13
A pathway of titles.
She spent a while here when she first came with Matthew. A long line of familiar titles from books, movies and music, set into the pavement outside Liverpool Central Library. The African Queen. A Tale of Two Cities. The Godfather. Citizen Kane. The Mikado. Apocalypse Now. A Bear Called Paddington. And at the top of the list, Pride and Prejudice rubbing shoulders with Robinson Crusoe.
She doesn’t even see the words now. Doesn’t notice the homeless man on the steps to the right, or the tourists pointing up at the architecture. Her eyes are locked on the automatic doors as she heads straight for them, her mind busily occupied with thoughts of what she might find here.
Inside, she doesn’t feel the splendour that washed over her that first time. Back then, she was stunned at how completely the aged exterior belied the bright, futuristic layout within, as though it were a Tardis. She stood on Levi Tafari’s poem on the floor of the atrium and stared right up to the glass dome on the roof of the building, the vast space above criss-crossed by staircases on the intervening floors.
She takes the escalator up to the first floor, edging past other travellers in her hurry to get to her destination. When she gets to the top, she heads to the right-hand side of the floor, then passes through the entrance to the adjoining room.
The transition is startling. A demonstration of this Tardis’s power to transport its occupants from an intensely high-tech present to a more sedate, lavish past. The Picton Reading Room is a vast circular chamber with a domed ceiling. It has oak shelves and globe lighting and ornate wrought iron spiral staircases. The circumference of the room is lined with three tiers of books, stretching from the floor to the bottom edge of the ceiling, with more shelves radiating inwards like wheel spokes, pointing towards an oak-built lighting column at the central axis of the space.
Sara stands next to the column and slowly turns, taking in the vast numbers of books here.
Where to start?
She knows it wasn’t at floor level: she remembers ascending one of the narrow staircases. And it can’t have been on the top level either, because that’s reserved for staff.
But that still leaves a hell of a lot of books.
She chews on her lip. Think, Sara, think! Which way did we go?
She could ask for assistance, but she wants that to be a last resort. She doesn’t want anyone else involved in this if she can avoid it. Matthew was being cryptic for a reason.
And then she remembers. The clock!
They went up the staircase to the left of the clock – she’s sure of that now.
She moves quickly to the steps, but then has to wait while a large, middle-aged woman comes down them.
Sara races up the stairs.
Which way now?
Left. I’m sure of it. We went anti-clockwise.
She starts walking, scanning the shelves as she goes. So many books. But she recalls that they didn’t go very far before her eye was caught by one particular title, high on a shelf of books that are not allowed out on loan.
It has to be close by, she thinks. Unless, of course, they have completely moved everything since then. What if it’s in a totally different position now? What if . . . what if they got rid of it?
Her stomach lurches at the thought.
But then she sees it.
There. Probably where it’s always been. It has a dull beige cover, the writing on its spine in an unobtrusive font. It doesn’t call attention to itself. It’s possible that the only person to have touched it since she last laid her fingers on it was Matthew.
She pulls it down from the shelf. Stares at its title.
Memories cascade in. She remembers stifled giggling, made worse by the room’s funereal atmosphere. She’d had too much wine with her lunch, and she had been laughing at Matthew’s gaucheness over Victoria’s seemingly male appendage. In fact, he had used that very word – appendage – rather than anything more direct or crude.
Things got worse when she happened to see the book. The wine had already caused her to feel a little naughty, a little puerile. At any other time, the book might not have led to the unrestrained explosion of mirth that it did, prompting those at the reading desks below to glare up at her with unconcealed hostility.
Matthew rounded on her with a loud ‘Shush!’, but there was a smile playing on his lips.
She pulled the book down in explanation. ‘Look,’ she whispered, still chuckling.
Matthew squinted myopically. ‘What?’
‘The author’s name. Cockburn.’
She sniggered again as she said the word out loud. She enjoyed the sound of it so much she had to say it again and again. ‘Cockburn. Cockburn. Cockburn.’
By now, she was in hysterics, but Matthew merely rolled his eyes.
‘It’s pronounced Co-burn, not Cock-burn.’
‘What?’ she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘What are you talking about? It’s got a c and a k in it. That’s cock. That’s very definitely a cock. Like Queen Victoria’s.’
She started laughing again. She remembers laughing so hard that her stomach hurt, and she remembers how Matthew couldn’t help but be infected by the hilarity.
‘What is that book anyway?’ he had said, prising it from her grasp while she pinched her nose in an effort to contain herself. ‘You know what I’m going to do? If you ever get sad or depressed, I’m going to bring you here to take another look at this. I’ve never seen you so tickled.’
He brought the book closer to his face. ‘All I Can Say: A Personal Journey Through Language and Dialect. By Jeremiah Cockburn.’
Another snort of laughter from Sara. ‘Cock-Burn,’ she whispered, almost losing control again.
‘Come on,’ he said, putting the book back on its shelf. ‘Let’s get you out of here before someone chucks us out.’
And that was it. That was the event. Of seemingly little importance back then, but now . . .
Sara! Remember! Victoria and Albert. All I can say.
It was a list. The Victoria monument, then the Albert Dock, and then the book – this book. All I Can Say. Matthew wanted to lead her back to this book, but without being so explicit about it that his attackers would comprehend.
She holds the book firmly in her hands. Looks around her in fear that someone might be about to pounce on her for daring to touch this special volume.
She opens the cover, starts turning the pages. She sees only page after page of dense text.
She flips to the end, then uses her thumb to riffle through the whole book. Nothing jumps out at her. She’s not sure what she expects – some scribbled annotations in a margin, perhaps, or a turned-down corner of a page – but she gets nothing.
She flicks through it again, and then again. All she sees is boring typeset prose.
No, Matthew, she thinks. Please don’t tell me that all you were doing was fulfilling your promise. Please don’t let this be just your way of cheering me up because I’m devastated to lose you. It has to be more than that. You have to be telling me more. You didn’t go to all the trouble of delivering your final message in the form of a puzzle just to let me know you wanted me to be happy.
And then something occurs to her. She thinks, What if somebody has been here before me? What if there was something hidden between these pages, but another visitor came across it and removed it?
No. It can’t be that. Who else would pick up this book, this special book that means so much to me and Matthew?
But whatever the explanation, it seems that there is nothing to be found here, and Sara’s eyes well up with the frustration of the moment. She opens the book one last time, grabbing it by the front and back covers and shaking the pages violently, not caring whether this is an expensive or rare volume, not caring whether her act is being witnessed by staff or security cameras.
Nothing drops to the floor.
She is done here. It is time to go home. It is time to accept that whatever secrets Matthew was try
ing to divulge will never reach her. It is time to move on with her life.
She stretches up her arm to replace the book on the shelf.
And then she sees it.
A white triangle, jutting out from between the dustjacket and the back cover. She lowers her arm again. Tugs gently on the triangle.
It’s the corner of an envelope. She pulls it all the way out. Written on its front, in Matthew’s characteristic longhand, are the words, ‘To my darling Sara.’
14
Cody feels a little sheepish as he climbs in behind the wheel of the unmarked saloon. In the passenger seat, Webley sits patiently and quietly, as if awaiting Cody’s apology before normal service is resumed.
He knows he has to issue it, of course. He cannot deny that he gave her a hard time this morning. The question is how to go about it.
He starts driving. He always prefers to do the driving.
After a painful period of silence, he says, ‘About this morning . . .’
He hopes that’s all he needs to say. That she’ll jump in at that point and dismiss it with a cheery, ‘Not a problem. I understand.’ Or something of that nature.
But she doesn’t. She simply turns her head in his direction and waits for him to continue.
‘I was an arsehole,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry. Okay?’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Apology accepted. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean about the reason for your arseholeness. What got into you?’
‘I was . . . I was uptight about something.’
‘What? Did it have something to do with why you were late coming in?’
‘Kind of. Yes. I’d been to a meeting.’
‘A meeting?’
‘Well, a session. With a psychologist.’
She touches his arm. ‘Cody, that’s brilliant. You’re seeking help? You’re—’
‘No, it’s not brilliant. I’m doing it under duress. I’m doing it because Blunt has forced my hand. She insists on seeing a formal validation of my mental health before I’m allowed anywhere near another victim.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’
Webley turns towards him as much as her seatbelt allows. ‘Well, maybe it’s nothing to get worked up about. I mean, you’ve been a lot better lately, haven’t you? I haven’t seen you throttle any newspaper reporters lately.’
She laughs, but Cody doesn’t see the funny side of the reminder.
‘I cried,’ he tells her.
‘What?’
‘In the session this morning. I told the psychologist about what happened to me when I was working undercover, and I broke down.’
‘Well . . . that’s natural, isn’t it? Anyone who’d been through something like that would find it distressing to talk about it. Doesn’t mean you’re not fit for the job.’
He lapses into silence for a few seconds, and then he says, ‘It’s got worse again lately.’
‘What has?’
‘The nightmares. The hallucinations.’
‘Since you ended up in hospital?’
‘Yes. It kind of brought it all back.’
‘Again, surely that’s only natural? That was quite an ordeal. You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t affect you. Anyone would be traumatised after that.’
‘I’m worried she’s going to sign me off work. Send me for treatment or something. Maybe even medication.’
‘You’re jumping to conclusions. Let her do her job and stop worrying about it. And if she recommends a little therapy, so what? Maybe that would be for the best.’
‘Or maybe she recommends that I’m not fit for duty. I’ve already had a couple of weeks off, and it drove me nuts. I need this job, Megan.’
She touches his arm again. ‘Stop worrying. It’ll be fine.’
He’s not convinced. And telling Megan the reasons for his erratic behaviour hasn’t helped in the slightest. It has only made him feel more uneasy about his future.
‘What about Sara Prior?’ Webley asks.
‘What about her?’
‘The way you’re treating her with kid gloves. Does that have anything to do with your sessions?’
‘No. I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Is that multiple choice? I just pick an answer?’
‘There’s something about Sara. I get her – do you know what I mean? There’s something different about her.’
‘Cody, I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.’
‘What? No! Not that. I just feel a certain . . . affinity with her.’
‘An affinity.’
‘Yeah. When I went back to speak to her at her house, she told me that she saw an old boyfriend of hers blown to bits in Afghanistan. It changed her whole world view. I can relate to that.’
Webley looks out at the traffic for a minute. Then she says, ‘Be careful, Cody. Okay? With Sara Prior, I mean. Just be careful.’
15
Lewis Fulton is a man who, it seems to Cody, is full of his own self-importance. He takes great delight in announcing to everyone in earshot that he will be in the meeting room, helping out the police with their enquiries, as if he alone may hold the key to breaking the case.
The room is starkly functional. A long table surrounded by about a dozen chairs, a computer and projection system, and a smaller table supporting some white cups and an empty coffee jug. Fulton slouches down on one of the chairs and puts his hands behind his head, trying too hard to give the impression of being at ease and in control.
‘So,’ he says, ‘how can I help you?’
Cody begins the questioning. ‘Tell us about Matthew Prior. What sort of employee was he?’
‘Good man. Solid. Reliable. Not so hot in terms of social skills, but I can’t fault his work.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘I’m not sure I’d use the word “like”. I mean, I wouldn’t class him as a friend. We got on well enough, though.’
‘Ever argue with him? Ever have to tear a strip off him?’
‘No, not at all. Matthew wasn’t the argumentative type. He avoided confrontation. But, to be honest, I can’t recall a single occasion where I had to get tough with him. Like I say, his work was impeccable.’
‘Ever see him get into a fight with anybody else here? Any friction you noticed?’
‘Can’t say I did. He pretty much kept himself to himself. He wouldn’t even go out for coffee with the others. Most of the time he ate his lunch alone at his desk.’
‘You make him sound a little eccentric.’
‘That’s probably a good word for it. Painfully shy, maybe. An introvert. He would never say much in our team meetings.’
‘Did his anti-social behaviour ever get anyone’s back up that you know of?’
‘If it did, nobody complained to me about it. I think they mostly just left him to his own devices.’
‘What about customers?’
‘Customers?’
‘Yes. Many people don’t like having to pay tax. For some of them, the taxman is like a traffic warden or a bailiff.’
Fulton laughs. ‘Matthew wasn’t a tax inspector. God, there’s no way he could have dealt with queries about tax returns.’
‘No? What did he do, then?’
‘He was what we call a designer. He created e-learning packages for internal training. Generic stuff on diversity, health and safety, and so on, but also more specialist aids to explain processes and systems.’
‘He came here as a part of a promotion package, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was advertised internally. Matthew applied, and he was clearly the best person for the job.’
‘Any others from this branch apply?’
‘A couple.’
‘Is it possible they might have been miffed at being passed over for promotion? That they might have wanted to take it out on Matthew?’
Fulton shakes his head vigorously. ‘I re
ally don’t think so.’ He lowers his voice and leans forward conspiratorially. ‘To be frank, I think the other applicants were just dipping their toes in the water. I don’t think they ever believed they were in with a chance.’
‘Do you know much about what went on in Matthew’s personal life?’ Webley asks.
Fulton sits up straight again as he eyes Webley. ‘Not a lot. Only that he was married.’ He turns back to Cody. ‘Have you met his wife?’ he says, obviously intending it as a man to man thing.
‘I’ve met her, yes,’ Cody says.
‘She’s something, isn’t she?’
Cody makes no reply.
‘I mean, come on. Matthew was punching above his weight there, don’t you think? Lucky bastard.’
‘He’s dead, Mr Fulton,’ says Webley.
Fulton returns his gaze to Webley, his eyelids fluttering now. ‘Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘When did you meet his wife?’
‘When he first came to Liverpool, just over two years ago. I was having my thirtieth birthday party and most of the team were invited, so I asked him to come along with his wife.’
‘And he came?’
‘Jumped at the chance. Thinking about it, he was a different person then. Happier. I think he really wanted to try to fit in.’
‘When did it all change? When did he become less happy?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably less than a year later. He seemed to stop trying. Not in his work, though. In fact, I’d say he threw himself into that even more. What I mean is, he just didn’t seem to want to mix with anybody else.’
‘Did you ever discuss it with him?’
Fulton puts up his hands. ‘Not my business. My job is to make sure he does the work. I stay out of personal lives.’
‘Did you know he’d left his wife and moved out?’
‘Really? No, I didn’t. I’m shocked.’
Cody waits for him to add something like, How could anyone leave a stunner like that? To Fulton’s credit, he seems to realise it wouldn’t be appropriate.
‘Is it possible that Matthew might have spoken to anyone else about his personal problems?’
‘Well, there’s Ann.’
Your Deepest Fear Page 7