‘You know, that’s what scares me the most,’ Gabi said from the floor below, her voice breaking. ‘That you don’t seem to care about this at all.’
Thea heard the front door slam and looked out of the window, watching Gabriella, cradling her thumping head.
That damn gun. They should have got rid of it years ago. Thea cursed ever finding it in the first place. It had been that same summer: the summer of their A levels, the end of the affair, the summer of the murders. Thea remembered the tedium, the baking sunshine, lying in the garden with Harry, surrounded by discarded textbooks.
‘I’m bored,’ Harry said, drawing the word out into a long sigh of syllables. He pulled himself up and looked to the back of the garden. ‘What do you suppose is in those sheds?’ he asked.
He stood up, pushing his battered trainers back on. He held his hand out to Thea.
‘Let’s go see,’ Harry said.
The inside of the shed was lit by a dim shaft of grey light from the one grimy window on the far wall. After pulling the lock away from the rotten wood with ease, Harry bowed his head and stepped inside, his trainers crunching on old dried leaves. Thea followed him, ducking low, feeling the delicate strands of cobwebs across her face.
‘There’s nothing in here but old tools and paint.’ Thea poked at the lid of one of the pots and it opened easily, revealing a dried-up sphere of bright blue. ‘Let’s go.’
‘In a moment,’ Harry said from a corner of the shed. ‘There’s something here.’ He pushed a rickety basket out of his way and crouched down next to a small black cupboard. ‘I think it’s a safe.’
‘Really?’ Thea craned her neck to take a better look. Sure enough, a small black metal safe, complete with a silver dial, had been left in a far corner of the shed. It was rusty and covered in mud, abandoned on the floor.
‘What have you found?’
Both of them jumped as a figure appeared, blocking out the light and casting a shadow across the dust. Gabriella stood in the doorway, long dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, wearing a light yellow sundress that barely covered her bum.
Harry stood up and brushed his hands off. ‘It’s no good, it’s locked.’
Gabi leaned over and looked at it, then turned and moved some tools around next to her. ‘Try this,’ she said, offering a rusty black crowbar from the depths of the shed.
Harry took it and weighed it up in his hands. He put it into a hole in the door of the safe, then pushed all his strength against it. His shorts fell low on his hips; Thea could see Gabi looking at the muscles of his back as he tensed against the crowbar. The safe creaked, then gave way with a loud grating of metal.
The three of them crowded round the tiny door, pushing each other in the confines of the shed, trying to see what was inside. Harry reached into the safe and pulled out a small rattling box, and something else wrapped in a dirty cloth. As he unwrapped it, they all drew back.
‘Shit,’ Harry said, as he took it out of the piece of material.
They looked at each other in the dim light, their mouths open. ‘Put it back, quickly,’ Thea said, backing up, but Gabi reached over and took it out of Harry’s hands.
The gun was small and black, with a short muzzle and a textured black handle. Gabi turned it over, then held it how she had seen in films, her hand round the grip, her finger over the trigger.
‘Is it real?’ Thea whispered.
‘It looks it,’ Gabi replied, her voice soft and breathy, wheeling it round so it pointed at Thea.
‘Fuck, don’t point it at us,’ Harry shouted. ‘Put it down, Gabi, we don’t know if it’s loaded.’ Gabi lowered the muzzle to the floor and Harry let out a big whoosh of air. ‘Who does it belong to? Your parents?’
‘Who knows,’ Gabi said, her eyes locked on the gun. ‘What’s in the box?’
Harry turned it over in his hand and opened up the cardboard. ‘Bullets. Must be about twenty in there.’
He rattled it in front of Gabi. She looked, then held the gun up again, pointing it away from them towards the back of the shed. ‘It’s heavier than I thought it would be,’ she said, weighing it up with her hand. ‘It’s kind of nice.’
Suddenly the shed erupted with a roar and Gabi screamed. Smoke rose from the floor, making the light turn grey. The smell of burning filled Thea’s lungs.
Her ears were ringing as she ran out of the shed, closely followed by Harry. They stood, blinking in the sunlight as Gabi emerged behind them, covered in dust, her face a mask of shock.
‘Fuck, Gabi, what did you do?’ Harry stood, his hands on his knees, bent double, getting his breath back.
Gabi started laughing. Small at first, then growing until she couldn’t contain her hysterics, tears running down her face. Then Harry joined in, collapsing onto the grass, his body shaking.
Thea remembered their father hadn’t been quite so amused. He’d appeared behind them, shocked into anger, ranting at their smirking faces. He’d taken it away and sent them back into the house – to their revision, to watch television, anything as long as they stayed out of trouble.
And the gun had been forgotten, until that fateful day.
In a moment of curiosity years ago, Thea had looked into it; apparently it was a common occurrence to find vintage guns abandoned in old houses. Kept after the war and left behind as veterans died. But what if her dad hadn’t taken it back into the house? What if he’d taken it to a police station straight away, like he intended? Would her parents still be alive? How different their futures might have been.
Thea watched her sister run down her driveway into the darkness. She pushed her hand up against the glass, as if reaching out to her twin.
‘Leave the past alone, Gabi,’ Thea said. ‘Leave it alone.’
31
Kate started expensive – a nice New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. After all, nobody orders that when they’re planning to get drunk, do they? This was a wine to be savoured. She cradled the glass in both hands, feeling the cold before she took a sip. It was nice. It wouldn’t be a crime to have more than one of these. Even though she wouldn’t. Of course not.
She took a stool at the bar, the exact same one from which her husband had presented her with the divorce papers. She knew she was nursing her depression, feeding it with more morsels of failure, but she couldn’t stop. The misery was addictive, and gave her a convenient excuse to have that first glass of wine. Her insides churned with the events of the day; with frustration, annoyance.
It was Friday night, and she had nowhere to go. She was pissed off. Her social life was a disaster, her career heading that way too. Everything they did on the case was a dead end. The CCTV was long and tedious, street footage was grainy and inconclusive, and they still hadn’t found anything else to link either Mortimer Breslin or Ryan Holmes conclusively to the attack.
And to top it off, there was the conversation with DCI Jennings, making her fume inside. ‘Arsehole,’ she muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t she stood up to him? Why hadn’t she said no? She wouldn’t sit around and wait for his golf buddy’s burglary to be solved; they needed those results and they needed them now.
Because those retorts hadn’t occurred to her until half an hour later. Because it had taken her that long to overcome the ingrained compliance she had towards men in charge. She took another gulp of her wine. Pathetic, she told herself.
The bar started to fill up. People were leaving work, ready to have a few drinks before heading back to their loved ones. Her elbow was jostled, and she spilled her wine.
She felt the absence of people around her, of warmth and friendship. Of people that gave a shit about her and her life. She was lonely, no doubt about that. Tears pricked behind her eyes again, and she took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling to keep them at bay.
More people arrived. The door opened and closed, wafts of cold air chilling her toes. More laughter, more fun. This was a bad idea. She’d had nights begin like this before. Usually with other people around her, but alw
ays ending the same way. Staring in the mirror with half-closed eyes and a puffy face. Memories missing; playing detective on her own life; trying to reassemble the evening from receipts and hand stamps and texts on her mobile phone. Counting the bruises on her legs.
She needed to stop this now. She downed the last dregs of her second glass of wine and picked up her coat.
‘That’s a pity, I hoped you would stay.’
He appeared at her elbow, a welcome sight for her addled brain.
‘I’ve not had a great day, I’m not good company.’
‘Would it help to talk about it?’
Kate paused. ‘You know I can’t. Not with you.’
‘Don’t talk then, let’s just drink. Misery loves company.’
‘What have you got to be miserable about?’
He laughed and sat down on the bar stool next to her, gesturing to the barman to come over.
Kate looked at her empty glass. She’d have another one – how could she resist? Especially when she knew, deep down, he was the reason she’d come here in the first place.
He lay back in the bed, pulling the white cover over his bare chest. Kate lay on the pillow next to him, staring at the ceiling, the spinning starting to abate. She knew it had been the wrong thing to do, but the wine relaxed her. Silenced the voices in her head, telling her she wasn’t good enough, that nobody loved her. Sterilised by alcohol. And she’d only had four, maybe five glasses at most, although she hadn’t finished that last one so it didn’t count.
In the growing darkness she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stretched. He was different to Sam: lean while Sam was stocky, overconfident where Sam was shy. She liked the change, something new to explore.
‘I’d kill for a cigarette,’ he said. ‘Do you want one?’
He offered her the packet with his good hand and she pulled one out of the box, the dry tobacco smell following the cigarette to her lips. They’d gone to his flat this time – it was closer, round the corner from the bar.
He reached over her and opened the window, pushing his naked torso next to her in the process. She resisted the urge to lick it.
He flicked the lighter to a flame and lit her cigarette. She caught his face in the sudden brightness, seeing him from a different angle, almost as a different person. He lay back next to her and blew a long plume of smoke towards the window. The cold air blew in from outside, moving the curtains around her. She could hear people talking on the street below and a police car siren; she wondered what the emergency was. Kate took her own long breath in and felt the ache in her lungs, a burn on the back of her throat.
‘What happened on the case today?’ he asked.
‘You know I can’t tell you,’ she replied.
He raised himself up on his elbow and took a drag on his cigarette. The tip glowed red in the darkness.
‘I’m a suspect,’ he said, matter-of-fact.
Kate glanced over. Even in the dim light she could see him looking at her, trying to read her face. ‘I am,’ he carried on. ‘You think I did it.’
‘We can’t rule anyone out at this stage,’ she said.
‘But you can sleep with them? That’s considered okay?’
‘Of course not,’ Kate snapped.
‘Yet here you are.’
Kate stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the windowsill.
‘Kate, wait. Please.’ He looked at her, no longer the cocky man in the bar. The vulnerability showed in his face. ‘I didn’t do it.’ He pulled himself up in the bed, the cigarette between his lips, and placed a hand on her arm as she bent to pick up her shirt. ‘I didn’t attack her, I swear.’
She paused and looked at him, his blue eyes trained on hers.
‘You believe me, don’t you?’
And she did. In that moment, Kate believed he was telling the truth. He wasn’t a suspect; he couldn’t possibly have tried to kill Thea Patterson. He wasn’t someone who could attack a young woman in the dead of night. A cold-blooded would-be murderer.
Because otherwise she, Detective Sergeant Kate Munro, was making the biggest mistake of her life. Of her career. At that moment, drunk. And lying naked in bed with Harry Becker.
Saturday
32
It was early, just past seven, shards of light edging into the dawn. Thea had been awake for about an hour, her headache forcing her out of bed to find painkillers. She was standing in the kitchen, pushing pills out of their blister packs, when she heard a light tap at the door.
She listened and waited, then heard it again – almost tentative.
She looked down at her clothes: messy T-shirt, tracksuit trousers, slippers. She moved down the corridor and peered out of the small window in the door to have a look at who was there. Her normal bravado at living alone had faded – the attack had made her cautious.
Ryan Holmes was standing on her doorstep. Half of her wanted to run away, hide back in her bedroom, while the other half was curious. What was he doing here? He must know now, surely, about what she had done. Thea took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said. ‘It’s just I was passing and I saw the light was on, so I knew you were up.’ Outside the rain had started to pour, coming down in torrents and gushing from the broken guttering on the right-hand side of the porch. Thea saw what other people must think about her house: it was run-down, falling apart. Much like her, she thought, with a sting of embarrassment. ‘I went to the hospital yesterday, but they said you’d checked yourself out.’
‘It’s okay,’ Thea said, too aware of her unwashed hair, her messy clothes. She looked at Ryan, taking in his smart shirt, hair wet, showing the lines of a comb where he must have just used it. He had specks of rain on his glasses.
‘How are you?’ He offered a bunch of flowers to her, a pretty mix of yellow and white, out of place in the dull grey of the weather. ‘I brought these. I didn’t know what you would like.’
Thea took them from him, pulling her cardigan around her. ‘How do you know where I live?’
‘Google,’ he said, apologetically. ‘Are you …’ He stopped, studying her face. ‘I mean, are you Thea?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m Thea.’ She shivered, the cold creeping under her clothes. She opened the door wider. ‘Would you like to come in?’
Ryan stepped into the house, diligently wiping his feet on the doormat. Thea turned and headed down the corridor to the kitchen. He followed her, taking his glasses and rubbing the rain off on his sleeve.
She filled up a glass vase and placed the flowers in it, still with her back to Ryan. She was cringing inside, knowing what she had done, what they had done, while she was pretending to be Gabi. She regretted answering the door now; she should have kept quiet. But here he was, in her kitchen.
‘How are you?’ Ryan asked again, hovering uncertainly in the middle of the room. ‘Does it hurt?’ He gestured to the manky bandage on her forehead.
‘Yes. A lot.’
He smiled. ‘I’m Ryan,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to meet you. Properly, I mean.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Thea blurted out. ‘I shouldn’t have …’ She couldn’t finish her sentence; she didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s just …’ He paused. He looked nervous. ‘I need to know – was it just a game? What you and Gabriella were doing?’
‘No, no it wasn’t. Gabi didn’t even know – it was all my fault. I meant what I said … before. I liked you.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not okay, and I was angry, but then …’ He stopped, and Thea sensed his uncertainty. ‘I only slept with you, that one time. I wanted you to know that. Gabriella and I, we never …’
‘Okay,’ Thea said.
They stood in silence for a moment. Thea fidgeted, crossing her arms across her chest, then uncrossing them.
‘Well, I just …’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
They both spoke at the same time. Ryan s
miled.
‘Yes, a cup of tea would be good, thank you,’ he replied.
Thea busied herself with the kettle, with cups and tea bags, anything to avoid looking directly at him. She couldn’t work out why he had told her that, but nonetheless it made her feel different. Like she was special to him or something. It was nice.
Ryan pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down, taking off his coat and his scarf and laying them next to him.
‘Are you on your way to work?’ she asked, putting the cup of tea down. ‘I guess Saturday is one of the busiest days of the week, if you own a nightclub.’ She gabbled, inwardly cringing at her effort at small talk. ‘I hope I’m not making you late.’
‘No, it’s fine. I can get there whenever.’ He paused, and took a sip of his tea. ‘And you’re a photographer?’
Thea raised her eyebrows. ‘Google,’ Ryan said again, and Thea nodded. ‘Are these yours?’
He stood up, mug in hand, and walked to the black and whites framed on the wall. He paused next to one of Thea’s favourites, an informal shot, sneaked one day in town. A small blonde girl with ringlets had been looking at her, peeking backwards over her dad’s shoulder and smiling. She didn’t know them; she hadn’t intended to capture a photo but instinct took over. Just as she raised the camera the sun lit them from behind, creating a halo of light around the little girl. An angel in her father’s arms.
‘I love this one,’ Ryan said, not looking away from the photo. ‘There’s just something about it that catches your eye.’
Thea came up and stood behind him. He wasn’t tall, and she came up to his shoulder. ‘I always wonder about that little girl,’ she said. ‘She’s probably about seven or eight now. I hope she’s as loved as she seems to be here.’
Ryan turned and his face was close to hers. She could see a small patch of stubble he had missed just under his chin; she could smell his shampoo, and a trace of mint toothpaste. He reached up and took off his glasses. He paused, as if to say something, then stopped.
Ask Me No Questions Page 13