by Steve Mosby
Keep calm, Alex.
I noticed my heart thudding in my chest and was almost surprised by it. James was dead. But at the same time, he couldn't be. Because those were just words, and I couldn't get the idea itself to settle in my head. Everything in the office felt hyper-real: saturated with colour. Was I dreaming this?
I swallowed.
A moment later, an image of James came to me. But he wasn't throwing a cushion, or throwing a bottle. The image was of a small boy wearing shorts, kneeling on the front-room carpet with his legs tucked underneath him. I was sitting beside him, and we were surrounded by open scraps of newspaper and snow-capped baubles. James was smiling quietly to himself, as though he'd just unwrapped something he wanted to like very much, and was cautiously allowing himself to do so.
My brother. I closed my eyes.
And something terrible occurred to me.
You got what you wanted.
I really was cut off from my old life now: everyone was gone. Leaving had never accomplished it, but returning home again had. I was now totally alone, exactly the way I'd always wanted. The thought was a sharp, vicious twist inside me.
Tell Alex this is all—
'I'm very sorry to have to tell you this,' Peterson said.
That phrase again. It cut through the mist, and I had a sudden urge to reach across the desk and make Peterson very fucking sorry indeed. Because someone needed to be, and I didn't think I could bear it all myself.
Instead, I clenched my fist in my lap.
'What happened?'
Peterson told me that James had been attacked early yesterday evening. The two men responsible were caught on CCTV entering his cell, and guards were immediately alerted, but didn't arrive soon enough to prevent the injuries he sustained from being fatal. The two individuals in question were both hardened lifers, and it wasn't fully understood why they had chosen to pick on James. Both were in custody over the incident and would be questioned shortly.
They wouldn't be talking, I thought, and I didn't need them to. The men I'd seen at the hotel last night wouldn't have been able to get to James in here, but they'd have been able to pay someone who would. A lifer, for example, with nothing to lose, but maybe a family to provide for.
They got to James as well. They got him too.
'Can I get you anything, Mr Connor? A glass of water?'
'No.'
Peterson leaned back. 'As I said, the police are here, and you can talk to them in a moment. And I'm afraid there will be some paperwork to attend to. I'm sure you have some questions too, but I appreciate this has come as a huge shock.'
'I need some fresh air.'
'Of course.' He walked round and opened the door for me. 'You'll have seen the benches out by the main entrance. When you're ready, ask for me at reception. And, of course, if you need anything in the meantime.'
'Thank you.'
Back in reception, the doors slid open, and I walked outside, blinking against the sunlight.
My chest felt hard and heavy, as though it had been beaten over and over until it clenched itself into a ball. I barely heard the glass panels whispering shut behind me: just faltered forwards a little, unsure what I was going to do.
And then a hand gripped my elbow.
'Alex Connor,' the man beside me said.
* * *
Chapter Thirty
Detective Todd Dennis was standing in the mid-morning sun at the side of a field on the edge of town. Farm-land, technically, but this area lay fallow and untended right now, and the grass, fed by a hot summer, reached his thighs. He was looking down at a dead man. Not just a dead man. A real problem.
'An estimated time of death would be helpful,' he said.
'Yes. I understand.'
Do you?
The pathologist, Chris Dale, was squatting on his haunches, his black rubber boots bowing out at the shins and buckling at the foot. His head kept tilting as he inspected the livid bruising around Roger Timms's face. Taking his time.
Do you understand?
They'd been working on the assumption that it was Timms who had taken Rebecca Wingate. That he was running. If he'd been dead for longer than a couple of days, that was impossible.
And he had been.
Todd didn't really need the pathologist to confirm that.
The artist's naked body was lying belly down near one of the fence posts, its head resting on the lowest of the strands of barbed wire strung between them. It was as though the corpse had crawled through the grass, encountered this obstacle and not been able to make it any further: just put its chin down and stopped.
Horrifically, it was facing into the garden of a man named Dan Killingbeck. It was Killingbeck who had found the body last night. Or rather, his dog had. Timms appeared to have been dumped much further back in the field, but Killingbeck's enormous, fuck-off German Shepherd had tried to drag the body home by the wrist. Then given up, leaving the ravaged, swollen arm draped over the wire, pointing towards the house like an accusation.
Dale shifted his weight, moving around to peer at the underside of the corpse. Its bloated hips were gleaming in the undergrowth.
Todd began chewing his lip.
Behind him, scene of crime officers were moving through the swaying field, looking for clothes, footprints, evidence of any kind left by the man who'd brought Timms's body here. Forensics would spend hours sifting through sweet wrappers and cigarette ends. Not because it would tell them anything, but because they had to be absolutely certain it wouldn't.
Above, the sky was blue and clear. The slight breeze made the grass swim gently. And yet Todd could feel a silent and sickening bloom of emotion hanging in the air. As though, despite the sun, this place now had a weight of darkness to it.
That's a Kearney thought if ever there was one.
Dale stood up. 'On first appearances, it's a male, looks to be in his forties. Cause of death is most likely the gunshot wound to the head.'
'How long ago did he die?'
'Hard to tell.' Dale squinted up at the sky, like it was an enemy on the horizon. 'Decomposition is quite advanced, but you know the weather we've had.'
'Just an estimate.' He was getting desperate now. 'Please.'
'Two, maybe three days.'
Todd closed his eyes, breathing slowly to keep himself calm.
On the cusp, then. Nevertheless, he was sure that Timms hadn't been the one to take Rebecca Wingate from the lock-up. Instead, he himself had been taken. Someone had kidnapped him, beaten him, executed him. And that same unknown person must now have Rebecca Wingate.
Mister X.
Todd opened his eyes. In the distance, the field dipped down. Beyond it, bright under the sun, was the spread of the suburbs. The houses were almost hazy in the heat. A silent car glistened. Quiet and still.
'Thank you,' he said.
He stepped away, leaving Dale to continue the examination.
The car in the distance made him think about Roger Timms's missing van. It still hadn't been located, which was bad in some ways, good in others. In its absence, he could hope that, when they did find it, they would also find Rebecca and the man responsible for her abduction, and that she would still be alive when they did.
Small hope, Todd.
The way the situation kept deteriorating, he expected they'd shortly find the van parked up by the roadside. Empty. Adding nothing to the investigation except another layer of confusion. Another layer of shit for him to wade through.
Behind him, at the fence, the dead man was keeping his secrets. To the extent that his features remained, Timms had an almost stupid expression on his face. Looking at him now, Todd felt a sudden desire to run back over and kick that pointless, silent thing. To stamp at it and keep stamping.
What happened to you?
Who did this?
Why?
But that question reminded him of Paul again, and it killed his anger. He knew that a lot of the impatience and frustration he was feeling now was because of
what had happened.
White had called him in yesterday evening, after he'd returned from the crime scene at Mike Halsall's house, and laid the situation out plainly and cleanly. Paul was downstairs; he'd been arrested and was giving a statement. The evidence was strong, and he wasn't disputing the allegations against him.
Paul had used his credit card - his own name and card - to access and download hardcore child pornography involving young boys. Todd was unsure, as things stood, whether his partner would do time. Probably not. But there was no question of him keeping his job. Effectively, his life was over.
'Stupid bastard,' White said.
'I just don't understand, sir.'
'Neither do I. But you know what he's like, Dennis. He'll have just been "fascinated by it". Needing to understand. Like one of those fucking look-at-me rock stars.'
White was disgusted.
'It's all the same, of course.'
And it was. Kearney had paid for membership and downloads. Justifying it as 'harmless interest' would still have cost him his career and possibly his freedom, but there were degrees even when it came to this sort of filth, and Kearney's fascination had a price. It put money in the pocket of the scum who produced that shit. By providing his demand, he had fed the supply.
Obviously, the news had gone through the department like a bullet. When he'd arrived this morning, Todd could sense the emotion in the air. Anger. Confusion. Disgust. Other than White, nobody mentioned it directly, but he'd sensed everyone watching him too, as though he was tainted by association. Paul had betrayed them.
Todd was angry with him too. And yet he'd still wanted to grab each person he saw this morning by the throat and shake some of the crap out of them.
What? What have you got to say?
Because the hardest part was that he understood why Kearney would have done it: that was the tragedy. It was too easy to imagine his partner - his old partner, now - getting drawn in by that sort of material. Paul would have sat there for hours, poring through the sludge, digging pointlessly for answers. And yet he must have known he wouldn't get away with it. He was a cop for fuck's sake. It didn't make sense.
At least it explained the way Kearney had been behaving recently. How distracted he'd become; how tired and panicked. The way he'd looked like a sword was hanging over him. Hell - even the way he'd charged upstairs at Mike Halsall's house yesterday, like he almost wanted to get shot.
Fucking idiot, Paul.
You stupid, fucking idiot.
Todd made his way around the fence, back up through Dan Killingbeck's garden. His car was parked at the front of the house. Once inside, he closed the door, grateful for the solid whump, and then the contained silence of the vehicle's interior.
He took out his mobile phone.
You know what he's like, Dennis.
Yes, he did. And deep down, as much as he hated to admit it, he also relied on it a little. There had been animosity between them on occasion, and Kearney had often infuriated him with his constant need to understand - but that was part of how they worked. So as much as he couldn't help feeling betrayed, he also felt abandoned now too. Lost.
Todd checked for missed calls or new messages. None. Then he opened his list of contacts and scrolled down until he found Paul's number.
In the early days, when their hunt for the killer had been in its infancy, they'd needed to read a lot of supernatural bullshit - there were still a few embarrassing books dotted, around the office. Todd remembered one in particular. It was something he'd seen while flicking through at random, but this had really happened. Some villages used to have 'sin-eaters'. They were men who lived apart from the community, shunned by it, until someone in a household died. The sin-eater would be invited in, then, and given a huge feast. In exchange for that food, they were supposed to consume the sins of the deceased, so that the dead could enter Heaven unblemished.
Kearney's absence reminded him of that, as though him asking those questions meant others didn't have to. And whatever answers he'd found over the years had often seemed to provide him with an insight that Todd always lacked.
His finger hovered over the dial button for a few seconds. He wanted to ask Paul what the fuck he thought he'd been doing. But even more than that, he just wanted to… make sure he was OK. See where he was and if he needed anything.
He pressed the button, and held the mobile to his ear as it dialled. But it went straight to voicemail; Paul had turned his phone off.
Todd cancelled the call and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. Frustrated. And worried now too. He kept remembering the way Paul had been last night, outside Halsall's house. Mentally, he'd been teetering on the edge of something, and Todd felt an urge to find him, to stop him from falling. But there was nothing he could do if Kearney wanted to hide.
Where are you, Paul?
He started the engine and drove away.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-One
'I'm surprised you remembered me,' I said.
I was sitting across from Detective Paul Kearney in a small cafe. When I turned around and saw him, back at the prison, I'd expected him to arrest me. Instead, he'd decided to drive me across town and call in here for breakfast.
The place was called The Rubber Duck, which only added to how bizarre the situation felt. It was the size of an average front room, with space for six circular tables inside, and three more directly outside the glass window behind us. The owner was now bustling away in the kitchen, where I could hear something sizzling and spitting. Metal clattering against metal.
There was nobody else in here and we'd already got our food: two full English breakfasts sat in front of us. Kearney was tucking into his quietly and efficiently, as though he hadn't eaten anything for a very long time. I was ignoring my food. He was ignoring me.
'Kearney?'
Nothing.
The chairs were made of wicker. Mine creaked as I leaned back, watching him eat. Something was very definitely wrong with him. I remembered him being intense, but he looked different now - exhausted and deflated. His suit was crumpled, his hair was messy. In fact, he reminded me of someone mentally unhinged. The kind who would stop you in the street and grip your shoulder, determined to make you understand something important.
And his eyes.
I was struck by that feeling again: that if I stared into them for long enough, I'd understand something very important. That whatever was missing in my head would come back to me. I'd been scared to. But those eyes, when he looked at me at all, were baggy and tired, and not how I remembered them. Whatever answers I'd been worried about, they weren't there.
'Kearney—'
'I didn't at first.' His knife and fork continued working delicately, and he didn't look up at me as he spoke. 'I recognised you at Ellis's flat, but I couldn't place you. It came back to me last night. I searched for "Mike Halsall" online and found a quote from him in an article about Sarah Pepper's murder. That made the connection for me.'
I frowned, unsure for a moment what that connection might be. But then it came to me: the article would have mentioned James Connor, and he would have got the surname from there.
He said, 'It was you who called last night, wasn't it?'
I nodded.
'Which means,' he said, 'you're now involved in at least two separate murder enquiries. First, we have Christopher Ellis and Mandy Gilroyd. You attacked Ellis. We know that.'
'Technically,' I said, 'he attacked me.'
Kearney ignored that. 'Secondly, Mike Halsall and Julie Smith. You were friends of the victims, and you called it in.' He shook his head. 'I think you're in a lot of trouble, Alex.'
'Why haven't you arrested me, then?'
Why are we sitting here in a fucking cafe?
Kearney considered it.
'Because I'm not sure what kind of trouble yet.'
Then he lapsed into silence again. I watched him eating, and thought about his odd manner. No, I decided, that wasn't the reason. He was try
ing to hide something from me. I had the impression that if I stood up and walked out of here right now, there wasn't a thing he could do to stop me. His dishevelled appearance, his behaviour… but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Even so, the way I saw it, he had at least one thing going for him. Whoever was behind this seemed to have access to police files, but if Kearney was involved then he'd surely have called me last night himself. Which meant I could trust him. To an extent, anyway.
I said, 'I had a phone call last night, as well.'
'Oh yes?'
'From someone pretending to be you.'
That caught his attention. He looked up.
'Me?'
I nodded slowly. 'But Mike's the only person who had my number. They turned up at my hotel. Three guys in suits.'
'Three?'
'Yes. I saw one of them earlier on at Ellis's flat. They killed Ellis, and then they killed Mike and Julie. And then they came looking for me.'
Kearney stared across the table.
'I'm listening. Why are they doing this?'
'I don't know for sure,' I admitted.
But I told him what I suspected. Sarah had been researching something in the months before she died: online footage of death and murder. In doing so, she'd spoken to Ellis and learned something she shouldn't have. Something these men were determined to keep a secret.
Kearney frowned. I expected him to ask what that was, but instead he said, 'When did she start? Researching, I mean?'
'Earlier this year.'
He put down his knife and fork and used the napkin to dab at his mouth.
'Why?' I said.
'Because I spoke to her back then. In a professional capacity. She phoned up and talked to me around the time Jane Slater's body was found. Probably back around January. There had been some rumours at the time, about some kind of photograph turning up online. We'd already looked into it.'
'And you didn't find anything?'
For a moment, Kearney didn't reply. Then he picked up his cutlery and started eating again.