by Hugh Fraser
He shakes Dave’s hand and says, ‘Goodbye, David. Give my good wishes to your father.’ He turns to me and says, ‘Goodbye. I hope I will meet you again.’ I shake his hand and he raises his hat and leaves.
I turn to Dave and say, ‘How much?’
‘Twelve large.’
I feel a tingle up my back and I want to shout out, but I sit down, pour a drink and say, ‘Come on then.’
Dave opens the case and takes out eight bundles of notes. He pulls a carrier bag from a drawer behind him, puts the money in and hands it to me. I stuff eight thousand quid inside my jacket and say, ‘What about the loose stuff?’
‘As soon as I shift it, I’ll let you know.’
He picks up a gold necklace and looks at it. I say, ‘Suits you.’
There’s a flash of anger in his eyes before he gives me his twisted smile. I finish my whisky and head for the door.
‘See you, then,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
• • •
It’s still dark as I walk over the rough stones and the twisted bits of metal to the gates and let myself out. I wait on the pavement while a lorry from the coal yard in Westbourne Park Road rumbles past with clouds of black dust billowing off the back end of it, then I cross the road and head for the cemetery.
Once I’ve stashed the money in the grave, I’m over the railings and walking through the dark streets towards home. Going down St Mark’s Road, I pass the end of Rillington Place and I can see the house at the far end where John Christie did his murders. They reckon he killed seven women and a baby, and he hid the bodies in the house, under the floor boards and buried in the garden. They say he was gassed in the war and it made him like he was. I think about how mad Mum was at the end and I suppose it can happen to anyone.
As I round the corner into Blenheim Crescent, I hear a motor behind me. It’s a police car so I slip through a front gate and duck down while it passes, going towards Clarendon Road.
I walk the rest of the way home and, as I get to the flat, I notice that Sammy’s car isn’t anywhere in the street. When I get in, I check that Georgie’s asleep then I go down to the living room. I’m expecting to find Claire and Sammy half-drunk, but they’re not there. They aren’t in Claire’s room either and I’m wondering if they’ve stopped for a drink at an all-nighter.
I go downstairs to the kitchen. It’s almost five o’clock and Georgie will be up for school in a couple of hours. I’m still wound up from the job and I know I won’t sleep, so I put the kettle on and pick up a book that she’s left on the table. I read slowly down the first page and then I turn over onto the second one.
An hour later I’m still reading about this King Henry and all his doings with women and the Pope and that when I hear Georgie shout from upstairs. I run up to our bedroom and find her sitting up in bed looking frightened. I go to her and put my arms round her.
She says, ‘The man was here.’
‘What man?’ I say.
‘The blood man.’
I look round at the window. It’s locked shut. ‘It’s all right, my darling, you were dreaming.’
‘He was here. The man with all the blood.’
Maureen comes in and Georgie slips out of my arms and runs crying to her.
‘I saw him! I saw him! The horrible man made of blood!’ she says.
Maureen picks her up, holds her close and strokes her head.
‘It’s all right, my little lamb. He’s not here and you’re safe and sound with me. Just a nasty dream, that’s all.’
Georgie clings to her, sobbing and pressing her face into her neck.
‘Come to bed with Auntie Maureen, eh? Where there’s no horrid dreams and no horrid men.’
Georgie nods her head and clings more tightly.
Maureen says, ‘We’re all right now, just a nasty dream, but we’re all right now.’
I open the door for her and she takes Georgie into her room. I watch while she puts Georgie into her bed, gets in beside her and cuddles her.
‘There, there … all safe now … all cosy and safe now, my darling,’ she murmurs.
Georgie quietens and Maureen looks up at me and smiles. I close the door and go back down to the kitchen, where I get a knife out of the drawer. I press the blade into the inside of my wrist until I can’t feel anything but the pain. When the blood starts oozing, I put down the knife, wrap my wrist in a cloth and squeeze it tight. I sit down and close my eyes.
As my head drops forward onto the table, there’s a loud knocking at the front door. I get up quickly and go downstairs, hoping it’s just Claire and Sammy who’ve forgotten their keys. There’s another loud knock as I get to the door.
I open it and DCI Davis is there with two coppers. They pull me onto the landing, shove me against the wall, pull my arms behind my back and handcuff me.
Davis says, ‘Katherine Walker. I am arresting you for the murder of Nicholas Bailey. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
They push me down the stairs and out the front door. There’s another copper holding open the back door of a police car. A couple of women walking by with little children cross the road to avoid us. The two coppers put me in the back seat and sit each side of me. I twist my wrists until the cuffs dig into me, and stare straight ahead. Davis gets into the front and nods to the driver. Cars and vans get out of the way of us as we turn into Holland Park Avenue. We go left into the Grove and pull in behind the police station. I’m taken out of the car and marched into the nick. Davis and one of the coppers go to the desk and the other one takes me into an office. A tall sergeant with a bald head and a bushy moustache asks me my name and address and age and writes it on a form. A policewoman comes in and takes my fingerprints. I’m taken to another room, stood against a wall and told to turn round. There’s a flash and the policewoman takes a photograph of me. She tells me to turn sideways and takes another, and then I’m taken down to the basement and put in a cell.
It’s hours later when the policewoman comes and takes me along the corridor and into the room where Davis questioned me the last time. He’s sitting at the table reading a sheet of paper. She points at the chair opposite him and I sit down.
Without looking up, he says, ‘That’ll be all.’
The policewoman says, ‘But I thought …’
‘Out,’ he says.
He finishes reading the paper, writes something at the bottom of it, then he holds it up and says, ‘Do you know what this is?’
I look at the table and say nothing.
‘It’s a statement by your best mate, Claire Welch, saying how she saw you shoot Nick Bailey in the head at the back of a drinking club in Walmer Road on the night of the second of March.’
He leans towards me and I can smell his sweat and tobacco breath. ‘And she’s more than willing to tell it to a judge and jury.’ He sits back, puts his hands behind his head and says, ‘Which means that you, young Miss Walker, are well and truly fucked.’
My legs and arms feel heavy and my stomach’s hurting. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I just go on staring at the table. My Dad always said to say nothing if they got you. I think of the old bugger when he got out once and took us all to Southend for a day and then got so drunk that he passed out on the beach and couldn’t drive us home.
Davis opens a folder beside him on the desk and takes out another piece of paper. He raises his eyebrows and says, ‘And what’s this?’ He looks at the paper and says, ‘Ah yes, that’s right. A young man called Samuel Clark says he was at the club with Claire Welch and that he also saw you kill Bailey.’
I look up and see the smug grin on his face as he tips his chair back and taps on the table with his pen. ‘Oh, and of course there’s your old boyfriend, Dave Preston. He saw you do it as well.’
He leans forward and folds his arms on the table. ‘Nothing to say, Rina?’
His chair thumps down on the deck and he hits the table with his fist.
‘Twenty-five years! You’ll be an old bag with every bone in your body broken by the time you get out.’
He leans forward again and says, ‘I can get you off with ten, and you’ll do seven if you give me a confession and the reason why you did it.’
I look up into his worn-out grey eyes and say, ‘Fuck off.’
He swings at me. I duck down and his hand grazes the back of my head.
The door opens. A copper puts his head round it and says, ‘Her duty brief’s here.’
Davis stands up, sweeps the papers into his folder and walks out. The copper opens the door wider and a little tubby bloke in a brown overcoat and hat walks in and sits down in the chair Davis has just left. He puts a briefcase down beside the chair, takes his hat off and puts it on the table. He only looks about thirty. He’s got a round boyish face with dark brown curly hair and sharp little eyes.
He gives me a quick smile and says to the copper, ‘Thank you, officer.’
‘Bang on the door when you’re finished.’
‘I know the form, thank you.’
The copper shuts the door behind him and I hear the key turn in the lock. The little bloke holds his hand out.
‘How do you do? Jeffrey Harker. I’m your solicitor.’
I shake his hand and he opens his briefcase and takes out a notebook and a pen.
‘Katherine Irene Walker, known as Rina Walker. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arrested and charged with first-degree murder on the second of March at an illegal drinking club at number forty-six, Walmer Road, London West Eleven.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you made aware of your rights under the law at the time of the arrest?’
I nod and he says, ‘The police have statements from three eyewitnesses who say they saw you shoot Nicholas Bailey on the night in question.’
‘They were never there,’ I say.
‘We’ll deal with that at a later stage. How do you intend to plead?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Good.’ He writes something in his notebook, puts it down and says, ‘Now. I only have some initial questions at this stage. We will deal with matters in more detail later.’
‘All right,’ I say.
‘Were you at the club in Walmer Road on the night in question?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At home.’
‘Was anyone else present?’
‘My Mum and my little sister.’
‘Can they testify to that effect?’
‘My sister was asleep and my Mum’s dead.’
‘How old is your sister?’
‘Nine.’
‘I see.’ He looks at his watch, closes his notebook and says, ‘You will appear before Bow Street Magistrates Court at nine a.m. tomorrow, where I expect you to be committed for trial at the Old Bailey and placed on remand at Holloway Women’s Prison until that time. I shall be in court with you tomorrow and I will visit you at Holloway as soon as I have a trial date and all available information relevant to your case.’
He puts his notebook in his briefcase, goes to the cell door and knocks on it. He looks down at the floor until the copper opens it then he turns to me and says, ‘Good day, Miss Walker.’
The door shuts behind him. A few minutes later the policewoman opens it and says, ‘Follow me.’
She takes me back to the cell and locks me in. I lie on the bed and close my eyes then I turn onto my stomach and push my face into the mattress.
25
Pilar unfolds the map and studies the network of roads and highways that will takes us north towards El Paso. She slides across the seat and points out her preferred route to me. It looks good, as far as I can tell, and we leave the highway at Querétaro and take a fast two lane road through green hills and valleys.
A few hours later, with the sun beginning to sink in the sky, we stop at a gas station. A glum-looking old man in a pair of oil stained dungarees comes out of a wooden hut and makes his way towards the truck. Pilar speaks to him and he fills the tank. I go to the office and look for a payphone to call London, but don’t find one.
An appetising smell comes from a shack next door. We walk over and go in. A tiny old woman in a black overall and headscarf is standing on a box behind a trestle table, stirring a brown gloopy sludge in a large pot. She gives us a beaming smile. Pilar exchanges some words with her and she hands us each a bowl of sludge and a slice of tortilla.
We take it outside and sit at a small table under an awning. It turns out to be a coagulated bean stew with misshapen lumps of meat lurking below which look like chicken, but don’t taste like it. I ask Pilar if she knows what kind of meat it is and she nods and says, ‘Iguana.’
I’m too hungry to be choosy, so I start eating my first reptile. As we are finishing, the tiny lady appears with succulent slices of water melon and oranges. We thank her and she beams at us and disappears into the shack. I sit back, peel an orange and enjoy the simple delight on Pilar’s face as she bites into a slice of water melon.
After she’s swallowed the last bit of pink flesh, I say, ‘Where did you learn such good English?’
‘World Service.’
‘The radio?’
‘World Service and Voice of America.’
‘And school?’
‘A little, but mostly radio.’
I’m about to ask her about her favourite programmes when an open-body truck, with a group of men standing in the back holding shovels and forks, pulls in and stops beside the pumps. The glum old man comes out of the hut and walks slowly towards it. The driver gets out and speaks to the pump attendant, who unscrews the filler cap of the fuel tank. The men in the back shout and gesticulate at the driver. He lets down the tailgate and they put down their implements, get down from the truck, walk a short distance away and pee in the dirt. The pump attendant appears unmoved as he fills the tank and grunts at the driver. As the men button up and approach the food shack, we decide it’s time to leave. We pay the tiny lady, climb into the pickup and get back on the road.
As I climb into the seat, I catch my back on the edge of the door frame and get a stab of pain from the place where the tracking device was planted. I wince and twist round to try to reach the spot between my shoulder blades.
Pilar sees me, so I tell her about having the device put in at Gatesville and how it enables Lee to track my movements. Last night, when I told her about my trip to Texas and the deal I made with Lee, I didn’t mention the tracking device.
‘Show me.’ she says.
I lift my T-shirt and turn away. I feel her fingers brushing the skin around the incision and pressing against the device itself.
She kisses the spot, then she says, ‘You want me to take it out for you?’
‘Can you do that?’ I ask.
‘If I can get a blade and some things.’
I remember Lee saying that the chip is close to my spinal cord and ask, ‘Are you sure you know how?’
‘It is the same as with the piglets,’ she says.
‘The piglets?’
‘The castration. I did it many times on my uncle’s farm. You make a clean cut and then take out.’
The image she conjures up makes me slightly uneasy, but the kiss she just gave me and her calm confidence makes me want to trust her. Lee needs to think I’m still tagged until the bust, so that I can get the passport from him that will get me home, but with the chip in my pocket, instead of under my skin, the chances of my getting away at the end are a great deal better. I decide to risk it. I take the box cutter out of my pocket and hand it to Pilar.
She tests the blade on her finger and says, ‘This is good. You want me to do it?’
‘Yes.�
� I say.
‘It will hurt.’
‘I know.’
She opens the door of the pick-up and says, ‘I need something else. Wait here.’
I watch her walk across the forecourt and go into the little old lady’s shack. Moments later she comes out holding a half bottle of Tequila and a paper bag.
She gets back into the cab and says, ‘I have what I need. Drive and we will find a place.’
I start the truck and pull onto the road. I ask Pilar what she’s got in the paper bag and she shows me a needle and some fine thread. After a few miles, we see a rough track winding off to the left. I swing the truck onto it and we bump along it until it curves out of sight of the road.
When we reach an area of level grass, Pilar says, ‘Here is good, I think.’
We get out of the truck and Pilar looks round to make sure we are alone. She kneels on the grass and motions me to lie down. I take off my T-shirt and feel the burn of the sun on my skin. I lie on my stomach, turn my head to the side, and watch her pouring Tequila over the blade of the box-cutter.
‘Are you ready?’ she says.
I nod and she dabs Tequila from her fingertips onto the skin between my shoulder blades.
‘You be quite still now.’
She feels for the chip, locates it and then makes a cut. I let the pain hold me while I feel her cut me again and then I get a sharp jolt along my spine as she locates the chip. She pauses for a moment and then she holds her breath and I feel her taking the chip out with her fingers. Moments later, I feel the needle puncture me and the thread running through my skin. She makes another stitch and ties off. I feel her lips on me as she bites through the thread.
‘All done,’ she says.
I turn over, sit up and kiss her. She smiles, hands me the Tequila bottle and I take a mouthful.
‘Thank you, doctor.’
I take the chip and the box-cutter from her and put them in the pockets of my jeans. While we sit on the grass, sip from the bottle and enjoy a quiet moment, I reflect on the surefooted way she handled things just now and how right I was to trust her.