Right to Kill

by John Barlow

  45

  They were on a road in Gomersal, houses to one side, to the other a large village green that sloped off into the darkness.

  ‘Made a few arrests in there,’ Rita said, peering out of the window. ‘You want Class B, you’ve come to the right…’

  ‘It’s not far,’ said Gwyn, still holding his phone up as he drove.

  They got to a junction of three narrow roads. There were old houses, and some new ones, stone-built in a similar, old-world style. A nice spot.

  No time. They spun to the left, took a lane that ran down past a pub. It was almost as picturesque as the one in Tong.

  ‘That’s the place she mentioned,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s around here,’ said Gwyn, still staring at his phone.

  The car slowed as they all looked into the darkness ahead.

  Gwyn pulled up on a verge and they piled out. There were fields running from the road all the way down to the valley bottom. In the far distance was the faint glow of street lighting, but in between it was pitch black.

  ‘Where the friggin’ hell is it?’ Gwyn said, phone in one hand, a torch now in the other.

  ‘I can’t see a bloody thing, never mind a building,’ Rita said as they climbed the low stone wall, scrambling over the single line of barbed wire, hardly noticing it was there.

  Joe looked back the way they’d come. The lights of the Wheatsheaf glowed, warm and welcoming.

  ‘It was on her mind yesterday. She mentioned the pub. It’s gotta be here.’

  He took out his phone. There was a torch on it. He’d never used it before. The grass in front of him lit up, a nasty blue-grey colour.

  ‘Good thinking, Batman,’ Rita said, as she did the same. ‘Come on, it can’t be far. She must have seen it from the road.’

  The three of them spread out and walked down the slope, the expanse of black now animated by dancing pools of hard metallic light. In the sky behind them the sound of a helicopter could be heard in waves that came and went on the wind.

  ‘There!’ Joe said.

  He was already running, phone held out in front of him. In the corner of the field was a small, rectangular building, no bigger than a garage, and a little lower.

  They sprinted towards to it, shouting Kieron’s name. The sound filled the valley, massive blasts of human urgency echoing in the darkness.

  Joe got there first. It was an old building, no windows on the side that faced him, but neatly maintained. The door was old, but the Yale lock, though tarnished, was clearly not as old. He yanked at the handle, screaming Kieron’s name. The door was locked.

  ‘Kieron!’ Rita cried as she and Gwyn arrived. ‘We’re here! Police!’

  They pulled at the door, all three of them now bawling as loud as they could, but it hardly moved at all.

  ‘Stand back,’ Gwyn said.

  He took a short run and rammed into it with his shoulder. The door and frame seemed to move. But not enough.

  ‘Take it in turns,’ he said, as he gave it another go.

  Joe followed, crashing into it so hard that the pain of the impact shot across his back and down his spine. Then Rita began slamming her foot into the middle of the door. It shifted a little more with each kick, dust and bits of darkened, hundred-year-old mortar dropping to the ground.

  ‘The whole frame,’ Joe said. ‘Pull the whole frame out.’

  He dug his fingers into the old mortar around the bricks, scraping at it with his nails, breathing in the dust until he almost choked, as if he was inhaling clouds of pepper. Finally he managed to get his hand around a whole brick. He worked it loose and pulled it out.

  Still shouting Kieron’s name, Rita and Gwyn were now dislodging more bricks, the three of them crowding around the door, shoulder to shoulder, their faces covered in dark-grey mortar dust as they all tried desperately to get a hand around the frame.

  ‘Come on,’ Gwyn shouted, ‘we’re nearly there. We’re getting it.’

  Then there was a noise. They stopped, stood back, as the door opened slowly from the inside.

  Two boys were there, each one with an ice-cream cone in his hand.

  Rita exploded, grabbing the smaller one, hugging him, repeating his name. He let her hug him. But he was passive, his body loose, like a stuffed toy for which she’d suddenly discovered a deep and inexpressible love. Meanwhile, the taller of the two looked on with mild contempt.

  ‘It’s over, Kieron,’ she continued, oblivious to everything. ‘It’s sorted. Your mum’s on her way. You hear me? You’re safe.’

  It took about twenty seconds, Joe reckoned. But he couldn’t be sure, because he was busy trying to work out what the bloody hell was going on.

  Rita finally loosened her grip on Kieron and looked around.

  ‘What?’ she asked Joe and Gwyn as she pulled herself together. Then, turning back to the two boys: ‘Who gave you them friggin’ Cornettos?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like kids?’ Joe said as they watched Kieron and his friend being escorted to a patrol car.

  They were back on the road, which was now closed off and was bustling with police officers. Her face was slightly puffed up.

  ‘Kieron? Known him since ’e were seven. Every copper round here does. A right little bugger.’

  ‘I know the type,’ Joe said. ‘You can see it in their eyes.’

  ‘The pizza? Ice creams? Jesus Christ!’

  Inside the building where the boys had been found there were two empty pizza boxes, a cooler bag full of ice creams, plus a couple of Gameboys. All of this, they explained, had been left for them by that nice Maths teacher. She’d told them to stay out of the police’s way for few hours; something to do with damage to a Subaru yesterday, about how she could fix it with the police if Kieron and his mate laid low for a while.

  ‘And they believed her?’ Joe said.

  ‘Seems like it. Whatever she said, she got ’em here, and she took us for mugs.’

  Joe’s WhatsApp pinged. He studied the screen, took his time, ignoring everything around him.

  ‘She just sent me the location,’ he said, holding up his phone so Rita could see it.

  Rita snorted. ‘Think that’ll make a difference, after what she’s done? She’s going down for kidnapping, an’all.’

  Gwyn Merchant bounded up to them.

  ‘Are you coming? There’s a friggin’ man-hunt going on! I’m off now if you want a lift.’

  ‘We better go,’ Joe said.

  She smiled at him, didn’t move.

  ‘We’ll give you a lift back to Tong. You can get your car. But you’re being stood down, Joe.’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘OK. But why did they get you to tell me?’

  She waited until he’d opened them again.

  ‘’Cos it was my decision. Go home, Joe.’

  Wednesday

  46

  He drove past the school gates, going as slow as he dared without drawing attention to himself. It was just gone nine. A few parents were hanging around, chatting, looking tired but relieved. Six hours without bloody SpongeBob. Six hours to be an adult.

  She wasn’t there.

  At the top of the road he turned left, found the pedestrian crossing where Thomas Saunders had died. No sign of his mother.

  He’d spent the night driving around, up through Cleckheaton, past the library, then across to north Leeds, trawling the area where she’d lived when she was married. Gwyn was keeping him up to date on the search. The black Renault had been found abandoned a few miles from Tong. Her own car was still missing, but it hadn’t been tracked over the course of the night. So they had no idea how she was travelling. If she was travelling.

  As dawn stretched into morning, his tiredness had gradually been replaced by something more penetrating; a sense of escalating dread, a nausea at the thought of himself, his own existence. Of how things had come to this.

  He turned and came back, parking just short of the school building then walking as far as the gates. The
y’d know by now. It was on every news bulletin. A former parent. Tragic accident ten years ago. That parent. There’d be a police team here soon enough, just to check that she hadn’t been back, to see if she still had any contacts in the area. No stone left unturned. Press too. They’d be here in no time.

  Better not show up at the school. Not now. His face would be on the news too. It was a toss-up as to who was a bigger hate figure: a two-time murderer or the dickhead copper who let her get away. Ex-copper? Perhaps. Even Andy had rung to tell him to stay out of sight.

  He gave her another call. He’d been calling her all night. It always went straight to voicemail. Meanwhile, an unmarked car pulled up. A young man and woman got out and made their way purposefully into the school building. They were coppers. Had to be.

  He drove back up towards the site of the accident, going over the report in his head. The nanny had collected him from school. They’d walked up the road, turned left. Halfway down they crossed the road… She’d picked up the child from school, and they were going home… They crossed halfway down.

  He pulled into the kerb and googled the old family address. He zoomed out, located the school and ran a finger along the route they’d taken. He double-checked. Zoomed in and out again. This wasn’t the way home, not exactly. They should have carried on at the junction, not gone left. It was one street out of their way. And it was a long street. On a blustery day? Why make the trip longer? He looked harder. And there it was: a patch of green on the map. Thomas and his nanny had been going to the park. He came to a stop on the outer perimeter. There was a cold wind, just as there had been ten years ago. But Thomas had loved the ice cream here, whatever the weather. That’s what she’d said. Tough little bugger.

  From his car he could see the old café, just a wooden shack really, but a nicely maintained one, with large doors that opened outwards, a handful of small tables and a serving counter within. And there she was. The colour was unmistakable. She was still in the red jacket.

  He got out and began to walk towards her, past a duck pond, its edges strewn with bird shit, massive splodges of the stuff. Was it goose shit that stank bad? Or chicken? He couldn’t remember. After the kind of night he’d had, he couldn’t even be bothered to avoid stepping in the stuff. Or perhaps it was deliberate. Another metaphor? He wasn’t thinking straight. He was walking in shit.

  She was at a table against the wall at the back. There wasn’t much light. But it was her, in the jacket she’d stolen. The dark hair, the outline of her face, taut and angular, not a scrap of fat on her.

  A thought. He retraced his steps, sat on a bench so that he was partially concealed behind a large holly bush, and phoned her. Why would she answer now?

  ‘Turn the bloody thing on!’

  He let it click to voicemail.

  Then he waited, watching a fragmented version of her through the spiky leaves as she sat there, hardly moving. Didn’t look like she was in a rush.

  After a while he phoned for local back-up. A patrol car arrived within minutes. He flagged it down a little way along the road, told them to stay close but out of sight of the café.

  Then it was time.

  ‘Chris?’

  She looked up.

  Nothing.

  ‘You knew I’d find you here, didn’t you?’

  ‘You’re the detective!’

  Was it defiance? Not really. She sounded like a child. He wanted to hold her. It was ridiculous, he knew.

  ‘This way’s best.’

  Still she said nothing. Her shoulders dropped fractionally, but otherwise she was motionless.

  He took a seat.

  ‘Suspect was waiting in a place known to the investigating officer.’

  She smiled. ‘Gets me a brownie point, does it?’

  ‘It’s best like this.’

  ‘And it’ll make a difference?’

  He read a couple of the handwritten signs on the wall. Brunch rolls and carrot cake, plus a few breakfast items. This was the kind of area where people could afford to have breakfast out. It reminded him of Lyon. Breakfast out? What kind of home do you have, that you want to eat breakfast somewhere else?

  Then again, what kind of home did he have?

  No time for that, not now.

  A woman came over.

  ‘I’m good,’ he said with all the curtness of someone who’s had a sleepless night and lost a double murderer.

  She moved away without a word.

  For a while they sat there without speaking.

  In front of her was an empty coffee cup, plus a small stainless-steel dish with the remains of a serving of white ice cream, now melted. She stirred it with the spoon. There was a deliberateness in the way she did so, a deeply feminine charm that made it seem incomprehensible that she’d killed two fit, able-bodied, young men.

  Yet she had.

  ‘I thought I’d go on the run. I’ve been living off the adrenalin for a week. High as a kite! The getaway was good, you’ll give me that, no?’

  ‘Planned to precision.’

  ‘Not that much planning, to be honest.’

  ‘But why? Why escape like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. To show you I could? To show you how random it all is, everything?’

  ‘You really thought you’d become a fugitive from justice?’

  ‘I haven’t been thinking at all. Not really. But I have been remembering things. The man who killed Thomas? I can remember his barrister in court. He was wearing a little wig. The terrible odds, he said. One in a million. This awful tragedy. The sound of his words was like being punched in the face, again and again, until it no longer hurt, until you didn’t care if it stopped or not.’

  Joe recalled the report of the trial. The very thought of reading it made him feel sick. One-sixty-six? Depends who the one is… All night long he’d tried to convince himself that a kind of madness had compelled her to commit murder, something from the unfathomable depths of human despair. Yet over the course of the night he’d come to understand her actions more and more clearly.

  ‘Why now?’ he said. ‘After all these years?’

  She shifted in her seat, raised her eyebrows a little.

  ‘Do it, he was saying. Make it right.’

  ‘Who was saying it?’

  ‘I didn’t know. Not at the time. It wasn’t until last night, when it was all over, that I realized. It was Thomas, his voice, telling me that something needed to be done. For everybody. Everybody else. Make it right.’

  ‘Voices in your head, Chris. Save that thought, eh? For later?’

  She seemed flattered.

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘I want to understand.’

  ‘A rightness. The feeling that it was absolutely right.’

  ‘Like maths?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you understand? As a parent, perhaps? It felt like the end point of everything, the culmination of all those years…’

  As he listened, he tried to assess her state of mind. She was lucid, but her eyes were wandering, untethered, as if she was searching for something.

  ‘…Damian, my ex-husband, he went to the States. Threw himself into his work. Did well. Very well. He’s in private consulting now, lives in Cayman. Every six months or so he rings me, late at night for him, evening for me, so it’s all right. He’s always so drunk he can hardly speak. He asks how I’m doing, y’know. Then he cries. Says he’s scared, that he wants to go out and kill Neil Barden. Or someone like him. One of the evil ones.’

  She stopped. Pursed her lips, staring at him in that quizzical way she had, as though weighing up some trivial but intriguing conundrum.

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll just finish this,’ she said, taking a spoonful of her melted ice cream, then another. ‘The last chance I’ll get!’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘For a while!’ She liked that. ‘It took me a few years to work D
amian out. He wasn’t scared that he might kill someone. He was ashamed, because he knew that he’d never kill anyone. What he couldn’t bear was the shame.’

  ‘And you? How did you bear it, any of it?’

  ‘By doing the best I could. New career, trying to help people, to make a difference.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  ‘Someone took me.’

  ‘Took?’

  ‘Took me out of the fiction I’d created. I felt myself being carried along that road, the road where Thomas died. Have you…?’

  ‘Yes, I was there just now.’

  ‘I was transported there. To that very spot. And I saw the truth. The truth of the world. It’s simpler than you could imagine, Joe. Opposite angles. You remember trigonometry? When you show kids that, their eyes light up. It’s so obvious! So perfect!’

  He closed his eyes. Found no explanation here, no way of resolving this.

  ‘No,’ he said, placing his hand firmly onto the table. ‘That only explains Craig Shaw. I can understand that. You were there. The strangeness of the moment. After all those years of suffering. But Jason Beverage?’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Joe, are you coaching me for a trial?’

  ‘Please. I want to know.’

  He sat there, hardly daring to look at her, and waited to hear if she had anything else to say. One long, long Romano pause.

  ‘I was terrified, but compelled.’

  ‘Excited?’

  ‘No. But I knew I would go on. I’ll go down as a calculated killer. That’s fine.’

  ‘You were driven by something out of your control. Voices in your head? Like I said, keep that thought.’

  ‘Stop trying to save me, Joe! I’m not blaming this on anything. That would be cowardly.’

  ‘And you’re no coward, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I did what I did, and I stand by it. I’ll take it to my grave and I won’t be ashamed. I did what I thought was right. My boy is still dead, and I did what I did. He’s still dead.’

  She ate several spoonfuls of liquid ice cream, until there was almost none left. With each one she shuddered as she swallowed, but forced herself to smile.