by Mo Hayder
Ian gets changed into something more comfortable. He needs to be able to move for the next part.
It is getting light outside as he goes slowly up the stairs, holding the banister. He intends to start with Matilda.
From the bedroom doorway he surveys the scene. She has killed Honig in a spectacular fashion. There is blood everywhere and he is lying on the floor face down, his ear hanging off on a flap of skin. There’s something bloody and yellow next to him which might be an eyeball or a lump of fat – it’s impossible to tell. Matilda is next to the body, backed up against the fireplace, her teeth chattering with shock and fear. In her hands are clenched a pair of scissors which she points fiercely at Ian. He is able to disarm her very quickly with a kick. For all her ferocity she isn’t strong. And she’s in her sixties – no match for him.
‘Shut up now,’ he tells her quietly. ‘Don’t move.’
He pulls Honig’s ear on its flap of skin back so he can see the bloody skull – checks he’s dead. Then he throws the duvet from the bed over him. All the time Matilda cries silently. Ian passes her a towel to clean herself with, but otherwise he ignores her.
When he’s finished with Honig’s body he crosses the landing and goes quietly to the door of the rose room. Opens it a crack and peeps in. Lucia is staring up at him from where she sits, on the floor. She looks a mess with her hair all over the place, in her black jeans and T-shirt and her bruised eye. But she’s still hotter than hell. Sexy sexy sexy. A slutty punk goddess among all the chintzy roses: snowy skin and melted mascara.
He doesn’t step into the room, but waits for her to speak. Her lips are dry, he notices. She licks them, he watches the action carefully, watches her tongue. She finds her voice. ‘What’s happened? I heard some … things.’
‘Don’t you know?’
She doesn’t cry. Her eyes flicker past him, to the opened bedroom door where the body lies. ‘I think I can guess.’
‘Don’t guess – come and see. Much better to see for yourself, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose.’ She talks like a marionette, her jaw moving up and down woodenly, like it’s hinged. She knows, of course, what’s happened, but she still doesn’t quite believe it. ‘I guess.’
He steps in and undoes the cuffs. He’s careful not to touch her, though he can feel her eyes on him and knows she’s wondering when it’s going to happen. ‘Put your shoes on,’ he says, passing her the pair of troll-patterned Doc Martens. ‘You need to be able to walk.’
She hesitates, but eventually pulls the boots on. Laces them with intricate care. When she is finished he offers her his hand. There is a long pause, then she takes the hand and lets him pull her to her feet. She stops for a moment to smooth her clothing down, as if preparing herself for a public ordeal. She shakes her head, swallows hard and faces the door.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s do it.’
He takes her arm and leads her across the landing. He’s left the light on in the room where Matilda is, and as they go he uses his foot to push the door open wider. It swings back with a long creak. Honig is in there, face down on the floor, his torn head just visible above the fluffy green-and-white striped duvet – which has wicked out a dark semicircle of blood from his neck. Matilda is still on the floor, clutching the towel – crying and crying, her mouth open like a bewildered child in a war zone.
‘Jesus.’ Lucia baulks. She stands quite still and stares into the room. ‘Oh Christ.’
‘Lucia.’ Matilda stretches out a hand. ‘Lucia.’
But Ian shakes her. ‘Don’t answer. We’re not going in there. Come on.’
She resists his attempt to move her on. She puts sinew and steel into her legs so she is jammed in place.
‘Come on,’ he says, giving her another nudge. ‘Come on.’
‘Lucia!’
‘Oh God.’ She shakes her head and puts her hands to her face. ‘God.’
‘I don’t know why you’re doing this. You know what’s going to happen.’
There’s a small pause. She is very still. Then eventually she drops her hands and nods. She lets him lead her away from the peppermint room, one jerky step after the other, like a horse being led towards something it fears. They stop at the door to the amethyst room. It is closed.
Lucia’s breathing is heavy; he can feel her small, hot ribcage rising and falling under the T-shirt.
‘Push the door open. Give it a push.’
She does and the door swings open. Ian stands behind her, holding her arm, and allows her to survey the scene. The purple room is filled with sunlight – it comes through the half-drawn skull curtains and throws red patches on the floor. Two huge purple ostrich feathers flitter lightly in the draught from the door. Lucia’s idols gaze placidly out from the purple walls: Marilyn Manson and Dita Von Teese. Patty Hearst. Something in their faces suggests they are studiously avoiding looking at the other person in the room.
Oliver Anchor-Ferrers. Seated on the floor below the window, his right foot handcuffed to the radiator.
‘OK,’ Ian says lightly. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’
Rose Cottage
HE DRIVES FAST, throwing the car around the bends in the country lanes. So fast that Bear has to lie down on the back seat to avoid being thrown on to the floor. The first time he went to the Frinks’ house the colonel mentioned the cleaner hadn’t turned up for work. Ginny Van Der Bolt, according to Paluzzi, is a cleaner. Caffery isn’t sure why these two facts haven’t registered earlier with him, but now that they have, things are ticking away in his head.
He goes impatiently through the early morning traffic. Past the forests and old mills and tithe barns. The sun is up and at the country bus stops one or two people are waiting to head off to work – already a couple of mothers with children in tow, heading out to breakfast clubs and then work. When he gets to Rose Cottage, Ginny Van Der Bolt’s, he recognizes it. He’s knocked here before and dismissed it. Today he puts his face up to the window of the front room, his hand curved over his eyes to block out the reflecting sunlight, and tries to see the hallway. Then he stands in the back garden with Bear, his arms crossed, wondering what to do. Break in through the kitchen window? Phone Paluzzi and open the whole thing up?
‘What do you reckon?’ he asks Bear. ‘Do you know the person who lives here?’
Bear’s ears prick up slightly. She puts her head on one side, trying to understand what he’s saying.
He shakes his head. There’s nothing more he can do. He’s got to start again, comb through everything he’s seen and find what he’s missed.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go see the colonel.’
Matilda
THIS IS THE beginning of the end. Matilda is sure of it. It was that glimpse of Lucia that did it – standing in the doorway – pale-faced, her clothes all crumpled the way they used to get when she was a teenager and would fall asleep fully dressed – an expression on her face that Matilda will never really be able to describe. It was only a few seconds, then Molina forced Lucia away across the landing. Yet the encounter has signalled quite clearly to Matilda that the end must be coming.
Something deep comes over her; an old, primordial sense of herself as a human being facing a death that may not be far away. It brings with it a heavy solemnity that feels as big as the universe. She stops crying and allows herself to rest. Honig’s drying blood tautens and dries her skin. The scissors have been placed high on the bed, she can see them glinting from the corner of her eye. Well beyond her reach – not even worth trying. But there will be something … Something. She takes deep breaths and squares her shoulders to face the door.
Sure enough Molina reappears a few moments later and this time he’s wearing latex gloves. He begins undoing her handcuffs. He hasn’t said an angry word about Honig’s murder. If anything, he’s been too calm, almost nonchalant – conveying the sense that though he finds this turn of events a trifle unexpected, it is far from insurmountable for him.
Those glo
ves though …
‘What’s going to happen now?’ she murmurs, turning her face up to his. It’s almost intimate, this – this physical closeness. ‘What’s happening? What are you going to do to us?’
Molina doesn’t answer. A shutter has fallen behind his eyes. He might not just be a criminal, she thinks, he might be insane too. As insane as Minnet Kable – guided by voices even. Or he might just be desperate.
He grips her by the elbow and lifts her to her feet. She sags slightly, letting him take the weight, thinking that if he believes her to be submissive he might relax his vigilance and give her the chance to hit out at him. He guides her towards the door. She goes, each step heavy and leaden as if she’s a Frankenstein’s monster in flat metal boots. Her eyes fall on the scissors – they drift from her line of sight and she feels their loss the way she’d feel a parting lover’s.
He pushes her towards Lucia’s room – the amethyst room. Matilda watches the door panelling getting bigger as they get close. She thinks she knows what she’s going to see on the other side. Oliver and Lucia.
Molina opens the door and with it the room reveals itself to her – worse, because its familiarity reminds her of how they’ve been invaded. Lit from the tall windows with their deep window seats, it looks like something in a museum. The floating skull curtains move slightly from the breeze in the open windows; all of Lucia’s posters are still there, not moved. All her black jewellery on the skull-and-crossbones stand on the windowsill – still there. But the room isn’t the same.
On the floor under the window sits Oliver. He is wearing the same clothes he was wearing three days ago and he hasn’t shaved. There’s a grey stubble on his hollow cheeks. His shirt is dirty. He raises his eyes to hers and gives her a brave smile, but she isn’t fooled. This is defeat.
‘Matilda,’ he says. ‘Matilda.’
Lucia is a yard or so away at the foot of the bed – not restrained. Her face is white, her black hair is mussed all over the place and she’s clearly lost weight in the last few days because her bones are like shadows under the skin. But there’s poise and delicacy about the way she’s sitting. Her feet in the multicoloured boots she so loves are pointed, and the purple bed throw that she bought from a London company in the King’s Road and brought down here when she decorated this room, is uncreased and immaculate. If this was any other circumstance you’d think that Lucia was in a high-gloss spread for a lifestyle magazine. She stares and stares at Matilda as if her mother is a ghost.
‘Sweetheart,’ Matilda says, tears coming into her eyes. ‘Sweetheart – I love you. We both do.’
Lucia swallows hard. There’s a pulse in her long white neck beating frantically, but her face is expressionless. She has always been good at hiding her feelings – it’s one of Lucia’s talents. ‘Mum. You’re covered in blood. It’s everywhere.’
Matilda looks down at herself. Lucia is right – the blood is everywhere. Even though she’s rubbed herself with the towel, it has soaked her clothes so they stick to her. Her thin arms are plastered in it. She starts to say something but from behind Molina pushes her down into the empty chair. He uses the cuffs to manacle her right foot to one of the legs. With a jerk he pulls her right arm backwards. She has to thrust her body forward at an awkward angle to stop her shoulder dislocating. He binds her hand to the bottom of the chair back with something thin and plastic – a zip-tie, she thinks.
He backs away and now, in spite of the painful position, she can assess the room. Oliver to her left, Lucia in front and, beyond the bed, Molina, his back to her, locking the door. Lucia isn’t tied in any way – she is simply sitting there. Matilda doesn’t know why Molina hasn’t restrained her – but he’s underestimated her if he thinks she isn’t going to move. Kiran is the most successful of the two children, but Lucia is the cleverest – she can be a wildcat. Now as she watches Molina sullenly from behind her mussed-up hair, her dark, intelligent eyes are taking in everything he is doing.
Lucia’s strength and will are like a smell in the air. She is planning something, and Matilda thinks Molina is going to regret not tying her.
He turns to face the room. He pulls from his pocket a Stanley knife. Oliver takes a sharp breath and straightens, tries to get to his feet. Molina doesn’t seem to notice. He frowns at the Stanley knife, turns it over and over in his hands, examining it as if he’s never seen it before and is curious to know how it works, what it does.
He goes to the window and looks out, surveying the trees as if he’s remembering something. The Stanley knife dangles at his side. Next to Matilda, Oliver takes another shaky breath, but he doesn’t speak and when she twists her neck around she sees he is weeping quietly. On the bed Lucia hasn’t moved an inch. Her fists are clenched in the satin bed throw.
‘Please,’ Matilda blurts out. ‘Please, for your sake – stop and think.’
He turns from the window. ‘Beg pardon?’
‘Stop – and think. Do you understand what you’re doing? I mean really understand?’
‘Do I really understand?’ he mimics. ‘Really really really? What do you think? Do I look as if I really really understand?’
She swallows and puts her head back.
‘I’ll tell you what I think. I actually think you don’t understand. I think you have no idea. Someone must love you. I am sure there is someone. A parent? A sister, a brother, or a son? A wife, a girlfriend?’
‘What?’ he whispers, as if he cannot believe she has the temerity to speak. ‘What did you just say?’
‘You heard me. Do you have someone who loves you?’
Molina’s mouth opens. He blinks once. Twice. He doesn’t know how to answer. She’s got him. Somehow she’s got him.
‘You have, I can see it in your face. And you love them back. Before you do … whatever it is you’re going to do …’ Her voice is shaking, but she goes on. ‘Please stop and imagine what the person who loves you will think. The person you love? What will she think?’
He stares at her. The colour in his face is high. She thinks, though she can’t be sure, that there’s a tiny tear glistening in the corner of his eye.
He shakes his head as if he can’t think about it. He turns to the window, squinting as if the sun is too strong. ‘There is someone.’
‘And she loves you?’
‘I think she does. I believe she does. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if it wasn’t for her – I’ve done everything for her.’
‘Then ask yourself – what will she think? What will she think of this? Of what you’re doing?’
There is a long, long moment where Molina is completely still – absolutely motionless, not taking his eyes from her face. The silence seems to stretch around the room. Into every corner, into every ear, into every brain. Matilda can hear her own heart thudding. And in its echo she is sure she can feel the heartbeats of her daughter and her husband.
Then Molina turns away from the window. He comes and kneels next to Matilda. He is so close to her she can smell him; she can smell cooking spices and tobacco and wine and aftershave and suntan lotion. She can see the thick line of lashes where they grow out from the fleshy upper lid. She can see the red hair and freckles on the backs of his hands. He is a human being. He is a little like Kiran in some ways – the same age. The same height.
She speaks softly. ‘Yes. I can see, I can see you don’t want to do any of this. I can see how difficult this is for you.’
He nods silently. Anguished.
‘This is dreadful for you,’ she whispers. ‘Just terrible, my dear.’
‘It is,’ he says hoarsely. ‘It is.’
He holds his hand out to her – the way Kiran would hold out his hand as a child – wanting her to walk with him down the garden path. Or come to the ice-cream van. She grasps Molina’s hand and squeezes it. ‘There there. There there. Don’t you worry, dear. It’s going to be OK.’
He nods again. He gives her a watery smile. Reaches up and quickly, gently, draws the Stanley knife down the i
nside of her arm.
Before she can understand what’s happening he gets to his feet.
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘That’s all – it’s all over, all over.’
Her mouth falls open in disbelief at the blood which seems to leap up in a long line down her arm. Oliver begins to howl. Molina takes Matilda’s hand and bends it inwards at the elbow, presses it to her stomach as if he’s a caring doctor, or nurse. ‘There you go.’ He pats her hand reassuringly. Leans his head in to hers and kisses her on the temple. ‘It won’t be long now. It won’t take very long.’
Mrs Frink’s Memory Box
THE GABLES OF Colonel Frink’s house are still and silent in the early light. Caffery looks at them thoughtfully, picturing Mrs Frink in the wheelchair. The nurse. The fear and the sadness that sit over this place like a blanket. He looks at the treeline, the BMX track where the Frinks’ grandson was murdered. Then he lets his eyes trail slowly back up the hill to the house, measuring the distance. The woods are silent, only the occasional early butterfly flitting to and fro. Wild garlic grows in waxy carpets between the tree trunks, the sunlight makes a hopscotch of shapes coming through the branches overhead. Incredible, what happened in there, so close to the house.
In the Frinks’ driveway two cars are parked, but the house seems unusually quiet. Instinctively Caffery slows his pace, tries to tamp the noise of his feet on the gravel.
He gets to the front door and has lifted the knocker when he notices Bear has stopped and is staring at something out of sight around the side of the house. He lowers the knocker, careful not to make a noise. Goes silently to join Bear.
About ten yards away, on the rickety piece of veranda above the overgrown knot garden, is the colonel’s disabled wife. Her wheelchair has been placed so her back is to the house. She is hunched over so far her nose is nearly touching the blanket. Her hair falls down like curtains, covering her face. Her pink swollen hands sit helplessly on the waffle blanket. There is no one else to be seen.