by P. R. Black
‘Tomorrow morning, I’m going to apply for a restraining order against you,’ Levison said. ‘It’ll be a very detailed proceeding, and I have to tell you – I’m going to enjoy it.’
‘You’re a fair lass for details. I came to congratulate you, in fact. Well done.’ He extended a hand for Solomon to shake.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Solomon said, clearing his throat. He did not accept the handshake, but stood up, instead. He took the bottle of champagne by the neck. ‘Will you join us in a toast? Grab a glass, Bernard. I’ll get you some champagne. It’s the third-most expensive in the house, I understand.’
Galvin smiled, and dropped his hand from the table. Freya hardly dared breathe.
‘No? Shame.’ Solomon placed the champagne back in the ice bucket, and got to his seat. ‘You not wanting to drink my health?’
‘I wish you good health,’ Galvin said. ‘Because I want you to stay healthy.’
‘Got plans for me, have you?’ Solomon grinned.
‘Oh yeah. Back to jail. That’s my plan for you. Finding the evidence that puts you away for good.’ Galvin turned to Freya. ‘This guy here – your father… I told you about him already. That time you came over with the ace newshound. I’ll say it to his face. I said to him at the time. I said it when I interviewed him.’
‘That’s when you slapped me, wasn’t it?’ Solomon said. ‘It’s true. He did slap me. That part of the interview tape mysteriously disappeared. Not a well-known fact, but definitely a fact. Right across the face. Crack! I can still hear it even now.’
‘Not nearly hard enough,’ Galvin said. He laid down the menu. ‘As I was saying, Freya. Your dad here – a special case. There’s a lot of stuff we found out about him that didn’t appear in the trial. Didn’t appear on your boyfriend’s daft little website, either.’
Solomon sighed. ‘Bernie, if there’s something you want to get off your chest…’
‘Your dad went out of his way to collect snuff movies. People being killed. Young women, mostly. He even had – get this – 8mm film of a woman being raped and murdered. I sat there and watched it with my own eyes.’
‘That was planted,’ Solomon said. ‘Along with the magazines you allegedly found. They couldn’t prove that stuff was mine. I’d been in my digs for about a week, when I got arrested. So you’re lying, Bernard. Like you lied about a lot of things.’
‘Amazing coincidence, eh?’ Galvin said. ‘You had a good lawyer, I’ll give you that. Got a lot of that struck out. Couldn’t prove it was yours. Strange that it should all be hidden in a room let out to a serial killer, though.’
‘I’d best ask my legal eagle – Cheryl, was that libel?’
‘Slander,’ Levison said. ‘Slander is spoken, libel is written. He said it out loud. In front of a lot of people.’
‘And then,’ Galvin continued, ‘there’s the fact that he was around a lot of the sites where those people were snatched. Awfully convenient.’
‘As you say – coincidence,’ Solomon said. ‘But while you’re thinking out loud, can you talk us through the recent cases? You know anything about those?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Galvin said, amiably. ‘That’s someone else’s problem. Someone else’s murders. Fair play – I know you didn’t do those ones.’
‘The real Woodcutter did,’ Freya said. ‘The guy you should have been looking for. The guy you should have arrested and jailed. Not my dad.’
‘Oh, I know who the Woodcutter is. Fairly sure of it. It’s only a matter of proof. And I think the proof’s coming. I can almost feel it.’ Galvin grinned at Levison. ‘That all legally fair and square, Miss Levison?’
‘I prefer Ms Levison.’
‘Mizzzz Levison. Got you.’
‘Now, try not to say it as if you had a mouthful of marbles.’
‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ Galvin took a breath, and placed a hand in his coat, as if he had discovered a pain somewhere in his ribs. ‘I just wanted you to know I’m around, Gareth. I’m retired now, you know – got plenty of time on my hands.’
‘Wife gone, too?’ Solomon said.
‘Dead,’ Galvin said, turning his dull grey gaze on Solomon.
‘Shame. It wasn’t me, before you ask.’
There was a moment of silence, before Galvin laughed aloud. He slammed his hands down on the table. ‘Ha! Always was a joker, this one. I’ll say that for him. And a ladies’ man. You watch yourself with him, Mizzz Levison. Your client’s a ladykiller, you might say.’
‘Oh – speaking of ladies. How’s Carol Ramirez doing?’ Solomon asked.
‘Halfway to Timbuktu, on a very slow boat, last I heard,’ Galvin said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering. You might know more than me, that’s all. Getting her put away, and all. Nice work, that. Still working out whether that one was strictly legal, aren’t we?’ Solomon said.
Galvin turned to Freya. ‘You know, dear, your dad here… he has his way with women. That’s the truth. We’ll never know what your mother thought of him – if she thought much of anything. But there’s a really strange pattern with all his other girlfriends over the years. He has a habit of turning them absolutely doolally. Now I admit, that’s not a politically correct term these days, but it’s striking, all the same. I remember Carol Ramirez when she was a young PC – a WPC, I think we still called them, back then. Outstanding officer. Fearless. Then she met Solomon, and all of a sudden she’s a mental case. Secure unit. Strange, isn’t it? There’s another lass from the late Eighties who’s still scared to leave the house. Another lass from schooldays who ran away from him when he took her out into the woods one day. Another couple in a car pulled up to help when she ran into the road, screaming. Couldn’t be made to talk about it. Gareth here said it was a lover’s tiff.’
‘We’re all young once, Bernie. Even you,’ Solomon said. ‘You’ve had rows with people. That time you’re talking about – that was an argument we had, when I said I couldn’t see her any more. She went crazy. We had a row – but who hasn’t had a row? You’ve had plenty of them. Carol told me that you used to enjoy shouting and screaming at people. Not averse to using your fists, either. I think they called it “old-school”, till recently. Then they started calling it assault, bullying, abuse. You retired early, Bernie, is that right? Took early retirement?’
Galvin said nothing.
‘Yeah,’ Solomon went on, ‘and I know about your eye for outstanding PCs. Carol was outstanding, no question of that. Spanish eyes. I loved that about her. Raven-haired. She had to work at keeping the moustache under control, electrolysis and what have you. But still. What a woman. You ever see a bush like that on pale skin in the moonlight, Galvin? I know it wasn’t for lack of trying. You had Carol pinned up against a wall, I’m told. Not even considering “no” for an answer. Helping yourself to handfuls. Until she kneed you right in the knackers. Plenty of backlift, too. Right down the fairway. Apparently, Bernie here was on the floor, bent double, yelping like a docked fucking spaniel.’
Solomon’s eyes were huge, dark, forbidding pools.
He went on: ‘I wish I could have seen that. And then… Well. Next thing you know, Carol’s in a secure unit, and can’t give evidence at my trial. To be fair, she was actually crazy. Death kick. Very unsavoury stuff. And then there’s the arson. She scared me, truth to tell. Just as well she was institutionalised – God knows what might have happened had I dumped her and moved on. Like I was going to. But lucky me, I got arrested, so that put a capper on things.’
Galvin folded, then unfolded a napkin on the table. ‘You’re a filthy liar. You’re as wrong as wrong can get, Gareth, and you’ve got no place in civilised society alongside civilised people. The world will know it before I’m finished living in it.’
‘And you’re a bully and a boor, who got caught fabricating evidence,’ Solomon hit back. ‘I don’t hold out much hope for justice catching up with you, but soon the whole world will be talking about what you did, and what you didn’t d
o. You’ll be the poster boy for police corruption, if you aren’t already. The guy who fabricated a case, and let a serial killer get away with it. So, think on that.’
Galvin got up. ‘As you please, son. I’m all in, though. To the finish. That’s all.’
‘Hey – let’s make a date,’ Solomon said, in a lower tone of voice.
‘You what?’
‘I said, let’s make a date. For two minutes’ time. Outside. You and me.’
Levison raised a hand. ‘This has gone on far enough. Bernie, get outside, or I’ll call the police.’
‘I believe you, Gareth,’ Galvin said. ‘You’re serious. You must have gotten tough inside. Must be a fair old workout, trying to stay healthy with the lifers. Lots of unbelievably bad things can happen to a guy like you in prison.’
‘Worse things happen to bent coppers,’ Solomon said.
Galvin unbuttoned his coat and reached inside.
Solomon was out of his seat, fast; Freya barely saw him lift the champagne bottle.
Levison was swifter than both of them. Before Freya could see her move, she had seized Galvin by the lapels, dragging his grey anorak-style coat off his shoulders and restricting the movement of his arms.
Then Galvin’s face dripped red.
Freya had flipped her original wine glass. It still had a fair volume of red in it. All of which went over Galvin’s face.
There were cries of alarm and consternation. Two waiters appeared, then a manager in a suit. Galvin was bustled out, trying to twist himself free of the waiters. His grey anorak was stained through with fresh blossoms of wine, some big, some small.
As the unwieldy quartet bustled out of the huge double doors into the stark white corridor, there was an ugly, tell-tale sound of a fist hitting flesh.
Solomon was doubled over, laughing. Levison was still on her feet, parsing the situation, taking in all the shocked faces. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, to no one in particular. ‘Totally fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Great shot,’ Solomon said at last, raising a thumb in Freya’s direction. ‘Bang on the button. That’s vengeance, right there. That’s my girl!’
Freya got up, and waved at an ashen-faced waitress at the bar. ‘Hey,’ she said, as the girl reluctantly came to join her, ‘is there a back door out of here?’
‘Not staying?’ Solomon asked.
‘Sorry, Dad. Lost my appetite a bit.’
Before she left, she picked up something that had landed on the table, almost unnoticed. It was the thing Galvin had been reaching into his pocket for; it had fluttered out of his grasp like a moth circling a bulb, and landed on the table before Freya. She pocketed it as she got up. It was Galvin’s card.
50
‘Where are you going?’
Levison chased her through the metal guts of the restaurant, the secret chambers where food bathed under hot lights, fat sizzled, and wraiths in white yelled at each other.
Freya kept walking, until she was shown to a fire escape. She finally turned to face Levison when she was outside, in an anti-courtyard filled with pipes, fire escapes, wheelie bins and one overflowing skip. It was as if a respectable building had been turned inside out, perhaps at gunpoint, with all its dirty corners exposed.
‘Hey! Freya!’
Freya turned to face her. ‘Thanks for a pleasant evening, Cheryl,’ she said, brightly.
Levison stood out like a dove on a tarred roof with her white dress – still irritatingly pristine, despite red wine having been erupted mere inches away. ‘Don’t get cute. Why are you running away? Do you know what you were offered, in there?’
Freya folded her arms. ‘The keys to your kingdom. Not mine.’
‘You think you can do better?’ Levison grew haughty. ‘Listen. You’re clever. But you’re young. You don’t know it all. You’ve been offered a deal in there, and I would strongly advise you to take it.’
‘I haven’t refused anything,’ Freya spluttered. ‘You’ve just run after me here in your high heels, after subjecting me to some of the worst unarmed combat I’ve ever seen between two middle-aged men – and let me tell you, that’s a pretty high bar. Now you’re sneering at me for not accepting some non-existent offer. Why don’t you speak the truth, Cheryl? You didn’t come out here to chivvy me about a book deal. I’ll take your book deal. We can even shake on it now, if you like. But that’s not what you want to tell me. So, spit it out.’
Levison faltered, and folded her arms. It was as close as she came to being discomfited, or anything less than an Olympian-grade hard case. ‘I had hoped we could do it in private, some other time. But you’re right. It’s fair enough that I tell you. Withholding it isn’t fair.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can’t say to you, in all confidence, that your father isn’t a serial killer.’
Freya wanted to laugh. ‘That’s it? That’s your big secret? That there’s a slight doubt about the guy?’
‘I thought it was only fair to tell you.’
‘Is this something you think, or something you know?’
‘I can’t breach client confidentiality.’
‘He’s told you that he did it? He admitted it to you?’
Levison shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. No, for the record, he didn’t do that. I’ve said all I wanted to say. I couldn’t let you go without telling you.’
Freya shrugged. ‘This hasn’t changed anything. For what it’s worth, I believe he’s innocent. Maybe I’m projecting goodness that isn’t there? Who knows?’
‘I’m sorry, Freya. For what it’s worth… I don’t think this affects how we continue with this project in any way. And I haven’t told Gareth. I was considering not telling you at all, but that’s unethical. I think you’ve been through some horrible things in a very short space of time, and there’s no telling what psychological damage it could do to you if you found out something new about Gareth. But you deserve to know. He’s not right.’
‘Unethical, you say. But we’re still going ahead with books and interviews and probably TV and radio appearances. Would that be right?’
‘We’ve still to discuss all that.’
‘That’s a lawyer’s answer, all right.’
‘It’s all I can tell you for now. I’m sorry, Freya. You look absolutely done in. I’m sorry I sprang it on you like this. It was maybe a mistake. I’ll take you home. Gareth and I can drop you off.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Freya.’ She came forward and placed both hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. ‘I know this isn’t a comfort to you. Your mother’s death, I’m not sure you’ve totally dealt…’
‘Don’t dare mention her. Don’t you dare!’ Freya tore herself free, then – she could never explain why, later – on impulse, she spat at Levison. ‘Get that tested!’
She strode away, finding the right alleyway, where she’d left her bike chained up.
51
Her head felt as if it was floating several yards above the rest of her body as she flew through the streets on her bike. Shops, lit windows, and the usual kaleidoscope of night visions seemed especially forbidding the cosier they looked. One couple kissing, slowly, in the window of a kebab shop; three portly old men, all frozen open-mouthed at the same punchline at a pub; a woman and two girls sat on a sofa in a front room, entranced by the soft blue curtain of the television.
Freya laughed aloud at the ludicrous situation. Possibly she had misjudged Cheryl Levison, after all. She’d looked so sincere, too. Right up until the moment she spat on her. And what’s next? What new things will there be to discover? What’s the end of all this?
A car blared its horn at her as she cut across a junction, just a little bit too late for the signal opposite changing to red. She thrilled to the lights as they slashed across her pistoning legs, the faces twisted in fury on the dashboards as she forced them to brake. She carried on, at one point on the wrong side of the road, delighted by the oncoming headlights and the shriek of ho
rns. One quick leap and she was on the pavement, going faster. It occurred to her to tear off her helmet and use it as a grenade, gaining enough spin and propulsion to force it through a pane of glass.
One teenager actually took a swing at her as she went past, but missed by a long way – and then she reached the green gates of the park.
Someone had lit a fire somewhere inside the park, and dark bodies rose to see her as she pedalled through the broad, pleasant walkways. Freya wondered what sort of figure she must have presented, a flashing light at the front, and her lines suggested only by livid streaks of pink and yellow down the sides of her hi-vis jacket, which she had kept rolled in her bag.
‘We need to think about this, don’t we?’ she said to herself. ‘We need to think about this very carefully indeed.’
Freya took a turn down past a section where there were no streetlights. The lane where she usually began her run. She might have found this stretch if she had been blindfolded – it wasn’t a well-travelled path, and was overgrown at the best of times. Tonight the foliage seemed to spring back at her approach. At the top of the lane was a turnstile that gave onto more houses and led the way to her flat at the top of the road.
She eased down on the speed, allowing her headlamp to light the uneven path. Whenever it rained this path could be treacherous, sucking hard on the tyres and providing no end of laundry if she ran – but tonight, after dark, it was dry and dusty.
Her headlight picked out something shiny on the ground. Freya disregarded it; then there was another one. She slowed down a little, and saw that there was a trail of shiny things, all the way up the path. Coins, she saw; one- and two-pound coins.
‘Hallo,’ she said, slowing down. There seemed to be cash strewn across the path, and right up the verge. Here and there was some silver; then, caught in some grass, there were some brown and blue notes. A fair amount of them, it appeared.
Freya braked to a stop. She hesitated, checking there was no one following in front or behind, and no one looming among the trees. She felt exposed for a moment, her speed sacrificed. But someone had dropped a lot of money here.