by Jo Bannister
The first time the dog spoke to him, he thought it had finally happened: that his ravaged personality had splintered and his brain was now leaking out of his left ear. He thought he should probably get himself committed. Again. That would be the end of everything—especially those last dregs of hope that made him pay the phone bill religiously even though he never made calls.
When he’d calmed down a bit, and Patience was quietly washing her paws and there was no gray goo on his shoulder, he tried to make sense of it. And this was what he came up with: that the words that seemed to come from the dog were actually emanating from part of his own mind. It was talking to him like a friend, helping him to see things clearly, and he only credited its input to the dog because that seemed marginally less peculiar than debating with a semidetached bit of your own brain.
A few times he’d been close to putting this theory to Laura Fry. She might concur immediately. She might say it was a common phenomenon, a recognized part of a traumatized individual’s coping strategy, that it didn’t mean he was mad at all. Or, of course, she might regard him in a silence that became less reassuring the longer it lasted, put her letter opener where he couldn’t reach it, and pick up the phone. That was what kept him from confiding in her. He’d rather think he might be finally, permanently, irrevocably mad than have it confirmed.
So now he dealt with the phenomenon—that was a fairly safe word—by accepting it. If it was a less traumatized portion of his own brain inviting him to hold an internal debate about things—things that had happened, things he might do next—then it made sense to join in. If it was a psychosis, it was best not to draw attention to it. And if it really was that he’d come home from the pound with a talking dog, he’d be wise to take her advice seriously. The aliens had landed, obviously they were smarter than people, but since they walked on four legs and flashed fangs when they smiled, they’d been misunderstood and taken not to any of the world’s leaders but to Battersea Dogs’ Home.
He did as he was told and went to look in the wardrobe.
* * *
In spite of how they’d parted, Hazel Best harbored a faint unease about discounting what Gabriel Ash had told her. It made no sense, and it came from a man who was clearly unreliable, and yet …
Almost more than anything else, she was puzzled by her own reluctance to let it go. She could shed no light on the death of Jerome Cardy, and she was pretty sure Ash couldn’t, either. She hadn’t been there; he’d been there in body but probably not in mind; and that should have been the end of it. Hazel was annoyed with herself that she kept thinking about it, taking the pieces apart and trying to get them to fit together better.
At least she’d had the sense not to discuss the matter with people at work. Just imagining the response made her wince. If she told anyone there that the man known throughout Meadowvale as Rambles With Dogs had given her tea and no biscuits and a version of events that varied slightly but significantly from Sergeant Murchison’s, and that if Ash was remembering right then the custody sergeant responsible for Jerome Cardy’s safety had made an elementary mistake that resulted in his death, they’d laugh in her face. If they were feeling generous. They’d tell her all the other things they’d been vouchsafed by village idiots, perhaps even by this village idiot, and how difficult it was to climb the promotion ladder if you couldn’t tell the difference between the probable, the possible, and the downright ludicrous.
She might have risked it. She might have told herself that if Ash had got any part of his story right, the least a police officer owed to a murdered boy was to try to get at the truth. If there was nothing to find, if Ash’s fears were entirely baseless, she could dismiss him and them with a clear conscience. At which point, giving her colleagues a laugh would seem a small-enough price to pay.
What stopped her was the danger that being the office joke for a week mightn’t be the end of it. Donald Murchison had been a pillar of the police community—and they were a community, even a family, in the way they bickered and grumbled and picked fault with one another, right up to the point that something threatened any one of them, at which point they instantly closed ranks—longer than Hazel had been alive. He’d been at Meadowvale longer than anyone else. He was both liked and respected.
If she suggested—however tactfully—that an honorable man, tired and losing concentration halfway through the graveyard shift, had forgotten where he’d put his prisoners and a twenty-year-old boy had died because of it, the laughing would stop. Whether her colleagues believed her or not wouldn’t be the issue. Forced to take sides, to a man they’d back Sergeant Murchison. Of course they would. They trusted him, and they hardly knew her. And after this, most of them wouldn’t want to. They’d end their conversations when she sat down with them, discuss with her nothing but the weather, keep her at arm’s length. Lock her out.
And for what? A suspicion cast by an idiot. She didn’t believe him—why should anyone else?
And yet … a man had died. If he died because an honest officer had made a mistake, decent people everywhere would recognize that as an accident. A deeply regrettable accident, but an accident nonetheless. But if, a few months down the line, someone else died because the same officer got tired enough to make another mistake, that wouldn’t be an accident—it would be Hazel Best’s fault. Because, having been aware of the problem, she’d shied away from tackling it.
She wished she wasn’t the new girl in Norbold. She wished she’d had time to make the kind of friends you can talk things through with, even difficult things, who’ll listen without judging and help you find your way to your own heart. But she hadn’t. She was on her own.
If she’d been sure there was a problem, she’d have gone to Fountain whatever the personal cost to herself. But all she had was this niggling doubt, raised by the most unreliable of witnesses, and she wasn’t ready to throw either her career or Sergeant Murchison’s into the trash can for a fishnet stocking of a notion, more holes than substance.
Because almost certainly it was a phantasm, a night terror with no basis in fact. Finally, that—the danger that she could be accusing a decent man of something he hadn’t done—mattered more to her than any backlash against herself. It wouldn’t just be unwise to make an allegation on the word of Gabriel Ash; it would be wrong. He was a damaged individual, not to blame for the wild inventions of his troubled mind. But she was an intelligent woman in a responsible job, and she had a duty not to allow his fantasies to harm a good police officer. Her instinct had been right. Nothing Gabriel Ash thought he’d seen or heard could be counted on, and without his witness there was nothing to pursue.
* * *
It was a long time since Gabriel Ash had made anything resembling a social call. He had no social life. He had no friends left: not because they’d abandoned him but because he’d abandoned them. Some of them had tried very hard to stay in his life, to offer ongoing sympathy and support. But there’s a limit to how much you can help someone who refuses to see you, won’t take your calls, cuts himself off from the world you inhabit. Even the most dogged of them had given up after two years.
These days, the nearest thing he had to human companionship came from Laura Fry. He saw her once a week, for forty minutes at a time, and she was paid to listen to his troubles. But if one day he looked left when he should have looked right and got flattened by the Coventry bus, it would fall to her to identify his body because there was no one closer.
To visit Mr. and Mrs. Cardy, at first he dressed as he did for his appointments with his therapist. But when he looked in the mirror, it was all wrong. He was clean and tidy enough—though he’d always been one of those men who only have to put on a new suit for it to immediately start looking shabby—but he didn’t look … he didn’t look …
Responsible. That was what he didn’t look. He didn’t look like someone grieving parents would talk to because it might help them discover what had happened to their son. If they saw him coming up their drive they’d think he was deliver
ing the local freesheet.
He went back to his wardrobe, pushed aside the three or four things he wore all the time—cords and sweatshirts, and rugby shirts for teams he couldn’t have named let alone played for—and knocked the cobwebs off some of the things behind them. A good white shirt that he hadn’t worn since the last time his wife ironed it. A suit that hung off his bones now, even after he’d punched fresh holes in the belt. A dark tie. He could do nothing about the unruly black hair—a ponytail, a hairband, an impromptu haircut with the kitchen scissors—that wouldn’t actually make things worse, but when he checked the hall mirror again, the man who gazed out at him at least looked like someone you might open the door to. And something else. He looked just a little familiar. Like someone Ash had known once.
He thought about phoning ahead, decided against. He’d have to tell them who he was and explain his purpose, and they might refuse to see him. He thought if he turned up on their doorstep, wearing his suit, they might take him for someone official and let him in.
It was a good reason, but it wasn’t the only one. He hated using the phone these days. He made virtually no calls, and most of those he received were wrong numbers. He always answered, just in case, but it was almost never for him.
And then, once he made the call he’d be committed. If he went in person, he could change his mind at any point up to knocking on the Cardys’ door. He thought he probably would. These days, he was a lot better at planning a course of action than carrying it out.
But, despite her clear expectations, he didn’t want to take the dog. Just in case he got as far as their front door. Just in case they asked him in. “Nothing personal,” he assured her. “They might have a cat.”
Yes? said Patience politely.
He could never lie to her. “Okay. The real reason is, it’s pretty hard to look official when you’ve got a dog on a lead. Unless it’s a police dog. I don’t suppose you can do an impression of a German shepherd?”
Not really, said the white lurcher.
* * *
Melvin Green was arguably the most important person at Meadowvale Police Station, and he wasn’t even a police officer. But all those who were knew they would be easier to replace than Melvin. If a routine checkpoint turned bloody one day because it stopped a car containing not laundered diesel or a suitcase of cocaine but fifty kilos of improvised explosives, whoever had stepped forward to ask for ID, and the officers standing either side of him, and behind him, and back at the car ordering elevenses, would somehow be replaced by close of play. If CID, following up a lead that finally got them within collaring distance of Norbold’s only serious godfather, Mickey Argyle, found themselves on the wrong end of an ambush, there would be a flurry of phone calls between Meadowvale and Division, and between Division and Scotland Yard, but by the end of the day there would again be detectives in the upstairs offices.
But if Melvin Green were to meet a sudden and unexpected end involving damp socks and a high-voltage power source, no one would have any idea how, or even if, the world would keep turning. Melvin was the Man Who Knew About Computers. Every enterprise needs one these days, and having an IT qualification is better than having a fast car, a time-share in the Algarve, and a season ticket for Wolverhampton Wanderers. It makes you everyone’s friend. Men who would otherwise be stuck with the pretty girls’ fat friends could take their pick in an office where a month’s work could disappear at the press of the wrong button but be found again by someone who knew about computers.
This morning the new hottie from Uniform was standing next to him in the canteen queue. She smiled at him. What, want me to explain how Restore System works? thought Melvin with a secret smile. Forgot to back up your files at appropriate intervals, did you? She seemed a nice-enough girl; he’d probably help her out, though he’d be putting down markers for the Christmas party.
But despite the smile, as she lifted her tray she gave no indication that she knew even who he was. Melvin was taken aback and a little offended. It was getting to be a long time since he’d had to dust off a chat-up line.
She was new. She didn’t know any better. He carried his tray to the table where she’d sat down, and sat down across from her with a smile. “Hello. I’m Melvin. I’m the computer geek.”
Hazel gave him a friendly nod. “Good to meet you, Melvin. Hazel Best—I’m a bit of a computer geek myself. I used to teach IT at a Birmingham high school.”
Melvin felt the confidence sliding off his face. It was as if someone had come into his office and said, “We’re scrapping all the computers, Melvin. We’ve come up with something better.” It was his only edge. Without computers he was just a geek. And the new hottie in Uniform used to teach IT. “Oh—er…” He hunted around desperately for something to brighten his tarnished appeal. “Anything electronic, really. MP3s, sat nav, cameras—anything like that. Anything electronic that you want a hand with, you come to me.”
“Cameras?” She was just making conversation. She had nothing more in mind than being on good terms with all at Meadowvale, even the spotty youth with the see-through mustache. “I used to do a bit of photography. Wouldn’t mind taking it up again.”
“Tell me what you want to do and I’ll recommend something,” Melvin offered importantly. “Anything from high res to Happy Snappers. Or if you want something to shoot movies, I know just the thing. Mr. Fountain’s got me sussing out a new CCTV system. After … you know. I told him six months ago it needed replacing, but the money wasn’t there. The money’ll be there now, bet you anything.”
Hazel didn’t have to ask. Nothing Melvin the computer geek could tell her would change anything. And yet … The imp on her shoulder was niggling away again. “Has it been on the blink for a while?” she asked innocently. “The CCTV.”
“On and off,” he said, nodding. “Not my fault. The whole system’s reached the end of its useful life. But what with the recession and everything, I was told to keep it ticking over, that maybe next year we could think of replacing it. I did what I was told. I worked out what the problem was and how to avoid it crashing again. I told everybody, from Mr. Fountain down to the cleaning ladies. I told them what made it crash, and what not to do if they didn’t want it to crash again. But do they listen? Do they hell. Then it’s, ‘Oh Melvin, the CCTV’s down again. Can you sort it out?’”
Hazel made herself take a slow drink of her coffee before replying. She knew the abyss was beckoning. She knew she shouldn’t be tap-dancing along the edge. Somehow she couldn’t stop herself. “It’s a recurring problem, then, is it? What happened yesterday was the same thing that happened before?”
“Exactly the same,” said Melvin bitterly. “Someone had done exactly what I told them not to. I might as well talk Swahili for all the notice anybody pays.”
They finished their coffee in a thoughtful silence.
Hazel went to the women’s locker room, found it empty, and sat down to think it through again. Because what Melvin Green had told her did change things—or at least put a different complexion on them. The CCTV system had a history of failing. The fault had been tracked down, and everyone had been told how to prevent its happening again. But someone had done what everyone knew not to do and in consequence there was no record of how Jerome Cardy came to be in Robert Barclay’s cell.
Jerome Cardy had told Gabriel Ash he was going to die in Meadowvale Police Station, and he had done. The systems set up to protect him had not only failed to keep him safe, they’d failed to record how the tragedy had occurred and who was responsible. If the custody officer knew how to scupper the CCTV, and if he’d recognized his culpability quickly enough, it would have been a good way to stop anyone else from finding out.
Hazel felt her options—as a responsible police officer, as a worthwhile human being—starting to narrow.
CHAPTER 9
ONE OF THE MANY difficult things about losing someone in suspicious circumstances is that you can’t go ahead with a funeral. There are investigations, postmortems,
inquests may be opened and adjourned, and though it makes sense that the body be preserved for further examination, it leaves the immediate family in a limbo world of grief without knowledge, mere onlookers to activities they have no part in.
If Geoff and Adelaide Cardy had lost their son to a road accident, a victim of the lethal combination of inexperience and self-confidence, one or both of them would have had to rein in their grieving while the immediate practicalities were dealt with: registering the death, informing friends and relatives, sorting out the paperwork, arranging the funeral, and contacting those who would want to attend.
It feels terribly difficult at the time, but in an odd way it’s exactly what you need. Things that have to be done, that can’t wait while your life falls apart in a million bitter shards. You do what you have to. You cry on your own time. And all the things that need doing, all the people who need seeing and talking to, are what get you through the first few days when shock and despair threaten to overwhelm you. By the time the funeral is over, so is that first tidal wave of shock. Even the exhaustion helps.
There could be no funeral for Jerome Cardy, not yet. There were people to notify, but a lot of them had already heard. A families liaison officer from the police station told his parents what had happened, and what would happen next, and then everything went quiet. They sat—sometimes in their front room, sometimes in their kitchen—together but hardly looking at each other as the slow hours passed. Sometimes Adelaide sobbed into a handkerchief. When Geoff Cardy felt the ache in his throat that presaged tears, he went into the bathroom. So passed the first thirty-six hours.
On the Friday morning there was a knock at the door. A man in a dark suit was standing on the porch. His shoes were newly polished. Geoff Cardy, who’d been in the army, noticed such things.