All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  She pulled out her phone to call Ellen. At the same moment, it started ringing. The sound of it, shrill and unexpected, made her jump. The phone fell from her hand, landing on the soft ground, as it carried on ringing.

  It was too loud. Her fingers were shaking and she tried to press the button to switch it off. Again, the phone slipped from her grasp. Again, it hit the ground. This time it stopped ringing. Giving a silent prayer of thanks, she picked it up a second time. Put it in her pocket and turned to go, but her path was blocked by Pete Cooper. She screamed and staggered back, turned to run in the opposite direction but that way was blocked too.

  The man had his fist out. As Abby turned, he slammed it into the side of her face. The force of it lifted her body off the ground and sent her flying back, right into Pete Cooper’s waiting arms.

  Thirteen

  Nick was a weak man. Charlotte realised that in the first few years of their marriage. It didn’t take long to understand that all the charm was superficial, nothing underneath except a greedy, selfish, weak person out for all he could get. His single-minded focus on the business wasn’t fuelled by anything as admirable as ambition. It was nothing more than a pathetic need to prove himself.

  She walked into the park and up the steepest part of the hill to the top. At some point the sun had come out, making the world a brighter place, matching the sudden clear understanding inside her head.

  She didn’t love her husband. She’d clung on to the marriage because of her own pathetic need to prove her mother wrong. In a way, she was no better than Nick. Both leading lives they didn’t want in order to prove things to parents no longer here to care what they did. How had they become so stupid and unaware?

  Her stomach churned and tightened, the pain of it making her double over, arms clutched around her middle. She wanted to find the nearest bar and drink until all this went away. There would be a murder trial. It would be all over the press. Nick’s precious reputation that he cared so much about would be destroyed. No coming back from murder. Just look at OJ. And he hadn’t even been convicted.

  Her stomach contracted, forcing bile up her throat. The spasms were part shock, part DTs. Drying out. That part of her life was over. The drinking, the self-delusion, the stupid, pointless, pathetic self-pity.

  Something new was about to start.

  She needed to know the truth. For Ginny, for Freya, for herself. She needed to know what Kieran had discovered that was so important Pete and Nick had to kill him. She took her phone out, called Nick’s mobile, but he didn’t answer. She hung up without leaving a message.

  He’d have to come home at some point. And when he did, she would be waiting for him. She’d get him to tell her what really happened. Charlotte put her phone away and started walking.

  * * *

  No answer. Ellen ended the call without leaving a message and slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel. She was parked by the river outside Nick Gleeson’s apartment. There was no sign of his car but that didn’t mean anything. He could have parked it anywhere. She’d taken her phone out to call Abby one last time but – again – there was no answer.

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ Alastair said. ‘She’s too clever to let anything happen to her.’

  ‘Sometimes clever isn’t enough,’ Ellen said.

  She unstrapped her seatbelt and climbed out.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Inside the building, a tall, black man dressed in a navy-blue uniform stepped forward to greet them.

  ‘Clarence Granville,’ he said. ‘You must be Detective Inspector Kelly. I understand you want to get into one of the apartments?’

  The reception area was light, airy and welcoming. White tiled floor, white walls and lots of green plants. Ellen had noticed a CCTV camera over the door as she came in. She pointed to this now and asked Clarence Granville if it had been turned on while he was on his lunch break.

  ‘Sure was,’ Granville said. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. Do you want to do that now?’

  ‘No time,’ Ellen said. ‘We need to get into the apartment. Can you take us straight there?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Granville said. ‘Mr Gleeson’s not in any trouble, I hope? He’s a decent bloke. Always polite and friendly. Remembers I’ve got a little girl and asks how she’s doing. He doesn’t live here, but you probably already know that.’

  ‘You’ve seen his girlfriend?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘She’s a real stunner,’ Granville said. ‘A bit on the cold side, though. A lot of them are like that. Don’t notice the little people.’

  ‘Little’ was the last word you’d choose to describe Clarence Granville. Six five, at least, with rich mahogany skin, tight-cropped hair and at least fifteen stone of pure muscle. He was a difficult man not to notice.

  Granville took a set of keys from the counter behind the reception desk. ‘This way.’ He headed for the lift but Ellen stopped him and shook her head.

  ‘We’ll take the stairs,’ she said.

  If Cooper was up there, he would hear the lift. She didn’t want to give him any warning.

  On her way to the stairwell, Ellen pulled out her phone and tried Abby’s number once more. The line connected, Abby’s phone rang. Once. Twice. A sudden click and then Abby’s voice. The relief as Ellen started to speak was replaced with panic when she realised she’d reached Abby’s voicemail, not Abby herself. Frustrated, she hung up and redialled. This time, the phone rang and rang.

  It was still ringing as Ellen followed Granville up through the building. She held it to her ear, willing Abby to answer and tell her that she was okay. But Abby didn’t answer. Instead, after an eternity, the ringing stopped and the line went dead, leaving a silence so complete it stayed with Ellen long after she’d put the phone away, reached the top of the building and stood at the end of a long corridor, looking at the door to Nick Gleeson’s apartment, wondering what was on the other side.

  Fourteen

  ‘Wake up.’

  A man’s voice, too loud and too close. Nick knew the voice. Couldn’t remember the man’s name but he knew the voice. He was tired. Wanted the man to go away, leave him alone and let him sleep.

  He groaned, trying to shut out the sound. The crack of an open palm against his cheek flung his head sideways. Pain shot up his face and exploded inside his head.

  A hand grabbed his hair. Pulled until it felt like his head was being ripped off his neck. The pressure on his stretched throat made it impossible to breathe. Panicked, his body bucked and jerked and twisted, trying to pull away from the unbearable pressure.

  ‘Wake up!’

  Another slap on his other cheek.

  He tried to open his eyes. His left eye, swollen, remained closed. Through his right eye, he saw a man’s face. Too close to make out the features. A brown eye. The stubbly start of a black beard. A name floated through his head and disappeared before he could hold on to it. He knew that face.

  Couldn’t move. Arms tied behind his back. Legs bound together. A sharp pain across his wrists and ankles. Something wrong with his body. Pain everywhere.

  Scatter shots of memory pow-powed through his head. Fragments he couldn’t piece together. His car. A pub. Cosima.

  A car crash!

  Cosima. He tried to call her name. Something came out of his mouth but it didn’t sound right. A dribble of spit ran from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin.

  Not a car crash.

  He’d put her in a taxi.

  Relief that she was okay was replaced by another grip of fear. Old and grey. A poem. He’d come home to get the book.

  ‘You’re awake. Good.’

  The lower part of his torso loosened, sick with terror as it came rushing back to him.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  His voice sounded different. Muffled, like there were wads of cotton wool in his mouth. Or maybe the problem was with his ears. But when Pete spoke, his voice sounded the same as e
ver. Cold and dangerous.

  ‘Don’t fucking tell me what I think.’

  Nick nodded, tried to say no, of course, he’d never try to tell Pete what to think. He wasn’t stupid and he respected Pete and was glad they were in business together and he’d never do anything to damage that relationship because he wasn’t that stupid.

  But he couldn’t say any of that because Pete’s fist, from nowhere, plunged deep into Nick’s stomach. Vomit rose up his throat, burst from his mouth, splattering his face and chest. Another spasm and more watery vomit. He tried to keep his head down so it only went on himself and not on Pete, but Pete had his hair again, was forcing his head up, making Nick look at him.

  ‘You dirty pig.’

  Pete drew his fist back. This time, Nick saw it coming, tried to cower away but he was pinned to the chair, unable to move. The fist flew through the air, smashed into Nick’s face. A loud crack as the bones in his nose shattered. Pain like he’d never known, blocked out everything else.

  He heard himself crying, heard his voice through the pain and the cotton wool, begging. Somewhere nearby he could hear Pete but the words were jumbled up, impossible to make any sense from them.

  The darkness was reaching for him. He tried to resist, scared there would be no way back from there. But the pull was too strong. Behind Pete, he saw a woman lying face-down on the floor. Shiny black hair covering her face.

  No! She shouldn’t be part of this. He wanted to call her name, tell her he was here and it would be okay, that he would save her. But the darkness took him before he could tell her anything.

  * * *

  Four apartments on each floor. Nick Gleeson’s was the last one on the top floor. The silence up here was complete. And unnatural. Thick walls and doors that blocked out all sound from behind them. Even their footsteps got muffled and lost in the double-pile carpet. Ellen’s own breathing echoed through her head like puffs of breath from the ghosts crowding around her.

  Billy Dunston. Dai Davies. Brian Fletcher. Adam Telford. And Vinny.

  As she waited for Granville to open the door, Ellen thought she heard something – a low, moaning sound, so distant she could have imagined it. She didn’t want to go in there. Her head was full of them. The dead people. Strangled, shot, stabbed. Kieran Burton and Virginia Rau. The smell of burning flesh. The sudden, shocking way a face disappeared from a man’s body when you held a gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger.

  The door was open now. She could see inside the apartment. When she stepped past Granville into the room, the moaning grew louder. The ghosts rushed forward to greet her.

  ‘Boss?’ Alastair’s voice made her jump.

  The ghosts faded back.

  It was a characterless space with pale walls and paler furniture. The only thing going for it was the view. There was no one here and no sign that anything bad had happened, apart from a sick sensation in the pit of Ellen’s stomach and, over by the window, a small table lying upside-down. Four skinny legs sticking up, reminding Ellen of her daughter’s handstands.

  At first, she thought the moaning was coming from the table. A feeling that intensified when she put her hand on one of the upturned legs and the sound stopped. It started again as soon as she took her hand away.

  The window was in two parts. The main part – a large glass section that seemed to be some sort of sliding door – was closed. The smaller top section was open. A cool breeze drifted through the open section, tickled her neck and sent a trail of goosebumps scattering across her skin. She touched the table again. The moaning stopped. Again.

  She had a freaked-out moment where she thought the ghosts had won. Another moan carried to her along the breeze. Her hand was still on the table leg and she realised the sound had come from outside the window.

  Except all she could see was the sweeping curve of the river and the Isle of Dogs on the far bank. Beyond that, the city stretched out to infinity. She scanned the river, wondering if maybe the sound could be coming from the engine of a boat or something. Even though she knew that only a living thing could make that sort of sound.

  She watched a white sailing boat drift west along the river while she listened out for the next sound. Nothing. She relaxed, about to turn away from the view when a face appeared outside the window.

  Ellen screamed and jumped back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Alastair was beside her, his hand on her shoulder, steady and sure.

  ‘The window,’ Ellen said. ‘There’s someone out there.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Alastair said. ‘We’re six floors off the ground.’

  ‘There!’ Ellen shook his hand off her shoulder and pointed. But there was no one there. The face was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Down on the river, the little white boat was moving faster. Being carried along on the same wind that was blowing through the window, curling its way around Ellen’s body, cutting through her and past her as the ghosts crowded in.

  Fifteen

  Nick’s car was outside the house. Good. Charlotte pushed open the front door and shouted his name. No answer, but she could hear him moving around in the conservatory. She pictured him in there; his furtive movements as he tried to sneak out the back without having to see her. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, but he was a fool if he thought that would work today.

  The conservatory door was open. She knew before she reached it that something was wrong. She should have turned and run back but she didn’t falter. Not once. She knew something was wrong and she kept going because she had no choice. Nick was in there and he was the only one who could tell her why Ginny had to die.

  ‘Nick!’

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. Unconscious and tied to a chair, he was sitting directly across from her when she banged through the open door. His head was hanging to one side. Eyes closed. Face swollen and bruised. Unrecognisable but she knew it was him because the hair was his and he was wearing that grey Paul Smith she hated because he looked so good in it and by God did he know it.

  She was still moving, her body propelling her across to where he sat. She’d reached the centre of the room when a deeper, more primal instinct kicked in and she halted. This place was dangerous. She had to go. Now.

  ‘Nick?’

  Nothing. He was dead.

  Her stomach heaved but she didn’t vomit. The conservatory swayed; she put her hand on a chair, steadying herself. Nick moaned once then was silent.

  Go.

  She swung around. A man blocked her way. Short and wide. She tried to duck past him but he grabbed her arm, shoved her back. She screamed and he slapped her across the face. Hard.

  She had no idea who he was. But she knew the other man, walking towards her from the corner of the room where he must have been the whole time. A sudden, childish rage rose above the fear. She’d told Nick, warned him about going into business with Pete Cooper. He hadn’t listened. Of course he hadn’t.

  This was his fault. In that moment, she hated him more than she’d ever thought it was possible to hate anyone. Hated him more than her own mother. And that was saying something.

  The hate and rage made her reckless. Cooper was in front of her, pushing his face in close to hers, so close she could feel his breath and smell the stinking, clogging perfume of that horrible cologne he always wore.

  ‘Hello Charlotte.’

  He smiled.

  She pulled her head back and spat. The globule of liquid flew from her mouth and landed splat in the middle of Pete Cooper’s face. The anger disappeared as instantly as it had come, leaving in its place a terror that intensified as she watched the silvery, phlegmy water trickle down Cooper’s cheek and catch in the dark bristles of stubble shadowed across his jaw.

  * * *

  Cold. A deeper, more intense cold than she’d ever known. She didn’t know where she was. A dark place. Difficult to tell if her eyes were open or closed. She tried to move but her arms and legs weren’t working. Frozen. An ice princess. Th
ere was a film about that. Disney. Songs in it. Lucy’s niece had the DVD.

  Sam. The name came to her but she didn’t know what it meant. Too cold to care. Too cold for anything. Sam’s voice. Telling her to wake up. Someone else there too. Her brother, Andy. His hands reaching out to take her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Andy said. ‘It’s nearly over.’

  She wanted to ask him what he meant. Difficult to talk because of the cold and the thick piece of fabric cutting across her mouth and pressing down on her tongue. But she heard her voice say his name.

  ‘Andy.’

  She tried to say something else, but the effort of that word had taken the last bit of energy she had. Ice princess. Floating across the ice desert. Antarctica. White ice and deep, dark, endless seas. This was her world.

  ‘Abby.’

  Sam again. Only a voice. Why couldn’t she see him? A sudden panic jolted her awake. Sam. Through the rough fabric that filled her mouth, she screamed his name. Screamed it over and over. Rolled her body from side to side, banging against the sides of whatever this place was.

  She was crying. Snot filled her nose, making it difficult to breathe. She was choking, her throat closing from lack of air, her lungs about to burst.

  She could hear her voice, screaming his name. Somewhere, down in the dark place where her mind was still working, she realised the voice was only inside her head. No one else could hear her. No one ever would. Her mouth was gagged and her nose was blocked and she was suffocating and freezing and very soon it would all be over.

  Sam would never know that his name was the last and only one she’d held onto.

  Sixteen

  Even wrapped in a blanket, white-faced and scared-looking, Cosima Cooper was beautiful. No wonder Nick Gleeson was willing to risk so much for her.

  ‘You have to find them.’