by Susan Hill
A kick in his thigh, then another in his ribs which made him yell. He tried to move his legs. One moved. Not the other.
‘Pull him up then.’
They pulled him up and then had to prop him against a wall and hold him. The light swirled. Some sort of building ballooned out then shrank, and the light grew wavy until he threw up suddenly, could not stop himself, or the pain as he did so.
‘Hose him down again, he’s not going fuckin’ unconscious.’
The ice-cold jet on his face and head and neck and chest, stinging, powering into him.
But then, he was fully awake. His sight settled to normal.
There were three of them. Dark clothing. Faces covered.
Morson. It had to be, though he couldn’t work out how.
‘Where is this?’
‘Ha … he’s with us.’
‘I said –’
They came at him as one man and he felt himself sliding down the wall and hitting the ground and hoped he was dying. The water jet brought him back to life.
‘Get up, nonce.’
‘I’m –’
‘Shut up. Get up.’
He managed it, but he was only on his feet for seconds, before the punches came again, and then something like a huge stone crashing into the side of his head, the other side, the back, his chest, his belly. Then fists again. It went on and on until the end of time and he couldn’t pass out, couldn’t die, couldn’t do anything but pray. ‘God, let me die. God, let me die.’
He heard a voice from a long way off, with an odd echo behind it. ‘Watch the time, Al … they start up …’
Then he heard someone screaming, bellowing like a bull, howling in pain, and the sound was pushing through his ears and into his brain and after a moment he knew that it came from him.
He realised with a flare of relief that his prayers were answered, that he was going to die, but it did not seem to be happening quickly, the pain went on, different forms of pain, and of fear. Time had sped up, time had slowed down, but now there was no time, everything that happened was endless and in one permanent present.
‘I said fuckin’ move it …’
‘I’m enjoying this.’
‘Finish it, Al.’
That was the last voice he heard on earth, a whining, nasal voice, worming itself into his head and repeating, repeating … ‘Finish it finish it finish it …’
The pain in his legs and back could not surely get any worse but then increased off the scale of pain. He vomited again. Then, at last, the merciful last blow to his skull, which cracked open as everything went not black but a blazing, fiery white, splitting into fragments behind his eyes.
‘We taking him?’
‘We’re fuckin’ leaving him.’
‘We can’t –’
‘Shut the fuck up or you’ll be in there with him.’
The kid laughed. ‘I get you,’ he said with a terrible pleasure.
He helped drag him, helped lift him. Helped throw him, up and over and down.
‘Now fuckin’ move.’
Morson, always decisive, woke Will Fernley. Lynn was already packing a couple of holdalls. The morning was grey, the sun not yet up.
‘Shit,’ Fernley said.
‘There’s a hotel won’t ask any questions. Get a bloody move on.’
‘Johnno coming with us?’
‘No.’
Morson walked out of the room. Frankie had both bags downstairs and into the boot by the time Will came running.
‘Shit,’ he said again. He was hung-over and not properly awake.
‘Shut up, Will. You’re being taken care of, what more do you want? All right, Frank.’
Frank nodded and started the engine.
They plunged fast down the drive to the gate and reached it as the police arrived on the other side.
‘Shit,’ Fernley said, before he jumped out of the car and started to run.
Fifty-seven
‘Chief, you’re welcome to sit in, but I’m not sure it’s correct that you do these interviews.’
‘Because this is your patch not mine?’ Kieron Bright was angry.
‘Not exactly, but our guys …’
‘Serrailler is my officer and I’m responsible for him. Technically, you’re right, and someone else can interview the housekeeper – my guess is that she’s peripheral. But I have to take the men apart to find out where my officer is and you would do the same.’
Privately, Kieron doubted it. The Superintendent was a robotic box-ticker, not a man who thought much for himself or would ever stray from the rules.
‘All right,’ he said now, ‘but I’m putting it on record that I’m not happy.’
After that, they walked down the corridor to the interview rooms in silence.
Frankie Webster came in with his head up. He sat back in the chair opposite Bright, folded his arms and met his eye.
‘What did you do with him?’
‘With who?’
‘You know who.’
‘I’m not a mind-reader.’
‘Don’t mess me about, I don’t have the time or the patience. Where did you take him?’
Silence.
‘Listen, Webster, you’re deep in already, you’ll get more for keeping your mouth shut. Where did you take him?’
Silence.
‘How long have you worked for Morson?’
‘Twelve years.’
‘And your wife?’
‘She’s not my wife but, yeah, the same.’
‘Gets a lot of visitors, doesn’t he?’
The man shrugged.
‘Unexpected ones. Like Will Fernley and Johnno Miles.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Did you talk to Johnno Miles?’
‘Only in the way of my work.’
‘Do you go into Morson’s basement?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been into it?’
‘No.’
‘What, not even “in the way of your work”?’
‘No.’
‘Where is Johnno Miles?’
Silence.
‘Did he go into the basement?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
Silence.
‘Does Morson lend you the stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
‘DVDs … films …’
‘No.’
‘What’s your username?’
‘What?’
‘To get into the website. Username.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are you charging me with? You can’t hold me –’
‘Oh shut up, Webster. Listen. You are going to tell me where he is. In the house? In the grounds? No. He’s somewhere you know about though. Why won’t you tell me? We’ll find him, we’ve got clothing from the room he slept in, the dogs will find him.’
‘Don’t need me to help you then.’
‘Where is he?’
Silence.
‘You’ll go down for as long as your boss, you know that?’
Frankie snorted.
It went on for another ten minutes. Frankie had not given an inch.
Morson’s face was grey and he looked sick. Bright looked at him in silence for a long time, until the QC shuffled, met his eye, dropped his gaze again, leaned back, leaned forward.
‘You are scum, Morson, but before we go there and I ask you how many deaths you are responsible for, you tell me where Johnno Miles is.’
‘I don’t –’
‘Yes, you do.’ Kieron put his arms on the table and stared. ‘You dare to sit there, you dare to walk the face of this earth, with the letters QC after your disgusting little name?’
‘What did you mean just then? You can’t just say things like that. I am not responsible for anyone’s death – you’ll retract that accusation.’
‘You’ll tell me where he is.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who has him?’
‘You are going to prison for life, Morson. You can’t save yourself and you know it. Your career is in ruins, your name will be muck, you will be reviled and abused – well, you should know all about that – and you’ll be begging for solitary and an armed guard to keep them away from you. You’ve seen the last of your grand house and your rich life and your basement room full of vile, nasty secrets. And a hell of a lot of people are going to have their collars felt during the next couple of days, and when they open their newspapers, they’ll know who to blame. So just find it in your stinking, filthy, miserable little soul to tell me where he is, and who’s got him and what you told them to do. All I need is a mobile number, Morson. Just one number and you can go back into the cells to rot. Come on …’
‘One mobile number isn’t going to tell you anything.’
‘One mobile number.’
Morson’s face was contorted into a sneer. Bright clenched his fists under the table.
‘Give it to me. Come on, come on.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Right – there is a number.’
‘If there was I wouldn’t remember it.’
Kieron sighed. ‘As well as the deaths of children on your conscience, children murdered so that you could watch abuse and snuff movies, you want the death of a cop spreading the stain as well? How many times a life sentence is that?’
Quite suddenly, the man crumpled. Something Bright had said had gone home. Something had penetrated to the place where he acknowledged it all, admitted it to himself – something he had probably never done. The Chief could see it on his face, in his eyes, hear it in his voice when he muttered the digits of the mobile number.
He wrote it on the back of his hand as he ran out of the room.
It took even less time than he had hoped.
‘They’ve got it, Chief. The mobile has been traced to Grays, Essex. Owner is Jason Anthony Smith, 147 Rondella Road, and the signal is within a couple of streets of that address.’
‘Anything on our Mr Smith?’
‘Oh yes. History of GBH, robbery with, armed robbery … dangerous man, but he was found not guilty last time, and if he’s done anything since, he’s been clever.’
‘Can you find out the name of the counsel who got him off?’
They came back within a few seconds.
‘Andrew Morson, QC.’
Fifty-eight
Lex Tindall prided himself on being at work before anyone else, so his motorbike was roaring up the slip road and onto the industrial estate by five to seven. Ten minutes later, he was rolling the first dumpers out ready for the day’s collection, which happened around eight thirty.
It was a warm morning already, with a cloudless sky. Another evening out on the scramble bikes then, until maybe ten o’clock. The day wouldn’t go fast enough but he liked his job and didn’t fret about it.
He moved over to the row of huge metal bins and loaded the first one. It was hauled up into the air and tipped over, tipped back and brought down again. He rolled it off, and wheeled the second bin up. The mechanism seemed to jam and it failed to engage and lift. Then he got it moving but it stuck a few feet up. This went on for long enough to be annoying. He got the bin back down, disengaged it, and inspected the lifting gear. It seemed to be all right, smooth and without any jams. But when he tried again, the same thing happened. There could be a jam higher up.
Lex got a safety ladder, and a hard hat, and climbed up steadily. The big container bins were twelve feet in height and held a large volume of compressed rubbish. He reached the top, fully aware that this was against every safety rule and that if anyone came up now and found him … but no one else would be here for another quarter of an hour.
He could see nothing wrong with the haulage mechanism that tipped the contents, but he leaned over a little way to peer in.
Twenty seconds later, he was on the ground and making fast for the office and the phone, yelling, yelling as he ran.
The police cars, ambulance and fire engine arrived at the industrial estate around the same time as half a dozen officers pounded on the door of 147 Rondella Road and, when they got no reply, broke it down, found Jason Smith and arrested him. Jason’s mobile phone had stored numbers including that of Andrew Morson, and the record of his call the previous night.
It was difficult and dangerous work and took what felt like hours for the firemen to scale up the outside and then down the inside of the refuse container. The man was easily seen, but had to be moved with extreme caution.
‘You got him?’
One of the firemen raised his arm, but it was a slow job to get the gear, and a stretcher, into place, then load the man onto it. The fireman looked carefully, without touching, glanced up at the others and grimaced.
By then, Kieron Bright and two others were on their way, blue lights and siren and 110 mph, to the scene. They arrived just as Simon Serrailler, aka Johnno Miles, was being lowered with maximum care to the ground and the waiting paramedics. Seconds later, the whirr of the air ambulance was overhead, coming in to land on an open stretch of tarmac.
Bright pushed his way through and looked down at the body on the stretcher.
‘God Almighty,’ he said, and felt a surge of the purest coldest anger.
The chopper blades were still turning as the doctors ran across, rucksacks of medical kit bumping against their backs.
‘He’s gone,’ someone said. ‘Has to be.’
The first doctor was kneeling, the second unpacking his bag.
‘Do we know what happened? Do we know how long he’s been in there?’
They worked fast as they asked the questions to which no one had answers.
Kieron Bright turned away. He paced around the area, turned, paced back. He had given up smoking twenty years earlier but he felt the need of a cigarette. One of the officers who had driven down with him came over. ‘Shall I find out if they’ve a kitchen or a machine in there?’
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s he looking?’
Bright shook his head. Serrailler looked dead. He was so beaten up as to be almost unrecognisable and there had been no sign that he was alive.
‘My best officer by miles.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes. Go and see about drinks, will you?’
As the man went, there was a shout. ‘Chief …’
He knew what they wanted. He had to stand there while they formally pronounced Serrailler dead at the scene and got his permission to take the body away.
The doctor was kneeling, leaning back on his heels. ‘Christ knows how, but he’s got a pulse,’ he said, and then looked warningly at Kieron. ‘Barely detectable but it’s a sign that he’s not dead.’ He did not have to add ‘yet’.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘It’s a tough call. He’s lost a huge amount of blood and he’s deteriorating. My guess is that aside from what we can see, which is a lot, he has internal injuries and bleeding. Frankly, there’s so much that I wouldn’t know where to start if we keep him here.’
‘Has he been conscious at all?’
‘No, thank God. I think what we’re going to do is move him as carefully as we possibly can and get him airlifted to a major trauma centre. If he survives being moved, if he survives the journey, then that’s the only place where he stands the slightest chance.’ He stood and began to give orders to the others.
Kieron watched hopelessly.
The helicopter was airborne as there was a shout of ‘Drinks!’ from the building behind them. The remaining men walked across in silence.
Fifty-nine
Elaine Dacre had had a bad night. The hospice nurses were coming in regularly now and one was there as Cat arrived. Now that there were no beds in Imogen House, they tried to give the same care to patients in their own homes, though it wasn’t always possible and the physical comforts of special beds and equipment wer
e lacking. The GPs did not come out after hours either – some would not make home visits at all, even to the dying. That left a gap which no one else could fill, Cat thought.
The room was suffused with early-morning sunlight and the window was open onto the garden. A neighbour was cutting grass nearby and the smell came drifting up, making Elaine smile. ‘Summers of childhood,’ she said. ‘Smell of grass … sound of the sea.’
Cat sat beside her and took her hand. All the flesh seemed to have melted away now, leaving skin stretched over bones, and bright, bright eyes.
‘It’s so good of you to come. You know I like to see you. Tell me what’s happening in the world.’
Cat laughed. ‘Not sure you want to know.’
They chatted for a while. Elaine’s voice was weak now but she was still ready to laugh. Once or twice she closed her eyes and dozed. Angie brought in coffee for Cat, but after looking quickly at her mother-in-law, was struck by the need to rush off on some urgent mission.
Cat wondered, as ever, why people were afraid of death and the dying, and decided that the usual explanation certainly held true, that it was because death was now pushed away to the far edge of everyday life instead of being put in the centre of it. She remembered one rare patient, a young woman in her early thirties, who had insisted on having her three children in and out of her room, on her bed, even going to sleep with her, through her last weeks, and talked to them about what was happening, never failing to answer their questions, never allowing them to be sent away if they wanted to stay. How rare that was.
She drank her coffee as Elaine drifted off. She would die within the next few days and how would the family cope, if they were alone with her when it happened? Leave her by herself? No, but until the last second they would be in denial, and if Elaine wanted to talk, they would stop her, kindly, firmly. Cat felt helpless but knew that what she could do, she was doing now. There was nothing else.
It was warm and quiet and the sun was on her face. Her sleep was deeper, but for now she was comfortable. When Cat’s mobile rang she did not stir.
‘This is Kieron Bright.’
An hour and a half later, she was there. ‘My father and stepmother are coming back from France now.’