Woman in the Water

by Katerina Diamond

  ‘How did I know this was going to be about that?’

  ‘Have you been expecting us?’ Imogen asked.

  Thompson was the second person to make a remark like that.

  ‘I guess. Eventually.’

  ‘What did you think we would need to speak to you about?’ Imogen said.

  ‘I am guessing I am not your first port of call for whatever you are here for. Reece upsets a lot of people. It’s what he does. So really I don’t know what specific thing this is about.’

  ‘Do you know his wife, Angela?’ DI Walsh said.

  ‘Lovely girl. She’s still there, then?’ Gerry Thompson looked at the ground, shaking his head as he spoke.

  ‘You knew about the domestic violence?’ Imogen said.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons why I don’t work there anymore. I wasn’t comfortable with it and challenged him one too many times.’

  ‘The limp?’ Imogen said.

  ‘You noticed? An accident onsite, apparently. I am still not sure,’ Gerry scoffed.

  Reece Corrigan was certainly consistent.

  ‘What do you mean?’ DI Walsh said.

  ‘Only the people Reece wanted out of the way seemed to have these career-ending accidents.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone else who had an accident at work?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘I hear rumours mostly, but there is a ring of truth to them. A few guys quit without working out their notice while I was there. I got the distinct feeling they were running away. God only knows what he did to them. I only stuck it out as long as I did because I needed the money. If you have met him, you know he gives off that scent of Eau de Nutcase.’

  ‘Did you go to the police about it?’ DI Walsh said.

  ‘I never had any proof; just a hunch, really. Reece doesn’t like being challenged on anything. If this was retribution, I got off lightly. There’s a darkness about him. I don’t even know how to describe it, but you just know not to fuck with him. His threats aren’t idle.’

  ‘Did you ever witness anything first hand? Would you be willing to testify?’ DI Walsh said.

  ‘I was his right-hand man on paper, but really I wasn’t someone he came to when he needed something. I don’t know if he is still there or what, but a bloke called Jimmy Chilton is who you need to speak to. He knew the ins and outs of what Reece was up to. I think he probably arranged for my little accident.’

  ‘Did you know Simon Glover or Leon Quick?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘No, sorry. What’s happened to them? It was a long time ago, though I try to remember as little as possible. Everything gets skewed when you are working there. It’s almost a hostage situation, or a cult, like you can’t leave unless he says so. I just want to forget about all of it. It changed me and I lost my family because of it. My wife, my kids, they didn’t recognise me anymore. Now they are gone. I can’t work in construction anymore because of my leg.’

  ‘Did Corrigan openly threaten you, then?’ Imogen said.

  ‘He openly threatens everyone. If you’re smart, you listen the first time.’

  ‘So, why would you stay there? Just money?’ Imogen said.

  ‘I wasn’t exactly swimming with career opportunities. He gives chances to people with a lot to lose and then that’s it, you’re on the hook.’

  ‘Lots to lose, how?’ Imogen said.

  ‘In my case it was debt. I took out a loan with some dodgy outfit at three thousand per cent interest and he paid it off for me. Took payments out of my wages. Took me years to pay it off. At first I felt indebted to him, but then I realised it was just a way of keeping me loyal no matter what he did. Which I couldn’t do in the end.’

  ‘Like, what did he do?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘He would blackball people who didn’t do what he wanted. He cut corners on jobs, sometimes he didn’t pay people, sometimes he got people hurt. I don’t know, really; it was a long time ago.’

  ‘And you worked there how long?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘Just over five years. He must have got wind that I wanted to leave and then this happened. My disability benefit is barely enough to keep me in fish fingers, let alone all the alcohol I want to consume. I just wish I had left a long time before I got fired.’

  ‘I thought you left because of the accident?’ Imogen said.

  ‘This is how Corrigan fires people. Makes sure you can never work in construction again.’

  ‘What happened? Was he always like that?’ Imogen said.

  ‘Yes and no. His behaviour got worse over time, but there was no definite moment when I noticed a change; it crept up on us. It’s not like he ever seemed completely “right”, if you know what I mean. He just got more brazen with his aggression. He wanted us to be scared of him.’

  ‘What about his wife? Did she come on site often? Did you ever witness any aggression towards her?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Not very often, no, but I saw the aftermath more than a couple of times. He didn’t even bother trying to hide it. He didn’t like it if any of us even spoke to her.’

  Imogen looked around the room. Thompson was hardly living the high life. While she had mostly acclimatised to the smell of rubbish in the flat, she could see that Thompson didn’t have a whole lot going for him at the moment.

  ‘Do you know anything we can say that might get Angela Corrigan to speak out against her husband?’ DI Walsh asked.

  ‘If she’s stayed there that long then no. My guess is there is only one way out of that relationship for her.’

  Walsh handed him his card.

  ‘If you think of anything else, if you remember anything specific, then give me a ring.’

  Gerry Thompson stood again and walked towards the door, opening it to let them leave.

  Imogen wondered how honest he had actually been. She noticed that same apprehension and fear that Leon Quick had had. What on earth had Corrigan done to make these men so afraid of him?

  She still didn’t understand Matt Walsh and wished Adrian was here. There was very little chit-chat with Matt and so she realised she didn’t know anything about his life. They had worked together for a few months now and she didn’t know if he was married or if he had children. He was completely closed, all business and nothing else, and it made it hard for her to trust him. The only real conversations they had had together were about Adrian’s behaviour on both this and previous cases. She had to be the adult and get to know him better if she was going to end up being partnered with him. At the moment, the thought of that filled her with dread.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It was early evening and the sun had already started to fade when Adrian woke again. The street outside was washed with grey light. He didn’t feel rested. His sleep had been plagued with voices and with the ever-present pain in his body. In his dreams, he could feel himself clinging onto sleep, trying to stay inside the dream.

  He was thirsty again when he finally opened his eyes. He got up slowly, his bones creaking into action, trying to ignore the places where it hurt most. His body jarred as he walked down the stairs. With every breath, his lungs pressed against his sore ribs, a sharp pain shooting through him.

  He walked past a mirror but was too afraid to look, as though it would be written on his face, what he had been part of. Inside the fridge the smell of leftover Indian made his stomach turn again. He looked at the beer, but he didn’t want alcohol. As much as he wanted to be drunk, he also wanted to be sober, to keep his wits about him. He pulled out a carton of juice and opened it, his lip stinging as the citric acid infiltrated his cuts.

  The doorbell rang and Adrian felt his whole body tense. Was it them? Were they back? They knew where he lived, he knew that much. Struggling to breathe, he grabbed a knife from the block on the kitchen worktop and held it out in front of him, unsure of who he was planning to use it on if anyone burst through the door. He half thought he might just cut his own throat if it was them.

  The bell rang again, followed by hard thumping. Adrian’s heart beat faster. He ba
cked against the wall with the knife pointed at the front door as the banging continued, the handle slipping around as his palms got sweatier.

  ‘Adrian,’ Imogen called. ‘I know you’re in there; I can see the lights on!’

  He took a deep breath at the sound of her voice, wanting nothing more than to hold her right now, but he was still frozen in place, his body taking time to catch up to the fact that his attackers weren’t back.

  She banged on the door again.

  ‘Coming,’ he said before he had time to think.

  His primary concern right now was making sure she didn’t get suspicious. If he didn’t open the door there would be questions he didn’t want to answer. He put the knife on the counter and walked to the front door, wiping his wet cheeks before touching the handle. He pushed past every feeling inside that wanted to keep the door closed and stay locked in here for ever.

  He opened the door.

  Imogen took one look at him and a flash of annoyance passed across her face.

  ‘One of those nights, was it?’ she asked as she took in his appearance. ‘You could have answered your phone. I’ve been worried sick.’

  She had obviously assumed that he had got into a fight on purpose; it wouldn’t be the first time. If anything, it was a perfect cover for him. Having bruises or cuts on his face was nothing new. No one would ask many questions.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t feel well.’

  He held onto the door, partly to hold his broken body upright, partly blocking her passage into the house. He didn’t want company.

  Imogen reached forwards to place her hand on his forehead and he involuntarily flinched backwards. She ignored him and continued.

  ‘You are a bit warm. You don’t look right.’

  ‘I’m just going to sleep it off. I’ll be fine.’

  He tried to say the things that would make her go away.

  ‘Are you still annoyed? Is that what this is? I said I was sorry,’ Imogen said.

  ‘No, I’m not annoyed at all. I just feel terrible,’ Adrian said.

  He desperately wanted her to leave, but he knew if he said that then she would push her way in. He was surprised she hadn’t already. At the same time, he didn’t want to be alone, either. He just wanted to be asleep, unconscious, dead.

  ‘Let me in; I’ll make you some soup,’ Imogen said.

  He didn’t want a confrontation and so he let her through. He didn’t know his own mind anymore. He felt weak.

  Imogen walked past him into the kitchen. By the time Adrian had followed her inside, she had a tin of soup out and was emptying it into a bowl.

  ‘I’m going to go back to bed,’ Adrian said, looking at the dining chair, not wanting to sit on it, knowing that he couldn’t.

  ‘I’ll bring your soup up when it’s done.’

  Out of her sight, Adrian allowed himself to feel the pain. He winced as he walked up the stairs. He blurted out a sob, unsure where it had come from and hoping that Imogen hadn’t heard it. He walked over to the bed and noticed there was blood streaking his sheets. Imogen would be up any moment.

  He quickly pulled the bedding off and rolled it into a ball, stuffing it in the bottom of the wardrobe. He grabbed a clean set from the cupboard and redressed the bed, covering the large red rose-shaped stain on his mattress with a towel before putting the sheet on. He would have to replace it. He couldn’t risk Imogen seeing it.

  His body begged to be lying down again, but he was desperate not to be discovered. His eyes were streaming and he didn’t know how to stop them. He changed his tracksuit bottoms as well and climbed in bed just moments before he heard Imogen on the stairs. Wiping his eyes, he turned onto his side – lying on his back hurt too much and he didn’t want to get more blood on the sheets.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as Imogen entered the room and put the soup by the bed.

  ‘You really look terrible, Miley. Have you been to see a doctor?’

  She leaned over and put her hand on his cheek again. He braced himself as her hand touched him. He didn’t want any hands on him at all. Be normal.

  ‘I’ll be OK. I just need to sleep it off.’

  He resisted the urge to push her hand away and just screamed on the inside.

  ‘Well, I’m staying here to look after you. I don’t care if you’re annoyed at me.’

  ‘I don’t want to give you what I have got. Maybe you should sleep in the other room.’

  ‘Nonsense. I never get sick. I’ll be downstairs. Call if you need me. Maybe a hot shower will make you feel better.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  He smiled and she removed her hand. He could breathe again.

  He waited for her to leave the room and then went into the bathroom. The black sack with his soiled things inside was still on the floor. He pulled his clothes off and stood in front of the mirror. Pale and bruised, the tears started to form in his eyes and dripped down without him even feeling as though he was crying. This was just who he was now. Pathetic.

  He turned around and looked back in the mirror, checking his body. There were several bruises on his back. He daren’t look lower, but then he took a deep breath before casting his eyes down and then looking away immediately. He saw the dried blood at the top of his thighs and gagged. He managed to open the toilet just in time to throw up again. He clutched at his rib as he retched until his stomach was dry.

  ‘You all right in there?’ Imogen knocked on the door.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, panting, trying not to sound as fucked up as he felt.

  He quickly turned the shower on again and got in, as though maybe this time he could wash the injuries away. Sobbing into the water, desperate to stop crying but finding it harder and harder to control, he gently rubbed shower cream between his legs, front and back. Even his own hands on his skin were making him feel worse.

  Composing himself and getting dressed again, he took deep breaths until he felt he could pass for human again. He picked up the black sack and opened the bathroom door. Imogen was standing there.

  ‘You’re not right, Adrian. What have you taken for it?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ll be fine.’

  He walked back into the bedroom and kicked the black bag under the bed before Imogen mentioned it.

  ‘Shall I get you some painkillers?’

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that; maybe because the pain was incidental. It wasn’t the worst part of what had happened, it was the side effect. He could handle the physical pain – it hurt, of course – but it wasn’t what was upsetting him. The main source of his agony was inside and untouchable.

  ‘Yes, please. They are in the high cupboard next to the fridge.’

  He felt he should be hungry, but somehow that was the last thing on his mind. The emptiness inside him was not a priority.

  He climbed back in bed, careful to lie on his side propped up on the pillows to relieve the pain in his ribs, terrified of soiling the sheets again. Knowing full well if he told Imogen she would understand and that it might even relieve some of this internal pressure, the thought of saying it out loud made him gag. The idea of her thinking about him in that situation was not something he could entertain. He wasn’t sure if he could say it, wasn’t sure if his mouth would work enough for the words to come out.

  Imogen reappeared with the painkillers. He leaned up on his elbow and took two, knowing that it would make no difference, not really. He lay back again and closed his eyes.

  Imogen stood in the doorway for a few moments just looking at him. He could feel her wanting to say something but deciding against it. Eventually, she left the room and Adrian attempted to sleep again.

  Sleeping was strange. There was an anxiety within him that didn’t switch off, a constant reminder that he was in danger. There was still pain but it was a little less intrusive than it had been before.

  He drifted in and out of sleep, but not enough to open his eyes. Just enough to be aware and remember what had happened. Occasionally, the impulse to scr
eam took over, but he suppressed it, he suppressed everything. He felt as though he were climbing into the smallest box, all his armour now removed, destroyed. He had to hide in the box to stay safe. They wouldn’t find him there.

  He could hear sobbing. The familiar pain in his throat returned and then he felt hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Adrian! Wake up!’

  This time he did push her hands away, as he woke with a start. He was breathless and his face was wet. He had been crying, maybe talking in his sleep.

  Imogen was lying with him. The room was dark and he wanted to cry out, but instead he turned in the bed, putting his bedside light on, the extreme movement causing him to wince yet again. He took several slow, deep breaths as he moved, unsure why that eased the pain in any way. He looked over to Imogen, who looked as though she had seen a ghost – a concerned and surprised face.

  ‘Bad dream, that’s all.’

  She reached across to put her hand on his face again to check if he had a temperature, but he got out of the bed before she could touch him.

  ‘You were crying in your sleep. Are you sure you’re OK? Let me see if you’re warm.’

  ‘I said I’m fine. Will you stop fucking harassing me!’ Adrian snapped before leaving the room.

  In the bathroom, he ran the cold water and splashed it on his face. His cheeks and nose were wet where the tears had fallen. He felt so broken. No control. It was as though he had given it away by not fighting back. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he fight to the death? Adrian wasn’t sure he could do this anymore. What alternative is there?

  There was a gentle tap on the bathroom door.

  ‘Adrian?’

  As the towel enveloped his face, he had the urge to scream into it, but instead he just dried himself off and opened the door. Imogen was standing with her arms folded, hugging herself for security. Her face was full of concern.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I feel like shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’m great company right now.’

  ‘I’m worried about you. What was your dream about?’

  ‘I can’t even remember,’ Adrian lied.