She smiled, and he was about to scream when she shushed him by putting a finger to her own lips.
He scooted up the bed, cramming himself into the corner of the wall as though it might protect him. It wouldn’t.
“Stay quiet, Michael.” She nudged the gun at him.
“You!” he shouted.
“I said stay quiet.” She cocked the gun, and his eyes snapped away from hers to focus on it.
“You’re not going to kill me,” he said, still pushing himself away from her, speaking through small scared breaths.
“You think? You don’t want to be with me. You said so. And if I can’t have you…”
“Wait.” He thrust his palms out. “Wait. There’s no need for this, we can sort something out.”
She smiled, shuffled up the bed a little, and whispered, “I’d hoped you’d eventually see it my way. We were made to be together, Michael. You’re all I’ve thought—”
“Mum!” he shouted.
“You fucking stupid boy,” she snarled, jumping up. She hid behind the door as it opened.
Valentine stood in the doorway. “What? What’s up?” she said, hand still on the door handle.
Jessica pointed the gun at the door at roughly head height, and swivelled her head to look at Michael. Even in the comparative darkness, she knew he’d be able to see her when she mouthed, “Try me,” and raised her eyebrows.
Michael looked back at Valentine, rubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing,” he said. “Nightmare, that’s all.”
“You been watching horror films again? I told you—”
“No. I haven’t. I’m sorry I woke you.”
Jessica heard Valentine’s breathing slow down, heard her swallow.
“Okay. Go back to sleep, yeah? See you in the morning.”
The door closed. Even after it had latched and the handle rattled slightly as Valentine took her hand away, even when she heard footsteps down the hall, Jess stood still, watching Michael.
“Wow,” she whispered, “you were nearly down by a mother then.”
“How did you get in here? What do you want?”
“Shh, quieten down.” She came towards the bed again. “Do you know what hydrochloric acid is?”
“What?”
She sighed. “I’m going to be here a long time if—”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“Good. It’s nasty shit, Michael. Imagine the damage it could do to Valentine’s face.” She watched his eyes screw up and saw him recoil slightly. “Nasty stuff.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’ll swap sick for desperate. Do you know York Road?”
“Which bit—”
“Near the cop shop; near Burger King.”
“I know it, yes.”
“Be at Burger King tomorrow night at seven. Make sure you’re in a car,” she said. “And whatever you do, do not be late. Do not tell anyone, and do not bring anyone. Got it?”
“I’m fourteen. I can’t drive.”
“Really? I hear that you’re the wrong crowd, Michael. And stealing a car again will be the least of your worries if you’re not there on time. Got it?”
An hour later, Jessica hurled the plastic handgun into a field.
DAY 7
Chapter Seventy-Five
On the way back to the ranch, Eddie veered off track and collected more food and coffee from Mac’s; he ate as he drove. He felt much better, less shaky, as he entered the foyer, arms full of exhibits, balancing a coffee in his one free hand, choking on the cigarette between his lips, stinging eyes watering. And then he remembered Moneypenny gently reminding him he shouldn’t be smoking in here.
Grudgingly, he rested his coffee on the reception desk and went back outside to finish smoking.
Once back in CSI, he realised Benson must have left hours ago, and was probably fast asleep at Mrs Benson’s side. Lucky bastard, he thought. But given all he’d heard about Mrs Benson, maybe not.
Eddie and Kenny launched headlong into the computer work, with Eddie disappearing inside his office for a smoke only twice, until they’d all but done. Kenny looked up, hands behind his neck, stretched, and said, “It’s half past seven!”
“Bollocks.”
“I’m done,” Kenny said. “I’ll take the exhibits to the store on my way out.” He looked across at Eddie. “You okay to book me off?”
“Absolutely, mate. Thanks for… you know, cheers.”
“Well?”
Eddie looked up, puzzlement on his face.
“What happened to your clock?”
Eddie chewed his bottom lip. “They called me away, remember?”
“I remember. I had to work it by myself, don’t forget.”
“Come on.” Eddie helped with the exhibits. He grabbed his car keys and kicked his way out through the office doors. He whispered, “Troy went after Nicki.” Eddie carried on walking, and then realised he was alone. Kenny had stopped yards back, jaw slack.
“What?”
Eddie walked back to him. “She lived alone – block of flats up in north Leeds. She’s divorced, apparently, and this was the first step—”
“Get a move on, Eddie. I’m nodding off.”
Eddie licked his lips. And then just blurted out, “Troy pushed her off a sixth-floor walkway.”
“You’re kidding?”
He stared at Kenny. “Hilarious, isn’t it.”
“She dead?”
Eddie nodded. “When I got there, Crawford’s fist seemed to think it was my fault.”
Kenny stared into the distance. “Fucking hell.”
“Weismann’s being good about it. He doesn’t think we’ll see Crawford again. We’ve got a reprieve.”
“This is just so messed up.” Kenny laughed, a violent expulsion of spent air. “What the hell am I supposed to feel?”
“Before we knew about Troy and Nicki, Weismann said we were back in here. We’re back on our own merit, not just because they’re out of the frame.”
Kenny was just staring at him, mouth open still.
“You okay?”
“Okay?” Kenny unglued his feet from the floor and continued towards the stores. “I’m just fucking giddy.” There was no smile on his face, just coldness, blankness. “Just… fucking giddy.”
Eddie followed him down the stairs and along the corridor.
“You never know who you’re dealing with, do you?”
“Nope. He was back on the drugs. Blamed her for losing his job—”
“Well, she was responsible.”
With the exhibits signed in, Kenny turned to Eddie. “How do you feel about it?”
“I’ve been putting off feeling anything. I wanted to get Sidmouth’s scene out of the way. I’ll probably start thinking about it on my way home.”
Kenny nodded. “This is so fucked up. Troy in custody?”
Eddie shook his head. “He’s on his toes.” He patted Kenny on the back. “You want to take the rest of the day off? Come back tomorrow?”
They walked back along the corridor and turned left through the double doors into reception. Kenny sniffled. “Nah. I’m better off working, I think. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had some kip, okay?”
Eddie nodded, saw Moneypenny carrying her first cup of tea across to her desk. “I’ll catch you later,” he called after Kenny. “Ring me if you need anything.”
“You wouldn’t pick up even if I did.”
Eddie paused. “Yeah, that’s true. But it’s the thought that counts.”
Kenny waved and walked away.
Eddie stared at her. Intermittently he’d been thinking about her – and about relationships in general. He wasn’t doing very well in this one. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he was trying. That knowledge almost made him feel good about himself. He gritted his teeth, took a breath that made his ribs hurt, and began walking across the open floor, towards the door and away from awkward questions.
“Eddie?”
He close
d his eyes, stood on the spot, and then turned to face her, something like a smile on his face – one picked off the shelf for use in case of emergency. “Hi. How are you doing?” He walked towards her.
“You look awful.” She put down her tea, and her hand rested against her mouth, eyes crawling over his face. “What on earth happened?”
Eddie looked down. Here it comes, he thought.
“Have you been working all night?”
He could feel his eyes prickling with dryness, could feel his headache coming back, and could feel his nose and lip throbbing again. And his neck pain had returned to chime in unison with his ribs.
He gritted his teeth again, and decided relationships were wonderful things – for other people. Eddie was designed to be alone, and to stay that way. He sighed; all he wanted was a shower and his bed. Oh, and some more paracetamol. And a cigarette.
“What’s happened to your eye?” She came closer. “Oh God, and your nose? And your lip!”
“Calm down,” he whispered, “it’s not as bad as it looks.” There was that smile again – second-hand but just as good as new; reassuring, but obviously false. “I have some bad news.” Eddie reached across the counter and rested his fingertips on her shoulder, wondering if he should touch her hand. He licked his lips again, discomfort making itself evident.
What the hell do other people do in this situation?
I wonder if I could get away with just sending her a text.
This is why I should just be alone; there’s nothing I can give another person but heartache.
“What?” She touched his hand, and Eddie almost pulled it back, but bravely kept it there, absorbing the heat of her skin.
“Troy is missing, and Nicki is dead.” He heard the sharp intake, he watched her eyes widen further, and he felt her hand grasp his. “There was no easy way,” he said, “you know, to tell you.”
“Why?”
Eddie stared, then shrugged. “I’m just not very good—”
“Why is she dead, Eddie?”
“Ah. Speculation at the moment.” He looked around; the foyer was still empty, thankfully. He closed in another few inches, whispered, “Troy pushed her off a balcony.”
With a thump, Moneypenny sat down, her eyes staring into nothing, her hand still at her mouth. It fell away, and left behind a perfect ‘O’. “That’s… that’s awful.”
Eddie swallowed. He was no good at this shit. He saw the pain in her eyes – pain that she wasn’t really entitled to feel. She didn’t know either of them well enough to look this hurt. Or was that him being selfish again? Did he have the monopoly on feeling third-party pain? Pain by proxy? Maybe she was a different animal than he was. He dealt with strangers’ deaths every day and it left almost no trace.
Sure, he felt sorry for them – who wouldn’t? – but he was able to move through life without their ghosts pulling at his trouser leg. But look at Moneypenny, almost immobile with torment. It endeared her to him, and had the time been right, he would have tried to reassess his own stance on How One Should Feel Upon the Deaths of Others. But for now, he’d shelve it.
He couldn’t understand the depth of her empathy. And it made him question his own – so shallow that you could see right to the bottom where the paint was flaking.
Two different animals.
He looked away, feeling emotionally stagnant, but his eyes drifted back to her. She was beautiful even in grief. She was so beautiful that he was tempted to comfort her again, a hand on the shoulder perhaps, a comforting murmur in her ear.
Maybe I should get a book. Understanding People for Dummies, or something.
“Hey,” he said, making a start. “You okay?”
She had tears in her eyes. Actual tears.
He stared; no comforting hand would sort those out. “I have to go,” he said. “I’ve been on a double murder all night. I’m wiped.”
She nodded absently, and then she seemed to latch on to what he’d said. “Listen. About the other night...”
Oh crap, he thought. Here it comes, three out of ten if I’m lucky. Next time I’ll think of somewhere better, classier. She deserves something swish. Next time I’ll pick her up, chauffeur her – treat her well. He brought out the smile again, dusted it off, dented but serviceable.
“I don’t think we should, you know… I don’t think we should go out again.”
“You want to stay in? I can get a takeaway—”
“No. Eddie. I mean I think we should… I think maybe we should call it a day. You know…”
Eddie was gobsmacked. It was his turn for his mouth to form a perfect ‘O’. “Oh. Yes, yes, of course. I was just about to say the same thing! Incompatible…”
“Are you okay?”
“Absolutely,” he beamed. “It’s the right move. Definitely.” He was laughing and shaking his head, the jester desperately trying to laugh his way off stage. He pointed a finger at her, winked, and said, “Here’s to you, kid,” and he walked away. Eddie felt pain and revelled in it. Secretly he smiled. He had some emotions after all!
“Eddie? I’m sorry,” she called after him.
He spun around and gave her another wink. “Don’t be. It was good while it lasted.” The smile dropped off his face as soon as his back was turned. It was a cheap smile, after all; no returns, no guarantee.
She called, “Oh – Eddie?”
He stood still again, feeling jagged and spiky now that he had become a human being with real feelings – fragile feelings.
“My name. It’s—”
“Moneypenny.” He closed his eyes, and the smile this time was genuine. He nodded. “Your name is Moneypenny.” He walked to the door, and left the building. Although Melanie had told him Moneypenny’s name, he’d made an effort to forget it. Successfully.
His mind was so full of other people and their shit, and all on top of being awake for twenty-five hours with a creeping exhaustion so ready to overwhelm him that he almost screamed when he saw Sid in the car park.
Eddie sighed and lit a cigarette.
“Eddie! Eddie!” Sid was waving, running towards him with his flared trousers flapping behind him, handbag swinging in his hand, red nail polish glinting in the day’s new light.
“Have you joined a Mott the Hoople tribute band?” Eddie squinted against the light, and then squinted at Sid’s hair as he drew closer, the sun shining through the ringlets. “What the fuck happened to your hair?”
“Huh? Don’t you like it?”
“It looks like you’ve glued two plates of noodles to your head. Did someone do that to you while you were asleep?”
“Cheeky. This cost seventy-five—” He gasped. “What the hell happened—”
“Seventy-five? Want me to beat them up for you?”
“It’s a wig, silly. And what happened—”
“Thank God for that. You look like Shirley Temple.”
“Who?” Sid tutted, lips pursed. “Anyway— Wait, are you crying?”
“What? Don’t talk shit; I’ve been yawning so hard that my jaw almost fell off, that’s all.”
Sid looked at him. “Right,” he said. “Anyway, never mind all that now; we have two new starters coming in today.”
“Good. Set them off with fingerprinting Sidmouth’s house – first floor only.”
“Sidmouth?”
“Just… Check in with CID, they’ll give you the details.”
Sid clicked his fingers. “Oh! Also, I found out about Wendy.”
Eddie took a step back. “Who the fuck is W— Oh. Wendy!”
Chapter Seventy-Six
Despite his tiredness – a tiredness that should have been too extreme to permit driving – Eddie’s fury had kept him awake and focused all the way to Charles’s house, and it had kept his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
But when he pulled up outside, her car wasn’t there. He gave a quick knock on the front door to make sure Charles wasn’t in there by himself. But there was no response.
He lit anothe
r cigarette, climbed back into the Discovery, aimed it towards his own home, and made a phone call on the hands-free. He was there twenty minutes later, the sun full up now, gracing the thin clouds that skipped across a cold sky. Her car was parked out front.
He slammed the car door. No matter how hard he tried to calm down, he could feel the pressure building inside his chest, could feel his fingertips tingling, but he was unaware of the snarl that curled his top lip.
He barged into the cottage. There they were in the lounge, like a pair of love-sick puppies, lusting over each other across a table with tea and biscuits still on it. Eddie stared at their stunned faces. If he’d been a cartoon character, Eddie would have been a bull; head down, hooves kicking up dirt, ready to charge.
“Eddie?”
His attention turned solely to Wendy. “Get out of my fucking house.”
“Eddie!”
“Shut up, Dad.”
“How dare you?” Wendy said, and stood. “I demand you show some respect—”
“If you don’t get out of my house – now – you’re going through that fucking window, woman.”
Charles stood, circled around Wendy, and came towards Eddie. “What’s going on? What the hell happened to your face?”
His eyes never left Wendy’s. “Ever heard of romance scamming?”
“What?”
“Romance scamming. Have you heard of it?”
Charles stopped, ran fingers through what little hair he had left. He turned towards Wendy, then back to Eddie. A weak and withered laugh tripped out of thin pale lips. “No.”
“Tell me you haven’t signed anything, Dad.”
Charles stuttered, “Signed anything? No, I haven’t, but signed what, I mean what—”
“She’s a con artist. Her real name is Clarissa Hardisty, and she lived in London until last year.”
“I don’t have to put up with this!” Wendy walked over to Charles. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We don’t need to stay here and listen to these delusional accusations. I know of a perfectly fine—”
“Is he right? Is Clarissa your real name?”
“Charles. Do you even hear yourself? Don’t tell me you believe his nonsense. My name is Wendy.” She held his hand, then came in close and kissed him on the cheek. She whispered, “And I love you. Don’t forget that.” She set off walking then, pulling Charles like a leashed pet, but he stood his ground, causing her to turn around again and face him.
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 29