by Ben Elton
‘Yes. I remember Adam Bishop,’ he said. —’Anybody who was in our class’d say the same. I doubt anybody who ever met him forgot him.’ For a moment Connolly said no more. He stared into the distance. Newson and Natasha waited.
‘He was a bastard,’ Connolly said finally, before again lapsing into silence.
‘Could you elaborate, Mr Connolly?’
‘That’s the best I can say of him. An absolute bastard. He made our lives a misery, ruined our schooldays. I read he was dead and I hope he rots from now until the end of time.’
The brief spasm of hate that had registered on William Connolly’s features subsided into a mask of weary sadness, a sadness that over the years appeared to have seeped into the lines on his face and the reflection in his eyes. ‘I don’t often get drunk,’ he said. ‘But I certainly did on the night I read that he’d been killed. I went up the pub at six and I didn’t leave till closing time and with every pint I cursed the bastard’s memory and prayed that there’s a hell, because if there is he’s burning in it.’
‘Do you know how Mr Bishop died?’
‘I know what I read in the Standard the next day, and when I read it I went out and got drunk again. My missus wasn’t too pleased, but she knew how much it meant to me so she let me go.’
‘He was stabbed.’
‘That’s what I read. Stabbed loads and loads of times.
‘Do you know what he was stabbed with?’
‘It didn’t say in the paper.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked you, Mr Connolly.’
There was a pause. ‘Well, I did wonder. Wonder whether he’d done it to somebody else. And whether that somebody else didn’t roll over and take it like I did.’
‘You were admitted to University College Hospital in February 1959 with blood poisoning caused by small puncture wounds, Mr Connolly.’
‘You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?’
‘You never said at the time who stabbed you or what with.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was too scared. Pathetic, eh? I nearly died because of that bastard and yet I protected him. I wouldn’t say a word. Kids didn’t in those days.’
‘So tell us now what happened.’
‘You obviously know.
‘We need to hear it from you.’
William Connolly undid the cuffs of one of his shirt sleeves and drew it back to reveal a series of tiny white scars in the weathered brown skin. Then he pulled out his shirt flap to reveal similar tiny scars on his stomach.
‘Adam Bishop held me down behind a desk one day during break time and stabbed me with a dirty compass and nearly killed me. It wasn’t the only thing he did to me in the five years I knew him, but it was the worst, the only one that actually put me in hospital.’
‘Mr Connolly, I’ll need to know details of your whereabouts on the evening of Tuesday June fourth of this year,’ said Newson.
‘Is that the night the bastard died?’
‘Yes.’
‘To be honest, one evening’s much the same as another in our house. I would’ve been at home. I’m home every weekday evening. We only go out Saturdays. Bingo or the pub.’
‘Can anyone corroborate that?’
‘Only the wife. It’s just me and her in the week. The grandkids come over on Sunday.’
‘Have you ever told the story of what Bishop did to you to anyone else?’
‘Only to my wife. Isn’t that funny? In all the forty-five years I’ve woken up in the night sweating and remembering what happened to me, you’re the only other people I’ve ever told. I’ve always been ashamed, you see, that I never stood up to the bastard.’
‘So apart from us, your wife is the only person who knows about how, when you were ten years old, your classmate Adam Bishop attacked you with a pair of compasses?’
‘Oh, no. Plenty know about it, don’t they?’
‘Who?’
‘My bleeding classmates, that’s who! It was a wet break, see. This didn’t happen in no dark and quiet corner. Oh no, at least half the class was in the room watching. Not one of them raised a finger. Not one of them said a word. He even made one of the girls go and get some paper from the toilets ‘cos I was crying. When she brought it he told me to stop blubbering, dry my eyes and mop up the blood, but instead of giving me the paper he stuffed it in my mouth.’
Newson and Natasha exchanged glances.
‘Tell me, Mr Connolly,’ Newson said, almost as an afterthought, ‘do you and your wife use the internet much?’
‘The internet? Blimey, Inspector, we ain’t even got a computer. What the hell would we want one of them for?’
‘Fine. Just wondering.’
As William Connolly showed them to the front door Newson turned once more. ‘One thing I would say, Mr Connolly. Don’t feel ashamed about not fighting back. Adam Bishop was exceptionally violent, and all through his life people were absolutely terrified of him. Nobody stood up to him.’
‘Except one person, eh? The hero who did for him.’
‘Well yes, except for him. Anyway, he was a big man. I expect he was a big lad too. You have nothing to be ashamed of, so you can stop letting him live in your head rent-free.’
‘Particularly seeing as how the bastard’s dead.’
‘Exactly, particularly since the bastard’s dead.’
TWENTY-TWO
Newson and Natasha sat together on a bench at the top of Blythe Hill, glad to be away from the smell of cabbage and the rawness of a pain long past that was still as livid as if it had only just been inflicted.
‘I don’t think William Connolly could have drugged Adam Bishop and dragged him up a flight of stairs, do you?’ said Natasha.
‘No, I don’t,’ Newson replied.
‘He has two sons. They could’ve done it. Perhaps he’s lying to us about never having said anything. Perhaps he told his sons and they took revenge.’
‘Perhaps, but I doubt the Connolly boys bleached Farrah Porter or cut Angie Tatum’s upper lip.’
‘Perhaps we’ve been deluding ourselves and none of these murders is actually connected.’
‘They’re connected. Although I must say I’m disappointed that the Connollys don’t own a computer.’ Newson yawned, suddenly dog-tired.
‘Up late, were you?’ quizzed Natasha.
‘As it happens, I was.’
‘How was the reunion?’
‘It was a huge success, thanks for asking.’
‘And now you’re tired and yawning…Hmm.’
‘What do you mean, ‘Hmm’?’
‘Just hmm. So?’
‘What do you mean, ‘So’?’
‘So what happened? Come on, you’ve got to tell.’ And Newson did tell her, not about his doubts, but about his triumph. He couldn’t resist it. He wanted her to know that he was not entirely without sexual magnetism.
‘You mean you copped off with the best-looking girl at the class reunion?’
‘Yes, I did, and she wants me to go back tonight.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘Perhaps.’
For a moment Natasha was quiet. She turned away, and then she smiled at him. ‘Be careful, Ed,’ she said. ‘Remember what you said about crash-landing your plane on to the deck of someone else’s life.’
‘I know, I know. It certainly wasn’t a happy experience the last time I tried it…Look, I don’t suppose I could buy you dinner instead, could I? You know, just to keep me out of trouble?’ There, he’d asked her out.
‘I’d like to, Ed, but — ’
Newson leapt upon her refusal before she had the chance to complete it. ‘Fine, fine. No problem, none at all. Stupid idea. You’re right. Absolutely. Forget it. Sorry I asked.’
‘Don’t do that, Ed.’
‘What?’
‘Mention something nice, then go into some huge joke thing about how insane it is as if you’re a complete nerd.’
‘Do I do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.
’
‘I’d have liked dinner, but I’ve been working all weekend and I owe Lance some ‘him’ time.’
‘Of course.’
‘Otherwise, it would’ve been very — ’
‘No problem, no problem at all. Give Lance my best wishes, will you, and tell him he’s a lucky sod.’
Natasha smiled. ‘You don’t know me, Ed. He’s not so lucky.’
But Newson knew that he was.
Natasha walked off to her car, leaving Newson alone on the bench. He turned on his phone, which he had switched off during the interview with William Connolly, and saw that he’d been left a message. It was from Christine. Despite his doubts, he was pleased that she had called so quickly.
‘Hi, Ed. It’s me! Yes, Christine, she of the recently concluded night of passion. How weird was that? Weird but good, I think. Yes, definitely good. Hope you think so too. Hope you’re pleased and not messed up about it. What a drag about you having to rush off like that. Look, I meant what I said about tonight, not about you having to buy me dinner but definitely about seeing you. I’d love it if you wanted to come around again. Na pressure, but hell, were we good together or what! You are a stud! Please come round, Ed, any time you like, whenever you finish with your big important police stuff I’d love to see you…I don’t know. ‘Us’ just feels sort of right. Anyway, that’s it, but…Oh, hang on, that’s the doorbell…’
As Newson listened to the message he could see Christine in his mind’s eye walking across her flat.
‘Ju-ust checking through my little spyhole…Well, well, well! This is a surprise. Wow, Ed, will I have something to tell you. You’ll have to come round now! Gotta go…Byeee.’
Newson wondered. She wanted more from him than he did from her, but why was he making such a big deal of it? All she was doing was asking him round. She wanted to share dinner and perhaps once more share a bed. What was wrong with that? Sitting alone on a park bench in south London, watching Natasha get into her car at the bottom of the hill, Newson could not think of a thing. He decided that he definitely wanted to have sex with Christine again, and to laugh with her, and to feel her body sleeping close in the night.
Of course, he didn’t love her like he loved Natasha, but Natasha had gone off to Lance, just as she would always do. What was he to do in the meantime? Deny himself a life for fear that he might fail to meet up to the expectations of a woman who had merely asked him to dinner? Christine was a grown woman, responsible for her own feelings, as he was responsible for his.
There being no chance of a taxi on a Sunday afternoon in such an area and no sign of a minicab office, Newson took the overground train to Waterloo. There he bought flowers at the flower stall and two bottles of Veuve Clicquot from Victoria Wine before taking a taxi up to St John’s Wood. Suddenly he was excited. He was not making a commitment. He was going round to see a girl. That was all.
When he arrived at the mansion block Newson was disappointed to receive no answer. Thinking that perhaps the doorbell was broken, he called Christine’s mobile, but received only her outgoing message in reply. ‘Hi, Christine,’ he said into his phone, ‘I’ve come round like you said…I’m outside on your doorstep. Um, not sure what to do now…Maybe your bell isn’t working.’
Just then a little old gentleman emerged from the ancient lift inside the building and let himself out of the door. Newson used the opportunity to slip past him into the entrance hall. ‘Yeah, meeting someone. Their bell’s broken,’ Newson said.
The old man looked a little concerned, hut Newson couldn’t help that. He took the lift up to Christine’s floor and knocked loudly on her door. Still there was no answer. Standing in the gloomy corridor, he wondered what to do. Then the inevitable thought struck him, inevitable at least to a man like Newson. Perhaps she too had been having second thoughts? That was probably it. She’d changed her mind. Suddenly the anguished dilemmas that he’d recently been indulging in seemed arrogant and foolish. There he’d been, fondly imagining that it was he who was in the emotional driving seat, and now it seemed that perhaps she had cold feet, Maybe she was behind the door right now, not answering, trying to keep quiet, hoping he would go away.
Newson resolved to go home. Perhaps he’d hear from her later. Either way, he sensed that the moment was spoiled. He bent down to put the flowers by her door and thought of the last gift he’d given her, the stuffed Garfield that she’d kept for twenty years. It was a tradition now. She dumped him and he gave her presents.
Then he heard it. Very, very faintly, but he heard it. Somewhere close by, somebody was playing music.
Wake me up before you go-go.
Newson looked around. Where was it coming from? He put his ear to Christine’s door. There was no doubt about it. The music was coming from inside her flat. It was Wham!’s huge number-one hit, from the late summer of 1984. George and Andrew’s triumphant return after a year in the wilderness fighting their record company.
He knew instantly that something was wrong. Dread gripped his stomach, and a cold sweat prickled on the palms of his hands. He hammered his fists upon the door. ‘Christine!’ he called out. ‘Are you in there?’
He remembered that, apart from two deadlocks at the top and bottom of the frame, the door was closed with only a simple latch. If it was only latched…He put his shoulder to the door.
Newson was small, but he was strong, and the seventy-five-year-old doorframe was weak. It splintered on his third attack and the door swung open into Christine’s flat.
Inside all was in darkness. The heavy drapes were drawn, but from the light that flooded in through the doorway Newson could see that the sitting room was empty and all seemed in order.
‘Christine,’ he said, and then, louder, ‘Christine!’
The music was coming from the little stereo unit on top of the girls’ television. On the previous evening Newson had loaded CDs into that very machine: Dido, Sophie Ellis Baxter, Jewel. Christine favoured female easy-listening of the more sophisticated lounge variety. The Wham! track was finished, and the stereo was now playing Bananarama. It was clearly a compilation album. An eighties’ compilation album.
Newson felt for the switch and turned on the lights. Everything in the room seemed normal, the pleasant clutter undisturbed from when he had last seen it only a few hours earlier. There were cushions on the floor and magazines scattered on the furniture. Garfield was back in his place amongst the teddies and Beanie Babies.
‘Christine. It’s me, Edward.’
Newson picked up his champagne and flowers and stepped into the room, walking over to the table that stood in the window. He found a space and put them down on it.
‘Christine?’
Then he noticed the first of the marks. It was on the big soft sofa where he had first made love to his old school flame. A rust-coloured stain on the yellow upholstery. Newson knew that colour well, having seen it many times in the course of’ his duties. It was the colour of dried blood. The sight of it made his own blood run cold.
He glanced about. One of the chairs that had been tucked under the, table had been moved out. Somebody had sat on it, sat on the worn, threadbare cloth of the upholstered dining chair. That cloth had once been a rich shade of cream, but it had grown grubby with age. It was grubbier still now, for Newson could see that it too was stained with blood. A thin smear in a shape vaguely reminiscent of a spearhead.
From where he was standing beside the table, Newson could see into the tiny kitchen and the bathroom. Both were empty. The bedroom door, however, was closed. Being careful to disturb as little as possible, he crossed the room towards it. As he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket in order to turn the bedroom door handle, he noticed that there were drops of dried blood on the polished wooden floor just outside the door. The drops led his eye to the piano. The four deep indentations in the rug in front of the piano indicated where the stool normally stood and that it was rarely moved. Someone had moved it now, though. The upholstery was dark green, and Newson coul
d make out a darker patch in the middle of it. More blood.
He opened the door to the bedroom. Somehow he already knew what he would find, and yet he was completely unprepared for it. The girl with whom he had spent the previous night and upon whom his mind had lingered on and off for the previous twenty years was dead. She lay naked on her back, on top of the Betty Boop duvet, with her hands awkwardly stuffed behind her. Newson supposed they had been tied. Her legs were parted and between them the bed-cover was stained with blood. As Newson stepped forward to check her pulse, knowing already that he would find none, he noticed that from Christine’s half-open mouth there trailed a short, thin piece of white string. Newson was not particularly familiar with this type of string but he knew immediately what it was and what it was attached to.
He took out his phone and reported what he had found. Then he retreated from the flat, attempting to retrace the steps he had previously taken. Once in the corridor outside, he closed the door behind him and leant against the wall to await his colleagues. For the moment, at least, this brief display of professionalism represented the limits of Newson’s composure. Crushed by the terrible weight of sadness bearing down on him, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.
Newson knew that he had only minutes to mourn. Or at least only minutes before the gruelling hours of police work that would now follow. Once Natasha and the forensic team arrived, the investigation would begin and Christine Copperfield would necessarily become one more murder victim whose killer he had been tasked with finding. For Newson knew absolutely that Christine had become a part of the series of killings he had first encountered at the house in Willesden when he arrived to investigate the Bishop murder. The thought caused pangs of anguish to shoot through him. Had he been a better detective he would already have caught the lunatic and prevented Christine’s death. But he wasn’t and he hadn’t. She was dead and he had minutes to say goodbye to her before focusing on her killer.
‘I’m sorry, Christine,’ he said under his breath. ‘You did not deserve this. Some bastard thought you did, but I know you didn’t. You were just another person, and we all make mistakes.’