by Chris Simms
He nodded.
‘When?’
‘Almost three weeks ago.’
Despite the thoughts whirring in Farnham’s head, his face was almost serene. ‘I see.’ This person before me now counts as family. How much of a liability is that? He looks like some sort of vegan eco-warrior. Not good. He’d said something about depression. More negative potential. ‘How depressed?’
‘Pretty bad. Sorry. But she couldn’t see it. And nothing I said would make her—’
‘Hang on. You asked just now if I’d seen her?’
‘She cleared out of the place we shared last week.’
‘What do you mean, cleared out?’
‘She left. I came back one evening from work—’
‘You work?’
‘I do.’
‘Who for?’
‘The Seventh Day? The shop on Oxford—’
‘I know it. You were saying?’
‘She’d gone. Her and the baby. That’s why I was asking if you ... I thought she might have gone back to—’
‘Where else do you think she might be? You’ve rung all her friends?’
‘No one’s heard from her. I’ve been asking all over. Someone – he works on the market stalls in the Arndale – saw her walking by two days ago. She was carrying a sleeping bag.’
Ed had to shove his hands in his pockets. The temptation to make a fist and punch the bloke was overwhelming. ‘What’s your surname, Ben?’
‘Whitehall.’
‘And you’re saying you think my daughter and this baby—’
‘Amy. We called her Amy.’
‘You’re saying they’re somewhere here in Manchester, sleeping rough?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I suppose that, if she was carrying …’
Ed set off up the steps, leaving the man’s words to wither on his lips.
Chapter 20
Gavin sat cross-legged on the carpet staring at his copy of Ascent of the Blessed. He couldn’t remember exactly when, in the dark fog of despair following his wife’s and daughter’s deaths, he’d come across the old painting. Initially, it had probably been glimpsed on a screen. Perhaps a TV programme aired in the early hours of the morning. At some point, anyway, during those long hours he’d spent stretched out on the sofa, hardly able to summon the will to get up and use the toilet.
He’d now come to believe the image had actually found him. Slipped inside his skull, uninvited.
For a while, it had lurked at the back of his mind, content to wait. Then, slowly, shyly, it had started to announce itself. Allowing him, to begin with, infuriatingly brief glimpses. He couldn’t understand why he’d started seeing a radiant tunnel. Then he noticed the naked human figure floating down it, gently steered through the air by a winged presence. He wondered if either figure was him.
Over subsequent days, more of the scene revealed itself. Two other forms, these ones faint and shimmering, drenched in brilliant light at the tunnel’s far end. He sensed with ever-increasing certainty, that they were his wife and daughter. They weren’t dead! They had just moved to a different existence and were waiting for him at its threshold.
He started to discern more. Other figures floating up from the darkness beneath the bright tunnel. Winged beings lifting other naked humans towards the light. He started to suspect it was a cracked and ancient canvas that his mind’s eye was seeing. Something from centuries ago. Internet searches for paintings that involved heaven and paradise and angels revealed hundreds of works of art. But not the one he wanted. Was it just something his dreams had conjured, after all?
Finally, out of sheer frustration, he’d gone in the opposite direction; searched for paintings of hell and demons and torment. The work of Hieronymus Bosch filled his computer’s screen. Nightmare imaginings of torture and torment. Hordes of people being gouged and pierced and sliced. Shovelled into burning pits by grotesque demons. It was the peoples’ nudity that let him know he was getting closer. Scrolling through everything the painter had ever created, he finally found the image from his dreams. Its purity sang out from the surrounding scenes of suffering and the hope it gave him was like a beam from a lighthouse shearing through the storm.
Lifting his eyes from the image, he gazed at the shrine to his wife and daughter. The collection of picture frames was on a small table that he’d draped in a red sheet. They were arranged in a semi-circle around a single candle. Its flame didn’t waver. In front of it were a few precious objects: the engagement ring he’d bought Claire. Her favourite pendant. The wind-up mechanism from the first mobile that they’d hung above Sophie’s cot. Sometimes, he’d twist the key at the back and let the tinkle of its tune sooth him. Beside it was a small block of resin that carried an imprint of Sophie’s foot at one week old. So tiny.
He studied the photographs lit by the candle’s warm glow. Claire up on Kinder Scout, strands of her hair flying in the breeze, Kinder Reservoir like a shard of glass in the distant valley below. Claire and Sophie on a picnic blanket on the grass beside the river at Chatsworth House. Sophie too young to sit up on her own, nappy bulging out beneath her leggings. Sophie again, this time in the local playground. She was sitting in a bucket seat, at that moment of stillness when the swing has stopped travelling upwards but wasn’t yet falling back. Her mouth forever open in delight.
As usual, he shut his eyes in the hope that, by cutting himself off from the image, the sound of her laughter wouldn’t stop. It echoed for a while in his skull. He let his head hang forward, thoughts drifting to the second-hand camper van he’d bought. The bastard, bastard camper van. The wreck on wheels he thought he could repair. Make good.
He thought he had succeeded. He thought he’d saved them so much money by doing it himself. He thought everything was fine.
A growl of anguish escaped his lips. Kicking a leg out straight, he hammered his heel against the floor. He did the same with his other foot. Anything to stop the thoughts building momentum. A shuddering great sigh leaked from his mouth and, a moment later, the candle flame shrank to the side before slowly righting itself.
He got to his feet and walked towards the bathroom. After a shower it would be time to set off for work. At the calendar on the cupboard door, he paused and did a quick count. Three more days to go. As if he didn’t know. He lifted a finger and was tracing it across the grid of days when his phone began to ring. His charity helpline phone. Someone needing to talk? He wasn’t sure if he could face it. Not right now.
But rather than a number, there was a name. James P. What did that arsehole want now? He nearly let it go through to answerphone, then changed his mind. ‘Hello, James.’
‘Ah, Gavin. Hi. What are you up to?’
‘About to set off for work.’
‘Yes, I thought you might be. Any chance you can swing by our offices? Just briefly.’
‘Well, my shift starts at six thirty.’
‘I won’t keep you, Gavin.’
‘This isn’t something we can talk about over the phone?’
‘I’d prefer not to.’
He didn’t like the ominous tone. ‘It’s important, then?’
‘I’ll see you here, if that’s OK.’
He was on the landing, turning back on himself to start down the next flight of stairs, when Miriam’s door opened. ‘Gavin! I thought I heard your footsteps.’
He glanced back. There she was, only half of her showing. He thought she must have been waiting behind her door to get it open that fast. ‘Yes?’
Her face flinched.
‘Sorry,’ he gestured to the flight of stairs leading down. ‘I’m in a rush. What was it?’
Tentatively, she pointed upward. ‘You were banging earlier. On my ceiling.’
He remembered his heels hammering against the floor. ‘Oh, yes. I was moving some bits and pieces.’
‘I thought you might have wanted something.’ Her door opened a little wider and the rest of her was revealed. She was cradling a stuffed cat in the crook of her other
arm. Wanting to show it off.
‘No.’ He moved closer to the top step, anxious to be on his way. ‘Everything is fine.’
‘My little lovelies, they all turned their big eyes up. Thought the sky was falling in, didn’t you?’ She reached across and stroked the fake fur.
Jesus, the woman was puddled. ‘Sorry.’
‘But you would, wouldn’t you?’
He stopped again and turned his head. Now there was a coy expression on her face. ‘I would ... what?’
‘Ask me, if you wanted anything. Seeing as we’re neighbours. Sort of.’ She risked a smile.
‘Of course, Miriam. Now, I’m in a real hurry. See you soon!’ He started trotting down the stairs before she could say anything else.
He was told James was waiting for him in one of the side meeting rooms. There was a single manila folder on the table. ‘Take a seat, Gavin,’ he said with a hint of sombreness in his voice.
As soon as he started easing himself into the other chair, Gavin got up, skirted round the table and pulled the door closed.
Gavin half-turned his head. ‘What’s going on?’
James reappeared in his field of vision. ‘Erm,’ he said, retaking his seat. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine. Thanks.’ The other man was looking tense. Gavin interlinked his fingers and rested them on his lap. He waited.
James retook his seat. He nodded at Gavin’s orange tabard. ‘Ready to start work, then?’
‘Yup.’
Still at the cinema on the Upper Brook Street?’
Gavin was about to say no. He was about to tell Pearson he’d been transferred across to the Town Hall site. Had been months ago. But something caused him to just nod. Pearson knew enough about him already. Now the nosey bastard knew one thing less.
‘Still enjoying those night shifts?’
‘I am. What’s in the folder?’
He glanced down at it. ‘The other day, we were discussing you taking some time off? I mentioned the fact we have a couple more volunteers—’
‘I remember. I said I was keen to continue.’
‘Yes, you did. It was after our meeting, when I was going over everyone’s phone records to calculate costs. That’s when I noticed some activity on the number registered to you.’
Calculating costs. That was a lie. He’d been snooping. ‘Activity?’
James looked up. ‘There were quite a few outbound calls that you’d made. Often in the early hours of the morning. Some of them were to numbers that had originally called your phone.’
Oh no, Gavin thought. All the trouble I went to gathering their phones in. He saw himself prising open cases, snapping SIM cards in two, tossing handsets into bins. All for nothing. Because I didn’t think it through carefully enough. I didn’t think of the phone I’d used.
‘Gavin, when you started volunteering for this organisation, you signed a code of conduct. You remember?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So you recall the key principle about not ringing people who call us for help? How we’re a reactive, not a proactive, service – a non-judgemental listening ear, if you will. I presume that’s what you’ve been doing, calling people back?’
Gavin’s mind was racing. Of course the phone’s records would be available to James, if he wanted to trawl through them. I should have only rung those numbers with my own phone, not the charity’s. Stupid bloody idiot! ‘Well, we’re also meant to signpost to other services, if they’re appropriate. Aren’t we?’
‘Correct – during the call. Not ringing the person back to do it.’
He tried another tack. ‘Isn’t there something in the code of conduct about breaking that guidance if you think there’s a risk to life?’
‘If there’s an imminent risk to life, yes. Essentially, if someone rings you saying they’re about to commit suicide and then hangs up. And in those instances, you’re required to complete a contact report detailing your actions. I haven’t been able to find any. Were any completed?’
‘No.’
‘Besides that, you’d received no calls immediately before making your own to those numbers. In fact, there was a gap of over twenty-four hours in two cases.’
Shit, he’s really gone through everything carefully. ‘I wanted to check how they were doing. That was all.’
James nodded sadly. ‘Which is understandable; but not what we do. I’m being honest here, Gavin: I think you’ve become a little too involved with your work here. It happens. People think that, if they do just a little bit more, they can put things right. But work of this nature will keep taking that little bit more, until you’ve got nothing else to give. And then no one benefits.’
This all felt pre-prepared. A speech, worked out in advance. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘What I suggested the other day: that you take a rest, Gavin. Step back, have a breather. That’s all.’
He wanted to explain that there were only three days left before he joined Claire and Sophie. That he needed the phone if he was going to help more to ascend before that time. How else would they get in touch and tell him they were at the end of the road? That they wanted help finding a way out?
‘Gavin?’
He realised James was staring at him.
‘I asked, when’s the last time you saw your doctor?’
‘My doctor? I ... I don’t know.’ The prospect of no one being able to call him, in their darkest hour, needing help. Asking for help.
‘Gavin?’
He focused on the other man once more. ‘What?’
‘Are you on any sort of medication at the moment?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘You seem to me ... fatigued. Perhaps you’re doing too much.’
‘I need to keep busy. I told you that. And now you’re going to stop me from being busy.’
‘But why are you keeping busy? Is it to prevent you thinking about what happened to your wife and daughter?’
He looked away. My wife and daughter. It wasn’t right him even being allowed to mention them.
‘Please listen, Gavin. This isn’t permanent. I know you find this work of value – and I find all your effort of value, too. But I don’t want you risking your health. You’re no good to the people who call us if you’re ill. So, if you can give me your phone, I’ll allocate it to one of the new volunteers while you take some time out, OK?’
He wanted to shout that it wasn’t OK. Not at all. There were so many lost souls out there who needed his help. ‘There’s no need for this. Honestly, James—’
‘Your phone, Gavin.’ He held his hand out, palm up.
‘How about I do just a few more days? To mentally prepare myself for the time off?’
‘That’s not a good idea. I can’t agree to that.’ There was now a firm note in his voice.
Superior rank. Probably like how he used to address grunts like him when he was an army officer. Gavin shook his head. ‘You don’t realise.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t realise what?’
He took a breath in. ‘I need this work, OK?’
‘This is a way to ensure you can carry on with it. In the future.’
‘The future?’ He couldn’t stop the snort of derision.
James leaned forward. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something about the future?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
James said nothing for a few moments. ‘I presume you have the handset with you?’
‘Yes, I have it.’ He took it from his jacket. For a moment, he considered throwing it against the wall or window. Or at James’ face. He weighed it in his hand. Would do some damage to a face.
‘Thank you, Gavin. It’s appreciated.’
Rather than place it in the outstretched hand, Gavin put it on the table and got to his feet. ‘Goodbye, James.’
‘I’ll call you next week, about when—’
‘I said,
goodbye.’
‘Gavin? Wait a second. I’ll call you. Next Friday?’
He kept his back turned. ‘Don’t call me.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Don’t call me.’ He stepped out of the room, gently closing the door behind him.
Chapter 21
‘You seriously have no idea why he might want to see you?’ Kieran asked as they pulled to a stop behind the industrial unit that was their office.
The call from DCI Weir had come as they were returning from Liverpool to Manchester. Report to my office as soon as you’re back at base. The sort of terse request that usually presaged something bad.
Jon rummaged in his mind. The only recent thing was the incident with the drug dealer, but there’d been no witnesses – and the scummy little shit certainly would never say a thing. ‘No, I haven’t. I hope it doesn’t take too long, though – I need to be back for parents’ evening at Holly’s school.’
Kieran unclipped his seat belt. ‘Perhaps he’s called you in because you’re being promoted.’ He spotted the look on Jon’s face and stifled his chuckle. ‘Sorry, mate, couldn’t resist it. Listen, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
They were halfway across the car park before he spoke again. ‘Or maybe that American bint has filed a complaint because you haven’t knocked on her hotel room door yet.’
‘Kieran? Shut the fuck up.’
Iona was nonplussed, too. The work she’d put in on the homeless deaths had, as Jon had instructed, been squeezed in around her official tasks. The requests she’d made to the Ministry of Defence had been met cordially and efficiently.
‘Well,’ Jon sighed, ‘I’d better see what it’s about.’
His feet felt heavy as he climbed the stairs. All my working life, he thought, it’s felt the same. The headmaster wants to see you, Jon. Not far off fifty and I’m still getting that schoolboy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sad.
He gave two knocks on the smooth wood of Weir’s door.
‘Come in!’
‘Sir,’ he said, stepping inside, trying to keep his voice upbeat. Even optimistic. ‘You wanted to see me?’
Weir waved at the chair. ‘What the fuck have you been up to, DC Spicer?’