Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  He laughed. Maybe he would be famous after all.

  He thought some more. And smiled. A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps the police weren’t so thick. Maybe they were clever. Maybe they were deliberately withholding things from the media, not telling them the full story, or indeed any part of the story.

  So what to do next?

  He opened his eyes. He knew. It was so obvious, so simple. He had their attention. Now he had to let them know he was serious.

  He got up, crossed to the jukebox, set up another record. Garnet Mimms: ‘Cry Baby’.

  No need to cry, he thought. The future had never looked brighter.

  12

  ‘S

  o has she been charged with anything?’ Marina asked as she walked down the corridor in Finnister House, Anni and Mickey alongside her. A male nurse, tall and stocky, followed along behind them. ‘This Fiona Welch looky-likey?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Mickey. ‘We’re not sure what to charge her with.’

  ‘We could have done her for accessory after the fact with regard to the murders or false impersonation, that kind of thing.’ Anni shrugged. ‘But I guess as soon as she announced herself as Fiona Welch alarm bells rang and we brought her in here.’

  ‘And she came here of her own free will?’ asked Marina.

  ‘It was a compromise reached with her solicitor,’ said Mickey. ‘No prison, no remand. She can be studied and helped in here. She was all for it.’

  ‘Didn’t that make you suspicious?’ said Marina.

  ‘Yep,’ said Anni. ‘Which is why we brought you in.’

  ‘Amongst other reasons,’ said Marina.

  Anni and Mickey said nothing.

  They stopped walking. The corridor was bright and airy. It could have been an ordinary hospital were it not for the wire-reinforced glass in the windows, the heavy security locks on the doors. The constant monitoring presence of swivel-headed CCTV cameras in the top corners. They had even passed some inmates walking about unaccompanied. Marina knew that wouldn’t have been the case. Unaccompanied perhaps. Alone and unwatched, never. That was the kind of place it was.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Anni.

  The door in front of them looked like all the others on the corridor. Solid blond wood. A heavy metal security lock. The male nurse stepped forward, took a chained key from the leather pouch on his waist and unlocked the door. Before opening it he turned to the other three. ‘You want me to come in?’ he asked. ‘Rules and that.’

  ‘If you like,’ said Mickey. ‘But it’ll be a bit crowded.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait out here. But remember, no physical contact. Don’t get too close. You’ve had the search, yeah? Left everything at the gate?’

  ‘We have,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Can’t be too careful.’ He turned, opened the door. ‘Hope you’re decent, Fiona,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got visitors.’

  The door opened widely. Marina peered in. On the bed sat a woman. Young, late twenties, early thirties at the most. Her legs were drawn up beneath her and she was reading. She looked up. Scanned the faces of her visitors. Smiled.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I don’t often get guests.’

  They stepped into the room, the door closing behind them. Marina sized up the woman calling herself Fiona Welch. Small. Compact. Dark-haired. Wearing the hospital standard issue of T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She slowly unfolded her legs from beneath her and got gracefully to her feet. The smile remained in place on her face, giving nothing away, letting nothing in.

  ‘Please, sit down if you can find somewhere to sit,’ she said.

  Marina looked around the room. It had the spartan simplicity of a prison cell – bed, desk, toilet cubicle and washbasin – but there were signs it had been decorated. Toiletries lined the single shelf along with books and folders.

  Marina found the desk chair and sat. Anni perched on the edge of the desk. Mickey remained standing.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you any tea,’ Fiona Welch said. ‘Or anything for that matter. We’re not trusted with such things. Apparently they fear we can turn any household item into a weapon, an instrument of torture or an object for self-harm. It’s like we’re malevolent Blue Peter presenters.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Marina.

  ‘Good,’ said Fiona Welch, nodding. She resumed her seat on the bed. ‘So to what do I owe this pleasure?’ She paused and looked straight at Marina. ‘Ms Esposito?’

  ‘You know who I am?’ asked Marina.

  ‘Of course,’ said Fiona Welch. ‘I know your husband. We worked together.’ Her expression changed, her eyes downcast. ‘Alas no more. We… disagreed on too many things.’

  ‘Disagreed.’

  Fiona Welch smiled. ‘I was very impulsive in those days. Very rash. You know how it is, first flush of youth and all that. One is sure one is right. All the time. I’ve mellowed considerably since then.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Absolutely. Oh, don’t get me wrong, one can still hold the same views and convictions but one doesn’t necessarily have to express them in so strident a fashion. In fact, one can often affect more change by employing more subtle methods. Don’t you agree, Marina? May I call you Marina? After all, we have so much in common. I feel I know you.’

  Despite the reassuring presence of Anni and Mickey, something about this woman was making Marina feel uncomfortable. Unsettled. ‘What do we have in common, exactly?’ she said, hoping her voice remained steady.

  Another smile. ‘How is your husband?’ she asked. ‘I genuinely did enjoy working with him. Despite the fact that he constantly belittled my theories. Theories which, I’m sure you’re aware, have since been borne out to be true.’

  ‘Which theories in particular?’ asked Marina, her voice steady and neutral.

  Fiona Welch sat back, enjoying the attention. ‘Morality and manipulation,’ she said. ‘Especially where men are concerned. We like to fool ourselves constantly. Tell ourselves, as a community, a society, that we’re moral. That we know the difference between right and wrong. And that, more importantly, we act on it. Always. Given the choice, that’s what we do. What we would always do. We live our lives around those beliefs.’ She shook her head. ‘No. It’s a lie. All of it. There’s no such thing. No such differentiation. No right and wrong. No black and white. There aren’t even any shades of grey.’

  ‘What is there then?’

  She continued talking, her voice patient as if she was a primary-school teacher explaining rudimentary mathematics to five-year-olds. ‘An assumed set of values, of course. Relative ones, that can be dispensed with or bargained away depending on what one’s needs are at any given time.’

  ‘Is that right?’ asked Marina.

  ‘It is.’ She moved forward, warming to her theme. ‘For instance, you want to take care of your family. It’s your primary concern. What lengths would you go to to do it? What kind of extreme behaviour could you justify to yourself in order to do that? Any, I would think. One can rationalise away anything if one has a good enough reason for doing so.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve all seen Breaking Bad.’

  A look of anger rippled across Fiona Welch’s face. In that instant, Marina could imagine her raking her nails slowly and deeply down the side of her husband’s face.

  She managed to regain her composure, leaned forward once more, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Marina? Wouldn’t you say that you have done things to protect your family? Hmm? Things that could be considered morally dubious, if not outside the law?’

  Marina stiffened. She was aware that both Anni and Mickey were watching her. She bit back her initial response, kept her voice low and calm. Professional sounding.

  ‘So there’s no such thing as morality,’ said Marina. ‘That’s what you’re saying. It’s all relative.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Fiona Welch. She sounded disappointed that Marina hadn�
�t risen to her words.

  ‘So someone could commit a crime and they should get away with it providing they’ve got a good enough excuse, is that what you’re saying?’ said Mickey. ‘That what you mean?’

  She put back her head, closed her eyes. Smiled. ‘The response I expected from a police officer. You’ve got a lot to learn,’ she said quietly.

  ‘So why are you here, then?’ asked Marina. ‘What are you doing in this place if your theories are true?’

  Fiona Welch opened her eyes, leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you.’

  13

  T

  he man in the hospital bed looked exactly what he was, thought Phil: the only survivor of a great tragedy. He was pale, dehydrated. Skin sunken, mottled, discoloured to various unhealthy shades of sickness. He was awake – barely – but he appeared to be tired beyond sleep. His dead fish eyes were deep set, hollowed, staring at things no one else could see, open to a private world of horror. The rest of them round his bed were thankful they didn’t share it.

  ‘Darren Richards?’ Phil asked.

  At the mention of his name, Darren Richards seemed startled, fearful. If he had the energy to jump, thought Phil, he would have.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brennan,’ said Phil, holding up his warrant card.

  Detective Constable Imani Oliver sat at the man’s bedside. Darren Richards looked at her while Phil spoke, as if for guidance on how to respond.

  Imani had been the first – and sometimes he thought, the only – one on his team to respond to his approach. Dress creatively, think creatively. She was dressed casually but practically in jeans, sweater and boots. Young and attractive, her dark skin contrasted with the white of her Aran sweater. Having worked with her, Phil knew how good she was and really valued her presence on the team in a way that Sperring often didn’t. Sperring was good at his job. And loyal and trustworthy. But he wasn’t always a good judge of character, nor was he the most unprejudiced of people.

  ‘It’s all right, Darren,’ said Imani, her voice soft, solicitous, ‘you can talk to him. He’s safe.’

  Daren Richards didn’t look convinced, seemed too traumatised even to speak.

  Imani, sensing this, spoke again. ‘Don’t worry. He just wants to help. Help you. We all do.’

  Phil found another chair, dragged it up to the bed. The nurse pulled the curtains round, giving them a semblance of privacy.

  ‘Please don’t stress or overtire him,’ she said to Phil.

  ‘I’ll be as brief as I can,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’ He smiled.

  The nurse returned it, quite shyly. ‘You’re welcome. I appreciate you’ve got your job to do.’

  ‘And I’m aware that you do, too.’

  Phil kept smiling at her. The nurse, reddening slightly, let herself out.

  ‘Charmer,’ said Imani quietly.

  ‘Always be polite,’ he said. ‘I may have just bought us a bit of extra time because of that.’ Then he turned to Darren Richards. The traumatised young man was surrounded by drips and monitors. It might have been the most attention he’d ever had, thought Phil, then amended his thought. Darren Richards had been before the judge. Several times. It was one of the reasons Sperring had given for not accompanying Phil to the hospital.

  ‘You’re better dealing with that sort than me,’ he had said, not bothering to hide his distaste. ‘I’ll go back to the station. See if Nadish’s come up with anything worth following through. Check a couple of leads from this morning.’

  ‘Such as?’ Phil had asked.

  ‘Moses Heap, for one. Rings a bell for some reason. Not just ’cause of all the stuff in the papers, there’s something else. Can’t think what, though. But it’s like an itch that needs scratching.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll leave you to it.’ And Phil had come to the hospital alone.

  He moved his chair closer to the bedside. ‘So, Darren,’ he said, voice matching Imani’s tones, ‘what happened?’

  Darren Richards’ eyes widened, filled with shock. The fear subsided as his eyes emptied, became blank. Give nothing away in front of the law, thought Phil. Old habits dying hard.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Darren Richards.

  ‘Oh, come on, Darren,’ said Phil, ‘you must have known what happened. You were there.’

  Darren Richards closed up again. ‘I don’t remember.’

  Maybe there was another reason he wasn’t talking, thought Phil. A much more obvious one. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to remember,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s very painful to remember. What you’ve been through is enough to horrify anyone.’

  ‘So if you know what I’ve been through, why d’you want me to go through it again?’

  ‘To find out who did it. Stop them doing it again.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Darren Richards quickly. Too quickly: it was like the sudden exertion tired him out. He flopped back on the bed.

  Phil kept on. ‘No, I don’t believe you did. But I’m sure you saw it. You saw the person who did it. And I need you to tell me all that you can about them.’

  Darren, against his better judgement, was remembering. Phil could see it in his eyes. He had to get him to talk before he clammed up once more.

  ‘Come on, Darren, please. Help me here.’ Phil glanced at Imani, the cue for her to speak.

  ‘We’ll catch him, Darren,’ she said. ‘We’ll bring Chloe and Shannon’s killer to justice. We’ll do it for them, for their memory. But for us to do that you have to help us. I know it’s difficult, I know it’ll hurt but we need your help. Please.’

  ‘Just tell us now,’ said Phil. ‘Get it out of the way and you can get on with forgetting.’

  ‘Please,’ said Imani.

  ‘What did he look like?’ said Phil, leaning forward. ‘Can you remember? Did you get a good look at him? Was it a him?’

  Darren began breathing heavily. His eyes spun, focusing in and out, fighting the urge to remember. Phil checked his heart monitor: the graph had started to speed up. They waited.

  ‘Skull,’ he said eventually, his voice cracked and broken, the word sounding like it was dragged from him.

  Phil and Imani shared another glance. Puzzlement, this time. ‘Skull?’ repeated Phil. ‘You mean he was thin? Like you could see his bones through his skin?’

  Darren shook his head. ‘No… skull…’

  Imani leaned forward. ‘Like make-up?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A mask?’ she said. ‘Is that what you mean? A skull mask?’

  Darren shook his head once more. ‘No. A mask. Yes. Not a skull mask. Just looked like a skull mask.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Phil.

  Darren frowned, concentrating. ‘Gas… mask…’

  Phil understood. ‘Gas mask. He wore a gas mask.’

  Darren nodded.

  ‘And this gas mask,’ said Phil, ‘it had round eyes? Pale and close-fitting?’

  Darren nodded.

  ‘And it looked like a skull.’

  Darren shuddered. Closed his eyes.

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. He could feel they were starting to get somewhere.

  ‘So how did you get there, Darren? Into that building?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Darren, his eyes remaining closed.

  ‘No idea at all?’

  Darren shook his head. ‘Just woke up there. In that chair…’ He shuddered once more.

  The shudder threatened to turn into a more prolonged shake. Phil and Imani knew they had to get him to open up more before they lost him.

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ asked Imani.

  ‘Goin’ to Wayne’s,’ said Darren, his voice reduced to a tired tremble.

  ‘Wayne,’ said Phil. ‘And were you drunk when you were off to Wayne’s?’

  Darren shook his head.

  ‘High?’

  Darren shook his head. ‘Nah, man.’ Irritated now.

  ‘Okay,’ said Phil. ‘You were on your way to Wayne’s. Your friend Wayne.’ He made a
mental note to check Darren Richards’ file for the name, follow it up. ‘And the next thing you knew you were in that building.’

  Darren nodded.

  ‘Taped to the chair.’

  Darren nodded again, eyes tight shut.

  ‘Who’s Wayne?’ asked Imani.

  Darren shrugged. ‘Mate.’

  ‘Could he have done this? Been responsible for what happened to you?’ Imani again.

  Darren opened his eyes. ‘Nah, man.’ He sounded appalled.

  Phil leaned forward once more. ‘Do you have any idea who could have done this? Who would have wanted to do this? Any idea at all?’

  Darren’s sense of discomfort was growing. As the questioning became more and more insistent he began thrashing around in his bed like he wanted to escape but lacked not only the strength but also the ability to issue the correct commands to his body.

  ‘No idea at all, Darren?’

  Darren shook his head, wilder this time.

  ‘So what did he want, Darren?’ Imani. ‘Why did he do this?’

  Darren began to shake. Any harder and he would vibrate his body into pieces. His mouth all the while twisting and contorting, like he wanted to speak but the words wouldn’t birth.

  Phil pressed on. ‘Why, Darren? Why did he do it?’

  Darren continued to shake, his mouth twisting. Phil and Imani stopped talking, waited to see what would happen next. Then the words came screaming out.

  ‘Justice… justice… he wanted… he said he… I had to have… had to give, to give justice…’

  Then a scream that became a sob that trailed away into the horrible, dying whimper of an animal that Phil had never encountered before.

  The nurse pulled the curtain open and stepped in but Phil was already on his feet, issuing orders and walking to the exit.

  Justice.

  14

  ‘L

  et’s run through that again, shall we?’ Glen Looker stared at his client, tried to keep the exasperation, not to mention sarcasm, out of his voice. ‘Only this time you don’t mention the trainers.’