by Lucy Cameron
Will has recently retired, altering the equilibrium of their forty-year marriage. He was a long distance lorry driver, you see. Used to the freedom of the open road. To the hotel living. To being away from home half his life. He is also used to the fast food, which now hits his slowing metabolism. He has the fat body he swore he never would. He can’t adapt to the fact their house is a home, not a hotel, or motel or whatever he chooses to refer to it, saying, ‘I’m only joking, love. You shouldn’t take everything so seriously’.
The main problem with Will is that he doesn’t listen. Most of her friends laugh when she says this. He’s a man, what does she expect? But it isn’t funny. Will really doesn’t listen. She spent two days in the wrong nightdress, rereading an old book, before he finally got it right.
She sees the way people look at her. Knows they think she is harsh and unfair to the old sod. They should try living with him. They would soon change their tune.
Here he comes. Ambling along like he’s on time. Pam can actually feel her blood pressure rise. Luckily, the doctors have already signed her release paperwork. If one of them saw her now they would have her tucked back in before she could say, ‘Have you met my husband?’
Will kisses her on the cheek.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, love.’ He doesn’t even bother to come up with an excuse. Again, she shouldn’t be surprised. ‘I picked up a menu from that little Chinese on the corner for tonight, though you might like a night off.’ He smiles, small teeth in his fat, round head. Is she supposed to be grateful? They both know he hasn’t picked it up. It’s been delivered along with the greasy feasts he’ll have been stuffing into his obese form for the past three nights.
‘My bag’s down there,’ is all she cares to muster.
‘Hop on then.’ Will gestures to the wheelchair. Removes the knitting from her hands. Slings her bag over his ample shoulder.
‘I’m fine, I’ll walk.’ Her voice is cool but she doesn’t care. He won’t notice either way.
‘The nurses insist, said if they see you walk past you’ll be straight back up here.’ He takes hold of the handles. ‘Honestly, love, I’m not lying. It’s because you need rest, something like that.’ He patronises her with a smile. Anger does a little somersault in her stomach.
‘I would be well rested if you’d been on time and I was at home right now.’
‘I said I’m sorry. Not something I’ve ever done before, pick someone up from the hospital.’ Pam closes her eyes and breathes in deeply through her nose. It’s a loud sound. Her favourite nurse recommended it for combating stress. Pam thinks of her own house. Her own kitchen. Her own chair. It softens and comforts her. She wants to get home. She opens her eyes and eases herself into the wheelchair.
‘That’s my girl.’ If she had the energy she would climb straight back out and punch him in the face.
19.
Rhys and Quinn arrive back at the station after brunch.
Brunch consists of Quinn stuffing down the hugest all day breakfast Rhys has ever seen. ‘They don’t call it the belly buster for nothing.’
Rhys can only stomach coffee. Milk. Plenty of sugar. He focuses on Quinn’s words. Blocks the stark images of the creature in the hospital from him mind. The voice in his head mocks, do you think if you ignore me I’ll go away?
Quinn talks while he eats. He spits as much food back across the table as he swallows. His subject matter, loud and off-putting to other diners. He informs the café about the escalation in the killer’s rage. Discounting the hands, Eddie has over twenty-two broken bones. Quinn points his knife at Rhys,
‘No wonder the poor bastard doesn’t want to regain consciousness. I know I wouldn’t.’
The first male victim had only a few defensive wounds. His name was Ron. His wife was Jess. Rhys remembers. Andrews told him about Jess. The mirage in the summer heat. One half of the first couple to die. The husband of the second couple seems to have put up more of a fight. That’s what they had assumed, however, some of his bones had been deliberately broken.
‘Now there’s Eddie.’ Quinn shakes his head and refills his mouth. More greasy meat to spit onto the tabletop.
A mother at the next table tuts – moves her little girls to a table across the room. She shoots Quinn a look of sheer disgust he’s oblivious to.
‘Why has Eddie been left alive?’ Quinn’s loud words continue. ‘A mistake, surely?’ He soaks up some of the bacon grease with a piece of white bread. ‘Mistakes are good. It’s a thread in the intricate pattern of the killer’s crazy mind and if we pick at it hard enough the whole thing will unravel.’ Quinn sits back, looks proud of his analogy. His eyes drop to his tie. ‘For fucks sake.’ Quinn dabs off the red sauce, takes a final loud slurp of tea.
Quinn’s chair legs scrape on the floor. It’s time to go. Quinn smiles and waves at the little girl on the way out. She bursts into tears.
Box after box after box. All squeezed neatly into the Couples Killer operation room. The smell of damp that permeated everything in Andrews’s house has transferred too. The air is thick, heavy to breathe.
The coffee kicks in. Rhys feels grounded. In control. The solution will be simple. It will come to him. It always does. Hold onto the fact he must know the man from somewhere. Embarrassment at his behaviour at St James’ flares in his stomach, push it aside, focus on the case.
One thing at a time.
There’s no visible desk space. Boxes still arrive. In the far corner Davies is setting up more noticeboards.
The mind map on the wall is growing. It spews out information on Eddie and Cathy’s attack. Crime scene photos are juxtaposed with recent holiday snaps. Rhys recognises them, the ones from the yellow kitchen wall. Spider-like lines scurry out to a map of Eddie and Cathy’s street. Pictures of neighbours with reference numbers relating to their statements. Potential evidence collected at the scene.
‘It’s old school but I like it,’ says Quinn nodding to the mind map. ‘Helps me think visually, far easier than everything on printouts and spreadsheets.’
People and activity are everywhere. The Constables from Eddie and Cathy’s house are here. The Constable that found Eddie. Constable Johnstone. Slim and tall and jittery. He jumps every time a box drops. He can’t look at the photos of Eddie. Constable Chantelle Watts is here too. Davies still ignores her; she doesn’t look much like she gives a shit.
A system has been established. There’s an area of the room for each couple murdered. Andrews would be sad to see Claudia Rose is still alone. There’s an additional area for unrelated information. Demons and the dark arts. It will all need to be sifted through. No stone left unturned. Just in case.
‘Good morning,’ Quinn’s voice brings the room to silence. ‘I am sure I don’t need to tell you how much work we have to do. You can all thank Detective Inspector Andrews for that later. Not only do we need to sift through this lot,’ a hand gesture to the piles of boxes, ‘we also need to revisit witness statements from the previous victims’ families and friends, ensure all the details are correct and in order.’ A collective groan from the room. Quinn raises his voice,
‘Please people; remember this is nothing personal. I have no doubt you all did your jobs thoroughly at the time. This is about crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s for those upstairs. The quicker we get it done, the quicker we can get on with nailing this bastard. We’ll start top end, the families of the victims, and work backwards.’
‘I’ve already made some calls, sir,’ says Davies. Quinn nods.
‘Until then let’s start sorting this shit. It’s pretty self-explanatory boys and girls, open a box, see what’s inside. There’s an area for each victim and a special area at the back for all the ghoulish dark arts shit. Myself, Davies and Rhys Morgan here will work through the detail. Clear?’ A round of nods. ‘Excellent. Morgan, you can start with the dark arts, after this morning’s performance you could do with something to lighten your mood.’
A telephone starts t
o ring. Quinn grabs it from its cradle.
‘Quinn speaking. Yes. Okay. Someone will be right down.’ Quinn hangs up the phone, turns to Rhys, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Change of plan.’
Martin Cullen was the boyfriend of Claudia Rose, the first victim, DI Andrews’s green-eyed girl. Now Martin’s a pale young man in baggy clothes, waiting in reception. Checking the accuracy of his statement is not Rhys’s job, far from it. He’s doing it for Quinn’s amusement, for him to assert a little power.
‘Mr Cullen?’ A nod. ‘Detective Sergeant Rhys Morgan. Thanks for coming in.’
‘What is this about?’
‘Please come through.’
‘Have you caught someone, is that it? Have you caught the person that killed Claudia?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Martin follows Rhys through to a side office that’s little more than a cupboard with a window and a desk.
‘Then what is this about?’
‘We’re reviewing the details of the case.’
‘Why?’
‘To ensure all the information we have is accurate.’
‘Has someone fucked up? I’ve seen the papers?’
‘No, sir, they haven’t.’ Rhys sits, opens the folder. Is this better or worse than sifting through the piles of stuff from Andrews’s house? He can’t be sure.
‘If you could run through your movements of the night Claudia disappeared–’
‘Was murdered. You can say it.’
‘If you could run through the details for me it would be much appreciated.’
Rhys removes the statement.
‘I was cleared; you know that right, of being a suspect?’
‘Mr Cullen, no one is accusing you of anything, like I said, we need to check the details we have are correct.’
‘And like I said back then, I worked all day then headed to my mums.’
‘And what time did you work until?’
‘Four o’clock as per usual.’
‘And what time did you arrive at your mum’s?’
‘About eight…’ Rhys looks up from the paper. Martin’s cheeks visibly drain of colour.
‘Could you repeat that please?’
‘I arrived about eight.’
‘And you finished work at?’
‘Six o’clock.’ Rhys places the paper on the table.
‘That’s what it says here. But that’s not what you just said.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Rhys looks at him, raises an eyebrow. This just got interesting. Martin laughs, a big fake sound. ‘My mistake, it’s difficult to remember, sometimes I worked until six, sometimes four. It’s a long time ago.’ Rhys sits back.
‘I think I would remember quite clearly every detail of what happened the day my girlfriend was murdered. So I’ll ask you again, what time did you finish work? And before you answer bear in mind this is a murder investigation and lying to the police is an offence. If you do lie, I will find out.’
Martin fidgets in his seat, chews at the inside of his cheek. At the time Martin’s boss hadn’t been contacted. Martin and his mum were in the cinema a hundred miles away at the time of Claudia’s murder. But still…
‘Okay, okay.’ Martin sits forward, places his hands on the table. ‘I finished work at four, okay. I went for a pint with a mate, Gary, before I hit the road.’
‘Why didn’t you say that at the time?’ Martin chews the inside of his cheek some more, shrugs. ‘How many pints did you have, Martin?’
‘Two, possibly three…’
‘Are you aware what the legal drink-driving limit is?’ The last of the colour drains from Martin’s face as he shrugs and slowly nods.
‘Why do you think I said I was working ‘til six?’
Gary White wears overalls covered in paint and smells slightly of white spirit. He taps his foot on the floor in time with the chew of the gum in his mouth.
‘Tell me please, Mr White, how do you know Martin Cullen?’
‘Why, what’s he said?’
‘How do you know him?’
‘I used to push a little work his way, you know?’
‘Not really.’
‘The lad’s handy with a paintbrush. He was a bit strapped for cash, you know, back then, what with having just moved in with… I needed an extra pair of hands on a big job at the hospital, one of my guys fell off a ladder and broke his arm, daft bastard. It was, as they say, a mutually beneficial relationship.’ Rhys flicks through the papers on the table.
‘You’re not listed as an employer of Mr Cullen?’
‘I paid him cash in hand.’ Gary’s eyes widen. ‘Is this about tax? Because if it is I can assure you all of my work is above board, what Martin chooses to do–’ Rhys holds up a hand.
‘No, it’s not about tax, it’s about verifying Martin’s whereabouts the night his girlfriend was murdered.’ Gary eyes Rhys wearily.
‘Shame that was, eh? What happened to Claudia. She was a little sweetie, one of the bonuses to having Martin on the job, she used to make the best bacon butties and drop them off mid shift.’ Gary smiles.
‘The day she disappeared, Mr White?’
‘Yeah, sorry. We finished up at the hospital early, went for a couple of pints before Martin headed to his mum.’ Rhys sighs.
‘Are you aware of the drink-driving limits, Mr White?’
‘Me? Nah, I always get the bus.’
‘What a waste of time,’ Rhys speaks to no one in particular. ‘Couple of amendments to the alibi.’ Rhys hands the paperwork to the fraught looking Constable. ‘Nothing of note, other than Martin Cullen is now fully aware of both the dangers of drink-driving and stretching the truth when speaking to the police.’ The Constable gestures to the stack of paper next to her.
‘Add it to the pile.’ Rhys places it on top. The Constable smiles, moves it to the bottom.
Rhys tries and fails to dig significant workspace out of his desk, his desk that has become the dark arts corner. His desk that now looks far more like the table in Andrews’s front room than Rhys is comfortable with.
Andrews. Andrews with his absolute non-wavering, soul-crushing, life-ruining belief that his theory is correct. That the rest of the world is wrong. Andrews who has lost everything, everyone he loves, because of his belief. Andrews, who has slipped into the abyss. Rhys moves a pile of books onto the floor. Perhaps Andrews’s loss is a reflection on the people he has chosen to love. Love is ‘no matter what’, isn’t it? The thought needles Rhys as he pulls up a chair.
Rhys knows they will not catch the killer based on him flicking through gothic fiction, but it has to be done. He sighs heavily. There are hundreds of books. Small town myths. Big city nightmares. Origins of demons. Circles of hell. Nosferatu, ghouls, torture, incarceration. Any book imaginable that seeks to absolve man of his actions. Page after page after page of horrors Rhys doesn’t want to see.
Outside the daylight begins to fade.
Each book is scattered with bits of paper. Handwritten notes in Andrews’s scrawling font. There are things written in the margins. Pencil sketches of human sacrifice inside front covers. Andrews has revisited scenes, observing, scribbling. He grows further and further removed from reality.
Killers revisit scenes. Could they have been noted as one of Andrews’s delusions? Rhys doubts it. None of the creatures that claw their way across the centrefolds are responsible. They have not leapt off the pages to commit some deadly sin. Even if the images say they would have been more than happy to.
Several of the books are centuries old. They give the impression they could hold great power. They don’t, of course. They are just words ordered on a page. Rhys remembers a news article about a book in America that was discovered to have been bound in human skin. Apparently the practice wasn’t as rare as they would have us believe.
Dusk turns the sky dark blue to black.
Andrews has submerged himself in so much fantasy he has become blind to any other possibility. Rhys’s sigh is loud. He needs to stretch. One more book. He sel
ects it from the ever-increasing mound in front of him.
The book appears to be bound in leather. Rhys sniffs it. It has no smell.
The taste of must on the back of his tongue.
The pages yellow with age. The text handwritten. It speaks in an angry flourish. A rush of panic. The words form detail of Nosferatu survival. Of creatures hiding and killing for centuries, disguised as aristocrats. Passing themselves off as their own children. Protected by great family wealth. The pages are full of wrath that no one is listening.
The pages crinkle. An image catches Rhys’s eye. A man. A Nosferatu. It is said he plagued rural areas of Ireland for centuries. Rhys stares at the ink sketch. Something starts to move in his mind. The temperature in the room drops. Wind rushes through the damp air. He can smell orchids.
The creature in the sketch furrows its brow. On the page. In the dream. Slowly it turns its head. Lips open to speak. Rhys can’t breathe. Can’t tear his eyes away. It is not the hard edge of the eyes, the dark lips that make his heart stop. It’s the sharp white teeth. Glistening incisors. In the book. In the dream? The creature holds him tight and they plummet into darkness.
Rhys stands sharply. Nausea rises. The world tips. He slams the book shut. Throws it across the table. He hears the back of his chair hit the windowsill behind.
Not possible. Not at all possible. He needs coffee. He needs fresh air. He needs to go home and see his kids. Coat on and heading for the door. No one will question him. All too busy. Take a box home. Any box. That one there will do. Work at home. Is Quinn muttering something to Constable Watts? Are they sniggering at him? They can go fuck themselves. He needs air. Tie too tight. Can’t breathe. Just walk. Focus on the pace. Get out. Get home. Get the hell home.
20.
This time it’s a dead vole under his pillow. Anna is shouting and hitting and crying. She wants to beat the desire out of him. Erase what she can’t understand. Anna thinks Harry likes dead things. Terror has formed her judgment and she doesn’t know what else to do.
Round and round in circles they go. She has tried shaking Harry and shouting at him. They’ve sat quietly and talked… she talked, thought he listened. She’s ignored it, hoped it would go away. The smell in the back of her nostrils feels like it will never go away. She’s looked on the internet, didn’t like what she saw. They’ve run full circle again and are back to shaking and shouting.