Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  ‘OK, Alice.’ She shook her head. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘I know that you murdered Kevin and I know you did it because of the drugs.’ She looked at me like I was mad and I know that sounds like a strange observation bearing in mind where we were, but trust me, it’s a look they try very hard not to give anyone in here. They’re trained to do precisely the opposite. That’s why it made such an impression. ‘Kevin didn’t want any more to do with the whole thing and he was almost certainly threatening to blackmail you with the drugs you’d already given him and which he’d hidden. The drugs you couldn’t find when you went into his room that night.’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  It was just pouring out. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so confident or in control, so the person I wanted to be.

  I felt like I was fucking invincible.

  ‘You killed him on your first round of checks . . . or maybe your second, it doesn’t really matter. But you’d certainly already done it by the time you went in that third time and “discovered” the body and started screaming the place down. That was pretty clever, I’ll give you that much. I’m not sure if you knew Graham had already put the camera out of action or not, but either way he really did you a favour, didn’t he? It made everything so much more complicated for the police than it actually needed to be.’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Then you got scared, because the person who was closest to Kevin knew exactly what you were up to. Maybe Shaun said something to you, told you he knew you’d murdered Kevin, but even if he didn’t, you decided it would be best to shut him up anyway. To be on the safe side.’

  ‘You’re talking about what happened when Shaun had that episode in the TV room?’

  ‘I’m talking about you silencing a key witness, yeah.’

  Debbie nodded, thought for a few seconds. ‘So, it was Kevin’s room in that picture you did the other day?’

  ‘Right, like you didn’t know.’

  ‘And it was me in the room.’

  ‘Who else did you think it was—’

  I stopped when I saw George poke his head around the door. I’m not sure if it was the look on my face or Debbie’s that he’d clocked. ‘Is everything OK in here?’

  I sat back and pointed a finger. ‘You should ask her.’

  By the time Debbie turned to look at him, she had a very different mask on. Up to then her face had been sort of dry and pinched, but now she was smiling. She said, ‘We’re fine, thanks, George. It’s all good. Alice is just telling me a story.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  This Is What I Believe.

  Believe. Present tense . . .

  The Earth is definitely not flat.

  5G is not going to turn us all into zombies.

  There are people in this world with too much wealth and power who will do anything they have to, including murder where necessary, to mould society into whatever shape suits them, while making sure the rest of us don’t know who they are. I’m not talking about spooky shit with robes and candles and human sacrifice. Not secret satanists or people who are really lizards. I just mean rich and powerful people doing bad things to hold on to what they’ve got and protecting their equally rich and powerful friends. You only have to look at what’s going on in the world and that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?

  My mum and dad are obviously not part of anything like this and are genuinely good people.

  My ex-boyfriend Andy isn’t either. He’s just a dick.

  You have to go slightly mad to become properly sane.

  The Beatles obviously existed and they were great, apart from the weird Indian stuff and that stupid song about an octopus.

  There were no criminals wearing masks on my television.

  Drink and drugs were partly, but not wholly, respon­sible for everything that led up to me being ‘retired’, and everything that’s happened since.

  Johnno died because I was not a good enough copper.

  I did not hurt anyone, except when I was trying to protect them and myself, and I would do so again.

  Being banged up with mad people is not great for your mental health.

  Almost all the people working here do an amazing job, clinging on by their fingernails, and there’s rarely a day goes by when I don’t think that being a copper was a doddle by comparison.

  I was sexually assaulted. I was.

  If they sent me home tomorrow – to a recovery house for a few weeks probably, then to Mum and Dad’s – I would be absolutely fine.

  I will meet someone, get married and have a family like everyone else.

  At some point, I will work as a police officer again.

  Kevin Connolly was murdered just over two weeks ago on this ward by Deborah Anne McClure (FRCN). You already know the hows and whys so I don’t need to repeat them. You probably want to know how our conversation in the exam­ination room ended, but there really wasn’t much more to it after George interrupted us. All you need to know is that her mask stayed firmly in place until Debbie announced that she needed to be on duty at the meds hatch and left.

  She had nothing to say. Nothing.

  Yeah, a straight-up confession would have been nice, but that was as close to one as you can get. Her coming clean there and then would certainly have been a good result for me and, bearing in mind what was around the corner, would definitely have done her a major favour.

  So, here we are. That’s us bang up to date.

  Well, aside from the blood-soaked elephant in the room, which is the fact that, two days later – yesterday to be precise – I was the one who found Debbie’s body.

  PART TWO

  FIGHT OR FLIGHT

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As you can imagine, it’s been all fun and games around this place the last twenty-four hours. A right old palaver. The police have packed up and gone, for the time being at least, but everything’s still all over the shop.

  Everything and everyone.

  Right now, we’re all gearing up for this afternoon’s ‘community meeting’ which should be interesting to say the least. It’s safe to say we won’t be talking about how bad the food is, or the need for a private visiting area, or Ilias’s constant farting, or any of the other fascinating topics that normally crop up at these things.

  Probably just the one item on the agenda this time.

  Yesterday . . .

  I gave the police an initial statement when they first arrived, an hour or so after I’d found the body, and I reckon I did pretty well, considering I was probably still in shock. This was after they’d bagged up my bloodstained trackies and T-shirt and trainers, and sat me down in an exam room with a mug of tea and a nice friendly DC called Pauline.

  Is there anyone you’d like us to call, love?

  I hadn’t even had a chance to shower, but I know how it works. I told them as much, made sure the officers at the scene knew they were dealing with someone who understood the procedure. Who fully grasped the importance of getting a witness’s statement, my statement, while everything was still . . . fresh. As I pointed out to Pauline, I hadn’t so much as washed my hands yet, so things could hardly have been any fresher.

  I think I’ll be all right. I’ve had blood on my hands before.

  Pauline and her older male colleague were just the first detectives on the scene, but the MIT that ended up catching the case would probably be a different team from the one that was dealing – or not dealing – with Kevin’s murder. I guessed the two teams would be putting their heads together at the very least, once the left hand of Homicide and Serious Crime became aware of what the right hand was doing. That’s not something you can ever take for granted in the Met, but even allowing for the usual administrative bullshit and basic incompetence, two murders – in the same place in the space of a fortnight – were pretty likely to raise a red flag.


  I mean, you would have thought.

  ‘So, you found Miss McClure’s body when you visited the women’s toilets, is that correct?’ Pauline seemed a bit . . . mousy for my liking, then I remembered that she was talking to someone she’d presume was almost certainly traumatised.

  I nodded. ‘Saw it as soon as I opened the door. Well, you could hardly miss it.’

  ‘What time would this have been? Approximately.’

  ‘It was . . . what, an hour ago? So about half-past three.’

  ‘You could see straight away that it was Miss McClure?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw the ginger hair. I mean I noticed the blood first, obviously. There was a lot of blood.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I had first-aid and life support training when I was on the Job, so I got down on the floor with her to see if there was anything I could do. I mean it was pretty obvious there wasn’t . . . I could see how many stab wounds there were . . . but it just kicked in, I suppose. I did CPR for . . . I don’t know, half a minute or so? That’s why . . .’ I held up my hands so she could see the blood dried between my fingers, gathered in the lines on my palm and at the base of my nails.

  ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘That was lying on the floor a few feet away, under one of the sinks.’

  ‘So you didn’t touch it?’

  I looked at her to make sure she knew what a daft question it was. ‘Of course I didn’t touch it. Obviously I was aware that me giving first aid might compromise evidence on the body itself. That couldn’t be helped, but I certainly know better than to go anywhere near the murder weapon.’

  She was writing all this down, ready to pass it on to the full-time investigators, once they were assigned. ‘So, when did you shout for help?’

  ‘While I was doing CPR,’ I said. ‘Then I ran out and I was still shouting and Marcus came in, then Malaika, and they took over. Or maybe Malaika got in there first, I can’t remember. It was all a bit panicky.’

  ‘What about before you went in? You didn’t see anyone coming out?’

  I told her I hadn’t.

  ‘You didn’t see anyone going in before you?’

  I was getting a bit irritated by now and told her that I didn’t make a habit of logging activity in and around the women’s toilet.

  ‘I have to ask,’ she said.

  ‘Course,’ I said. ‘Sorry for being snappy.’

  ‘It’s understandable,’ she said. ‘This can’t be easy for you.’

  She asked for my details, so I told her that I was likely to be staying exactly where I was for the foreseeable future, but gave my mum and dad’s address as a back-up. When she asked for my phone number, I said, ‘Steve Seddon’s already got my number.’ I could see that she recognised the name. ‘Not that you’d know it.’

  ‘It’s best that I have it, too,’ she said.

  Once she’d thanked me for my help and given me a number to call should I be in need of counselling, Pauline wandered out into the corridor to join her colleague, who’d been taking a statement from Marcus.

  Marcus came in and sat with me.

  ‘You OK?’ He was staring down at the blood that had dried on his own hands. His friend’s blood.

  ‘I’m fine.’ We said nothing for a while, just stared into space, then I nodded down at his hands. ‘You get used to that.’

  Marcus took a few deep breaths then looked at me and shook his head. He said, ‘What the fu-fu-fuck is going on?’

  I’d heard him stammer plenty of times, but it was the first time I’d ever heard him swear.

  Now, L-Plate comes running up to me outside the dining room like the world is coming to an end. She looks like she’s been crying, though to be fair, she looks like that more often than looking like she hasn’t been.

  ‘What’s the matter, L?’

  ‘This meeting.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Yeah, it’s bound to be a bit upsetting, but I think that’s what it’s for, so—’

  ‘No, not that—’

  ‘So people can let their feelings out a bit—’

  ‘I don’t know what to wear.’

  ‘What?’ I watch her shaking her head, clutching at the material of a glittery Dolce & Gabbana sweatshirt like it’s some old rag she’s pulled on, and I quite fancy punching her in the tits. Instead, I ask, ‘Who gives a toss what you wear?’

  ‘I do,’ she says.

  ‘Are you on the pull?’ I see a hint of a smile. ‘You think Ilias is even going to bother changing his pants? You think Donna won’t have the same sweaty tracksuit on she has every bloody day?’ Her smile widens. ‘Look, I know what’s happened is freaking us all out a bit, but this meeting isn’t anything to worry about, I swear. It’s certainly not something you need to get tarted up for.’

  ‘You promise?’ she asks.

  I nod, and find myself trying to remember the last time I’d got tarted up for anything.

  Mists of bloody time.

  It was some stupid office thing I went to with Andy. One of those where they dole out crap awards, and I remember I’d borrowed a dress off Sophie because I didn’t have anything nice with long sleeves. All night I was letting Andy know, a bit too loudly, that his HR manager was looking at me funny, like he knew something or was trying to send me a bad message. Andy told me to keep it down because I was showing him up, so I just smoked a couple of spliffs in the car park, drank a gallon of prosecco and was sick on the way home.

  I never even had Sophie’s dress cleaned before I gave it her back.

  Now, L-Plate nods and says, ‘Sorry, Al . . . having a bad day.’ She looks about seven years old, standing there chewing her fat bottom lip like she’s trying to be brave, and I feel bad for wanting to punch her.

  ‘No need to be sorry,’ I say.

  George and Mia wander out of the dining room. They’ve been setting the chairs up for the meeting. I say, ‘All set?’ but they just carry on walking towards the nurses’ station. They both still look a bit shell-shocked.

  I reach out, without thinking, to touch L-Plate’s arm, then tell myself off for being an idiot when she flinches. ‘Listen, forget what I said. You can dress up if you want. You can wear anything you bloody well fancy.’ I nod towards the women’s corridor. ‘Come on, let’s go and get your outfit sorted.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Marcus stands up and says, ‘Thank you for all for coming, especially at this very difficult time.’ This is no bog-standard community meeting and it’s clear he’s prepared something when he glances down at what he’s written on a small piece of card. ‘Obviously, we are all deeply shocked by what’s happened. To lose a friend and colleague this way is terrible, but our main concern has to be for all of you. How you are feeling, how we cope with what has happened and how we move on from this, together.’

  Graham puts his hand up. When Marcus looks at him and nods, Graham squirms in his seat for a few seconds, like he’s embarrassed to find himself in the spotlight.

  He asks, ‘Has something bad happened?’

  Marcus mumbles a few words to Mia who immediately stands up and walks across to where Graham is sitting. She politely asks Donna to move up one, then sits down next to Graham and takes his hand.

  I’m thinking that’s sweet of her.

  I’m thinking that Graham is a bit further gone than I thought he was.

  I’m thinking, deeply shocked is a bloody understatement and that what happened on Sunday is only the second most shocking thing I can think of. I would have thought the most holy fuck this is properly bonkers shocking thing is . . . Marcus standing there, saying all this while he knows damn well that whoever stabbed his ‘friend and colleague’ to death is sitting right there with him in the same room.

  How can he not know that?

  I can only assume the police have come to the sa
me conclusion. I’m not sure who the Met’s hiring these days, but even a bunch of sixteen-year-old work-experience detectives should have figured that much out by now. Yes, there were a couple of visitors on the ward at the time of the murder, but it’s hard to imagine that Donna’s mum or Ilias’s idiot younger brother had much of a motive for killing Debbie. That’s if anyone had what an ordinary punter might think of as a conventional motive. Rage, revenge, love, sex, money, all the old favourites.

  By now you should be well aware it doesn’t take much in here.

  There were several Informals around at the time as well, of course, but those who were able to provide the police with permanent addresses got the hell out of there as soon as they could. I mean, wouldn’t you?

  Aside from a couple of voluntary patients of no fixed abode, that just leaves those of us on section plus the members of staff who are still breathing and, like Marcus said, they’ve all shown up for the meeting.

  Looks like it, anyway.

  There’s maybe twenty people in the dining room.

  A big circle of chairs.

  Marcus says, ‘Before I open the meeting up to the floor, I want to introduce someone who’s going to say a few words about the position of the ward moving forward.’ He points towards the only person in the room I don’t recognise.

  Ilias leaps to his feet, looking a bit panicky. ‘Where’s the ward going?’

  ‘Well, this man will tell you,’ Marcus says.

  Ilias sits down again, but he still looks worried.

  The man – middle-aged with grey hair – stands up and introduces himself as a member of the hospital’s Foundation Trust Board. ‘I wanted to let you know that there have been . . . discussions about closing the ward.’ He sounds like someone off the radio. ‘At least temporarily, in light of the recent tragic events. It was suggested that it might be better for the mental well-being of all patients if they were moved elsewhere.’

  Several members of staff nod. I’m thinking we should probably be more concerned about our physical well-being.