A Cry in the Night

by Tom Grieves

  ‘I’m not angry,’ he said. ‘I’m just worried.’

  She looked down, but that was as much as he got.

  He stumbled on for a bit, made some bad jokes and eventually hated his voice as much as she clearly did. He let her go to her bedroom and change for school. She’d told him she wanted to go back and he’d been keen to show willing.

  Tonight, he’d cook them a meal. He’d make a spaghetti carbonara, send Magda off to the pictures, he’d drag Mum downstairs and they could all have a laugh together. Jenny would be fine again. He’d solve this.

  Issy was quiet too. He’d expected her to revel in Jenny’s villainy, but she just munched on her toast and the only gesture she made was a quick, tight grip around Jenny’s waist. She didn’t say anything and this short act of solidarity was all the more affecting for it. Sam felt further estranged from his girls. He drank a coffee, standing alone by the microwave, watching them eat. There was no noise beyond chewing and the miserable scraping of cutlery.

  Magda came in. She stopped at the door and glanced at Sam, then at the girls. Issy looked up at her and smiled. Magda nodded then turned and left. Sam saw it all and clutched his mug that tiny bit tighter.

  He found himself standing by the stairs as the girls grabbed their things and headed off. He had nothing to say as they trooped off down the road and was equally dumb when Magda turned on the Hoover, slowly pushing him towards the door. He wanted to stay, to show some command in his own home, but this was a battle whose rules he didn’t understand. He found himself shutting the door and wandering away without purpose.

  He stood by the car, keys in his hand, dog-tired, his mind smudged, mistrustful of everyone and of his own cramping emotions. He was about to drag himself back to the station and force himself through the mountainous paperwork that he’d been avoiding since the call to the Lake District, when something popped into his head. Something about the papers upstairs in his bedroom, his addiction to their detail. He hurried back, clocking the wariness with which Magda eyed him as he hurried up the stairs.

  He shut the bedroom door and looked at the scattered papers. It only took a moment to realise what was wrong. A file had been moved. To a stranger, all the papers had been dumped in a haphazard disorder. But Sam knew where everything should be, and it was clear to him that the file which housed the details of the witness, Richard Howell, had been touched. It had been moved a few inches from where he had left it. Just a few inches, but Sam was sure of it. He grabbed the case folder and opened it up. Everything was still there, but he felt a little sick as he looked through the details – there, written down for the woman who had spied on him, was the address where Richard now lived.

  Now they knew that he had visited Ricky. Helen would have been told.

  Magda knocked on the door and he snapped his head around to face her. She saw the aggression and took a step back.

  ‘You want me to clean in here?’ she asked cautiously.

  He waited for the tell to show that she’d already been in here and didn’t need his permission at all. But her face gave nothing away.

  ‘Don’t ever come in here again. Got that?’

  She turned tail and vanished. Sam looked back down at the file.

  Helen knew about Ricky.

  He ran out of the house and threw himself into the car.

  *

  He parked outside Ricky’s dingy apartment, ignoring the double yellow lines. He sprinted up the stairs, three at a time and hammered on the door. He banged and banged but no one came. He went to neighbours’ doors but got no reply. He felt as though they were all hiding from him. Eventually, he made a call to the station, explained that he believed a man’s life was in danger and asked to use the necessary protocol to break into the flat. Once permission was given, he kicked and kicked until the wood splintered and he could force himself in.

  Sam made his way from room to room, the suspicion hardening to fact as he found each one bare. He stopped in the hallway after his search. Ricky was gone, clothes had been snatched from a chest of drawers, as had bed linen and the television. Once again, he’d been spirited away.

  Helen’s network had done its job. Sam considered the legal powers he might have to be able to force the chambers to reveal all of its correspondence, but he also felt that such a slow, bureaucratic method wouldn’t and couldn’t shackle a woman like Helen. And the result was always the same: silence.

  She silenced the women and she silenced the witnesses. Whatever was going on, Helen was hell-bent on shutting it up. She got to these women and they never spoke again. Did she know them before they committed their vile crimes? Did she organise these too? Right now, Sam deemed her capable of anything.

  *

  He drove to her chambers. He wanted to face her again, wanted to stare her down and tell her that he knew what she was doing and that he was going to stop her. He didn’t care if she laughed in his face. He needed something beyond these constant doubts and fears. But when he reached her offices, he was politely told that she had left for business and wasn’t expected back for several days.

  He imagined her driving Ricky away.

  He went back to the station, entered his office, pulled down the blinds and sat uselessly at his desk.

  They all fell silent. They killed the children and never spoke again. Every time. Every time, except for Sarah Downing. She continued to act normally. He remembered how she stared at him and swayed when he arrested her, and how cold and ‘other’ she seemed to him. It was as though something took her over, as though she was nearly revealed to him. But then Helen had silenced her too.

  She was free now, and walking among us. Looking like everyone else.

  Why was she different? Because she was free? Free to do it again?

  Sam thought of Helen again, driving a fretful Ricky away from the city. Far away to somewhere no one would find him. Sam imagined the move from those grotty streets to calmer, cleaner spaces. Open fields, blue skies.

  Lullingdale Water swept back into his mind. The waves licked at his feet, the icy breeze bit at his face. Arthur Downing floated before him, just out of reach. And Lily spied on him from the edge of the woods.

  Lily. All the other women fell silent once they’d completed their terrible deeds.

  Maybe Sarah had been freed because her work wasn’t done yet.

  And that would be because Lily was still alive.

  Lily Downing was alive. Sarah would know where she was, would be waiting for the furore to calm down, and then she would finish what she started. Helen would tell her when. Maybe Helen wanted it done now. And she would have Ashley to help her.

  The pieces crunched into place.

  Sam hurried home. He packed for several days. He paused when he thought of Jenny, and of the sly glances that Magda and Issy shared. But then Lily’s cries drowned out all of this.

  Everything would be fine, but he needed to get up to the Lakes first.

  FORTY-NINE

  Sam was dumping a bag into the boot of his car when Zoe found him. She seemed to appear from nowhere and made him jump.

  ‘Hey, boss. What’s up?’ Her voice was strangely cheerful. It felt a little fake.

  ‘Hi. You alright?’ He placed the last of his things into the boot and slammed it shut.

  ‘Never better. So what are you up to?’

  The sun was setting already and the dull clouds made the day all the shorter.

  ‘Boss?’ she asked again.

  ‘Thought I might head back up to the Lakes.’

  ‘You got a hunch?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘Cool! I’ll come with you.’

  ‘You’ll need to pack some clothes. I think I’ll be gone for a few days, at least.’

  ‘You know me,’ she said, holding up a small holdall. ‘Always prepared.’

  He didn’t know what to say. She faced him confidently, then bashed him happily on the arm.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get going,’ she said. ‘Soone
r we get there, sooner you can buy me a pint in the pub that time forgot.’

  She skipped over to the passenger side and got into the car. He tried to think of a reason why she couldn’t come with him. There was something about her persistence and forced jollity that worried him.

  It was Zoe, he reminded himself. It was Zoe and she had never let him down. But then darker thoughts crept up and sniggered at his softness.

  He went back to the house and returned carrying his heavy boots. He threw them under the driver’s seat and got in next to her.

  Zoe patted his knee.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Sam grunted and turned the key in the ignition.

  No one spoke. The radio wasn’t needed. Their thoughts clashed and sparked against each other as they headed away from the city. Black clouds loomed ahead of them, and Sam sped towards the darkness.

  PART THREE

  FIFTY

  Sam drove fast and spoke little. Zoe fidgeted next to him, but the few jokes she tossed his way made little impression. He gripped the steering wheel tight, and the congestion eased as the car sped north. The sky revealed itself, the buildings fell away and for a while the land rose and fell gently around them. But as they approached the Lakes an imposing wall of rocky terrain reared up ahead. It was beautiful and severe, and Sam was struck by the way that the other traffic seemed to vanish, leaving two lonely policemen travelling together, so very much apart.

  The low winter sun dazzled their eyes as they headed further into the Lake District. It soon vanished again as they dipped down into a lush valley, empty but for the Jacobs sheep that littered its fields. He glanced at Zoe and was disconcerted to see that she was watching him. She offered him a smile, but he found he didn’t trust her face any more. He wondered when this had happened, this divide between them. She had done nothing wrong that he knew of. Why did he feel like this when she had done nothing wrong?

  Outside, a doe and her two young bucks looked up from a swollen stream. Sam watched their bodies tense, ready to bolt. The car raced past, and beyond there was nothing but bracken and gorse. He knew that Zoe was still watching him, but he didn’t look her way.

  *

  Zoe hated the silence. She stared out of the window and admired the great gulf of nature beyond, but always found herself turning back to Sam, wanting to talk to him. His eyes were narrow, shielded against the sun that would suddenly pierce the clouds then be blown away just as quickly. He looked filled with foreboding. Just as he had when they first met. Just as he had when he’d faced down those three drunks with machetes who thought that the cops were fair game in a back alley. Just as he had when a rotting plank of wood had given way and he’d pulled her to safety. He had always been there, always stood firm and resolute before her. A big brother, a line of continuity that couldn’t bend or break. She thought this was how it should always be.

  The road meandered towards another small peak, and Zoe recognised the small cairns on either side of the road. They would reach Lullingdale in five minutes. It was a short, steep drop down from here. You reached the turn in the road and the lake suddenly appeared before you. It should be a glorious sight, if you didn’t know about Arthur and Lily, or witches, or any of those other terrible tales.

  She put a hand on his forearm, but he didn’t seem to notice. And then they made the turn, and there was the lake and it all seemed much, much too late.

  They headed into the village. Zoe had called ahead and secured rooms at the pub. The tourist season had finished some time ago, and there would be little business until the spring. It was dark as they turned into the pub car park, and neither cop was expecting to see a pristine Mercedes parked in one of the ‘hotel guest’ spaces. A two-seater, fast and sleek.

  ‘Nice wheels,’ Zoe said with a whistle of approval.

  She was surprised by the look that Sam gave her. He seemed angry. What had she said?

  ‘Who do you think it belongs to?’ Sam asked.

  She flushed, as though she should know. His stare made her feel guilty.

  ‘No idea, someone richer than you and me. And someone with serious taste,’ she laughed back at him as best as she could.

  *

  Sam watched her for signs of the lie. He knew who the car belonged to. He’d done his homework and the number plate was etched in his brain. It belonged, of course, to Helen Seymour.

  Zoe’s laugh was too loud.

  ‘So what’s the plan, boss?’ she said, pushing her door open. ‘Check in, then go see Mrs Downing?’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. The idea of catching Helen and Sarah together seemed delicious. ‘Hang on, let’s go straight there. Stay in, we’ll drive.’

  He put the car in reverse and spun right towards the Downings’ house. He imagined their faces when he caught them plotting.

  ‘Hey, slow down, Mister,’ Zoe said, her voice still sing-song and fake, ‘or you’ll run over one of those zombie kids. Then again, you probably can’t kill them just by hitting them with a car. You probably need to chop their heads clean off.’

  But it wasn’t Zoe that slowed him down. It was the sight he trapped in the headlights. Fifty yards ahead were two women sheltering in the fading brickwork of the bus shelter. The girl looked up and her eyes widened when she saw Sam behind the wheel. He recognised the surprise in Ashley’s expression, but his attention was hooked on the woman stood next to her, stood over her, arms folded. Helen looked different out of her office clothes, now dressed in jeans and a purple coat, her features muffled by a hat. She turned more slowly and her eyes met Sam’s with equal, withering hostility.

  He was wrong. Helen wasn’t plotting with Sarah. She was plotting with Ashley. No, she was plotting with both of them.

  The car crawled towards them and then stopped. Sam stared at Helen through the windscreen. She stared right back at him. His mouth formulated words, but nothing came out.

  Inside the car, Zoe was saying something. It took him a while to register.

  ‘Boss. Don’t stop here, let’s go.’

  He felt Zoe’s hand on his arm. He felt surrounded.

  ‘Seriously. Not here.’

  Her words made sense, but that didn’t mean he should trust her. But without another idea in his head, he nodded and sped away, doing a quick three-point turn at an open field’s gate some three hundred yards further on. They stopped there for a moment, hidden by the thick hedgerow and the night.

  ‘What do you think she’s doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting her client, I’d guess, and checking witness statements,’ Zoe replied.

  ‘Sarah Downing was released without charge. She doesn’t need a lawyer, let alone a barrister. So how come Helen’s here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  No. There was no obvious answer. Not one for lawyers and police and everyday people.

  He turned the car left and headed back towards the bus stop. When they got there, the women were gone.

  Sam cursed to himself. He shouldn’t have listened to Zoe. They should have questioned them while they had surprise on their side.

  He parked up next to Helen’s car and marched into the pub, grabbing his things.

  ‘Hey!’ Zoe shouted as he left her behind. But he didn’t acknowledge the call.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Zoe let Sam storm off into the bar on his own. Now they were here again, all of her old fears rose up, and she remembered more clearly Sam’s previous sullen silences and avoidances. It made her happier about the decisions she’d made. Helen was right: Sam was out of control. She hated the idea that Sam was just another man who would disappoint her, but then it struck her that these were the kinds of words Helen would use, and she felt a jab of fear that she was being manipulated. Her love for Sam and her fear for him tore at her and she felt herself crumble in the rift. It meant that she stood by the car for a good few minutes before she followed Sam into the pub. She sniffed in the fresh, bitter-cold
air. She heard a dog bark somewhere nearby, probably down by the lake.

  The lake. It felt prehistoric in its grandeur. Zoe wondered about all of the people who had sailed on it, walked around it, gazed down on it from the adjacent fells. She thought about the very first humans who ever reached the peaks and then gazed down at it. Once again, the thought made her feel small.

  She went inside and the first person she saw was David. They almost bumped into each other and the surprise quickly twisted into a stiff, awkward recognition. David did not look down this time.

  ‘Hello, David,’ she said, aware of his mood.

  ‘You’re back then.’

  ‘I am. We are.’

  ‘So you know where Lily is?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  He just shrugged. ‘Can’t do much, it seems. Can’t even keep hold of the bitch that did it.’ And with that he pushed past her and towards the men’s toilets.

  Zoe walked on, found Bernie serving drinks and felt a flush of affection for her, and some relief that hers was the next face she saw. She took a key from her – the same room as last time – and was about to head upstairs when she saw a gang of men sitting in the bar. Amongst them, shoulders hunched, was Tim Downing. Zoe watched him with the others and recognised their disposition: angry drunks. A chair was empty at the table which she assumed belonged to David. Normally Zoe would have backed away and avoided the friction, but she couldn’t ignore Tim now that he was here in the same building.

  He saw her and looked away, making her arrival at the table all the more awkward. David reappeared a moment later and took the empty chair, swigging deep on his pint.

  ‘Mr Downing,’ she said.

  He was unable to ignore her for long. The basic politeness of the man forced him to look up and acknowledge her presence.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call to let you know we were coming,’ she said. ‘It was all rather spur-of-the-moment.’

  ‘What have you found?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought we could come by your house later and discuss it with you,’ she said, alarmed by the thought that she didn’t really know if they had found anything at all.