It Was You

by It Was You (retail) (epub)

  I stood in the same pub opposite Victoria Place. It was still busy, even though it was close to eleven on a Tuesday night. I leaned on the same pillar, drank another Coke as the crowd around me murmured. If anyone thought it strange that a lone man had come in three times that evening and just stared out of the window into the darkness, no one said anything. Across the street the living-room window was dark, as were all the windows on the floor above. Just one light showed in the entire house, behind the curtains of the dormers on the top floor. The loft. I kept my eyes on it, trying to press them through to see inside. At eleven-fifteen, just as the pub was emptying, the light went out. A switch seemed to click inside me too. Everything that had happened seemed suddenly to be distilled into the dark square I was looking at. It had all been reduced to that room. To what was going to happen inside. I felt calm but fired, empty of confusion, of any doubt. All I had to do was follow the path that was laid out for me.

  I didn’t leave it long. Just another forty-five minutes standing behind a goods van, using one of its mirrors to make sure no one left the house. No one did. When I was ready, I walked across the square and made my way along Victoria Place.

  Casually I turned down the alley at the side of Number 14. I was inside the toilet within five seconds. I pulled the window down and reattached the catch bracket to the top of it. I reinserted the window locks and replaced the small plastic caps. I wiped the sills down for prints with toilet paper, which I screwed up and dropped into the bowl. I put the long slim key back into the cabinet next to the romance novel. I did these things quickly and efficiently. When I was done I stood very still by the toilet door.

  I stood for perhaps a minute, my breathing light, listening for any sounds coming from inside the house. An old clock ticked loudly from the kitchen to my right, underlined by the low, monotonous hum of a fridge. There was nothing else, no stereo, no TV. No footsteps. Making as little noise as I could, I pushed the door open and peered out into the hall, where I’d been earlier, and saw that it was dark, darker than it was outside. I walked out into the hall and made my way to the foot of the stairs, where I stopped and listened again. Nothing. Nothing at all. I peered above me, craning my neck into the black, curving stairwell.

  Knowing that the stairs creaked from the last time I went up them, I kept to the edges, taking them four at a time, hauling myself up with the sturdy oak banister on my right. I caused a couple of deep wood groans but no louder than the ones the house must have given out itself during the course of the night, once the central heating was off. Though my heart stood still, no doors opened, no one came out to see who was there. I carried on. When I was two-thirds of the way up I looked over the top step, towards the door above me, the loft door. There was no light coming from underneath it. I kept my eyes on it, watching for any movement from the other side.

  She was in there. She had to be. I’d seen her light go out. She hadn’t left the house. Even if she’d used the back door she would still have had to come out onto the street, unless she’d hopped over the back wall, like she had when she’d got into the Lindaeur Building. I told myself she wouldn’t have done that. Why would she? She didn’t know I was there.

  Without making any more noise, I made it up to the landing I’d rushed up to earlier. I stopped and listened again but could hear nothing from behind any of the four doors surrounding me or the one above. Staying focused on that one, I slipped my feet out of my trainers. Without making a sound I carefully shrugged off the coat I was wearing and set it down on top of the ottoman I’d noticed last time. The folded pile of washing was gone. Slowly I reached into the side pocket of the coat and slid out the Beretta, the 9mm. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight of it. It was light for a handgun but it still felt heavy. Real guns always do. Especially if you’re about to use them. I clicked the safety. A movement to the right caused me to duck and swing the weapon round fast, my finger closing on the thin piece of tempered metal, about to squeeze, taking the pressure right up to the edge.

  The cat had jumped onto the ottoman and was scampering along it towards me. Before I could move, it had rubbed the top of its head on the barrel of the gun, emitting an electric purr as it arched its back. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I picked the cat up with my free hand and set it just inside the open door of a bathroom, pulling the door to.

  I made my way back across the landing, then up the final staircase.

  The door in front of me was newer than any of the others I’d seen in the house. It was painted white with four rectangular panels and a cheap aluminium handle. It didn’t look too strong but I was hoping that that wouldn’t be an issue. Rather than the structure, or the chances of getting through it, I was more interested in the lock. There was a keyhole three inches below the handle. In my back pocket I had a set of picklocks, which I’d taken from my office, fifteen turners on a ring like a set of miniature Allen keys. I also had a small plastic bottle of cycle oil. I bent down to the keyhole and squatted on my haunches.

  Yes. I was very glad to see that the key wasn’t in the lock. If it had been left in on the inside I’d have had to push it through. I was telling myself what a break that was when I froze. Through the keyhole I could see a very short passageway with a louvred door on either side: a bathroom and an airing cupboard by the looks of them. At the end of the passageway was a room, dark but for the dim light from a lamp post outside. Two dormer windows on the far wall were curtained but there was a door between them, obviously leading out onto a roof space or balcony. Halfway between the passageway and the door was an armchair in silhouette.

  It was facing away from me. What had stopped me was the fact that the armchair was occupied.

  I blinked to make sure. I could see the top of a head over the back of the chair. It couldn’t have been anything else. I realized that the shape sticking out to the side was too sharp for a cushion. It was an arm, the edge of an elbow. Cherie was sitting in the dark. She was looking out of the window, her back to me. I listened. I couldn’t hear a sound. I stood up from the keyhole and stepped back.

  I couldn’t use the picklocks, not if she was awake. She might be asleep but I wasn’t going to take the chance unless she was in bed. No matter. I could wait on the landing, or in the spare room I’d seen, for an hour or two. Except…I closed my fingers round the door handle. There was no key in the lock so maybe she’d left it open. There could have been a bolt on the inside, which she’d engaged, but I could give it a try. Why not? With the Beretta in my right hand I pushed the handle down with my left. It moved silently until it would go no further. I changed the direction of the pressure I was applying and the door moved a millimetre out of its frame. It wasn’t locked. Slowly, without a sound, I pushed it open further, away from me.

  The gun felt solid and powerful in my hand. The floor in front of me was carpeted and I took a step, branching my legs out so that my Levis wouldn’t rustle, my eyes on the shape in the armchair. I took another step. Cherie didn’t stir. Maybe she was asleep. I could smell something familiar, a perfume of some sort. Ignoring it, I moved the gun until it was pointing at the top of Cherie’s head. My fingers itched and a wave of relief flooded down through me. Josephine Thomas. Ally. Denise Denton. Jen. It was over. Whatever happened now I’d done it, she was dead. I thought about just pulling the trigger. But I could only see the top inch or so of her head. I had to get closer. And maybe I could even get her out of there. Maybe I could gag her and get her down the stairs. Then she would have just disappeared, her body found in the Thames in a week or so. No mess. Maybe, but I’d take no chances. She moved and I’d just do it. I took another step. The smell again. Not perfume but aftershave. Something was coming to me. Where had I come across it before? In her bedsit, yes. And? In the gym. The guys, the ones she’d massaged. But what was it doing here?

  I stepped into the room itself. The aftershave bothered me but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Out of the darkness something hard rammed down on my wrist, sending the Beretta crashi
ng to the floor. I turned towards the blow but before I could bring a hand up I felt a flashing pain beneath my left eye that sent me hurtling backwards. Behind me was a chair, probably put there so I’d stumble and I did, going over backwards, falling into what felt like a dressing table. Bottles and small boxes came down on my head. I heard the hurried shuffle of footsteps and caught a glimpse of a dark shape, moving in front of me. I moved quickly but by the time I’d managed to turn the figure was straightening up from the centre of the room. It moved to the wall. Cherie flicked the light switch and became the second person that night to point the Beretta at me.

  ‘You can move now,’ Cherie said. But she didn’t say it to me.

  She said it to Sharon.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Congratulations. You found me. I thought I’d have to give you some help, but I didn’t need to, did I? If coming here wasn’t the most stupid thing you ever could have done, I’d have said it was very clever of you.’

  Cherie was wearing slim-cut khaki trousers and a black jean jacket buttoned all the way up to the throat. She was handling the Beretta casually, in no way afraid of it the way most people would have been. She had cut her hair into a bob, which curled up on both sides to hide a lot of her face. Along with the lipstick and the mascara I guessed that she was pretty much unrecognizable to anyone who hadn’t actually seen her. It would certainly have taken a very keen officer who’d only looked at my Mac-Fit to realize who she was. I saw straight through it all because of her expression. It was the same as in her bedsit when she ripped the phone out of my hand. Cold, dead, her thin, wide mouth a perfect straight line as she held the gun on me.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Tell me. How did you do it?’

  I looked away from Cherie, my eyes moving instead to the armchair. To Sharon. To her pale, frightened face. I’d assumed that she must have been tied to the chair and couldn’t understand when I saw that she wasn’t. She was just sitting there. I wanted to know what she was doing there, how the hell the police right outside her door had let Cherie get to her. Had she killed them all somehow? How had she even found the flat? Trying to hide the cold terror I was feeling, I turned back slowly to the girl with the gun in her hand. My eyes scanned the room for a paperweight, a wine bottle, something heavy. I couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Denise Denton,’ I said. ‘The hooker you picked up at Loughborough Junction. She kept her mobile line open to the girl she was standing with when you took her. She relayed everything back to her.’

  Cherie laughed, and nodded at the same time. ‘I thought she was talkative. Well, never mind. I was going to call you anyway and ask you round tonight. Mrs Minter saved me the trouble.’

  ‘She told you about me?’

  ‘Eventually.’ Cherie nodded again. ‘She took some persuading. I waited until she was in the bath before coming home with Sharon here, you see? The old bat always has her soak at the same time so she can listen to the play on the radio. We got in without the nosy witch jumping out on us but then, to my surprise, she knocked on my door. She hardly ever did that. I asked her what she wanted but she said she just wanted to know if I was staying in that night. I thought that was odd and so I followed her down to the phone and heard her making a call. Mr Howells, she said, but I knew it was you. When she was off the phone I persuaded her to tell me what was up, and she said how you’d come to call. My brother? You? You’ve no idea how much that thought disgusts me.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Mrs Minter? Back in the bath. The poor dear had an accident, a fall. Hit her head and drowned. Lots of old folk go out like that. But now then, get up. Move your pathetic arse. We’ve got things to do. We’ve got some very, very exciting things to do.’

  Cherie took a step backward and jerked the gun up and down. I stood up from the floor, my head spinning from the blow I’d taken. I breathed deeply and put a hand to my face. Cherie had been wearing knuckledusters and I was pretty certain my cheekbone was broken. The knowledge of what had happened hurt far more. The knowledge that Sharon was there. I asked myself, if I rushed forward, just went straight in and took a bullet, would I be able to overpower Cherie, or at least give Sharon the chance of getting out of the door. I waited to see what would happen. I pulled more air into my lungs and got the aftershave again. Cherie noticed the look on my face and she smiled.

  ’It is pretty nasty, isn’t it? I’ve told him about it but he won’t listen.’

  I took a breath. ’Who?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Come on! I saw you recognize it in my bedsit. I was a bit worried until I realized you thought I’d had men up there to massage.’

  ‘Men from the gym.’

  ‘That’s right. Well?’

  I thought about it. There were a lot of guys there, some of whom I knew pretty well, men like Pete, who I wished to God I’d called that night. But there were others who only showed up now and then, or just came to use the machines, and didn’t box. It could have been any of them. Cherie was smirking, waiting for me to get it. All of a sudden I knew who it was. The expression, the grim, flat determination in the jaw, the eyes. It was the same.

  ‘Jeff,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Cherie said. ‘Don’t worry. But now then, don’t you want to say hello to your girlfriend?’

  I looked from Cherie to Sharon, relieved to see that she didn’t look hurt in any way. But again that confused me. Sharon just looked scared, fighting hard to stay in control. How come she wasn’t tied up, gagged at least? Why hadn’t she called out? I couldn’t see anything that could have been used to compel Sharon to be quiet when she heard me come in. There was no gun other than the one I’d brought in and there was no knife either. Nothing. Now Cherie didn’t seem to be worried about her. She wasn’t covering Sharon with the Beretta, only me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sharon said, reading my thoughts. ‘I wanted to warn you, but she told me not to. I had to do what she said, Billy. I’m sorry.’

  I thought about how I’d pointed the gun at Sharon’s head and I felt sick. I told Sharon that it was OK, I understood. But I was more confused than ever. I glanced round the apartment for some kind of explanation. It was a neat and tidy studio with nothing to indicate what kind of girl Cherie was. It was stripped, anonymous, a full black grip sitting on the bed to my left. Cherie was leaving. But, I imagined, the plan would be for us to remain. Guilt coursed through me, almost as fast as anger did. I’d wanted Sharon away from London. I’d been persuaded that she’d be safe. Again I thought of the guys in the hall, the man on the roof opposite. My fingers itched with rage, at both Cherie and Andy Gold. Once more I looked for something heavy to throw. I thought of the rug, beneath us. If I ducked and pulled it, would it bring her down? Again Sharon read my thoughts.

  ‘Billy,’ she said. Her voice was measured, but urgent. As if there was a tarantula on my shoulder. ‘You have to stay calm. Don’t do anything. Please.’

  I nodded slowly but I was still in the dark. ‘How did she get you here? Those coppers, they didn’t leave you alone?’

  ‘No,’ Sharon said quickly. ‘Cherie, she got my number out of your phone. I called you when she was massaging you, remember? She knew from how you spoke to me that I was your girlfriend. She called me,’ Sharon said. ‘She called and told me to meet her. And I did.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Billy, please.’ Sharon took a breath and then swallowed a sob. ‘I had to.’

  ‘Why? What in God’s name did she say to you?’

  ‘I said nothing.’ Cherie’s voice cut through the room. She was smiling now, enjoying my confusion. ‘It wasn’t me that persuaded you was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what the hell…?’

  ‘It was the baby crying. That’s what made her come. And what I said would happen to it if she didn’t. She’s a good person your girlfriend, Billy, a much better person than you. She came out straight away so that the baby would be saved. She cares about people’s babies.
Because she’s normal, unlike you. You didn’t care about the baby in me, or the ones I should have had after. You let them all die.’

  Cherie’s expression was fixed and intense, her eyes wide. She was back in Chester, her father’s fist in her stomach. I was just stunned. The baby? Denise’s child couldn’t have survived, surely, not out of a hospital. It was too young. And Jen’s had been left in her kitchen for her husband to find. I closed my eyes.

  ‘You’ve killed someone else,’ I said. ‘You’re crazy. Who was it this time, someone I sat next to on a bus once? Someone I played with when I was five? Someone I knew in a previous life?’

  ‘No.’ Cherie looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘There’s been no one else. Just the three plus that first mistake.’

  I didn’t get it. ‘Then whose baby have you got?’

  ‘Whose?’ again the look. ‘Surely you know? ‘The girl in the cafe. The baby Sharon heard was hers.’

  * * *

  The words hit me like a truck, knocking all the air out of my body. Sharon was completely still but was pressing all her energy towards me. A grimace pulled my face apart.

  ‘Uh uh.’ I shook my head. ‘No way. I saw Ally’s baby on Alfred Road.’

  ‘No you didn’t. That was the young whore’s.’

  I shook my head again. ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘The child was white. It wasn’t Denise Denton’s baby. I met her husband, he’s black.’

  ‘But her boyfriend isn’t,’ Cherie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She told me all about it: when she thought I was a social worker trying to save her life. Her boyfriend. It’s why she ran away from Birmingham. She’d had a fling with a white boy and was pregnant. She really wanted the baby but she loved her husband. She didn’t know who the father was. If it was black she was going to go back home to him. If not she’d have got the thing adopted and gone back anyway. So the baby you saw on Alfred Road was hers, Denise’s. It didn’t survive, unfortunately, after it was removed. The one I have survived. It was the only one that did.’