Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  Why did it have to be Rhys?

  ‘The same one?’ Elsie hardly hears his words. She doesn’t know. She shrugs. ‘How is that even possible?’ She has no answer but there’s a hole in her life to prove it is. ‘I’m not crazy?’

  ‘I wish you were.’

  ‘How…? But…? I…?’ He turns to her. His skin pale, eyes dark and sunken. ‘I’m not crazy?’ She reaches up and pulls him into her arms.

  ‘No, son. You’re not.’ He slumps against her as he had when he was a boy. Rests his head on her lap. A calm seems to settle over him. He sighs deeply. Elsie strokes his head. His breathing calms. He drifts into a deep, dark sleep.

  43.

  To say Quinn is angry is an understatement. He’s incandescent with rage.

  ‘Where, the fuck, have you been?’ A hush falls over the operations room. ‘I was under the impression we were in the middle of working the highest profile murder case anyone can remember?’ Quinn pauses for effect. ‘Therefore, unless you’re dead, no pun intended, deciding you can’t be arsed to get out of bed and turn up is unacceptable. Or am I wrong?’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry. I was ill. Stomach bug. Twenty-four hour thi…’

  ‘Morgan. You’re confusing me with someone who gives a fuck. Your inability to turn up will be discussed once the case closes. As will following sickness protocol, part of which does not include pussying out and getting your wife to answer your calls.’ Quinn goes on for longer, lists the ways he intends to ensure Rhys never works on his team again. Quinn’s instructions come back into focus.

  ‘As you’ve finally decided to join us this afternoon you’d best get your arse over to Linda Simmons’s house. Linda being the daughter of Jess and Ron, the first couple murdered.’ Quinn speaks to Rhys very slowly, emphasising each word. ‘Just in case you have forgotten that with being absent for so long. Find out everything about her mother’s Christmas job at the hospital. Detail, detail, detail. I want to know everything from where she liked to shop on her break to what perfume she liked to wear and who may have smelt it.’ Quinn uses big, slow lip movements, jabbing his broken finger into Rhys’s chest.

  Rhys slept the undisturbed sleep of kings. Deep, dark sleep. No thoughts. No dreams. No disturbance. He awoke with no idea where he was, allowed Elsie’s front room to slowly pull into focus. Elsie sat, watching the world go by through the window. Rhys stretched, yawned. He felt regenerated. Renewed, pulled back from the brink. Better than all of that, he was not alone.

  ‘You need to go home, Rhys. Speak with Anna.’ Elsie let the net curtain drop, turned to face him. Elsie looked older, smaller somehow.

  ‘I need to stay with you, I need your help.’ Elsie shook her head.

  ‘What you need to do is protect your family. You can’t do that here. We can talk later. I need to think.’ Outside children shout and chase. Children outside.

  ‘What time is it?’ Rhys looks to the clock. It’s afternoon. Shit. Shit. Shit. What he needed to do was get to work, about seven hours ago. He kissed Elsie on the cheek and headed towards the operations room.

  There’s a police car outside the small semi-detached. Trim lawn. Brightly coloured pots waiting for flowers in summer. The car door opens. Davies steps out. Davies. The phone call. The hospital. Kier Finnegan.

  ‘How did you get on at the hospital?’

  ‘Hi Dan, how are you? I’m good thanks, Rhys, are you feeling better?’ Rhys has no idea what he is talking about. How does Davies know about the dreams? Shit. ‘You still look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ The words are sharp. ‘Thank you.’ The two men face the house. ‘So how did you get on at the hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘What about the name I gave you?’

  ‘Before you hung up on me? Then didn’t show up for work?’

  ‘My battery died.’ Davies runs his tongue along his teeth. Pulls out his notebook.

  ‘Kier Finnegan works at the hospital, a cardiothoracic surgeon no less, that’s heart surgery to you and me.’ Davies eyes Rhys as he speaks. ‘He only transferred to St James’ three days ago. How does this link to our case?’

  ‘Has he had any contact with any of the victims?’

  ‘He’s only been at the hospital for three days, Rhys.’ Davies snaps the pocket book shut. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Davies shakes his head, knocks on the front door.

  Linda Simmons is a tall, thin woman. Her file says she is in her mid twenties. Bereavement has aged her about twenty years. Her skin is grey. Her smile fake. The heating in her house is up high to compensate for the lack of warmth her own body offers. She perches on the edge of her chair. Keen to hang on to their every word.

  Davies establishes they have no news. No answers. She deflates slightly. She does not ask if the rumours are true. That the killer has struck again. Rhys can see the case on the front page of a national newspaper that lies at her feet.

  Davies says they are there to talk about the time her mother spent working. Specifically the time she had spent working at St James’ Hospital.

  ‘Do you know exactly where your mother worked in the hospital?’

  ‘All over I think, wherever they needed her that night.’ Davies pretends to think. Rhys knows he will have standard questions well prepared.

  ‘It would really help us if you could remember anywhere specific.’ He pauses again. ‘We need to try and narrow down a list of people she may have come into contact with during her time there.’ A slow realisation dawns across Linda’s face.

  ‘Oh god, do you think it was one of them? Someone she met?’ Her bony hands rise to her face. ‘I persuaded her to get a job there, pretty much forced her. Her and Dad got into so much debt the year before, buying things for my little one, silly things, precious now.’ She swallows hard. Breathes heavily through her nose. Davies waits.

  ‘We’re not ruling out that possibility, but it’s only one of the many lines of enquiry we’re following.’ The mantelpiece is crammed with photos of a little boy, about six years old. A timeline of his life in frames. Mainly on his own. Occasionally with Linda or one of her parents. In the last photo the little boy is in a shiny new school uniform, chest pushed out, baby face all smiles.

  ‘It’s important you think as hard as you can. See if you can remember anything your mother might have mentioned.’ There’s a clock somewhere on the mantelpiece. Behind the photos. They all sit and listen to it tick.

  ‘She seemed to work on the chemotherapy ward the most.’ Rhys’s eyes flick to her. ‘I remember that because Dad had a scare. Turned out to be nothing but I know Mum was thinking that’s where he could’ve ended up.’

  ‘Did your mother ever mention any men who visited that ward, hung around there?’ Rhys can’t hold the words in. Davies glares.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so or you know so?’ Rhys sits forward in his chair. ‘Did your mother ever mention any blue-eyed, blond-haired men?’

  Jesus Christ. Has Andrews been right all along?

  ‘No.’ Linda shakes her head.

  ‘Think really hard.’ Rhys rises. ‘About so tall, quite well built, pale.’

  ‘Rhys!’ Davies’s voice is hard.

  ‘No, really I don’t think so.’ More head shaking.

  ‘Then think harder.’ Rhys’s head spins. He takes a step towards her. Could it be him? Is Kier Finnegan the link they look for? But he’s only been there for three days? How does that work?

  Shit.

  ‘Rhys.’ Davies rises. Steps towards him. Gestures to the door. ‘If you could give the station a call and let them know we won’t be much longer with Miss Simmons.’

  ‘But…’ Davies’s stare is chilling, says there’s no alternative.

  Rhys steps out into the hall. Into the garden. He pulls out his phone. Stares blankly at the screen. He has no idea what he is supposed to do. His head pounds. He needs to go back to the hospital, speak to them himself. Find out i
f someone is lying, covering up. Does Davies have actual records? A paper trail? Why has he got his phone out again?

  It’s him. It has to be him. He looks the type she would go for. Until she realises the error of her ways. Until he makes her realise the error of her ways. He’s tall and dark haired. In far better physical condition than the others had been. Not as good as himself, but still more of a challenge than he necessarily wants to take on. He’s a police officer. More than that he’s a police officer looking into the work he’s responsible for. He has to be. Why else would they be here talking to the beautiful Linda?

  He has seen Linda before. Months ago when he followed her mum here. There was no shrieking then, just ice cream, laughing and bikinis. He started to wonder if he’d got it wrong. Got Jess wrong. Oh that nagging doubt that always plagues him as the time grows near. Then Ron arrived with some other men and the shrieking started.

  He giggles as he watches the police officer pace back and forth up the garden path. A beautiful irony.

  What it must be like for this police officer to go home to the beautiful Anna every night? To do her bidding? The thought darkens his mood somewhat. The man will do her bidding, he’s sure of it. There’s the same weakness in him as all the others. As there was in Strong Hands. It’s a weakness the young man cannot and will not abide. A weakness this officer will pay for, as the others have. The blood starts to pump faster in his veins.

  The police officer will need to pay in a different way. It makes it all that little bit more complicated. More exciting? At first he is scared, scared by the idea of change. Then slowly it dawns on him. This change signals that she is different. That things will be different. This changes the fear to excitement.

  He giggles again.

  The women never appreciate what he does for them.

  The problem is the violence. Not his problem. Yet. But it quite easily could be. The violence seems to explode out of him these days. That will not do. He will have to satisfy the rage another way. This time it will be different. Anna will be left free to realise they can satisfy each other. Or at the very least she can satisfy him. This officer will have to live with that? Yes, he likes that idea. He will have to realise it is his fault for being weak. For not paying enough attention. For blindly doing what he is told. Yes, that is far more damage than any hammer can ever do. Why has he never thought of that before?

  He’s pleased with himself for being so clever.

  ‘What the hell was all that?’ Davies’s voice reaches him as he strides out of the house. Rhys turns. He says nothing. Davies stares at him. ‘Well? You getting all in her face about a blond-haired, blue-eyed man?’

  Davies steps in close.

  ‘Believe it or not I like you, Rhys. We go back a long way, but that doesn’t mean you can start behaving like a lunatic. Not with me.’ Davies’s voice drops. ‘I heard what happened at the hospital. Hell, Quinn was there. Everyone’s heard what happened.’ Rhys does not register the words. ‘That one thing you can fob off, stress, new job whatever, but not more. One time, that’s it. You know the Chief is keeping an extra close eye on this one. Don’t give him a reason to get rid of you.’ He nods for them to leave.

  Rhys clenches his teeth. Balls his fists. Anything to stop himself running back into the house. He wants to hammer on the front door until she answers. Shake her until she tells him what he needs to know. Shake her until she understands how important it is.

  ‘As it happens she did remember someone.’ Rhys stops dead.

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘And it was a man,’ Davies continues. Rhys’s throat dries.

  ‘Kier Finnegan?’ The words are a croak. Davies’s brow furrows.

  ‘No,’ Davies shakes his head. Turns away. ‘Man, you need some serious help. A guy she thinks was called Jonas, Jonas Jones.’ Davies is at the car. ‘Jonas was, possibly still is, a porter.’ He smiles. ‘Apparently he was a bit creepy. We like creepy. And who gets everywhere in a hospital, access all areas kind of thing? Exactly. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.’

  Rhys gets into the car. He doesn’t take his eyes off the house, he doesn’t un-ball his fists until it disappears from sight.

  44.

  What’s left of the shift is long and hard. Hard not to run back to Linda Simmons house and shake the truth out of her. Hard to pretend he finds her words useful. Hard to swallow his anger and pride. Hard to laugh with the others as they congratulate Davies, as excitement grows about the hospital porter. Rhys wonders if his colleagues can see through the fake smile he has plastered to his face.

  He calls Anna. At first she’s cool. By the end of the call, they’re on speaking terms. Just. Rhys apologises. Lies. Says he knows she’s right. Pretends to be happy when she mentions some doctor’s appointment. In hindsight, Elsie’s right. How can he protect Anna if he pushes her away? He tells her what she needs to hear without a shred of guilt. She asks him to ensure he’s home on time. She has a surprise. Something to help him. He promises he will be. He means it.

  Quinn calls the team together as the shift is finishing. His face is red with excitement. The news bursts out of him.

  ‘People, people, people.’ He bangs his fist on the table. Brings them to order. ‘I have some excellent news. After all these months, we may finally have the bastard in our sights.’ No one cares about the melodrama. They’re too tired. Too hopeful. Quinn holds up the photograph of the two piles of bones from the cottage.

  ‘We have confirmation. This is Mr and Mrs Jonas Jones.’ Rhys sees Davies eyes grow wide. ‘To be exact this is Mrs Jones.’ The pile of bones in the bottom of the bath. ‘And this is her long-term lover, Kevin.’ Quinn places the photographs back on the table. ‘This… ’ He holds up the image of the little boy and girl. The photo from the cottage. Removed from its frame and placed in a smaller evidence bag. ‘… is a picture of little Elizabeth, and her brother, Jonas Jones Junior.’

  ‘No fucking way,’ says Davies. Quinn ignores him.

  ‘Little Elizabeth here never got to be any bigger than this. She became trapped in the old cold store of the disused dairy farm behind the cottage. About fifteen years ago. Made headline news.’ A couple of heads nod sadly around the room.

  Rhys’s ears prick. Alert. Did Quinn say dairy farm? He feels the picture of Kier in his back pocket burn into his flesh.

  ‘Trapped in this cold store, poor little Elizabeth ran out of air and suffocated. She’d been playing hide and seek with her big brother, Jonas, who stated he hadn’t realised she was trapped. We… to be more precise, our fellow officers, ruled it as an accidental death.’

  Quinn looks at them all speculatively.

  ‘It was Kevin and his mates who were entrusted with pulling down the farm. We assume this is how he met Mrs Jones.’ Quinn shrugs. ‘I guess she must have gone in for that kind of thing. The perceived hero destroying what killed her daughter. Considering what has come to light, we may eventually choose to reassess the accidental death theory.’ He places the photo down. Picks up another. ‘Earlier today Davies and Morgan, thanks for deciding to finally join us this afternoon, Morgan…’

  ‘He’s not a very nice man, is he?’ The voice tickles in Rhys’s ear. He jumps. Jerks around. Chair legs scrape the floor. Davies shakes his head. Looks at the floor.

  ‘Morgan? Problem?’ Quinn glares.

  ‘Yes. No. Yes.’ Come on, pull it together. ‘The dairy farm, who owned it?’ What is he saying?

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The dairy farm Elizabeth was trapped in, who owned it?’ Rhys’s heart hammers in his chest.

  ‘Erm…’ Quinn shuffles the papers. Swears under his breath. ‘A Simon Finnegan.’

  Davies’s eyes dart to Rhys. A warning.

  ‘Not that it has any relevance…’ Quinn’s words fade around him.

  Rhys does not believe in coincidence.

  The killer just happens to commit his first crime in a farm owned by ‘Simon’ Finnegan? Rhys needs to speak to Elsie. Shit. What
does this mean?

  ‘… Bloody Irish seem to own everything these days.’ Quinn’s words twist back to full volume. An uncomfortable laugh from somewhere in the room. Focus on something. Anchor your mind. Quickly. Rhys wants to get up and run from the room. He holds onto the edge of the desk.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Quinn continues. Focus on his words. Rhys watches Quinn’s thick lips move. ‘Morgan and Davies went to interview Linda Simmons with regards to the hospital connection. Linda mentioned a hospital porter. Would you believe it if I told you his name was, drum roll please… ’ Quinn holds up a large mug shot. ‘Jonas Jones.’

  A collective gasp scurries round the room.

  ‘We have reason to believe he is one and the same Jonas Jones as the little boy in this photo.’ The two smiling children wave in the air. Rhys focuses on the large photo of the young man. Focus on the photo. Don’t think about the dairy farm. Not here. Not now.

  Jonas Jones has close shaved hair. Cold blue eyes. Pointed cheekbones. He looks strong. Calm. Calculating. Did he really trap his little sister in an abandoned fridge and leave her there to die?

  ‘Bit of background on the Jones family, coz I know you’ll all be keen to hear.’ Quinn continues. ‘They lived in the cottage. Were reported to be loners who made it clear they wanted to be left alone even after Mr Jones left.

  ‘There’s some documentation from a social worker who visited the family a few times following Elizabeth’s death, offered grief counselling and such, but eventually the support was withdrawn. Child services visited a couple of subsequent times but that’s all we know.’ Support just fades away. That’s how it is. Resources at full stretch. New, more needy families. What happened to little Jonas Jones?

  ‘The family made it quite clear they wanted to be left alone and that’s exactly what happened. For the truth of what went on up there we’ll have to wait and ask Mr Jones Junior when we eventually catch up with him, which we will. There is no record of him appearing anywhere and the initial reports seem to suggest the bones have been in the cottage for anything between ten to fifteen years.