by Shaun Hutson
He took another sip of whiskey and tore open the first.
Phone bill.
He put it to one side.
A couple of circulars.
He tossed them into the bin beneath the table and picked up the last envelope.
Crisp. Pristine white. It seemed to gleam in his hands as he tore it open, noticing that his fingers were trembling slightly.
He pulled out the single typed sheet and unfolded it.
The heading on the paper stood out starkly: Litton Vale Nursing Home.
He sighed, wearily, and began to read.
Eleven
It was far too beautiful a day to be surrounded by death, Andrew Foster thought as he trudged up the narrow gravel path which led off from the main walkway.
It had been on a day like this, a day of clear blue skies and gentle breezes, that death had first touched their lives, and the memory seemed to grow stronger with each successive visit.
Croydon Cemetery was bathed in the soft warming rays of a sun which had risen proudly to take its place in a sky the colour of washed denim.
The scent of flowers, some freshly laid, wafted on the breeze. The scene was idyllic, even down to the birds perched in the leafy trees whistling happily, oblivious to the misery below them, unaware that for every joyful note they uttered in those branches, a tear had fallen below them: tears of pain, helplessness, regret and anger.
Andrew had felt every one of those emotions the day he’d been told his son had died.
Ahead of him, his wife Paula walked with her usual purposefulness, moving surefootedly over the path and grassy ridges, stepping around the many other graves as they made their way to their usual destination.
They were both in their early twenties. They should be playing with their baby boy now, not bringing flowers to lay on his grave. A grave so small that Andrew could reach from one end to the other without stretching his arms.
Suffocation, the doctors had said. The child had been strangled by its own umbilical cord while still inside the womb.
He’d stood at his wife’s side as she sobbed and screamed in her efforts to birth a child who was already dead.
Andrew had cried when he’d seen that tiny body removed, wrapped in a sheet.
Cried with sorrow and rage. Why did it have to be their child?
Paula had taken it remarkably well, but the doctors had warned him there could be a delayed reaction to her grief. They’d rattled off some psychological bullshit names for the condition, most of which he’d forgotten.
He’d heard her crying at night.
He’d woken in the darkness, disturbed by his own nightmares, and he’d heard her weeping in the next room; sometimes he went to her to share her pain, and other times he allowed her to grieve in private.
Two weeks had passed since their son’s death, and Andrew was struck by the appalling irony - they had been expecting the beginning of a new life with his birth, but instead had witnessed only death. Birth and death had become inseparable. They’d become one.
His wife had given birth to a dead child.
And the weather outside on that day had been so beautiful. A day full of the promise of life had brought only pain.
A day like today.
They passed graves bearing fresh flowers, and some which needed tending; some where the headstones sparkled in the early morning sunlight: others where the stones were dull and neglected.
It seemed they were the only two people in the cemetery. They’d seen an old man almost every morning, visiting, Andrew assumed, the grave of his wife. He always nodded a greeting to them. But not this morning.
This beautiful morning seemed to have been created solely for them.
Andrew sucked in a deep breath but it tasted sour. He noticed Paula slow her pace as she reached the path leading to their son’s grave.
It lay beneath a small oak tree, the branches dipping low over the tiny grave.
A sparrow was perched on one of the lower branches, chirping gaily.
The sound grated on Andrew’s nerves and he was relieved to see the bird fly off.
He watched it rise and disappear from view as it flew towards the sun. He shielded his eyes to protect them from the glowing orb.
Then he heard Paula gasp.
She had stopped dead and was pointing ahead of her with one shaking hand.
The flowers she had been carrying had fallen to the ground. Andrew almost trampled on them as he brushed past her, his own eyes now bulging wide as he took in the horrific scene.
He paused, his breath coming in gasps, his mouth open as if he was about to say something. But no words would come. What could he say? What feeble exhortations could express the feelings that swept through him now? What words could begin to describe what he saw?
The grave of Stephen Foster had been dug up, flowers and wreaths scattered across the dark, overturned soil.
The coffin, so tiny in its small resting place, was visible through the earth.
A split snaked across the top.
The brass nameplate had been smashed off.
And, all around, dirt had been scattered. It looked as if the coffin had erupted from beneath the ground, spraying earth in all directions.
From behind him he heard Paula sobbing hysterically, and now he found the voice for one astonished cry of his own.
It felt as if it was wrenched from his soul.
He dropped to his knees in the disturbed earth.
Twelve
Phillip Barclay’s office at New Scotland yard was small and incredibly well kept. It seemed to mirror the man himself. Immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place, he was the picture of efficiency as he set down two files on his desk, arranging them with almost manic neatness. He then sat down, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.
Across from him, DI James Talbot was snapping a Kitkat into four separate pieces. He balled up the silver paper and left it on Barclay’s desk, watching as the coroner frowned and pushed an ashtray towards him, indicating the foil with an accusatory glance.
Talbot made an exaggerated gesture of picking up the silver paper between his thumb and forefinger and dropping it into the ashtray.
‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one of these days, Phil,’ the DI said,
smiling.
Barclay pulled the ashtray away then glared at Rafferty, who was in the process of lighting a cigarette.
‘Not in here, please’ snapped Barclay.
Rafferty looked at him in bewilderment.
‘No smoking,’ Barclay reminded him, watching as Rafferty replaced the cigarette in its box.
‘So, come on, Phil, what’s the story on Peter Hyde?’ Talbot got down to business. ‘Did he top himself or what?’
Barclay flipped open one of the files and glanced at its contents.
‘The autopsy showed no sign of alcohol, drugs or anything stronger than caffeine in his bloodstream at the time of the accident,’ said the coroner.
‘Could he have fallen?’ Talbot asked.
‘He could, but it’s doubtful. I’ve seen victims of tube accidents before.
There are usually severe burns to the palms of the hands and the upper arms, where they’ve tried to break their fall. There were no such marks on Hyde’s hands. That would seem to indicate that he wasn’t pushed either.’
‘Suicide, then?’ Talbot murmured.
‘Plain, simple suicide,’ echoed the coroner. ‘No suspicious circumstances. If I were you I’d close this one, Jim.’
Rafferty looked at his superior. ‘What if it was made to look like an accident?’ he prompted.
Talbot chuckled. ‘Piss off, Bill. Hyde killed himself, just like I said.
That’s it. End of story.’
‘I’m sorry to cheat you out of a murder enquiry,’ Barclay added.
Rafferty shrugged.
‘Terrible waste of life’ Barclay said. ‘A man so young. It makes you wonder what his reasons were for killing himself.’
�
��As far as we could tell, he didn’t have any,’ Rafferty said, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘He had a good job, a beautiful wife, lovely home, everything.’
‘You don’t know what was going on inside his head’ Talbot offered. ‘Just because the guy seemed happy doesn’t mean he was. Never judge a book by its cover and all that shit. You should know that, Bill, you’ve been on the force long enough.’ The DI chewed a piece of chocolate. ‘So, he didn’t look like a bloke who’d top himself: since when have you been able to tell someone’s state of mind from their appearance? If we could do that there wouldn’t be a criminal on the streets, we’d grab all the bastards if they even looked dodgy.
I mean, Nilsen didn’t look like a mass murderer, did he?’
Rafferty shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, smiling.
Talbot got to his feet. ‘Thanks for your help, Phil’ he said, heading for the door.
Rafferty got up to follow.
‘I don’t know if that makes it worse for his wife, knowing he killed himself’
the DS said. ‘At least if he’d been murdered she’d know there was a reason why. She might never know why he killed himself. She might blame herself.’
Talbot sighed.
‘You’re in the wrong game, Bill’ he said. ‘You should have been a bloody social worker. Give me some change.’
Rafferty fumbled in his pocket. ‘What’s it for?’
‘The coffee machine. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of hot, brown water’ Talbot chuckled.
‘You’re all heart’ Rafferty told him.
‘That’s my middle name. Come on.’
They closed the door behind them and Barclay heard their footsteps echoing away up the corridor.
He waited a moment then took the file on Peter Hyde and slid it into one of the bottom drawers of his desk.
Thirteen
The barrel of the .357 Magnum glinted beneath the banks of fluorescents, the cylinder clicking as it was turned.
Neil Parriam pulled back the hammer and wiped the firing pin with the same oily cloth he’d used to clean the frame of the gun. The smell of gun oil was strong in the air, mingling with the less acrid aroma of coffee. Parriam put down the weapon, laying it on a cloth he’d spread out on the table. He wiped his hands on the edge of the cloth then took a sip of his coffee.
‘How long have you known?’ asked the man seated to his right.
Parriam beamed at him.
‘About a week’ he said, happily. ‘We weren’t going to tell anyone until Lynn had her first scan, but then we thought what the hell.’
‘I don’t blame you’ said Jacqui Weaver. ‘It’s not every day you find out you’re going to become a father, is it?’
She squeezed his arm. ‘I reckon you’re a clever boy.’
The other three men seated at the table broke into a chorus of chuckles.
Parriam felt his cheeks redden and he nodded humbly.
Jacqui retreated back behind the counter, glancing up as the buzzer on the main door sounded. She checked the closed circuit TV screen behind the desk, recognised the man waiting outside and buzzed him in. She recognised most of the members of the gun club. A good percentage of them were regulars, turning up at the same time on the same night, week in week out.
Parriam was a regular. Every Tuesday he booked a lane, seven o’clock until eight. He’d been a member of the club in Druid Street for the last five years.
It was the only hobby he’d ever had in his life which had made him truly relax. He felt no competitive drive here. No need to be the best shot at the club, no burning desire to be top dog.
Lynn had encouraged him to join. Her brother had introduced him to the delights of pistol shooting and he’d found the pastime instantly addictive but, over the years, the social side of the activity had taken on added significance for him. The gun club was somewhere to meet friends on a weekly basis, somewhere to unwind, to forget about the pressures of work, although, if he was honest with himself, his job brought very little pressure. He loved what he did and he got well paid for it.
Rumour had it that he was likely to be made a partner in the firm of architects he worked for. And he had yet to reach his thirtieth birthday.
And now to learn that he was to become a father.
As far as Neil Parriam was concerned, life couldn’t get much better.
A child seemed to be the one thing missing, the only remaining piece to be fitted into the jigsaw.
He’d wanted to keep it secret until they were sure the baby was going to be perfect. He and Lynn had both agreed to wait until the third month before releasing the news to friends and family, but neither had been able to contain their excitement.
They’d already been out and bought a cot.
So much for patience.
Parriam smiled to himself and sipped his coffee.
He intended decorating one of the spare rooms next weekend in preparation for transforming it into a nursery.
Nursery.
Even the word made him glow inside.
‘Have you thought about names yet?’ Graham Rogers asked.
Parriam shrugged and continued cleaning the .357.
‘Kelly if it’s a girl, or Nicole,’ he said. ‘Sounds a bit exotic, doesn’t it?’
‘What if it’s a boy?’ Rogers wanted to know.
‘I haven’t thought about boy’s names, I think we both want a girl so much.’
Parriam pushed the wire brush through each of the cylinder chambers, holding the gun up towards the light to check if there was any excess oil left in the chambers.
He reached for the box of ammunition close by and flipped it open, pushing the heavy grain shells into the chambers one by one.
The door to the range opened and the range-master stuck his head out. ‘Your
lane’s free when you’re ready, Neil,’ he said.
‘Cheers, Bert’ Parriam called as the other man disappeared back inside.
‘Are you going to be there at the birth?’ Jacqui asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee and crossing to the table where she sat down opposite Parriam.
‘Bloody right I am’ said Parriam, chuckling. ‘I might even video it.’ He pushed another slug into the cylinder.
‘I’m sure Lynn will appreciate that’ Rogers laughed. ‘You can show it to your friends over dinner. They’ll love it.’
‘My old man was there for the birth of our first’ Jacqui said. ‘He passed out.’
The men around the table laughed.
‘One minute he was telling me to push and that he could see the baby’s head, the next he went down like a sack of spuds’ she said, grinning. ‘Men!’ She shrugged. ‘I hope you don’t pass out, Neil.’
‘No chance, Parriam assured her. ‘Anyway, I’m staying up the end without the blood.’
‘Chicken’ Rogers chided, nudging him.
‘Were you there when your wife gave birth, Graham?’ Parriam asked, thumbing the final shell into the cylinder.
‘I was there in spirit’ Rogers said.
Parriam looked puzzled.
‘I was in the pub getting pissed. When I got there I said to the doctor, “Can you put a couple of extra stitches in down below, she’s never been very tight.”’
Rogers let out a cackling laugh, Parriam joined him.
Jacqui slapped Rogers on the arm and scowled in mock outrage.
‘Bloody chauvinist’ she said, grinning.
Parriam was shaking with laughter. ‘I must remember that, Graham’ he chuckled.
Then, in one fluid movement, he spun the .357 around, pushed the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Fourteen
James Talbot paced back and forth across his office, occasionally stopping to look out of the window, gazing down on the streets which led into New Scotland Yard.
Every now and then he would walk back to the desk and take a square of chocolate from the bar of Fruit and Nut he’d broken up. He chewed thoughtfully, seemingly oblivious
to the gaze of Rafferty who watched his superior as he paced.
‘Was the gun his?’ Talbot asked, turning back to his desk, peering at a collection of ten by eights which lay there.
‘Everything was in order’ the DS said. ‘The certificate of purchase was in the carrying case, so was his FAC
Talbot picked up the first picture.
It had been taken by a police photographer less than ten minutes after Neil Parriam had shot himself.
The body was still upright in its seat, the gun still clutched in one fist.
It looked as if the wall behind Parriam had been coated with red paint.
‘There were at least four witnesses who saw him do it’ Rafferty said. ‘No question of foul play, the autopsy
report backs that up anyway.’ Rafferty jabbed the manilla file beside the photos.
Talbot looked at the second photo.
It showed a rear view of the dead man’s head.
The exit wound was large enough to accommodate two fists; a gaping hole which showed the full extent of the damage wrought by the heavy grain bullet.
‘There were powder burns on his lips and tongue’ Rafferty added. ‘The bullet took out three of his back teeth on its way through.’
Talbot chewed another square of chocolate.
‘One of the ambulance men pulled part of it out of the wall behind where he was sitting’ the DS added.
‘Any family?’ Talbot asked.
‘A wife. She’d just found out she’s pregnant. Apparently Parriam was over the moon about it.’
‘So happy he blew his brains out’ Talbot mused, looking at a third photo. ‘Has official identification been made?’
‘They took the body to Guy’s. His wife identified it. They’ve taken her back home now, she’s sedated.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘She left his personal effects at the hospital.’
Talbot looked puzzled.
‘He was carrying a wallet, credit cards, that sort of shit’ Rafferty elaborated.
‘I’m not with you, Bill’ the DI muttered.
‘He had a pocket diary with him too: one of the uniformed men at the hospital went through it - don’t ask me what he was looking for.’