Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  Anni nodded. ‘Can we look at the room yet?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ Carol said, as if waking from a particularly unpleasant dream. ‘This way.’

  She gestured them forwards down a corridor. They retraced the route they had taken the previous day. The hospital now had a wholly different atmosphere. The previous day it had been light, airy. The blond wood and white walls had reflected the sunlight coming in from the glass ceilings, the building busy and bustling with patients and staff. Now it seemed like a desolate, depressing place. The lighting seemed flat and depressing, conspiring with the oppressive overhead clouds to create long shadows, grey walls. The patients had been confined to their rooms, the staff all taken for questioning.

  They reached Joanne Marsh’s doorway. Access had been blocked by two-colour crime scene tape. On the other side of the threshold, a team of paper-suited SOCOs were working diligently, trying to pick up any clues they could.

  Mickey turned to Carol. ‘So you unlocked Joanne’s room this morning and found her body on the floor.’

  ‘Right.’ She was trying not to look in the room again, studying an abstract painting on the far wall. ‘I should say, we did everything we could. Everything. Proper procedure was followed at every turn. It always is. I’m a stickler for it.’

  ‘We’re not doubting it,’ said Anni. ‘And it was definitely suicide?’

  Carol frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Was she alone? Was anyone else with her? Did anyone else have access to her room during the night?’

  ‘Well, the staff, obviously. But yes, she was alone. And when it was lights-out last night the room was checked. She was in there on her own. No one else.’

  Anni nodded. ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘The knife?’ said Carol. She nodded absently. ‘Yes. She had a knife. A dinner knife. We don’t know how she got it. We counted them all out last night, as usual, then we counted them all back again. As we do every night. The porter was adamant he took her cutlery from her last night after dinner. Adamant.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Anni. ‘So you have no idea where she got the knife from?’

  ‘No idea. None at all. We can’t understand it. We’re looking into it, obviously. Checking back.’ She looked shamefaced once again. Her professional reputation on the line.

  ‘Of course,’ said Anni. ‘Did no one check on her during the night? What would be the procedure there?’

  ‘Just regular checks, nothing out of the ordinary. She wasn’t on suicide watch, wasn’t considered a particular risk for anything. We’d done a thorough risk assessment on her when she came here, as we would any other patient. She hadn’t exhibited any signs. Nothing jumped out at us. Nothing…’ She tailed off, disbelieving.

  Marina had been silent, listening. ‘Carol,’ she said, ‘did Joanne have any visitors to her room last night? Before the doors were locked.’

  ‘Visitors? I… don’t know. She had some, probably. Everyone does. They can come and go freely. I’ve already been asked that. We’ll be trying to find out for definite. We’ll be cooperating fully.’

  ‘Good. Can I just ask you…?’ said Marina again. ‘Just an idea. One of her visitors wasn’t Fiona Welch, by any chance, was it?’ She was aware of Anni and Mickey looking at her.

  ‘Fiona Welch?’ Carol nodded. ‘Yes, I think she may have been. She’s certainly a name that’s come up already.’ Carol looked between the three of them, concern etched on her features. ‘Are you suggesting…?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Marina, ‘just asking.’

  There was a crack of thunder. Marina jumped.

  The storm had broken.

  29

  M

  oses opened his eyes. The daylight was grey and weak, filtered through curtains that were also grey and weak, making the morning doubly depressing.

  He rolled over, the movement making him feel like he was on a small raft in a large sea. Christ, what had he drunk last night? Smoked, even? His mouth and throat felt like it had been pebble-dashed and sanded, his head like it was a kids’ merry-go-round.

  He put his arm out. Felt flesh. Warm, soft. Recoiled from the shock. And with the touch, he remembered.

  Letisha Watson. Lying there, her back to him, naked, snoring softly.

  He lay on his back, coaxed his memory to return. He had gone to see her after his brief had got him released from the law. His brief. The law. The words sent his mind off at a tangent.

  He had hated himself for the way he had behaved, both in the studio and in the police station. Like some angry street gangsta. But that was how they made him feel. As soon as the police questioned him he became aggressive, antagonistic. Like the years of education and cultural achievement just fell away and his diction, his attitude regressed to what he used to be. It shamed him to behave that way but he couldn’t help it. It was a conditioned reaction, his background kicking in once more, turning him into that frightened little kid with a problem with authority. He knew that no matter how far he went from the street, the street would always be in him. A part of him would always be held down, held back. And that was a painful admission for him to make.

  He tried to clear his mind of those thoughts, concentrate instead on why he was where he was.

  He had needed to talk to Letisha. And they had. Talked. But it hadn’t been about what he had intended it to be about. It had been talk that had led them to the bedroom. To here. Now.

  He moved his head, slowly this time, looked at the woman. He loved her skin. Had always loved her skin. The soft, smooth, delicate feel of it beneath his fingers as he had stroked and caressed her. And he knew she liked him doing that. Had said so. You’re not just some wham-bam merchant, are you? she had said once when they were in another room, another time. Nah, I ain’t, he had replied. Got to take it slow with beauty. Treat beauty right an’ beauty will reward you. He’d used that line before. But it hadn’t been a line with her. He had meant it. At the time. She had laughed then. Oh, you think so, do you? But she had rewarded him. And then some.

  And now this. Again. Last night. Her skin not quite as soft as it used to be. A little rough in places, hard edged. A little too soft in others. But it was still her. And he was still him. Maybe not the person he used to be, maybe not any more. Maybe just a version of himself. But one she still recognised.

  But she still had beauty. Inside and out. When the pain and the strain dropped away from her he had seen it. And he had responded to it. Over and over again. A need in her meeting a need in him. They knew there would be consequences but they both had enough alcohol and weed in their systems to ensure they didn’t care about them then. And wouldn’t till later. Much later.

  Like now. Moses looked around the room. He had missed the squalor the night before in his rush to get with Letisha. But now he took it in. A small mountain range of soiled laundry on the floor. The bed sheets filthy and stained. Dust almost the thickness of the carpet pile. The naked bulb overhead, like an interrogation room or a prison cell. And the token curtains at the window. Too thin to hold anything in or keep anything out.

  He looked again at her skin. Saw now that it didn’t hold the usual sweet, coffee tones that he loved. It had been muted by the room’s dead light to a zombie grey.

  He shook his head. Slowly. What rooms like this – lives like this – did to beauty. That old familiar burning sensation welled up inside him: depression and anger, but no longer in equal measures.

  He threw back the onion-skin-thin sheet and tried to rise to his feet. The room became volatile and liquid and he felt nauseous once more. He lay back down again.

  He had to leave. Before Letisha woke up. The postponed shame of the night’s action was beginning to get a grip on him. And there was something else along with it, something equally familiar: fear. He had to leave.

  He tried once again to get up, managed it this time. He stood on his feet, naked, finding his balance, and looked down at Letisha. She really was beautiful. The scars her life had le
ft couldn’t hide that. Not completely. He hoped they never would. But he was a realist. He knew better. He’d seen it happen too many times before. It was what happened. It was life.

  She stirred, looked up at him. Smiled. And that smile belonged to a totally different room, a different girl in a different life.

  He knew she was taking in his body. Knew she liked what she saw. His body was his diary, the map of his life. Every fight he had ever been in, every mark, every scar, every knife wound, it was all there. The patchwork man.

  He used to be proud of his body when he was younger, when he was gangsta. It was his calling card. Showed his street value. But when he turned away from all that he grew ashamed of it. Now, he had tried to make peace with it. It was what it was. And he had to live with it.

  But Letisha was the only woman who had ever looked at him and loved him for it. Not because it made him seem street-hard, there had been plenty who got their kicks from that. No. Because she understood pain. She understood healing. And he had never felt more naked with her, more vulnerable.

  More alive.

  ‘Morning, handsome,’ she said.

  Her voice was low, smoke-husky. He liked it.

  ‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said in reply and almost instantly regretted it.

  Their old greetings. Call and response from a gig that had long since finished.

  She giggled. Happy to hear the words.

  Letisha lay on her back, exposing her body to him. ‘You getting back into bed?’

  He was tempted. So very tempted. He had never been able to resist her. Even now, even here. Even after everything that had happened. But he had to. Had to.

  ‘Nah, I got… got to go. Things to do.’

  Disappointment crept into her eyes. And hurt.

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ he said. ‘Got to.’ His voice sounded small, the words weak and unconvincing.

  She sat up. Her small, perfect breasts drawing his eyes. He felt himself getting an erection, began searching for his clothes.

  ‘Stay,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Can’t, babe,’ he said, making a point of not looking at her. He located one sock, another. Began putting them on. ‘Got to go. Busy day.’

  She got up, stood in front of him. Completely uninhibited about her naked body. She placed her hand on his chest. Fingers tracing scars. ‘Come on, baby,’ she said, ‘don’t be like that. You came to see me last night. And it was…’ She shook her head, smiling at the memory. ‘Brilliant. Best night I’ve had in years.’ Her hand began moving over his chest. ‘Don’t make it just a one-off. Please.’

  He wrenched his body away from her, pulled on his T-shirt. Shook his head.

  ‘Moses…’

  His clothes were all there. He sped up, dressed as quick as he could, ignoring the nausea, the headache.

  ‘Please, just… just wait. Spend the day with me. Just the day. Please.’

  He was fully dressed now. He turned to her.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘No. You know. We can’t.’ Fear was back in his eyes. He couldn’t hide it from her. Had never been able to hide anything from her.

  ‘Please…’

  ‘We shouldn’t.’

  Letisha grabbed on to him, digging her fingers into his skin. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Which one? Can’t or shouldn’t?’

  ‘There’s no difference.’

  ‘Moses, there’s a huge difference. One means never, the other means…’

  She couldn’t finish.

  ‘Means what?’ He asked the question despite not wanting to hear the answer.

  ‘Hope,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ He sighed. ‘It was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come around last night. It was… more than just, just what happened. You know that.’

  She smiled. It was tinged with his fear, her sadness. ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Just…’ He didn’t know what to say. Just as there was a difference between can’t and shouldn’t, there was an even bigger difference between what he wanted to say and what he had to say.

  ‘I’ll see you. Remember what I said last night. Remember.’

  He couldn’t reach the door quick enough.

  His head was upset, his stomach was upset, his heart was upset.

  He didn’t know which one hurt the most.

  He was lying to himself. He did.

  30

  ‘C

  areful,’ Anni said to Marina when Carol Blakemore was out of earshot, ‘you don’t want to put ideas into her head. And you don’t want to look like you’re a bit obsessed.’

  ‘I’m not obsessed,’ Marina replied, a little too snappily. ‘It’s just… an obvious question.’ She looked between the pair of them. ‘Isn’t it? I mean, after yesterday, talking to her? And what she’s in here for? Isn’t it?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Mickey.

  ‘But we have to explore all avenues,’ said Anni with a glint in her eye. ‘I was taught that. By the best.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said Marina, using a smile to break the tension.

  Carol Blakemore returned to them. She had with her a small, compact, neatly dressed Asian man. He looked like he enjoyed the fastidiousness of detail. She turned to him. ‘This is —’

  ‘Hello, Deepak,’ said Mickey.

  Carol Blakemore looked slightly put out. ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘We’ve… worked together before,’ said Mickey.

  Deepak shook hands with Marina. ‘Detective Sergeant Shah.’

  ‘Marina Esposito. Criminal psychologist.’

  Deepak’s eyes narrowed. ‘Marina…’

  ‘Yes, it’s her,’ said Anni.

  Deepak Shah had worked on in a case with Anni and Mickey a couple of years previously involving the kidnapping of Marina and Phil’s daughter plus the murder of Phil’s adoptive father.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Got back on the horse.’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Marina.

  ‘What can you tell us?’ asked Anni.

  ‘Probably nothing more than you’ve already been told by Professor Blakemore, I should imagine,’ Deepak said. He took out his notepad, referred to his immaculately written notes. ‘Joanne Marsh was found dead in her room at approximately seven thirty this morning. There was no one else present and the wounds, to both wrists, look to be consistent with self-inflicted injuries. Foul play not suspected.’ He snapped his notepad closed. ‘Suicide, I’d say.’

  ‘She was risk assessed and we had no indication,’ said Carol Blakemore. ‘None at all.’

  ‘No,’ said Marina. ‘I didn’t get that from her either when I questioned her yesterday.’ She turned to Deepak. ‘Is there a list of people who were inside her room last night?’

  ‘It’s being compiled. Obviously we’re checking everything and questioning everyone. What are you thinking?’

  ‘That if it wasn’t in her room and it wasn’t reported missing, someone must have given her the knife.’

  ‘That’s what we think too,’ said Deepak. ‘We’re looking into it.’

  ‘And…’ Marina looked between the rest of them, hesitating before speaking. ‘I’m just throwing this out there, but maybe someone put the idea into her head?’

  ‘She was very suggestive,’ said Carol Blakemore, grasping at anything that could diminish the burden of her responsibility.

  ‘Putting it mildly,’ said Marina. ‘What does everyone think?’

  ‘You mean Fiona Welch,’ said Anni.

  Marina felt herself reddening. Saw her dream once more. Even talking to Phil couldn’t entirely reassure her. ‘The woman who calls herself Fiona Welch, let’s not forget. It’s a possibility. I mean, that’s what she’s here for. By her own admittance.’

  Anni turned to Deepak. ‘Would you like us to question her? We were here yesterday to see her too.’

  Deepak shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. There’s clearly
some overlap here. Be my guest. Just keep me in the loop.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Anni.

  ‘You in charge of this, then?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘I am. Got promoted.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Mickey. He looked around. ‘DS James not here?’

  Deepak gave a small, sad smile. ‘Sorry. I’m afraid Jessie, DS James, has left the force.’

  ‘Oh. Shame,’ said Mickey.

  Marina could see him turning red. She could also see the filthy looks Anni was giving him.

  ‘Retrained as a sports psychologist, I believe,’ said Deepak.

  ‘Well, good luck to her. Send her my regards. If, you know, you see her.’

  ‘I will.’

  Anni almost jumped in between the two men. ‘Shall we get going? Work to do.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Deepak, sensing the atmosphere and surmising what it was about, ‘I’ll let you get on. Good to see you both.’ He turned to Marina. ‘Glad to see you’re safe and sound.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned, walked back down the corridor.

  ‘You want to talk to Fiona Welch?’ asked Carol Blakemore. ‘Sorry. The woman who calls herself Fiona Welch. This way.’

  She headed off in the other direction. Marina followed. Behind her, she could hear Mickey and Anni arguing.

  ‘Send my regards.’ said Anni, her voice low, the words twisted and unpleasant.

  ‘I was just being polite,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Yeah, I know exactly what you were being. Just you wait. Just you wait till later…’

  Marina smiled to herself. Kept walking.

  31

  ‘H

  e calls himself the Lawgiver,’ Phil said, eyes roving the incident room, hoping to catch the attention of all gathered there, focus them fully on the investigation. ‘This much we know.’

  The team had been called for a breakfast meeting, usual procedure when they were investigating a high-grade case. And this case had now been classified as such: the discovery of the fingerless banker had ensured it. The team were unkempt and red-eyed, as if rest and peace were concepts only other people ever enjoyed.