Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  According to the sat nav, it was less than an hour to their destination. He hoped to God that left them enough time – and they could do what was necessary without being disturbed. If that happened, Wallace would have to act.

  A part of him hurt at the prospect of what he intended to do. But did it really mean anything to him? He doubted it. The Leopard was in the same category as the interior designer crap Yvonne had filled their homes with. It was all meaningless. It was only ever about the money for him. The distance it bought from his father. From the poverty that had made him into a monster.

  The car had filled with Wallace’s scent. Tapper felt a wave of deep comfort. Out here, away from everything that was expected of him – husband, businessman, father, and friend of the rich and powerful – he dared to admit what he was feeling. A part of him didn’t want to return.

  Sure, he still needed Keddie and Idris eliminated. But there was an undeniable sense that he felt more alive than he had for years.

  He glanced at Pat briefly. His old cellmate was looking ahead, readying for the next task.

  Pat had been his protector at Ipswich. He’d saved his life when those two inmates had decided that Tapper was fair game, someone to unleash their violent frustrations on. The screws had turned a blind eye and Tapper often found himself bloodied and bruised on the floor of the games room, showers, even his cell – that particular time, clothes damp with his tormenters’ urine. He knew he wouldn’t last long. He was taking kickings to his chest with already fractured ribs. Sooner or later a boot to his head would have given him brain damage.

  And then one day his cellmate moved out and a new one – Pat Wallace – arrived. And within days, his two attackers understood that they could never bother Harry Tapper again.

  A thought occurred to Tapper as he left the streetlights of Pozzani and the landscape around them darkened. Wallace didn’t know the full story. Beyond that initial question he’d asked following the riot, he hadn’t returned to the subject. He just served, unquestionably.

  ‘Pat,’ said Tapper. ‘I need to tell you what happened. I owe you that.’

  ‘There’s no need, Harry.’

  ‘Really, there is.’

  And so he told Wallace what had happened the previous summer. And why seeing Zahra Idris in Creech Hill had triggered such a gruesome turn of events.

  Wallace listened in silence. Then finally, when Tapper had finished, he spoke: ‘I appreciate that, Harry.’

  And with that uncomplicated comment – again free of all judgement – the unsettling feelings that had been conflicting him for the past days evaporated, and a sensation of warmth and solidity enveloped him.

  Chapter 54

  Sicily

  The car slowed as it approached another hairpin bend. The road had been zig-zagging uphill for the past hour.

  They were sitting in silence, Sam relieved that, for once, they were safe. But the feeling seemed tenuous, fragile.

  They passed a sign for Ragusa, which was two kilometres away. Zahra’s eyes were fixed on the road, staring at red tail-lights and the oncoming beams of vehicles on the opposite side. Sam sensed that she was girding herself.

  They entered the city, the road still winding its way upwards but now past shops and apartment blocks, municipal buildings and churches fronted with elaborate Baroque decoration. The street opened out into a large piazza and Reni swung left through an open gateway, pulling up in a near-empty courtyard. He killed the engine and turned to his passengers. ‘We’re here.’

  They followed him across the courtyard and through a modern glass door that had been set incongruously into the opening of an old building.

  Inside, Reni asked Sam and Zahra to sign a visitors’ book on the reception. Sam penned his name then turned to Zahra. She shook her head, clearly reluctant to sign anything official. Reni saw her expression and waved a hand dismissively, taking the pen from Sam. He and Zahra were then handed badges on ribbons by an officer behind reception, which they draped round their necks.

  Reni moved down a long corridor of grey lino flooring and white walls, passing black and white photographs of the local police force from the last century. Uniformed officers standing by old model Fiats and Alfa Romeos, graduation ceremonies, medals being pinned on chests. Up ahead, Sam saw a suspended sign that read ‘Obitorio’.

  When Reni reached the corridor’s far end, he stopped and turned. ‘OK. I didn’t tell you where we were going because I didn’t want to frighten you. But now I need to be honest.’

  Zahra stiffened.

  ‘This is the mortuary,’ said Reni. ‘Where we keep the bodies of crime victims – or those whose deaths require further investigation.’

  A hand shot to Zahra’s mouth.

  ‘Signorina Idris. This will take a few minutes. Nothing more. With your help, we may be able to secure justice for someone you knew.’ He looked at Sam. ‘And for the others.’

  The hand was still held tightly over her mouth. But very slowly, Zahra began to nod.

  ‘Va bene,’ said Reni, rewarding her bravery with a warm smile.

  He pushed through a set of swing doors and into another room. There was a distinct smell to it, an odour of industrial-strength disinfectant that Sam could taste in his mouth, as well as a noticeable drop in temperature. There was a sofa by a table with a vase of silk flowers and a pile of glossy magazines – an attempt to replicate the mood of a surgery waiting room. Reni nodded at a woman sitting at a desk tapping at a keyboard and moved through a further set of doors.

  The next room was vast, more the scale of a school gymnasium. At the far end was a row of stainless steel examination tables, equipped with sinks, tall taps and industrial-style hosing. Sam spotted a large floor drain in front of the nearest table.

  Down the length of the room was a long wall of steel-fronted cabinets, each with a small framed label just below the handle.

  They followed Reni as he moved down the room and stopped in the middle. He fixed Zahra with a sympathetic look.

  ‘I’m going to pull this cabinet open and show you the body of a man, Signorina Idris. I need you to tell me if you know him.’

  Zahra was now rigid with fear, her upper lip and forehead glowing with sweat.

  Reni pulled a handle on the cabinet. It eased open soundlessly. The policeman stepped backwards, continuing to pull. A long drawer was slowly revealed and, lying on its base, the unmistakable shape of a body shrouded in a white sheet.

  With the drawer fully extended, Reni stood on its far side, Sam and Zahra opposite him. Zahra reached for Sam’s hand. Her palm was cold and clammy.

  Then Reni pulled back the sheet from the man’s face.

  Zahra gasped. The man before them was, Sam guessed, in his early thirties. He was handsome, strong featured, but his dark skin was tinged with the blue pallor of death.

  ‘You know this man?’ asked Reni.

  Zahra was still for a moment. Then she nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me who he is?’

  The hand tightened, nails digging into Sam’s flesh.

  Then she spoke. ‘It’s Abel,’ said Zahra. ‘My husband.’

  Chapter 55

  Ragusa, Sicily

  The room was silent for what felt like minutes. Sam could feel Zahra’s hand trembling in his. He wanted to cry out to Reni to stop, to cover Abel’s face. But Sam knew it was too late. This moment could not be undone.

  With Abel’s continued lack of contact, she must have wondered. But that was very different to knowing.

  Reni peeled the sheet further back to reveal a series of wounds on Abel’s chest. Puncture marks barely half an inch in width.

  ‘You saw Abel murdered, didn’t you, Signorina Idris?’

  Zahra was crying, sobs accompanied by heaves of her chest as if she were gulping her last breaths. Then she began howling, her damp hand slipping from Sam as she crumpled to her knees and then dropped to the floor.

  Alerted by the noise, the woman from the reception area next door rushed int
o the room. The three of them lifted Zahra’s ragdoll-like body from the floor and gently led her, her face devoid of life, through the doors to the sofa in the next room. The woman opened a closet behind the desk and pulled out a blanket. It clearly wasn’t the first time this had happened in the mortuary.

  Reni cupped Sam’s elbow and gently pulled him back into the examination room.

  ‘She’s in shock,’ said the policeman.

  They stood just inside the door. Sam could see through a small window into the reception area. Zahra was rocking backwards and forwards, sobbing uncontrollably. The woman sat by her side, an arm wrapped tightly round Zahra’s shoulder.

  ‘I should help her,’ said Sam, about to push the door open.

  He felt a hand lightly grip his arm.

  ‘Wait,’ said Reni.

  Sam turned to face the policeman, saw something in his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need to tell you something.’ Reni grimaced, his face suddenly stricken with anguish. ‘When Zahra mentioned the date she crossed the Mediterranean and how many she travelled with, her words rang an alarm bell. Something happened in Pozzani that month and I thought there might be a connection.’

  ‘Are we talking about Abel’s death?’

  Reni nodded, his eyes hollow and sad. ‘His cause of death is significant, which is why I showed her the corpse. But sadly he’s not the only one.’

  Reni released Sam’s arm. His face darkened. ‘Last August a fishing boat from Pozzani was returning to harbour. It was close to dawn, the sun just coming up over the water. The helmsman saw what he thought was debris in the sea ahead. The boat was sailing right through it when he realised that, in addition to chunks of splintered wood, there were bodies. Everywhere.’ Reni shook his head, as if trying to remove the image from his mind. ‘The coastguard was called, and the navy. And slowly, the bodies were pulled from the water and brought to Pozzani. It was the worst tragedy the town has ever seen. Ninety-six bodies in total, ten of them children. Even those voices in the community that normally shout the loudest about the dangers of immigration fell silent. The whole community was in deep sadness.’

  Reni paused, glancing back up the room in Abel’s direction. ‘And then someone noticed him. And I was called. Now, as you can imagine, our budget is tight these days and there are many in the police who might have chosen to ignore the wounds on his chest. But I decided to investigate. I brought Abel here and we performed an autopsy. What we found surprised even the pathologist. And believe me, he’s seen everything.’

  Reni massaged his forehead. ‘This man, Abel, had not drowned like his companions, but bled to death following a frenzied stabbing.’

  As Sam struggled with the image in his head, Reni went on.

  ‘It gets stranger,’ said the policeman. ‘Before Abel was killed, he ate a rather unusual meal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lobster.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I, Signor Keddie. But if anyone does, it’s Zahra.’

  Chapter 56

  Ragusa, Sicily

  Sam was starting to feel nauseous, whether from the smell in the room or the implications of what Reni had said.

  ‘We can’t talk to Zahra now,’ he said.

  ‘We have to.’

  ‘Look at her.’

  They peered through the door again. Zahra was still rocking. Still in shock. Even if Sam had been willing to talk to her – which he wasn’t – they’d have got nothing out of her.

  ‘She’s going to be in that state for some time. I would guess her pain is as raw now as it was when she witnessed Abel’s death.’

  ‘We must try.’

  Sam rubbed his face with both hands. His jaw was covered with stubble. His skin was dry. He ached for this to end.

  ‘I can see she’s in agony,’ said Reni. ‘But we need to discover the connection between her and those two men. They are trying to shut you both down, which makes me think they have something very big to hide. If that secret is murder, then we must find out what else she can remember.’

  Sam knew Reni was right. He noticed that Zahra’s rocking had slowed. But this meant nothing. She might simply be going into deeper shock, catatonic even.

  ‘My mother is Tunisian,’ said Reni, looking at Zahra. ‘So even though my father’s family has lived in Siracusa for centuries, I’m an outsider here in the police headquarters. Crazy, but true. So I have sympathy for Abel. For anyone who is treated differently because of the colour of their skin, or country of origin.’ His face darkened. ‘But that is as far as my knowledge goes. I cannot imagine what these people go through. And I’m sure you know, the immigrants who cross this stretch of the Mediterranean are now very low down on the government’s list of priorities. And the EU’s. Thousands drown every year. That is one tragedy. Being brutally murdered is another thing altogether. It is a terrible crime.’

  ‘Come,’ said Sam.

  They pushed through the doors, moving as quietly as possible.

  Sam sat by Zahra. Reni nodded at the woman and she got up and left the room. Zahra was staring into the middle distance. Reni perched on the arm of the sofa.

  They sat in silence. Minutes passed. Sam looked up at Reni, could feel the policeman’s impatience, feel him itching to question Zahra.

  Then she spoke.

  ‘I always knew this was possible. That Abel might have died. But I never believed it. Even in the worst moments, I thought he would call, make contact. But now I know the amnesia was fooling me.’

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Sam placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She turned to him, face stony, despite the tears. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘I remember what happened at sea.’

  Unlike the triggers of the lights on the water and the bodies in the crypt, which were similar to her memories and had acted like reminders or nudges, this was the real thing. Her memory – her darkest memory – had just been laid out before her. And a door in her mind, closed for months, had been violently kicked open to reveal a room that Sam suspected was choked with horrors.

  ‘Can you tell us now?’ asked Reni, no longer able to contain himself.

  Zahra swung round to face the policeman. ‘Can you find those men?’

  ‘The more I know, the more I can do.’

  She closed her eyes, raised her head and breathed deeply. When she reopened her eyes, she seemed to have drawn on a reserve of strength. How long this would last, Sam did not know.

  Chapter 57

  Ragusa, Sicily

  Abel and I had paid smugglers $1,000 each to travel from Libya to Lampedusa. After the journey from Sudan, we thought the worst was over. But we were wrong.

  We were kept waiting for a week in a warehouse. There were hundreds in there with us, people from all over Africa. There was some water, scraps of food. It was sweltering, even at night. After dark the men came, grabbed women from where they lay. I heard screams, but Abel held me tight.

  One morning, about a hundred of us were herded from the buildings by men clutching machine guns, and driven in pick-up trucks to a beach. There were boats in the water, RIBs, old rusting vessels. Our group was led into the surf towards a wooden fishing boat lying at anchor. I thought the men were joking. The boat looked ancient. But they were not. A man came on board with us. Showed us bottles of water. Told us we were one, two days maximum, from Lampedusa. He started the engine, and we set off.

  We sailed for most of the day and then we saw a bigger boat. It came close and, before we knew what was happening, our pilot had jumped into the water and was swimming for the larger boat. We shouted at him but the pilot just climbed aboard the other vessel and then it motored away. We were on our own.

  Abel and another man went to the wheelhouse to take over. But I could see from his face that something was wrong. I joined him and he showed me the fuel gauge. It was close to empty.

  The weather changed that
evening. The wind dropped. The sea became still. Abel and the other man took turns at the helm. We knew that if the sun was to our left at sunset, we were heading north. We were sure we were close to Lampedusa.

  But we were dreaming. Lampedusa is a dot in the sea and we must have missed it as we sailed north.

  The next day, the fuel ran out and we began to drift. It was hot. There was nowhere to shelter. That morning, an old man who had made it from Somalia died in the boat. He just gave up. We had to throw his body into the water.

  People began to pray, to cry out to God for help. By the afternoon, the water had nearly run out.

  We drifted for three days. The weather did not change. It was hot, still, with no wind. We rationed the water, small drops every few hours. By the evening of the fourth night at sea, most people were slipping in and out of consciousness. They were dehydrated, malnourished, beyond desperation.

  And that was when Abel and I saw the sign lit up. My spirits soared. I didn’t know where Pozzani was, but I knew it meant land.

  But the sign disappeared. We weren’t getting any closer. We were getting further away. People began to weep and wail. A boy of around fifteen or sixteen, who was dying of thirst, dropped a bucket into the sea and scooped up seawater, which he began to gulp down. Someone grabbed the bucket from him. He was sick minutes later.

  We drifted more. I fell asleep, my throat raw and dry. And then I thought I heard music. I opened my eyes and saw a big white boat, lit up. We were heading towards it. The music was loud, like disco music. I woke Abel and showed him the boat. Abel stood, began shouting. I joined in. But whoever was on board couldn’t hear us. We drifted closer. Abel and I went to the front of our boat as we neared the yacht’s rear. Abel was soon close enough to jump on to a platform at the back. I threw him a rope and he tied it round a metal loop. He then helped me aboard. The other passengers were too weak to do anything but lie in the shadows, staring at us with dead eyes. They were all close to death.