The Family

by P. R. Black

  ‘I’d ask you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.’

  Hanlon ran his fingertips through what was left of his hair. Below, worry-lines stretched across his forehead like bars of music. ‘You are putting yourself in danger, that’s for a start. And, whether you like it or not, you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation. I’d like you to stop. Is that clear?’

  ‘I can’t promise you anything,’ Becky said. ‘All I know is – I’ll share any information I find. As it is, I’ve found nothing.’

  Marcus leaned forward. He did not have a good poker face; a feral light seemed to blink on in his small, dark eyes. ‘What do you know about computer hackers, Becky?’

  ‘Not much beyond what some of our national newspapers got up to. I’m sure Inspector Hanlon here knows more about it than I do.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Marcus said, consulting his notes again. ‘It seems that one or two European databases were compromised in recent weeks. Files relating to several cases were accessed – including those relating to your family.’

  ‘What would that have to do with me? Surely you should be on the lookout for whoever accessed them? That might be your killer.’ She was surprised by how level her voice was, a counterpoint to the clamour of blood in her ears. She had said nothing to anyone about Rupert, or the subsequent telephone call; aside from what had happened to Rupert, it would tie her in with a major hacking event.

  ‘Nothing,’ Marcus said breezily. ‘Nothing at all.’ He scribbled one last note, then closed over his notebook.

  Becky turned to Labelle. ‘When we spoke before, you told me there were new developments in the case. What were they?’

  Labelle looked to Hanlon for guidance; after the big man nodded, she said, ‘A possible link to a known serial killer has emerged.’

  ‘Miles Crandley,’ Becky said.

  ‘We’d rather not say,’ Labelle countered. ‘But the evidence has changed the course of how this investigation is going.’

  ‘Okay. So – are we talking an active serial killer, or one who’s already in jail?’

  ‘The man is currently in custody over other matters, yes,’ Labelle admitted.

  ‘So, Miles Crandley, it is. And what is this evidence? Short of a full confession and a bloody knife, I’ll take some convincing.’

  Marcus said, ‘Bloody knife is not far off the truth. But there were also new pieces of information from the public following the television appeal.’

  Becky said nothing. I know. I know it’s not Miles Crandley. There’s no doubt about that, now.

  ‘We’ll keep you updated,’ Labelle said. ‘Forensic investigations are under way at several locations. We may be close to a solution.’

  Hanlon cleared his throat. ‘Becky, I’ll say this to you one more time – be careful, and please leave the police work to the experts. We’ll get your man – I’m confident of that. I’ll say no more about it. What I will say is… you look tired.’

  Becky burst out laughing. ‘And they say policemen can’t be charming!’

  ‘I mean it. I see a change in you. Try to rest, as far as possible. Take it from me. A case like this, even if you’ve no personal involvement… it can eat you up.’ For an absurd moment, Becky though the big man was going to cry. After a pause, he said, ‘I retire in two years’ time. I’ve seen a lot of unpleasant things in my line of work, dealt with some unpleasant people. I’ve never been in the position of being a victim, but I’ve seen what cases like this can do to the people investigating them. I’ve seen good men go to drink and drugs. One of them even killed himself. So what I can tell you is, don’t put that pressure on yourself. Not on top of everything else you’ve suffered. Clear?’

  Becky nodded. She didn’t want to lie to Hanlon. Not openly, anyway.

  The interview being concluded, Becky saw herself out. While she waited for the lift doors to close, someone ran along the corridor outside, stabbing at the buttons. The doors halted, then slid back open.

  A pair of unearthly blue eyes appeared.

  ‘Now – about that informal chat I promised you,’ Labelle said.

  ‘Seriously? I’m tired. I need to sleep. I’ve had a long few days.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you’re tired.’ Labelle stood beside her in the lift. ‘And I suspect you’re hungry, too. Are you hungry?’

  ‘I am,’ Becky said, a little hoarsely.

  ‘Come on then. Lunch. My treat. It’s on expenses. Let’s go big. All right?’ She squeezed Becky’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re on.’

  27

  Becky dabbed her lips with a napkin. She’d demolished lunch; only debris remained. She scrunched up her napkin, added it to the paper carton of fries, and squashed the lot inside her burger box. ‘You finished?’ she asked Labelle, her mouth still full.

  Labelle, in the driver’s seat, nodded. Becky took her rubbish, dumped it in the bin of the drive-through car park, then got back in.

  ‘Not to be culturally insensitive,’ Becky said, buckling her seatbelt, ‘but that seems a blasphemous kind of lunch for a French person.’

  ‘Sometimes you crave it,’ Labelle said. ‘It’s so hard to avoid temptation, once the idea is in your head. I hear they even do home deliveries, these days.’

  ‘Let’s never speak about this again.’

  Labelle smiled, and started the car. ‘To your hotel, then?’

  ‘Only if you’re happy with the drive.’

  It was a hire vehicle, and the policewoman struggled with it, with the traffic, and finally with the very existence of those who darted out in front of her. Becky tried not to smile as Labelle swore mellifluously.

  ‘Goddamn it, congestion charges, speed cameras… and these zombies, now, appearing in front of the car. How do people live in this nightmare city?’

  ‘They don’t live. They exist. It’s not so bad if you take the Tube.’

  ‘I’ll remember for next time.’

  The car lurched to a halt at a set of traffic lights. Labelle tapped her finger on the wheel, in time with the ticking indicator. LOOK RIGHT, said the road.

  ‘There’s no need to take me back to the hotel,’ Becky said. ‘I would have taken a cab – we could have stopped off for a coffee on the way.’

  ‘A beer would have been preferable.’

  The rain grew heavier, an insistent drumming on the windscreen. They turned into a steadier stream of traffic heading south, after some gentle advice from the sat-nav. Its voice was familiar, probably from films or TV; Becky wanted to identify it for herself before asking Labelle for confirmation.

  The driver eased back into her seat, more relaxed with a less frantic pace on the road. ‘I want to say – that was some performance.’

  ‘When?

  ‘With Inspector Hanlon. Just about everything you said to him. Masterclass.’

  ‘It wasn’t a performance, it was the truth.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Now you’re starting to sound like Marcus. Why isn’t he here with you, incidentally?’

  ‘I’m not sure what the deal is with him. I mean, in general. We haven’t worked together long. He wanted to do some digging regarding you and Edwin Galbraith; I had some bones to pick with you.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I want to know why you’re lying to everyone.’

  Becky sighed. ‘Look, just pull up at the next bus stop, would you?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll share some ideas. You don’t have to say anything at all. I’m just going to say what I think.’ Labelle steadied herself, spreading her hands evenly at the top of the wheel. ‘I think you’re looking for him. The killer. I’m not sure what you’re doing exactly, but your activities have been strange, to say the least.’

  ‘And totally, logically explainable.’

  Labelle held up her hand. ‘Please. Just listen. If I was you… if it was my family that happened to… I’d think I could launch a little investigation of my own. I’d think I could pick up that detail everyone else missed. I’d think I could cr
ack the case, all on my own. And if I did… I wouldn’t think to pass the details on to anyone else. And I think if I actually caught this man, if I found out where he lived, if I cornered him… I would kill him.’

  Becky kept her eyes fixed on the road and said nothing.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve seen the pictures, read the details. What happened was… beyond perverse. I do not know how you could survive something like that happening to a loved one. I cannot imagine the courage it would take, to put one foot in front of the other. To function as a human being. He was a sick man, sick in all the worst ways. There could only be a handful of people on the planet capable of doing something like that. You had the most dreadful misfortune to run into him. So if it was me, and I caught him, it would not be quick. He would know fear and terror before he died. This is something you’ve thought about. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Is this leading somewhere?’

  Labelle nodded agreeably. ‘It’s quite all right, you know. It’s only human nature. Who wouldn’t want to take revenge? You’d need to be a saint or an angel not to consider it. But here’s my advice to you. If you were to meet this man or find out where he lived – tell the police. Anything at all that rings a bell, any suspicion. Above all, if there is any contact from a strange person… then let us know. Anyone. Even Marcus. You’re a tough cookie. You’re strong. But this idea you might have about taking him out… that’s not something you want to experience. You’ll be face-to-face with a man who is capable of anything. You haven’t tested yourself against someone like that.’

  ‘Apart from the last time I met him.’

  Labelle took a breath. ‘I don’t say this to insult you or belittle you. It’s the cold, hard truth. When I started out with the force, I saw so many bodies of men who thought they could do better. That they were tougher than the other guy. Loudmouths in bars and nightclubs. Guys who answered back when they would have been better walking on. One swipe, one cut, one punch later, they are on their back. Forever. Don’t let this be you, Becky. Hanlon is a good, honest man, but perhaps he’s not honest enough with you. Let us do our jobs. We’re happy to have new information – we wouldn’t solve any crimes if people didn’t call us. Tip-offs are our saving grace. Wouldn’t you prefer to be the person whose input allowed the professionals to capture the man who murdered your family?’

  The swishing of the windscreen wipers answered her.

  ‘Travel 400 metres… you have arrived at your destination,’ said the sat-nav.

  ‘Good god,’ Labelle muttered, eyeing up an unappealing beige block. ‘This is where you’re staying? That thing is a hotel?’

  ‘After a fashion. Thanks for the lift. Are you staying in London for a bit?’

  Labelle smiled sweetly. ‘I’m not sure, Becky. You’re not going away anywhere soon, are you?’

  ‘If I do, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.’

  28

  He was waiting for her when she came through the arrivals gate at the airport and spotted her before she spotted him. He folded a newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

  He shook hands like an Englishman, she thought, as he took her hand, head back, shoulders straight.

  ‘Nice to see you Becky,’ said Leif. ‘I’ve got the car. Let me take your bag.’

  *

  Leif poured a measure of brandy into a shot glass, then tipped the bottle towards Becky.

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Water’s fine. Tea would be better.’

  ‘Tea. Ah. I forget you’re English.’

  ‘I’m cutting down.’

  ‘On drink, or being English?’

  Leif crossed over to the spigot-style taps and poured a glass of water for her. The kitchen, like the rest of his house, was simply but elegantly laid-out. It was either an ancient farmhouse that had been totally refitted recently, or a brand new property which the builder had tried their damnedest to turn into a rustic idyll. Oak beams spanned the roof, and a heavy, studded table out of a medieval legend stretched across the far wall. Everything about the place, from the windowpanes to the subtle oatmeal texture of the wall cupboards, spoke of solidity and wholesomeness.

  It was a bit too glossy-catalogue for comfort, Becky thought. She wondered if it was someone else’s idea, imposed on him.

  Early evening sunshine filtered through the trees outside the kitchen window and scattered golden embers across the wall. Light flared across Leif’s cheek as he held out the glass.

  Becky took a drink. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ she said. ‘I already told you that your life is in danger.’

  Leif sat down and took a sip of the brandy. ‘Sure. But you didn’t really convince me.’

  ‘There are some details that aren’t safe to go into. But I’ll say this: I’ve been searching for the killer. And I think I’ve got close to him.’

  Leif frowned. ‘How close? Do you have a name? An address?’

  ‘Not yet. But… all I’ll say is, I’ve had some contact.’

  ‘Has he spoken to you? How?’

  ‘There’s been contact, and I believe he may have been involved in other crimes. More importantly, he seems to be aware of you.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He probably knows your name, he knows you’re involved, and so long as that’s true, he’ll come for you. I can’t say any more than that.’

  ‘You’ve told the police?’

  ‘You mean like you told them I’d already spoken to you?’

  Leif shrugged and took a drink. ‘I have my own interests to look out for. If I decide to tell the police you contacted me, that’s my choice. You could forgive me for being a little bit nervous when you showed up, out of the blue.’

  Becky sipped at some water.

  ‘As for the killer, what possible reason would he have for coming after me? I’d imagine it’s better for him if I was still alive and well. Slinking around in the woods. Wouldn’t you agree? I make a nice suspect. What’s the term? In English? A red herring. Or am I?’ He grinned and finished his brandy.

  ‘Don’t play games with me. I’m telling you the honest truth. I’m here for your own good.’

  Leif poured another. ‘Maybe you are. But you’re also here to find out something. Some loose end you didn’t tie up before. So what is it?’

  ‘How many brandies do you normally drain before dinner, Leif?’

  He frowned. ‘Answer the question, please.’

  ‘Okay.’ Becky gestured towards her glass. Leif poured a measure and handed it to her. She sniffed at the contents and shivered as it scorched her nostrils.

  That most agreeable burn. She had promised to have no more drink while she was investigating. She let the glass rest on the table, without taking a sip. ‘I want to know about the legal trouble you ran into. Early noughties.’

  Leif’s face registered no shock, only a grim acceptance. ‘You mean the girl from Beauvais?’

  ‘That’s right. She was 15. You were, what… 22?’

  ‘I was not charged with an offence. No sexual contact took place. I was warned by the police for my conduct, but it was a simple misunderstanding. She claimed to be older than she was; we began a correspondence. After we met, I realised my mistake. I was astonished when the police knocked on my door. You already know that I was fond of writing letters. No harm was done.’

  ‘Not according to the police files, Leif. The girl said there was some sexual contact, but there were no witnesses and no evidence, and so no case to answer. And then there seemed to be other letters, written to other girls. Aged 14, in one case, though the others were admittedly older. Old enough, anyway.’

  Leif shrugged. ‘They contacted me. They lied about their age.’

  ‘Did you target those girls, Leif? Look at me.’

  He looked her straight in the eye. ‘No.’ Then he smiled. ‘But really, in your deepest darkest heart, ask yourself: if something had happened, then so what?’

&nbs
p; ‘So what? Under-age girls?’ Her arms, hands and finally her fingers betrayed her, curling round the shot glass. And so did her lips; one swift, deadly kiss. Quick as a cobra strike, the agreeable burn scorched her tongue and cauterised the back of her throat.

  Leif tapped a brass stud on the tabletop. ‘“Under-age girls” is technically correct. But tell me, when you were 15 years old, did you have a boyfriend who was 18? Maybe even older? If not, did you know someone who did?’

  ‘That doesn’t make it right, Leif. It’s still against the law. And I don’t care what you think – 22 is old enough to know better.’

  ‘But I didn’t know better. It was an honest mistake, that’s all. I’m not lying. I would have been charged if I had behaved in any way inappropriately. And I’d have deserved it, too. Now let me guess; you think that somehow, that incident puts me in the frame for what happened to your family? You think I was somehow involved? You know that can’t be true.’

  ‘I don’t think you had a hand in the murder. Not wittingly anyway. But I want to know about who you were writing to, at the time. Theresa.’

  ‘I already told you. She was American. We had arranged to meet on the day, in the forest.’

  Becky took another sip. The fire had spread, a pleasant throb in her bloodstream. ‘And whose plan was it – yours or hers?’

  ‘Hers, I believe.’

  ‘Where was she? What became of her?’

  ‘No one knows – she was never traced. The police ruled that she probably didn’t turn up. It was a dead end, all done through the postal service. The name led nowhere.’

  Becky shook her head. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. All of it. My sister… the mysterious other girl… you showing up… He claims he planned it all, you know. Right down to the moment you appeared. He might be telling the truth. It’s possible you were writing to a murderer, all along. Maybe he was manipulating you, making you part of his plan.’

  Leif drained his drink. ‘But why involve me at all?’

  ‘My theory is: plausibility. That having you there caused some kind of distraction. It let him get away, or gave him a head-start, at least.’