came out.

  ‘OK,’ said Cuckoo, when Abbott had finished, choosing his words carefully, still unsure where he fitted into all this. ‘So that must have come as a shock.’

  ‘That my entire childhood was a lie? You might say that. I went to see my dad afterwards.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And how did that go?’

  ‘Ups and downs. The main thing was that years ago he was visited by the guy who ran Chris down, and that guy said there was a second perp in Scutter’s car.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘A big fat bloke, according to the driver.’

  ‘And this fat bloke – he was never found?’

  Abbott shook his head. ‘Never mentioned, never looked for, never found, never punished. Scutter goes to jail. This other bloke’s a ghost.’

  ‘What about your dad? Did he report it to the police?’

  ‘He said that he did, but that the police never did anything about it.’

  ‘OK, but did he follow it up? I mean, this was his son. Your brother.’

  ‘I asked him about that. He said that the police got narky with them. Said they must be mistaken. Told them to leave well alone. All that kind of stuff. I tried pressing him on it, but he started to get a bit anxious. The nurse turned up, saw that he was a bit distressed and wasn’t best pleased. She said I was upsetting him.’ He looked away with a heavy heart. ‘Which, I guess, I was.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s ever a good look to be seen upsetting your wheelchair-bound father?’

  ‘You suppose right. I was given my marching orders.’

  ‘She didn’t happen to get a whiff of your breath, did she?’

  ‘Well, if she did, she didn’t say anything.’

  Cuckoo gave a slightly derisive snort. ‘You’re not pulling the wool over anybody’s eyes, you know. You might think you are, with your secret little drinks. Vodka doesn’t make your breath smell, is that it? But you’re not fooling anybody. They all know.’

  Abbott shrugged. Not sure if he cared.

  ‘And so, on top of grieving for Nathan, you’ve now got this?’ said Cuckoo.

  ‘This being what? The boozing.’

  ‘Well, yes, that. Also, this being the stuff about your brother.’

  ‘I guess I have.’

  Cuckoo made a noise – a disgusted noise. Shook his head.

  ‘You think she shouldn’t have told me?’ Abbott asked him.

  ‘I know she shouldn’t have told you. She’s a lawyer, you say. Skirting the truth should come as second nature.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I think that she has been a bit economical where that’s concerned. She told me that Scutter was dead.’

  ‘Yeah? And?’

  ‘I reckon she was lying.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Call it an instinct.’

  ‘OK, so she wanted you to know, but she also wanted you to consider the matter closed. So do that. Pack it up with the rest of your worries and concentrate on getting well.’

  ‘What do you mean getting well?’

  ‘I mean drying out, sorting your head. Dealing with your grief. Mate, have you considered therapy?’

  ‘Therapy for me would be to find Scutter, if he really is alive. Find him and then find this second man. That would help me, Cuckoo. That for me is coping.’

  ‘What about this?’ Cuckoo reached to tap the rucksack that lay between them and there was the unmistakable sound of knuckle hitting bottle. ‘Before you do anything you need to get off the booze.’

  ‘Look, in SF, we’d drink like witches between operations. But as soon as the call came you put the bottle down. You went dry. It’s the same in this situation.’

  Cuckoo sighed. ‘Well, OK, then. If I can help you do that, then I’m all ears.’

  Not for the first time, Abbott wondered why he had ever felt any animosity towards Cuckoo, who had long since proved beyond doubt that he was one of the good guys, to the extent that Abbott felt eternally grateful that Cuckoo had made his way into Fiona’s life. Small mercies and all that.

  ‘So, what you want me to do?’ asked Cuckoo.

  ‘I’m hoping you can look into it for me. Find out if I’m right and that this Scutter guy is still alive, where he is now, and who he associates with.’

  ‘Te
ss wants you to leave it.’

  ‘She should have known better than to tell me, then.’

  ‘Maybe I should tell you to leave it, too.’

  ‘But you won’t do that. Because you know that this is what I need.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Sitting in the lounge area of his palatial Swiss home, the playboy Ross Norton yawned. He wore a large robe and the relaxed air of a man who looked as though he was never happier than when slightly drunk or slightly hungover.

  In the lounge, huge windows offered stunning views of blue skies and mountaintops, while a sunken area played host to white leather couches. Along one wall were bookcases. On another wall a large television.

  ‘Are we ready, Kennedy?’ said Ross Norton.

  Kennedy, his assistant, wore a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a navy Lacoste polo shirt tucked in and fastened at the collar. His hair was short and neat, bald on top, monkish. ‘I shall need the television controller, sir,’ he said implacably.

  Ross snatched up the controller and tossed it towards Kennedy.

  ‘Perhaps you should change, sir,’ suggested Kennedy, ‘while I establish the connection and double-check the encryption.’

  Ross Norton plucked at the robe that barely covered his nether regions. ‘Change?’ he said, as though he didn’t understand the meaning.

  ‘You are, after all, a bereaved son in mourning, sir.’

  ‘And will my attire make any difference to the will reading?’

  ‘I’m sure we wouldn’t want your family to gain the wrong impression, sir.’

  At the same time, Kennedy produced a framed photograph of Ross’s father, the late Sir Charles Norton, and placed it on a shelf in order that it should be prominently displayed during the meeting. ‘Sir, I know that you’re nervous . . .’

  ‘Nervous? I’m not in the slightest bit nervous,’ spluttered Ross, darkening.

  ‘You have lost your grandfather.’

  Ross shrugged.

  ‘He was an important figure in your life.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not nervous, and if you carry on like this you’ll find yourself cleaning chalets.’

  Kennedy approached the sofa, his hands clasped behind his back. He leaned forward – leaning even as Ross pushed himself back into the sofa cushions, wanting to cringe away. ‘Just you try it,’ said Kennedy evenly, ‘sir.’