by Tania Carver
Marina hadn’t been convinced. She had read his records. Stuart had never displayed any prior symptoms of multiple personality or dissociative states. This Jiminy Cricket sounded like a real person, someone else in the room with him. Stuart seemed to have no knowledge of how the shootings had been carried out, or indeed how to use a gun at all. She wasn’t convinced he was actually responsible for the killings. Yes, the lawyers had said, but it could also be argued that the trauma of his actions had brought on the multiple personalities, had given him the knowledge to use the gun, the courage to act on his impulses …
And that was what they had gone with.
Marina had flagged something else up too. She was sure she wasn’t the only psychologist to notice, but it never appeared in the trial. When she asked Stuart about his stepbrother and stepsister, he recoiled, his expression filled with dread. He became agitated, stuttering and stumbling over words, unable to sit still. Convinced there was something there, she had tried to press him. She wanted to question him further on his relationship with them, but had been politely but firmly reminded what her brief was. The brother and sister were not a part of it. They were the victims in this case. And they were also very rich, so the defence had to think carefully before making any investigations into them or allegations against them. Marina had reluctantly agreed.
The case continued to gnaw at her, but since she hadn’t been called on to give evidence, there was nothing she could do. As her colleagues suggested, she banked the cheque and settled down with a nice big gin and tonic to put it out of her mind.
But she still followed the case on the news, in the papers, and was horrified at the level of reporting, the scale of tabloid vitriol directed against Stuart from people who had never met him. She saw his supposed multiple personalities defence ridiculed and heard no mention of his relationship with his step-siblings. When he was found guilty and sentenced, she wasn’t the least surprised. But she had to let it go. It was no longer her problem.
Until now.
She looked round, trying to find a path back to the beach huts. Then noticed what was in front of her. A huge old house, backing on to the river, crumbling and overgrown, nature trying to reclaim it, pull it back into the earth. And she knew immediately what it was.
The old Sloane place.
That had been one of the stipulations after the trial, she remembered. The brother and sister moved away but wanted the house to be left to rot away on its own. They had refused every offer from developers and the council to buy the land or do something with the old property. They wanted it left as it was.
They had got their wish.
The phone rang. Love Will Tear Us Apart. She answered it and was asked if she had read the email. She said she had.
‘You were the only one who believed him,’ the voice said. ‘The only one who thought he was innocent. We checked the records. You knew what was going on. That’s why we chose you.’
Marina said nothing.
‘Now do you understand why you’ve been brought here? What you’ve got to do?’
Marina, still staring at the house, remembered the last part of the email.
Stuart Sloane was not insane. Stuart Sloane did not have multiple personalities. Stuart Sloane is as sane as you or I. She doubted that part but had read on. Stuart Sloane has been made a scapegoat and been defrauded out of millions by the Sloanes that should rightfully have been his. Stuart Sloane needs to get even.
Stuart Sloane needs your help to do that.
‘Yes.’ Marina sighed. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘Congratulations, Dr Esposito. You’ve got a new client.’
36
Tyrell saw the woman from the kitchen walking towards the caravan and felt immediately angry. He didn’t want her anywhere near him. But he also knew that he didn’t have a choice.
The door was unlocked, opened and she stepped inside. He had only seen her through the kitchen window. She had been angry-looking, red-faced. Now, up close, she looked different. The red had drained from her features, leaving her pale and blotchy. She had applied make-up, but it was uneven, poorly done. Tyrell had read somewhere that faces could be described as sculpted. This woman’s had been chiselled. Her hair was messy, uncombed, and seemed to be at an angle to her head. Her clothes – leggings, trainers, fleece – were shabby and dull, as if they had been washed too many times.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’
He stood up, stared at her. Didn’t move. She wasn’t meeting his gaze.
‘I don’t like you,’ he said.
She sighed, looked at her watch. ‘Which breaks my heart.’
‘You were horrible to that little girl. Really horrible.’
She said nothing.
‘You shouldn’t have talked to her like that.’
‘None of your business.’
He could feel something welling inside him but wasn’t sure what. ‘You scared her. You shouldn’t have scared her.’ Anger? Sadness? ‘You should never scare children. Never … ’ He felt the hot pinprick of tears at the corners of his eyes as he kept staring at her. She looked away from him. Was she embarrassed in some way?
Tyrell moved in towards her. She flinched, moved back slightly. ‘You threatened her.’ He scrutinised her closely. ‘What kind of person threatens a little girl?’
‘Look, just … get ready. Come on.’
‘Get ready for what?’
She sighed, spoke almost to herself. ‘For this to be over.’
‘Over? Today?’
‘Yes, today. He’s told you already.’ Her voice was exasperated, like she was explaining something to an exceptionally slow child. ‘Now stop being thick. Get ready.’
‘That’s not a nice thing to say. That’s a really hurtful thing to say. Really hurtful.’ He sat down on the bed again, upset by her words. He thought. Hard. Came to some conclusions. ‘I don’t like you. I’m not going to do what you say.’ He nodded. ‘No. I’m not.’
She put her hand on the sink, shook her head. ‘Jesus … ’ She looked up. ‘Just … just come on. We’ve got to get going.’
He didn’t move or give any indication of having heard her.
She sighed once more. ‘You’re going to meet the woman who’s going to help you.’
‘To do what?’ Said without looking at her, straight at the wall.
‘To … make you feel better. Well.’
‘Am I ill? I’m not ill.’
‘No, no, you’re not ill. But she’s going to help you feel … happier. And make you rich.’
‘Rich?’
‘Yes. And … and make up for all the things that have happened to you.’
‘How?’
‘She just will. But you have to come and meet her. And we have to go now.’
He gave her words some thought. Rich. He couldn’t imagine what rich was like. He remembered a time when he was supposed to have been rich, but that was a long time ago. Before prison. Before he was Malcolm Tyrell. He couldn’t remember it clearly. All he knew was that it had been a happy time. Before …
Before everything went wrong.
But rich meant happy. He knew that much. He had been told. And happy, he knew, was good.
He stood up. ‘All right, then.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Just—’
‘But there’s one more thing.’
Another sigh. He could tell she was trying hard not to get angry. Not to get all red-faced again. She wasn’t doing a good job of it.
‘What?’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on, we haven’t got time for this.’
‘I want to see the little girl.’
‘Oh, Jesus … ’
‘I want to make sure she’s all right.’
‘She’s fine. She’s OK. Come on … ’
He sat down on the bed once more, unmoving.
Another exasperated sigh from the woman. She looked like she wanted to hit him. He didn’t look at her. She waited. Nothing happened.
‘Righ
t. Fine. I’ll go and get her.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And then we’ll go.’
She stormed out of the caravan. He heard her stomping angrily back to the house. He sat on the bed looking through the window, watching her go.
I’ll see that the little girl is all right, he thought, then I’ll go with them. He thought again. Go where? And who was this woman they wanted him to meet?
Although the caravan wasn’t cold, he found himself shivering.
I wish I was back in prison, he thought.
I wish things could be easy again.
37
‘You took your time.’ Anni was waiting in front of Ipswich General. Franks had called her, said that since Suffolk were doing all they could to track down Josephina, she should join Mickey in hunting for Marina.
Mickey pulled up and she got in. He drove off, heading down the A14, on to the A12.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Been doing proper police work. How’s the boss?’
She thought of the figure she had seen lying in the hospital bed, bandaged, wired and tubed. His eyes were taped up; his body was battered, misshapen and damaged. The dressings hid the areas that had been shaved and stitched, cut open and rejoined. They both defined and exaggerated the shape of him.
‘Well as can be expected,’ she said. She told Mickey that Phil hadn’t been near the centre of the explosion but had been caught in the blast. The flames had seared his arms, his torso. Flying debris – most likely a part of the wall – had hit him on the head. That was what was giving most cause for concern. He had been operated on, the pressure relieved, and now left to recover.
Mickey winced. ‘Fingers crossed, then.’ For a long time he said nothing, then Anni became aware of him looking at her.
‘What?’
He looked back to the road. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You were staring at me.’
‘Sorry.’ He felt himself blushing. ‘I just … You don’t look like you’ve been roughing it all night, that’s all. You look fresh. Alert. You look … good.’ Eyes facing front all the time he spoke.
A smile crept around the corners of Anni’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’
He shrugged, mumbled, ‘Welcome.’
‘The things you can do with concealer.’
Mickey said nothing more. Put the radio on. Anni settled down into the seat, smiling to herself.
It took them the best part of an hour to reach the hotel near Braintree that Marina had last been spotted at. The two uniforms were waiting for them. Mickey parked up. He and Anni went into reception.
‘She just ran,’ said the first constable, Alison Irwin. ‘We tried to stop her, talk to her, but … ’ A shrug. ‘Tom tried to flag the car down.’ She indicated her partner, who nodded.
‘She just drove round me,’ Tom Crown, the other uniform, said.
Anni crossed to the receptionist. Questioned her too. She had nothing much to add.
‘Apparently she hid from us in a supply cupboard,’ said Tom Crown. ‘Told the maid she was hiding from an abusive husband.’
‘Inventive,’ said Anni.
They went to the car park, traced the path Marina had taken. They went up to her room to see if she had left a clue behind, anything to show where she was going, what she was doing. Nothing.
‘We’ve put the registration number of her car out as a general alert,’ said Alison Irwin, ‘but we’ve had nothing back yet.’
They thanked the uniforms for their help, went back to the car.
‘Where to now?’ asked Anni.
‘Maybe we should head back to base,’ said Mickey. ‘See if there’s been any more sightings of her car.’
‘You mean my car.’
‘Sorry. Your car.’
They drove away from the hotel. Anni looked at Mickey this time.
‘So I’m still looking good, am I?’
Mickey glanced at her, frowned, shifted his eyes back to the road. ‘Yeah. Why?’ Suspicion in his tone.
‘Just wondered. I heard that this DS from Suffolk’s been giving you the glad eye, that’s all.’
‘What, you mean Jessie?’
‘Oh, it’s Jessie, is it?’
‘Yeah, Jessie James.’ Mickey smiled. ‘And she says she’s heard all the jokes before.’
‘What, even the one about the Suffolk force being a bunch of cowboys?’
‘Apparently. But I don’t know if she’s been giving me the glad eye or not.’
‘OK. Just checking.’
‘Why, you jealous?’
She shrugged. ‘You know me. Not the jealous type.’
Mickey and Anni had been involved in a tentative on-and-off relationship for the last few months. They had been out a few times, dinner, cinema, drinks, but neither had wanted to be the one to push it further. They were good friends, excellent work colleagues. And they were worried they could lose all that.
Anni’s phone rang. Relieved at the break, she answered it. Milhouse, the unit’s resident computer expert. Milhouse wasn’t his real name, but with his thick glasses and studious demeanour, he bore such a strong resemblance to the character in The Simpsons that that was what everyone called him. Even his girlfriend, probably. If he had a girlfriend. Which Anni doubted.
‘Got a lead for you,’ he said.
Anni took out her notepad. ‘When and where?’
‘Shell garage in Marks Tey. Marina’s debit card’s been used.’
‘We’re on our way.’
‘I’ll phone ahead,’ said Milhouse. ‘Get them to line up any CCTV footage they’ve got.’
‘Brilliant. Thanks, Milhouse.’ She rang off.
‘What’s occurring?’ said Mickey.
Anni told him.
‘Let’s go, then. Not far from here.’
The radio continued to spew out top-forty hits in between the DJ’s banal inanities.
They drove on in silence.
38
The Golem enjoyed being in the car. The doors were locked and there was a metal and glass barrier between him and the rest of the world. And he was going forward. Heading towards something.
Even if that something involved someone else’s death.
In the car, he could tune out everything else. Centre himself. Meditate while moving.
He drove a Prius. And took a small delight in the fact that it confounded expectations. It was not the car of an assassin, but that was what he liked about it. It was both anonymous and environmentally friendly. That was good, because when he died, he wanted to leave as little trace of himself behind as possible. Like a footprint in damp sand, washed away by the incoming tide. The way it should be.
That was what he tried to achieve with his victims. There one second, gone the next. Simple and clean, like switching off a light.
He knew that one day it would happen to him. And he was ready for it. Every day he prepared for death, either to give it or take it. And every day that he gave it and didn’t take it he gave thanks.
But one day it would be him.
One day.
He was also pleased to get away from the Sloanes. They had been regular employers over the years. They paid what he asked and their assignments were not too taxing. They would have been good employers if not for the sister. She was getting to him. And he didn’t allow that. Something would have to be done about her. One way or the other.
Jaywick was signposted left. He turned left.
He drove. He was centred, prepared.
He was ready.
39
Marina followed the sat nav, her foot hard down as far as she dared. On the way to Jaywick. On the way to meet her daughter.
She had insisted that that was part of the deal. The voice hadn’t been too pleased. ‘After you’ve seen … ’ it nearly said a name, ‘your patient.’
‘Look.’ Marina kept her own voice as calm, as reasonable as she could. ‘I’ve already told you I’ll see your patient. I’ve agreed to that. But we’re negotiating here. And I won
’t talk to him until I’ve seen my daughter and know that she’s safe.’
‘No,’ said the voice. ‘We’re not negotiating. You’re going to do what you’ve agreed to do and then you’ll get her back.’
Marina wanted to scream, to rage. If they had been there in front of her, she would have attacked. But she swallowed that down, kept her voice calm, controlled. She knew she would only get somewhere if she behaved like a professional. ‘No,’ she said, in as measured and slow a tone as she could manage, ‘this is a negotiation. You’ve told me what you want me to do. And I’ve agreed to do it. But that agreement comes with certain conditions attached. I want to see my daughter. If you won’t do that, then I go to the police and tell them everything.’
‘What’ll happen to your daughter then?’
Again Marina had to control herself until she was sure she could speak without screaming. ‘You’ll let her go. Because there would no reason for you to keep her. You’ve explained your plan to me. And without my help, there will be no plan.’
There was silence on the line. Marina waited. She was suddenly aware that she was shaking. She wished she felt as strong as she had made herself sound. She wondered if she had gone too far. If they didn’t go along with her proposal, she might never see Josephina again. She knew now what was at stake. She guessed that if they were desperate enough to kidnap her daughter to make this work, they wouldn’t stop there.
‘All right,’ the voice said. Anger and defeat in its tone. ‘You can see her. But then you do what we want. And you don’t get her back until you’ve done it. Right?’
She felt a wave of relief wash over her. ‘Thank you. Just make sure she’s safe.’
‘She’s safe. Now get going.’
The phone went dead. The postcode was texted for the sat nav. She entered it and drove.
As she did so, she thought about the voice. In the time she had been talking to it, it had evolved. It was no longer intransigent, unyielding; it could be reasoned with. She knew that happened in negotiations; sometimes whole relationships developed. The way this person spoke led her to believe they were an amateur. A professional wouldn’t have engaged with her on any level. If she had made demands, been obstinate or refused to play, a professional would have harmed her daughter, even executed her.