The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘Because I’ve got a better idea.’ He fished a small black box out of his pocket. ‘We want him to come to the hospital tomorrow morning as planned, then we want you to get him to talk about the murders, and record it on this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a dictaphone. It’s got a mini-cassette inside which will run for ninety minutes. If we hide it somewhere, you can set it to record just before he shows up.’

  ‘What if he finds it?’

  ‘He won’t be looking for it. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just coming here to take you away. He won’t think he’s being set up. I know John Carver. He’s an arrogant bugger. He’ll think it’s business as usual. He won’t be wondering if you’ve got a dictaphone stashed away somewhere.’

  I wasn’t so sure. Carver had terrorised me enough times to make me think he was capable of anything. ‘Where am I supposed to hide it?’

  Hart looked at the bedside locker. ‘In the drawer. We’ll make sure he gets here bang on nine o’clock. If you switch it on at five minutes to, and leave the drawer open about half an inch, that should be adequate to catch everything he has to say.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want to talk?’

  ‘Ask him why he murdered all those people. Draw it out of him. Tell him you accept you’re going to prison. That he’s won. Maybe even congratulate him. Stroke his ego. Lie. Cajole. But, always remember why you’re doing it, Michael. You can gain a lot of strength from what he’s put you through.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’re not on your own anymore. We’ll be right here in the hospital, waiting. Listening. As soon as you’ve got enough evidence on the tape, press the bell, and we’ll be straight in.’

  I wanted to feel reassured, believe Carver would get what he deserved, but I just felt empty and hollow. It was as if someone had taken a knife and gutted me like a fish.

  Hart put the dictaphone on the bed. ‘Okay, let’s give it a test run. The four buttons along the top are easy enough. Play, rewind, fast-forward and record. Just press record and put it in the drawer.’

  I did as he asked.

  Hart nodded. ‘Testing, one, two, three. This is Detective Inspector Hart from Thames Valley Police speaking. End of message. Okay, Michael. Take it out, rewind it, and play the tape.’

  The message was loud and clear.

  ‘Easy enough, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Rewind the tape and put it back in the drawer for the morning.’

  As long as no one tips Carver off, I thought. And then, another thought born of paranoia. What if they’re all in this together? Hart and Guard. The bobby outside the door? All part of an elaborate set- up to trap me? What if Carver’s at the hospital right now, laughing his bollocks off?

  Hart looked at his watch. ‘Any questions, Michael?’

  About a million. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve posted a bobby outside the door for the night. Anything you want, just call him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  I had more chance of running a bloody marathon. I watched Hart leave. He closed the door, leaving me alone with just my thoughts. The wheelchair sat motionless against the wall, no visible trace left of the emergency door and its messages.

  There was a funny feeling in the bottom of my stomach. Sick, yet at the same time exhilarating. My thoughts turned to Becky, Paul, and Liam. How could Carver just murder them in cold blood? What sort of monster was he? It was like a game to him, full of players he controlled. He hadn’t joined the police force to uphold the law; he’d joined the police force because it had allowed him to stand above the law.

  I picked up the photo of Becky sitting on the pier. So pretty. So innocent. It was a good job we didn’t know what was coming our way. A blessing we can’t see into the future. This time, the picture remained static. I did not join Becky on the pier, or talk about going to the police.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘So sorry it ended the way it did.’

  Becky gazed into the distance, waiting for her boyfriend to come back from his latest sulk. I now remembered everything. Our plans to have children. Two girls and a boy. I would get a better job, maybe train as a chef, and we would buy a nice little house out in the country somewhere. Settle down. Have a black Labrador, go for walks in the summer, picking blackberries, the kids taking turns on my shoulders.

  The children would want for nothing. They would be loved. Looked after. You didn’t think for one minute someone like Carver was going to come back from the past and kill all your dreams. That bastard not only murdered Liam and the others, he murdered my future. Becky’s future. Our unborn children’s futures.

  I felt a nervous tingling in my stomach just thinking about putting that swine behind bars for good. I didn’t realise the significance of this at first, and then, it hit me: I could actually feel something below the level of my belly button for the first time since I’d come around from the coma.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  As predicted, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I might have dozed off once or twice, but nothing substantial. Emily came on shift at eight. She breezed into my room and treated me to a nervous smile. ‘Big day, huh?’

  I nodded. I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn’t want to say anything that might jeopardise the plan to trap Carver.

  ‘I understand Detective Inspector Carver’s coming to take you to remand at nine.’

  Just the mention of his name sickened me. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ve been told not to interrupt you when he comes.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I just wanted to come and say goodbye before….’

  I changed the subject. ‘I had some sensation in my tummy last night.’

  A smile stretched right across her face. ‘That’s fantastic news. I’m really pleased for you.’

  ‘Is it normal?’

  ‘It might just be water retention. I’ll have a word with Dr Marston.’

  I dredged a smile from somewhere deep inside me. ‘Before you go, I wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’

  She looked away. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Sharon’s just doing her job. The doctors are just doing their jobs. You’ve been a true friend throughout my time here.’

  ‘That’s because I care about you, Michael.’

  ‘Can I let you into a little secret?’

  Her lovely green eyes sparkled in the early morning sunlight. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I care about you, too.’

  She brushed a kite tail of hair behind one ear, and then leaned over and kissed the top of my head. ‘My prayers will always be with you, Michael. If you ever want me to come and see you, well…’ She fished a small piece of note paper out of her pocket and handed it to me. ‘That’s my home number. My private number.’

  I took the paper and tucked it in my pyjama pocket. ‘I might take you up on that.’

  She smiled. She looked as if she was going to turn back as she walked out the door, but she merely paused, and then carried on about her business.

  I switched the dictaphone to record at ten minutes to nine. I left the drawer open about a quarter of an inch, and spent the next ten minutes hovering somewhere between determination and pessimism. Something was bound to go wrong. Carver was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. Someone would tip him off. All his cronies were like a network of cancerous cells, ready and waiting to leak their poison into anything weak and vulnerable.

  Carver strolled into the room and smiled at me. He closed the door and sat down next to the bed. ‘That was a bloody good weekend, Michael. Ever been to Paris?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ought to go. Might do you good to recharge the old batteries.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Angie found herself a gigolo, the dirty girl. Michel, or some poncey name like that. Had a ponytail. Can you believe that, Michael? A man with a fucking ponytail.
I swear the world’s gone mad. Or perhaps it’s just the Frogs. Hopping mad.’ He smirked at his own stupid joke. ‘Still, it does a girl good to let her hair down. That’s probably where you went wrong with Becky.’

  My stomach flipped over at the mention of Becky’s name. I tried to console myself. He would be the one going to prison, not me.

  ‘If you’d kept her satisfied, she might not have looked elsewhere. You have to plug in now and again to get a spark.’

  I stared at the wall. Tried to turn my mind as blank as the yellowing paint.

  ‘A girl needs attention. Especially when she’s hooked up to a loser like you.’

  Don’t let him goad you. Concentrate on getting him to talk about the murders. ‘I don’t know anything about Becky. Like I’ve told you a hundred times, I can’t remember anything.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember.’ That disgusting, lopsided grin greased the side of his chops. ‘That old chestnut. King of the cop outs. Second only to I didn’t do it. The prisons are chock full of fools who swear they’re innocent. But, let me tell you, Mikey, no one listens to the likes of you. Your kind always go where you belong and belong where you go.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Speaking of which, the hospital is going to provide you with your own private ambulance to take you to remand. How about that for first class treatment on the National Health? And you not even a tax payer. But, don’t worry your head about that, Michael, there’s always more than one way to pay your dues.’

  And you’re about to find out all about that.

  ‘I’ll be riding in the back with you, in case you get any clever ideas about trying to throw yourself out of the back.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m in any fit state to throw myself anywhere, am I? Much as I’d like to.’

  ‘Don’t get all sulky on me, Mikey. This is a momentous day. Let’s not spoil it with petty whining.’

  Say something. Don’t let him keep putting you on the back foot. ‘I suppose we’re two of a kind really, aren’t we?’

  Carver’s grin slipped away. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘I killed my girlfriend. You killed your first wife.’

  ‘Are you trying to wind me up?’

  ‘No. You told me you killed your first wife and set up a kid with the murder.’

  Carver stood up and walked over to the wall. ‘I killed Missy because she was a fucking liability, Tate.’

  ‘You told me she caught you in bed with a fifteen-year-old boy.’

  ‘Missy was a mistake. I’m nothing like you, Tate. I’m not a dirty piece of scum like you.’

  ‘You still killed her.’

  ‘For the greater good.’

  ‘Beat her to death with a truncheon.’

  ‘I’m warning you, Tate. Don’t play games with me.’

  ‘I’m not playing games. I’m only saying what you told me when you showed me that photo album with all those dead bodies in it.’

  He stepped away from the wall. ‘You’d do well to remember who you’re talking to. The severity of your prison existence depends on my good nature.’

  ‘I’m only saying.’

  Carver took a few steps towards the bed. ‘Talk isn’t cheap, Mikey. It’s costly. Very costly.’

  Keep talking then. ‘Don’t you ever regret killing Missy? I mean, I regret killing Becky, even though I don’t remember doing it.’

  Carver sat back down next to the bed. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Tate. Life’s too short to have regrets. What’s the point in wasting time worrying about ifs and buts? My only regret, if you could call it that, is I married the bitch in the first place. The whiny, little mare should have found herself a Workhorse Joe. Someone with a nice little nine-till-five.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you care he got put inside for something he didn’t do?’

  ‘Why should I? He was just another piece of scum like you, Tate.’

  I felt like throwing up. I consoled myself with the fact he’d just confessed to his wife’s murder. But, was it enough? What about all the others?

  ‘Killing someone, and getting someone else blamed for it, is like killing two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Like killing Becky and getting me blamed for it?’

  For the first time since I’d met John Carver, he looked unsure. His mouth hung open. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I remember what you did, Carver. You killed Becky and pushed me off the top of those flats. Just like you murdered your first wife and made sure that the poor kid got sent down for it. Cut his wrists in prison.’

  A shadow passed before his eyes, turning them from pale blue to grey. ‘You remember?’

  ‘I went to Feelham nick to make a statement. You killed Sergeant Osbourne. You killed Paul. You killed Becky. And you tried to kill me.’

  ‘Well, well, well, you have been a busy boy inside that empty head of yours, haven’t you?’

  ‘Just saying.’

  He seemed to mull this over. When he answered, his words were cold and measured, like ice cubes popped from a tray. ‘I did what I had to do, Tate.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just kill me?’

  ‘If I’d just killed you, the vicar and your girlfriend would have been kicking up enough stink to drown a skunk’s arse. I had no choice. Not once you’d opened your mouth.’

  I wanted to tear his face apart with my bare hands. ‘You killed them, because you enjoyed doing it. What sort of sick bastard makes a vicar commit suicide? Write a note confessing to liking young boys?’

  ‘I had it on good authority Paul Brady was a queer. I simply lowered his age of consent.’

  ‘I hope there is a God. I hope He’s watching you.’

  Carver laughed. ‘There’s no such thing as God.’

  ‘I thought the police were supposed to protect people, not murder them.’

  ‘If that’s what you want to believe. My only regret is Osbourne. It’s never pleasant when you have to do away with one of your own. At least it was quick once I’d reversed over him.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘Me? Michael, you do surprise me. I thought by now you’d have realised throwing insults at me is a dangerous pastime.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Really? You should. No disrespect to your bird, but I’d let sleeping dogs lie, if I were you. By the way, I thought stabbing her twenty-one times was a nice touch. A work of art. The vicar, too. Bit more creative than getting rid of the usual rubbish at Woodside.’

  ‘Creative my arse.’

  ‘Nice to see you’ve lost none of your illiterate touches, Tate.’

  I felt Carver had incriminated himself enough, but I wanted to say something about Liam, in case the bloody fingerprint wasn’t enough. ‘They’ve found Liam’s body.’

  His eyebrows joined the frown on his forehead. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said they’ve found Liam. The boy you handcuffed to the railings in the boiler room, and beat to death with your truncheon, remember?’

  ‘Truman? That mouthy piece of shit got what he deserved.’

  ‘You really believe that, don’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Nothing but scum. Another notch on the truncheon.’

  I reached over and pressed the red button to summon assistance.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Within a few seconds, Detective Inspector Hart walked into the room with a young bobby. ‘Hello, John.’

  Carver stood up. ‘What are you doing here? I’m about to escort Tate to remand.’

  Hart shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, John.’

  ‘Has something happened. I heard they found a body at Woodside Children’s Home. Do you need me out there?’

  ‘John Edward Carver, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Liam Winston Truman. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand
the charge?’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? This scumbag murdered the Coombs girl. Killed her and tried to commit suicide. You know that. Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘It’s no joke. Turn around and let the officer put on the handcuffs.’

  ‘This has got to be a fucking joke.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Now turn around. We can either do this peacefully, or by force. Your choice, John.’

  ‘Someone tell me this isn’t happening.’

  I watched him turn to face the wall. The bobby cuffed him.

  ‘You haven’t got one shred of evidence. You’re wasting police time, Hart. Valuable police time.’

  Hart pulled the dictaphone out of the drawer. ‘There are police teams digging up the field at Woodside as we speak. To date, they’ve unearthed three bodies, including that of Liam Truman. We believe we have sufficient evidence to charge you with his murder. Who knows what else we’ll find? We also have reason to believe you are responsible for the deaths of Becky Marie Coombs, Paul Brady, and Sergeant Donald Osbourne. Your car has been impounded, and officers have obtained a search warrant for your home.’

  ‘On what fucking grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds you beat Liam Truman and your first wife to death with a truncheon. I’d like to inform you we have located the truncheon and sent it to the lab for testing. We have also found a book in your property, containing photographs of numerous deceased people.’

  ‘I want my brief.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Carver glared at me. ‘I should have made a better job of you.’

  ‘Is that an admission to the attempted murder of Michael Tate, John?’ Hart said.

  Carver didn’t answer. I watched him being led away by the bobby.

  Hart turned to me. ‘You did remember to switch it on, right?’

  I fucking hope so. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good man. We’ll be in touch.’

  I felt both triumphant and empty. I wanted to cry, but no tears would come. I wanted to run up the stairs and shout from the rooftops, but, well, for obvious reasons! I picked up the photo of Becky, and held it close to my heart, where she had always been and always would be.

  Chapter Forty-Eight