by Tim Weaver
As I looked around, I could see the living room had changed in other, even more subtle ways since I’d last been here: as well as the toys on the floor, there were pictures out too, photographs of Craw’s family, even of Franks. She’d put them all away last time I’d been here, separating her work life and her home life, just like her father had done countless times during his years in the Met. Again, just like the toys, just like her telling me about her husband, it spoke of her trying to shake off the shackles that bound her.
Close to me was a picture of Craw and her brother, Carl. They were five or six years younger, sitting together on a wall with Sydney Opera House in the background. Next to that was one of Craw and her daughters, Maddie and Evelyn. Beyond that was Craw and her husband, Bill, in happier times. He was older than her, his hair a frizzy mess, his salt-and-pepper beard thick and unruly. He was different from how I imagined him being. I’d imagined him as plainer, more sober, something closer to how she’d always been.
Just then, in my pocket, I felt my own phone start to buzz.
I took it out.
Murray.
I tried to imagine what she could want, and briefly considered letting it run to voicemail. But then I heard Craw in the kitchen, arguing with her husband, telling him he might actually want to come into the house once in a while, and realized she wasn’t going to be done for some time. So I pushed Answer. ‘David Raker.’
‘You watching this?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Are you in front of a TV?’
‘No.’
‘I suggest you get in front of one.’
I looked around the room for a remote control and found it wedged between two cushions on the sofa. ‘What channel am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘BBC London News.’
I scrolled through until I got to the local news bulletin. Onscreen was a reporter in a windbreaker, standing in front of the Scotland Yard sign. At the bottom was a caption: FORMER METROPOLITAN POLICE OFFICER FOUND MURDERED IN SOUTH DEVON.
Instantly, something congealed in my stomach.
‘What the hell is this?’ I said.
The report cut away from the reporter to a helicopter shot of a crime scene. It was right on the edges of a shoreline, police tape marking out a square, a white tent erected on the sand. Waves washed in about twenty feet away. As the helicopter lurched left to right, buffeted by the wind, I suddenly caught a glimpse of something else, further out to sea.
Bethlehem.
‘He washed in this morning,’ Murray said. ‘Apparently, he was out in the drink for four or five days. Naked. Rumour is, he was shot through the back of the head.’
Reynolds.
‘It’s definitely him?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s definitely Milk.’
Which meant he’d been killed while we were all still on the island.
And it wasn’t him escaping in the boat.
82
I told Murray I’d call her back and then looked around the room for something to write on. My pen and pad were in the car, and I didn’t want to have to face down the media. On the other side of the room was a sideboard, with a series of family photographs on top. I moved across and searched its top drawers; in the third one along was a spiral-bound notepad and a selection of biros.
Behind me, on the television, the news report had moved on to something else, so I switched it off and used the silence to focus. Quickly, I started to write down everything I remembered about the day Reynolds was killed: the lead-up, the things he’d said, the things Franks had said, anything that didn’t add up. Then, on the fourth page of notes, I got to it: the moment Reynolds had left the greenhouse after hearing a noise.
He’d been lured out.
Someone else had been there.
Instantly, another revelation hit me: the flat Reynolds had lived in, one side of it so different from the other. In the living room, there had been a tiny TV on a cheap piece of flat-packed furniture, a cardboard box being used as a makeshift table, a three-seater sofa with a pillow on it.
He’d been using the sofa as a bed.
Reynolds was living in that side of the flat – it even smelled of him – while, on the other side, it had been pristine, looked after, things had been tidy. Shoes were lined up under the bed. It had smelled pleasant.
Someone else had been living there with him.
A noise from the kitchen.
I looked across the room.
Silent. Still.
There’s no phone conversation any more.
At a diagonal from where I was, on the other side of the sunken room, the kitchen door fanned gently, a breeze coming in from somewhere beyond it.
The back door’s open.
I placed the pen down and quietly moved towards it. At the kitchen, I paused. Listened. I could hear the sound of the wind passing gently through, funnelled from the exterior door, through the kitchen and into the living room.
Placing a hand on the door, I gradually inched it back. The kitchen came into view. Granite worktops and black units running off towards a back wall where utensils hung. A matching island in the centre with pots and pans hanging from a hood. The floor was polished oak, specked with dust and grains of food. And, to the far right, across the island was a door out to the side of the house, disguised from the media at the front.
It was open.
I headed into the kitchen, rounding the island.
Then I saw her.
‘Fuck.’
It was Craw.
She was face down on the floor, behind the door. She’d been dragged there, a smear of blood charting her journey from one side of the island to the other. More blood was leaking from her nose and mouth, from a cut on her cheek. She’d been hit hard twice – maybe three times – with something heavy. I rolled her over on to her back and dropped my ear to her lips. She was breathing, but only just: shallow, wet, hoarse. ‘Craw?’ I said, straightening her chin. Her eyes were open, but glazed. ‘Craw?’
No reaction.
I dug my phone out and called an ambulance. As soon as they answered, I gave them the address and hung up. She looked up at me, her eyelids flickering. ‘Craw,’ I said again, hand against one side of her face. Her blood was trickling over my hands, over my fingers. I couldn’t tell where from any more: her head, her ear, it was all a mess.
Grabbing some tea towels from the island, I bunched them up and wedged them under her head on either side, trying to keep her propped up. The blood had been running into her eyes, blinding her, but now – momentarily – it stopped.
‘Hold on, okay?’
She didn’t react.
‘Craw.’
She seemed to start, a tiny movement that rippled all the way through her. Her eyes shifted, left then right, trying to find my face.
‘I’m here,’ I said to her.
But she couldn’t find me.
I took her hand, squeezing it once.
‘Hold on.’
And then, in my back pocket, my mobile started ringing again. I reached around, one hand still entwined with Craw’s, thinking it might be the paramedics.
I pulled it out and pushed Answer.
‘David Raker.’
No response on the line.
I looked down at Craw, her eyes almost closed now, barely moving, barely even breathing. ‘David Ra –’
‘Don’t be a hero, David.’
It took me a second to place the voice, even though I knew I’d heard it before. Then it hit me like a train.
It was John Garrick.
Casey Bullock’s psychiatrist.
83
I felt a sudden rush of blood. ‘Garrick?’
I could hear a buzz on the line. He was talking to me through a speakerphone, as if in a car somewhere. When the buzz died, the gentle hum of an engine took its place.
‘Garrick?’
‘I’m sorry it had to come to this,’ he said.
I felt completely thrown. Why Garr
ick? What did he have to gain here? Why attack Craw? As I looked down at her, my heart lurched: she’d blacked out.
‘Craw,’ I said to her. ‘Craw, wake –’
‘I’m the one talking here!’ Garrick screamed, so loudly the speaker distorted, a high-pitched whine following in its wake. ‘I’m the one speaking here,’ he repeated, his voice normal again: calm, controlled, quiet.
‘Why have you done this?’ I said.
‘I suspect you’ll find out in time.’
‘She’s dying, you fucking bastard.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Why, are you an expert in the field?’
A long pause.
Then, cool, composed, he said, ‘My plan was to come for you at the same time as Melanie, just now. Two birds, one stone. But when I looked through to the living room and saw you there, making your notes, I’d run out of time. Melanie didn’t go down as fast as I was hoping. She fought hard. So I’ll have to take care of you another day.’
I felt overwhelmed, my head crackling with noise: I couldn’t understand his reasons, I couldn’t see how Craw had become a victim, I couldn’t rip my eyes away from her, her skin awash in blood, her body slowing to a halt. She was like a machine powering down – except I was fused to the machine, could feel its warmth fading, its movement stalling.
I could see the end coming.
‘When I looked through from the kitchen,’ Garrick went on, ‘I remember thinking, “I bet he’s already worked it out.” Is that right? Have you worked it all out?’
‘She’s dying, Garrick.’
‘Yes. I know.’
I squeezed her hand, trying to get a reaction from her. ‘You don’t give a shit that you smashed her head in? That she’s dying inside the home her kids live in?’
‘It’s unfortunate.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I’m deadly serious. I feel sorry for those kids. I care about how this might affect them.’
‘And if it were yours?’
‘My what?’
‘Your sons.’
A snort of derision. ‘I don’t have any sons.’
‘You said –’
‘I said a lot of things to you when you called me. That’s what you have to do with smart people, David. Anyway, during the fullness of time, Craw’s kids will be fine.’
‘You tried to kill their mother.’
‘I didn’t try,’ he said, voice even and soft. ‘I’m hoping I did.’
I looked down at Craw. She was like a mannequin: waxy, motionless. I wiped blood away from her face, trying to get a reaction from her, but there was nothing. When I bent down to her lips, my ears to her mouth, I couldn’t feel anything. No breath.
No sound.
Shit.
As I tried to find a pulse in her wrist, Garrick started talking again: ‘Anyway, I expect you’re thinking, “I get why Neil Reynolds wanted to see Leonard Franks brought to justice, but I don’t understand Garrick’s reasons.” Is that right, David?’
I didn’t answer, my fingers tracing the underside of her wrist. Nothing. I moved my forefinger and middle finger together, up and down, pressing harder.
Her blood slid against my skin.
‘David.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You don’t know what?’
‘I don’t know what your reasons are.’
‘Well, why don’t you think?’
Finally, I got a pulse. Faint. Subdued.
But there.
Come on, Craw.
Hold on. Hold on.
‘David.’
I tried to tune back in. His reasons. His reasons. His reasons. ‘Something to do with Casey Bullock,’ I said, eyes on Craw. ‘You loved her too?’
Garrick burst into laughter, his first sign of any emotion. ‘Loved her? Oh dear. Is that the best you can do? All of this, everything I’ve worked for, and you think that’s what it’s about? Leonard Franks and I, facing off over who can love poor Casey more?’
I was barely hearing him now, my attention on the clock opposite me, on the wall. It had been five minutes since I’d called for an ambulance. It felt like fifty.
‘Did you know I worked at the Met?’
Now he had my attention. ‘What?’
‘I used to work at Broadmoor on a Monday,’ he said, his tone reserved, sober. ‘Then I was down at Bethlehem on a Tuesday and Wednesday, and at the Met on a Thursday and Friday. At the Met, I was a consultant psychiatrist. You would have found out eventually, I expect, so we might as well put our cards on the table. Anyway, I got to see the cult of Leonard Franks first hand, twice a week, every week, for the ten years I was posted to Scotland Yard. I used to look at him, look at the reverence with which he was treated, and I actually used to find myself thinking, “I wish he knew who I was.” Can you believe that? I’m actually embarrassed even saying that out loud now.’
‘So you attacked Craw to – what? – get at Franks?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not quite.’
‘Then why?’
‘Do you care about her – is that it?’
‘She’s innocent.’
‘You know what your problem is, David? You’re easy to get at. Your daughter makes you weak. Craw’s kids made her weak. Any ties of any kind make you weak. You can be targeted, manipulated, ground down. That’s why you’ve got to cast them off.’
‘Are you hearing yourself?’
‘Very clearly.’
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, even though vengeance was burning in my throat. Instead, I felt for Craw’s pulse again.
Hold on. Hold on, just a little longer.
‘Are you still there, David?’
‘She’s got about five minutes, Garrick.’
‘Yes,’ he said, cool, dispassionate.
‘That’s it? “Yes”?’
He didn’t reply to start with, then: ‘Let me recount a quick story.’
‘I don’t want to hear –’
‘One day, about five years into my stint at the Met, a policeman was referred to me, and just started laying into Leonard Franks. This guy absolutely hated him.’ He paused, letting me catch up, but I knew who he was talking about: Neil Reynolds. ‘I sat there across from him, thinking, “I agree with you. I hate him too.” So, after a while, I began to encourage that side of him – just to see where we went.’
‘You hated Franks because he was popular?’
Another burst of laughter. It was such a change from how he conducted himself the rest of the time, the noise sent a chill down my back.
‘Oh, David. Dear oh dear.’
‘Then why?’
‘I’d sort of fantasized, I suppose, about what it would be like to harness someone like Reynolds,’ he continued, sidestepping the question, ‘but I didn’t do anything about it for a long time. Then I started to remember things Reynolds would say to me in sessions, right up until he was fired, about how Leonard started rumours about him being dirty –’
‘He was dirty.’
‘About how Leonard was trying to ruin his career –’
‘Reynolds isn’t the victim here, Garrick.’
‘Everyone is a victim of Leonard Franks.’
‘How are you a victim?’
He didn’t reply.
Distantly, finally: sirens.
Hold on, Craw. Hold on.
‘Poor Neil,’ Garrick said.
‘You felt sorry for Reynolds?’
‘Yes. He was a tragic figure.’
‘So you shot him in the back of the head?’
‘Yes, that was sad,’ he said softly, prosaically. ‘But he was a loose end.’
I looked down at Craw. So is she. And so am I.
‘I waded across the causeway in a wetsuit, I managed to draw him out to the front of the hospital and then I shot him. Once I dumped his body, I dressed in his clothes and returned to the mainland in h
is boat. I think even you will admit that was rather clever.’
The sirens were in the road now.
‘Oh, is that sirens I can hear?’
I didn’t reply.
‘I think it’s time to go.’ He cleared his throat, like he was reciting a speech. ‘Two things: don’t try to trace this mobile. It’s pointless. This phone, this SIM, this number – I won’t ever use it again after this call. There’ll be nothing left of it. The second thing …’ He paused, no variation in his tone, voice barely above a whisper. ‘I think it’s best you don’t mention my name to the police when they get there. You might look like you’re trying to deflect attention away from yourself.’
I paused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Neil Reynolds.’
‘What about him?’
‘I decided to call the police – anonymously, of course – to let them know that Franks had been living in that hospital since he disappeared. It seemed the decent thing to do. Then they can find Leonard’s room full of memories too.’ He paused for a long time, deliberately drawing it out, and in the silence that followed I felt a tension grab hold of me. ‘I also told them that you were the one who killed Reynolds.’
‘They won’t believe that.’
‘I think they will, actually.’
My stomach lurched. ‘Why, what have you done?’
I heard the ambulance pull on to the driveway, the voices of newspaper journalists and TV crews rising in a crescendo, screaming at it, wanting to know why it was here.
‘I’ve hidden the murder weapon in your house.’
And then he hung up.
84
I secured Craw’s head, made sure she was conscious, and then used the blood I had on my hands to draw an arrow in the living room, pointing the way to her body. When I returned to the kitchen, her eyes were glazed and unresponsive. I bent down to her ear, whispering her name, trying to get some sort of reaction from her. Out on the driveway, I heard voices at the door. ‘Craw,’ I said softly. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’
Nothing.
‘Hold on. Okay?’
Nothing again.
‘Just hold on.’
My car was still on the drive, my jacket still in the living room – but I couldn’t worry about those now. If the police weren’t on to me already, they would be before long. Garrick had made sure of that. Now the only way to head it off was to find him.