by Mark Tilbury
Eventually, Jimmy said, ‘I’ll go tonight. I get off shift at nine.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I think I’ll just see how the land lies at first. Find the cottage, and work out the best way to approach this Hodges bloke.’
‘Taking him forty Woodbines would be a good start,’ I said, remembering how much the man liked a smoke. ‘And he likes a nip of brandy. He always keeps a bottle in the work shed. Liam said he gave Reggie a drop one time after he’d had a really bad beating.’ I didn’t tell Jimmy how Reggie had been subjected to rape and torture.
‘I’ve got some left over from Christmas. It’s only cheap stuff, though.’
‘I don’t think Hodges is the sort of bloke who’s too bothered about that.’
‘Right, I’d better crack on.’
‘By the way, I’m being transferred out of here on Monday.’
‘Where?’
‘They’re putting me on remand somewhere.’
‘Shit.’
‘Carver will be able to do exactly what he likes, once I’m out of here.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Michael. We’ll get him. We’ll get the bastard.’
I wished I could believe that. ‘I’m really grateful for what you’re doing, Jimmy.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Liam would have loved you.’
Jimmy hugged the book of poems. ‘I reckon the feeling’s mutual.’ With that, he walked out of the room without a backward glance.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Carver came to the hospital later that day, a large, black book tucked under his arm, lopsided grin fixed on his chops. My insides froze as I remembered him beating Liam to death with the truncheon. Blow after blow, shattering his bones, smashing him to a bloody, unrecognisable pulp. Carrying him to the bottom of the field in that wheelbarrow, like a piece of garden rubbish.
‘Good morning, Michael. I trust you are well?’
I ignored him.
‘What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’ve got nothing else to say to you. You’ve already charged me and told me I’m going to remand on Monday.’
Carver sat in the chair and put the book on the bed. ‘I know. It’s a cut and dried case. You're guilty as charged, blah, blah, blah. But, I’m away for the weekend. Taking Angie to Paris. Ever been?’
I stared at the writing on the emergency door. Wished to Christ the wheelchair would move over to the bed and whisk me away from this grotesque excuse for a human being.
‘They say it’s the most romantic city in the world. I doubt that’s true; it’s full of Frogs.’ He laughed. ‘But, it ought to put Angie in the mood, if you know what I mean.’
I didn’t. And I didn’t want to, either.
‘She’s a sucker for all that romantic slush. Give her a bottle of wine and a plate of oysters, and she’s as good as ready to spread her wings.’ He winked. ‘It’s important to keep a woman satisfied, Michael, if you want your wheels to run smoothly, dodge the potholes.’
‘It’s a bit late for me to worry about that.’
He patted the top of my leg. ‘I fear you might be right there. Right as Rudolph, as my dear, old daddy used to say, before his tongue got slippery in the ale house. Anyway, suffice to say, I should be refreshed and raring to go by Monday morning. In a better frame of mind to deal with a piece of shit like you.’
I felt like screaming in his face, calling him a murderer, telling him that I would make sure he got life for what he’d done to Liam. And then, I had a terrifying thought. What if Liam wasn’t the only one? What if he’d killed others? Kids that just vanished. Maybe the field at Woodside was littered with unmarked graves.
‘Michael?’
I stared at the message from my mother scrawled on the door: Be true to yourself, love-bug.
‘Look at me when I’m speaking to you.’
I forced myself to look into those pale blue eyes; they reminded me of milky ponds. I had to keep it together. Not let on what I knew about him and about Woodside.
He seemed to stare right through me. ‘Do you know, Michael, I’m sure I know you from somewhere.’
‘You don’t.’ A little too abrupt.
He sucked the tip of his thumb. ‘Have you ever been in trouble before?’
‘I don’t know, I—’
‘Don’t remember? Yes, I know, you’ve been trotting that one out, since I first interviewed you. But, it’s been bugging me like a nasty itch in the middle of my back. I said to Angie only yesterday, “I’m bloody sure I know Michael Tate from somewhere.” Course, Angie couldn’t help me out, because she doesn’t understand the first thing about my work.’
Lucky for her, I thought.
‘I know it’s too late for you, Michael, but it’s far better not to let women get too close. Keep them out of your personal stuff. They only end up making a fuss. They like to be in control. It pays dividends to make them think they are.’
‘I wouldn’t—’
‘Did I ever tell you about my first wife?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t tell you about Missy? Where are my manners? Missy was a nice enough girl. Her real name was Melissa, but her family called her Missy, so I wasn’t about to argue with the wishes of family, blood being thicker than water and all that. Now, I’ll let you into a little secret, Michael. Can you keep a secret?’
I didn’t respond.
‘I don’t like screwing women. Does nothing for my libido. Angie understands that. She knows what’s what. That’s why I’m taking her to Paris for the weekend. It’s what we call a compromise. All that romantic guff, and then, I let her find a man to entertain the business end of things, if you get my drift.’
Jesus Christ, was this really happening?
‘So, I spend a few bob, Angie gets her fill, and everyone’s happy. It’s an arrangement we’ve had right back from day one. Like a contract. I learned from my mistakes with Missy, thinking I could smooth her out as we went along. But, here’s a little tip for you, Michael. Women have bumps like braille, and you’d better learn to read them right, else you’re in the deepest shit imaginable. Last piece of advice: never underestimate a woman.’
I tried to load my voice with sarcasm. ‘Thanks.’
‘Beyond all that lipstick and blusher, there beats a brain to match any man’s. I got out of my wedding night obligations by getting blind drunk. I mean, by the end of the night, I could barely raise a smile, let alone the bed snake. In the morning, I blamed a hangover. And so it went on. Every time Missy wanted to get kissy, I had to make up an excuse. I even told her once I had some disease which made me impotent. What Missy failed to understand was I had other needs. She was just arm decoration. Someone to take to the policeman’s ball and the Lord Mayor’s banquet. Someone to come home to, have a meal with, keep the lines of enquiry from straying too close to home. To put it bluntly, Michael, the police force doesn’t like homosexuals. They like them even less if they have a liking for underage boys. Am I making myself plain, Michael?’
‘Yes.’
‘As much as it pains me to say it, Missy was missing the point. She blamed me for everything. Her unhappiness, the weather, the price of a bottle of milk, the government. Which was all fine and dandy. If she kept rattling my cage, I’d just divorce her on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour and having a face like a pug. Move on to someone who was more appreciative of my attributes.’
Sharon popped her head around the door. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Detective Inspector?’
Carver treated her to his trademark grin. ‘That’s very kind of you, Nurse. Very kind, indeed. Perhaps later. I’m at a delicate moment with the suspect. I’d appreciate it if we aren’t disturbed in the next half an hour or so.’
‘Of course.’ She shut the door.
‘What a nice girl.’
I could think of other names for her.
‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Missy. Turned out bad in the end,
Michael. Beyond repair, you might say. She caught me in bed with a fourteen-year-old boy. She was meant to be at work, but came home early, because she had a migraine. At least that’s what she was claiming. Bloody thing soon vanished when she walked into that bedroom, I can tell you. The woman was beyond reason. I tried to tell her it was only a kid from the children’s home. No one would ever find out. We’d work through this. Just a glitch. But, she was having none of it. Do you know what she threatened to do, Michael?’
I couldn’t speak.
‘She threatened to go to the police. Can you believe that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘There was a look in her eyes I didn’t much care for. I’ve seen it in criminals when they get caught. Like a cornered rat. I had little choice, Michael. I beat her to death with the truncheon I keep in the wardrobe. Had to. I didn’t want that tongue of hers upsetting the apple cart and spilling all the apples. Then, I had a genius idea. A once in a lifetime one. Ever had one of those?’
I shut my eyes and pleaded with God to make Carver go away.
‘I got the kid blamed for Missy’s murder. Said I came home and caught him red-handed. Arrested him on the spot and slapped the cuffs on him. I had to work the scene a bit, tie up a few loose ends, so-to-speak, but it wasn’t too hard to lick the place into shape. After all, who was going to believe a worthless turd from a children’s home?’
I felt nausea swirling around my head like thick fog. How long ago had this happened? Before my time at Woodside? After? Did I know the kid?
‘Little bastard went to a young offenders’ institute, until he was old enough for prison. He slit his wrists with a razor blade and bled to death. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. So, that was Missy. Far too prudish for her own good. I steered clear of women for a while after that. Once bitten, twice shy. Not worth the hassle. And then, I met Angie. A good woman. An honest woman. The sort of woman you can pin your colours to, and they won’t fade in the wash. Bit like your mum, I should imagine, Michael.’
I almost bit my tongue in two.
‘I knew her well. A tart with a heart.’
‘My mother was not a tart.’
‘How do you know that? I thought you had no memory?’
‘I don’t.’
‘So, why say it?’
‘I just don’t like her being talked about that way.’
‘Stick to the facts. She was a tart. Half the street had her at one time, or another.’
You filthy, disgusting liar.
‘Might have had a go myself once.’ He laughed. ‘You never know, Michael, I could even be your daddy.’
My head felt about ready to explode.
‘But, you don’t remember me either, right?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t remember Woodside Children’s Home?’
‘No.’
‘What about a boy called Liam Truman?’
I shook my head; in case my voice gave me away.
He studied me for a moment, and then grinned. ‘Perhaps we ought to take you to the top floor at Oxford nick and drop you on your head. See if that helps to jog your memory.’
Good idea. At least it would put an end to this nightmare.
Carver opened the book. ‘How’s your eyesight, Michael?’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got some pictures to show you. It might help to give your memory a wiggle.’ He leafed through the pages, stopped, smiled to himself. He turned the book to me. ‘This is Missy’s page. I took these before the cops came to arrest that boy for the murder.’
I tried not to look. Tried to shut my mind off and make it go blank, but looked anyway. Spread across two pages, about two dozen polaroid snaps of his wife’s battered and bruised body lying on the bed. Her face resembled minced meat. Her mousy brown hair stained red. The photos showed the same scene at many different angles.
‘Had trouble explaining the truncheon away. Said it was my grandfather’s. I kept it stashed in the wardrobe. Kid must have found it in there.’
How fucking clever of you.
‘I bought it at an auction. Lovely piece. Dates right back to Victorian times. Made of traditional Lignum vitae hardwood. Brass band at the tip. Engraved, too. VR. You know what that stands for, Michael?’
‘No.’
‘Your generation have no respect for history and heritage. No eye for craftsmanship. It stands for Victoria Regina. That truncheon was too good for Missy’s narrow mind. A frying pan would have been far more appropriate, but done is done, as they say.’
He pulled the book away, leafed through a few more pages, and stopped again. He thrust the book under my nose again. I stared in disbelief at a young man’s body, lying on a bed in a tiny room. The white sheet was stained crimson with blood.
‘That’s David. Missy’s murderer. I really like the contrast of the blood on the white sheet. It makes the picture seem rather artistic, wouldn’t you agree?’
My mind was racing, trying to imagine what else was in that book.
‘That’s Westcombe Young Offenders’ Institute, in case you’re wondering. It took two guards to hold him while I slit his wrists. I don’t mind telling you it was messy, Michael. Messier than Missy. Bugger was as slippery as an eel once he started pumping blood. Still, needs must, as they say.’
‘You’re sick.’
Carver raised his eyebrows. ‘Michael! Wash your mouth out with soap. You can be so hurtful sometimes. I can see you’re shocked by the truth, so I’ll excuse you this time. Those polaroid snaps are really good quality, don’t you think?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And you don’t have to take them to Boots to get them developed. No prying, disapproving eyes. Instamatic cameras, eh, Michael? An invention right up there with sliced bread.’
He leafed through the book again. He stopped, sighed, and turned the book back to me. ‘This one might help to jog your memory.’
I closed my eyes. I knew it was Liam. The pictures he’d taken in the boiler room.
‘Open your eyes, Michael.’
‘No.’
‘Open them.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t make me hurt you.’
‘I don’t care what you do.’
A long silence, marked only by the thumping of my heart.
And then, another man’s voice. ‘I need to speak to Mr. Tate.’
I opened my eyes to see the short stocky frame of Dr. Redstone standing by the bed. Thank God for small mercies.
Carver whipped the book away and snapped it shut. He stood up and tucked it under his arm. ‘I did request we weren’t to be disturbed.’
Redstone flapped a hand. ‘I’m afraid this is a hospital, Detective Inspector, not a police station.’
Carver looked at me as if he was trying to unravel me with his eyes. ‘I’ll see you Monday morning, Michael. Bright and early. We can carry on our little conversation then.’ He strode to the door and vanished into the corridor.
Redstone plucked the board holding my notes from the foot of the bed. ‘How are you today, Mr. Tate?’
How the hell did I answer that?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
By lights out, all I could think about was Jimmy, and how Hodges might react to him turning up out of the blue with Terry. Even though Hodges seemed decent enough, it didn’t mean that he was. If the whole thing backfired, they could end up down the nick, being interrogated by Carver and his cronies.
My mind took a brief rest from Jimmy and Terry, and wandered over everything else that had happened. My mother’s murder. My time at Woodside. Liam’s murder. The disgusting, grisly book Carver had brought to the hospital. His threats.
Try to think positive.
Good advice, under normal circumstances. But, this was like trying to think of solid ground while you were sinking in a bog, deeper and deeper with every passing moment.
‘We’re all fucked,’ I told the empty room.
I looked at the emerge
ncy door. Closed and bolted. The Abattoir of Dreams scrawled at the bottom. Liam’s poem. A haunting reminder of the impossible task we faced to bring those bastards to justice.
The bolt suddenly slid along its rusty sheath. The bar was pushed down, and the door opened, revealing the black abyss beyond. The wheelchair moved slowly towards the bed. ‘Liam?’
As usual, there was no answer; just those gentle hands helping me into the wheelchair. And then, the wheelchair moved across the room and into the pitch-dark tunnel, wheels squeaking rhythmically.
A hand ruffled my hair, like my mother used to when I was really little. Laughing at her little love-bug. Teeth still intact, still able to deliver a pretty, white smile.
After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally delivered to a parking bay at one end of Woodside. I was once again dressed in scruffy clothes reeking of piss and damp. Black trousers, with a hole in one knee. A baggy black jumper. Black scuffed shoes.
There was a large white van backed up to a side door; the laundry van which came every Tuesday to take the dirty washing away. I climbed out of the wheelchair and walked over to van. I heard Mrs. Clarke, one of the kitchen staff, talking to the driver. They were both puffing away on cigarettes.
‘I wouldn’t mind, Ted. What time?’
‘Seven thirty at the Hound and Hare?’
‘All right. I’ll look forward to it.’
‘How about a quick one now?’
A bray of nervous laughter. ‘No. God, what are you like?’
‘We could go in the back of the van.’
‘You save it for later, you dirty bugger, I’ve got work to do.’
Yeah, you save it for later, I thought. I’ve been planning this for weeks.
I sneaked along the side of the van and peered around the corner. I only had one chance to get in the back of the van while Ted was busy chatting up Mrs. Clarke. Flirting with his darling hippopotamus. I’d learned quite a bit about Ted and Mrs. Clarke during my numerous dummy runs. Both married. Both hated their jobs. Couldn’t wait to run away together. She wanted to go to Ireland, Ted wanted to go to Norfolk. I didn’t give a fuck as long as they didn’t go in the back of the van.