by Nick Hollin
‘As far as we can tell there’s no family or friends. He was living out there as a recluse, pretty much. We’re still working on tracking down former colleagues to see why he left, and to find out what sort of guy he was.’
‘If Nathan’s experience with his dad is anything to go by, not great at his job. What about his medical or dental records? We might not have to wait for the lab if they can get back to us with something first.’
‘If you’re in a hurry for forensics it might be best not to piss off the doctor,’ says DS Peters. ‘I hear you had another clash. He says you threatened him.’
‘Absolutely,’ she says. ‘After he’d told Mark Brooks about Christian.’
‘As you probably should have done yourself.’
‘I was choosing the right time.’
‘For him, or for Nathan?’
She feels a flash of temper; the rarest of things with DS Peters. ‘Nathan wants what I want.’ The knot in her stomach tightens. ‘Jesus, if you only knew what he was putting himself through right now.’
‘What do you mean? Is he not with you?’
She hesitates for a moment, weighing up the need to lie. ‘No. But he’s not leaving my flat, I can promise you that.’
‘So where are you?’
‘I came to visit my dad.’
‘Then I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Don’t be. I was just leaving.’
‘Don’t suppose you have time for a detour on your way home?’
Katie looks at her watch. She has more than an hour before she’s due back at her flat. ‘What do you need?’
‘PC Smith and I went to talk to Markham, but he wouldn’t let us in. He’s obviously badly shaken after discovering what Christian had done. He said he would only speak to you. Now, I don’t mind driving over there as well. I can stay in the car.’
‘I’m better on my own, thanks, Mike. You know what I get like at times like these.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ he says, with a laugh.
‘What about the super? Is he going to be all right with me doing this?’
‘He doesn’t need to know.’
‘I don’t want you getting in trouble.’
‘I’m far too old to worry about that. Between you and me, I think this might be one of my last.’
‘I doubt I’ll have that choice.’
‘Well, as long as I’m around you’ll have my support. And as far as I’m concerned this case is still yours to lead and solve.’
‘I won’t let you down, Mike,’ she says, hanging up. She stands for a moment, staring out of the window at the setting sun. Then she crouches down and takes her dad’s hand. It’s horribly thin and pale and offers no resistance when she picks it up, but she squeezes it tightly and leans in close with an awkward smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to go to work.’ As she says it, she remembers all those occasions when he’d said the same to her. And just like she did back then, he says nothing in return.
* * *
She starts up the engine of the Rover and almost reverses into the car of one of the care home workers turning into a neighbouring slot. Waving a half-hearted apology, she pulls away in a big cloud of smoke. It’s getting dark, so she flicks on the lights and heads down the long tree-lined road leading to the exit, before forcing her way out into a stream of traffic, ignoring the honked horns and the mouthed expletives from other drivers.
As she considers her new destination, she starts to wonder if she’s made a terrible mistake in waiting so long to interview Markham. The old gardener is the only witness; the only person to have seen and spoken to Christian. What if he’s unwittingly in possession of a key piece of evidence? What if she’s not the only one to have realised this? What if the real reason Markham had so adamantly told DS Peters to go away was because he wasn’t alone? The longer the journey goes on, the greater the concern builds inside her.
* * *
By the time she arrives her fingers are aching from how tightly they’ve gripped the wheel. She half-runs up the pathway to the front door. It’s a small house in a terrace, with a narrow strip of garden that isn’t as well kept as she might have expected from a gardener. Before reaching for the doorbell she looks in through the window; the light is on and the curtains are only partly drawn. There’s a big TV and shelves full of books in a living room that doesn’t appear to have changed much since the 1970s: the carpet flowery and losing colour, the black leather sofa worn bare on the arms. There’s nobody in sight, nor is there any sign of a struggle. Crouching down to carefully raise the letterbox, she can just make out a small kitchen at the back. Everything is as it should be, dishes washed and left on the side to dry and several pairs of boots under the stairs. Taking a step back she can see the frosted glass of a bathroom window upstairs. It is closed, and there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. She reaches quickly for the bell, picturing the old man lying on his bedroom floor with blood seeping out of him, desperately hoping that someone will come and help; only it’s not Markham she pictures at all, it’s her dad. A man of much the same age whose life is also seeping out of him, one memory at a time.
The bell rings and again she takes a step back, out of range of an arm and a knife. It’s not ‘The Cartoonist’s’ MO, but she’s not taking any chances. There’s no response. There are no cars in the neighbours’ drives and no twitching curtains around her to investigate. Perhaps Markham is not at home. She considers getting back in the car and going to see Nathan, but a glance at her watch tells her there’s still an hour to wait. Thinking of Nathan has also reminded her of something else: of standing on his doorstep up in Scotland and not giving up. So she gives the door one last, frustrated thump. It pops open a couple of inches.
She swallows hard, gives the door an extra push and watches as the hallway appears ahead of her. There’s fresh mud on the doormat and another pair of muddy boots, cast untidily at the base of the stairs. Then she notices the blood. A tiny pool of it previously disguised in the rose pattern on the carpet. Instantly aware of a blind spot inside the door to her left, she jumps to her right and stumbles as one foot slips off the path and into a flowerbed of bright red roses identical to the one she had seen at the second victim’s house.
She is unarmed, but she can see a block of knives on the side in the kitchen. To reach them she will have to make a mad sprint and hope there’s no one hiding behind the door. She lightly pats an empty pocket, cursing herself for having left her phone in the car. She’d taken it out to check the traffic en route.
She has no choice but to move forward, her head darting left to right, her eyes taking everything in, anticipating every potential threat. As she passes the bloody stain, she notices several other drips leading through to the kitchen. At the entrance, she holds her breath and leaps forward, crouching down at the same time to throw an attacker off. As she jumps she spots some vegetables on the side; a few of the carrots are in the process of being prepared, and a large kitchen knife lies next to the chopping board. She reaches for it, swinging the tip between the back door and the hallway from where she’s just come. She reaches with her left hand to try the back door. It’s locked.
She’d spotted a landline in the hallway. She should make the call and ask for help. She’s about to reach for it when she hears a floorboard groan upstairs. Someone is here. She lifts the knife and turns towards the stairs. Someone is coming.
The first thing she sees is a pair of socks, blue, pulled up high. Followed by a pair of bare legs, muscled, hairy. Next come boxer shorts, also blue. Then the weapon. It’s a black-headed hammer, gripped tight in a fist. Katie steadies her shaking hand.
‘Is he here?’
The words take a moment to translate, as does the face that’s appeared above a body she now realises is far too old to belong to Christian.
‘Jesus. I thought you were dead!’
‘Why?’ Markham’s eyes focus on the knife in her hand. ‘Oh God, he’s here?’
She shakes her head and points down
at the carpet. ‘The blood!’
He lifts his empty hand up towards her by way of explanation. It’s wrapped in white fabric, a small streak of red pooling through.
‘I was trying to make something to eat. Although God knows how I’d stomach it. My hands were shaking so much I missed a carrot and got me palm. The result was…’ He seems suddenly to become aware of his lack of clothes and crosses his arms in front. ‘You’re sure he’s not here?’
‘Was it you that left the door open?’
A moment of silence, and his face twists as he searches for an answer.
‘I’d been to my allotment, to get summit for dinner and to try and clear me thoughts. I guess I must have cleared them a bit too much.’ He looks over at the door and shakes his head. ‘Right bloody stupid. But, you see, I haven’t ever been in a state like this before.’ He holds out the trembling hand gripping the hammer. ‘I mean, you think you know somebody, or at least take them to be kind and generous and friendly, only…’ He looks over his shoulder again up the stairs and comes down another step closer to Katie. ‘That’s why I’ve kept this nearby.’ He gives the hammer a twist. ‘Just in case he comes back.’
‘We’re okay now,’ says Katie, gesturing for him to lower it.
‘Is it just you?’ asks Markham. ‘I didn’t rightly trust nobody else, but now…’ He glances behind him again.
‘I’ll call in for a couple more officers. I’ve just got to pop out to my car to get my phone.’
‘You won’t be long?’ says Markham, reaching out towards her with his bandaged hand. He looks terrified.
‘By the time you’ve been upstairs and put the rest of your clothes on,’ says Katie, with her most reassuring smile, ‘I’ll be back and have the kettle on.’
He offers a nervous nod and retreats up the stairs, still holding the hammer. She nips through to the kitchen to replace the knife she’d taken and suddenly notices the smear of blood on the tip and more of it close to the carrots. She’s breathing easier now and greedily draws in the late evening air as she fetches her phone while the kettle is boiling.
When she’s back in the house and the tea is made, retrieving milk from the fridge and a couple of sugars she wouldn’t normally bother with, she sits down in the living room and waits for Markham. He reappears in a grey sweater and a pair of jeans, looking slightly embarrassed. He’s also still holding the hammer, which he places next to him as he sits down on the edge of the old leather sofa.
Katie’s perched on a small wooden chair with a high back and slightly bowing legs. She’s sitting as lightly as she can manage, most of the weight kept on her toes.
‘How’s the hand?’
‘I’ll survive,’ he says, all the time looking around, seemingly unconvinced.
Katie has one eye on the hallway, certain she’d heard Markham bolt the front door as he’d come down the stairs. She makes a face and gets up, holding her tea.
‘Mind if I put a couple of sugars in here?’
‘’Course, lassie. China pot next to the kettle.’
She leaves the room. From where Markham is sitting he can’t see if she goes left or right, so she quickly does both: first heading to the front door, where she draws the bolt silently back, and then through to the kitchen where she makes plenty of noise but adds no sugar.
‘How are you doing?’ she says on her return, offering a concerned smile.
‘Are your colleagues coming?’
‘I think we’ll be okay,’ she says with a smile. ‘And I’m going to need you to accompany me to the station to make an official statement, anyway.’
‘Now?’ he asks, part-rising.
‘In a minute,’ she says, gesturing for him to sit back down. She takes a sip of tea. She’d wanted to take him away immediately, but the other part of her, the part that insisted she go and pull back the bolt on the door, wants to risk everything if there’s a chance of catching Christian. Something in her gut is telling her the killer is close, watching, waiting. All around her are weapons – a vase to smash, a poker by the fire, even a pair of secateurs on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought we might have a more informal chat about yesterday before we go.’ She glances across at the TV, small and covered in a layer of dust. ‘You will have heard about the body at Nathan and Christian’s house. We don’t know whose it is yet, and we don’t know when it was put there.’
‘They were talking about a connection to some other killings?’ he says, nervously picking at the edge of the bandage on his hand. ‘Were those Christian, too?’
‘We’re not sure at present,’ she says. ‘But it’s something we’re looking into.’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ he says. ‘Those boys were always so polite and kind and…’ He stops to nod at the TV. ‘They’re saying Nathan works with you people, that he’s some kind of criminal psychologist. Did he not recognise what was going on with his own brother?’
‘Sometimes people are just too close, or too good at hiding who they are,’ says Katie, as she considers her own willingness to put the old man at risk – to use him as bait.
‘We should go,’ she says, standing up.
‘Okay,’ says Markham, doing the same. ‘Just let me get a jumper. I know it’s not cold, but…’
‘No problem,’ says Katie. ‘I’ll be waiting here.’
Markham heads slowly upstairs again, and she can hear cupboard doors being opened. She stands in the doorway to the living room with a good view of both the front and back doors. Markham took the hammer with him, so she’ll have to make do with the poker she’s lifted from the fireplace. She stands perfectly still, listening to every little noise. She jumps at the sound of her phone ringing. She slips the poker under her arm while she retrieves the mobile from her pocket, before peering down at a number she could hardly fail to recognise.
‘Are you all right?’ she whispers, taking a step back into the living room.
‘Where are you?’ asks Nathan breathlessly. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Are you?’ she asks again, searching for clues in his voice. ‘How did you get out of the room?’
‘I had to break the door down.’
She can hear the slur in his words, and she remembers. ‘Did you drink it all?’
‘Yes,’ he says, as if suddenly remembering himself. ‘But that’s not the point – the point is I’ve been there, and…’ He pauses, and she can hear him swallow.
‘Did you see something?’ she says, although she’s not sure see is the right word.
‘It’s not my brother.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘None of it. None of the killings. It wasn’t him.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because it wasn’t right, it didn’t feel like him,’ he says, the slur seeming to get worse. ‘You know how it works.’
She doesn’t, she never has, but now is not the time to try and understand.
‘He wasn’t moving like my brother. You remember the footprints in the flowerbed, the thread on the rose bush, the scuff marks on the floor, the way the victim didn’t die instantly like you said, but had time to lift her arms, to slip, to fall. He was slow. He was clumsy. He made mistakes.’
‘People make mistakes.’
‘Christian wouldn’t,’ says Nathan, and a moment of silence follows.
‘Come on, Nathan,’ she says eventually, moving away from the door and laying down the poker so she can shield her words with her other hand. ‘I’m sorry, but…’ She tips her head back, with no desire to go through it again; he’s drunk, he’s desperate, there’s no need for her to spell it out, and yet her disappointment in his failure to help with this last case pushes her on. ‘He was seen at your house, looking suspicious. The victim found there was somebody known to you and your brother, somebody you both had reason to want to hurt. The other victims might have been strangers, they might not, we don’t know yet, but there were personal markings, clues specific to you. If it were anybody else we wouldn’t be having this conversation – ther
e’d be no doubt. I mean, it’s natural that you aren’t quite ready to accept what’s happened, but…’
She stops and listens to the silence, digging a nail deep into her thigh as she curses her directness. There had been that moment back in her flat when she’d been sure she felt the walls finally coming down. But now, as always, work is getting in the way.
‘What if my brother never went to my parents’ home?’
‘What?’ It takes her a moment to digest. ‘But we know that he did,’ she whispers. ‘We have a witness.’
‘And you believe him more than you believe me?’
‘It’s not a question of believing. It’s about following the evidence.’ She tells herself that’s exactly what she’s doing; weighing it up, shutting out the emotion. She knows what it’s like when there’s family involved, how easily it can interfere with reason.
‘Where are you?’ says Nathan. The rising panic in his voice sets her heart racing.
‘I’m with Markham.’
‘Is he in the room with you?’
‘He’s upstairs.’
‘Then get out!’
‘Why?’
‘What if he was lying?’
‘Why would he lie?’ She asks the question, but she’s already reached the answer herself. ‘No,’ she says, remembering the old man’s face when she’d arrived. ‘No, that’s not possible.’ She shakes her head, and raises her voice beyond the previous whisper. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Leave anyway.’
‘Not without Markham.’
‘Then take him with you. But get a weapon first. Don’t turn your back, and take him out in the street. Stand where people can see you. I’ll get someone to you as quick as I can.’
Before Katie can open her mouth to reluctantly agree, she hears a noise – the creak of a floorboard – and she knows it’s already too late. She’s been distracted. She’s been a fool. Someone has crept up behind her. Before she even has a chance to turn, there’s a thud and a blinding light behind her eyes as she tumbles forward. Sprawled out on the floor, she stares at the poker on the other side of the room, curling her fingers as if she might be able to pick it up. To her left is the phone that has slipped from her hand, and either side of it a muddy boot below the frayed seam of a pair of jeans. She’s often stood over victims, wondering what was going through their mind at the time of their death, beyond the physical pain and fear. For her it’s a moment of revelation, not about the work – for once that has been pushed to one side – but about the man who had come so close to breaking down her defences. And it’s only now, at the very end, with nothing more to lose, that the brilliant truth about Nathan shines through.