by Lucy Cameron
There’s a tiny hole in the front of his shirt. Why would she notice that now? Funny how your brain homes in on the oddest things. She’ll have to add mothballs to the shopping list.
A noise in the silence makes her jump. Three firm knocks on the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Divisional Superintendent Wallace was not surprised to receive a call from Rhys Morgan’s wife.
He’d dined with Alec Jenkins and their respective partners, was fully up to speed. Mrs Wallace and he were getting out of their taxi home as his phone started to ring. Mrs Morgan was frantic. Her type often were by the time they filtered through to him.
‘Mrs Morgan, please, just take a deep breath and tell me exactly what’s happened.’ Wallace stood on the driveway as she filled him in. His own wife stood and waited for him to finish, a look of concern on her face. He nodded for her to head inside. She did not.
‘First, we need to ensure your husband’s safe, Mrs Morgan. Running round the streets in the middle of the night will do him no good. I need you to get him back inside the house and keep him there until the morning… Yes, I understand it’s difficult… You do whatever you feel is needed.’ Wallace missed the next few words as Mrs Morgan was shouting. ‘Would you like me to send someone over, Mrs Morgan?… I understand. Good, good.’
Wallace really couldn’t have one of his detectives running about the streets in the middle of the night. It would only take one rogue journalist and the whole force would be in disrepute, and there were plenty sniffing around with this crackpot on the loose. No, he’s worked too hard, sacrificed too much to allow that to happen.
‘We all need to work together here, Mrs Morgan. You ensure your husband gets settled for the night and I’ll arrange a meeting for Rhys with Alec Jenkins and myself first thing tomorrow morning… of course, we will only ever have his best interests at heart… Please, don’t cry…’ He really did wish she would stop crying. He needed to get off the phone and reschedule his day, luckily the golf club were very understanding. Finally the call ended. Mrs Wallace had gone ahead and unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm.
Mrs Wallace asked if he was okay, he said of course. She asked if the lady on the phone was okay, he said yes. Mrs Wallace asked if he should send someone to support the lady on the phone, he thought about it. Said no. She’d be fine, he had, after all, told her to call back if there were any problems.
60.
‘Run,’ she whispers, so much fear and pain in one single word. He holds her eye, as he cannot identify her hand in the charred form that was once her body. Her eyes plead with him; beg him to go, to save himself. He does not want to leave her here like this. He wants to do something to help her, but knows she is beyond help. Pain comes off her in waves, mingles with the heat from her cooked flesh.
He stares into her eyes and sees a reflection of himself. He sees who she truly is, was, and it breaks what is left of his heart. He sees her in his bedroom, hugging a bright red cushion. He sees her running down the path to meet her newfound friends. He sees her freckles in summer, little sun kisses across her cheeks, cheeks that dimple when she smiles. He sees the dark shadow left when she is no longer there. He feels her soft hair between his fingers. The love he feels for her will overwhelm him. It clings to his skin and seeps into his soul.
He can see her running through the summer garden, happy and in love.
He feels the presence behind him, pulsating under the neon orb that lights up the sky. He does not turn; he can’t take his eyes from the woman. Her lips move as she tries to speak but cannot. Her mouth seizes, her lips and throat too dry. The creature moves silently to his side, places a cool hand on his shoulder. The creature tilts its head towards the woman, smiles, turns to the man.
Kier leans in close to Rhys. The cold emanates from him. As he speaks his breath brushes his skin.
‘Ask,’ Kier whispers, ‘just ask and I can stop all of this.’ His forefinger taps Rhys’s chest.
At the base of the tree, the woman convulses as another wave of pain beats through her body. Slowly Rhys twists his face towards Kier. Kier shrugs light-heartedly.
The words stick in Rhys’s throat but he knows they are there. They fill him with icy fear. He swallows them back down, over and over again. They are hard and sharp, cut his throat. Swallowing razorblades, but he cannot let them escape.
‘Ask,’ Kier whispers and suddenly Rhys knows…
Rhys throws back his head and screams.
Under the blanket on the sofa, Rhys’s eyes twitch back and forth but his lips stay pressed tight.
He needs to wake up but he can’t.
Kier’s icy hand is on his chest, pushing him towards the darkness.
He needs to wake up but he can’t.
Down the corridor in the kitchen, someone laughs.
61.
The house is quiet. Rhys pulls himself awake. Nausea fresh in the back of his throat.
It’s just before dawn. He pads out onto the street in bare feet. Everything is various shades of grey, waiting for the winter sun to add its colour pallet. Nothing is out of place. There’s no blood around the tree. The grass is not squashed. There’s no sign a man lost his life there. No police tape. No commotion. No one doing door to door.
A bird starts to sing as Rhys walks back across the tarmac.
Rhys has a missed call from the station. The message asks him to come in for more voluntary questioning. There are details they need his help with.
He has to step over the fallen shelf in the hallway to get upstairs. A reminder of Anna’s betrayal. How weak her love for him is. She trapped him, physically and mentally. He’s exhausted from spending the whole night fighting.
Upstairs their bedroom door is shut tight. Fine by him. He has no desire to see her face.
The shower is hot, but not hot enough. The towel rough against his skin. He should shave, he should put on a suit, he does neither, nor does he shout goodbye as he leaves.
It’s like a firing squad, except they don’t put a bag over his head. He’s told repeatedly he’s here voluntarily and is free to leave at any time. They’ve moved to the interview suites. The light bulb still needs replacing. There’s no air. The cheap plastic chair digs into his back. There are no tissues. No cups of coffee. He asks repeatedly if he needs a solicitor, is told repeatedly not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Rhys can’t see him but knows Divisional Superintendent Wallace is through the two-way glass. Is there a doctor there too? Rhys fights the urge to wave.
‘I’d like to report a murder,’ says Rhys.
‘Is this a confession?’ asks Jenkins. His eyes widen.
‘What? No, why would I want to kill Detective Inspector Andrews?’ Quinn’s eyes drop to the floor.
‘We are not here to discuss Detective Inspector Andrews.’ A firm, flat tone. ‘We are aware of your thoughts with regards to Detective Inspector Andrews and they are being looked into.’
‘My thoughts?’ says Rhys. ‘He was murdered right in front of me. I saw it with my own eyes.’ Rhys looks from Jenkins to Quinn. ‘I saw it. He was murdered by Kier Finnegan.’
‘Why would Kier Finnegan want to kill Andrews?’ says Quinn. He clicks his pen as he speaks.
‘To protect me, Andrews was… Andrews was going to kill me. He misunderstood. We should have been working together.’
‘As I said, we’re not here to discuss Detective Inspector Andrews,’ says Jenkins, his tone rising. ‘If you would like, someone can take a formal statement from you when we’re finished?’
What’s wrong with them? Don’t they hear his words? A man – one of their own – has been murdered and he’s a witness. They need to get a team out there, gather evidence. Why are they wasting time?
‘What’s wrong with you? I’ve just told you a man was murdered right in front of me. I saw who did it. Why aren’t you doing anything? Why aren’t you taking me seriously?’ The final words shot at Quinn. Jenkins sighs deeply.
‘Okay then, so you say Kie
r Finnegan murdered Detective Inspector Andrews?’
‘Yes.’
‘The same Kier Finnegan you say is your alibi the night of Alison Fleece’s murder?’
‘Alison Fleece?’ As Rhys says the words, Jenkins slides a picture of the auburn-haired girl across the table. She was so very young. ‘Yes.’
‘The same Kier Finnegan that you say is also a Nosferatu after your soul?’
‘Yes.’ Quinn snorts. Rhys wants to reach across the table and smash his fat face into the desk.
‘He’s a bit of a multi-tasker, this Kier Finnegan,’ says Quinn.
‘You see we have a bit of a problem here, Rhys,’ says Jenkins. He leans back in his chair. ‘We have spoken to Mr Finnegan and he says he was at your house until around seven p.m. on the night in question, the night of Alison Fleece’s murder. You arrived home and took issue with him being there, at which point he returned to his home where he was for the rest of the evening.’
‘He’s lying,’ says Rhys.
‘His lodger backs up his statement.’
‘Of course he does. He’s lying too, obviously.’
‘Why would he lie?’
‘To set me up.’
‘And why would he want to set you up?’
‘So I’m left with nothing. So I have no choice.’
‘No choice?’ says Jenkins.
‘No choice but to join him.’
‘Join him?’
‘As a Nosferatu,’ says Rhys. Quinn’s eyes drop to the floor.
‘I was hoping that we may have moved away from this by now, Rhys, once you’d had time to sleep on it,’ says Jenkins. He straightens the brown manila file in front of him.
‘Move away from what? The truth? Andrews knew, Andrews knew the truth, that’s why Kier killed him.’
‘I thought you said Kier killed Andrews to protect you?’ Quinn goes to interject. Jenkins holds up a hand to stop him.
‘He did,’ says Rhys.
‘Why would he protect you if he wants to kill you himself?’
‘He doesn’t want to kill me. Why aren’t you listening?’ Why aren’t they listening?’
‘What does he want to do then Rhys?’ asks Jenkins.
‘He wants to turn me into a Nosferatu, like him.’ It’s amazingly easy to say now, now he has accepted it. Knows it to be the truth. They can think he is crazy, he doesn’t care. They just need to understand.
‘So did Kier kill Andrews to protect you or to prevent the truth coming out?’ says Jenkins.
‘Both.’
‘Two birds with one stone, eh? A lucky night for Mr Finnegan,’ says Quinn. He doesn’t bother to try to hide his contempt.
‘If you can’t take me seriously then why don’t you fuck off?’ says Rhys. He doesn’t mean to shout but why won’t they listen? Why are they all sitting laughing?
‘Enough.’ Jenkins raises his hands. Quinn stares hard at Rhys.
‘Where were you on the second of November between eleven p.m. and seven a.m.?’ A change of tack, still the same answer.
‘I’ve already told you. I was in my car in the old lanes with Kier Finnegan,’ says Rhys.
‘And as I have said, he denies this,’ says Jenkins.
‘And as I have said, he’s lying.’
‘How did your police identification badge end up covered in Alison Fleece’s blood in the same location as her body?’ says Jenkins, swerving once more.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know how this works, Rhys. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I think I’m being framed,’ says Rhys. Quinn shakes his head.
‘By Kier Finnegan?’ says Jenkins.
‘Yes.’
‘The Nosferatu?’
‘Yes. Either him, or Anna, or Andrews, or you?’ Rhys points at Quinn.
‘Me? Why the hell would I want to frame you?’ Jenkins ignores Quinn, continues.
‘So you’re saying there are several people who would want to frame you for murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘One of them being Detective Inspector Andrews, who you since say you have seen being murdered by one of the other people you think may be setting you up? This is all very confusing, Rhys. Then you say one of these people trying to set you up could be your wife?’
‘Look, I know it seems complicated but really it isn’t, and yes, I do,’ says Rhys.
‘The problem here, Rhys, is in order to frame you, the person responsible would either have to be very lucky and happen upon a body that had been beaten to death or… ’ Jenkins tilts his head. ‘… beat them to death themselves. Are you saying you think your wife is capable of murder?’
‘No, of course not.’ That’s not what he is saying at all.
‘Then what?’ asks Jenkins.
‘I don’t know. She’s just not the same. Things aren’t the same.’
‘This isn’t a marriage counselling session, Rhys. Just because you aren’t getting on with your wife doesn’t mean she’s setting you up for murder.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Is what you really mean that she doesn’t believe what you are saying about Kier Finnegan?’ Rhys is silent. ‘Rhys?’
‘That’s correct.’ The admission jams in Rhys’s throat. For a moment he’s back in the dream. Back in the charred landscape feeling Kier’s breath on his face.
‘And why do you think that could be Rhys?’ says Jenkins.
‘Because he hides it well. You’ve met him.’
‘Nice bloke,’ says Quinn.
‘Or, could it be because what you’re saying isn’t true?’ asks Jenkins.
‘Do you think I’m capable of murder?’ Jenkins does not answer. He lets the question hang.
And so it goes on, back and forth. Rhys knows how it works. They look for inconsistency in his account. Wait for him to trip himself up. He won’t. What he’s saying is the truth. He doesn’t know how his identification was present at a murder scene but he could make a very good guess. He didn’t kill Alison Fleece because he was with Kier Finnegan. Why the fuck don’t they believe him? They’re more than content to keep kicking him in the balls. How had his identification got there? Why would Kier Finnegan lie? What’s really going on? And so on and on and on…
Finally the stalemate ends. Constable Robertson knocks on the door, whispers in Jenkins’s ear. He nods.
‘We’ll leave it there for now, Rhys.’ Jenkins rises. He does not extend his hand. ‘Thank you for your help.’ Liar, liar pants on fire. Jenkins is sweating, red faced, frustrated. If he would just listen, truly listen to what Rhys says he would feel so much better. ‘If you could go and take a seat in the canteen, Doctor Flynn will be along shortly.’
‘That’ll be fucking right,’ is what Rhys wants to shout, but he doesn’t. He smiles.
‘He’s clinically insane, you know.’ Rhys pushes past Quinn, out down the corridor. ‘Andrews, mad as a bag of badgers, mind you, it takes one to know one…’ The heavy double doors cut the sound of Quinn’s voice.
Constable Robertson has been instructed to escort Rhys to the canteen. It reminds him of being a naughty boy sent to see the headmaster. Doctor? Fucking doctor. No way, no how. A doctor is the last thing he needs.
‘Do you mind?’ He nods to the gents as they pass. Constable Robertson shrugs, uncomfortable.
In the gents Rhys splashes cold water onto his face, looks at a reflection he doesn’t recognise in the mirror. What’s he going to do? He’ll have to make a run for it, there’s no other way. He presses his palm against the mirror. Are there any security doors between here and outside? Why can’t he remember? How fast does Constable Robertson look? Can he run faster? He peeks out into the corridor.
Constable Robertson isn’t there.
Rhys pushes the door a fraction more. There she is, a few feet down the corridor, bent over to retrieve something out of the bottom of the vending machine. No time to think, Rhys slips from behind the door and starts to run.
The air o
utside is cold on Rhys’s face.
Images explode in his mind.
Andrews with the knife sticking out of his chest. Kier’s contorted face. Ice cubes in a glass of gin, Jenny’s soft brown hair. Harry screaming, Anna screaming, everybody screaming. Jonas Jones baby sister locked in a chiller, Cathy’s swinging body. Andrews’s green-eyed girl, Quinn smirking, lights flashing, Elsie crying, old photos, blood splatter, dark cupboards, floors shifting, rotten corpses, wet plastic, doors slamming, and Kier bursting into a ball of flames as Rhys twists a knife into his heart.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. One foot in front of the other, fingers trailing the wall to keep him upright. Round a corner, round a corner. Faster, faster. Lungs bursting.
Focus, focus, focus.
He thinks of Harry’s smiling face. The images settle. The road pounds beneath his feet.
He needs a place to wait. A place where he knows Kier will come. A place where he can pick his moment and strike. Kier will come for him, he’s sure of that.
He needs his raincoat too, there’s a second knife, the large hunting one, tucked into the pocket. He stops running, gets his bearings. He can double back to his car, that’s where his raincoat is. He’ll have to be fast, before they find his car. The others. Quinn’s bound to send them to look for him. He needs that knife. He must have left the flick knife in his other trousers. He ignores the niggle in his brain. The one that tells him he’s wearing the same trousers as yesterday.
62.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The noise pulls Anna into consciousness. In that moment between sleep and awake, everything is okay. The drip sounds again.
She wishes Rhys would fix the tap in the en suite.
Her feet drop to the carpet. Reality twists in her stomach.
She drugged her husband.
In the fresh light of day, she’s not sure that can be justified. She’d called the Divisional Superintendent, interpreted his words to mean ‘drug your husband’. How would that stand up in court? Rhys will be furious.
Her head pounds. It’s too hot. At the top of the stairs she stops. Afraid to go down. Afraid of what Rhys will say.
‘You deserve to be afraid,’ she tells herself. Slow, quiet steps. Past the pieces of shelf in the hallway, the shelf that fell under the weight of her drugged husband.