Death and Faxes

by Julie Howlin

  ‘Alison’s fiancé is not the killer.’

  ‘Has he been investigated already? Has he been ruled out, then? How can you know?’

  ‘I know because it’s me.’

  ‘YOU?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody knows this yet, but I’ve been seeing Alison since the night you read for the family. It’s been going well, and I thought it was about time... So I took her up on the London Eye last night, at sunset, and asked her.’

  ‘At the highest point - solitaire diamond ring?’

  ‘Yup. You got it.’

  I stared at him. I’d been so wrapped up in the Jonathan situation that I’d had no idea Jamie had even been seeing Alison Harman, let alone considering marrying her. I went beetroot red, remembering that I’d just tried it on with him - and that being on duty had not been the reason he’d pulled away.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I stammered.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, with a shy smile, then switched right back into professional mode. ‘Would it help if I left you alone with the doll for a while? I’m clearly contaminating the ether with all this - if I make myself scarce than you won’t pick up on all my stuff, so if there’s anything on the doll, you’ll have a better chance with me out of the way. Do you agree?’

  I nodded, looking down at the doll. I didn’t want him to see the tears that were springing to my eyes, or that my cheeks were on fire.

  As the door closed behind him, I wiped my eyes and said to myself, ‘Pull yourself together, Tabitha, you silly little girl. Concentrate.’

  It was still hard. I couldn’t shake the images of Jamie with Alison. It was as if the universe was tormenting me. Dangling something wonderful in front of my face, and cruelly snatching it away from me as soon as I reached for it. Perhaps I would have to stop working with Jamie if I was going to feel this way.

  I took a deep breath and asked spirit for help to empty my mind and focus, for the sake of the fourteen-year-old victim, and all the other potential victims.

  I felt the familiar tendrils of mist encircling my mind, signalling the onset of a trance state. I so wanted to bring something useful to this session, after making such a silly, unprofessional mistake. I surrendered to the mist and let it take me.

  I was looking at a list of Mitzi Dolls, printed from the web site, just like the one my sister had. This one, however, had all the dolls crossed off as far down as ‘gymnast’. I was holding a pen which moved down the list to ‘ski instructor’. I crossed ski instructor off my list. It hadn’t been in sequence, but the opportunity had presented itself and so I’d taken it. Ideally they should be dealt with in order, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a chance if one presents itself. The important thing is that I get them all. Bitches.

  I realised I was seeing through the killer’s eyes and thinking his thoughts. His anger and bitterness hit me like a physical blow. I dropped the doll, breaking the contact, and buried my head in my hands. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  Then I felt a comforting presence and a warm, firm hand on my shoulder. Jamie. I felt myself begin to relax. ‘What did you see?’ he asked, gently. ‘Tell me.’

  27 tabitha meets mark

  The first thing I noticed about Mark Rees was his eyes. Dull, bloodshot and red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying most of the time for several months. Given his situation, he probably had.

  Seeing as our visit was an official one, connected with the re-opening of the case, we had been granted a private room with just one officer seated by the door. It could not have been more different from the time I had visited Jonathan. I pushed that image away.

  The idea of visiting a prison again had filled me with dread, but so far it had been a completely different experience. Mark Rees was not being held in an imposing Victorian prison in south London, but in a purpose-built, modern one in the country. This time, I was not the prisoner’s girlfriend, but a professional counsellor (that was the cover we’d decided upon to explain my presence on the visit) accompanied by the detective working on the case. While we still had to produce identification and go through security, it was quick, painless and unobtrusive. I wasn’t sure whether this was down to different prisons having different systems, or my different status on this visit. If it was the latter, I was struck by how unfair that was.

  Although the prison and the police thought I was a counsellor, Mark Rees knew who I really was - Jamie Swan had written to him unofficially to ask if he minded seeing me. Mark sat on a plastic chair and picked at a loose thread in his prison issue trousers. I noticed a flicker of hope in those dull, reddened eyes as Jamie introduced us. I knew now that the stewardess I had seen in my dream was Clare Mulholland - she had told me Mark was innocent. Now I had met him, I could see that for myself, and know it in my heart.

  Unlike Jonathan, Mark was here for a crime he did not commit. My heart went out to him; I hoped I would be able to help somehow.

  ‘As I explained, new evidence has come to light which may link Clare’s murder with a number of other, subsequent murders,’ Jamie was saying. ‘We need to go over the events of that night with you again. I apologise if this is painful for you.’

  Mark Rees gave a wry smile. ‘I never thought I’d live to hear a copper say that.’ He turned to me. ‘I do hope you can help. I didn’t kill her. It’s not that I care much what happens to me - or my freedom, even. It won’t be much of a life, even on the outside, without Clare. But that bastard is still out there killing. You have to help, for Clare’s sake.’

  I wanted to take hold of Mark’s hand, close my eyes and ask for Clare to come through, but protocol, and secrecy, dictated that Jamie would do all the talking and I would simply observe, writing down any impressions I got. The government-issue pad was ready on my lap and I took the lid off the pen. I already had something to write. ‘HE DIDN’T DO IT’.

  I couldn’t help but admire the way Jamie handled the situation - calm and sensitive, yet professional and firm as he coaxed answers out of Mark about that fateful night. I wasn’t really listening to the content of the interview, though. I was reaching out with my psychic feelers - probing, scanning, willing Clare to communicate with me. There was nothing. I don’t know if it was down to my nervousness about visiting a prison, whether I was too eager to help Mark Rees, or whether I still felt awkward around Jamie Swan after making such a fool of myself the last time we’d met. In any event, the lack of anything coming through was entirely my fault.

  When our time was up, I felt close to tears. Apart from a conviction that Mark was innocent, nothing else had come and the words ‘HE DIDN’T DO IT’ were all I had written. I was sure Mark had just told Jamie the exact same story he had told detectives a year ago. They were relying on me and my psychic ability to come up with something new, and I had failed them. ‘Please help us,’ Mark said quietly, as he clasped my hand in farewell. Even then, I got nothing, no connection to Clare, or a reassurance that she was okay. I had nothing to give him.

  ‘Anything?’ Jamie asked expectantly once we were alone in his car. He seemed to have such faith in my ability. I hated to disappoint him.

  ‘I know he didn’t kill Clare,’ I said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I dreamed about Clare the other night and she said that he didn't. And she should know. My gut feeling when I saw him was, no, he didn't do it. I’m afraid I didn’t see any spirits today. Neither Clare nor anyone else is telling me who did do it.’

  ‘I guess it doesn’t always happen to order, does it?’

  There he goes again, I thought. Making me feel better. Maggie Flynn would have got something, I mused, looking despondently out of the car window, barely registering the houses and shops passing by. She never chose an abusive partner or made a pass at a detective who was practically married. She wouldn't have issues to get in the way.

  On the other hand, Gran would have been as anxious as I was to help Mark Rees clear his name and bring the real killer to justice. And she would have been nervous about going into a prison, because she’d never ha
d to do it.

  I declined Jamie’s offer of a Frappuccino - I still felt too embarrassed around him and I wanted to see if the answers would come to me more easily in my own meditation space.

  I tried. I really tried, and pushed myself way beyond exhaustion. I woke with the dawn, slumped on my cushion and aching from sleeping awkwardly. My eyes felt hot and stingy but I knew if I closed them I would sleep for hours and I had to go to work. There was a staff meeting which meant I couldn’t even phone in sick, and I didn’t have the luxury of an early night tonight, either - I was meeting Jess after work.

  **

  ‘You look knackered,’ Jess greeted me. ‘I hope it’s for a good reason! Tell me everything - did the Inspector take down all your details?’

  ‘Nothing happened, Jess. Not in that way, anyway.’

  ‘Didn’t you say anything? Do anything?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Tried to kiss the guy, only to find out he’d just got engaged. I’ve never been so mortified in my life. I’m supposed to be psychic, and yet I make a dumb move like that.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry, Tabs. I really thought... Oh well. Plenty more fish in the sea.’

  None of them quite like Jamie Swan, though, I found myself thinking. He’s unique. Alison Harman is one lucky woman.

  ‘It’s not to do with Jamie, though; it’s to do with a case.’

  ‘Case?’

  ‘I can’t say much. Basically there’s this guy in prison for murdering his girlfriend. I know he didn’t do it and there’s actual evidence that someone else might have done it.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Jess. ‘It sounds like something off the telly! A real life whodunnit!’

  ‘Well, We went to see this guy and I was hoping to get something, the girlfriend coming through to say she was okay, or to give us a clue, but nothing happened. I wanted so much to help them but I didn’t get anything. I’ve been up most of the night trying to connect with her.’

  ‘You should go home,’ Jess said. ‘Get an early night. I'll take a rain check till next week. How does that sound?’

  It sounded great. Not because I wanted to go home and crash out - rather because it meant I could go home, down a strong black coffee, and try some more.

  Again I woke up slumped on my cushion and aching all over, with nothing to show.

  As it was Saturday, I gave in and went to bed, but about an hour later, my body clock insisted that it was time to get up and would not let me sleep any more. I realised what I needed to do was get my hands on something Clare Mulholland had owned, or worn. I had no idea how I could do that. At least, not without asking Jamie. No doubt he could have arranged something but I really didn’t want to talk to him.

  I picked up my copy of the case summary and read it through again. Perhaps, I thought, if I visited the actual crime scene, as I’d seen the psychic detectives on TV do, I’d get something. It was worth a try.

  28 breaking and entering

  The breeze whipped my hair around my face as I stood looking at the spot where Clare Mulholland had died. Although the case had been closed many months ago, there were still traces of police tape clinging to some of the trees, as if defying the notion that the case had been properly solved. ‘Come on, Clare,’ I whispered. ‘Help me out, here.’ There was no reply, except for the sound of the wind in the trees. It felt like a desolate place, even though I could see the building where Clare had lived from where I stood.

  Maybe if I went there, Clare’s spirit would find me. Perhaps she just didn’t want to revisit this place of trauma, but would come to a place with happier memories.

  The gate to their yard yielded to a mighty shove by my shoulder. The yard itself was overgrown with a year or so of neglect.

  The front door of the flat was still sealed with police tape - nobody had bothered to remove it. I tried the front door, but, as I expected, it was locked. I walked around, looking for an open window, or other way in. If I could only get inside, and hold something of Clare's... I could hardly believe I was contemplating such a thing, but I was desperate to help this tragic couple.

  The doors and windows were all solidly shut. I wondered if I could get away with lobbing a brick at a window. There were lights on in the neighbouring flats, so I guessed I couldn’t do that without attracting attention. In any case, the windows seemed quite small - I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb through and the indignity of getting caught because my fat arse got stuck in a window frame was quite enough to put me off trying.

  I closed my eyes and tried to see if I could connect with Clare now. This time, I saw something. A woman in an air stewardess uniform, coming in through the gate. It was night time. She fumbled in her bag, swearing. She called out to Mark. He came to the door in his pyjamas, hair tousled, yawning.

  ‘Forgot your key again?’ he grumbled. ‘I've had just about enough of being woken at some ungodly hour. I’m going to get a spare cut and hide it under the bin. Then you won’t have to wake me up every time.’

  Yes! I went over to the green wheelie bin and moved it aside. Sure enough, there lay a spare key, covered in grime. I picked it up, wiped it on my jeans and slid it into the lock. It was stiff, not having been used for some time, and I had to bunch up my scarf to wrap around it so I could exert enough force to turn it without hurting my hands. But it worked, and I slipped inside, leaving the door open behind me. A grave mistake, as it turned out.

  I moved slowly from room to room, feeling like a trespasser, but I told myself that Mark Rees would approve of my attempts to find out the truth. It wasn’t as if I wanted to steal anything. Just borrow some small item and then return it to Mark when I was done.

  I saw snapshots of their life together - it felt like being a peeping Tom, but I supposed that spirit would only show me things that I was meant to see: Clare in the kitchen making spaghetti bolognaise; Mark opening a bottle of cheap wine. They were happy and laughing. I envied them, wishing I had someone to cook for and to laugh with like that.

  In the living room, I saw Mark sitting by the window looking for Clare on the night she was killed. She was late. I saw Clare herself, in spirit, trying to communicate with him. I sensed her frustration as she begged him to acknowledge her. I hoped she knew by now how much he still loved her.

  In their bedroom, I could hear them laughing together and more intimate impressions which I was sure I had no right to be watching. I looked around to see if there was anything I could work with. I found a ring on a bedside table, which I slipped onto my finger. I went over to the wardrobe and opened it. Rows of shirts, presumably Mark’s, but nothing that seemed to belong to Clare. I was about to open the other wardrobe when I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Don’t move - you’re under arrest,’ it said. A tall, thin policeman in a bright yellow waistcoat loomed in the doorway.

  ‘This is not what it looks like,’ I said. ‘I'm a friend of Mark's. He told me to come in and pick up some of his stuff.’

  ‘The neighbour who called us said she didn't recognise you. She said you were snooping around for a while before finding the key.’

  ‘Right. I had a key. How would I find the key if Mark hadn't told me where it was?’

  The officer rolled his eyes. ‘Under the flowerpot. Under the doormat. Under the bin. People think that's a safe place to leave their keys, but every burglar knows those hiding places. So I think you had better come with me, young lady, and explain yourself at the station.’

  **

  They put me in a bare cell with a bed and a chemical toilet, and left me there. They took my bag, my money, my phone, everything. I had nothing to do but wait. Then I remembered the ring - because it had been on my finger, they had not taken it. I slid it off, and settled cross-legged on the bed, the pillow behind my back. I closed my eyes and sat stroking the ring, waiting for something to come. I saw a small boy in a suit, hand-in-hand with his mother, being taken to church. I saw the same boy, a little older, climbing a tree and shaking the branches so that the conkers would fall and be picked up
by his friends waiting below. I saw a man, waving his arms and yelling - the boys ran, leaving the boy in the tree alone. I sensed him clinging to the branch, praying that the man would go away so he could climb down. He didn't go away, but started working in his garden. It was dusk before the boy could escape through the hole in the fence. I saw the same boy, older still, by now quite recognisable as Mark Rees, riding his bike up and down a short avenue, hoping to get a glimpse of a girl who lived there.

  I sighed and put the ring back on my finger. It didn’t belong to Clare. It was Mark’s. I was unlikely to get anything from it that would help.

  I curled up and tried to sleep. I was exhausted but couldn’t relax. The pillow was hard, the blanket rough, scratchy and smelly - the very thought of the kinds of people who might have lain here before me made me itch. I wondered what was going to become of me. Were they ever going to let me make a phone call? If so, who should I ring? My parents or Caroline would go absolutely ballistic. Jamie Swan would possibly have some influence, but would he use it, given that nobody was supposed to know he’d got a psychic involved in the investigation? I didn’t want to get him in any trouble. I came to the conclusion it would have to be Jess. Should I ask for a lawyer? What was the sentence for burglary, anyway? Was I going to end up in a cell next to Jonathan? No, I reminded myself. They have separate prisons for women. How long would they leave me here before hauling me up in front of a judge? What if I was still here on Monday morning with no means of letting the office know I couldn’t come in? Would they ask Mark Rees if he’d given me permission to snoop around his flat? Strictly speaking, he hadn’t, so would he guess that I was trying to help and back up my story?

  I sat there, fretting, watching it grow dark through the barred window. I’d lose my job. I’d get a criminal record. Eventually I heard the key turn in the lock and a burly policeman in his shirtsleeves came in and grunted, ‘All right, you’re free to go.’