by Michael Kerr
“You feeling all right?” Matt said to Beth as they climbed into the car.
“Just a little sick to the stomach. Death is not a pleasant state. I see it for what it is, a contradiction and affront to life.”
“You’re a psychologist, Beth. You should be able to rationalise it more easily than the common man. Surely you can appreciate it as a moving on from one state to another.”
“Not really. I used to visit my grandmother in an old folks’ home in Chertsey. Seeing frail elderly people suffering from every ailment imaginable isn’t my idea of fun. One old man who had been a corporal in the second world war showed me some well-thumbed and faded black and white photographs that looked as if they were held together with nothing more than spit and willpower. They encapsulated his life. Some showed him as a dashing, handsome twenty-something guy in uniform. Others were of his wedding day in Peckham. It was a pictorial, potted history of his life, and he knew that all the good times were behind him. I looked into his lacklustre eyes and could see the young man who was trapped inside a body that was betraying him. He said that since his wife died, it was just a matter of marking time. He wanted it to be over with. I remember going to the home a few weeks later and noticing his empty chair in the day room. A carer told me that he had passed away in his sleep the night before, with a smile on his face. I didn’t feel sad for him, or for my grandmother when she died. Truth is I was happy for them. I saw it as an escape from an existence that had become an untenable state of suffering.”
Matt shucked his shoulders. “Life’s just God’s great banana skin, as Chris Rea sings. When the man in the sky points his finger at you, it’s goodnight Vienna. Till then, you’ve got to take the good with the bad. I’ve always thought that life’s a lottery, or a lucky bag.”
“What’s a lucky bag?”
“A paper bag with sweets and a toy inside it. Only you couldn’t see what you were getting. You paid your money and took your chance. You might like what was inside, or might not, but you were stuck with it.”
“I know what you’re saying, but I’ve never bought a lottery ticket or a lucky bag.”
“Makes no odds. Like it or lump it, you get to take part in the game. It’s how you play it that matters.”
“You’re right. I suppose being inside an autopsy room on Christmas Day dampened my usually high spirits. Where to now, Holmes?”
“To Scotland Yard of course, Watson, and don’t spare the horses.”
“You got a call, boss,” Mike Henton said as they walked into the squad room.
“Sutton?” Matt said.
“No. The guy said he was an old friend, and to tell you he’d run out of Calor gas, scotch and cigarettes.”
Matt grinned. He took his notebook out and flipped to the page he had written Eddie Foley’s mobile number on.
“That you, Barnes?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I don’t give my number out to any Tom, Dick or Matt.”
“So why the call, Eddie? You expect Batman and Robin to do a booze run down to Frinton-on-Sea?”
“Hell, no, Barnes. I thought you might want my change of address.”
“I’m all ears. What have you done, broken into a bigger unit with a better view?”
“No. I went for a stroll on the beach and bumped into an angel.”
“I’m intrigued. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about a woman who was walkin’ her dog. We passed the time of day, and then I collapsed. The next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed in Colchester. The doctors have stabilised me and told me that if I keep off the booze, they might be able to fix me up with a new liver. Seems I could hang around for a few years if I clean up my act.”
“That’s good, Eddie. But I thought you were ready to cash in your chips. Why the change of heart?”
“The angel I mentioned. Her name is Deborah. She’s a widow. Been visitin’ me twice a day.”
“You mean love might make a better man of you?”
“I’m not lookin’ that far ahead. But friendship and somebody who seems to give a damn whether I live or die is an incentive to straighten myself out and maybe start over. I got bitter and lost my way for a while.”
“That’s good news. I’ll keep in touch.”
“How’s the case comin’? You find your killer yet?”
“No. We know who he is, and why he’s doing it. But he’s changed his name and dropped out of circulation.”
“Somebody will know where he is.”
“Somebody might know where Shergar wound up, but that doesn’t give us jack shit.”
“Who was close to him?”
“Only his mother. But she says he did a bunk and she has no idea where he might be.”
“Have you got her staked out?”
“Yeah. And her phone is tapped. She hasn’t put a foot wrong. She could be telling us the truth.”
“Bollocks, Barnes. Lean on her hard enough and she’ll contact him. Don’t ever underestimate a mother’s love for her child. It wouldn’t matter if he was Hitler, she would still cover for him. It’s an instinctual, protective thing for offspring that women have.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Don’t think, act. Force the situation or the body count will just keep goin’ up. Find the trail and follow it in. You’re a detective, so detect, it’s what you get paid for.”
“You should have kept your hands to yourself and stayed on the job, Eddie.”
“Tell me about it! Bye for now, Barnes. My angel just walked onto the ward.”
Matt hung up with a smile on his face. He hoped the rough and ready ex-cop had found a good enough reason and had the strength of will to claw back and have some quality time. Every journey starts with the first step, and Eddie’s might have begun when some other lonely soul paused to talk on an east coast beach, and summoned help when he keeled over. Sometimes you had to look dissolution straight in the eye, up close and personal to give you a new perspective. Matt couldn’t help but be drawn back to the bungalow in Finchley, where he had been shot and saw his lifeblood pumping out of a nicked femoral artery. Before he passed out, he had felt fear, then an acceptance followed by introspection that overcame him with regret and a sense of sadness that was tinged with self-pity. His life had not unreeled, as is said a drowning person’s does. Only his secret sins rose to the top of his thoughts: of when as a youngster with a shiny new Webley air pistol, he had shot a bird from its perch in a tree. Standing over the quivering, fragile sparrow, he had felt an overwhelming sense of remorse and shame. He had watched the bird’s beak rapidly open and close, its small gleaming eyes begin to dim and shut, and its punctured breast flutter weakly. The memory of dropping the weapon and kneeling on the grass was vivid. Some of the tears spilling down his cheeks had fallen onto the bird, to run off its puffed-up feathers. Lifting it gently in his hands, he’d said ‘I’m sorry’ over and over, until the trembling became an awful stillness. He had never fired the pistol again, and had put the incident in a dark niche of his mind, to be added to by other acts that he could never find a way to give himself absolution for committing. A part of him found it distasteful to grant himself forgiveness. He had an obligation – even to that long dead sparrow – to do mental penance for his human weakness, and to not view any personal wrongdoing as a foible that he could be mistakenly proud of. Sorry was not the hardest word, but one that he viewed as totally inadequate. It was an admission of giving offence, or of letting someone down, or upsetting them. He strove to avoid letting the need to apologise rear its ugly head in the first place, though was only human, and often failed.
“What’s the matter, Matt?” Beth said.
He blinked away the distraction and was slightly embarrassed to find that his hands were raised and cupped together in front of him, as if he were Oliver, holding out a wooden bowl to beg more gruel from the intimidating beadle.
“Nothing,” he said, reaching out to take the mug of c
offee that Beth held out to him.
“You were somewhere else for a few seconds,” Beth said, not letting the incident go. “Why the thing with the hands. What were you doing?”
“Looking into the past, at something that happened a long time ago. Don’t you ever get caught out by memories of things you wish you could put away forever?”
“Yes. But I don’t put my hands together like that, or stand on one leg.”
“I wasn’t standing on one leg.”
“I know. I was just being facetious. What bad thoughts did you have?”
“I’ll tell you later, back at my place. You can get me to lay on the couch and practise your therapy technique.”
“I can think of better things to do on the couch.”
Matt’s mood lightened at the prospect. “That was Eddie Foley I was speaking with. He got himself saved by a good Samaritan. He’s in a hospital now.”
“I thought you said his liver was shot and he was drinking himself to death?”
“That was then. Seems he’s drying out and may have a few miles left on the clock. He told me that some woman out walking her dog stopped to chitchat, and when he keeled over, she called for an ambulance. Now she’s visiting him every day. Who knows what’s round the corner?”
“You seem to have a soft spot for him. I thought he was a racist with a violent disposition?”
“Nobody’s perfect. You’re always telling me that most people are patterned to some extent by the cultural and social climate they develop in. Foley’s mother is a real piece of work. She’s one of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever met.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. I might have grown up worse than Eddie if she’d raised me. Do you believe that one bad act or trait is the full measure of a person’s worth?”
“That’s deep for you, Matt. When you arrest a murderer, do you take into account that he or she may have been a decent, law-abiding citizen up until one moment of madness?”
“Believe it or not, yes. But I still take them in for the crime. It’s up to shrinks and lawyers to decide what happens to them. I once lifted a man who’d come home from work and found his wife in bed with the next door neighbour. He lost the plot, picked up a bedside lamp and caved her skull in. It was crime passionnel, as the French would say. He phoned the emergency services and stayed at the scene.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was charged with manslaughter, ended up serving three years, then went on to remarry and build a new life.”
“And you can sympathise with what he did?”
“I can understand a temporary loss of control. It wasn’t a premeditated act. He would have given his right arm to replay the event and walk away. Anger is a basic emotion in all of us, and in some cases it’s ‘there but for the grace of God go I’.”
“So you think Foley is a regular guy?”
“I didn’t say that. He has faults, isn’t politically correct, and has a problem with change. He needs to be a little more progressive, even if only outwardly.”
“You consider racism is acceptable on any level?”
“Ask an Arab or a Jew. Or a native American, or an Australian aborigine. Look at the global picture and see how tribal we all really are at grass roots level. It’s a fact of life that might not go away till the melting pot has had another few thousand years to erode national identity. And even then I’m not optimistic that war and racism and bigotry will ever be eradicated. Plato allegedly said, ‘Only the dead see the end of war’, or words to that effect. You’ve got to accept that even cheetahs and antelopes are never going to be bedfellows. What is, is.”
“I give in. I can’t argue with your logic.
“I’m not arguing. Just saying it as I see it. Eddie says we should be bracing Paul Sutton’s mother. He’s convinced that she’ll be in contact with him,” Matt said, changing tack back to the case.
“Do you think she is?”
“I don’t know. She’s been watched since we first interviewed her. And all her phone calls in and out have been monitored.”
“Officially?”
“By the book. The suits want this guy off the street. Although I suppose that her civil rights are taking a holiday until her son is brought in.”
“So you’re going to take Pete round to her house and play ‘good cop, bad cop’?”
“No. I’d rather you came with me. You can assess her answers and body language, and tell me if she’s holding out on us.”
“When do you intend to see her?”
“Now would be good. The last thing she will expect is the law on her doorstep on Christmas Day.”
“You’re wicked.”
“No, Beth, just intolerant of anyone who would try to protect a homicidal psychopath.”
“So let’s go and make her day. And after that, I want you to myself for an hour or two. We need to chill out for a while.”
“Sounds good. We could pick up a takeaway, go back to my place, snog under the mistletoe and dunk for apples in the bath.”
“I didn’t have you pegged for the type who would have any truck with Christmas.”
“Behave. Who do you think I am, Scrooge? I like the Yuletide season as much as the next guy.”
They took both vehicles. Beth followed Matt’s Discovery and parked behind it outside the semi in Edmonton. She felt uncomfortable. This wasn’t a practise she was familiar with. Her expertise was in consulting, formulating investigative suggestions predicted on the results of constructed profiles, and remaining one-step removed from the actual nuts and bolts of interviewing possible associates or relatives of a suspect.
Climbing out of the Lexus and staying one pace behind Matt, she felt awkward and out of place as he rang the doorbell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT was turning out to be a beautiful day. One of those days that only came along once in a blue moon. He didn’t want anything to spoil it, and told Kirstie so as they began to prepare the meal. Johnny Mathis was singing Winter Wonderland on the radio.
“This is a day I want to cherish forever,” he said. “I want you to be happy and relaxed and suspend all fear and thoughts that might dampen it. Can you do that?”
Kirstie gripped the glass of sparkling white wine with such force that she thought it might shatter and cut her hand to pieces. “Yes,” she said, even as she wondered if she would get the opportunity to stab him in the throat with the small paring knife he had handed her to peel the potatoes and turnip with. She might have already taken her chance, if it hadn’t been for the fucking dog, that had taken up a position near the fridge, its umber eyes watching her every movement. It was as if it knew her intentions, could read her mind, and was already contemplating the moment that it would be given licence to attack and finish the job it had started on her leg.
“All that’s missing is snow,” Paul said as he opened the oven door to check the turkey that crackled and spat under the strips of fatty bacon that were pasted to its basted, browning breasts. “It would have been fun to go out and make a snowman; put a scarf around its neck, a woolly hat on its head and use a couple of small pieces of coal for its eyes and a carrot for its nose. Would you have enjoyed that, Kirstie?”
“Yes, but not dressed like this,” she said, for something to say. Didn’t the bastard realise that all she wanted to do was go home and be with her family. It was as if he had dismissed reality from his mind. He was treating her as though they were a normal married couple, or two lovers enraptured by being in each other’s company.
“I’m sure I could have found you something warm to wear,” he said. “Maybe we’ll go out for some fresh air after dinner. How does that sound?”
“That would be nice.”
Bing Crosby started in on White Christmas.
“Put the knife down,” Paul said, closing the oven door and crossing to where she was standing. “Let’s dance.”
Bizarre didn’t do it justice. She placed the knife on the countertop, loathe to relinqui
sh it. He held her gently, her right hand in his left, with his right arm around her waist. She put her free arm around his neck, and they moved around the kitchen table.
He sang along with Bing, “...where tree tops glisten, and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow...”
She wanted to laugh, cry, scream and claw at his eyes all at the same time, but just kept moving, conscious of his hand now on her bottom, pressing her against his evident erection.
“Sing with me, Sweetheart,” he said. “This is my all-time favourite Christmas song.”
Tears misted her eyes as she performed a duet with the man who was keeping her chained up in a cellar, and almost certainly intended to murder her. “...with every Christmas card I write, may your days be merry and...”
She felt a sharp sting in her left buttock and jerked away from him. For a second she thought he had nipped her, but then saw the syringe that had appeared in his hand.
“What have you given me?” she screamed.
He had injected her with just a smidgen of the drug ketamine. Not enough to fuck up her central nervous system to the extent that it would paralyse her, but hopefully the amount required to make her life and soul of the party, and reduce her capacity to cause him any problems. The bitch was being too sweet too soon. He had seen the gleam in her eyes when she had held the paring knife; could almost read her mind. If she had felt lucky, or he had dropped his guard, then she would have buried the blade up to the hilt in him and tried to get out, past Hannibal. Maybe he was being a little paranoid, but he was in the business of inflicting pain, not of risking being on the receiving end of it.
“Something to brighten up your day and take your mind off thoughts of evil intent,” he answered, guiding her to a chair as her leg muscles began to twitch and her right eye started to repeatedly wink at him, powered by a spasmodic contraction of her eyelid muscles. “It’s a type of anaesthetic called ketamine hydrochloride, a PCP analogue that does things to the brain. It’s a favourite with date rapists. You might even like it. I’m reliably informed it can produce some real out-of-this-world effects. I’ll finish up cooking the meal. You just sit back, relax, and let it happen.”