by Nick Louth
‘I wouldn’t, it’ll give you zits,’ said one of the taller boys, flicking his eyes towards Craig.
‘Don’t be silly, Tim,’ said the girl, turning away from him. ‘Which school are you from?’ she asked Craig.
‘Eton,’ he said. The one word brought a huge guffaw from the group, who clearly thought it the funniest thing they’d ever heard. The girl stared sharply at them. ‘Come on, Eton pineapple, let’s get a drink. Pay no attention to the sneerers.’ She steered him by his elbow, her fingers warm and pleasant on his skin. When they were a little distance away, she let go and said: ‘You’re brave, aren’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sneaking up here, into the posh school. Enemy territory, so to speak.’ She smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. ‘So what’s your name?’
‘Craig. And I’ve got a ticket, cost me a fiver.’
‘Aha, a black marketeer too. Well carpe diem! She clinked her plastic cup of Buck’s Fizz against his. I’m Liz. So where are you planning to go?’
Craig looked around, as if there was somewhere else to go. The band was packing up its instruments, and expensive parental cars were beginning to swarm at the drive at the bottom of the hill. ‘Er, nowhere. But we could go to The Bell if you like. They serve after hours.’ He was astounded at his own nerve.
Liz roared with laughter, a much deeper and more infectious laugh than he had expected. ‘No, silly. After the summer. Which university?’
‘Oh, I haven’t decided.’ In truth, he was far from sure he’d get the grades. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m going up to Cambridge. It’s a bit of a family tradition. I’d thought about choosing music, but it’s so hard to earn a crust, isn’t it? So I’ve decided to study history and modern languages at Corpus Christi. But I might switch to economics for my master’s and doctorate.’ She took a sip of her drink, and eyed him to assess his reaction.
‘And where have you chosen for your funeral?’
‘Oh, what a wit. Come on, let’s ring in at The Bell.’ With that she hooked her arm through his and led him down the long sweeping drive, lined with rhododendrons and roses, that led to Cressington Road. In truth, the gentle descent of that hill, with a woman on his arm and the scent of roses in his nostrils was the first shaft of pure sunlight through the grey clouds of his youth. He could never recall the next two hours’ conversation in detail, except that he couldn’t fathom half the things she said. The way she peppered strange, presumably Latin, phrases into her conversation, and the way she seemed to show a genuine interest in what he thought: about politics, about religion and books. Her mind seemed like a library, packed with books he had never read but wanted to. She was able to extract quotes from them without effort.
When the pub finally closed, and the back bar frequented by underage drinkers was finally cleared of its throng by a world-weary landlord, loudly wondering if any of them had homes to go to, Craig spotted Roger. He was standing in the car park with his brother and a group of mates. Their only partners were cans of lager. A wolf whistle pierced the air as they spotted Craig with a pretty girl. Roger’s expression was of unguarded envy. It was a moment Craig had dreamed about.
Liz turned to him and asked: ‘Friends of yours?’
‘Yeah. Well, I know them. Don’t pay them any attention.’
‘Well, let’s give them something to talk about.’ She reached up to him and kissed him gently on the mouth. It was the softest, warmest and most slickly exciting sensation he could recall. ‘That should send your stock soaring when you next see them,’ she whispered.
Liz allowed him to walk her to the end of her road. She pointed out her home, which was a large 1930s mock-Tudor detached house in a secluded street with views across the valley towards Farthing Downs, a local beauty spot. They kissed for a few blissful minutes, until she reminded him that it was past one o’clock. She took his number, promised to call, and then pointed him home. Craig floated the whole three miles back to South Croydon, drunk on dreams.
Chapter Four
Being in the hospital isn’t so bad. It’s the dawn of a new millennium, and the staff don’t treat you like you’re mad. The food is grim and institutional – not so much the taste, but the nursery room context: unbreakable melamine plates, no-spill beakers, flimsy plastic knives barely able to injure linguine, let alone wrists. All we need now is a ball pit and a bouncy castle. But some of the other patients are, well, frightful. As a prognosis for those who can’t haul themselves out of the dark depths, these shadow residents are mutely articulate. The most terrifying thing came from outside these forbidding walls. It was the look on my children’s faces when they came to visit. Chloe goggled at me and eventually asked: ‘Is this a loony bin, Mummy?’ Martin told her off, but she’d picked the phrase up from somewhere.
Oliver couldn’t look me in the eyes at all. He kept fiddling with his Game Boy, and when I put my arms on his shoulders to cuddle him, he squirmed away as if I was that creature from Alien, erupting from someone’s stomach. And all the time, my precious husband, the man whose behaviour put me here, is smiling indulgently, an arm around each child as if they’ve come on a trip to the zoo, to see this, the scariest but most endangered animal in the place.
Liz Knight, letter to Kathy Parkinson, February 2000
Tuesday evening
Craig got home just after 7.30 p.m. He was the on-call DCI from eight until midnight. Before he logged in to what would inevitably be a torrent of minor cases, he decided to have a second crack at ringing Professor Knight. He’d surely have arrived at Dungeness by now. Knight’s mobile again went to voicemail, so Craig dialled the holiday home landline. It barely rang before it was picked up.
‘Knight.’
‘Professor Knight, it’s Chief Inspector Gillard of Surrey Police. We were expecting a call from you, as you seem now to be at the house.’
‘Good God, man, I’ve only just this second got here. Literally walked into the house and taken my coat off. I really was going to ring.’
‘So I take it Mrs Knight is there.’
‘Actually no, I think not. Her car’s not here, so she must still be out somewhere. Much too dark for painting now, I would have thought. Bear with me, and I’ll check her studio. That’ll give a clear answer.’
‘I’ll stay on the line, sir,’ Gillard said.
The buzz indicated a cordless handset on the move. ‘Liz, darling, are you here?’ Gillard heard footsteps and the squeak of a door. ‘Liz?’ Knight’s voice then came back on the line. ‘It doesn’t look like she’s been using the studio. She was intending to be here over the weekend. But the art stuff has been packed up. This is most mysterious. I do apologize for not taking it seriously when the PCSO called. Now, I must confess, I am a tad worried.’
‘Well, take a good look around and call me either way. I’m off duty from midnight, so if it’s later just leave a message with the duty officer. I’m sure she will turn up.’
‘Yes indeed. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.
Gillard was relieved that Knight hadn’t realized that they had met, a couple of times, decades ago. The very first time, Knight would have had no idea, perhaps not even been aware of his existence. But for Gillard the first glance at his rival was seared into memory. Christmas Eve, 1986. He was just 19, and was riding his Kawasaki 250. It was a fearsomely fast bike, bought, on credit, mainly to impress his friends. He had pulled up at red traffic lights at the bottom of Marlpit Lane. There was one car in front, a racing green MGB 1.8 Roadster, a gorgeous vehicle beyond his wildest dreams. Through the back window Gillard could see a woman passenger turn to the right and speak to the male driver. She had wavy brown hair, which she swept back with a hand, and a gentle nose. He would know that profile anywhere. The two profiles, male and female, merged and kissed even as the lights turned to green. Pressing the Kawasaki’s tinny horn for all he was worth, Craig gunned the bike and sped past. As he crossed onto the A23 he pulled a somewhat risky wheelie, roaring
south towards Gatwick at 85mph with tears of rage and agony fogging his vision.
Gillard went to the fridge and took out three different M&S ready meals. Taking a moment to decide, he plumped for the Thai green curry, pricked the lid with a knife, and placed it in the microwave. To accompany it he took out a nicely chilled Cobra beer, and sat down to watch TV. Once again he thought about the bubbly young PCSO Sam Phillips, who had literally fallen into his life. She had nice dark wavy hair, and a rather lovely mouth, almost Brazilian in its kissable pout. But he’d bottled his chance to ask her out. Well, there was a reason for that. As soon as he realized Liz was missing, it just seemed wrong somehow. It wasn’t a time to be thinking about anyone else.
* * *
The noise downstairs was subtle but Sam woke with a start. A click and a squeak, as if a door was being opened. She grabbed for her phone, which she now always kept by the side of the bed. She flipped on the bedside light and listened. Since the last time, the bedroom door had two huge bolts fitted on the inside, and there was a state-of-the-art window lock. When the fitters came, she had used the excuse that burglaries in this part of Croydon were quite common. But really it was all about Gary. When she’d moved house again, and started her new job, she thought she would feel safer. But that didn’t last long. He’d found her within a month, smashed up her car and sprayed ‘whore’ on her front door. He would never give up. He’d always said that. She was his forever, he had said. If the threat of a court order hadn’t stopped him, nothing would. He just didn’t care. For a long minute she heard nothing, and began to relax, but then she heard the stair creak.
She had been going to ring 999, but hesitated. Gary had managed to trash her reputation with the Met Police, in whose patch she lived. The first two occasions she had called, after loud noises downstairs at three in the morning, the cops had come screaming in, sirens blaring, but by the time they arrived there was no one there. No sign of forced entry. The look she’d got from the male PCs when they asked her what she did for a living spoke volumes too. Her new neighbours had complained about the row the next day. The third emergency call, just last week, they’d taken an hour to come. No sirens. And they treated her like she was the criminal. Gary was clever. It was a campaign to undermine her in the eyes of friends, neighbours and colleagues. He was saying to her: you’ll only ever have me, because everyone else knows you’re worthless.
She scrolled to recently added contacts, which showed Craig’s work mobile. It was half four in the morning. Could she dare to ring him, to ask for yet another favour? The bedroom door handle began to turn, slowly and stealthily. Her heart in her mouth, she watched it reach the maximum point and the door shift just inwards a millimetre until it ran up against the bolts. The hissed words carried clearly from the landing: ‘Samantha. It’s me, your beloved but neglected boyfriend. Let me in.’
She hit the ‘call’ button, and for the second time in a week, began to shiver uncontrollably.
* * *
The unfamiliar ringtone of his new iPhone cut straight through Gillard’s dreams, and he grabbed it to still the noise. He had somehow expected it to be Martin Knight. When he heard the state of Sam’s voice he was out of bed in a second, dressed in a minute and, pausing only to grab a stab vest, into his unmarked police Ford Focus in two. She’d begged him not to alert the Met, but had agreed to keep the line open while he punched her address into the satnav. It quoted him 20 minutes. At this time of night he reckoned he could be there in half that. He slid the phone into the cradle on the dashboard, put it on speaker, and was doing 60 down Winkworth Road when he heard Sam’s screams as the door to her room burst open. There was a man’s voice, a bang, some whimpering and the line went dead ten seconds later. It wasn’t answered on recall.
The rest of the drive was an agony of not knowing. It was only as he was pulling into Sam’s cul-de-sac that she called him back on a Surrey Police mobile. Between sobs, she said her ex had just left.
‘Are you okay?’
‘He punched me a couple of times, but yes.’
Just as she spoke, a white Audi A3 shot past Craig in the other direction. Craig pulled a discreet U-turn and followed the car on a right-hand turn towards the main road. He asked Sam to describe her ex. The details weren’t encouraging. Gary Harrison was six foot three, a paratrooper who’d served in Afghanistan and now worked as a chef. Knives. Violent temper. The stab vest had been a good move.
‘Don’t tangle with him, Craig, I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll be careful.’
‘He’s stolen my phone again. He’ll be going through it to see if I have a boyfriend.’
‘Do you?’
‘I did until a month ago, until Gary threatened him. He’ll see your name and number too.’
‘I can handle that.’ Craig pulled up behind the car at traffic lights. The street lamp glare stopped him seeing the driver, but he memorized the number plate. The Audi had slowed, and he could hear the bass hammering of rap resonating through the chassis. There were no signs the driver was aware of being followed. That would undoubtedly change at some point, given how little traffic there was. Craig fell back 100 metres, intending to trail Harrison to his home, an address in New Addington that Sam had just given him. But then the Audi pulled into a large all-night petrol station on the Purley Way. Craig slid the Ford Focus into the space by the car wash, slipped on a pair of thin black gloves, and watched. The man who emerged was every bit as big as Sam had said, crop-haired, wearing a brown bomber jacket, jeans and high-top trainers. He walked with a gym-user’s swagger, as if carrying an invisible roll of carpet under each arm. He tossed his car keys in his hand, and seemed to be humming. There was no orange flash of locking.
Craig realized that Gary Harrison was probably quite pleased with himself.
Bastard.
While Harrison was approaching the shop, Craig slid his vehicle up right behind the Audi as if to refuel, and then looked through his door pocket looking for useful tools. There wasn’t much. A phone charger and cable, a roll of gaffer tape and a heavy-duty Tesco plastic carrier bag. He stuffed them in his pockets, got out of the car and slipped forward three metres and into the Audi through a rear door. He lay sideways, as much into the rear footwell as possible, his concealment aided by charcoal-grey upholstery which matched his stab vest. There were non-standard sports seats in there, and Craig had a quick look for the recline lever. Harrison was back in a minute, tossed a crackling bag of some kind of snack onto the passenger seat, gunned the engine, then drowned them both in music. The Audi left the forecourt, turned hard right back onto the Purley Way, then took a left after a short while. Craig could only see the street lamps and the tops of houses, still enough to distinguish a residential street from a major road. He waited to make his move until the sound of passing traffic diminished and the car had slowed.
He swung up between the front seats and pulled the plastic bag over Harrison’s head, twisting it tight around his neck and yanking it back. There was a shocked gasp, and the car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road and then stalled. Craig tied the phone cable around the neck of the bag, then twisted it around the base of the headrest assembly. As Harrison’s hands shot up to scrabble at the cable, Craig triggered the seat recline and pulled Harrison back so he could really get at him. A massive punch to the solar plexus, followed by two in the face, and Harrison was helpless. There was blood running down the inside of the bag, and the inhuman sound of choking.
Gillard reached forward and killed the music, the phone cable still firmly cinched to the headrest. Then he leaned close to the bag and in his best south London gangster patois whispered: ‘Listen careful, you miserable facking piece of shit.’
Harrison’s hands still flapped towards the bag, which was now pressed close to his nose and mouth as he ran out of air. Behind the supermarket’s slogan ‘Every little helps’ Craig could make out Harrison’s eyes, wide with terror, unable to see anything beyond the blue-striped,
blood-smeared logo.
Gillard whacked him in the face with an elbow. ‘Oi, still it and listen when I’m talking.’
The hands stopped moving.
‘Gary, you are a nasty little bully. But you are now officially out of your league. Leave Sam alone. If you so much as breathe within ten miles of her, I’m going to come round to yours and douse your body with petrol and burn you alive. I’ve done it before, and believe me it hurts. No one will mourn your passing, and your ashes will be used as cat litter. Understand?’
The bag nodded, and more wheezing sounds emerged. ‘Don’t try to be clever with me, owight? Your flat is being watched – I know who you call, where you work, and I know everywhere you go. Do you understand?’
The bag nodded again. Craig released the wire a little and unwound it from the headrest to allow some air in. There was a great shuddering whoosh of inhalation, after which Craig tightened the wire again with his hand. He turned Harrison over, gaffer taped his wrists together and bundled him onto the back seat. ‘Now lie on the seat and stick your feet in the air over the headrests. If you move those feet in the next ten minutes I will know.’ He removed the wire from the neck of the bag, replaced it with gaffer tape and made a small nick in the bag so air could get in. He searched Harrison’s bomber jacket and found Sam’s phone and Harrison’s own, which he took, along with the Audi’s keys.
Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard then got out of the car, slightly shocked at his own behaviour. There was no one around. As he walked back to his own vehicle, he dropped the Audi keys into a drain. There was only a slight chance that Harrison would be stupid enough to call the police. Just as well. As a serving officer, what he had just done, on a whim, could get him thrown out of the force. But he also recognized something that his own boss Paddy Kincaid had confided to him years ago: just occasionally, heat-of-the-moment justice not only feels good, it works a treat.