by Tania Carver
He brushed his teeth, gulped down some water, got in the car and drove to the address he had been given.
All the while playing the conversation he had just had over and over again in his mind.
This wasn’t going to be an easy one. He could feel it.
5
‘S
o what else did your new best mate have to say?’ asked Sperring, looking at the empty chair. ‘Did he tell you who he is and why he’s doing this? What he’s up to? Make our job a hell of a lot simpler.’
‘I think we can work out what he’s up to,’ said Detective Constable Nadish Khan, crossing to join them. He had on the same blue paper suit as everyone else but he still managed to put some swagger into his walk, like he was in a club rather than at a murder scene. ‘He’s a nut job. He’s a killer.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Phil.
‘What?’ said Khan, looking aggrieved. ‘You don’t think he did this? Or you don’t think he’s a nutter?’
‘First things first,’ said Phil. ‘Have we managed to find out who the victims are? Who the guy in the hospital is? And have we traced the call?’
‘Just come from the station,’ said Khan. ‘Been checking some stuff out. Guy’s name is Darren Richards. Ran his name. Got a bit of previous. Twoccing, street robbery, that sort of thing. From Lea Hall way. Your common or garden low-life.’
Phil pointed to the dead bodies. ‘And the other two?’
Khan’s face became pale. He looked anywhere but at where Phil indicated. Despite his seeming arrogance and swagger, Nadish Khan was famously squeamish. Phil had had to tell him to exit more than one murder scene for fear that he would vomit and contaminate it. Khan was starting to sway.
‘Nadish…’
‘I’m all right, boss. I’m fine.’
He looked anything but. However Phil didn’t press the matter. ‘Just remember,’ he said.
‘Locard’s Exchange Principle. Yeah, yeah. I know. You tell me every time. Don’t worry. I’m not going to —’
He ran for the exit.
Phil exchanged looks with Sperring, raised an eyebrow.
‘He’s a good lad,’ said Sperring. ‘He’ll get used to it.’
Phil said nothing. Just waited for Khan to return. He did so, his face even paler, wiping his mouth with a tissue.
‘You were saying?’ said Phil.
‘Yeah,’ said Khan, trying to regain his composure, finding the space behind Phil’s head fascinating. ‘Darren Richards…’
‘And the other two?’
‘As much as we can tell,’ said Khan, knowing he had to look at the bodies but trying not to at the same time, ‘they’re Darren Richards’ girlfriend, Chloe Hannon, and their daughter, Shannon.’
‘Shannon Hannon?’ said Sperring with a snort. ‘Bloody imbeciles. Never think, do they, this lot.’
‘Let’s hope Mr Richards planned on marrying her, then,’ said Phil. ‘Moot point now, though. Anything on her?’
Khan shook his head. ‘Not much. Just an altercation outside a pub with another girl.’ He pocketed the tissue, took out his notepad. ‘Letisha Watson. Claimed she was trying to steal her boyfriend. Got cross about it. Apparently Darren Richards and Letisha Watson had a thing going. He left her when he got Chloe Hannon pregnant.’
‘Don’t need a detective, need Jeremy bloody Kyle to sort this one out,’ said Sperring. ‘Where d’you get all this from?’
‘All on record,’ said Khan. ‘Seems Darren Richards was a popular man.’
‘Someone thought so,’ said Phil. ‘But this looks… not like the work of a jealous ex-partner. I may be jumping to conclusions but I think we can rule out Letisha Watson. I doubt she would go to all this trouble.’
‘Dunno,’ said Khan. ‘I’ve been out with some right psychos.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Phil. ‘But this is different. This is a whole different level of… something. I don’t know what.’
‘Or why,’ said Sperring. ‘What else did your mate tell you?’
‘Look,’ said Phil, turning to face his junior officer, ‘can we please stop calling this person my mate?’
Sperring looked away. ‘Sorry, boss.’ The apology had no weight behind it.
‘All the voice gave me was an address. Here. Told me that someone wanted to live, that he had chosen to live and we had to grant him his wish.’
‘Chosen to live?’ said Khan, frowning.
‘Chosen, yeah. Then he went on about justice. And fairness. And that he hoped we were on the same side.’
‘Justice?’ said Khan, frowning again. He consulted his notes once more. ‘He said justice?’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil. ‘Why? Ring a bell?’
‘Dunno.’ Khan leafed through his notes. ‘Justice…’ He found what he wanted, read it to himself. Shook his head. ‘Dunno if this is anything, maybe I’m grasping here, but – here. Darren Richards was in court not so long ago for stealing and driving away while under the influence. Dangerous driving, the lot. Apparently he took a car and killed two pedestrians…’ His voice tailed off.
‘What?’ asked Phil. ‘What’s wrong?’
Khan looked up. ‘Killed two pedestrians. Ploughed into them. A mother and daughter.’
Phil felt a shudder run up his spine. He looked at the bodies once more. ‘A mother and daughter?’
‘Yeah,’ said Khan, checking his notes. ‘That’s not all. He got off.’
‘What?’ said Sperring. ‘Hate to have been the CIO on that one. Poor bastard.’
‘Yeah,’ said Khan. ‘He got off. Some technicality, something wrong with the investigation. His brief found a hole and pulled it. Destroyed the case.’
‘So now he’s alive and another mother and daughter are dead,’ said Phil. ‘That’s what the voice said. He wanted to be alive. He had chosen to live. Chosen…’ He looked back at the bodies. Then at the place where they had been shot from. Then at the other chair. His hand absently stoked the side of his face, felt the faint traces of scars.
‘Chosen to live…’ He turned to the other two. ‘Let’s see if we can get that call traced. I think you’re right. I think we do have a nutter on our hands.’
6
T
he needle dropped on the vinyl. A bump-in-the-road hiss of static, repeated, then a third time, then it began. A snare drum kicked in followed by vibes languidly spelling out the hook, followed by Jerry Butler’s wounded, soulful but lyrical croon telling his woman that he would never give her up, no matter how badly she treated him.
He sat back in his armchair, closed his eyes. Letting the music wash over him, perform its magic. He immersed himself in it. A perfect song in so many ways. Not only for what it stated but for what could be read into it. Sixties soul. Never bettered. Craftsmanship and skill. Heart and soul. All together. A production line, yes. But one that spoke to dreams. The only music worth still listening to.
The sun was beginning its creep round the heavy velvet curtains, weak rays illuminating shafts of lazily dancing dust motes, bringing in its wake a tiny but gradual warmth to the room. He didn’t notice. Just sat there, head back, smiling. Mind wandering.
They would be there by now, he thought. Phil Brennan and his team. All over the place. Measuring, bagging, calculating. Searching. They wouldn’t find anything, though. He had been too meticulous, too clean. Too clever for them. They didn’t know that. Yet. But they would realise soon enough.
If they were there now then Darren must be alive. Good. That was as it should be.
He had expected to see Darren’s face on the news before now, his woman and child also. He had watched every bulletin, scanned every online news site for days. Barely sleeping, eating. Too excited, just wanting to see his handiwork acknowledged, the change begin. But there had been nothing. He thought of Darren, still strapped to the chair, unable to escape, to move. That wasn’t right. He could die. So he had given them a little nudge in the right direction. A quick phone call to Phil Brennan and
Darren would live. Everything was right again. The scales balanced.
Darren must live. It was the way things had to work. If Darren died then that exposed his word as a lie, his work as a lie. And that couldn’t be allowed to happen. Justice not only had to be done but had to be seen to be done. Darren had made his choice. And it was down to him to honour that. If there was no honour, no fairness, no justice, then what was left? Nothing. He would be as bad as them. And then there would be no point. No lessons learned. That couldn’t happen.
The song finished. The needle made a couple of crackling circuits then lifted. He sat still, waiting. The arm dropped. James Carr: ‘The Dark End of the Street’. Even better than the last one. The adulterer’s lament, he had heard it described. But he found much more than that in it. It wasn’t about sex. Nothing as sordid, as disgustingly ephemeral, as that. It was about secrets, darkness. Lies. Everyday masks hiding real lives beneath. The spark of recognising kindred spirits in daylight but doing nothing until darkness falls and the masks come off. Then the truth of who they really were could be acknowledged. Much more exciting, more visceral, more alive than plain, old, boring sex.
He kept his eyes closed, thought again of Darren. The choice he had made. Saving himself at the expense of his woman and child. And the look on his face as he came to realise what that choice was actually going to cost him, the reality of his actions. He would have been lying if he didn’t admit that it gave him a thrill to see that. He had expected it, of course; in fact, he had imagined it would be one of the more pleasant by-products of his decision to embark on this course of action in the first place. But he hadn’t expected it to be so enjoyable. Not to mention the delicious trembling in his body as the woman and child had been fatally penetrated.
He replayed those few seconds in his mind again and again, feeding off them. Darren’s expression, the torment as he struggled to reach his decision, then the emotions fighting for prominence on his features once he had done so. Self-loathing battling it out with self-preservation. Sorrow with stoicism. Horror with acceptance. Then, finally, disbelief giving way to dread acceptance. And harrowing, aching loss.
Beautiful.
Righteous vengeance. Perfect. Even more perfect than he had imagined.
The shiver that had run through him in that moment, the power he had felt as he delivered justice – a justice most believed to be beyond reach or impossible to resolve – was palpable. Thrillingly palpable. And he had made it happen.
Once Darren had made his decision his woman had stared at him, terrified beyond rational thought, unable to believe that her man could condemn her like that, how the world could be so wrong. He should have felt something for them as he watched that dumb show play out. Sorrow. Regret. Something like that. But he felt nothing. The woman had taken up with Darren. Had his child. Stuck with him. It was all her fault and she had to take the consequences of her actions. Just like Darren. He hadn’t killed her. Darren had.
Darren had closed his eyes as the crossbow was fired. Then screamed and kept on, screaming and screaming and screaming, until he had no breath, no voice left.
After that it had been a simple matter of getting out as quickly as possible. Covering his tracks, removing his traces, and then off. He wasn’t stupid. He knew they would hunt him down for what he had done. But he wouldn’t make it easy for them. He would provide no clues, no help. And in the meantime, he would talk to them. Open up a dialogue with his pursuers so they could understand what he was doing. Empathise, even. After all, weren’t they supposed to be on the same side when it came to justice?
The song finished, the needle spinning, jumping, spinning again. Stuck in a groove.
He crossed to the jukebox. It was a thing of beauty. A Rock-ola Princess 435. Perfect. He pressed the manual override; the arm returning the needle to its resting position, switching off. He scanned the song titles. So much stuff on there, so many of his favourites. But nothing more that he wanted to hear. Usually, music did the trick, got into his head, his heart, kept everything at bay. But for the last few days all he had thought of was Darren and his fate. It had consumed him.
He put on the TV, flicking to a twenty-four-hour news channel, checked the laptop next to it at the same time. Smiled. His handiwork was just beginning to appear. Vague stories, no details emerging. Just pictures of a white-plastic shrouded building that he knew very well, confused reporters standing in front of it. That gave him a thrill. He knew more than the news crews, than the general public. Than the police. He knew everything.
He crossed to the window, opened the curtains. Sunlight transformed the room. He looked around. With all the old furniture and antiques, not to mention the scale models on every available shelf, it was like living in a museum. Or a mausoleum. But it was the way he liked it. He had his jukebox. And more importantly, his job.
No. More than a job. A calling.
Darren’s face would appear on the news soon. Then they would work it out. What had happened. How justice had been served. And with that realisation the thrill, he thought sadly, would leave him.
He knew what he had to do. Smiled at the thought.
He was just getting started.
7
M
arina Esposito stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. She tried not to make snap judgements, jump to hasty conclusions that would ultimately prejudice her findings. But it was difficult.
The woman seemed to be only physically present. The small eyes in her large, bovine face swept the room, searching for anything of interest, a small smile playing at the corners of her wet, fleshy lips. Her hair was greasy and tied back, her body lumpen and shapeless inside the regulation itchy grey jogging suit. Marina picked up her pen, made a note.
‘Joanne,’ she said. The woman slowly brought her face back down to earth, fixed her vacant smile on Marina. She continued. ‘Joanne, do you know why you’re here?’
Joanne shrugged.
Marina persisted, her voice low and steady. ‘Joanne, I need you to tell me that you understand why you’re here. Can you do that?’
Joanne’s eyes washed in and out of focus, eventually settling on Marina. ‘Because of the men,’ she said slowly.
‘That’s part of it, yes,’ she continued. ‘The men. But that’s not the whole reason why you’re here, is it?’
‘Because of the men,’ Joanne insisted, her voice rising. ‘Because they wanted me to stop seeing my men.’
Marina nodded. ‘The men. Right. But the men weren’t the real problem, were they? No one wanted to stop you seeing the men. No one was telling you to stop that, were they?’
‘They said I couldn’t see my men again. That I couldn’t meet them off the computer. That I couldn’t go out any more. Then they brought me here.’
‘And why couldn’t you go out any more, Joanne? Why didn’t they want you to meet your men?’
Joanne’s eyes rolled backwards, her features darkened. Thinking. And not very pleasant thoughts, Marina reckoned.
‘Oh,’ Joanne said eventually. ‘You mean the babies.’
‘That’s right,’ said Marina. ‘The babies.’
‘You were the first person we thought of,’ DC Anni Hepburn had said when Marina had arrived the previous night. ‘To be honest, you were the only person we thought of.’
‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or not,’ Marina had replied.
Anni had phoned her a couple of days previously. Marina had met her when they worked together as part of the unit headed up by Phil Brennan, Marina’s husband, in Colchester, Essex. They had become close friends and had kept in touch when Marina and Phil moved to Birmingham, even working together on another case Marina had become involved in. Now Anni had returned the favour.
They had met in the Garden Café at the Minories Art Gallery in Colchester. Anni had arranged the location specially, knowing it was one of Marina’s favourite places to eat in the town. Anni had to admit that she liked it too. Hidden behind high-brick, secret-garden walls
and with its unexpected pieces of architecture jumping out at surprising intervals, it reminded her of a mini Portmeirion just off the high street.
‘You trying to tempt me back by bringing me here?’ Marina had asked.
Anni laughed. ‘I should know better, shouldn’t I?’ Her smile faded as she passed over a folder. ‘Her name’s Joanne Marsh,’ Anni said, ‘and we need an assessment.’
Marina removed the documents, scanned them. ‘I think I’ve heard of her.’
‘I’m sure you have. She’s not what you’d call low profile.’
Marina looked up. ‘Where’s she being kept presently?’
‘Finnister. Just up the road.’
Marina nodded. Finnister was a secure hospital for the criminally insane just outside Norfolk. It specialised in rehabilitative and therapeutic treatment and housed almost exclusively female inmates. Marina only knew it by reputation. And what she had heard she had her doubts about.
‘And that’s where we’re going?’
‘First thing in the morning.’ Anni smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘So tonight is our own. No husbands, boyfriends or kids. Let’s hit the town.’
‘And doing that is supposed to make me want to come back here to live?’
Anni laughed. ‘Kill or cure.’
‘So, Joanne. Tell me about the babies.’
Joanne’s earlier good humour had dissipated. She now sat sullen, staring at Marina.
‘The babies.’ Marina’s voice was gentle but insistent. ‘What did you do with the babies?’