Archer looks away. She knows Pierce is right.
‘DS Quinn and DI Hicks will interview Blackwell. There’s nothing more I can do.’
An awkward silence hangs in the air, but is broken by the DCI. ‘I brought you these.’ Pierce sets the tote bag on the bed. ‘I thought it best not to talk to your grandad and ask for clothes. I didn’t want to worry him, so I brought some clothes of mine that I keep in the office in the event I have to work all night. You can borrow them, if you like. They’re clean.’
‘Thank you.’
Pierce shifts awkwardly on her feet. ‘Thank you, DI Archer . . . I mean that . . . and take whatever time you need.’
53
A
RCHER SLIPS INTO PIERCE’S CLOTHES, which comprise a dark grey fitted trouser suit and a navy blouse, both with an obscure designer name she has never heard of. They are stylish and functional, the type of power-suit worn by female execs in the City. Or well-paid DCIs. For the briefest of moments, she has the sense that she is someone else; someone ordinary, someone who hasn’t, for the second time in her life, escaped the most macabre of destinies.
She hears Quinn’s voice from beyond the curtain and beckons him inside.
He looks her up and down as if he doesn’t recognise her, but holds his tongue, which is oddly out of character for him.
‘Pierce has loaned me her clothes, in case you were wondering.’
‘Very smart, ma’am. A different look for you, but you wear it well. Funny, I just saw Security chase a bare-arse naked crazy woman resembling Pierce out of the building.’
Despite herself, Archer smiles. ‘Harry, could you lend me your phone, please?’
He unlocks the device, hands it across with her house keys. ‘I grabbed these from your coat before it was bagged. Against the rules, but let’s keep that our secret. Don’t want to get into trouble with my DI.’
Archer hasn’t given her keys a second thought and is relieved to have them. ‘Thank you.’
Her stomach flutters as she calls Grandad and is relieved to hear his tired voice brighten when he hears hers.
‘Grace! I was just thinking about you.’
‘How . . . how are you?’ she asks.
‘Happy now that I’m talking to you,’ he replies.
Archer smiles to herself, sits on the side of the bed, and tries to sound upbeat. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘Oh fine. I went to mass and bumped into Cosmo. Remember Cosmo? We play chess together sometimes, not so much these days.’
‘Yes . . . I remember.’
‘We thought we’d go to the King’s Tavern for a pint and a bit of lunch and a game.’
She pictures him going about his business, meeting his old chess-playing opponent, and is mesmerised by the pleasant mundanity of his day, a day that is the polar opposite of her own.
‘That’s nice, Grandad . . . nice.’ She hears a quiver in her voice that she tries to suppress.
He pauses before speaking. ‘Grace, are you OK?’
‘Yes . . . I’m fine . . . sorry . . . long day.’
‘I understand.’
‘Did you have dinner?’ she asks, eager to not stir any more suspicion.
‘Just a sandwich and the last of the wine from the hamper that fella sent to me . . . the nice chap . . . I can’t recall his name . . . my memory isn’t what it used to be . . . what was his name . . .’
Archer’s hand caresses her sore neck. She tries to change the topic. ‘How is Cosmo?’
‘The fella that just bought Eileen’s house. Wait . . . didn’t you meet him at the hospital?’
‘Grandad, I’ve got so much on. I just wanted to check in.’
‘No rest for the Old Bill, eh?’ he chuckles.
‘That’s right,’ she replies quietly.
Grandad pauses before responding. ‘Grace, are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes . . . a hundred per cent. Listen, I won’t see you tonight and wanted to warn you I had a little accident at work . . . erm . . . a cut to the hand and a split lip. It’s nothing. Just don’t want you to be shocked when you see me.’
She hears a sharp intake of breath and knows he will not take this news well. Her father, his beloved son, was often battered and bruised. Guilt surges through her. After a long pause, he whispers, ‘Please take care of yourself, Grace. If something ever happened to you . . .’
‘I’m fine, Grandad. Honest.’
‘I love you, Grace.’
She trembles at his voice, which sounds frightened. ‘I love you too. Goodnight, Grandad.’
‘Goodnight, dear.’
She hands the phone back to Quinn.
‘How is he?’ asks Quinn.
Archer gives a light shrug.
‘How about you?’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘If you need to talk . . .’
‘Tomorrow . . . tomorrow would be good. Let’s talk then. Today has been a little full on.’
‘Yes, it has.’
Archer changes the subject. ‘I’m not allowed to interview Blackwell, apparently.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Oh . . . how do you know?’
‘You know that bare-ass naked lady from earlier? She told me, just before Security chased her from the hospital.’
Archer bites her lip, but is unable to stop her herself from laughing out loud. The laughter feels like a release, a trigger for something bigger to be unleashed. Tears form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. She lowers her head, folds her arms and sobs quietly. She feels Quinn’s weight on the bed next to her. He neither touches her nor says anything. He is just there for her and this is all she needs at that moment.
*
The doctor gives Archer the green light to go. She asks for sleeping pills, which he has no hesitation prescribing after what she has been through.
Quinn drives her through the neon-lit streets of night-time London. She is subdued and barely notices that they have arrived as she stares out at the little star jasmine that continues to thrive despite the near-winter conditions.
‘We’re here,’ says Quinn.
‘Right . . . of course we are . . . thank you.’
She unbuckles her seatbelt.
‘Ma’am, it’s just you and your grandad at home. You’ve been through a lot. I’d be happy to stay and sleep on the sofa, if you wanted peace of mind.’
Archer mulls over his offer. ‘That’s considerate, Harry. Thank you. I’ll be fine.’
‘Just a thought.’
‘See you tomorrow?’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
Fatigue is roaring at her, urging her to go upstairs and sink into the soft, warm bed, but she can’t do that without first washing any trace of Jamie Blackwell from her body.
She swallows two sleeping tablets, removes her lenses and brushes her teeth before stepping into a steaming hot shower, where she scrubs herself clean and soon loses track of time as the hot water helps calm her tortured mind and aching muscles.
She eases herself into bed and desperately needs to lose herself in sleep, but her head is resistant. Jamie Blackwell lingers like a spectre and he isn’t alone, for it seems that today’s encounter has resurrected another ghost. One she long ago learned to keep at bay, or at least thought she had.
Time and experience have taught her a few tricks for getting through the night. She declutters her mind, breathes slowly, deeply and imagines herself lying on a bed of soft green grass, surrounded by wildflowers on a warm spring day, with one hand trailing in the clear waters of a trickling stream. The fantasy relaxes her as the drugs do their work and before long she succumbs, despite knowing that whatever is waiting for her might not involve a day of blissful isolation in the countryside.
In her dream, Grace is huddling with little Danny Jobson on the damp bug- and worm-infested soil of the shallow pit they shared at the rear o
f Bernard Morrice’s cottage. Torrential rain thunders on the locked wooden trapdoor above their heads. Danny’s breathing is laboured, his lungs wheeze like old bagpipes. His inhaler has been empty for almost a week and she is worried about him. She begins to hammer on the trapdoor with her fist, calling for Morrice to help him, but he doesn’t respond, or even acknowledge her pleas.
‘Cold,’ whispers Danny.
Grace sits beside him and wraps her arms around the shivering boy. Like Danny, she is spent, and despite the conditions falls into a deep sleep. She hears a shuffling noise and looks up to see the trapdoor closing shut and locking.
‘Danny?’
Her stomach twists and she reaches across, her hand searches for his body, but he isn’t there. She springs forward on all fours groping for him, but she is alone. Her heart sinks.
‘Nooo!’ she calls and tries to push open the trapdoor. Through the narrow crack Grace sees a sharp sickle moon hanging over the cottage and the silhouette of Morrice trudging through the rain, carrying a limp Danny indoors, to the same place he has carried the children from the other pits.
‘Daaaannnnny!’ she calls, but he doesn’t respond.
Grace tries to force the trapdoor open but she isn’t strong enough. She pushes with all her might, harder and harder, screaming with a wild rage that she doesn’t recognise, but it’s hopeless. Water begins to spill into the pit and the thin wooden-slatted walls start to bend with the pressure of the flooding. She hears a crack as one slat is first to break and mud slides from the opening. A sliver of moonlight slices through, her eyes flash and she pulls and pulls with all her might at the broken slat until at last it breaks away. With a new confidence she claws at the softened mud behind it, tearing and digging with her small hands, ignoring the bugs and the scratches from the splintered shards of stone that have spent a lifetime in the soil. She forces her hands through the mud and cries out as something sharp pierces and drags through the flesh of her hand. Ignoring the pain, she slides her hands across, pulls them back and peers up to see a piece of broken pottery. Her fingers scrape the soil around it and she pulls it out. It has a round base that fits her hand perfectly. She uses it to dig into the wet soil, widening the gap, and when it seems big enough she forces her head through, ignoring the scraps that pull at her hair and the driving cold rain that pinches her skin. She feels reborn as she hauls herself out with fury spitting from every pore.
Coated in mud, worms and insects, she stands above the pit that has been her home for weeks. In the far distance she sees the headlamps of cars whizzing back and forth. She wonders how close to the real world she has actually been, considering she and Danny, for a time, believed they had been kidnapped to another realm. She could run towards the road now, stop a car and get help. She might make it and save Danny. She could see Grandad again and tell him how sorry she is for not returning home that day. She starts to run, but stops when she hears Danny’s voice. Grace turns to see him stumbling from the rear of the cottage clutching his bleeding belly.
‘Danny!’ she calls.
But it’s not Danny. It’s a man with blood-red eyes that glisten in the silver light of the sickle moon.
‘Look what you did, Grace!’ cries Jamie Blackwell.
Archer’s eyes snap open and she jumps out of bed, her heart pounding. She feels dizzy and steadies herself against the wall, taking three deep breaths. The digital clock on the bedside table says 4.13 a.m. Sitting back on the bed, she rubs her face. Her head is groggy with sleeping pills and she lies back down, knowing that she is fit for nothing right now. It was only a dream, a familiar nightmare, albeit with a new player. Archer turns on her side, pulls the duvet over her and prays for a restful sleep.
54
A
RCHER STIRS THE FOLLOWING MORNING to the sound of the front door closing shut. She blinks, rubs her eyes and stretches but a sharp pain in her wounded hand causes her to jolt. She relaxes her hand slowly in an effort to stop the sutures from opening. The bedside clock says 8.37 a.m. She has always been an early riser so this is a lie-in.
The events of yesterday tumble into her head, but she manages to hold them off as she slides from the bed. Her headache has gone, but her hand still aches and her lip is tender. Thankfully she’s managed to get a few hours’ restful sleep after waking from her nightmare, and is feeling better than she expected.
She steps from the bedroom and into the landing and calls down the stairs for Grandad.
There is no response and she feels a surge of anxiety that he has left the house and will meet someone who will ask him how his granddaughter is doing after her second great brush with death. She curses under her breath and wishes she set the clock to rise earlier.
Archer showers and then applies a generous layer of foundation to conceal the bruising on her face. She folds DCI Pierce’s clothes and puts them into a bag, ready for dry cleaning. She stops at the sound of the front door opening and is relieved to hear Grandad humming happily to himself as he enters.
‘Morning, Grandad,’ she calls.
‘Good morning, my dear,’ he replies. ‘I’ve just been to the shop. I’m going to make tea and toast, when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you! Grandad, listen . . . about last night?’
He doesn’t respond for a moment and then says, ‘What happened last night?’
‘Remember we spoke on the phone?’
‘Did we?’
Archer swallows. He doesn’t remember. ‘Could you please do me a favour?’ she asks.
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Please don’t switch the radio or TV on this morning.’
‘OK, dear, if that’s what you would like.’
‘I’ll explain why when I come down.’
Archer pulls some clothes from her wardrobe: a dark red shirt, a navy knee-length skirt and black boots. As she dresses the she hears the front door opening and voices talking rapidly.
‘Shit!’
She recognises Cosmo’s soft West Indian lilt. Her muscles tense. The grapevine has come to their home.
She descends the stairs and sees Cosmo’s wrinkled face look up at her with a bewildered expression. ‘Hello, Grace,’ he says, ‘I thought I’d just check in on Jake.’
‘Thank you, Cosmo.’
Grandad turns to look at her; his face is almost bone white and lined with terror.
‘I’m fine, Grandad.’
He lifts his arms which tremble as they reach across to her. She embraces his thin body. ‘I’m so sorry, Grandad.’
Archer explains as much as she can, skipping unnecessary detail that might push him over the edge. He blames himself, of course, but Archer assures him that Jamie Blackwell fooled everyone. It is a small reassurance that she hopes will console him. She asks him again to avoid the news, which she suspects he won’t do, and leaves him with Cosmo, who agrees to keep him company for the day.
She goes straight to Waterloo Station and travels across London to the Whittington Hospital and the ICU ward reception area where a young female nurse is finishing on a call.
‘Hello. I’d like to talk with a patient, please,’ says Archer.
‘Which one?’ replies the nurse.
Archer gives the name.
The nurse holds her gaze for a moment. ‘Aren’t you . . .?’
‘DI Archer.’
‘That’s it. I recognise you from the news.’
Archer gives a half smile.
‘I don’t think he’s up for a police visit right now, I’m afraid. He’s still got a lot of recovery ahead of him.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Better today, but he’s still not talking.’
‘Could I see him, please? I don’t need to talk to him . . . just to see him.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Please.’
The nurse taps a pen on her chin and then nods her head. ‘I suppose it could do no harm. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.’
‘Thank you.�
�
She leads Archer into a corridor, through a coded door and points to a closed windowed room. ‘He’s in there. Sleeping, by the looks of it.’
Archer feels an ache in her stomach. She approaches the room and peers in.
Jordan Kelly is connected to three different machines, including one which has an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. His eyes are closed, but she watches for a few moments, grateful that he is pulling through, but also worried for his future. The hardest times lie ahead for him, as they do for the families of all Jamie Blackwell’s victims. It’s a harsh reality that the human cost of crime for the victims’ families is so often forgotten by the public, the lawyers, the media and even the police. When a killer is successfully convicted the perception is that it’s all over and those left behind can move on with their lives. But this is never the case, as she knows from her years as a police officer – and from personal experience. The murder of a loved one is like an emotional bullet to the heart that leaves an irreparable forever-hole. The heart will heal in time, people say. What a cruel lie that is. The heart never heals. With time you learn to adjust and go about your life with that same bullet-sized forever-hole in your heart.
She notices Jordan’s eyes flicker open. He looks around the room with a fearful expression until his gaze meets Archer’s. After a moment, she raises her hand and gives a small wave. It takes a little bit of effort, but Jordan manages to wave back. Her thoughts turn to little Danny Jobson, and with them, a familiar sense of despondency. She was unable to save Danny, but at least she has saved Jordan. Archer smiles at him, despite feeling an ache in her throat.
‘Excuse me,’ says a voice.
Archer looks across to see a grey-haired woman and a man in their mid- to late sixties. ‘Hello.’
‘We just wanted to thank you for saving our grandson. He’s all we have left.’
‘I’m so sorry this has happened,’ replies Archer.
‘Elaine was a good girl. We had our problems, but she was a good mother.’
The nurse appears. ‘I’ll take you through now,’ she tells them.
‘We have to go and see him. Thank you again. God bless . . .’
The Art of Death Page 30